Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun is scorching and the air is rolling in blistering waves across the desert as Cody and his men make their way to the cantina. He only has Boil, Waxer and Crys with him: this is going to be a delicate mission and Cody needs 212^th men who he can trust unthinkingly by his side. A couple of Rex’s boys — Fives and Echo — are on the ground, keeping an eye on the perimeter. Their usual armour is supplemented by heavy cloaks to try and keep the sand out of the crevices and joins where it could rub and erode.  The Vigilance, their flagship, the finest GAR dirigible still-operational this long into deployment, Cody’s home for the past ten years, is anchored some four klicks away with the rest of the battalion.

“Any news about this one?” Waxer asks, when they pause, a dozen paces or so from the cantina’s door, lifting their hoods and removing their helmets.

“No scuttlebutt so far,” Crys replies, a frown on his face and his blond hair catching the colours of dunes around them. Crys not having anything to report as good as means there isn’t anything to report. At least among the Clone Corps. Since shoving aside the useless tech officer they had deployed with and taking over their comm routines, Crys has made himself one of the centres of gossip across the GAR. The 212^th is active enough across the relay stations that they can ferry messages from across the galaxy.

Crys — and his dedicated network of clone telecommunicators — not knowing anything could either be a good thing, or an incredibly terrible thing. Cody didn’t know. He didn’t like that he didn’t know. Their last four generals had been… fine. Ambitious party-liners for the most part. They usually stayed with the 212^th for a few rotations, a few battles, before, between their efforts of self-promotion and Cody’s carefully worded reports singing their praises, they had accumulated enough merits to get a promotion back to Coruscant and out of the battalion’s way.

And then Cody could start sleeping at night again. 

At least until the next one came.

“Gods, why here of all places?” Waxer complains, leaning against Boil to remove one of his boots and tip out what seemed to be a dune’s worth of sand.

“New general demanded it,” Crys says, darkly. He had been the one to bring the transmission to Cody, just a place and a date, had seen the lack of explanation, had heard Cody’s muffled curse when he had seen the instruction. Crys had also been the one to call up Wooley with the starmaps so they could plot hyperlane routes and start supply provisioning before they were back in an adequate starport. He knew quite how much this detour was going to cost them. 

“Can we just pretend we didn’t get the posting?” Boil asks, glancing out over the dunes as if he could see the general-to-be’s skiff and flee before it arrived.

“We could,” Cody says, and Boil looks at him, eyes wide like a tooka, all hopeful and pleading, and Cody, almost feels bad about playing with him. Not bad enough, so he says, “We would just have to figure out some other way to get the new men and supplies, you know they don’t let us reprovision and replenish unless we have a general with us.”

Crys opens his mouth, “A natborn general with us,” Cody reminds him.

“Ruin our fun.” Boil whinges, kicking at the sand in a fit of pique the likes of which Cody hasn’t seen since they moved from the growing tanks to the training grounds.

Cody sighs, because he agrees, his stomach had plummeted when, after he’d given Crys the order to stop dodging any missives marked important from Coruscant, the assignment had finally come through. “We’ve had almost a year without a Natborn officer of any kind, men. I know this is as wretched as Prime’s balls but we’ve got to make the best of it. Now move your shebs and let’s get into that cantina.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” they say and move forward.

Crys and Waxer taking point and rear allows for Boil to sidle up next to Cody. “I’m not sure any of them,” by them Cody is pretty certain he means the battalion as a whole, not Crys and Waxer specifically, “have said it to you, but we are glad for what you have done for us.”

Cody nods, throat tight, he knows the risks, each of the decisions he makes that keep them out of reach from Admiralty back on Coruscant. When he navigates them away from transcommunication hubs taking advantage of his familiarity of the ebbs and flow of the galactic missive system to know when to arrive to send reports but not receive unwanted instructions;  when he implemented the delay system so they could catch and “lose” any orders he knew would cost them more lives than Cody was prepared to tolerate; when he gives Crys and Crys alone command of the telecommunication system, sharing the burden of the risk between the two of them, insulating as many men as possible from the insubordination, the danger that it carries.

“Well, you know how I feel about what those suck-ups in Coruscant and their approach to military strategy.”

Boil nods grimly, they had all lost too many brothers to shitty natborn tactics.

They get to the door, “Alright men, you know I trust you with my life and on the battlefield,” Cody says, “but you are not on leave and I don’t trust you within eight metres of a bartender, so get a table and I’ll get some drinks.

Boil gets a glint in his eye, “Non-alcoholic drinks.” Cody stresses, marvelling every day that they haven’t turned him completely grey. Yet. They troop in and get the table with the best sightlines for the door, leaving the chair with the best view for Cody. He grabs a round of blue milk from the bartender, an older Twi’lek woman, handing over one of their precious, illicit credit chips.

“Commander,” Waxer says, when Cody makes it over with their drinks and uses his foot to pull out the chair they’d left for him, “did you get us the most nutritionally dense thing on the menu? You can tell us, we can report back to Slice so you get extra seasoning on your rations as a reward.”

Cody ignores him as he sits, eyes trained on the door, and after a moment the three of them take their glasses and start up a conversation about a series of books that Cody deliberately knows nothing about — but has also read every copy of.

They have been there an hour, when Cody’s eyes, in his periodic scans for their new officer, land on a cloaked human man, wrapped tight to avoid the desert glare, slipping into the cantina. There is something almost deliberately unobtrusive about him. He makes his way to the bartender, asks her a question, she answers, the man nods, thanks her before saying something else and she laughs. The man makes to leave, seems to stiffen, ever so slightly when he spots the four of them sitting in their corner, before he hurries out.

Curious, Cody murmurs something about heading to the fresher, pausing along the bank of windows to watch the man from the bar meet a small child, cadet-age, probably ten years standard, similarly wrapped up. They speak for a moment and then head off towards the west.

Cody washes his hands in the fresher, running his wrists under the water for a second to cool himself down, before he returns to his men and their table. He is back for maybe four minutes before another human male, older than any brother, but still too young to be a general by any sensible rise to command, in wildly inappropriate clothes for the climate, strides into the cantina. If this wasn’t their new general Cody would eat his bucket.

“Fucking Coruscantis,” one of the men mutters; if Cody doesn’t know who it is, he doesn’t have to reprimand him. The general is all Coruscant polish, grimed up by the brief walk in the dirt and dust of the desert from whatever skiff he had flown over here in, but that shine of the inner core bleeds through. Cody watches as he beelines for the bartender, asking something insistent, she gives him a guarded look, and answers shortly, before turning away. The general, when he turns, has a grin on his face that makes Cody vaguely nauseous.

Still, he stands and walks over there.

“General Konstantine, I am CC-2224, Commander of the 212^th Battalion,” he salutes, aware of his men standing up and drawing near, of the weary looks of the patrons. Tatooine has thus far been untouched by the war, the locals are decidedly displeased to see a GAR general and wardirigible so near, “It is an honour to meet you, sir, I—”

The general turns around, “No time for that trooper, we need to go. Now. Outside, all of you,” and then he is out of the cantina door without another word. Cody exchanges a look with the men, this, this did not bode well in the slightest.

They follow outside, the general had waited, which Cody supposes is a good sign, but he has also unholstered out a gun. One of those pathetic brass peashooters more likely to sting than harm. Still, Cody is confident enough in the trajectory he can see before him to classify this nightmare as unmitigated, “General,” he says, “We need to officially go through the handover of comman–”

“Trooper,” the general interrupts, in a tone that aimed at cool and landed on short, a manic look in his eye, “we don’t have time for this, we have to move now, we are so close.”

“Sir, protocol states—”

“Hang protocol, that’s an order trooper,” and then he was off, heading to the west at a frantic pace, brandishing the gun in front of himself with a quarter of the skill of an untrained cadet.

“This is not going to end well,” Waxer signs, or rather, he signs disaster ahead, but the sentiment carries. And then another series of movements, which they all understand to be, “This one is probably going to die soon.”

Boil nods, signing back, Let’s just hope he doesn’t take any of us with him when he does.

Cody signs back a single slice of his fist, resigned agreement. “Alright, men,” he says, “move out.”

And so they follow their not-officially-a-general general towards the west, quickly catching up to his stumbling path through the dunes as he takes them along what can only be the same path that the man and boy from before followed.

Fives and Echo fall in after seventy paces, confused and displeased. Cody lets the others fill them in, as he keeps his focus on their new general.

It’s a short five klick hike, but the new general seems to unravel with each step, muttering to himself about ‘finally,’ and ‘master’ and ‘so pleased.’ Cody wouldn’t need to know his men as instinctively as he does to know how discomfited and concerned they are. He has a very bad feeling about this, and doesn’t think he can blame it on the way the sun beats down unforgivingly against their heavy armour, the coolant systems dodgy since their last two reprovisions were short.

He signals for Crys and Waxer to create a distraction if the general looks their way and uses their short range comms to contact the Vigilance. Whisker answers, and Cody orders him to send a transport off in fifteen’, giving his best approximation of their destination. He has a bad feeling about this deep in the pit of his stomach.

He pings Whisker back, “best make it two transports.”

Ben gets directions to the oasis from the bartender, a kindly Twi’lek woman called Ikinte, ducking into the cantina for a brief respite from the sun. After a moment’s debate, he had left Luke outside where he knows he will likely be safer than if in his bright endless curiosity he gets in some belligerent drunk’s way. Ben thanks Ikinte for the directions, finishing the stanza in Ryl that he is pretty certain her name is from. Comfortingly. she laughs, surprised and delighted, so he must have gotten close enough.

He thanks her once more and makes to leave when his eye catches on the four identical armoured men sat in one of the corners of the room. The table, he notes, with the best sightlines of the door. Clones, Ben realises with a jolt. He, like the rest of the galaxy had heard when the Republic announced the new Grand Army of the Republic, peopled mostly by cloned men. He hadn’t heard any rumour that they were going to be in the area, had seen no war dirigibles on the way in, the Hutts had been keeping Tatooine neutral, and by extension the GAR out  – if only to better continue their criminal enterprises. He’s never been so near clone troopers. Sticking to the outer rim had been good for something at least.

They seem – well – Ben had met Jango Fett, twice, when he was younger, they obviously look like the man. Superficially they were identical, all of them looking to be about the age Fett had been when Ben had met him. But there faces somehow were different, without the menace Ben had felt when he and Qui Gon had chased after Jango all those years ago. 

He thinks about the lucky kick to the face he’d taken, the boot-print bruise Fett had left him with. If he knows anything about the way the bounty hunter guilds work, he is certain that there are likely still bonds out for Fett from that failed assassination. Ben wonders, briefly, whether Fett knew, then, as he led them on a merry chase through the lower levels of Coruscant how much he would be changing the face of the galaxy. If there are still bonds out for Fett they were going to have a hell of a time now that there are millions of men who looked identical to him. It would surely be enough to give even the most experience bounty hunter pause. Ben finds this darkly amusing for a moment.

The four men at the table are captivating, but Ben doesn’t give himself longer than a glance. There is no point courting attention, he’s not sure if the Republic still thinks he’s dead, but has no intention of finding out. Still he can’t help but be caught by the sight of them. Their painted armour, helmets off but visible on table. Three of them are chatting, animatedly, warm and amused in the force, but there is an edge of caution, of alertness, that the good humour on their faces belies. The fourth, sitting in the clearest eyeline from the door, is watching Ben right back, eyes clear and direct, he has a scar on the right side of his face. He seems more curious than suspicious, kicking off warmth and competent control of himself and his emotions in the Force, but Ben is still wary. These are, for all intents and purposes, Palpatine’s men.

They are bright and human and individual in the force, none of the miasma of dark that had oozed from Coruscant and Naboo by towards the end, and the implications of the clone battalions made to fight and die hits Ben with a shudder.

He scurries outside, finding Luke sat on a rock waiting for him. Seeing him, Luke immediately jumps up and attaches himself to Ben, hands finding the gaps in his heavy cloak to get as close to skin as he can. He stays there for a second, warm and bright in the force, and begins babbling, a mile a minute about all the people he saw enter and leave the cantina while Ben was inside. They set off towards the path Ikinte directed him to.

“We’re going to have to leave here soon,” Ben says, a mile down the road, once Luke has finished telling him everything he saw in his ten minutes people-watching. Luke looks out at the sandy desert of Tatooine. They had mostly spent their time on the other side of this continent, but they had been here for nearly seven months, almost the longest they have ever stayed anywhere. Ben braces himself for complaint, for whinging, but Luke simply nods and says “okay,” all bright smile and lively eyes.

Once they are away from the buzz of people, emotions and minds back at the cantina, the steady beacon of the Force is so much easier to find. “Can you feel it?” he asks Luke and gets a huge toothy smile back. Luke runs ahead slightly, before he slows and waits for Ben to catch up again.

Like each time they find one of these beacons, Ben works to release the feeling of queasy dread and bubbling hope into the force. This would be there hundredth, yet still whenever they found one of the thousands of Jedi cairns, lit in the Force, scattered across the Galaxy, Ben couldn’t help but feel nauseous with his hope and terror.

Cody watches with growing horror as their new general cuts a frantic, jagged path through the desert. His mutterings have grown in tenor and content, or Cody has become attuned to the way voices are snatched by the wind, because he is hearing, “finally going to get him,” “ten years in the waiting.”

Boil, Waxer and Crys have been exchanging increasingly concerned looks, an impressive feat given the cloaks they have obscuring their familar buckets. They are clearly worried enough that Waxer removes his to look directly at Cody, questions in his eyes. Cody signals back, telling them to keep their heads on a swivel, to stay the course… for now.

Cody has an exceedingly bad feeling about what is coming, about their general’s fitness for duty, about what they are being led into, about his own ability to keep a handle on the situation. This, when it came down to it, however, was the reality of the GAR: all of Cody’s careful planning, considered tactics, slow deliberation became subsumed by whatever reckless insanity their latest general insisted on. His ability to keep his men safe and fulfil their objectives damaged by whatever madness the latest untested natborn thought up. It makes him mad at a steady simmer, but he knows he can only do his best.

They get to an outcropping, looking down at a shallow ravine where a crystal blue oasis sits, protected just enough from the cruel blast of the sun. Although he had suspected it, Cody’s heart still plummets when he spots the boy and the man from the cantina. They are sitting next to a pile of rocks, just by the water’s edge. It looks like they are meditating, in mirrored poses, legs crossed, one arm resting on their leg, another touching one of the rocks. Their hoods are down, he can see the boy has bright blonde hair, a whiter, lighter shade than the yellow dye Crys prefers, more like Rex’s hair; while the man has copper-gold red hair and a beard. They aren’t close enough to see facial features, but they look peaceful, unthreatening, civilian. It seems they are speaking to each other softly, and Cody feels sick. Something about the sight digs in, under his ribs, and Cody –

“That’s our target, men,” the general says.

“The man,” Cody asks, wretched with dreadful anticipation.

“No, him and the boy.” The general’s tone is probably the most awful thing, uncaring, unaffected, the slightest hint of gleeful anticipation.

Cody doesn’t need to look at his men to see their horror, “Vod,” one of them whispers, low and close enough that he knows the general cannot hear. Without looking back, Cody signs an acknowledgement. And then, after a split second to confirm that he was about to cross this line of no return, he signals back the order he reckons his men have been expecting. They shift, relieved, some of that heavy trepidation sloughing off. He still hopes it will not be necessary, but Cody liked neither the look in the general’s eye nor the way he keeps inexpertly palming his pistol.

“We’ll get close,” the General says, unaware, “and then, the first shot’s mine, but after, you need to make sure we get them.”

Cody says, “Sir, yes, sir.” The rest of the men echo him. But in their language, their system of hand signs and gestures, he tells them, No, we go for our plan.

They walk, silently and not so silently to the next ridge, so close that were the pair not meditating they would see them, and the general takes aim.

They make it to the cairn in less than an hour. It is an easy one, for once. No trees to climb, no caverns to locate, no lagoon to be reached only by diving and torchlight, no light aircraft to borrow and anchor. They reach the pile of rocks, by an oasis that on a wetter world would be generously termed a puddle, and Ben inspects it for a moment. It isn’t a relay station or drop site, but then he had long since given up the hope that they would stumble across one of those. These cairns were rare enough.

They sit, adopting an easy meditation pose and Ben lets Luke go first, “Luke, reach out with the Force, tell me what you feel.”

“Jedi were here,” Luke chirps cheerfully, proudly, joyfully and Ben aches at how bright he is.

“Yes they were,” he says, voice slipping into the comforting cadence of teaching, “what can you tell me about them?”

“They were strong,” Luke says, after a moment, eyes closed, reaching out, “there were two of them, not master and padawan, but friends. I think, really good friends.”

Ben watches, as Luke frowns ever so slightly, reaching deeper into the connection, “They were here recently, probably a month before we got here.” Luke guesses.

“Do you recognise them? Have we encountered their signature before?” Ben asks, smiling at the young boy where he sits, tilting his head from side to side.

“I think so…” he decides, “only not recently? Not consciously. I think they were at one of the cairns you and I visited before I was old enough to know.” Luke smiles again, “I like them, they both feel very warm, friendly.”

Ben smiles, wistfully this time, a dull ache that Luke didn’t get the joy of growing up in the temple, around other younglings and initiates, the gentle ebb and wash of other Jedi in the force, a constant blanket of community.

“Should I take a look myself and tell you if I know them?” Ben offers, he’s been holding himself back, letting Luke have his own impressions without his master to set expectations. It is also a good lesson in keeping himself in check, releasing the heavy emotions of hope and dread to the Force. Luke nods.

Ben reaches out to where the carefully constructed pile of stones emanates the Force. Now that he lets himself, he can tell they are both very familiar Force presences. It had been eleven years since Ben had seen another Jedi other than Luke, and they had, by now, visited maybe fifty of these cairns. They never said anything particular, no specifics on where and what the Jedi were doing, but still they meant almost everything to Ben.

They said to the universe, we exist, we are still out here, you are not alone, we will join together once again.

This time it was Kit, and Ben is transported back to sparring sessions, council meetings gone long, stolen swims in the fountain. He soaks in it for a moment, before saying to Luke, “This first signature, that’s Jedi Master Kit Fisto, he’s a friend,” he doesn’t let himself correct it to a was, if only because Ben isn’t sure Kit has ever let a friend slip away, no matter the mistakes, “I visited a cairn he left when you were only thirteen months old on Disi.”

And the other signature, this one hurts. Ferus Olin, Siri’s padawan, that quiet, serious boy. He had left the order after he and Anakin had had some kind of spat when they were eighteen, something had gone wrong on a mission. Ben is so pleased that he seemed to have returned, even if what he was returning to was not what he left. Still Ben cannot help but wonder whether the young man, with his serious eyes and deliberate way of doing things, even then had seen something Ben had missed, a creeping darkness he couldn’t, hadn’t wanted to see in his first apprentice. “And that second one is Ferus, one of the smartest young Jedi I’ve ever known, a brilliant young man.”

“Let’s meditate and I’ll tell you about both of them,” Ben says.

They press deeper into their meditation, Ben speaking softly, telling Luke any and all memories he has of the two Jedi. He didn’t know that they knew each other, maybe they hadn’t but still somehow they had found each other. Ben allows himself to desperately want that, to find another Jedi, to have their company, to feel their actual warmth in the Force rather than these echoes, even to trust himself to reach out to them, before he moves on. Instead he thinks of the people they knew. He thinks of Siri, briefly, the calm purple of her blade, the gentle scent of her robes, her fierce care. He thinks of Agen Kolar and the way his long hair, Kit’s tendrils would become tangled as they slumped next to each other during council sessions running long.

It hasn’t been five minutes when Ben feels a flash of warning in the Force, there are people coming towards them. Down their training bond, he warns Luke, and under their robes, still sitting in their meditation, they both get their sabres ready to deflect any attack when it comes.

When the figures are closer, Ben can tell it is the troopers from the cantina, plus the two that had been playing some kind of game of keep-up outside, and they seemed to have picked up a non-clone who is bleeding anger and fury out into the force.

“Ready,” Ben asks — cautions — Luke, as the men, some forty yards away, prepare their weapons on the ridge. They are facing away from the threat, but Ben trusts in the Force and in Luke’s training. When the first short fires, they will be ready, and they can use the surprise to escape.

Ben breathes out carefully, long and slow, as the non-clone takes aim.

And then there is a shot.

Chapter Text

Everything happens quickly.

There are seven humans taking aim, all distinct and knowable in the Force. One, filled with violent intent; six, with grim certainty.

A shot fires.

But then, nothing.

Ben and Luke scramble to their feet, turning around to see the non-clone, the one radiating the violence and fury slumped over where he had been aiming at them from up on the ridge. The sharp lines of his grey uniform visible against the sand. One of the helmeted men, one of the clones, is holding a blaster over him. Two of the others surge into action, moving around the body, checking it, kicking away the gun.

The other three are approaching Luke and Ben slowly, still working their way down the ridge. They have their hands up, but Ben knows from harsh experience that men as well trained as these, no matter how placating they seem, could draw weapons in a flash.

But, then again, he and Luke are hardly defenceless.

So he wearily lets them get closer, one hand on Luke’s shoulder as his other shifts under his robes, keeping his grip on his sabre’ for a quick draw if necessary. Twenty paces away the men stop to remove their helmets, at ten paces they slow, now close enough that Ben can note the details of one of the clone’s scar next to his left eye. A laddering thing, nothing like the slash that Anakin used to have by his right eye.

“We mean no harm,” the clone with a scar says, looking them both in the eye, “to either of you.”

There is a ring of truth to his words.

Cody figures he is remarkably calm, all things considered. He supposes he should be, he had made the plan and therefore he cannot be all too surprised when the contingency triggered and what they had planned for came into effect. But planning to incapacitate their new General if he tried to shoot that boy and his guardian, and actually doing so, were apparently different things as far as Cody’s thundering heart and queasy stomach were concerned.

Still, there is no time to dwell.

He signals to Fives, Echo and Crys to handle it; their two transports were due in and it would be best for as few men as possible to be involved. Cody, Boil and Waxer would take the first skiff up to the main hanger and draw the battalion’s attention, allowing the ARC boys and Crys to slip on and handle the General until they made some decisions.

Now that Cody is committed, he no longer feels as sick, but he is still uneasy. He has been toeing the line of blatant defiance and careful subversion of the GAR hierarchy since he took his command. But side-lining and pushing out their Natborn officers, avoiding check-ins and orders, were one level of insubordination, ordering his men to incapacitate a superior officer. Well, that was straight mutiny.

Still, there isn’t time to worry, Cody signals Boil and Waxer to follow behind at as unthreatening a distance as they can manage, stowing his DC still warm from discharge.

The man and the boy are on their feet. The wind has blown the hood of the man’s cloak back over his face, so Cody cannot see his expression. The boy at least seems unafraid, if the way he is smiling at them is any indicator. Winning over the cadet isn’t likely to help much, but given the way today is shaping up, Cody is ready to take any win he can.

Silently and in Mandoa, he can hear Boil and Waxer discussing how cute the kid is, joking about asking if they could keep him if they promised to feed him. Their back and forth is a bit punchier than usual, probably dealing with the same shaky panic-relief Cody is. So he ignores them and sends a prayer of thanks to the little gods that the chances of this pair speaking Mandoa were infinitesimal.

They draw closer, carefully because Cody is aware enough to know that three armoured and armed men who you’ve just heard shoot a man is pretty much universally threatening. Not to mention wariness of clones generally, and for this man specifically. Cody pauses to remove his bucket and gets the others to do the same, civilians preferred to be able to see your eyes. Even if they hated the confirmation that they were dealing with clones.

When they are near enough to allow conversation without shouting, Cody draws them to a halt once more.

“We mean you no harm,” he says, holding his hands up in a galaxy-wide gesture of ‘see? no blaster.’ The man looks him deep in the eye, drawing his cloak back, baring his face and Cody is struck by his blue eyes against a copper beard.

There is a pause, and something heavy hangs between them, before the man says, with what is almost an edge of humour, “No, I suppose not,” he glances up, towards the ridge, where Fives, Echo and Crys have made quick work of moving the general, “in fact, I believe you just saved our lives.”

He looks straight at Cody, then Waxer and then Boil, and asks, “Why?”

Cody shrugs, “We don’t kill children,” the man nods, bringing the boy closer to him. Not as a shield, Cody thinks, but more because he wants the kid close. The kid in turn almost immediately burrows his hands in his guardian’s robes.

“Then you have my thanks.” He pauses, eyeing Cody up in a way that is starting to feel like doing a gear check in front of Alpha-17, that he is looking deeper, finding truths about Cody that he didn’t even know were there. Or that he is finding uniform infractions that Cody needs to fix stat. “That man…”

Yes, Cody supposes, he too would be interested in someone trying to kill him.  He sighs, annoyed for both of them that he has no answers, “I don’t know why he was so fixated on you, he seemed to know you were coming here,” the man goes deathly pale at that, “he spoke to the bartender, the General was–”

“That was your General,” the man asks, says really, and Cody does not swear, because while he hadn’t meant to reveal that bit of information, there is a kid present and he tries not to give the men any more licence for terrible language than they already have.

“So he claimed,” Cody lands on, thinking of the way that the General refused to let him go through the commissioning protocol. Technically, they still were, and had been without a General. It wasn’t much, but it could be a shield. “I am Commander Cody of the 212^th Battalion, Second Sector Army of the GAR.”

“I’m Luke,” the kid says, suddenly, and Cody hadn’t forgotten he was there, precisely, but he had taken his eye off the boy as he focussed on the man. While Cody’s attention had been off him, the kid, Luke, had detached himself from his guardian and moved closer, so that he was only a step away from Cody, his hand outstretched.

Cody crouches down and takes the offered hand, at the same time the man sighs, “Luke.”

“It's very nice to meet you, Luke,” Cody says, as they shake.

“C’mon Luke, leave the nice men to their day,” the man says tightly. He doesn’t seem anxious when Cody looks back up at him, just firm, “we should be getting back to town.”

“But Ben,” Luke complains, and the man — Ben — sighs again, wearied, but not angry, “I like them.” There is something loaded there, a deeper meaning, it seems, from the stress Luke places on like. Cody does not turn around at that, because if he doesn’t turn around then he doesn’t have to see Boil and Waxer making pleading tooka eyes at him, wanting to adopt another stray, except this one is very much already cared for.

The conversation is put on hold when the tell-tale whoosh and hum of the skiffs approaches, “Commander,” Waxer says, unnecessarily, “the ships are here.”

Ben reminds himself that keeping a low profile is a hard concept for a ten year old, and that as far as Luke is concerned these men had saved their lives and are steady, warm presences in the Force. That he is already so good, going against his better instincts to be warm, open and friendly to every being they come across who doesn’t radiate ill-intent in the Force. Luke telling these soldiers their names should be no great crisis, he tries to reassure himself. Especially not if they are leaving already. They would go their separate ways, and nobody would think anything of reports of a young boy and old man in the dunes of Tatooine.

“Come on,” the Commander says, standing upright and looking at Ben. “We’ll give you a lift back to town, it’s the least we can do.” As he says it, two skiffs draw into view, both identical and impressive feats of engineering. Ben doesn’t need the Force to sense Luke’s deep, yearning excitement at the sight, he can see it plainly in the way that Luke stares up at them. Not to mention the way he turns and gives Ben the most beseeching look he has seen in months.

Even as every instinct from a decade on the run screams at Ben that this is a terrible idea, the Force is quiet, still, and Luke’s smile is wide. So against his better judgement he nods his acquiescence. “Thank you, that is very kind.”

Commander Cody and the two helmet-less men, one with dark curls, a moustache and a slight frown; the other bald, goateed and smiling, all three of them clones, usher them onboard. Ben lets himself be guided, feeling outmanoeuvred and out of place. He watches as the bearded trooper taps the pauldron of the helmeted man in the pilot’s seat, who stands and lets him take the helm. The bald one comes and sits next to the first, hands off the controls, just keeping him company.

Luke hangs next to Ben for a moment before the lights and latches of the cockpit beckon him closer. “Ben,” he says urgently, eyes wide and hopeful, in the way that only young padawans can manage, “can I go see?”

And despite everything, Ben laughs, “Only if the men — sorry I didn’t get your names-”

“Right, introductions,” Commander Cody says, closing up the ship door with a decisive clunk, “Waxer, Boil and Gearshift,” he points to each of the men in turn, “this is Ben and Luke, we’re giving them a lift back to town.” The commander adds, presumably for Gearshift’s benefit.

“-only if Waxer and Boil say it’s okay.” Ben finishes, because there are few cardinal rules in the galaxy, and don’t annoy the pilots navigating you is chief among them.

Luke runs over to them, all wide tooka-eyed and wobbly-lipped, and says, “Please may I?”

The soldiers melt, faces softening and eyes going warm. “Yeah, kiddo, come take a seat and I’ll talk you through how these work.” Boil says. There is a strap-in seat behind the two pilot’s chairs, but Luke climbs instead onto Waxer’s lap to get the best view. Rather than looking perturbed, Waxer beams and spends the entire lift-off sequence carefully talking Luke through all the controls. When Ben glances away, the weight of history too heavy in the image, he sees the Commander has a strange look on his face as he watches the three of them. He only quirks a small smile at Ben when he realises he is being observed.

Boil flies them low and fast towards the cantina, and Ben considers watching the sands beneath them, their home for these past months, but the troopers are so much more interesting. They move with practiced familiarity and comfort around each other. The Commander seems truly respected by his men, at least these three, giving out orders and asking precise questions. They are soft and kind with Luke, patient with his endless questions, and in the Force they beat steady drums of individuality. Had Ben given the matter any thought over the ten years since the arrival of the clone army, then of course it made sense. No two sentient beings are alike, no matter what their genetic code may claim, but he had been too wrapped up in his grief and then in Luke’s care and teaching to have given it much thought. He regrets it slightly now, the old him — before survival became the priority — would have been more curious.

They are at the cantina almost too quickly, Ben already thinking through how to say thank you to these men, for their defiance on his and Luke’s behalf, when the ship jerks from its landing pattern. “Boil,” the Commander says, calm but with an edge of undeniable authority, “explain.”

“Sir,” Boil says, “it looks like there is something ugly going on down there,” Ben and the others glance out the ship and sure enough there is a small gang of people prowling outside the cantina. He doesn’t need to reach out in the Force to feel their ill-intent, it bleeds off them in waves. Ben stares down and watches as a distantly familiar figure strides out, “Durge,” the Commander says, beating him to the punch.

Ben doesn’t let the fear swamp him, just lets it pass through and over, instead he thinks through what he could have possibly done that ended up with Durge on their trail. Again. Other than — or in addition to — whatever had got the troopers’ General after them as well. He supposes Durge’s presence made a worrying degree of sense, he had been having a bad feeling, one that drove him to pack them up to leave their most recent home and move on quicker than he had intended.

The Commander, dangerously astute, has been watching him, and sidles up, “How about you let us escort you off planet, and then you and your boy can leave at our next stop?” He says it brusquely, which Ben is glad of, kindness would be a bit too much, but frank practicality is much more manageable. He allows himself to consider the idea.

He is torn, because there are probably few places in the Outer Rim stupider to hide than on a GAR dirigible, but during their last encounter with Durge, some five years ago, had been rough. Ben had almost had to use his lightsaber to get away, which was… not a situation he should be putting himself — or Luke — in. The next passenger dirigible off-planet leaves tomorrow at dawn, waiting for it would mean hours dodging a dangerous bounty hunter  who had proven himself dangerously adept.

As he is trying to decide, he cuts a quick glance over at Luke, laughing bright, eager and delighted, and the way that Boil is pulling a face to amuse him as he holds the skiff steady in a skilful hover. Letting Ben decide.

It’s a lot more joy and consideration than Ben had expected to find anywhere, let alone within the ranks of the GAR. He looks back at the commander, patiently waiting for Ben’s decision, and thinks that the clones may be the Chancellor’s army, but they didn’t seem to be his men. Still, it behoves him to be cautious. “Why would you go out of your way to help us like this? You don’t know us, we could deserve this.” He gestures down at Durge and his cronies.

“I make my own judgements,” the Commander says, mild, “And I’m not sure anyone who gets between the crosshairs of a crazed natborn officer from Coruscant and a bounty hunter like Durge is someone I’m necessarily too opposed to. You certainly don’t strike me as a Separatist,” Ben can’t help the face he pulls, and he notes the Commander noting it, before the man shrugs, a bit too casually, saying, “Besides, you would be the one coming onto my ship full of my men. I trust that they can handle themselves.”

Ben, in turn, can be comforted by the fact that, worst come to worst, the men probably weren’t used to fight a Jedi. So he nods, what could possibly go wrong over one flight through a hyperspace lane?

Bail is ostensibly heading home to Alderaan for the first time in two years. On his more dramatic days — there were many of them — he would say he couldn’t remember Breha’s face. This, of course, was nonsense, because between her portrait hanging in the embassy, where the ambassador still dragged him at least once a week for tea, lunch or Correlian ale depending on what kind of rough Bail was looking that particular day, and the illustrations in the holonews, he did see his wife’s visage quite frequently.

Theirs had been a political marriage that had grown into a romance the likes of which he could not have imagined when he was still living in House Antilles, reading and penning equally terrible poetry, playing at teenage rebellion, for four paltry months before a frank look and stern word from his mother reminded him that he enjoyed his duties and should maybe stop pretending otherwise. He hadn’t imagined on his wedding day, pleased to be marrying a young woman whose political and personal ethos matched so well with his, steel — synthetic and figurative — in her spine even then, that he would grow to miss his wife and her company so acutely.

Since Bail wasn’t actually heading home to Alderaan, he would have to wait longer still to see Breha. But Leia’s Jedi nanny had taught them both that when playing at being untrained and untutored, it was very important to let the kind of thoughts a Sith Lord expected to hear slip out.

So here Bail stands, waiting, consciously missing Breha, dreaming of her and hoping that she still loved him. All thoughts that Bail indulged in occasionally, but ones brought to the forefront ahead of his meeting with the Supreme Chancellor. 

He is being kept waiting deliberately, outside the office, in the hallway with Senators and aides walking past. It’s a petty power play. Bail knows it, Commander Thorn, based on the way he keeps glancing over at Bail, also knows it. Bail doesn’t know why a Commander of the Guard is having his time wasted acting as a doorman, but he keeps smiling at Thorn as kindly as he can manage given his own nerves about the meeting. Obstructing Palpatine in the senate was one thing, a private meeting is a much more delicate beast.

Commander Thorn, de-helmeted as they wait seems to appreciate it, his apprehension — at Bail’s anticipated meltdown, perhaps? — easing each time Bail treats him to a wry smile of shared camaraderie. The clone troopers had been a very worrying sign when they first arrived in the Republic capital all those years ago, an indelible metaphor of the chancellor’s tightening grip on the planet and the galaxy more widely, but Bail has grown to appreciate them. They are competent, quick-thinking and seem to care about more than getting their share of power amid the Chancellor’s tightening grip on the Republic. Bail may not often agree with how they are used — nor how they are treated — but the men themselves, he cannot fault, especially not when he sees how cautious and careful they are around him, speaking, likely to grief they get from Bail’s colleagues.

The door opens and, in a slick motion, Thorn’s bright blond plait disappears under his red helmet, and even before that, the open receptivity of his face closed down, a blank mask taking it over.

“Please enter,” the Chancellor calls, finally, a full two hours after they were meant to meet, and on a breath Bail, in a small act of defiance, says — whispers — “May the Force be with you.” It is hard to tell with the red helmet, but he is pretty sure Commander Thorn is looking at him. That could be dangerous, but Bail has a good feeling.

They walk, in step, into the office. There has been a slow creep of the blood red and black décor since the days of the Jedi order. When the Order fled, they took their archives and artefacts with them, but Bail is almost certain that the Chancellor has been blatantly displaying Sith artefacts in his office since day one.

“Senator Organa,” the Chancellor greets, still sitting behind his large desk. He does not greet Commander Thorn, Bail notices. “Thank you for making the time to come see me before you leave.”

“Of course, Supreme Chancellor,” Bail says, polite as he can be, thinking about seeing Breha, about his mild confusion about why he had been called for this meeting, about his sore feet and aching back. “I was honoured you wished to see me.”

“I’m sure you are wondering why,” Bail isn’t certain if it’s because he knows about the Sith, but there is an edge of menace to the question, in the weight of it, a thrill at his worry.

He inclines his head, thinking about running his fingers up the prosthesis in Breha’s spine, that glorious piece of technology keeping her alive; about the smell of her perfume, the way it wafts along the open windows as they walk around the palace; the sound of her voice, the way it lilts and slurs when she is tried, fighting to keep her eyes open. Quietly, secretly, hidden in that place in his mind Bail relies on to survive Coruscant, he hates the way the Chancellor smiles at him, clearly probing his thoughts.

“I imagine we have some business to discuss before my departure,” Bail is almost aggressively relieved that he isn’t Force-aware and thus spared what Ferus had described as the full slimy weight of the dark tendrilled assault on your mind. He knows that he is in a very dangerous position, presently, so he adds, “Except, I wonder if we may walk as we speak, I need to pick up my daughter. I was under the impression we were going to be meeting earlier, and I still have a lot to sort out.”

Bail has spent a decade obstructing Palpatine’s political plans to the best of his ability, so in theory he should be very used to chilling looks, but still the look of disdain almost takes his breath away. Then it shifts, “Of course,” the Chancellor says, icy politeness and banked fury gone behind a mask of grandfatherly benevolence. Bail has been in firefights that have felt less life-or-death than being in this office.

As they walk out, Commander Thorn following close behind, it feels like Bail can breathe again. 

“Well, Senator Organa, I’m sure you have heard about the growing attacks by the terrorist group calling itself the ‘rebel alliance’,” Palpatine says. Letting his eyes widen in worry, Bail nods, “Well, I want to make sure that one of our most prominent opposition senators remains safe in his journey home, so I want to ask you to take a contingent of guards with you. Wulfin Tarkin has agreed to lead a small party of men I trust completely to accompany you.”

Bail does not swear, does not flinch, because that would give up the whole game, but having Tarkin and his merry band of Palpatine-loyalists along would spell disaster for Bail, Alderaan and the Rebellion. He frowns instead, “Chancellor, your concern for my safety is much appreciated,” he says it loudly, thanking every star in the galaxy for his ploy to get them out of the office. As they moved through the halls, a crowd of senators and aides were bobbing past them, and no matter how quietly Palpatine tries to speak, they have an audience. “But you can’t be saying that the situation with these terrorists has gotten so bad that I need a full brigade of men? An admiral no less?”

Bail thanks his father silently for teaching him to sing, allowing him to project his voice loud without sounding like he is shouting, Already he can see concerned looks and whispers from their incidental audience. He has their attention and they are slowing their path to keep listening. Good.

“No of course not,” Palpatine demurs, trying to speed them up away from the crowd, but Bail slows his pace down, keeping level with Thorn who has been trailing them the whole time. Politics is so much more physical a game than anyone realises, and Palpatine comes from a minor house on Naboo, a planet that prefers child queens, he lacks the poise forced upon the Dukes of Alderaan from birth. “Our forces have things well in hand.”

“Good,” Bail says, playing up his relief that things weren’t as bad as they were first implied to be. He lets his mind drift to the gleaming cliffs of Alderaan, lets relief bleed through. “In that case Chancellor, I won’t hear anything of wasting the time of a GAR Admiral and your personal guard. I appreciate your concern but they are needed elsewhere surely.” He has a flash of an idea, “The Coruscant Guard will do, I am familiar working with them at the embassy, there is nobody I’d trust with mine and my daughter’s safety more.”

“Of course, Senator,” Palpatine says, all conciliatory even as Bail feels the tendrils of darkness prick at him, “It is only the Coruscant Guard are stretched quite thin at the moment, so they cannot spare the soldiers for it. My personal guard–”

“Even with the recent funding omnibus for the clone troopers?” Bail interrupts, mildly, confused,  even as he knew when he fought against the bill that none of the money would go to provisioning the troopers and would instead go into the pockets of loyal admirals and war profiteers. Palpatine looks caught off guard, just momentarily and so Bail presses his advantage. “Anyway, we don’t need many, one or two men to supplement the Alderaani guard would be more than enough to handle this mild problem of a small band of roving terrorists.”

Palpatine smiles, or rather he bares his teeth in something approximating a smile. “Well I’m not sure any two of the Coruscant Guard are qualified for such a mission.”

“Commander Fox can do it,” Commander Thorn says, noddingly cutting in, his tone helpful, like he was answering a question that had been directed at him. Bail ups his estimation of the man’s political astuteness and his bravery. Sending a silent thanks in his direction as he focusses his mind on his impatience at the packing he has left to do, Bail doesn’t squander the assist.

“The most decorated man of the GAR, and a Coruscant guard of his choice,” Bail agrees, “that sounds perfectly adequate, Supreme Chancellor.” He shakes the man’s hand, not thinking about the destruction he knows these hands can wreak, “I’m so glad we could figure out a solution to this.”

Again, the crush of senators and Palpatine’s earlier attempt to pressure him work in Bail favour, leaving the Chancellor hemmed by interested parties, so Bail presses his advantage, “Commander Thorn, why don’t you walk me the rest of the way and we speak about logistics. My thanks again, Supreme Chancellor, I will see you on my return.”

Bail then beats a retreat, using the full stretch of his legs to put fast distance between them, Commander Thorn thankfully following close behind.

Two elite clone commanders wouldn’t be ideal guests for a visit to a rebel base, but the clones at least hadn’t chosen to pledge loyalty to a Sith subverter of democracy, they had just taken up the roles created for them in this mess. Unlike Tarkin and his ilk, they were also, from what Bail had seen, decent men.

They would have to step carefully around Commander Fox, but at least there was hope that they could slip away from their escorts. Or better yet, convince them to join the side, but Bail was an idealist, not a hopeless optimist.

Chapter Text

“Stone, I may have done a terrible thing,” Thorn says, having come directly from leaving Senator Organa to the chaos of his apartment 500 Republica, and snuck into the Diplomatic Guard’s offices where he had been waiting, sitting in the dark until Stone finally walked in.

Stone jerks, nearly dropping his sheath of flimsi.

“Thorn!” Stone says, grasping at his chest with his free hand, in the shock, which seems a bit over-dramatic, “What have I said about sneaking in here? You'll send me to an early grave.”

“Or possibly a wonderful thing,” Thorn continues, ignoring Stone’s complaints.

There is heavy silence between them as Stone switches on the light, taking in whatever the kriff is happening with Thorn, appearance-wise. His braid looked good and his armour is still polished from this morning, Thorn knew that much.Everything else was more debatable. He suspected he might have the case of crazy eyes, but if he doesn’t look in the mirror he doesn’t have to know.

“What did you do?” Stone asks, dropping down next to him, pressing their foreheads together, wearily, but lovingly.

“Something really stupid. Or really clever,” Thorn says, thinking about that moment when he butted in, standing behind the Chancellor and the Senator. He had been listening to Organa—who had always been decent to Thorn and his men—trying to avoid getting stuck with Tarkin and his goons for his trip home, and thought, hey, maybe I could make this work.

Stone tugs at Thorns braid, the white-red of his gloves stark against his hair. “Vod, you need to actually tell me.”

“The Chancellor wanted Organa to take some men with him, Organa wasn’t so pleased.”

“Stuck-up senators,” Stone sighs, wearied and worn. And Thorn supposes that he would know, having to protect fussy diplomatic delegates as he did.

“No, no,” Thorn says, throwing an arm out to poke at him, “the Chancellor didn’t want him to take any of our men, he wanted Organa to take Tarkin and his men.”

“Fierfek.” Stone curses feelingly, “Nobody deserves to be stuck with that pit-viper. Still doesn’t explain what you did.”

Sending a prayer to the little gods that Stone doesn’t thump him, Thorn lays out his case. “Organa is good, you know, at playing the game. He got the Chancellor to have the meeting in the hall, got him to say that the terrorist problem from the rebels wasn’t that bad, and he was in the process of talking him into only taking a couple of Guard,”

“Oh,” Stone says, because he is as well trained and carefully honed as Thorn and any of the rest of their brothers. Stone stands and grabbing one of the chairs in front of his desk. He positions it in front of where Thorn is sitting, resting his arms against his knees. Thorn doesn’t think he realises that this is his interrogation pose, Stone gestures for him to continue.

“The Chancellor was saying all this stuff about there aren’t enough of us in the Courrie Guard—”

“Which is true,” Stone says, neutrally.

Thorn nods his acceptance but doesn’t let himself get distracted, “So the Senator shot back that the omnibus bill should have sorted that out,” Stone whistles through his teeth at that. Thorn had been impressed by the gutsiness as well, “and that, well surely there was someone who could be trusted. And then I suggested, Commander Fox.”

“Vod,” Stone says, and oh no this was worse than a thump, this was sympathy and understanding, an acknowledgement that Stone has been seeing what Thorn had. The way that Fox has been getting more ground down every day, his exhaustion, the way he is weird and jumpy after coming back from any meeting in the Chancellor’s office. The way you can walk past him and greet him and get a sense that Fox isn’t really there, the subtle ways that he sometimes seemed confused how he ended up in places doing double-takes, staring at reports whenever there is mention of himself.

“I just thought,” Thorn says, “That escort duty for one of the few nice Senators and his cute eleven year old, not only gets him away from–” Thorn makes a gesture upwards, “but sounds like as close to a vacation as any of us are ever going to get.” 

One of Stone’s not-so-shinys walks in, Trek, Thorn thinks, and they pause the conversation while Stone signs whatever requisition papers he is handed.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Stone says, leaning forward against the chair heavily, when Trek has left once more. Thorn thinks about asking about how things have been going in the Diplomatic Corps but knows they need to focus, “Organa is still a politician, and you know how Fox was around cadets back on Kamino.” Thorn didn’t, but he worked hard to not remind the others that he was one cycle younger, so he just nods.

“It’s not a terrible idea,” Stone decides, eventually, “but you still have to tell Fox yourself.”

Thorn swallows, and flicks the tail of his own braid compulsively.

Fox has only had the time to unclip his holster after his checks on the guards stationed in the lower levels when Stone and Thorn march into his office. They have their buckets on, but there is an uneasy energy between them that Fox could spot at eighty paces. Stone has been on paperwork all morning so Fox can’t imagine it is something from his shift. So he redirects his attention to where it is needed, “Thorn, you were at that meeting with Senator Organa and the Chancellor, was there a problem?”

Thorn snatches off his bucket, giving Fox a look, “How did you know there was an issue?”

Fox removes his own bucket, leaning back against his desk and just raises an eyebrow. “I’ve known you since you decanted, vod, I know all.” He didn’t know all, generally or about Thorn specifically—so much of Thorn’s generally sunny disposition confused and rattled Fox—but he hadn’t gotten this far by showing weakness. Thankfully, Thorn broadcast guilt and concern through his armour like a shiny fresh off the blimps, so Fox could read him easily enough.

There is a moment where the pair of them exchange a glance at each other—never a good sign in Fox's book—before Stone removes his bucket as well. It was always a comfort to actually see a brother’s face, the “privileges” of rank and the demands on the Coruscant Guard meant that Fox sometimes went days without seeing another clone’s face. He takes a moment to look at Thorn and Stone in turn, checking in with them, no visible scars, no shiners, no signs of excessive sleep deprivation.

It is more reassuring than it should be. Things have been rough recently.

Less reassuring are the similar looks on their faces: furrowed brows, searching eyes, downturned lips. Fox can’t triangulate exactly what the expression is, nor can he figure out why both of them are looking at him like that, but it doesn’t bode well. Fox knows that much.

“Well?” he asks, clocking the way Stone nudges Thorn forwards, “Do I need to put you two in holding until you spill?”

“No!” Thorn says, “Sorry, just—I—need to tell you something and I’m working up to it.” He looks close to tears so Fox moves closer, putting a supportive arm around him, because even he isn’t that much of a bastard.

“Breaths, vod, c’mon.”

“Right,” Thorn says, taking a deep breath, leaning into Fox. He doesn’t always remember it but Thorn is younger than the rest of them. There’d been an accident, right before they shipped out, that meant Tabs, the CC who’d been slated for Thorn’s position had to be replaced. He bore the responsibilities ably, so Fox rarely gave it much thought, but in this moment he feels that youth.

“So.” With a squeeze to encourage him, Thorn finally starts, “The meeting with Organa was a trap. For him.” Most meetings with Palpatine were traps, as Fox knew all too well. “The Chancellor, for whatever reason, wanted Organa to take Admiral Tarkin and a clutch of loyalists with him on a trip home to Alderaan and Organa was understandably reluctant.”

“As he should be,” Fox mutters, knowing that his office is one of the only places they could be honest like this. He doesn’t know much about Senator Bail Organa of Alderaan, just that he was polite to Fox’s men when he interacted to them, that he objected to the war at every chance he got, that he objected to most of the Chancellor’s plans, that he tried to get them — the clones, among other groups — rights in doomed omnibus bills whenever he could. It all seemed very futile, but Fox could appreciate the efforts nonetheless. More to the point, Fox wouldn’t wish Admiral Tarkin’s slimy presence and lingering eyes on anyone, let alone a politician as non-terrible as Organa.

“Well, there was some political manoeuvring,” Thorn continues, Fox surpesses his instinct to say, ‘there always is,’ wanting to let Thorn get to the end of his story and explain why both of them are still looking to him like he’s a cry risk, “And Organa got the Chancellor out in the halls of the senate, admitting that the ‘rebel alliance’ terrorist problem wasn’t as bad as all that, so he probably didn’t need a whole contingent of guards led by an admiral.”

Ballsy of Organa, Fox thinks with the barest hint of a smile, deciding that he could respect the way the Senator played the game. This is why Fox tries to ensure that his men travel in pairs to see the Chancellor and other senators, there tends to be strength in having a witness, even if you are both equally caught. Thorn continues, “he argued him down to a smaller number of Guards instead.”

Oh that made sense, Fox thinks, Thorn had bargained away some of his men to protect a senator he liked. Fox thinks about it, about the headache of duty rotations and shift changes, deciding that it was annoying but not the end of the world. Still for form’s sake, he sighs, “How many of my men did you promise?”

When he glances behind Thorn, he spots how Stone’s eyes go soft and sympathetic in a way that makes Fox itch, while Thorn huffs a laugh, “Well good news: only one, except—”

Oh, Fox thinks again, that explains the looks, “Except it’s one of my men, and me.” For a single moment, Fox feels nothing but relief, whatever nonsense would be entailed in escorting Organa on whatever diplomatic mission he was going on, Fox could be away from the pressing stress of Coruscant, of tense, uncomfortable meetings with the Chancellor, of losing sleep, of drinking caf down like its oxygen, of sleep deprivation so acute he feels like he is losing time.

That relief is gone in a surge, and the weight of his responsibilities and the men he’d be abandoning presses close and heavy. “I can’t leave—”

Stone steps in, hand on Thorn’s left bracer, “We looked over the duty rosters, before coming here, and we have already squared everything on our end. We can cover you, indefinitely if need be—not that you’ll be gone that long—but just in case.”

Fox laughs, bitter, “We’re already stretched so thin, how are you going to do that?”

“Organa, is brilliant,” Thorn says, starry-eyed and Fox jolts in discomfort. No good comes from getting close to a politician, they were ruinous and untrustworthy, with false promises spilling from their lips and threats lurking in their smiles. “I left him in his office and in less than an hour he had sent a messenger explaining that he had got the embassies to each commit assistance on certain rotations which has freed us up all the way up the ladder. I rushed back there to check his work. And it was good.”

“They’ve already started doing some shifts with the Diplomatic Corps,” Stone confirms, he sniffs, “They aren’t bad, for natborns, that is.”

Fox doesn’t snark back something along the lines of if Organa could do that so quickly, why couldn’t he have done that before. They’ve been drowning for years. “He didn’t know, vod,” Stone says, reading the frustration behind Fox’s eyes, “it’s only when he and Thorn spoke logistics that he understood how bad it’s been for us.”

Fox sighs, unsure if he believed that in the slightest, but not wanting to get sidetracked. “This is sounding pretty determined.”

“You ship out tomorrow morning, hanger 5-Alpha,” Thorn says, merrily. Too merrily. Fox curses them out, and they wisely beat a hasty repeat.

“Oi, be back here in two hours, we need to talk logistics.” Fox bellows out the door, walking over to his desk chair and dropping heavily into it. “Wait, you said me and one other—who else is coming with me?”

Thorn pokes his head back in, “About that…”

When Fox has finished inventing new curses to express the depths of his displeasure at Thorn he settles himself down. For all that he could throttle Thorn, Fox is resigned to his part in this scheme Thorn has concocted. He feels a heavy guilt at even the prospect of leaving his men without him there to protect them by getting in front of whatever came their way. Fox is also —in a borrowing, shameful, secret way— relieved. Relay stations got news faster than ships, not by much, but enough that it mattered. The Courrie Guard were kept leaner than other battalions which meant they never had much down time. And though Fox had been aware of brothers docking briefly in Coruscant, it had been far too many rotations since he had seen a batchmate. He didn’t much like the rumours coming out of the Outer Rim. If he had to leave Coruscant, then maybe he could find some answers about what is happening to his brothers.

Ben steps out of the light-aircraft onto the cavernous GAR dirigible and tries not to feel like he is signing his own death warrant.

He’d watched these men shoot their General, he was a witness, a danger to them. They may have shot the man to save Luke’s life, but still, this is rank madness.

Yet, if nothing else they have shown a pronounced, unwaveringly unwillingness to hurt Luke. 

They dock in what must be the main hangar and Ben is staggered by the scale of it, scores of light aircraft berthed and waiting. Not to mention the men, identical, helmeted, not-so-helmeted; standing around, working, striding through the hangar. All in their decorated armour, cheap metals treated and painted mostly golden-oranges, like Cody, Waxer, Boil and Crys, but also blues like Fives and Echo, whose names Ben had dragged Commander Cody to the side and demanded urgently, before they landed. He had wanted to ask about the colours, about the patterns – the stylistic sun stretching up from Commander Cody’s belt, the palm print on Echo’s shoulder, the line bi-secting Waxer’s helmet – but then they slid into the hangar with practiced ease and it was too late.

“Welcome to the Vigilance,” Boil says, swinging Luke onto his shoulders. He pauses, looking at Ben guiltily, or what he assumes might be guiltily. The helmets make it hard to tell and it has been years since Ben has had to contend with the press of this many emotions through the Force. He nods his head anyway, and that is clearly the right move because Boil lights up, joy unmistakable as he drums on Luke's shins and Luke, in turn, drummed a beat back against Boil’s helmet. Ben pauses, struck by the delighted laugh they both make, as they wait for everyone else to disembark. Ben had not thought to be prepared for the troopers in any way, had he, he wouldn’t have been prepared fro them to be such sources of joy.

The Commander sighs, behind him, closing up the ship’s doorway, “You’d think that as the Commander that would be a privilege of rank.”

“Welcoming your stowaways on board?”

“I think when I assist you in boarding my ship you count as an invited guest.”

“Is that so?” Ben asks, finding a long forgotten teasing tilt in his voice, not the one he uses to chivvy Luke out of his rare bad moods, but one now unfamiliar to him. “Well, I thank you for your hospitality,” Ben shouldn’t be flirting with the Commander of a GAR war dirigible, he had told himself he had left that kind of bad behaviour behind when stopped having the support system of a wider Jedi order at his back.

“I would offer to show you to where you and the kid can bunk until our next stop but I think it may be better to follow Boil if you want to put a stop to any trouble he and Luke may get themselves into.” Ben startles, having not even realised that the pair had left the hangar. The Commander pauses, looking impressively sheepish for a man in head to toe armour, with no fewer than four weapons strapped to himself. “Not that he’s in any danger from any of the men…”

Ben supposes that should have possibly crossed his mind, but the second they boarded the air-skiff the Force had gone quiet with a pleased shudder, like a cat shaking itself off before curling into a nap. It could have been finding sanctuary from Durge, but Ben suspects he is in little danger here. The press of minds on this large, busy dirigible, were controlled, competent, comforting, there was a calm press of community. The kind that Ben had been missing for ten long years, and the kind that Luke had never experienced. Two weeks of this, as long as they didn’t do anything stupid and reveal to Republic soldiers who they were, could be good for the both of them.

“It’s fine Commander, I trust you aren’t about to undo your hard work saving our lives. Lead the way,” Ben says, knowing full well that he could follow Luke’s supernova presence in the Force anywhere he tried to hide.

Before they go, there are procedures to follow, so Ben settles into the shadow and watches Gearshift tether the skiff in place while some clones in oil-stained overalls came to start checking over the machine. “LT. Waxer, you’ll check on the… cargo that Fives and Echo are bringing in?” Ben hears the Commander ask, as quietly as possible, making sure that none of the curious engineers and flight deckhands are too close by.

“Aye, Commander,” Waxer agrees, looking wistfully the way Luke and Boil had wandered off.

“Chin up, soldier,” Commander Cody says, clipping his LT. around the pauldron, “the faster it gets done, the faster you are back with Boil.” Waxer leaves, grumbling none-too-quietly, and the Commander snorts, fondly. Ben notes the shape of the friendly insubordination, adding it to his unfurling sense of the men and their relationships. That the Commander was the leader, but had clearly given—at least some of—his men leave to be at least more casual with him. The care that ran among the men seemed deep, all those who passed by the skiff kept doing a visual check on each other. “Should we go?” the Commander says to Ben, politely interrupting his speculation.

“Yes, I suppose we should,” and so they walk. Ben carefully letting himself walk besides the Commander. The airship itself is not what he was expecting, it is clearly diligently cared for and maintained, but there are signs of improvisation in the repairs and maintenance, as if the maintenance crew hasn’t been getting the supplies they needed. Unable to help himself down one corridor, Ben reaches out and touches the beige-gold metal that a repair in the steel door has been made with.

The Commander sees and goes furious-frustrated for a moment, tangible like a flame in the Force, before he gets himself back under control. It’s not directed at Ben, as far as he can tell, and his posture doesn’t change. Ben still snaps his hand back, tucking it beneath his robes. There is a moment, as they wait in front of the door, Ben eyes averted from the door, Commander Cody looking at him, assessing.

He takes his helmet off, all the men had replaced them before disembarking onto the main dirigible, and for some reason it is hard to think of him just as the Commander when Ben can see his face. The warm brown of his eyes, the way he is considering, visibly weighing something up. 

“There are supply issues, or so we’re told,” it takes Ben a moment before he understands what he’s being told, he reaches out and touches the mend again, he can’t help the frown as he does. He shouldn’t be having opinions, there is no surer way to wear through a welcome. Although his displeasure seems to be the right move, because Commander Cody softens, just ever so slightly as Ben continues his inspection.

That colour…

“Old battledroids?” Ben asks.

Commander Cody blinks, “Yes, good catch, most civilians…” Ben finishes the sentence in his head, cursing himself because, most civilians didn’t and shouldn’t know battledroids by sight of their metal alone. Never mind that he was probably one of the first to have to fight one of the blasted things. Never mind that sometimes he still woke to the sound of the grinding gears and creaking joints on the march. Never mind that he could tell you that the B1s were dangerous to most people in the galaxy, unless they had a lightsabre and knew how to use it.

He shrugs, “Luke and I haven’t always been on Tatooine,” it’s the truth, but there is a chasm within those words where all manner of things can be hidden, “it’s very resourceful.” Ben quickly deflects, running his fingers gently up the seam, feeling how smooth it is, good craftsmanship has clearly gone into the repair. It shouldn’t have had to, the Republic, or what’s left of it, should be funding and supplying its soldiers enough so they didn’t have to cannibalise the fallen shells of the enemy. Commander Cody gives him a wry nod.

They continue to walk down the branching corridors. The Commander leading them directly to where Luke is, so Ben doesn’t object, but he does wonder how Commander Cody knows, he hadn’t seen Boil or he communicate their destination. But then he is only one man, and the handsigns—some dialect of Mandalorian battlesigns by Ben’s best reading—are fast and quick.

Luke sends out a pulse of distress that has Ben tensing before they turn around the corner, but once he sees where he has been led, he cannot help snorting, recategorising the pulse from Luke to be indignation rather than distress. He slides the Commander a look, “Very clever, it’s a neat ploy this.”

“I… it’s standard operating procedure?”

“Hmm,” Ben would have to keep a closer eye on this man. He hadn’t at any moment sensed malice, but this was a level of subterfuge he had not entirely anticipated. “Are you asking or telling?” He prods, as he’s steeling himself and sending pulses of reassurance to Luke.

Then he makes to go into the infirmary.

The Commander grabs his arm before he can enter, “Listen, I don’t—I wouldn’t have—usually, I’d have checked or asked. From here on out I will, but I can’t risk my men,” he says it urgently, guiltily. Again, Ben finds his sense of this man shifting, the earnestness of the apology, of care, in his voice, it’s destabilising.

“It’s fine, Commander,” Ben says, an unexpected desire to soothe beating out an opportunity to leverage the man's evident guilt, “I’m sure Luke and I can handle a little health check-up in exchange for saving our lives and giving us a ride.” He still looks guilty, and Ben feels himself soften further, he shrugs off Commander Cody’s arm, and reaches out for the door himself, saying, “Really, it’s fine.”

And then he walks in, holding the door open for the Commander, and willingly taking himself into an infirmary for the first time possibly in his life, oh if Bant could see him now.

The infirmary itself is clean, well-stocked, brightly lit. There are a few troopers recovering on beds, one with a cog of the republic tattoo and a bandaged foot elevated, another sleeping; the one with injured arm has a huddle of men around his bedside playing cards quietly. Boil was standing next to the sleeping trooper, checking on him. There are other rooms, orderlies in grey uniforms under scrubs moving around with a careful calm and Luke, boosted on a bed, surrounded by a collection of armoured troopers.

One was Fives, recognisable by his blue markings and his footprint in the force. He’s holding a medkit from the looks of it, being spoken to by a medical officer. The medic has a red cross on his pauldron, blue across his lighter armour and a tattoo reading “the only good droid is a dead droid,” across the left side of his head. While another medical officer, this time with sunbursts of orange gold, much like his commander, is crouching down to be on Luke’s eye level, holding a thermo-reader steady against his temple. He has his helmet off, Ben wonders whether it is standard practice, or for Luke’s comfort.

“And all done, you’ve been a very good patient,” the man says to Luke, passing him a candy which he immediately launches into. Commander Cody makes a noise, and moves to intervene. Ben waves a hand at him and he stops, it was strange to see a battalion commander fussing; Fives also makes a noise, at the sight, turning on the blue-medic, and saying, “Kix, you never give us candy.”

The medic, Kix, sighs, thumping Fives, “You’re a grown-ass ARC trooper who likes to hurl himself off of moving airships, he’s a cute kid being very brave for a health check-up, of course he gets candy.” Fives has his helmet on, but Ben knows he is pouting.

“You must be Kenobi the elder,” the orange-medic, says. Ben had been paying attention to Fives, and so had missed when the man turned his attention to him. Luke, now freed, had hopped off the bed, attached himself to Commander Cody’s hip, and had apparently given the troopers Ben’s surname on top of everything else. They would be having words about his rapid willingness to trust these soldiers.

“Yes, although please call me Ben,” he smiles, as winningly as he’s able.

The medic scribbles something down on his clipboard and then manhandles Ben over to one of the beds. “Undress, I need to check you too,” he says, brusquely. Ben makes a sound. He doesn’t even know this man’s name, and here he was being told to strip off his uppers and start describing his vaccines to the man’s grumpy questions.

“Brisk,” Commander Cody sighs, “you haven’t introduced yourself.”

The man pauses where he is taking Ben’s temperature, blinking owlishly before he sighs, “Brisk, CMO, CT-8723, been up for twenty-three hours prepping for new general. Who you are not, because I had his files already.”

Commander Cody breathes out sharply through his nose, turning to halt one of the orderlies, unarmoured, unimpressed as he bustles past, “Buzz, I thought I told you to sit on him until he got some sleep.”

The orderly whacks the Commander’s arm away, saying, “And lose a hand in the process? C’mon Commander, then we’d be down two medics,” before bustling off to continue his work.

And Ben, again, is too busy watching the cheerful insubordination to fully pay attention to Brisk's questions and tests, because he yelps when the blood pressure cuff tightens to a point of pain. Brisk snorts, “Your son was so well behaved, you on the other hand are an awful patient. Unless you’re actually 93 rather than 39.” The more things change, Ben thinks, ruefully remembering the number of times that Bant had said something similar.

Eventually he is allowed to re-dress himself and get down from the bed. Brisk immediately walks away scribbling. No sweets for him, Ben supposes. Luke is talking enthusiastically to Commander Cody, staring up at him, eyes bright and happy. Ben is still uncertain what to think about how quickly his padawan is taking to the clone troopers, but the Force continues to feel quiet and pleased onboard the airship, and Luke had always been sensitive in his ability to read people.

“Mr Kenobi,” Commander Cody says, and Ben blanches, involuntarily, “Ben,” the Commander amends, “I thought I’d get Boil to show you and Luke to our guest quarters so you can clean up and then I can show you around the dirigible?” Ben watches amused as the Commander manages to efficiently nudge Luke back his way and summon Boil away from whoever he was visiting on the medbed.

“Certainly,” Ben agrees, wanting time alone with Luke. A dirigible of this size would take at least an hour to prep for the hyperspace lanes, they could always steal a skiff and slip away before then, if they decided it was necessary. “Only, I wonder if you could first tell us where your next port of call will be?”

Commander Cody pauses, face twisting embarrassedly, “Of course, I apologise for forgetting, we’re heading to Hosnian Prime for resupply.” He and Lieutenant Boil both go cold with worry in the force, but remain impassive. Ben doesn’t blink at them curiously, but he does wonder at their worry. “There are plenty of passenger dirigibles leaving from the dockyards there daily, would that suit?”

“That sounds perfectly adequate,” Ben confirms, nervous nonetheless. Hosnian Prime was a mid-rim planet, closer to the core than he and Luke had been since the panicked early weeks after his birth, when Ben had clutched this weak, feverish child to him, trying to find safe medical care in the face of Anakin’s betrayal, Padmé’s death and the dispersal of the Jedi order. At the same time, the possibilities of a dirigible from Hosnian Prime offered were dizzying. They may even be able to find another Jedi, if they followed where the Force led them. Some more cairns, at the very least.

Surely that would be worth the danger.

Looking down at Luke and the way he is almost shining with joy as he had moved on from the Commander to Fives, Ben has to trust that he is making the right call.

Chapter Text

“Cody, our new guests…" Brisk starts and trails off. 

“I’ve got Boil taking them to their bunks to settle in for the journey,” Cody says, drained, wanting nothing more than the comfort of knowing they were safely in the hyperlane. “Then he and Waxer are going to have a conversation with the kid while I have a chat with Ben.”

They are in Cody’s office, he’d retreated there after the medbay, needing five minutes in privacy to just gather himself together. Brisk, as he was wont to do, followed with loud opinions.

Cody watches as Brisk flips through the two files he had filled in for their new guests, brow furrowing at whatever he had read, “Interesting pair. All clear on their health check. But it’s very curious. They are—”

“Patient confidentiality, Brisk.” Cody says, firmly and quickly, already feeling the guilt for having tricked them into coming into the medbay. He should have just asked, he’s too used to having to work around natborns, leading and guiding them where they needed to be. He

Brisk thumps him, “Of course, there’s patient confidentially.”

Cody glares, he bets Fox and Bly don’t get this kind of physical violence from their medics. He thinks about it and then says so.

Brisk thumps him again.

“Bly and Fox don’t go around hurling themselves bodily at droid commandos,” Brisk snaps, and Cody winces remembering the chewing out he got that time he broke his foot on the seventh droid he’d kicked that battle.

“And,” Brisk continues, mercilessly, “they don’t bring random civilians onto their warships.”

Cody supposes that reminding him that Fox didn’t have a warship onto which civilians could be brought so he holds his down as Brisk sitts down and looks at Cody. “Do you know what you are doing, vod?”  

“No,” Cody says honestly, because you aren’t meant to lie to your Chief Medical Officers. “But I’m doing it anyway. It could blow up in my face, but it was the right thing to do.”

Brisk makes a noise of neutrality that Cody decides to take as agreement, slaps both hands against his legs, stands and walks off. Seemingly satisfied, but more importantly: done with the conversation. Cody has to hold off his laugh, Brisk was categorically awful at this. Rex used to be the person that Cody told all this stuff to, but things had been strained between them for months.

“Go the kriff to sleep, you madman” Cody shouts at Brisk’s retreating back. “I’m not joking, if you try to go back to the medical bay before getting some godsdamn sleep, I’m going to lock you out.” Brisk swears at him, without looking backwards.

Cody sits for a few minutes longer, trying to figure out what the correct amount of time to leave Luke and Ben to settle in. He needed to have a conversation with Ben and Ghost Company soon, they were floating towards the hyperlane quickly and would be locked in by the end of the current shift.

He forces himself to stand, checking in with the on-duty men he passes as he makes his way to the visiting officer’s suite, now given over to their strange new travelling companions.

He gets there just as Luke, Boil and Waxer are leaving. He didn’t specify how they were meant to distract the kid, but their tactic is pretty obvious given the way Luke is loudly and excitedly asking, “Can we really see the navigation deck?”

Cody looks at the closed door, takes a beat, and makes a circuit of this branch of hallways, giving Ben a moment alone. He spends the circuit carefully checking on the barely touched guest wing. They had mostly converted into quiet spaces and keeping the berths on hand, in case they ever needed to quickly accommodate more men. Something that was becoming worryingly necessary as battalions and squadrons fractured and men went missing across the GAR.

Back at the door, Cody knocks.

“Commander Cody,” Ben greets, almost before the door has fully opened, a slightly puzzled look on his face. “I imagine you’d like a word.” There is something off-putting about the way this stranger could read him and his men. He keeps feeling like he has his helmet and armour off, even when he’s checked and they are firmly in place.

“Yes, would you rather we spoke here or somewhere else?”

“Somewhere else?” Cody nods.

“Come, we can use my office.” They walk there quickly and quietly, Cody trying to avoid his men until he had an idea of how to play Ben being here and their promised new general…not. They keep quiet on the walk, Cody out of the desire to not have his men overhear this conversation, he is unsure about why Ben isn’t asking more questions.

They almost make it to his office before the internal comm-system chimes twice in that way it does when his attention is needed on the deck. Urgently.

Cody sighs, “That is for me. We will have to talk later, I need to check in with the bridge.”

“Of course, I can return to my bunk?"

And then Cody would have to get someone to fetch him or fetch Ben himself, and it would be a whole thing. “It’ll be easier if you just hang around, it shouldn’t take long. Come on, Luke is on the flight deck with Ghost anyway.”

“Who’s Ghost?” Ben asks, frowning. “Have I met him already?”

“Ghost Company,” Cody says, with a wince. He would protest that Ben assumed about their names, but he is pretty sure that Gree had a Sergeant called Ghost. Cody briefly wonders whether it would be easier to talk Ben through the organisational structure or just let him figure it out, before he remembers that it won’t matter, because Ben and Luke are only going to be with them for the next two weeks until they reach Hosnian Prime, a space port surely big enough to slip away on — so that Cody doesn’t have to worry about saving them only to have them killed by an errant bounty hunter immediately. “They are my unit, the men I rely upon and trust the most.”

“Your council,” Ben says, mostly to himself, almost wistfully.

“I suppose so, although I’ve never thought about them as such,” Cody says, already heading towards the bridge, “Will that be okay, it shouldn’t take long?”

He didn’t like the ambiguity of this relationship.

Since leaving Kamino, things had simplified from the early confusion of first encountering the wider galaxy. He has had his whole life to learn how to live and co-exist with vod’e: the ways rank did and didn’t matter, the ways they signed and spoke and deferred to each other. There was a logic to those relationship which Cody knew like breathing, like the feel of his armour and a DC in his hands. Nat-borns were more complicated, but they generally fell into two camps, superior officers to be ostensibly obeyed while being subtly subverted or civilians to fight for. There were of course enemy generals and encounters at bars willing to serve clone troopers, but those were so few and far between, and did not offer helpful guidelines here either.

They had saved Ben and Luke, but they had brought them onto their safe haven of the Vigilance, Cody didn’t know how to handle this going forwards.

“Yes, of course,” Ben says, easily, unfettered by the worries that haunt Cody. “I should check in with Luke anyway, make sure he isn’t causing too much trouble.”

Cody sighs, part performance, part heartfelt exhaustion. “If we’re being honest, I imagined he being there is keeping the men on their best behaviour.”

There was a worrying crash and a yell from inside the flight deck, and Ben shoots him a look, eyebrow raised but seemingly unconcerned.

Ben walks with Commander Cody onto the flight deck with the comfort of Luke sending him a pulse of I’m fine, I’m having fun through the Force. So whatever that crash had been it hadn’t caused any harm.

The flight-deck is more impressive than other parts of the dirigible, Ben thinks it is less because of any particular care put into maintenance than any other part of the ship, but because its builders, whoever they were, were told to prioritise this space. The viewports are large and wide, offering a glorious view of the stars as the navigator prepares the Vigilance to enter the swirling hyperspace lane.

Glancing around, Ben counts maybe twenty men, most of them in Commander Cody’s orange, but a few in the blue of Fives and Echo, moving like a well-oiled machine. There are armoured and non-armoured clone troopers moving around each other preparing the dirigible to enter the hyperspace lane with a calm sense of routine. That is, except for the pile up of three men on the floor. He continues scanning until he spots Luke, surprisingly not involved in whatever mess is happening on the ground, instead he is sat on the lap of a trooper at the helm, this one with a riotous head of curls held out of his eyes by an orange headband. They are speaking quietly.

“See,” Commander Cody says, falling somewhere between irritated and fond, indicating a hand at Luke: “a perfectly well behaved guest,” then at the men on the ground, “and then my men demonstrating their battle readiness.” 

Ben can’t help his smile. He has to keep reminding himself that this bridge was full of potential dangers, it all felt so charmingly safe. 

The Commander walks fully into the room decisively. He is clearly the leader, because he clears his throat once, and the three men are up on their feet, one of them still holding the other in some sort of immobilising but not painful lock. “Sir!” They all bark.

“Men,” Commander Cody says, leaving a pause that has the three of them straightening and separating, and then he just nods and moves on leaving one of them to thump the other, hissing something that sounded like “Wooley,” but Ben isn’t all too sure.

“That was mean,” he says in an undertone, following behind him, before realising that he is probably overstepping. The Commander however just slants him a look, that despite the helmet—admittedly with assistance from the force—Ben knows is amusement. He glances away to see a trooper with blue accents staring at Ben and the Commander intently. His helmet has painted Jaig eyes, it seems, which is startling. Ben had picked up on the fact that the troopers seemed to speak to each other in some form of a Mandalorian dialect, but Jaig eyes, those were not something shared thoughtlessly. Commander Cody catches where he is looking, but by the time he glances in the trooper’s direction the man is back to looking at the panel over the shoulder of the trooper he was standing near. Curious.

Cody sighs, inaudibly, and instead guides Ben over to the main console table, where Luke is still sitting on the navigator at the helm’s lap staring at the controls with wide excited eyes. When they approach the man gives a nod to Commander Cody, saying, “Commander, I’d stand, but…” and jostles Luke who says, “hey!”

Ben doesn’t have time to worry if he should feel guilty, because Cody snorts, “You never stand, you have the discipline of a shiny fresh out of the tank,” and leans over to flick a button that Luke then dutifully unflicks, Ben doesn’t know enough about this kind of array to know if it was the obvious button to entrust a ten year old with, or if the Commander had already figured out which job Luke had been given. “Compass, this is Ben, Luke’s guardian.”

“It’s good to meet you, it’s a good kid you have here,” Compass says, and Luke looks up absolutely beaming.

Rex is still ignoring him, and Cody doesn’t know what to do. He has tried twice to talk to him in the hours since Ben and Luke had come on board and every time, Rex managed to duck away. Things haven’t been great since Cody had incorporated the remains of the 501^st into the 212^th, but they had been talking. Cody doesn’t know what had happened recently but it was like a wall had come up. Rex was still terrible at lying and hiding secrets, which he unfortunately knew, so he was just avoiding Cody. It both hurt and grated at him.

He sighs, when Rex once more snaps his gaze away the second Cody looks up. Worse is that Ben seems to be picking up on it, which means the rest of the bridge certainly know as well. He had already dealt with Boil’s question, with Wooley’s scrap with Pincushion and Darby, they were shortly about to enter the ‘lane which meant two weeks of pretty much guaranteed calm, things should be fine. He gets himself situated, removing his helmet and letting the controlled chaos of 'lane entry ebb around him.

“Oh, new general,” one of the men says, walking past where the door to the command bridge is propped open. He is clearly looking at Ben where he is standing and letting Compass talk him and Luke through the hyperspace lane entry process, “Cool.”

The trooper’s markings are hard to see from where Cody is standing. The trooper’s squadmate is Kilo, one of the few new shinies they had managed to pick up alongside Wooley, who had taken to painting on a mix of orange and blue on his armour. Kilo had come in to get Cody to sign some requisition forms, and Cody, looking over at Kilo’s squadmate, has an awful-brilliant idea. He glances over at Rex who is still, somehow, more pissed at him, and glaring at Ben in that way of his that only he seems to think is subtle. At Luke where he is sat with Compass watching the flight procedures. At Ben watching this happen with a small smile. At Waxer who had also heard the trooper.

“Did you just have the same bad idea?” Cody asks in an aside to Waxer, who nods slowly and calls out, “General,” looking at Ben who slowly looks up and meets their eyes. He is looking cautious and concerned, which was probably wise, because they were about to suggest something incredibly stupid.

“No,” Ben hisses at Cody and Waxer, when they approach him with their very stupid idea. Ben looks like he wants to say something specific because he keeps opening and closing his mouth before he resorts to trying to convey something akin to his disapproval through very furrowed eyebrows. “That would be a terrible, terrible idea.”

“No, it wouldn’t be—in fact I’m sure it’s one of the best ones we have,” Cody says, as confidently and certain as he can manage.

“It’s also an awful, terrible idea,” Waxer says, helpful, as ever, “it’s both the best and worst we have.”

“It could go wrong in so many ways.” Ben says, looking at both of them. Cody wishes he had a sense of what he is seeing.

“It will be fine, it’s a grand idea,” Cody says injecting his voice with that careful confidence of Command that has been trained in him since he decanted with enough attitude to amuse Alpha-17. “We get some cover from whatever dikut general from High Command in Coruscant that the Chancellor is courting favour from, and can finally resupply, my men are kept clean on a charge of conspiracy, and you and the kid get safe passage.”

Ben has a blank mask of an expression and Cody hates it, wishing he would emote or hide his head under a helmet like a brother. Unreadable civilians make him antsy. “If we don’t agree is our safe passage no longer guaranteed?” he asks, all quiet calm.

Cody and Waxer look at each other in horror. Being clones in the GAR, no matter how far they climb there is always someone with more power than them, they are not used to having power and have people expecting them to wield it over them. Cody feels sick at the prospect, “No, gods, of course not, I am a man of my word—”

“But, you don’t actually need my permission, do you,” Ben says, calm, all pointed speculation, “you could just tell your men I’m your general.”

Cody doesn’t say anything immediately, because the thought had already crossed his mind. Instead he says, with a sigh, “I’d appreciate you working with me on this, because I genuinely think that it is the best way forward, but I won’t force you, or go around you and tell the men.”

“Why would you need me to resupply?” Ben asks, trying to figure out the angle. It seems too outlandish to be a trap, but too terrible an idea to be anything else.

“They only let us reprovision if we have a Nat b—a non-clone with us. Preferably a General.” Lieutenant Waxer explains, joviality slipping.

Ben looks at the Commander searchingly. Through the Force he is a glow of steady, earnest, confidence — nerves are there, but he believes what he is saying. The Force itself, when Ben probes it offers nothing further than the pleased hum it has been making since they boarded. Helpful as ever. Eventually Ben sighs, “Fine, but I want my misgivings registered.”

“Noted,” Commander Cody says, and smiles, although he quickly suppresses it when Ben frowns. Softer, he says, “Thank you, I mean it,” and through the Force there is nothing smug, just gut-wrenching relief. It is almost immediately subsumed by a feeling of quick calculation and organisation as he turns to Waxer, “How many people have we told about this?”

“So far: mission party, Brisk, and I think Fives may have mentioned it to Rex.” Waxer answers, There is a bolt of shame-guilt in the Commander, as he imperceptibly glances at the Jaig-eye trooper who is continuing to burn his own flame of furious-curiosity and wretched-guilt. The Force remained a contented rumble, so Ben doesn’t fret over the tension, but he does note it.

“Gather them, we’ll get our story straight and then I’ll announce it to the troops.”

“Will Luke have said anything to Compass?” Commander Cody asks, and Ben takes a moment to think, before he snorts.

“I don’t think that boy has thought about—let alone said—anything that isn’t about aeronautical engineering since he stepped into this room.”

“Just like Gearshift,” Waxer says, amused before he straightens remembering his commanding officer’s orders. “Right-away sir, where do you want them?”

“Briefing Room A should be fine,” Commander Cody says, and starts to walk Ben over there. A decision having been made, his mien has shifted almost immediately. He walks a step behind Ben, still authoritative, but visibly deferential as well. He has full command of the situation, and yet plays the dutiful subordinate expertly, it is a masterclass.

Inside, Ben leans against the large table, considering the maps laid out there—a hodgepodge of what look to be uniform, official GAR starmaps and a mess of other, translated, out of date maps—briefly before turning to the Commander who has placed his helmet down on the table. “You are rather good at that, Commander Cody.”

He gets a twist of a smile in return, “I’ve had practice,” he pauses, “I’m less used to having someone in on the trick.”

“No, I imagine not.” Ben wants to ask why there is an army full of cloned men fighting a seemingly endless war, he wants to ask how long they knew this was coming, he wants to ask why it would matter that they didn’t have a non-cloned general. Kamino, was the cloning planet, as far as Ben knew, but he had only heard of it being used by rich merchants in battles for succession, nothing on this scale. He decides to start smaller, they were going to have weeks of hopping around hyperspace lanes.

“So these men we’re speaking to first, they are your most trusted lieutenants?”

“Most of them,” Commander Cody sighs, “there are a few more men in my command team who I trust implicitly, but the fewer people who know the safer this will be."

Ben nods faintly, trying not to hear the echo of his last conversation with Mace a decade ago, the abyss of loss, of removing himself from the Council’s connection, letting them plan without any danger of him knowing any of the specifics.

Brisk arrives first, still in his mix of scrubs and armour, unimpressed. He glances at Ben, at the Commander, sighs, throws himself into a seat and goes to sleep, head leaning against the back of the chair. Ben blinks, and glances at Commander Cody who is sorting through the stack of papers on the desk, it doesn’t look like busywork as he does it, but Ben would bet almost anything it is. He wants to ask, the Commander clearly knows that Brisk is there and asleep, but makes no move to comment.

Fives and Echo arrive next, still cloaked from their desert jaunt. With a jolt Ben remembers that these were the men that… dealt with the real general, it is hard to believe it with the way they are whinging at each other like almost-knighted padawans. Crys follows, out of armour and with a headset that the Commander flicks at as he passes, “Forget something Crys?”

“Waxer said it was urgent, I was mid-shift,” Crys scowls, “I had to leave Reverb in charge.” He says it darkly as the others snort.

Waxer and Boil come in together, whispering.

Despite being the closest to the door before they entered, the Jaig-eyed trooper, who must be Rex, is the last to join them. Ben can tell Commander Cody notes that as well, his brow creasing ever so slightly. Still he only nods and greets the man, “Captain Rex.” 

Brisk awakens, looking as unimpressed as before, just as Commander Cody says, “That’s all of us, thank you for joining me. Well, us.”

“You are all the only ones who know the truth that happened down planetside, you know what decisions were made, and you may not agree with them, but I know I can trust your discretion with the rest of the battalion." Cody says.

“Especially since we are going to be telling them something quite apart from the truth.” Waxer and Boil nudge each other and Captain Rex breathes out sharply.

“Men, meet our new General,” Commander Cody indicates to Ben. 

No going back now, Ben figures, so he steps forward, trying to remember the young man—child—he had been nearly three decades ago, what it meant to be a leader, to be a general. Some of that military steel must have remained somewhere, buried deep, because his shoulders square and his spine straightens and a few of the men look at him consideringly. The Captain is unimpressed, leaking displeasure in the force, although impassive under his helmet.

“More accurately,” Ben finds himself saying, “I am your interim General. Unfortunately, your intended replacement General—”

“Konstantine,” Crys supplies helpfully.

“Your intended replacement, General Konstantine was unavoidably detained, so I cut short my sabbatical with my son so I could stand in for him for the next few weeks until we move our way back towards the core.”

Commander Cody nods at him approvingly, Ben wonders if he detects a hint of surprise and reassessment in his eyes. Again, this is probably a terrible idea, but Ben hates doing things badly.

“General Ben here has decided to step in so we can make sure that the Vigilance gets the supplies it needs from Hosnian Prime.” That pleases the men, most of them at least, Captain Rex is still disgruntled and cautious. “We’ll tell the rest of the battalion that line, those in this room will know better, but we are keeping a tight lid on this one.”

“Boil and Waxer, start filling Ben in on some GAR protocols, otherwise, back to your duties. Captain Rex, did you want a word?” He says it blandly, but the Captain goes rigid across the table, before standing and stalking towards a corner where Commander Cody follows with the enthusiasm of a man walking towards a firing squad. Lieutenants Boil and Waxer immediately start conferring, clearly not yet ready for Ben, so he looks out the portglass, paying most of his attention to the Commander and his Captain.  

“Cody, what kind of bantha-brained-scheme is this,” Captain Rex demands, none-too-quietly, as Commander Cody sighs, and starts to respond, too quietly for Ben to hear. For the most part he looks like an aggrieved commanding officer, but there is a flash, blink and you miss it, of a smile. A rueful one, that says something along the lines of ‘well at least you are speaking to me’. Ben is pretty sure he had that expression on his face a lot during Anakin's teenage years, when the tempers, blistering and chilling, blew in fast and swift.

Ben waits for a shock of guilt that used to follow any thought of Anakin and just feels… fine. An ember of guilt is there, one that would probably grow if he fanned it, but for the most part he feels empty, vaguely sad, mostly resigned. Teaching Luke, spending most of his time with the boy since his traumatic birth, that guilt had tempered then faded. Ben knows he isn’t, and wasn’t, perfect as either a man or a teacher, but he had trained his padawan to be a good Jedi, and Anakin had been, when he listened, when he followed their teachings and creed, when he didn’t let his emotions and attachments control him. The steps his first apprentice had taken into the darkness had been wilful and conscious.

“General… Ben?” Boil asks, directing his attention away from the heated, whispered conversation between the Commander and his Captain.

Ben thinks for a moment, General Kenobi sounds… too much like Knight Kenobi, like Jedi Master Kenobi, the man who he could no longer be. “I suppose calling me Ben is out of the question?” The men nod, emphatically, “General Kenobi is probably correct, technically, but I think General Ben may work better. You all have your given names?”

Fives snorts, “Given is probably not the correct term, since most of us chose them.”

“Oh?”

“We were given numbers,” Echo says, and Ben focusses on releasing his shock of fury into the Force, as Echo points to each of the men and lists out a string of numbers. Instead he focusses on the neat symmetry of using his own chosen name to pretend at leading this battalion of fascinating men, each having chosen their own name, not the fact that these men had been cloned and labelled like they had been produced on the factory lines of Genosis.

Bail pays his staff well, exceedingly so. Yet, he still doesn’t pay them well enough to make up for the way that they have managed to turn his and Leia’s cluttered, messy lives into a set of ordered, labelled travel valises. These men and women that Bail employs are angels; they are distillations of all that is good in the galaxy; they are also—inevitably—going to take his senate seat when word of his “tragic dirigible accident” hit the news.

It may do more good for the state of democracy than anything Bail has achieved sitting in his seat. He tries not to think about that.

The suite of apartments that had only this very morning resembled a battlefield post-bombardment, now resembled a brochure, all clean lines, open spaces, Bail had never realised how much floor space there was in their suite until the busy clutter of their lives had been packed away. He takes the inventory list that his steward hands him before heading home for the last time, and checks over the items, real and coded once again. They had managed almost everything.

Bail pays the three trusted advisers responsible for stocking his dirigible full of the rebellion’s much needed supplies with his loyalty, his protection, and the safety of everyone he loves, as well as their large salaries. And still it is not enough, especially now that Bail knows their efforts can and have passed at least three Coruscant Guard inspections.

Commander Thorn had kindly seen him to his office, and promised to station guards by the ship, another reason to praise Bail’s staff for having the foresight and wisdom to pack the cargo before his meeting. He hadn’t meant to stay there long, just nip in, grab his last remaining files and then head home. But with Thorn’s words about the state of the Coruscant Guard echoing in his head, Bail had instead sat himself down and started making some visits to ambassadors he was on good terms with.

He glances at Hie, a brilliant Rodian who was moving on to the Chandrillian embassy for a plum position in their household staff. “And how is my daughter?”

“All packed, and ready for bed, although the Princess insisted on waiting for you before she went to sleep.” Hie says, eyes unblinking and face held in a pleasant neutrality but still Bail detects a hint of disapproval. It was unfortunately late, thanks to the Supreme Councillor’s powerplay and then the need to figure out logistics with Commander Thorn.

Had Bail actually been heading home to Alderaan he could look forward to nights of recuperating sleep besides his love and in their marriage bed, once he got through the three-week hyperlane journey.

Instead he’s looking down the barrel of at least four months of travel in a too small dirigible with the GAR’s most decorated soldier and whichever man he chooses. It was better than Tarkin and his zealots who would sniff out the rebellion and the Jedi cells given half the chance. But Bail had not prepared for an officer of Commander Fox’s calibre being so proximate to what would quickly become an act of almost constant treason.

Which, thinking of, he should warn their soon-to-be travel companion of their new guest. He makes his way into Leia’s room, dismissing Hei for the night with a thanks and a small bow.

“Hey, sweetie,” Bail says, when he finds her all tucked into his bed rather than her own, Hie had not mentioned that fact “You all packed?”

“Yes, daddy,” Leia says, hair falling in waves, a combat squadron worth of soft toys surrounding her on his bed. “I’m sleeping in here tonight,”

“Oh?”

“Yes, because Hie said I had to pack all my stuff, but she didn’t say that didn’t include my bedding so I packed that too and now it’s already on the ship.”

“Oh well, I have missed my favourite person in the galaxy so that suits me,” Bail says, swooping in to drop a rainstorm of kisses onto the long waves of her hair. “Before you go to sleep, do you think you could do me a favour and send a letter to Uncle Olin?”

Leia looks at him, her eyes bright and excited, “Can I?” She immediately gets a look of furrowed concentration on her brow, the one for when she was reaching out with her power.

Bail quickly drops to his knees, a move his body protests. Vehemently. “Wait, sweetheart, a specific message.”

Leia pouts, all swimming brown eyes, “But dad, I miss him. You always say it is dangerous to sp–” Bail gives her a quelling look, “write to F—Uncle Olin.”

“Honey, we’ll be seeing him soon—very soon—so you only have to wait just a little bit longer, and then you can speak to Uncle Olin as much as you like.”

“Because he’s going to train me—” Leia starts to say and Bail strokes a hand through her hair comfortingly, but also as a reminder, “—how to play sabacc.”

“Oh, is that what he promised?” Bail asks, thinking about how he was either going to have to recruit or neutralise Commander Fox and his man, because he is tired of his eleven-year-old daughter having to speak in code. No matter how adept she now was at it.

Leia nods stubbornly and Bail smiles, “Well then, it sounds like you should be happy to help me write this letter to Uncle Olin then.”

She pauses, brow furrowing as if she cannot decide whether she has been outplayed or is pleased by the outcome. “Okay, but only if I get to use your stationary and your pen,” Bail resigns himself to never seeing either again but gives it up as the cost of warning Ferus.

“You negotiate a hard deal, but I can accept those terms,” Bail may have foreseen that Leia would demand his letter writing equipment, and already had it to hand, he’d seen her eyeing them half a rotation ago and his girl was nothing if not determined. He hands her the pen and sheath of monogrammed papers, and she pulls herself up against the headboard, and looks calculating for a moment before she grabs the stay from one of Bail’s more formal jackets to lean the paper against.

“Alright, dad, I’m ready, what do I need to write to Uncle Olin.”

What indeed, “Greet him politely of course, tell him we are looking forward to seeing him next rotation at Mr. Stass’s teashop, and that we are thinking of bringing some red lotus flowers as a gift.” Leia listens, nods and begins writing. As she does so she reaches out in the Force.

Bail had never experienced a Force-user reaching out to his mind before his daughter, at only a few months old, would reach out and send him flashes of what she needed: his arms, to be let out of bed, to be fed. Then, it had felt not intrusive, but still strange and miraculous, to have a presence that wasn’t his at the edge of his consciousness. Now, it was still strange and miraculous, but familiar and comforting. Leia in the Force is Leia. Not her voice exactly, but still inexorably her. Bail liked that his daughter could speak to him across the galaxy or across a room, and have it been a secret thing.

Leia reaches out with an image of a collection of the red helmets of the Coruscant Guard, of a pulse of worry-concern, of questioning. Bail nods slightly, stroking her hair once more, using the motion to tap out a message of things okay, be careful against the back of her shoulder. She sits up and climbs into his lap, taking up a meditation pose, tapping out a coded acknowledgement of her own.

“Is the letter good?” Leia asks, reaching out to Ferus, eyes shut.

“Perfect, I’ll send it in the morning.” Bail confirms as Leia taps out again, message sent.

Once more she reaches out in the Force, and this time her presence feels different, passing a message on from someone else, a simple one, saying only understood.

Leia doesn’t look tired having sent and received messages across star systems. Not for the first time, Bail marvels at the way that the Force ties the galaxy together. Not in the metaphysical sense that Obi-Wan used to talk about when Bail met him for drinks in their twenties before everything, but in the grubby practical way that politicians, traders and military men would kill for, their ability to communicate across the galaxy, orders beyond the short bursts that comm-systems could manage, bouncing along the radiowaves within a single planet.

He holds Leia as she falls asleep, telling her one of his favourites of the House of Antilles stories—their actual books long since packed away by the startling efficiency of the staff. Bail breathes out and stands to get himself ready for bed, relieved to finally be leaving the shadowy danger that looms in Coruscant.

Chapter Text

Ben wakes up in his uncomfortable, borrowed bunk with a feeling of well-rested calm.

He is immediately on edge.

The gentle shudder of the wardirigible—the Vigilance—as it moves through the hyperspace lane; the calm, competent hum of the troopers’ presence in the Force; even the over-firm mattress under his body, they all conspired to give Ben a better night’s sleep than he has had since his and Luke’s stay with those Nautolan farmers three years ago.

Luke.

That’s why something feels off, the warm glow of Luke's presence in the Force isn’t in their quarters. Ben is up and shoving his feet into his boots in seconds, casting his senses outwards until he finds the sunshine of Luke, all warm glee and joy. Ben takes a moment to centre himself and opens the door to leave.

Folded and pinned against the wall across from the door is a note. Ben opens it and sees Luke’s handwriting, those over-careful, over-precise strokes of aurebesh that Ben is deeply familiar with by now. It announces that Luke would be going joining lieutenants Boil and Waxer in the gym, but that they had insisted he leave Ben a note so that he wouldn’t worry.

However ill-advised finding refuge on a GAR dirigible was, Ben cannot fault the men they have found on board. They are… honourable, conscientious, kind. They deserve better than Palpatine’s war, the flimsy pretext for a power grab that it was, than the unending lines of wind-up droids marching against them, than whatever hell Ben and Luke’s presence could bring down on them. Still, it was nice to be surrounded by a community. Ben resolves to enjoy it, for the next two weeks they’d have onboard before they reached the next starport.

For now, Ben had a wayward padawan to track down.

He folds up the note, stowing it in his robes. As he catches against the layer of grit months' worth of sand had embedded in the fabric, he wonders about the laundry facilities on board. He’s mostly seen the men in full armour, but they clearly have some form of textiles underneath and those would need cleaning.

Although Ben can easily follow Luke’s bright, joyful stamp in the force to the training rooms, he suspects it would be better to find someone to escort him there.

Thankfully, someone is coming closer, a solid, steady presence in the force, the Commander. Cody. Ben had hoped for a bit longer apart from the man to further ruminate about—against—his hare-brained scheme, but it seemed fortune was not on his side.

“General,” Cody greets, his helmet stowed under one arm, a small smile on his face.

Ben huffs, “Commander Cody, good morning.” He offers Cody the note, “I seem to have misplaced my son, I don’t suppose you could ask one of your men to show me the way?” The Jedi were, or had been, as a rule, unfamiliar with military hierarchies, but even the most uninitiated would have been able to tell that this was a job below the Commander’s attention.

Still, Cody shakes his head, “I’ll take you,” he pauses, imperceptibly: ordering his words, Ben thinks, but wouldn’t be able to say for certain. For all that he is likely untrained against force users, Commander Cody does not leak feelings into the Force. “After, I wonder if I might talk somethings through with you, you can trust Boil and Waxer to keep Luke amused until they go on second shift,” Ben must blink his confusion because the Commander clarifies: “this afternoon.”

They probably should get their story straightened out. Ben isn’t sure what is needed or appropriate for his role, he’s committed himself to the insanity of this plan, so he needs to make sure that he doesn’t scupper it by making an error in protocol. Still, he blanches at the idea of Luke stealing the men’s leisure time any further, as much as the Commander seems to care about his men, from the snippets he’s heard about the war so far, it sounds like they get vanishingly little time of their own.

“They won’t mind?”

Cody snorts, his face scrunching charmingly, “They’d be delighted to, I think they will probably have to fight some of the other men for the privilege.” Ben boggles at him, “We don’t get cadets on the front,” Cody starts to explain, stance more casual than Ben had seen on the bridge, “but we all grow up surrounded by younger clones, we miss the energy and joy of children.” Even children made and raised for war. Thinking back to his hours in the creche, letting younglings clamber all over him tugging at robes and unfortunate padawan braids, Ben could sympathise greatly.

“Then, that sounds like a...sensible plan,” he says finally.

“We can go to my office, and actually make it there this time?” The Commander offers, amused, by Ben’s reluctance, possibly? Or something else. He’s an entirely inscrutable man, Ben thinks with no small note of frustration.  “After we’ve checked on your son first.”

Ben nods, wishing he had his full robes to hide his hands in. 

“Come, it’s an easy walk.” Cody says, leading them down a set of corridors towards the shining warmth of Luke. Now that he is less disoriented, Ben can tell there is a subtle difference to each of the branches, just like the differences in the way that across the squadrons, even as the troopers stuck to the same colours, there were patterns and individual designs, never copying one another, but speaking the same visual language.

The gym, when they enter, is moderately full, with carefully maintained—if heavily used—equipment in use by clusters of troopers in what must be their PT gear, breathable black fabrics with bands of blue or gold. Ben casts his eye across the room, but knows without confirmation that Luke will be at the centre of the cluster of men. Cody is hiding a smile as they move in closer. On their approach they can see Boil doing a set of steady pull-ups, his legs are crossed and between them sits Luke beaming, as he moves up and down with Boil’s methodical, untiring lifts, having a conversation with a trooper who Ben hadn’t met yet.

When Luke spots them he waves, hair bright against the black of Boil’s exercise-wear, the other men clear a path as he and the Commander work their way through. There are a couple of “commander,” “general,” thrown out as greetings, but the men are calm and casual. Either they are taking their lead from Cody or dirigible-scuttlebutt travels faster than in the Temple, because they seem curious but not panicked by Ben.

“Good morning, Ben,” Luke chirps, as he goes up with Boil’s curl up. “I’ve been telling Wooley,” he gestures at a gold-coloured trooper, grinning delightedly at him, with his hair shaved on the sides and curly and long at the top, “about the Krayt dragon we saw,” he says going down with Boil’s next extension.

“Oh?” Ben asks, hoping he can trust Luke not to mention the fact that they defeated the beast.

“Yeah, I told them about how the village of Tuskens and some of the nearby settlements worked together to defeat it,” Ben sends Luke a flash of good job down their training bond.

He considers letting Cody speak to the men on his behalf, but if he’s going to keep up the pretence, he should get used to addressing the men himself. So he glances at Boil as he continues his steady cycle of rising and controlled descent, “Lieutenant, thank you for occupying Luke this morning,” Boil nods, “The Commander tells me you likely won’t mind keeping him company a bit longer while he and I handle some logistics before briefing at the start of Beta Shift.”

Next to him the Commander startles, barely, pleased, before schooling himself. Ben tries to tell himself that he needs to stop trying to show off for the man, but he knows it’s a losing battle. The small displays of competence, of making a connection between what he is being told and what the state of things actually is, are heady, satisfying. As fulfilling as being a teacher for Luke has been, Ben has missed the chance to be around a peer and working on a problem with them. It feels like those early days, before his knighting when he and Quinlan or Siri would be sent out alone, figuring things out to show off to each other.

“Yessir,” Boil says with another controlled cycle curling himself up and slowly lowering himself down, his control of his breath is truly fantastic. “Me and Waxer’ll look after Luke, right kiddo?” Luke chirps a yes even as he doesn’t stop his conversation with Wooley, who looks distinctly put out by the news that Waxer and Boil have been given babysitting duty. After a day on the dirigible, Ben is increasingly noticing differences in the men—physical differences, beyond their individually decorated armour and their distinctive stamps in the force. The ARC troopers, appeared even stronger than the average trooper — who was already, by Ben’s brief experience, fantastically strong—and moved with a kind of swagger that marked them apart from the rest of the men. He makes a note to ask what the term actually means.

Now that he’s had a night to sleep on the impressively ill-advised plan, Ben finds himself getting almost… keen. It’s been a long time since he’s been able to help anyone in any kind of sustained way, to actually be in the thick of something. If all he and Luke could contribute to the galaxy was helping farmers and nomads protect their livelihoods, then it was still a life worth living and in service. But the idea of getting to help, even just a little bit, a battalion of men, was an appealing concept. It wouldn’t be much, but a cover to get the men the supplies they needed, was not nothing.

Cody sits at his desk and watches Ben examine his room. There is something systematic about how he looks at it, first as a whole, and then carefully alighting on specific corners. His careful consideration makes Cody reconsider his own quarters. They are tidy, as always, not a boot or book out of place, but Cody likes to think that after a decade the space shows some of his personality. It is also small, smaller than the visiting guest quarters Luke and Ben have been stowed in. There are some books that Cody really should have stowed away somewhere that Ben lingers over, briefly, but doesn’t comment on. It is strange to have anyone who isn’t a brother in here, none of Cody’s superior officers cared to know where he worked or slept, if they wanted him they got one of the men to come out and fetch him; and he has always had enough rank to hold firm the line at the door with natborn officers below him.

Ben sits down in the comfortable chair Cody had…acquired eight months into serving on the Vigilance and treats as one of his prized possessions. It pleases him that Ben seems to give it with the regard it’s due, stroking his fingers against the textile weave of the arms before turning to Cody.

“So,” Ben says, “you want me to act as your general?”

Cody nods, still slightly bemused by his own daring. But no matter how he turns the problem, this appears to be the cleanest solution. They were so desperate for more supplies it was the furthest thing from funny. There were three squadrons of men fresh off Kamino cooling their heels waiting for them; they were scraping the barrel with weapons; Cody didn’t like the way Brisk winced every time they did inventory of their med-supplies; Slice was getting far too creative with stretching rations; and their armour was getting to the point of no return when it came to patching it up.  It was the only reason that he had let Konstantine’s appointment reach them, and he had turned out to be unmanageable. This was the best, and possibly only, option.

“What I need to understand is why you actually want to pretend for the rest of the battalion,” Ben says, looking at Cody with a furrow in his brow.

“If this goes wrong it is mutiny and insubordination of the highest order,” Cody says, watching Ben right back, “by playing this straight to the rest of the battalion, means only me and the rest of the command team are involved in perpetuating the lie. The rest of the men won’t know any better and will hopefully be safe.”

“Are you certain this is all worth the risk?” Ben asks, he had started frowning as Cody spoke about insubordination and was now looking genuinely distressed. Cody thinks it may be concern. He doesn’t know what to do with that. His frame of reference are brothers in the same boat as him, those who put them there, and civilians who seem to think about the clone armies dying for their freedom and republic as little as possible.

Cody sighs because he, and Rex, forcibly, had been asking himself the same question. He couldn’t have lived with himself attacking Ben and Luke at the oasis, even before he had known them. Not to mention how any general who shows such a casual disregard for procedure, protocol and living beings, was always going to be a danger to Cody and his men. “I have to believe it is.”

Ben still looks distressed, so Cody says, “Listen, you’ve seen the ship, I’m meant to have at least twenty natborns of some kind breathing down our necks, I have been breaking orders for rotations now. This is a new calibre of disobedience, but any of those earlier moves I made would have been enough to get me stripped of my command and possibly decommissioned.” Cody is clearly not doing a good job of this because Ben continues to look horrified, Cody would be annoyed if he weren’t so amused by the whole thing.

Thankfully, Ben takes a breath and visibly draws himself back under control, getting rid of those sad eyes and landing on contemplative instead, which Cody can handle much better.

“So you need me to play this convincingly enough for the rest of the men, the ones who weren’t in that first briefing, to buy me as GAR High Command,” Cody nods, “And we need this to last long enough for you to get to Hosnian Prime and restock, because the GAR depots won’t let Clone Commanders alone request or pick up their slated supplies.” Cody nods, thankful that whatever happens at least the man is bright enough.

“This seems deeply inefficient,” Ben decides after a long moment of mulling it over.

Cody snorts, “You can say that again.”

“No, but I mean really, what absolute madness, what if the natborn officers were all injured and the supplies they needed to be tended to are waiting at the next spaceport. What are you meant to do, prop them up to confirm they are there before you can get the supplies you need?”

“I have been tempted,” Cody says, smiling despite himself.

“Well, Commander, if I had a senator in the galactic senate, I would write him my concerns about the way this army is being run, really.” Ben says, playing up his indignation.

Cody laughs harder than he has in a while, which is possibly why he is possessed to say, “You can call me Cody,” Ben blinks at him. “When it’s just us and Luke, if you want. You don’t have to.” He adds on, bashful in a way he hadn’t been since they first left Kamino and he started to meet beings who were not vod, Kaminese or trainers, pretty, flirty beings.

“I’d be honoured,” Ben says, “Cody.” He says the name deliberately, trying it out, if Cody had been reading those books he’d never admit to reading, he’d say he had almost been tasting it out. “I’d say you can call me Ben as well, but I think we are a bit past that with you saving my life and everything.”

Ben doesn’t seem to like his surname, he’d asked them to call him General or General Ben, rather than General Kenobi as was his understanding of most naming traditions he’d come across. Cody doesn’t know almost anything about the man, where he’s from, why he was in Tatooine getting hounded by their erstwhile general, Cody knows he needs to ask, he’s just struggling to find the words.

“I suppose I ought to give you some indication of who I am,” Ben muses, leaning back in the chair and linking his hands together. Cody keeps still, “It really is the least I should do,” almost to himself.

“You don’t—” Cody finds himself saying, even though he really does.

“No, I must," Ben says, quietly firm. "You are taking a risk, Cody, I should at least give you the courtesy of giving you some clue why you are.”

Ben pauses, “Luke and I, we are wanted by some of Chancellor Palpatine’s close allies. Some companions of mine opposed a power grab at a critical time, and we have been on the run ever since.” Cody’s blood runs cold, because they really have likely painted a very large target on their backs. “I think for the most part I am presumed dead, and I have no intention of making any trouble, especially not while under your hospitality. But I need you to know that it is in yours and your men’s best interest that you do not give too many details about me.”

“Understood,” Cody says, still somehow confident in his course of action. He hadn't known that Ben and Luke were trouble, but nobody who has a GAR General and a bounty-hunter like Durge on their trail is good news. But, there is just something, one of those old, soldier gut-feelings that implicitly sorts through the sightlines before the conscious brain, that still feels secure in this course of action.

Ben huffs, “Well if neither of us have managed to talked the other out of this insanity, I guess we are committed.”

“To the maddest plans,” Cody agrees, passing Ben a bottle of fancy whiskey he had intercepted when their last general had left the ship, the both take sips and toast, and Cody tells himself the burning sensation is just the alcohol.

Fox wakes up with a headache, blinking through a heavy cloak of exhaustion. He is dressed in his armour and heading out the door to his full quarters when he remembers. The sight of the even emptier than usual space reminds him. All his worldly possessions, scant as they were to begin with even after ten years in these rooms, were packed in his kit bag. He kicks at it, gently—given that one of his shinies, Goggles, he suspects, given the neatness, had taken the effort to put it together while he was grilling Thorn and Stone about their plans for his absence.

Fox curses under his breath, trying to remind himself that he likely wouldn’t be gone that long, that his men will be fine, that they have now taken on the guardsmen from the embassies as a buffer, that they will be more protected because they aren’t clones and can’t be treated in the same ways. When that doesn’t help ease his mind, he focuses instead on the hope that he may find one of his batchmates out there in the inky black.

That… seems to be doing something to his stress levels, so Fox cycles through the rest of the Command Class and where he knows their battalions to have been last — based on whatever MIL-INT the admiralty deigns to share‚ trying to match trajectories, as he does one last check over his empty rooms and makes his way to the Diplomatic loading bay. There are some possibilities, Bly’s 327^th marked themselves as heading to Ryloth at the start of the year, any check-ins since then hadn’t come through yet, but there were some shared checkpoints and hyperlane hubs with Alderaan. Wolffe and the 104^th had arrived in a nearby star system by GAR HQ’s last ping, they might still be in the area. Gree was locked in a long siege with Separatist forces out of Genosis and probably would be for another rotation at least. If Fox had his way he’d get as close to Cody and the 212^th as he could, and warn him about the particular glee with which General Konstantine had been dispatched, but the 212^th were still sweeping through the Outer Rim and they were likely going to be nowhere near each other.

That keeps him occupied until he’s out of the barracks about to get one of the on-duty troopers to give him a lift when he spots Thorn waving at him and holding out a cup of caf, the good stuff from the place in Old Coruscant. It isn’t quite enough for Fox to fully forgive him, but it is enough to have him temper the bitchy comment about giving a lift being the least he could do. Fox hadn’t decanted from the tank a complete bastard.

“Thorn,” he greets, with just enough dignity to not make a grabbing motion for the caf.

“Fox,” Thorn says with a nod and a loaded look. Rather than pass Fox the coffee like a good vod, Thorn puts the cup on the most stable part of the two-person skiff and grabs Fox in for a hug, saying, hushed, “I’m glad you are leaving Coruscant, this place has been eating you alive.”

Fox hugs back, long and tight. Because Thorn has his caf, and is giving him a ride. Not because he’s going to miss the blond, smiling idiot. 

“I’d believe that more if you hadn’t stuck me with Thire.”

Thorn gives him a look of profound disappointment, “You taking him as your backup on a mission like this is exactly the kind of thing you should be doing to show the rest of the men that you still have confidence in him—despite the demotion.” The demotion had been political, it had been necessary, it had kept Thorn away from Kamino and their trigger-happy decommissioning fingers. Yet, Fox had still had to demote his best friend on this karking planet, his former peer, it was still awkward and now he had far too many days ahead trapped with someone he let down.

“I can’t see why they didn’t stick you in the diplomatic corps,” Fox sighed, “now give me the kriffing caf before I shove you off this platform.”

“That was because they knew you needed someone who could actually negotiate to have your back,” Thorn says snottily, before finally handing over the caf with a beatific smile. “And what do we say, vod?”

Fox takes a sip, relishing the taste that signalled a jolt of caffeine, “adequate.”

The flight to the hanger was quicker than Fox expected, but also more relieving, passing through the Senate district of the city, and the heaviness it had come to represent to Fox, only reinforced how good it would be to escape even if just for the duration of a simple escort duty to Alderaan. It may even be relaxing.

Still, he pauses before getting out his seat, long enough that Thorn raps his knuckles against the carefully painted and polished red of Fox’s armour. It was a gesture of support, but also a push to action. So Fox swings himself out of the seat and nods his thanks to Thorn, who eases himself away. He had his own duties to get to, and they had said their goodbyes already, sans audience.

Senator Organa is standing speaking to the pilot when Fox approaches. His ship, the Tantive, is a trim dirigible, well made from the shipyards of Alderaan, it is all deep colours and expensive metals, none of the cheap materials of the people-carrying blimps that had transported the Guard from Kamino.

“Commander Fox,” the senator greets when he approaches. “I was going to send one of my people to pick you up, but Commander Thorn insisted that you would prefer he do it.” Fox is glad he refrained from being a bastard to Thorn because he had apparently done Fox a huge favour. “Thank you so much for agreeing to accompany us on this voyage, I know you are a busy man with many responsibilities.”

“It’s no worries Senator, I do my duty.” There is something very assessing about Organa, not in the way other politicians look at Fox, as if they are weighing him for parts or plotting how they can use him, but rather like Organa is trying to know Fox. It is discomfiting in a new way.

“Still you have my thanks.” Organa says. He turns to the pilot, “Are we all set?” The man confirms and executes a tidy bow to them both before walking up the gangplank to the ship. “Allow me to give you a tour?”

Fox nods and follows.  

“Your man, Captain Thire, arrived earlier, I think my steward was convinced he wouldn’t be packed so arrived a full thirty minutes early,” Bail says as he walks Fox up into the dirigible, that can only be described as sumptuous. “So he is kindly accompanying my daughter, Leia, to the diner for some snacks before we set off.”

Fox nods, taking in the richness of the dirigible, the plush carpet, the quality fittings. Organa is no peacock, so Fox also keeps an eye out for, and finds evidence of, touches of practicality, of functionality. Bootbrushes, handholds, emergency kits, comm systems: logistical inclusions that senators more concerned with looking like they had the best always failed to consider. Organa shows him the deck, the galley, the offices, his own room adjacent to his daughter’s, the cargo hold, the library, the dining room, the heads, Thire’s room and Fox’s just next door. There are a number of others that they skip past, ones which Fox fully intends to scope out once they launch. Fox is struck by his room, the soft luxury of the bed, the space, the view possible through the wide porthole, it is unlike anything he has seen.

“Will you be comfortable here?” Organa asks, and Fox doesn’t laugh, because that would be unprofessional, because Organa likely doesn’t know how unfamiliar a space like this is for any vod to be in, let alone claim for a journey.

There is a shout of “daddy, daddy,” and the sound of footsteps.

“That would be my daughter, have you met?” Fox shakes his head. “Well come, she is keen to meet you.” Politicians and their honeyed words, Fox thinks, preparing himself for a political brat. He is unprepared for the little ball of energy, white dress, trailing braids that barrels into her father, almost knocking him over.

Organa lifts and spins her, delighted, “My darling, did you have a good trip to Dex’s?” She nods and begins telling him all about her adventure with Com—Captain Thire.

The senator's daughter spots Fox a step behind her father, and fists a hand in his fancy cape, likely getting all manner of stickiness over the expensive fabric. She shies away for a moment, tucking herself more firmly in her father’s arms, looking at him, and Fox knows what he has to do, even though he hates it. He removes his helmet, “Hello, I’m Commander Fox.” He gives her the best smile he can manage.

It is clearly not very good, because she scowls at him, “I know who you are,” the Princess says, almost crossly. “You are the man who saved my daddy’s life when I was five.”

Thrown, Fox nods, “Yes I was,” although he hasn’t thought about that particular incident in the senate for years.

The Princess nods and shifts in place where her father is holding her, “I knew it!”

She reaches out for his helmet and Fox draws closer, reluctantly. She traces her fingers across the dark grey visor, “I recognised this. Anyway,” she says, patting her dress and pulling out a slightly squashed paper bag, “I got you a cake because you are going to be keeping both of us safe this time.”

That was far cuter than Fox had been prepared for, and he is almost glad when Thire rounds the corner, chasing after the princess, complaining about her being faster and slipperier than a rishi eel. The awkward way in which he and Thire are regarding each other was a perfect distraction from having a complicated emotion about a kid who was supposed to be a spoilt brat being cuter than she had any right to be.

Chapter Text

Ben is pretty sure somewhere out there Quinlan is laughing at him.

Even worse, he has the sinking suspicion that he deserves it this time.

Quin did always say that he had a nose for trouble, but this was really taking it to new extremes, Ben thinks as he walks onto the bridge with Luke beside him. After his meeting with Cody that morning, they had both been escorted back to their rooms, scrubbed up and given something that rested somewhere between the troopers’ armour, their dress uniform and their own — now sand-free — robes.

In Ben’s defence, he didn’t know how he ended up in these situations either.

The young man, aptly named Darning, who had all but dressed them, had said with a wry smile as he made final adjustments to their new outfits, “The Commander wants you to know that I’ve been read in.” Satisfied with what he had accomplished he had handed Luke and Ben the rest of the clothes they had arrived in, explaining, “We’re not going to take someone’s clothes away from them, even if we might need you to wear something different for a while.”

Ben had felt a pulse of kinship with these men, even as he shuddered at what the silence behind that rule suggested of their experiences.

As they head to the bridge, both he and Luke subtly try to adopt the style of walking favoured by the troopers, it seems to make their borrowed armour clink and clatter less. When they join Commander Cody at the helm. He is radiating pleased approval through the Force, and the less said about the self-satisfied smirk on his face the better.

Ben is pretty sure he cannot call him out on it, based on what he understands about military hierarchies and good manners, but then he spots Waxer rolling his eyes and rethinks that.

So he leans in, and tells him, sotto voce, “Smug isn’t a good look on you.” It’s a lie, Jango Fett was a handsome man, and his clones are no different. Most things are good looks on them, and Commander Cody wears smug appreciation exceedingly well. Especially when he meets a comment like that by doubling down, his smile going big and broad, and his feel in the Force going golden. If there are any misgivings Ben can’t sense them.

“So, what do you need me to do?” Ben asks, staying close. Just so no one else on the bridge can overhear them. “I assume you aren’t actually expecting me to lead?”

“My men follow my orders,” Cody says, casual as anything, not like he is confirming insubordination to an outsider. “Give whatever orders you want. They’ll check with me.”

Ben allows himself a quiet sigh and says more loudly, for the benefit of the wider bridge, those in the know and otherwise, “Very well, Commander. Thank you for the update, as you were.” He moves away from Cody and his self-satisfaction, heading towards Compass, to check the starmaps.

Luke had clearly left the bridge at some point, because he comes back atop Boil’s shoulders. “Ben, Ben, look!” he brandishes an armoured arm, and Ben has been carefully not thinking about why the men have access to armour that fits a ten year old, if he learns at what age the clones are handed armour and weapons he thinks he will sit in a corner and cry, or meditate really hard until he doesn’t need to. “Boil and Waxer showed me how to paint my armour.”

Ben looks at how widely Luke is smiling, feels the pulses of protective fondness the men on the bridge are projecting. Even Captain Rex, the most suspicious of the lot, does not seem immune. He hears Commander Cody come over, a smile in his voice as he examines the new paint and says, “A real member of the 212^th now.”

And Ben thinks, oh, oh no, when Luke beams.

Bail watches Thire and Fox adjust to life drifting through hyperlanes with varying degrees of success. Careful — obsessive? — observation of their Coruscant Guard escorts is the only way he is going to survive this leg of the journey without gnawing off his arm from the dread and worry. He knows that Tarkin had to be kept from the ship at any price. He knows that two lone guardsmen are no great cost considering what could have been.

And yet, watching Captain Thire slowly ingratiate himself among Bail’s handpicked staff, all helpful assistance and slow smiles, watching Commander Fox systematically examine every inch of the ship, go over every protocol, check through their ostensible itinerary on the star charts, Bali cannot help but feel panic.

He knew the clone army had been deliberately designed and trained to be brilliant, to be sharp, to be deadly. But the chasm between intellectual awareness of these men and the reality of their competencies was hard to swallow.

Still, there is tension between the pair, that much is obvious without Leia, sleepily, still insisting one more page, mumbling her piercing observations about Fox and Thire’s argument. Bail thinks he remembers that the Guard used to have four Clone Commanders: Commanders Fox, Thorn, Stone and Thire. He couldn’t remember the specifics, but there had been a scandal and a demotion, and that seemed by far his best way in.

Fox was too sharp, too suspicious, too beaten down by whatever it meant to be the most visible clone on Coruscant, to be a good bet. Captain Thire was more promising, as little as Bail enjoys thinking of people in these terms of pure calculation, it has been a very long decade and there was too much at stake to be precious.

Bail idly considers manufacturing the next time Fox and Thire run into each other to ensure a confrontation. But he soon realises that is a bit too calculated for him. He resolves to try and be present, a sympathetic ear and hope that plus curiosity does enough. It is perhaps a foolish dream, but Bail needs to be able to trust on his own moral compass now more than ever.

It doesn’t take long. For all that the Tantive is luxurious and large for a passenger dirigible, it is still a ship meant no more than twenty and there are only so many places to hide. He’s taking his tea in the mess, in the twilight hours between beta and gamma shift, when the pilot turns the lights low to preserve some semblance of time sense. Bail has been sleeping in fits and starts since he first got the Chancellor’s summons, and is all out of sorts, needing soothing teas to help him snatch more than a couple of hours of rest at a time.

For all that he is a large man for by human standards, especially compared to Leia and the clones whose progenitor was on the shorter side, Bail has learned how to hold himself still enough that he doesn’t court attention.

Which likely explains why Thire hasn’t noticed him as he stands, armourless, making himself a cup of tea. Bail intends to greet him, but then Fox walks in, aiming himself straight for the caf generally left out for the gamma shift. He has downed half the cup before he turns around and almost spills it at the sight of Thire standing at one of the tables.

“… Fox,” Thire says, pleading. And Fox, helmet off and looking so tired and worn that Bail wants to drape a blanket over him, a feeling of paternal concern that is entirely inappropriate for a man who can likely inflict eighteen kinds of harm without blinking, jerks. He looks away desperately. Whatever is between the two of them is clearly worse than Bail imagined and he resigns himself to neglecting this possible advantage. Some bruises should be left well enough alone.

If it weren’t so tragic, Bail would almost be amused by the way Fox jolts again when his skittering eyes land on him and he barks out a startled, “Senator.” Thire startles too, confirming Bail’s suspicions that he hadn’t known he had company.

“At ease, gentlemen,” Bail says softer and more tiredly than he intends, “I couldn’t sleep, there is no need to stand on formalities. I’m just here for my tea.”

Thire nods, toasting his own mug, while Fox remains rigid. “I should go,” he bites out, and then walks out, with a muttered, "goodnight," as he leaves.

Watching Fox leave, Thire sighs, before pausing a moment and then moving towards Bail’s table and its far more comfortable chairs. He hesitates and Bail invites him to join him with a wave of the hand.

“I apologise for not announcing myself,” Bail says, feeling miserable with guilt for even contemplating subterfuge, “I didn’t want to force you to interact with your charge on your break.”

“It’s fine, Senator, I do — did the same with my shinies,” Thire says. He looks pained and grieving, reliving memories and lost positions.

It must be so lonely, going from a guard full of colleagues to a ship full of strangers, so Bail says, “You really can just call me Bail.” Thire considers him and Bail just smiles wanly, taking another sip of tea. He’s a bit too stripped down for intrigue. This was supposed to be recuperative journey, a break with his daughter and their friend before launching into full-time rebellion, as opposed to the extracurricular rebellion he had been pursuing thus far.

“You really mean that don’t you,” Thire says, as sharp as Commander Fox if not as visibly acerbic and observant.

“I do, Captain Thire,” Bail says and Thire hums, taking another sip of his own tea.

“I won’t do it on-duty, Fox’ll have my hide,” Thire decides, talking to himself as much as Bail, “but here, off-shift, sure. Things are already so strange, I may as well break every protocol Stone taught us.” There is a pause, not quite bitter, but that Bail can see the shape of it, the lost rank, the scandal. If he were a different kind of man he can see the trajectory of the conversation they could have, the insinuations, the boosted ego, a sly nod to corruption.

Instead Bail just smiles, “I appreciate it.” And when Thire smiles back, Bail lets himself enjoy the sight.

Ben is standing on the platform above the launching zone trying to hide how little he understands is happening.

“Relax,” Commander Cody says to his left, deeply amused and calm despite the distressed missive they’d received about a moving Separatist battalion on a nearby village. The missive had been waiting for them at the relay station in the brief transition window between hyper-drive lanes. After Crys had confirmed it to be sufficiently fresh to warrant action, they had quickly diverted down to the planet below, despite Ben’s understanding that resupply was the utmost priority. “Real Admiralty never know what is going on, you don’t have to worry so much about verisimilitude.”

“You have a talent for reassurance,” Ben snips back, before he catches himself; it isn’t fair to be rude to the Commander, even if this whole cursed mess was his idea. Ben had agreed and now has to live with the consequences, even if that means pretending to lead men into battle. He thought he’d left this on Melida/Daan. He makes to apologise but finds the Commander grinning at him, clearly thrilled to be sassed. Ben supposes that is what happens when you spend your life at war, it stops getting quite so anxiety-inducing.

“Come on, we’ve practiced for this,” Commander Cody reminds him, and he cannot mean those five minute drills that he has been doing with Ben as they walked from one part of the warballoon to another. “You just have to play the part, I’m the one who actually has to fight the battle.”

“Yes, of course,” Ben says, abashed, walking down to the hanger proper, where scores of armoured men grouped in their divisions are gathered for his orders. Not actually his orders, because Cody is behind him, his nifty hand-signs and code-words ready to give the troopers their actual orders. He probably already has given them, Ben is just here to play at being a general, he knows this. And yet, he still has to steadily release his worry into the force.

“Right men, your Sergeants have been briefed with the battle plan,” Ben says, projecting his voice with as much volume and authority as he can manage. “Our main goal is to knock back that Separatist wave of droids before it swarms the nearby village. Focus on the tanks.” There is a pause and Ben realises he needs to say something else, that orders have a conclusion. “Onwards!”

With an “oya,” that at least didn’t seem half-hearted or obligatory, the men were moving, one squadron then another, all loading onto these inadequately armoured transports, out the hanger doors, and towards the battalions of queasily familiar lines of battledroids. Ben is no Mace, he has never had a talent for shatterpoints, but even his cursory glance spots the ways that the vehicles juddering out of the Vigilance were one bad blow from coming apart. Even though they must know this better than him, neither the troopers nor the officers seem concerned. Through the Force they are calm, excited, ready; war is what they know, and while there is some fear, this appears, to them, to be any other battle.

“So what now?” he asks Commander Cody, looking over the emptied hanger where so many souls had just been.

The Commander thinks, although Ben suspects he already has an idea. “Up to the bridge, we’re providing air support and logistical guidance for this battle.” Ben wants to ask: is this because of me, because you need to keep an eye on me, would you be on the ground usually, but he reckons that constantly second guessing the Commander is the least helpful thing he can do right now, so nods and walks up to the bridge where the skeleton crew of navigators and Cody’s command team are already monitoring the battle, relaying orders to the men on the ground.

Battles are slow, for all that they feel fast, and Ben watches, giving out half-hearted orders to be relayed to the ground, ones which he pretends not to notice Cody immediately countermand. He is glad that Luke is safely away, helping the medics stock the medical bay for after the battle, this is a lot for an eleven year old to see.

It is a rocky, mining planet beneath them. The painted metal of the troopers and the brushed brass of the droids are starkly visible against the terrain. For the most part the men have taken the higher ground and are using it to fire down at the waves of battle droids, while Torrent Company are working their way around the battlefield to target the droid tanks.

The battle is going as cleanly as a battle can, which is to say, casualties are light and the men seem to be following at least half of the battle plan. Cody is amazed how much more freeing it is to not feel the need to actually hide his handsigns from the general. To have him in on the ruse, to not have to fear reprimands, not having the looming anticipation of having to throw himself to protect any men caught disobeying direct orders. It is all doing wonders for Cody’s ability to focus on the battle.

Things are progressing as well as they could be, the infantry are holding the line, taking what seems to be limited casualties as they duck behind their cover after their volleys of shots, and Torrent are working their way towards the tanks, charges ready. When Ben, who has been watching over the battlefield from the pane-glass viewpoint, breathes out sharply and moves quickly over to Cody and Whisker.

“Captain,” he greets, “you need to pull back Torrent, now. Do not let them set the charges yet.” Cody goes to contradict the order out of instinct, but there is something… intense about Ben, about the way he is looking at Cody as he speaks to Whisker. So he signs for Whisk, to play along. Although Ben cannot read their handsigns, he must sense or trust that Cody isn’t interfering, because he continues to give instructions.

“You need to get them to focus on pushing the tanks towards the west,” Ben says, drawing them both towards the battlemap. He then points down at part of the map, “you want them to get the tanks here, and then —only then— set the charges.”

Cody frowns, looking at the topological map, there was something there, in the key, but these were dubiously acquired maps with unclear provenance and they hadn’t been able to fully decode their meaning.

“These are geothermal vents,” Ben explains, tapping the area in question, “if you wait to blow the charges until the tanks are here, you’ll be able to take them all out.”

Whisker is looking at Cody, as are most of the men on the bridge, and he does something he hasn’t done before: he signs for them to listen to their general’s strategy. Again, Cody must need to work on his poker face because Ben sighs in stifled relief even before they get to implementing his plan.

“Make sure we have a transport ready to get the men out of there,” Cody says and Ben nods tilting his head and anchoring a hand in his beard as he considers the map.

“What is the range on the charges you have, Commander Cody?” he asks.

“About 200 yards,” Cody answers, curious to see whether Ben was back to playacting or if he had something equally tangible to contribute. 

Ben nods, brow creasing, actually doing the calculations, “we probably want the men to get the tanks walking towards the vents, and then lay the charges here.” He points to the small ravine Cody had spotted when this plan first started being formed, “then they can quickly get a lift out of there, from here, and if the pilot can keep them at a steady hover until they can set the charges—”

“They might be able to take out the whole line,” Cody finishes, surprised and pleased. He almost wants to laugh, to stare at Ben, to demand an explanation, but this is a battle and there is no time to bask in the realisation, so he turns to the rest of the bridge, “You heard the General, you know your mission.”

And better than perfectly wound clockwork, Cody’s men get to updating the troops on the ground in seamless harmony.

Ben is staring, and Cody takes the time to hum an interrogative, and he smiles, caught, “My apologies Commander, it’s just you are all superb at this.”

“War?” Cody asks amused, “We were quite literally made for it,” and that makes Ben look sad again, and Cody wants to get them back to that moment of shared camaraderie. Before he reminded Ben that they were created for nothing more than battle.

“I feel like the war is incidental,” Ben says, quietly but firmly, and Cody should be focussing on what his men are doing, on the battle below them, but instead he’s struck, unable to look away. “This ability to work together, to see and adapt, it is impressive.” Cody doesn’t have time to unpack why that makes him feel fizzy and pleased, so he just huffs an agreement, and focusses back on the battle at hand.

Their short-range comms are clearly still working, which, despite the hard work of the signal corps was no guarantee, because Cody can see Torrent are carefully following Ben’s plan on the battlefield below. Lightning have a couple of light blimps nearby waiting for them, so the egress is secured no matter what happens. He checks on the infantry and they are all handling themselves, and when he glances back at Torrent they are boarding the airships. Next to him, Whisker and Ben are watching, breaths equally bated.

The tanks reach the vents, and the order onboard must be given, because the light airships suddenly bank up and away just as an explosion tears through the bulk of the Separatist’s armoured division, the fire catching the gas in a second explosion and then spreading further down the landscape, blowing up a unit of the droid transports as well. Next to him Ben breathes a sigh of relief and Cody realises he is staring at him rather than the destruction below.

“Oh good,” Ben says, mildly, “I was hoping that would work with the transports as well, but I didn’t know that the chain reaction would catch — it’s been a while since I’ve studied any geomorphology.”

“Captain Whisker,” Cody says, because he is a Commander not an awestruck shiny, “get the rest of the men focussed on mop up.”

He pauses, “General, that was good work.” And Ben beams at him.

Fox has a shadow aboard Organa’s dirigible. A dogged, persistent and royal shadow.

She follows not quite his every move — she has certain tasks she must do each day, and someone, likely her father, has clearly told her that he has duties during which he is not to be disturbed. But otherwise, there is a substantial part of his day when the princess of Alderaan is following him around.

She eats breakfast at his table, follows him on his walkthroughs and checks on the staff, joins him in the gym, trying to the best of her ability to keep up with his exercise regime. It doesn’t feel hounding, not the way it did when a supervisor or a senator indignant about the cost of the Courrie Guard would follow Fox around to ‘observe’ him. Instead it feels more like he imagines Cody had felt when Rex, still “that blonde cadet” at the time, started following him around. A feeling of amused bewilderment, a strange kind of flattered, that this younger person clearly finds him so interesting.

If he knew how to speak to Thire, Fox would grab him aside and ask if he’s getting the same strange treatment, but Fox can’t bring himself to say anything more substantial than occasional greetings and quick, overly polite exchanges about their laughably light duties onboard the Tantive. If Fox is being honest, the silent, assessing, sometimes giggling, shadowing by Princess Leia is just the kind of distraction he needs to keep himself from going insane from the lack of work.

Fox would say this was the most relaxed he’s ever been if he wasn’t constantly waiting for the other boot to drop. To say nothing of the fact that he’s still not sleeping, jerking awake in a panic on more nights than not. He has noticed that the days after those sleepless nights are the ones where Leia gets the closest, tracing his steps like a loyal dog more than a bored child.

It is one of those days, exhausted, eyes heavy that Organa pulls him aside. The Princess had been dispatched to get a book for them to read before bed — Fox’s exhaustion really must have really sapped his self-control because he allows himself the forty seconds to consider what it must be like to be raised, to have a childhood, to be cared for by the man who — he quickly stuffs those thoughts back where they belong.

When Fox gets his head back in the present, Organa is looking at him, concerned, and Fox wants to grab his bucket from the table where he’d left it. He had been trying to drink some tea; the tattooed chef in the galley had tutted over both his caf consumption and the dark bags under his eyes, threatening to cut him off if he didn’t try something non-caffeinated. It had clearly been a mistake, no good comes from tea.

“Commander Fox, are you—” Organa catches himself, and decides another route, “I hope you know that you are allowed to tell my daughter to leave you alone, if she’s bothering you.” He smiles slightly, “You’ve been tasked with protecting her, not keeping her entertained.

“It’s fine, Senator,” Fox says stiffly, realising with a lurch of mortifying self-awareness that he would be bored and lonely without his little shadow. “She’s doing no harm.”

“Still, she should be bugging you less once we stop at Bellassa,” Bail says blandly, like he wasn’t throwing a wrench in the neat itinerary Fox had been handed working off since leaving Coruscant.

“I beg your pardon,” Fox says, all deathly cool, before remembering a bit of tact worked better with politicians, “Senator.”

Organa looks honestly confused, “Our detour to pick up Leia’s tutor? At Bellassa? I confirmed it with one of your guardsmen?”

“I was not informed,” Fox says with as much poise as he can manage. He glances over at Thire who had been sat quietly on the other side of the room, listening but saying nothing. When their eyes meet Thire gives him a quick sequence of signs: no intelligence, quick deployment, concerned? Fox signs back a neutral, keeping an eye on the situation, before refocussing on Organa.

“I’m so sorry Commander, I didn’t know that you hadn’t been told,” Organa says, and he sounds genuine, but Fox has a sense that Organa is smarter and more wily than he has been accounting for.

“It is no concern, Senator,” he says, tightly, “I’m pleased that your daughter will be getting the occupation she needs, she must be quite bored if I’m the most interesting thing on this ship.”

Organa laughs, “Oh, I’m afraid that unless you tell her to leave you alone she is going to continue to find you fascinating.” And Fox is saved from having to think of a response to that, when Leia comes barrelling back with a book in her hands.

“I’ve found one,” she crows, “it’s a really good one! Oh, can Commander Fox and Captain Thire listen too?”

She looks at Fox with big Tooka eyes and Thire with the same, her father is already smiling indulgently, “Only if they want to,” Organa says.

Fox tries to figure out the most politick way to say ‘kriff no,’ but is beat to the punch when Thire says, “I’m down,” with an overly casual shrug. Organa smiles wide, and looks at Thire, eyes crinkling. Fox looks between them, trying to figure out if he is overly tired or if he is picking up a vibe. He must just be tired he decides.

Leia beams at Thire grabbing his hand, she turns her attention to Fox, “Please? I think you’ll like it.”

‘Not tonight,’ Fox intends to say, but what comes out is, “sure.”

Fox blames that first storytime for what happens next, when, during his luxuriously— suspiciously— long downtime the next day, insisted upon by Organa, Leia approaches him in the lounge.

“Commander Fox,” she says, all careful politeness, like she had rehearsed. “My dad is in a meeting with the pilot, and doesn’t have time to read to me, can you?”

Fox, again, in a fit of madness, says, “Sure.” Letting Leia sit up behind him so she can read the book over his shoulders, “Once upon a time,” he reads, letting himself fall into a rhythm, as he feels small hands softly start to brush out his hair, a feeling of deep peace spreading through his body.

He blacks out a page in.

Chapter Text

“Daddy, Daddy!” Leia shouts, hurling herself into Bail’s room where he had been sleeping off a night spent coordinating with Captain Antilles about the rebellion depots they could hit over the course of the journey. He is awake and out of bed in seconds, heart pounding fiercely, imagining all manner of horror. He has never heard Leia sound so panicked.

He catches her, fear a lead ball in his gut, as he wipes her tears and tries to calm her and not let his own panicked urgency into his voice, one of them had to be the calm adult, “Darling, what is it?”

“Commander Fox was reading to me and he collapsed!”

Bail does not swear because Leia is eleven and while his cousins may have taught him terrible language at that age, she does not need a sailor's vocabulary to go along with her fiery temperament. Although he suspects that Thire and some of the younger crew members may have been teaching her some choice curses while he wasn’t looking.

“Okay, why don’t you show me where he is and tell me what happened.” He and Antilles had made contingency plans for how they could confine their two Guard escorts, if it had come to that, but they had not thought to plan for a medical emergency. 

Leia grabs him by the hand and starts walking him towards the common area on the ship, “I was doing some healing as he read and then suddenly—”

Bail stops, “Leia, sweetheart, you were doing what—?”

She looks up at him, frowning, and tugs his hand. Because she isn’t actually physically strong enough to move him, yet, Bail stays still.

Leia sighs, such a big sound for someone so small, “You said I was allowed to look after people’s brains if they had been attacked by a Sith,”

“I did say that,” Bail confirms, “but—”

“So that is what I did!” Leia says, indignant, “I know I’m not allowed to use—” she drops to a whisper, taking a careful look around them, “the Force. But you said I was allowed to do this, that it helped and protected people.”

She is nearly crying and Bail feels his heart break, wishing, not for the first time that parenting a Force sensitive child came with a kriffing manual. “Oh honey, shh, I’m sorry,” Bail says as he scoops her up into a hug, “I’m not cross, I was just surprised, I didn’t know Commander Fox had been hurt like that.”

“He has been,” Leia sniffs. “It’s the worst I’ve ever seen. I’ve been so careful — because it’s really bad. But now he’s not waking up and I’m scared.”

“It’s okay," Bail says gently, panic easing enough that he could start to plan, "let’s you and I go check on him and then we can move him to the guest quarters and I’ll keep an eye on him. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Now that Leia has told him everything, some of her confidence seems to be back, because she scoffs, mulish, which Bail supposes is better than weeping “Of course not, I’m not the sithface who has been playing with Commander Fox’s brain.”

Bail does not respond to that, instead he goes for, “Is it the same with Captain Thire?”

“No, he’s barely got any more damage than you had,” Leia says, and Bail does his best not to shiver at the reminder. “I’ve been making sure his mind is defended but it hardly needs any healing at all.” That, Bail supposes, is something.

They reach the lounge, and find Commander Fox slumped over on the floor, his back against the sofa, a book on his lap and a collection of butterfly clips in his hair, Bail does not comment on that particular detail, only because Leia moans, “I was healing him, but look what happened.”

“I’m sure you haven’t broken our escort, sweet,” Bail assures her as he scoops up the Commander to the best of his ability. He suspects that Leia is giving him an assist in the Force, because the clones are solidly built and heavy even without their armour. “Let’s just let him sleep this off.”

“Okay,” Leia says, carrying both the Commander’s helmet and the book and following dutifully along, still giving Bail the assistance he can acknowledge he needs, until they can tuck Fox into Bail’s guest suite for observation.

Fox is in a bad way when he slips back into consciousness. He keeps his eyes firmly closed. Disoriented, in the manner that has become unacceptably familiar, Fox tries to push down the nausea. Alpha-17 would have his hide if he knew that Fox was continuing to operate with such long periods of disorientation.

He opens his eyes for half a second to confirm that he is still on the Tantive, before slamming them shut again, waiting for the swimming to stop.

When it does, Fox has a moment of worry and then of grim relief, that on a ship this small, with a crew this attentive he will probably be able to figure out where his missing time went. He wouldn’t have to sit, sick with guilt, trying to determine if any of the reports coming across his desk were his fault.

He does his usual stock taking: feeling for aching knuckles, bruised shins, the wrench of deece blowback, a head full of darkness, all the usual clues about what happened since he stopped being aware. But instead Fox feels light, dizzyingly light. No aches, no pains, no lingering feeling of nauseating cold.

He wonders whether this is a crueller torture, to let him wake up to a blanket of warmth and safety, of comfort and then rip it all away. But the person at the edge of his awareness, the one that Fox has learned to pay no active attention to if he doesn’t want his pain to worsen, is not the right proportions, bigger and more careful as they move at the edges of his consciousness.

Unable to help it, between the plushness of the bed and the hum of a dirigible — the first he’s been on since he left Kamino and its ever present lashings of rain gentled by the walls to a comforting sound — Fox falls back asleep.

Upon waking again, Fox bolts upright. Or tries to, his head protests strenuously and a careful hand gentles his harsh movement. Someone tells him to be careful. It takes him a moment to place the voice. It’s the Senator. And this bed, it isn’t his, it’s nicer.

Fox can literally think of no good reason that he is in a Senator’s bed feeling like this. He opens his eyes slowly, spotting first his armour, gently stacked next to him, and then the Senator, sitting at a desk beside the bed working through a stack of files.

“Commander, are you alright?” Organa asks when he notices that Fox is fully awake.

Fox nods, cautiously. He isn’t, but he has no intention of showing any weakness, not until he knows what is going on.

Organa sighs, not buying it in the slightest, coming closer and helping Fox more upright and passing him some water before he sits down again, “What do you remember?”

It takes Fox a moment, but he eventually recalls enough to say, “I was reading to Leia, and then, everything went black." Had he done anything? The girl and the crew must be safe, because he'd be in restraints if he had done anything. "What happened?”

There is a moment in which Organa grimaces, and Fox has to stomp on his instinct to flinch, waiting in mounting trepidation before Organa finally says “I want to apologise for what happened. My daughter, she was only trying to help. But in doing so I think she overtaxed your mind and you lost consciousness.”

Fox blinks, trying to keep his confusion off his face. How could Organa’s daughter — all of eleven and a tiny slip of a child, for all her fiery determination — do anything? The last Fox remembered she was putting clips in his hair, both hands occupied, how could she have done anything to him, a trained Clone Commander? He reaches up to brush the clips but finds his hair bare.

“I got Leia to remove those," Organa says with an amused huff, "We didn’t want them digging into your scalp as you rested.”

Fox can’t tell if it’s whatever Leia or Organa did to him still muddling his brain, or if the conversation is nonsensical. He focusses on what he needed to know, “What did she do?”

“Do you know that feeling when you’ve been stressed for a really long time, and suddenly the pressure lifts, and the loss of weight makes you buckle? It was a bit like that, you were hurting and she tried to help, but in doing so you collapsed.”

Fox forgot his fury as he found himself staring blankly at Organa, who makes another attempt, “It’s hard to explain, but it’s like a curse, and she broke it, but in the process of it breaking you fainted.”

Two different ways of saying kriffing nonsense it was going to be then, Fox supposed. He is too disquieted to stay angry, Organa could keep his equivocation, Fox thinks crossly, deciding to focus on easier answers instead: “How long was I out?”

“A few hours, it’s 2100 now, and Leia fetched me at 1300.” Not the longest stretch then, and at least from the sounds of it, he had been unconscious rather than up and without awareness.

“Is Thire okay?” Fox asks, damningly.

“He is,” Organa says, and Fox can breathe again, until Bail continues, “Unlike yourself, Leia says that his mind is almost completely fine.”

Almost. Fox’s blood freezes and he wants out of here now, making a jerky move to get up. Not knowing his destination, maybe Thire, maybe one of the lifepods to jettison away from here and let the hyperlane take him, but wanting to be on his feet.

“Please trust Commander, we mean no harm,” Organa says, gently but firmly shoving Fox back, the fact that his body doesn’t resist has Fox wincing at how weak he still is and wishing he was back with the Guard where things made sense.

Organa seems to be weighing something up, which is good, because if he thinks Fox is letting this conversation end without some kind of explanation, politicians were even dumber than he imagined.

“It probably doesn’t seem like it, but Leia was only trying to help. She was attempting to heal damage that has been done to both you and Thire. Damage done by a Sith Lord.”

“What the kriff is a Sith Lord?” Fox rasps, and Organa fills up his water. Fox takes a sip. 

“What do you know about Jedi?” Organa says, grimly, after another pause.

Fox rolls his eyes out of a well-worn habit, he is unsure what good the Senator thinks parroting the closest the clones got to bedtime on Kamino will do, but Fox is dubious to say the least. Still, he answers, “What everyone else does, the Jedi are fairy tales,” — and the heroes in those awful romance novels Thorn adores, but Fox never wants to have to even think the word erotica near the Senator, let alone mention its existence. “What is a Sith Lord?”

“Jedi are real and Sith are evil Jedi,” Organa says, like it’s a coup d’etat, rather than rank insanity, “and the Supreme Chancellor is a Sith Lord.”

Fox thinks for a moment, trying to parse his way through the madness. “I don’t believe you about the Jedi, but I will believe you that the Chancellor is evil.” He tries to inflect it like a joke, but he doesn’t quite make it there.

Organa glances at him unnerved and grim, “We are certain that he has been messing with your mind. You tell me, Commander, have you had headaches,” Fox rolls his eyes, because every day of his life is a headache, even as Organa continues, “experienced waking terrors? Done things you didn’t want to? Hmm, have you ever found yourself somewhere and didn’t know how you got there?”

Fox takes the question like a body blow. He feels violently sick, thinking about all the times he has been forced to stand guard by the Chancellor’s desk, feeling like he is living in a waking nightmare, surrounded by people, yet being tormented by whatever horrors his mind supplied that day. He’d thought it had been stress, stress and boredom.  

“I’ve — I’ve been missing time,” Fox says, voice cracking, “ending up places I didn’t intend to be, with no knowledge of how I got there.” Having done things he didn’t want to do. The bruises, the soreness, flashes of memory. He isn’t sure why he is trusting a kriffing senator with this information, but the rush of telling someone, of not being treated like he is crazy is too great to not chase.

“I don’t know as much about the Sith as my daughter, but from what I do know that doesn’t surprise me.” Organa says, and the calm acceptance, the lack of condemnation, makes Fox feel dizzy. The release, it was heady. He has been living with this secret horror, this fear of what he has done, what he will do, what it could mean, how fast it would get him decommissioned, for years.

“Can it be fixed?”

“Yes,” Organa says, steady and certain, “Just being away from him means you are starting to heal.”  

Giving himself a moment to shiver with relief, Fox feels the dread creeping back in, “What about the other men, the Guard still in Coruscant?”

Organa sighs, “From what I understand, it was the duration—and intensity— of your exposure that made your…symptoms so bad, I believe that the rest of your men should be relatively protected for now.”

It might be a lie, but it is a well told and comforting one. What Organa has said about the Supreme Chancellor matches up with Fox’s experiences enough that he is willing to entertain it. Yet, Fox still side-eyes Organa, “Doesn’t mean I believe you about the Jedi.”

He will concede that the Senator and he are in agreement to distrust the Chancellor and these Sith-whatever-the-kark-they-are-Lords, and the Guard has seen some very strange things in their time on Coruscant, but Fox doesn’t trust Organa the man as far as he can throw him, particularly not his claims that the promised heroes were ever anything by stories.

Organa snorts, deeply, almost tiredly, amused, “Well, Commander, you may want to adjust your ideas about what’s real in the galaxy. Because you’ve been sharing a ship with a Jedi since we left Coruscant.”

“You?” Fox asks, aghast.

Organa laughs, hard. So hard, that he actually has to catch his breath and wipe his eyes. Fox glares at him, as he recovers himself, thinking, just briefly, in that moment — much like the times Fox had seem him with his daughter — that Organa seemed more like a man than a politician in that moment.

“Oh Commander,” he says, still chuckling, “that is the funniest thing I have heard in years. Me? A Jedi.” He looks like he is about to crack up again but keeps a hold of himself, “No, I am not the Jedi, my daughter is.”

“Leia?” Fox asks, weirdly hurt.

“Yes, Commander.”

“How? Why did she…?”

“Like I said, she was only trying to help.” Organa says, back to sighing, “she is young, barely trained, but a Jedi. We had to keep her safe from the Chancellor, but I was told — when she was younger — that I should let her practice around me when we were alone. So she levitates my files, cures my tension headaches, spends the evening pressing her thoughts into my mind.”

Fox knows he is staring and Organa seems to realise that Fox is getting more unnerved, “It’s nothing bad,” he hastens to add, “She was just trying to heal your mind like she does with mine. Something’s happened recently, more people on my staff have been showing signs of being tampered with by Sith powers, so I let Leia help them too.”

“I see.” Fox says, inadequate but he isn’t sure what else can be said.

“She’s been really worried about you,” Organa says, strangely insistence.

“Because I fainted?” Fox asks, mortified again, only the rest of the Command class have ever been allowed to see moments of weakness like that.

“Even before that,” Organa says, “Jedi are empaths, and Leia is strong, if largely untrained, she could feel your pain — it’s no excuse for going through your mind without your permission, but she is young, and thought it would be okay – I’ve had a word with her.”

“Is that—” Fox asks, trying to find the words, “—is that why I feel so light,” his voice cracks again, tellingly, on the word, and Organa nods slowly.

“I imagine so, I’m sorry it happened like this,” he says, “but I am glad that she could help you.” Fox can’t quite bring himself to agree, it’s all too much. He feels better, light and healthy in a way that he fundamentally doesn’t trust. Some of that must be showing on his face because Organa nods sadly, “Come, let me walk you back to your room, I know waking here in the guest quarters must have been disconcerting but I didn’t want to invade your space.”

Fox agrees quickly and creakily leaves the bed, feeling more like himself than he with each piece of armour he pulls on.

“If you like,” Organa says, as they slowly walk towards Fox’s quarters, “I have cleared your schedule for the rest of the day, to allow you to rest.”

“I don—”

“But if you won’t rest,” Organa says, “you can resume your duties for the second shift.” Fox thinks about arguing, but Organa is giving off intense medic-vibes and Fox doesn’t particularly think he can handle the indignity of being slapped down by a sitting Senator and his daughter in such quick succession. So he nods curtly and Organa smiles at him, leaving him to enter his quarters in peace.

Fox is utterly convinced that Organa was pulling his leg about the Jedi; the Sith, Fox could believe, it explained too much about his experiences on Coruscant to be doubted, and resolved to learn more about, but the Jedi, that was just wishful thinking. Fox wasn’t a cadet still damp from the vats, he knew better than to fall for promises of kind heroes and wise leaders a second time.

There is a knock on his door and Cody looks mournfully down at his novel, the one that he was using to ignore the pile of paperwork on his desk. Brisk had shaken into all of them the importance of proper downtime, so Cody felt he was justified in taking the time. Or trying to, at least. He’d managed like ten pages, exhaustion thick but still determined, before the door went. It was likely going to be something hideously important, one of the men reporting something that needed his immediate attention. He gives himself a second to regret the loss of his evening before getting up and opening his door.

Opening the door reveals Ben, rather than one of his men. Cody blinks in his surprise.

“Can I come in?’ Ben says, and there is an… energy to him. Not quite frantic, because he is too self-possessed for that, but there is an urgency to his movements. So Cody stands back and lets him in, with a nodded, ‘sir’ in case there are any passing men. He tries not to feel self-conscious about his sleepwear, the soft warm flannel that he’d picked up from a trader who they saved some years ago.

“Ben,” Cody says, he indicates for Ben to take the chair while after a moment’s hesitation he climbs back onto his bed. Ben looks distinctly guilty, clearly taking in that he had disturbed Cody’s night.

“Commander Cody,” Ben greets, sitting down with a gusty sigh, “I’m sorry for disturbing you. Genuinely, I know that you don’t have much time to yourself.”

“It’s fine,” Cody says, mostly meaning it, “what can I do for you. Is—“ he catches himself before he says ‘your shiny’ “—Luke okay? Where is he?”

Ben huffs, “Boil and Waxer have him, they are showing him… a game I believe.” He is hesitating over something. There is a recognisable twist in his brow, one Cody has seen before, when Boil and Waxer are so keen to take care of Luke. Most of the battalion are, but those two especially.

Cody considers it for a moment, he is loath to tell anyone his men’s business, but then it is Ben's child, and Ben has been so careful, so respectful, so he says, “I told you that most of us miss having kids around, but it’s especially the case for Boil and Waxer—”

“Oh?”

“We were stationed on Ryloth, giving support to one of my brothers, Bly of the 327^th,” Cody doesn’t think about the fact that Bly has missed eight months’ worth of check-ins, about the rumours about missing Commanders and Lieutenants, about Captain Hue and battlefield promotions, “and Boil and Waxer were scouting in this bombed out village when this little Twi’lek child called Numa appeared out of the rubble and adopted them. We were there for half a rotation and they all got close over the siege. I know they miss her a lot.”

Ben smiles, “Well, they are excellent with Luke, I hope one day they can return to see her.” Cody nods, trying not to calculate their odds of surviving this endless war together. Instead he focusses on the fact that while the furrow in Ben’s brow has eased, he still has an… energy to him. Something is still up.

“I know you didn’t come to my quarters to hear about Boil and Waxer,” Cody says when Ben fails to avail himself of the opportunity to ask whatever question is dogging him, “What did you need?”

Ben scratches at his beard, “This is… slightly ridiculous, and I want to state that I remain fully committed to this charade for now, but it’s been half a week and I haven’t had adult company with someone who knows that I’m not actually their general in days and the ruse is starting to wear on me.” Cody grimaces, “So I was wondering if perhaps — if you have time — we could have meetings every now and then, where I’m only Ben and not pretending to be your general, and not worried about ruining the façade in front of your men.”

Cody blinks, because that sounds — to his mild surprise — not awful. Ben continues, as Cody mulls over how bizarrely inoffensive he evidently finds the man’s company, “And you can take the opportunity to give me any advice if I’ve been mucking things up, and then you can have some company of someone who isn’t a direct subordinate. I know it isn’t much but I—”

“Ben,” Cody interrupts, “that sounds like a wonderful idea. I’m free now.”

Ben sighs a sigh of sheer relief, “Commander I cannot tell you what a relief it is to hear you say that.” And Cody doesn’t tell him that he can relate, but he can.

“You really should be calling me Cody,” he says instead, “at least in here.”

“I suppose that does make sense,” Ben agrees, “as long as you are happy with that,” he pauses. “Cody, I’d be delighted.” He sinks deeper into Cody’s favourite seat with another deep sigh.

“Needed that?” Cody asks amused.

“It’s been a long day of pretending,” Ben says on a sigh, “I know it’s necessary but it gets exhausting, how do you manage it?”

“It’s fine, for me. There aren’t that many lies for—,” Cody begins to say, but then pauses when Ben levels him a look and begins counting off his fingers.

“Lying about what happened to the real general, lying about me and Luke, lying to the GAR — and these are just the lies I know about, and I fully believe you have more that you are rightly keeping to yourself,” Cody winces and Ben softens, “It’s not a judgement, Cody, I just wonder whether it doesn’t start to weigh on you.

“Obviously, you have your brothers to take into your confidence,” Ben is looking at Cody, not like he is dissecting or dismissing him, there is something very frank about his gentle consideration, “But you try so hard to protect them, I imagine you stop yourself from sharing everything.”

Ben then flinches, “Cody, you have my apologies, that was too personal.”

“No,” Cody says, throat dry, “it’s alright, I just — I wasn’t aware anyone had noticed. I’m not very interesting.” Ben looks deeply unimpressed by that, although Cody isn’t sure why.

“You are fascinating,” Ben argues, amused. “But more importantly you are one of the only men on this ship who knows I’m not actually his superior officer, so I’d take your company in a heartbeat.”

Back on more familiar ground, Cody smirks, “I see how things are. It’s a good thing that I reckon having someone who I’m not trying to protect from this secret to talk to will be good for me. Otherwise I might have to turn down your kind offer.”

“See, it works out for both of us,” Ben says, “Do you have any comments or critiques on my performance as General thus far?”

“Not yet.” Cody couldn’t see himself needing to do so often, Ben had an uncanny knack at not only picking up how he should behave, but also adjusted his behaviour almost the moment Cody thought it needed modifying.

“Excellent,” Ben murmurs with no small amount of satisfaction. “Now, do you want to tell me what you’ve been reading.” Cody glances down, relieved to find that he was not reading one of Lin Ertrus or Frio Osto’s novels but rather a book of short stories they had picked up somewhere along the way.

“Well—” he begins, and watches as Ben shuffles around, making himself comfortable in the chair.

Something happened last night. Thire knows it in the marrow of his bones, in the support of his armour.

The mood on the dirigible has shifted.

Senator Organa and Princess Leia are cautious, considerate. They had been before, but there is a new, guilty precision to it. Fox is making himself absent, walking around the airship suspiciously, squinting at everyone onboard. Yet, at the same time, he seems lighter, visibly less tired and twitchy from the day before, so improved that it seems unthinkable that only a good night’s rest could have managed that, because, well. Ultra had hit his wall with their Commander and forced him to taking sleeping pills enough times that Thire knew sleep alone wouldn’t make enough of a difference. Even Thire himself feels lighter, he can’t tell if it is because Fox no longer looks like he’s one bad day away from buckling under the weight of the dark cloud hovering around him, or if something has changed for all of them.

That thought gets him through his laughably light duties and into the first part of his off-shift.

Thire is still thinking things through as he sits in the lounge with a cup of tea, not quite hoping that he’d get company, but making himself available were company to come by.

Like clockwork, Organa—Bail joins him with a cup of his own, dressed down from his ceremonial clothes preferred on Coruscant; the clean lines and high-collars are still present, but the fabric seems much more comfortable, more worn in. Thire has never been to Alderaan, but if it’s anything like the way its royal family dresses, he thinks he could enjoy visiting.

“Thire,” Bail greets, sitting down and smiling at him, “how are you this evening?”

Thire is unsure if Bail is actually paying closer attention to his answer, or if he is projecting his own sense that everything feels different today, but Bail certainly seems particularly interested when Thire answers, honestly, “Really excellent, I’ve been feeling good all day.”

“I am very pleased to hear that,” Bail says, smiling like he actually means it.

“Strangely good, even,” Thire adds to see if Bail reacts.

He doesn’t, or at least not that Thire can see, simply nodding his head, “Perhaps this escort mission has done you some good, I understand that this is considerably less excitement than members of the Guard usually face.”

Thire cannot help his snort, thinking back to how his last shift before leaving had involved clinging off an airship that he was trying to impound, drifting forty feet above the Merchant Quarter. “I’m not sure I’d describe what the Courrie Guard face as ‘excitement,’”

“No, I suppose not,” Bail says, brow furrowing and eyes dipping away.

“It has its moments, though,” Thire adds, not liking the way that Bail’s lips pull into a thinking, upset face. “One time Sergeant Hound’s massif, Grizzer, found his way into the pirate captain Ohnaka’s stash and dragged it across the streets of the lower rings. We spent the next few hours chasing around an irate pirate and a massif high on whatever Ohnaka had been stashing there. We eventually caught up with him and Ohnaka all but told us to arrest him and keep his loot if we would ‘just get that creature away from him’”

Bail laughs obligingly, “That sounds very amusing, Hondo Ohnaka was it?” he asks mildly.

“Yes, he ended up breaking out a few weeks later, but that was our record for holding him.”

Bail chuckles again and then gets a glint in his eye, “You know I was once taken hostage by Hondo.”

“Wh– While you were still a Senator? How did that happen?” It must have been before the Guard’s time because they had a file of all the prominent senatorial kidnappings, and Organa and Ohnaka had never intersected, as far as Thire could remember. Organa had been briefly taken by Cad Bane at one point, but his success at distracting Bane had allowed Fox to take the shot that blasted Bane off the platform, if not the face of the planet.

Bail huffs, settling in to tell the story, “It was my first term as Senator, a year after my marriage, I had taken up an escort mission for some relief supplies to an Outer Core world that had just experienced some major flooding, when my airship got caught in one of Ohnaka’s dragnets.”

“Did the Senate pay the ransom?” Thire asks, impressed by the Senator’s sangfroid even in retelling the tale, and Bail snorts a no, “The Queen?”

“No, I was lucky that I had an escort with me who it turns out had encountered Ohnaka before and left quite the impression. He was able to convince the pirate to let us go after a game of sabacc.”

Thire whistles, it was unbelievable in exactly the way that all Ohnaka stories were unbelievable, which meant it was likely true. Besides, it wasn’t like a sitting Galactic senator would be trying to impress Thire or anything, “I think you have had more excitement than us, Senator.”

“I assure you, that was very much a one off, I have nothing as exciting in my life these days,” and Thire has a strong flash of certainty that Bail is lying.

“You know I’m not sure I believe that even slightly,” Thire says, and Bail just takes a long, non-committal drink from his cup of tea.  

Chapter Text

Cody has lost his general. Usually that would be cause for celebration: Cody had spent his years since leaving Kamino dodging generals however and as often as he could, but he actually liked Ben. He actually spoke to Ben. More to the point, Cody actually needed to confer with Ben. They were on day nine of their hyperlane journey and Cody hadn't caught a glimpse of Ben all day, which was irksome, because his own workload had finally cleared up enough during his shift to make the much needed to start on preparing Ben for the meeting with the quartermaster.

Cody had checked the main areas of the airship and yet could not find the man.

Reinforcements were a necessary but complicated last resort. It would not be a good look to have to ask any of his — or Rex’s — men where their general has gotten himself. That would suggest a breakdown in the chain of command, the kind capable of making any vod jumpy and nervous. Asking one of his officers in the know about Ben's true status would get him the information without starting a panic, but it would also net him a look of mild judgement, which may be far worse.

Still, needs must and so Cody goes asking after his general.

It takes four men, until Wooley — Cody’s favourite for a reason — can finally help him, saying with a bright smile as he looks up from one of the stolen starcharts they acquired last prolonged deployment, “Oh yeah, I saw him with Tally earlier.”

Tally has increasingly retreated to the storeroom in his growing horror and panic at the dismal state of their stocks. Cody had even instituted a duty rota to make sure he had company and food, and was dragged out of there for sleep and some rec time at least once a day. He is pretty sure the two haven't met yet, so he is apprehensive.

Still, he has a location, and that is something.

Cody finds the storeroom empty, either a dire or an excellent sign. He checks the breakroom on that deck and still nothing. Eventually he checks the quartermaster office that hasn’t been touched in nearly a rotation, and of course Tally and Ben are sat there, speaking softly, poring over sheaths of paper.

“Ah Commander Cody,” Ben greets fingers paused in their path down the page, he had unearthed a pair of glasses from somewhere and in the low light of the Quartermaster’s office, they glint slightly, “good morning.”

“It’s afternoon,” Cody can’t help but correct, not that time ever has much meaning during a hyperlane drift, but Brisk insisted that maintaining timesense is crucial for keeping the men sane, so he tries to keep an eye on it. Ben blinks at him, rubbing at his eyes beneath the glasses that Cody didn’t even know he had, he clearly doesn’t need them often, since Cody had never seen them in all the days they’ve had onboard.

“How long have you been down here?” Ben gives him a look that suggests that Cody doesn’t actually want the answer to that question.

Tally had been murmuring softly the whole time they spoke, frowning as he goes. Cody considers his quartermaster as Tally is saying, “—and twenty crates of pauldrons.”

Ben nods, makes a note on a stack of papers and then Tally turns to Cody and nods, “Commander, greetings.”

“Lieutenant Tally, General,” Cody says, “you seem busy.”

“We were,” Tally says, and Cody can’t find it in himself to scold him for the disrespect, it is just so good to hear Tally doing anything that isn’t counting and fretting over the state of their stockroom.

Ben smiles, hiding it behind his hand, but Cody is onto his tricks.

“What do you want, Commander?” Tally asks, sharp, already having flipped to the next page of the inventory he was reading through. His hands are clenched as he waits.

“Mind if we do another page before we speak?” Ben asks before Cody can answer. His tone is polite, entreating, like Cody would be doing him a personal favour.

“Of course, General,” Cody says, “Can I wait while you work?”

He directs it to Ben, but Tally answers, “Fine.”

And then he is off, reading carefully, slowly enough for Ben to keep up, but fast, efficient, “Twelve pallets of dried grains, eighteen crates of buttons, three crates of type a-nails,” Ben gives Cody a look, as he is noting that down, hand moving steadily across the paper without his eyes following the movement, while Tally continues, “ten pallets of pulses, two crates of miscellaneous spices...”

When Tally reaches the end of the page, he folds over to the next one and gives Cody a nod, Cody does not smile, because Tally wouldn’t appreciate that, but rather he turns to Ben, “General, I was hoping we could start our preparations for the provisioning agent, but it seems you are already on it.”

“Not at all, Commander Cody,” Ben says, “LT Tally here was just being kind enough to talk me through earlier resupplies and what we are in need of once we are on Hosnian Prime. I will still need to speak to you. Perhaps after Tally and I are through these inventories, you and I could take a walk around the stockroom?”

Cody tries not to focus too deeply on the fact that Ben is apparently putting more effort into a pretence of acting as a general, than any of their previous superior officers had in actually being one. That line of thought will offer nothing good. “Of course, General, that sounds like an excellent idea. Should I—”

“You can stay,” Tally says sharply and then winces, adding, less harshly, “Commander Cody.” He pauses, a small sliver of uncertainty bleeding through, “Quietly though, please.”

“Of course, Quartermaster Tally,” Cody nods, “I’ll work on some reports of my own until you are finished with the General.” Tally nods once, and immediately starts reading again, Ben who had watched the whole exchange with gentle eyes, picks up writing again without a comment.

Fox has not been avoiding the Organas per se, but he has been pleased with how much busywork he can unearth when he really puts his mind to it. It’s only been a couple of days, he reasons that he deserves that long to figure out what to make of a sitting galactic Senator and his daughter claiming to be the heroes out of bedtime stories.

He still doesn’t know what to do with his weightlessness. It feels like a great tension — one that he hadn’t even known was there — has been lifted, like if he isn’t careful he may just start floating away. He feels peaceful, rested, as unstressed as he has been since the time on one of the only calm days on Kamino. When he, Bly, Cody and Gree had climbed out to one of the domes, leaned against each other and watched the waves crash against the dome of Tipoca City without the lashings of rain.

The docking at Bellassa to collect the Princess’ tutor should be enough of a change of routine for Fox to continue to keep his distance. Fox never imagined he would be so excited to meet a stuffy academic: he is picturing musty robes and creaky bones, just the sort of dull distraction a fanciable Princess needs to stop harassing a Clone Commander of the GAR. He doesn’t acknowledge the pang that accompanies the thought of no longer having his tiny shadow and her determinedly observant company. It’s for the best of all involved.

Whatever issues Fox has with almost every aspect of this mission, he will give credit to Organa’s pilot: he anchors the dirigible smoothly and competently, with none of the juddering or scraping Fox has seen evidence of in the dockyards of Coruscant. So smoothly that Fox only realises they have docked when he glances out the porthole on the way to the lounge and sees the approaching ground. He hauls ass to disembark only five minutes after everyone else, slowing as he makes his way down the gangplank so nobody can tell he was rushing.

“Senator, Princess” Fox says, walking up to Organa and the Princess where they are waiting. Thire is also there, speaking quietly to the Senator, so Fox greets him too, “Commander Thire.” He isn’t sure when Thire started forgoing his bucket and greaves but he is as unarmoured as Fox has seen him outside of the barracks. He also seems joyful in a way that Fox finds unnerving. Like Thire too has had some weight lifted.

Thire pauses, stunned, before smiling, quietly pleased, and Fox rewinds his last words and realises his mistake. Commander, is what he said. Thire smiles like he has been handed a great gift, and there is no way Fox is going to walk it back, not after everything he has had to do to his friend. So he keeps his face still, hoping that Thire doesn’t spot that Fox has noticed his own mistake. It had come out so naturally, Thire is a commander of the Guard, no matter what political expediency may insist.

“Commander Fox, I’m pleased you could join us,” Organa greets, smiling like he means it, but not being overly in Fox’s face, which Fox appreciates even if he doesn’t currently trust Organa as far as he can throw him.

“Of course, we are only expecting the Princess’s Tutor, correct?”

“Yes!” Leia shouts, all excited energy.

“Yes,” Organa confirms with a laugh, “and his luggage, he’s a bookish young man, so I imagine he is bringing more luggage than even my daughter or I.” Fox frowns beneath his helmet, unsure if he is thrown by the disclosure that the tutor is young or by his continuing sense that Organa is telling half-truths. Politicians lie as a resting state, but there is something about these half-truths that throw Fox more than he’d like to admit.

For a brief moment, Fox misses the slimy Senators he is familiar with, the ones that you give no inch to. Organa’s lies and myths alongside genuine consideration and kindness are more discombobulating.

The Tutor, Olin, his long overdue briefing had informed him, is not due for another fifteen minutes, and Fox can think of little as appealing as waiting around here wondering about the Jedi-madness the Senator claimed to be involved in. “Permission to do a perimeter check, Sir?”

“Of course, Commander Fox," Organa says, "please do whatever you think is best.” 

Fox walks a careful route around the hangar and the balloon, checking that everything seems to be in order. There should be no danger here, Bellassa is a peaceful world, barely on Separatist or GAR radar, and thus largely untouched by the decade of war. From what he remembers, it is known for having printing presses and some derelict temples from a by-gone age. The Senator wasn’t meant to be stopping here, so the danger should be minimal, but still Fox patrols.

On his second circuit, he finds two of the crewmembers loading what seems to be twenty crates and boxes into the dirigible. The tutor must be here, so Fox will have to hurry back, but he still takes a moment to order they open one of the crates.

As promised it is full of books. Olin doesn’t seem to be discerning in the slightest: there are history books, tomes on engineering, on lost languages, on religions, novels and even the odd work of Fox recognises to be pulpy romance. For Olin’s personal reading surely. He cannot imagine the Senator allowing his daughter to share the same lurid reading material as Thorn. Unable to indict the man for taste alone, Fox nods for the crew to continue loading and hustles back to the main bay.

There, he sees a young man striding towards the Senator and his daughter. If it weren’t for the looks of ecstatic recognition and the sounds of joyful reunion Fox would bet his bucket that they were looking at the wrong man. Because from the clean, polished black lines of his boots and outfit, to the streak of blond in his dark hair, and the obvious bulges of a vibrosword of some kind and at least one holstered blaster, Olin screams smuggler, not royal tutor.

Still, when the Princess launches herself at him, screaming, “Uncle Ferus!” he scoops her up, and cradles her in a hug, belying more strength than his slim frame would suggest. Organa leans close, patting Olin on the back and saying something to him low and inaudible.

Fox strides over, stepping close to Thire and, without thinking, signs a thoughts? at him. Thire thankfully falls back into their old routine and signals back, watching closely, intel bad.

“—and these are our dedicated escorts for the journey,” Organa is saying more loudly, to the man still carrying his daughter, “Ferus, please meet Commander Fox and Captain Thire of the Coruscant Guard. Commander Fox and Captain Thire, please meet Ferus Olin, my daughter’s tutor and my longtime friend.”

Olin turns towards them, and kriff he is pretty, for all that he and the Senator are obviously karking liars. Olin carries himself with a deadly confidence badly hidden under pretty-boy looks and a close, clean shave. If that man is just a tutor, then Fox is the next Chancellor of the Republic.

“Gentlemen,” Olin greets, shifting his grip on the Princess to a single arm and offering his palm to shake, and kriff even his voice is nice, mild yet perfectly confident. “Thank you so much for your efforts in taking care of Bail and Leia, I am looking forward to getting to know you both over the course of our journey.”

Thire is thankfully a step closer so he has to figure out the protocol first, opting to shake Olin’s hand, mumbling out a greeting, leaving Fox to do the same, deeply pleased he has his helmet to hide the way his eyes keep getting caught on details about Olin. Fox tells himself it is just caution because almost everything about Olin shouts that he would be the prime candidate to cause trouble if Fox came across him during his rounds of the middle-rings of Coruscant.

Not because the way Olin's freckles spray across the bridge of his nose is cute. Fox is a professional.

Before Fox can find a way to extract himself from this strange interaction and rethink his planned approach when he thought he’d be dealing with a fusty scholar pushing sixty not a young, gorgeous probable-smuggler who oozes charming danger, Leia wriggles out of her tutor’s grip, taking his hand, “Come on, Ferus, you can meet Fox and Thire later, I want to show you what I’ve been learning!” and then he is dragged up towards the main body of the dirigible, leaving Fox and Thire with a deeply amused Senator.

“She’s not going to give him the chance to unpack for at least a day,” Organa says, and Fox bites his tongue so he doesn’t say, ‘you know that is he a smuggler, right? That man you just let on your dirigible, to teach your impressionable daughter is involved in some kind of law-breaking. Genuinely, Senator, if that man isn’t involved in something criminal I will resign my commission right now.’

Instead he just nods, “Do the crew need any assistance in hauling off?”

Organa shakes his head, looking over to where the final crates are still being loaded, there is something viscerally satisfied about him when he says, “No, I think we are all set.” Before he walks back up onto the Tantive, all imposing gait and large stature.

“Want to spar, vod?” Thire says, after they both stand trying to understand what had just happened and Fox could forgive him there and then if there was anything to forgive.

“You’re on,” he says instead.

The Tantive breaks orbit, the stately purples and greys of Alderaan visible on its balloon, as the compact metal body drifts slowly down planetside. Ferus watches its progress from the spire that he had climbed up to. Bellassa was a fairly busy spaceport, and an even busier publishing hub, closer to Coruscant than is generally wise. Still, he touches the tip of the structure, constructing a cairn in the Force upon it.

These beacons had meant so much to him when he was finding his way back to the Order, he cannot leave a planet without creating one. Had he been involved in less vital missions, he’d be able to leave more specific instructions, telling a potential Jedi how to move towards the Order, they were still missing so many of their members, but as things stood Ferus had something different to offer.

He leaves a message of hope, of faith, of light and love in the metaphysical threads he creates the cairn out of. Trying to recreate the feeling of walking into the Garden of a Thousand Fountains, of the sunlight dappling through the windows and across the calm waters. The last time he had been back to Coruscant, he’d been able to confirm that Jocasta Nu’s defences had held, that the temple had stayed shut, closed to the Chancellor and his Sith tricks; to his raging apprentice, all black metal and ticking gears; and to his apprentice’s long-standing disinterest in the archives.

They had built over the temple instead. Unable to open or destroy it, they constructed some kind of barrack overtop the foundations. It had hurt to see the millennia old home of the Jedi treated like this, but then it was also a testament to their fortitude: buried, hidden, but not gone, still alive.

The cairn only takes moments to situate — he has had plenty of practice by now — and Ferus quickly confirms that he is alone in the area, before letting go from the spire and using the Force to guide his slow descent to the loading bay. He checks over his cargo one last time: a strange mix of rebellion necessities, archival fetchings for Master Nu, his own manuscripts and texts, and genuine study materials for Leia, all strategically packed so it looks like the possessions of an over-laden tutor.

As the Tantive drifts closer, Ferus can feel the busy competence of the Alderaani crew, many of them familiar from brief visits to the palace in Alderaan over the years— the Organas courted and kept loyalty like few others Ferus has met; the familiar steadiness of Bail; the supernova of power, determination and joy that was Leia, closer now than she has been in years; and the careful awareness of military minds, the two clone troopers. They are as distinct and individual in the force as Ferus has come to expect, and he is grateful for Leia’s warning. Had he not known he may have handled this first meeting differently, but he has the all clear to approach.

He and Bail will need to confer on how to handle their unexpected guests, but that could wait until their first stretch of hyperlane.

The Tantive finally lands and Ferus makes his way towards them, keeping an eye out for any uninvited guests. They had kept this diversion as secret as possible, but darkness spreads across the galaxy and only networks of Jedi are completely safe from Sidious’s reach.

Even then, only when they carefully keep an eye out for his apprentice.

After, once acquaintances and reacquaintances are made, Ferus walks through the Tantive and breathes in Bail and Breha’s excellent taste. It is by far the best appointed dirigible he has ever had the pleasure of standing in, and thanks to his years with Roan he has spent far too long scoping out fancy dirgibles. Leia beside him is talking a mile a minute, inconsequential things, because her parents had raised her to have a good head on her. It is clear to Ferus that she is itching to get somewhere safe where she can unleash three years’ worth of questions on him.

Ferus tells himself he doesn’t find it cute; Ferus has never been very good at lying to himself. So instead he just beams at Leia and asks questions in all the right places so that she continues her bright, happy chatter.

Once they are safely behind the door to what Ferus has been told is his quarters — far too luxurious again, but beautifully decorated — Leia launches herself at him for another hug, her presence in the Force reaching at the same time. In both senses, Ferus envelopes her, clutching her close and tight, with as much warmth as he can manage. He had passed probably a dozen Jedi and their apprentices in the past months, checking in with them as he made his way here, but nobody feels right the way Leia does, like Siri did once upon a time.

Ferus knows what it means, but that is a conversation he and Leia will have to have soon. 

“Ferus, I missed you,” Leia says, the truth of it ringing out.

“And I you,” Ferus says, tweaking one of her elaborate braids. “Although I have very much enjoyed reading your letters, you have grown quite talented.”

“I want to learn more,” Leia says, determinedly, and Ferus feels an aching pulse of recognition, remembering the young padawan he had been before Dara, when he was so hungry to learn, so serious and keen.

Still, like Siri with him, Ferus knows that part of his job is to tease, to soften, to remind his young student that there is levity in the galaxy, so he hums, considering, long enough that even determined Leia starts to crack.

“I suppose it’s a good thing that your father arranged for a tutor,” he says, with a sly smile. 

The sound of joy that Leia lets out as she hugs him again is worth almost every hardship Ferus has experienced up to this point.

Two weeks have passed far too quickly and Ben and Cody are standing in front of the GAR supply depot, four transports ready behind them to start to take the much needed supplies back to the Vigilance. It had taken exactly a day onboard for Ben to realise quite how dire the need is across the dirigible, and after his meetings with Tally he has an even more pressing sense of what the cost of failure would be. He is feeling sick to his stomach with nerves, that he carefully releases from his body, acknowledging them but not letting them cloud him. If Cody is feeling anything he is hiding it well, the man that Ben has begun to get to know is buried beneath the armour of Clone Commander CC-2224.

No fewer than five of Cody’s command team, as well as the man himself, have been by to brief Ben and check his uniform. He would have been annoyed had any of them deviated from the advice of another, but either they were reading from the same handbook or they really did have a consensus sense of how this meeting should go.

The man who comes down to greet them is exactly the sort of man who looks like he enjoys refusing soldiers in his own army the supplies they desperately need because of his prejudices towards them. Thankfully, Ben was instructed that in his role as general he is expected to be snide and dismissive, so he has no reason to suppress the sneer that makes its way onto his face.

“General,” the man greets.

Ben has been told his name, he has been given a worryingly large sheath of files from Crys about nearly everything about the man, but the fewer pleasantries Ben lets him get out, the fewer he has to return. So he returns, bitingly, “Sergeant, I understand you have blocked my men’s attempts to resupply in my absence,”

“Yes sir,” the man starts to say, before he pales then flushes. “It’s protocol that—”

“I don’t give one jot about protocol when it means that my airship is falling apart around my ears when I take up its command,” Ben all but roars, channelling every ounce of the men with puffed up chests Mace used to have to deal with at the temple. Cody flashes amused in the Force, but gives absolutely nothing away.

“Sir,” the man says again, meekly, clearly displeased that he is finding not an ally, but a furious superior officer.

“You have imperilled my mission objectives, you have imperilled my men, and worst of all, sergeant, you have pissed me off.” The man swallows, taking a step back, and Ben advances, suddenly going silky soft, all the anger gone. “Now, I understand, you are far away from Coruscant, it gets so tiring handling all these requests, it’s so easy to hide behind protocol. What does it matter if one battalion goes a bit longer without resupplying, it all evens out in the end.”

The man makes the mistake of nodding along, as Cody, still impassive besides him, goes deadly cold in the Force. Ben lets his eyes linger, lets the man know he has been seen, been caught, and puts him even further on the back foot.

“Only these are my men,” he says and Ben doesn’t let himself think about the possessive, “and they have been without the supplies they needed for years.”

The man gulps, which is sensible, because Ben is so much more dangerous when he is speaking softly than when he is shouting, “I’d hate to have to report how many casualties, near losses and errors have come about from the 212^th not being provisioned as it should be.” The man nods, almost reflexively, and Ben lets his grin go fierce, “Excellent, I’m so glad we agree, restocking us to make up for all the missed reprovisioning should be plenty enough that I neglect to mention this little oversight to the admiralty.”

“Sir, that’s—”

“Exactly what is due and allocated to my men?” Ben asks mildly, knowing full well that much of the allocated supplies will have been siphoned off and sold by this man and his underlings for profits on the side. He finds he doesn’t care. “I’m so glad you agree.”

“I—” The man starts, before he sighs. “Yes, General, I will see what I can do.”

“Excellent,” Ben says, more of a snarl than a smile on his face. This hadn’t been the plan, the 212th had just needed him to get even a single batch of resupplies. But then seeing the face of the man who had been driving Cody’s brave, loyal battalion to desperation, Ben had felt the need to keep pushing. He’d made a calculation. Trying to get them every bit of protection, buffer he could before he left them again to the whims of men like this, like Konstantine.

The man scurries off, clipboard in hand, and begins to order his workers around, gathering up the supplies.

“Ben,” Cody says, once he is definitely out of sight, and there is something in his voice.

“Commander, I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me,” Ben says, the reality of what he risked crashing over him, “Will there even be enough space for everything, have I just painted a bigger target on your back, are—”

Cody tears his helmet off, shoving it at Waxer who is similarly staring at him, “Ben, shut up,” Cody says, again, his tone is inscruitable as reaches out and grips Ben, keeping one eye out the door, and then hauls him in for what is likely a hug, but is more bruising and desperate than any hug he’s received.

“That was majestic,” Cody whispers, fierce, “thank you.”

There is a sound, behind the door where the man had left through, and he is back to helmeted-professionally-distant-impassive Commander CC-2224 in a flash, when the man returns, “I can’t do all of it, but I can do this,” he holds out an inventory list. Or what looks more like a stack of inventory lists.

“It’ll have to do,” Ben sighs, signalling imperiously for his Commander to take a look. Cody is radiating golden warmth and bright relief into the Force as he reads down the list.

“All in order?” Ben asks, mildly, as the man swallows nervously.

“Aye, General,” Cody confirms.

“Excellent,” he makes sure his voice is as soft and satin as he can manage, “thank you for your help. My men will see to the cargo and the reinforcements. I’ll be in my office.” And then he strides off, better to let the men handle this.

Besides, Ben has to see a man about a cairn.

Chapter Text

The peace on the Tantive holds for the first twenty-four hours of Ferus's stay.

He is surprised and duly impressed.

“What I don’t understand,” Bail says cheerfully to Thire that evening in the lounge, breaking the calm of the room and the strong streak they had going there. There's an edge to the words that spells a reckless idea. It’s a tone of voice that Ferus doesn’t like one bit. The last time Ferus heard this particular tone, Bail was encouraging him to start writing to kill time on the long dirigible journeys between his missions out in the galaxy, and they all knew how that idea turned out.

Ferus diverts half his focus away from Leia and her questions, to pay attention to Bail as he continues saying to Thire, “is why you speak about the Jedi as if they didn’t exist.”

The Senator is playing a very dangerous game, and Ferus cannot figure out why. He hadn’t been thrilled when Bail reported that he and Leia had told Fox about the Jedi, or attempted to. The man clearly had not reacted well, and yet Bail persists. Ferus has never known Bail to court danger—without cause— so he is resolved to let the conversation play out, but he is wary. So many years in the viper’s pit of the sham remnants of the Senate would be enough to push anyone to the brink. Maybe Bail has finally snapped.

From the table over, Ferus can see Captain Thire look up, searching for Commander Fox, find that he isn’t there and clearly decide Ferus is his best bet to exchange amused, weighty looks with. His helmet is stowed on the ground suggesting a remarkable level of comfort onboard.

The mood of their two clone escorts has been lighter than Ferus had expected. He’d skirted clear of the Guard while on Coruscant, more because of his smuggling and more colourful colleagues than anything Jedi-related. But even passing by the red-armoured clones revealed a heavy weight borne by all of them. It made sense, they were the most proximate to Sidious, but it had been concerning when Ferus heard two of them would be joining the Tantive. Having met them, Ferus could only be impressed by how much Leia had improved since last they were together, his own careful diagnosis of Fox and Thorn had revealed the traces of the damage Leia had found, but most evident had been the careful work she had undertaken healing them.

“Jedi are children’s stories,” Thire says with a sad smile and a shrug, answering Bail’s question with an air of malaise. “It’s what they tell the baby clones once they’ve decanted.” Ferus knows the clones tend to call the youngest among them “shinies” so he assumes that “baby clones” is for Bail’s benefit, it is sweet.

Commander Fox snorts, derisively, coming into the lounge. Sound travels fairly easily in the common areas of the dirigible, so he likely heard most of this part of the conversation.

“I always thought the lie was crueler than the truth,” Fox says as he sits down at Bail’s table, and—visible from where Ferus is sat—kicks at Thire’s chair. Whatever tension between the two that Ferus had picked up when he first arrived seems to have sublimated into a brotherly roughhousing more familiar to what Ferus had seen amongst clones. There is still a fragility to the bond, evident in the unsure looks they each shoot each other when the other glances away.

“Crueler?” Bail asks.

Fox frowns, carefully placing his own helmet next to Thire’s on the ground, he takes a beat before explaining: “Telling us that this war meant something, that we’d be serving under the Jedi, who would care about us. They stopped that osik eventually, but it broke some hearts once we finally met the men we would be fighting under.” He sighs, a miserable, deflated sound. Ferus had heard all this before, but still it slips under his ribs like a knife.

He doesn’t fully understand why the Clones were created, they had to be a trap for the Jedi, one still in hand when Sidious’s first trap sprung too early, but he—and the rest of the Order— cannot see how. What he can see is how, despite not being built to lead soldiers, the Jedi would have fallen in love with the men, how they would have fought and died beside them.

“No idea why they would choose warrior monks of old fairytales, mind you,” Thire adds, less wrought about the topic than Fox, drumming his fingers against the table. “I guess because nobody has ever met any of them.”

Ferus keeps very still, and watches Leia do the same. It was a strange lurch to be sat near someone as they vehemently insist that you and your people do not exist. The Jedi had only gone into hiding a decade ago and yet so quickly had the Chancellor and his propaganda seen them forgotten across the galaxy that it may as well have been a century. Or maybe they never made that much of a difference. Ferus quiets that voice, he has to believe that the Jedi and their work matter.  

“That’s the thing,” Bail says, ignoring the warning look Ferus tries to flash him, “I’ve met Jedi.”

Fox scoffs while Thire chuckles. “Sure, Senator,” Fox says, all unimpressed lilt — playing his part in their shared secret or still not convinced?

Ferus can't get a read on him. He is glad that the men are comfortable enough that they’ve dropped the stilted formality Ferus first saw, but this tone of voice is no easy thing either. It makes Ferus want to do something stupid, like show them his lightsabre or levitate that cup of caf that Fox clings to like a lifeline.

Bail, because he is a contrary bastard, looks thrilled at their doubt. “No really. Some… thirteen years ago, I spent three weeks being escorted by a Jedi knight and his padawan.” Bail slants a look at Ferus and Leia, and Ferus recognises the echo with a jolt. A knight and his padawan. Siri had insisted he be knighted upon his return to the Order, no matter how much Ferus insisted he didn’t deserve it. Master Windu had clearly agreed because he had done the ceremony himself, and well, Leia was of an age now, and they were starting her training. It wasn’t formalised, but she was his padawan.

He reached out for her in the Force and could tell from the explosion of joy that she was drawing the same conclusion.

Padawan, he greets in the bond and she goes supernova.

Thire and Fox, oblivious to the Jedi realisations occurring one table over, continued to insist that Bail had been lied to.

“What would it take to convince you that I personally know Jedi?” Bail asks, amused, a hypothetical to Thire, but very real to the rest of the room.

Fox makes a show of deciding, “Those laser swords are pretty iconic. Plus the lifting stuff with the “force” or whatever.” There is a challenge there to Bail, a glance at Leia, whose crystal Ferus has kept tucked in his boot for the past three months. He had found the pearl when wandering Tatooine, waiting for his lift from Kit, stumbling across it the moment that Leia reached out to check in. With Sidious’ patrols of Illum, the order has had to revert to the older ways of constructing ‘sabres, and as far as messages from the Force went, that had been pretty definitive. Mace had been astoundingly smug when Ferus had reached out to tell him.

With a sigh at his own foolishness, Ferus sends his idea across to Leia, and stands to distract, Thire and Bail, telling them about some dry anthropological theory he read from a book, something about the Jedi as proto-mythic morality tales. Bail, left out of their plotting, is still immediately game, actually asking questions and nodding along, even as Ferus begins making up answers as he goes. Captain Thire is clearly a kind, patient man, because he seems to be listening along as well.

As Ferus speaks, keeping their eyes on him, he watches Leia showily levitate Commander Fox’s mug.

The man is good, Ferus will give him that much, he only breathes in sharply once as the cup leaves his hands for a long, loaded moment before drifting slowly back towards his grip.

Fox takes a slow, deliberate sip and for the most part does not look like he is having to re-evaluate everything he knew about the known galaxy. He glances away from Leia who had dramatically extended her arm to sell the experience, and catches Ferus’s eye where he is finishing his mini-lecture to Thire and Bail. Fox narrows his eyes after a second and Ferus blinks, making his eyes wide and innocent like he perfected when he was an initiate sneaking out of the creche into the older padawan classes.

It takes a long moment for Fox to look away, frowning.

Cody looks around at the cargo bay and wants to cry, or to laugh so hard that he cries. He won’t, because somehow, somewhere across the galaxy Wolffe will know and come to thump him for being such a mess and a blight on their batch.

But still. Cody is… emotional looking out at the stacks of crates that now line the space that had once been so damningly, cavernously, empty. Cody is pretty certain the men had started avoiding the lower decks out of a mild fear of encountering the murmur of ghosts in the echoing space.

He glances over at Tally who is directing the men carrying in more crates of supplies, as pleased as Cody has ever seen him. Earlier, it had been necessary to distract Tally with the logistics of the resupply to stop him going and finding Ben and proposing marriage there and then. Cody was pretty sure they couldn’t marry, legally, but didn’t want to ruin such a wonderful day by doing something stupid like reminding everyone that they were technically GAR property.

Not when they finally have new men joining their thinned out ranks for the first time in two years. Wooley, their most shiny until now — already here for nearly two years — was giving tours with bounding enthusiasm, even as Tup and Dogma squabbled with him, arguing that at least half the new shinies should count as 501^st.

Even Brisk had smiled when he had seen the fourteen crates worth of medical supplies Cody had brought over to the medical bay from their first load. He’d obviously soon scowled when he and Kix had realised that they needed to rearrange their jealously guarded supply shelves to fit it all in. But Cody knows to take that as the win it is.

Still, it would be wise if they could get away from Hosnian Prime as quickly as possible, no matter how much Cody wished otherwise. The Quartermaster had seemed cowed by Ben, but Cody doesn’t want to push their luck. He should check in to see how long it would take them to be ready at their current rate. Likely not until the morning or afternoon tomorrow.

There is a whistle and Cody turns to find Rex making his way over, carrying his own set of crates — even captains were not exempt from the labour of helping to lift and carry

“This is… really impressive, vod,” Rex says, as Cody goes to help him with his load, stupidly glad that Rex was speaking to him. He checks the labels and directs them over to the corner where they are storing spare bits of armour.

“I’m not sure I can take much credit,” Cody admits, when he draws Rex over to one side, using the full privilege of rank to take a breather. He is almost completely certain nobody is going to complain about carrying extra on their behalf. Tally and the officers had tried to keep how dire their supplies were from the CTs, but Cody knows all of them had picked up on how precarious things had become. Everyone would be sleeping easier tonight, no longer as afraid of running out of armour or food on a long deployment.

Rex makes a noise, amused agreement of some kind, Cody thinks, his confidence at reading his brother has taken a beating in recent months, “Fives said it was impressive to watch.”

Cody huffs a laugh, “It was. I had the hardest time not laughing, once I got over my fear that he was pushing too hard and we’d get nothing. It was so satisfying to see that smug petty man slapped down.”

“Have you spoken to him since? The General?” Rex asks, which is probably a fair question, but Cody hasn’t figured out a way to say thank you and say the goodbye he probably needs to. Ben and Luke won’t leave without saying anything, Cody has to believe that, so if Cody doesn’t give them a chance to speak, they can’t leave.

Cody shakes his head and sighs, at the question and his own desperate reasoning.

“You know, vod,” Rex says, not looking at him, but rather out at the men continuing to bring in stack after stack of crates. It’s an old trick from when he was just a cadet, not making eye contact when he had something important to say. Cody looks out at their intake as well. Seeing the ordered lines of supplies, months’ worth of food, armour and munition for his men makes Cody feel secure and calm in a way he hasn’t for years. “Slice has been muttering about finally having some decent ingredients, that maybe it’s a good time to go about making a big feast to celebrate. It’d be a shame if the kid and the general had to leave before we had time to thank them properly.”

“Who knew you had some good ideas under that shock of hair,” Cody says, throat thick, he wants to grab him in for a hug, but he doesn’t think they are ready for that yet. Rex reaches out to thump him, and for a moment everything feels okay.

Ben and Luke are cloaked and leaving their quarters when Commander Cody finds them. He spots them as he turns the corridor and releases a pulse of intense distress in the Force that Luke echoes almost immediately.

“Commander, what’s wrong?” Ben asks, urgently.

“You’re leaving already?” Cody asks, sounding… measured as he approaches, but Ben detects the hurt as he takes them in their travelling cloaks, “I thought you would at least say goodbye to the battalion.”

“Oh,” Ben says softly, unable to completely hide his fond smile. He sends a pulse of calm down their bond to reassure Luke and gentles smiles his for the Commander. “Peace, Cody. Luke and I are just going into the spaceport to check out a few things,” he gestures to the room behind them. “Our stuff isn’t even packed. I thought we’d stay until the Vigilance was fully restocked just in case you needed me to go back and speak to that dreadful man.”

“Ah,” Cody says, and the tenor of his voice suggests that he may be feeling bashful but it is hard to tell with the helmet, and Ben really does try to keep his impressions of other sentient beings to what they project out into the Force. “I’m glad, I apologise for assuming.”

“It is no worry, I’m glad you caught us before we left if it was going to concern you,” Ben says.

“I probably would have figured it out eventually, but I—,” the Commander starts and stops when Luke reaches out and grabs his hand, tugging him in closer to the two of them. Making it so that he is standing close, very close, giving Ben an intimate look at the careful etching along the metal of his visor.

“Commander Cody should come with us,” Luke says, not quite stubbornly, but more insistent than he tends to be.

“Oh?” Ben says, not annoyed, because while the Commander’s presence would make things less simple, with regards to the cairn, it would probably also be somewhat decent training for Luke to practice reaching out in the Force discreetly. Still, he isn’t going to make it easy for his padawan, nor assume that Cody was at liberty, let alone inclined to join them, “I don’t know Luke, the Commander is a very busy man, I’m not sure he’ll have time to spare to join us on our jaunt.”

The Commander is facing them, helmet betraying little, but there is something about the tilt of it that Ben reads as indulgent. “I accounted for far longer to argue with the provisioning agents, so I find myself with time to spare.” Cody says, voice decidedly amused through the slight distortion of its modulator.

“Well since I’ve so disrupted your plans by being too efficient, I’ll have to insist that you join us,” Ben says, “I’m sure we can find a way to keep you adequately occupied.”

That being decided, Luke is dragging Cody down the hall before another word can be said. Given their relative sizes and strengths, Ben has to assume that Commander Cody is allowing himself to be pulled along. 

“Do you need to alert any of the men that we’re leaving?” Ben calls down the hall at the retreating figures, mostly amused since neither of them know where they are going. If he gets an answer, it is lost by Luke’s determined path off the dirigible.

Not wanting to risk it either way, Ben grabs the first of the officers he spots, Captain Rex, as fortune would have it.

“Captain Rex,” he greets.

“General,” Rex returns, steadily, betraying absolutely nothing. Ben would love little more than to figure out this man and what happened between him and the Commander, but this hardly seemed the time.

“Luke and I are borrowing Commander Cody for an hour to explore the spaceport,” Ben says, watching and feeling for any kind of reaction, “I just wanted to let someone know in case any of us are needed.”

“Understood,” Rex says, and there is a mote of frustration quickly buried, but that is all Ben gets. Rex pauses like he means to say something else before he salutes, half-heartedly and turns to go about his day. Curious man, Ben thinks, staring after him. None of the other clones are nearly as adept at shielding in the Force.

With nothing else to do, Ben follows the beacon that is Luke to the edge of the docking bay. As he walks by, he touches the dirigible’s strong brass docking cables out of an old spacer superstition that he’d picked up somewhere along the way. He walks on to find Luke and Cody looking through a viewport down at the busy city below, staying out of the way of the men continuing to load crates onto the Vigilance. A number of them were actually humming, something cheerful and jaunty, as they worked.

Whatever headaches saving Luke and Ben might have created for the 212^th, at least Ben can comfortably say that the resupply was lifting spirits. The whole dirigible sang with fizzy relief and optimism as each new crate of supplies was loaded.

“Good views?” Ben asks when he reaches them, amused.

“It’s so busy, so lively,” Luke says delighted, from where Cody has him lifted so he can see out better, face pressed so far against the pane that it fogs up each time he breathes out. “There are so many colours and lights, so many people.”

Luke was five the last time they had been somewhere so populated, and that had been as they passed through Keldabe on their way to a smaller village on the outskirts of the main continent of Mandalore. His sense in the Force was not as strong as it was now, he must be feeling the cacophony of a city through the Force for the first time. He is handling it well. But then, Ben has met few beings as prosocial as Luke so perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised.

“Should we go experience it in person?” Ben asks, unable to stop Luke’s enthusiasm from bringing a smile to his face.

Luke wiggles, “Wanna get down?” Cody asks and Luke eels his way out of his grip, landing a bit too lightly on his feet, which Ben supposes is answer enough. Cody chuckles and removes his helmet, stowing under one arm, “Lead the way, General.”

Knowing better than to lead them right to the cairn, Ben tracks a circuitous route through the tight warren of the city, stopping at food vendors, small spice markets — grabbing some sachets for Slice in the process, and booksellers where the Commander pauses, spots something and sends a ping to someone on the other end of the battalion’s shortrange comm system. Ben shoots him a curious look and Cody colours, ever so slightly, but diverts the question by pointing out a tea vendor, because he is far too observant for comfort. Ben deliberately walks over there, and orders some small packets, grateful that he had been able to earn some credits on Tatooine.

“Ben,” Cody says, at one point, hushed, but keeping a keen eye on Luke where he is playing in the street with a wind-up astro-droid. “Listen, about earlier,” Ben regards him warily, because there have been a lot of earliers, “I came to find you and Luke because I wanted to ask you to stay onboard a bit longer, let Slice cook up a real 212^th meal to thank you for all you’ve done, before you leave.”

“Cody, that’s kind of—”

“I know it’s longer than you wanted to stay—”

“Really, I—”

“But it would mean a lot to the rest of the men, and me personally, I—”

“Commander Cody,” Ben says firmly and grinning, “I’m trying to say yes.”

“Ah. Excellent,” Cody says, arm shifting where he’s holding his helmet as if he wants to duck beneath it. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“Thank you —and Slice— for the invitation,” Ben says, smiling far too fondly. He wants to say something more, about how grateful he has been for the safety of the Vigilance and the 212^th, but he spots out of the corner of his eye Luke starting to follow a wind-up droid salesman down a covered alley and has to put a stop to that.

Finally, they reach the intersection between the tinkerer’s district and the dockyard proper, where Ben has felt the tug of a cairn in the Force his entire time planetside. With Cody acting as escort, there hasn’t been a chance to ask Luke if he’s felt the same, so they will have to debrief back onboard the Vigilance tonight. He scans the intersection for longer than he expected to need and then finally alights on the cairn, barely able to hold in his snort of amusement when he realises where it is.

Ben knows when Luke spots it because his padawan is unable to help running over to the pile of bolts and gears (thankfully, this was far from an unusual sight, so Cody doesn't even blink) that sit at the side of a workshop, untouched, and likely to stay there for many months to come. Garen always did know what he was about, even when they were padawans. It makes sense that he left a cairn of dirigible and light aircraft parts in one of the busiest spacedocks in the mid-rim. Ben glances over at it—remembering the times he’d sit next to Feemor, stonily silent on his shift, but clearly pleased for the company, and watch the daring passes above the temple in whatever light aircraft or dirigible Garen had sweet-talked his way into borrowing—and lets how much he misses his fellow Jedi sweep over him. 

Knowing his task is to distract Cody, Ben draws his attention to another bookstore, or more accurately a wheelbarrow of books being carted right past them, again trying to pinpoint which set of books invariably has the Commander reaching out to whoever was on the other end of the commline back on the Vigilance. By process of elimination, Ben could tell it was not tactical maps, or language books or anything to do with geology or chemistry. Which left either the erotica or the pulp detective stories. Either way Ben is dubious of the strategic value of whatever books appear to so thoroughly catch the Commander’s attention. 

They have been considering the bookseller’s stock long enough that Ben thinks Luke has had enough time to reach out to the cairn, so Ben angles Cody and himself back that way. Thankfully, Luke is an old hand at being the distraction and immediately grabs Cody’s attention to ask him about the various light aircraft floating above, beaming when the Commander indulgently answers, a serious look in his eye as he makes sure to answer Luke correctly.  

While he does so, Ben reaches out for the cairn in the force. Soaking in the once familiar presence of Garen, Ben thinks back to when he was Luke’s age and older, to his unending awe at the way Padawan Muln could pilot anything, to their squabbles, to their not-so-squabbles. The sheer brash confidence to leave a cairn somewhere so public, a path traipsed by GAR regiments at least once a week, was Garen all over and Ben cannot help but grin. He fumbles one of his bags, stooping to pick it up and allowing himself to brush his fingers against one of the cogs furthest from the main pile, wishing he had Quin’s ability of psychometry. What he wouldn’t give to know more about an object than what the Jedi who left it there imbued in it.

Standing amid the bustle of the spaceport, grief and joy sweeping through him and out into the galaxy, Ben turns to Luke and Cody, “Well I think this has been quite the successful trip, should we return? I’m pretty sure we were promised a dinner.”

Chapter Text

Fox is willing to admit that Jedi may, in fact, exist.

Possibly.

The Princess’s mug trick had been impressive.

More to the point, Fox had taken the mug back to his room and spent the evening making sure there was nothing strange or altered about the object. It was his mug, the one he used and carried around most of the day, he knew it almost as well as his bucket, as well as the face of a brother, and no matter how long he stared at it, how many times he felt his way along it, he could not find anything altered about it.

So Jedi. A distinct possibility.

Or at least one Jedi.

Fox could accept that into his understanding of the world. He supposed.

He was still unconvinced by the idea that there was a wider Order of Jedi, because the logistics of that made his head hurt. He’s not some damp-from-the-vats shiny whose heart could be broken by the news that the Jedi were real and hadn’t come for them, but he does distantly note it as a consequence of accepting the existence of Jedi.

One thing Fox is unwilling to budge on is his utter conviction that Ferus Olin is not nor has never been just a tutor.

Fox watches him stride through the halls of the Tantive each day, high black boots cracking a confident beat against the floor (Fox doesn’t think about the other times where Ferus seems to glide soundless and stealthy, entering a room without so much as a whisper), his eyes and path through the dirigible calm, confident and assessing.

What is even worse is how Ferus (never Olin, lest Fox wants to see a nose wrinkle that does more to destabilise him than the strange informality) seems to seek Fox out, checking in with, or up on him, at least once a day.

Today, Ferus finds Fox at his desk, done with his shift but unsure of what to do with himself. He is fast approaching the point of boredom-induced insanity where he is considering asking one of the Alderaani crewsmen for some extra duties. The Courrie Guard was a never ending ordeal, a fire-fight that bled over and across each shift. The Tantive, by comparison, was laughably, unsettingly calm. Fox had taken to skulking around Organa’s library, working his way through the books therein for something to do.

“Commander Fox,” Ferus greets, smiling that maddening half-twist smile of his. Fox glares, because he never learnt how to handle people he finds attractive, and because he doesn’t trust the man. Mostly the latter, he tells himself.

“Tutor Olin,” Fox greets aiming for cool, unsure if he is actually landing there, as he trips up on that adorably scrunched nose.

“How are things,” Ferus asks, “keeping busy?”

Fox glares, unsure where this is going, but not liking it nevertheless. “Busy enough,” he grumbles, displeased that his grumpiness continues to fail to put the man off.

“Well, if you have some time free, I was about to walk Leia through a bout of training in the gym, if you want to spectate.”

Normally Fox would have done anything to avoid having to handle what counted as a training session for an eleven-year old princess. Fox knew that he and his brothers were trained for literally nothing but war, but even then, seeing how unprepared civilians were made him vaguely uncomfortable, on an existential level, of course, but also just in terms of their terrible form. (Even though, admittedly, Leia Organa had kept up with his sets admirably well for her size.)

Unfortunately, Fox had too many questions about Ferus Olin and what he meant to the Organas that he would have to put up with the discomfort.

Not to mention, watching Leia in action would give him a chance to observe the claims of the princess being a Jedi, because if Fox knew anything about Jedi — which at this stage he was pretty certain he did in fact not — it was that they were meant to be fearsome and impressive warriors. Of course, given that they were the heroes of childhood stories and lurid romance novels, Fox supposes that part of the mythos could be entirely invented.

Plus the boredom, Fox really couldn’t overstate the boredom.

He gives it a moment, just to see how Ferus responds. Fox’s shinies would get antsy, his fellow commanders on the guard knew how to handle him well enough to not react, and his batchmates would just thump him or wander off. Ferus waits him out, placidly calm and patient. Fox waits a minute longer than he would usually opt for, just to see.

“Sure,” he says, eventually, silently giving credit where credit is due.

“Excellent, shall we walk?” Ferus says, smiling like a still lake, deep and beautiful and calm. Fox has the ruinous urge to see if he can disturb the careful lines and façade. It is, as far as instincts go, a questionable one.

Fox stands and follows.

The gym, when they arrive, is already occupied. With three people rather than the one Fox was expecting. The Princess was expected, doing some light warm up stretches in one corner, in more casual and movable clothes than usual — her longer dresses familiar around the Senate halls had been packed away and left untouched for most of the journey. Less expected were Thire, in his blacks, and the Senator, in his own version of far fancier blacks.

Even less expected was the fact that Organa and Thire seemed to be doing some kind of sparring match. Nothing like the ones that Thire and Fox had, the punches were more telegraphed, softer, slower. But still much better than Fox would have expected. For someone as large as he is, Organa moves fast. Of course, even Fox’s least tested shiny could take him down, but he is quietly impressed. The lines of the Senator’s suits and capes clearly hid a much more competent fighter than he realised.

Thire’s participation in this is of equal shock. Fox had noticed that Thire and the Senator would have tea together in the evenings — they were always welcoming to Fox when he joined and never seemed to be talking about anything of either import or concern, so Fox hadn’t worried himself — but there is a qualitative step up from tolerating each other’s company in the breakroom and seeking someone out for a spar. Fox would know, he actively ranks maybe ten men who he can sit and throw back caf with, and even fewer among those he’d trust to give him a good spar.

They haven’t spotted him yet, too focussed on their bout, although the Princess comes over and steps as close as she can to Fox without actually touching him. She has been respectful of his space since the whole “healing” incident, which Fox both appreciates and rues. He misses the way she would grab onto his belt and trail behind him.

Bail gets a lucky lock in, more of an accident than anything else, going off the surprised look on his face.

“—very good senator,” Thire is saying, “although you should remember to follow up on that advantage, or else—”

Thire does a flip that Fox remembers drilling with Captain Fordo when they were eight for a solid week and the Senator goes flying over his hip. There is a pause, one in which Fox, unable to shake a long decade’s association with inconvenienced Senators and danger, panics.

Until Organa, flat on his back, winded, laughs. Loudly.

Thire grins, wide and real, and offers the Senator a hand up, pulling him up as they start to quietly discuss their match.

It is clear Thire still hadn’t spotted Fox, because the moment he does, he freezes, “Vod! Fox, uh, Commander, hi.” He says, all uncertain and awkward. It hurts Fox to see, he thought they were doing so much better.

“Thire, Senator Organa,” Fox says, trying not to sound as stiff as he feels. He should have never let his curiosity get the better of him. “That looked like a good match.”

“You are far too kind, Commander Fox,” Senator Organa says, “Thire here was just reminding me of why I have to rely on the talents like yourself and the rest of my guards.” He says it with such good humour and charm that Fox can only nod.

Still, when the Senator turns to speak to his daughter, Fox signalls to Thire, did you teach him to fight?

Thire shakes his hand, no, like that when I got here. Fox can’t help but smile, that sign was a very common one from the days they were cadets, fresh out the tanks, leaving a wake of chaos behind them. The number of times he had returned to their bunks to find Cody or Bly signing that at a peeved looking Gree or Ponds was far higher than it should have been and continued up until they had all shipped out into the wider galaxy.

“Here to give notes on the Princess’s training session?” Thire asks on an undertone, getting Fox to help him with his cool down stretches, once Organa has moved to speak to Ferus.

And her tutor, Fox signs back, I don’t trust him. Thire snorts and looks over at Ferus, still standing there with his shiny boots and perfect floppy hair.

Thire signs back, Him? Fox nods, and Thire gets a smile on his face, the that usually precedes something awful like Thorn and Stone being summoned to wrestle Fox into going out to a bar with them or something equally mortifying.

Y’know, vod, he looks a lot like— and Fox grabs his hands to stop him from speaking; if Thire can’t sign it, Fox doesn’t have to hear it. Thire sticks his tongue out and looks over to where Ferus, Organa and the princess are standing and then laughs, turning Fox around when he crooks an eyebrow.

Fox, with a commendable degree of self-awareness, can recognise why Thire is so amused. Ferus has stripped down to a fitted undershirt and is slowly guiding the littler Organa through a series of stretches, while Organa the elder has sat himself down on a bench with a set of files. Ferus' form is… impeccable and the less that is said about how he looks the better, Fox thinks with a swallow.

“Okay, you ready, Princess?” Ferus asks, gently but still audible where Fox and Thire have leaned themselves up against the wall.

“Yes!” Leia says, her braids pinned in place and a spark in her eyes. Ferus smiles at her, and then goes to fetch two training sabres. Wooden but still solid enough to do some damage against an unarmoured princess. Fox is torn between worry and a wretched kind of envy. Even the wood was far kinder than what the trainers on Kamino had equipped the youngest cadets with.

Leia and Ferus each hold their sabres at their chests and bow to each other, before they begin working through a series of movements that Fox does not recognise. But then, vibroswords are outdated and clone troopers were taught to fight in two ways: as a battalion and dirty. Any forms they were taught were practical and drillable, not these carefully choreographed and graceful movements. It is beautiful to watch, the two of them moving in close synchronicity, even though Ferus has only been on the airship for a few days, and they haven’t had time to practice together, not to this level.

The spar when it begins is equally, if not more, beautiful. All flowing movements, long reaches and the resounding meeting of wooden sabres. It is fast too. Ferus and Leia are moving quick, fluidly, like they have practiced or know where the next blow will come, because they are already moving out of the way or up to meet it. Their faces are the most fascinating, from where they are standing they can see Ferus best: the calm smile on his face; his quiet, pleased comments with each parry, lunge and block.

Beyond the fluidity, which while impressive is likely to get them shot, there is some real skill behind the moves. Fox observes how Ferus’s control is impeccable, how Leia’s is pretty excellent, how Ferus corrects the slippages, the small imperfections in her form, how quickly Leia gets better.

Ferus says something and the tenor shifts, they circle each other, and now Thire and Fox can see both their faces. Leia is sporting a huge grin and she goes on the attack, swirling, twirling and slamming her sabre against Ferus. She isn’t mad, but she looks determined. Ferus is meeting every blow directly, his own training sabre moving up to meet hers at exactly the right time. Thire whistles out through his teeth, and Fox can’t help but agree.

This was not what he had been expecting, not in the slightest.

Leia goes in for an attack, what could be a killing blow had she either the strength or an edge to her weapon. Ferus catches it, redirects the momentum and sends the sabre flying wide, grinning. He says something and Leia launches herself at him in a hug. Ferus smiles softer and spins her in the hug, whispering as he does. He puts her down and fetches her sabre, instructing her to do something, likely more forms if the way she immediately starts flowing through a cycle of movements, is any indication.

“So, Commander Fox,” Ferus says, coming up to him and standing beside him and Fox spends a fair chunk of his brain power trying to not focus on the way the blond streak is falling just above Ferus’ eyes, “thoughts?” Fox glances to his side and finds that Thire has slipped away to go talk to Organa as he does his paperwork, the traitor.

“Pretty impressive,” Fox lands on, begrudgingly, “You did those— forms well.”

“We call them katas,” Ferus says, not in a way that feels like he is being a snob, but like he thinks that Fox would appreciate knowing the correct terminology. He’s correct, which Fox hates. “And thank you. I have been learning them since I was a boy.”

“How does a scholar come to spend so long learning sword-fighting,” Fox asks, more snippily than he likely should.

Still, Ferus gives him a smile, but one with an edge to it, “I had to do something while I was waiting for my books to arrive from the call desk.”

Luke is snoring softly against Cody’s neck and Ben is trying not to smile with how sweet the image is. They left the feast to give the rest of the men some privacy once Luke started listing into Rex, stubbornly insisting, half asleep, eyes barely open that he could stay longer and listen to them talk for five more minutes. Cody is walking ahead, having waved off Ben’s insistence that he could carry him instead, observing: “I was cloned to be able to lift two of my brothers in armour, I think I can handle Luke here.”

Ben felt pleasantly full and bubbly from the food that Slice had prepared and the joy that had been fizzing through the Vigilance since the supplies arrived. The second-hand relief is so acute Ben could cry when he thinks about it. The mess had been converted into long lines of tables, and everyone had piled in, taking shifts so that everyone had the chance to eat. Most men had turned up in half-armour, some without any at all. It is the most tangible good he has contributed to in more than a decade and he had forgotten how the Force could sing with joy at this scale.

“Am I alright to bring him in?” Cody asks, once they get to the door, and he’s good at that, being steadfastly considerate. Even if he hadn’t done so much for them, Ben could still see the men adoring him, just from the way he is always thinking.

“Of course, you are always welcome, Cody,” he says, slipping in front to get the door open, ignoring how close it presses them together. Fabric sliding against fabric. Ben gets them through the door, turning on the lamp and watching as light slowly warms the room, trying not to get caught on the way that the golden light catches the fond warmth of Cody’s eyes as he manoeuvres Luke towards his bed, dutifully, if messily made.

“He’s a good kid,” Cody says, once he has carefully laid Luke down, reaching down to ruffle his hair.

Luke stirs, and reaches out and grabs Cody’s arm, holding onto it murmuring, before Ben sends him a pulse of sleep-little-one through the Force and he lets go of Cody, turning on his side and snoring quietly once more. Cody smiles at that, a half thing, at the corner of his mouth and eyes. Ben tries not to ache.

“I quite like him,” Ben says, where he stands watching them, inadequately, unable to even begin to describe how much he adored, how much he brimmed with love for this sunshine child, all endless optimism, curiosity and joy.

Cody snorts softly, moving away and letting Ben move closer, he doesn’t make to leave, which Ben is glad of. “He had fun tonight.”

“What gave it away, him staying up past when he was falling asleep or that he didn’t stop smiling all evening?” Ben asks, watching as Cody smiles, wide, unable to help it.

He hums, “It was having to carry him out of dinner that clued me in.”

“He really likes it here,” Ben admits, softly, looking away and gently fussing over his sleeping padawan.

“So stay,” Cody says, and Ben stills where he was folding the blanket over Luke, heart tripping over itself. He waits to see if Cody is going to say anything more, he doesn’t. So Ben turns, sees him standing by the doorway, holding himself carefully, hopefully, Ben thinks, his face blank.

“Cody,” he says, and doesn’t know where to go from there. He’s spent too much time with Luke, being able to press his emotions through the Force, his tongue failing to communicate the writhing mass of what he is feeling — the instinctual want, the hope, the dread, the guilt. “We shouldn’t.”

Cody doesn’t frown, he doesn’t shake his head, he just looks at Ben closely, dissecting, “Why?”

Ben breathes out sharply, glancing over at Luke and guiding him into a deeper sleep before turning his attention to Cody and his steady regard. There are so many things he could say. He could say that a wardirigible is no place to raise a child, that they have somewhere to get to, but he doesn’t want to lie to Cody, not after everything.

“We can’t keep imposing on you,” Ben says instead. “Us being here. It’s not safe for you,”

“Ben, this is war, nothing is.” He goes to retort but Cody holds his hand up, “Please let me speak?”

Ben nods, swallowing, wishing he hadn’t forgone his robes for the dinner so he had somewhere to hide.

“You have already made us safer than we’ve been in years, you got us our supplies, you don’t order us into battles where the only way we can win is to throw ourselves into the fray gaining inch by bloody inch.”

Ben makes an aborted step forwards, the room isn’t large, but it would take him at least three more steps to actually touch Cody, who is still speaking, “So if you need to leave because it isn’t safe for you and Luke, if you don’t want to be here anymore, if you have somewhere better to get to. Then do, you’ve done so much for us already. But don’t leave because you are trying to protect us, we don’t need or want that.”

“Cody,”

“The men want you here,” Cody says, amused, “Really.”

“Even Captain Rex?”

Cody snorts, “he’d never admit it, but even he has grown used to Luke being here.” He pauses, looking so earnest and so warm and glowing in the Force which has been beating a pleased drum throughout Cody’s proposal. “Don’t leave yet. Hosnian Prime is a terrible place.”

Ben huffs, looking out the viewport where he can just barely see the planet below, thick with lights, smog and moving dirigibles heading to the swirling hyperlanes to bear them across the galaxy. Force, he can’t believe he is going to do this.

“Just for a bit longer,” Ben says, softly, unsure if he is convincing himself or Cody.

It doesn’t matter: the smile he’s rewarded with is so pleased, so genuine that Ben can't regret the decision; the feel of joy that kicks out in the Force, golden and drugging in its warmth is impossible to turn away from. 

“Okay,” Cody says, nodding, pleased, “You just let me know when that changes. Until then, General, Ben, it’s good to have you here.”

Ferus drops into a loose meditation pose in front of the portglass, taking in the familiar and unknowable swirls of the nebulae of hyperlane before he closes his eyes and sinks into the living Force. He takes an opportunity to check in with the dirigible, the mechanics, the people onboard: all seems in order. He would expect nothing less from the Tantive, from any one of the airships in Bail and Breha’s fleet, but after Sidious’s attempt to get Tarkin onboard, Ferus doesn’t want to risk anything.

Leia had done excellent work with Thire and Fox, he can feel the vague tendrils of darkness slowly dissipating from their minds, seeking a path back to their maker, but unable to. He is so proud of her and so relieved she had forged ahead without waiting for him. He sits with the danger that Fox, mind so steeped in the darkside that he had — by Bail’s report — lost himself for hours and days at a time, could have posed to them. Not just a spy, but a potential saboteur. Never before has Ferus been so nauseatingly grateful for those risked trips to Alderaan to make sure Leia had the training to stay undetected and start learning the Force.

She had done so well, with the little bits of teaching he’d been able to give her. She would be his first padawan. Ferus had spent weeks of time with new initiatives as he conveyed them to the temple and gladly done his rotations in the creche — he knew what young Jedi were capable of, but he had never taught a child of Leia’s connection to and strength within the Force.

He wondered, not for the first time, if the other child, if Luke, had survived. And what he would be like. If he would be strong, wilful like Leia. Ferus knew that Bail and Breha thought about him as the son they almost had, that Bail regretted having to leave the sickly infant and Obi-Wan behind. No Jedi had heard a whisper from Master Kenobi since — that had been one of the first things the Council had informed him when he returned: to be on the lookout for any hint of the fate of the only casualty of the evacuation from Coruscant. The man who had brought the warning, who had confronted his Fallen apprentice, who had spoken to key allies in the Senate before the propaganda could reach them. The Order lived and the Rebellion fought because of Master Kenobi, and yet he had never seen the fruit of his heroism.

They had gone around in circles, Bail and himself, about whether and when Leia should be told about her twin brother, who may or may not be still alive. Knowing that she would immediately search him out, they had decided to wait longer, the danger and grief that posed would be immense. Tiplar and Tiplee, had warned him what it meant to be Force sensitive and twins, the way that the Force connected the two of them even more than any other Jedi. 

He releases those feelings into the Force, and stretches deeper into the meditation, looking for the thrum of connection. It is easier than he expects, a Jedi must be close, since the warmth of main temple connection quickly envelopes him. Ferus lets himself sink into the feeling, the busy, productive joy and communication of hundreds of Jedi before he seeks out the Council. There must be a meeting because the gentle pop of shifting into that connection greets him almost immediately.

Greetings, Knight Olin, Ferus hears the familiar voice of Depa Billaba. Do you have anything more to report?

Greetings honourable Council, Ferus greets, ignoring the snort that was either Agen or Kit, unimpressed by his continued insistence on formality. I have two items to report: there are signs among the Coruscant Guard escorts of Sith influence, Leia has been healing their minds, but it us a reminder to those of us who may come into contact with any still enlisted clone troopers and clone commanders to be wary.

There is a murmur of worry across the Council, as convenient and comforting it is to be able to continue to contact the temple, Ferus has always found not knowing who was present unless they spoke, disorienting.

He was thus very grateful when Mace, adds, I will pass this on to our scouts.

Others news, have you, Knight Olin? Yoda asks.

Yes, Master Yoda, I have officially accepted Leia Organa as my padawan.

Excellent, several someones said at once. Ferus had known that the Council hoped that he and Leia would formalise their training relationship in this way, but their approval still meant so much to him, that they trusted him so explicitly with the future of the Order.

Siri will be delighted, Depa says, kindly, and Ferus beams, sending a tide of love down the connection.

My thanks, Masters, he says, I’ll be in touch in a few days or sooner if I have anything to report.

He eases out of the connection, after making his goodbyes, he was only a Knight, as pleased as they were with his progress, and so had no need to attend a full Council meeting. If they needed him, they would reach out. Otherwise, Ferus had his mission.

Leia would be asleep soon, Bail had a meeting scheduled with his captain, and Ferus can tell from the little cluster of joy radiating from the mess that Thire and the off-duty crewmembers were picking up their card league.

That left Fox, sat in the lounge, and well, it would be rude to leave him without any company for the evening.

“What are you thinking?” Cody asks, the third time he looks up and finds Ben considering him. Their office meetings have continued since Ben and Luke had agreed to stay onboard with them after Hosnian Prime. Cody was stupidly pleased with that fact.

“How old are you, Cody?” Ben asks after a moment.

Cody pauses, “Are we talking in standard or biologically?”

“There is a difference?”

Cody swallows, nervous because nat-borns never responded well when they heard about the technical details of how the clones were raised. Never in a way that felt supportive, but rather like they were putting further distance between themselves and the clones. “There is.” Cody says, because fundamentally he does trust Ben.

“Both, then,” Ben says, softly.

Cody breathes out, slowly, carefully, Ben doesn’t rush him, which he appreciates. “I have been alive for twenty-one standard years, I think, but biologically I am probably in my late twenties, maybe I’m even thirty by now. I’m not completely sure.”

“Okay,” Ben says, taking that information on with a furrowed brow, “Is that the same with all your brothers?”

“No,” Cody says, looking at him steadily, “or, we all have different ages, in terms of standard years and biological ages. But we are all different ages.”

Ben smiles faintly, “I had figured that much out, Wooley is a younger brother to the 212^th, isn’t he?”

“Wooley is probably only eighteen or so, biologically, likely nine in standard.”

Ben blinks, “How does that work?”

“They uh, on Kamino, they have formulas that speed up our aging before we’re ready for the training grounds and to ship out.”

Ben goes still and contorts his face, Cody waits uneasily for the proclamations of horror, he knows their upbringing sounds wrong to natborns, but it was still how he was raised, how all his brothers were. The horror always bruises.

The outburst never comes, instead Ben just looks at Cody, deeply, before offering a small, fragile smile, “You must have had terrible growing pains.”

Cody snorts, “Kriff did we, it felt like my shins were staging a mutiny against me for a solid year.”

“Thank you for telling me, Cody.”

“Ben,” Cody says, after a moment, “why did you want to know?”

“Two reasons I guess, I was wondering when the clone army was started, I know you aren’t the oldest, but you are one of older groups aren’t you,” Cody nods, “but mostly I wanted to know more about you.”

 Cody thinks of trying to respond to that, but Ben has moved back to his reading, leaving Cody to try and remember if they had ever been told.

He doesn’t have long to wonder, because Ben places his book down again, after maybe five minutes.

Cody smiles invitingly.

“It’s just,” Ben starts, frustrated, “this war must be bothering you too.”

Cody coughs on a laugh in his shock, brothers bitched, superiors ordered, apparently Ben asked how he was feeling about war as a general concept.

“Well, it’s not my favourite thing in the world?” he offers to an irate looking Ben.

“No, not the fighting, dear,” Ben says, crossly, “I meant the war itself, the very facts of it. Who and how you are fighting, why you and your brothers were created and when. I mean I know that Ch—”

He cuts himself off there, and goes still in his silence.

Cody leans in, intrigued, “Do go on about what you know.” His mind is spinning on what Ben could have been starting to say. There have been moments, when Ben has gestured to what his life had been before Luke, the time when he had done whatever he had done to get into Konstantine and his ilk’s crosshairs, but he has never gone further. Cody sometimes burns with the curiosity.  

But Ben shakes his head with a sigh, pursing his lips in no small amount of frustration. “It makes no sense.” 

“It doesn’t,” Cody agrees. He had mostly made his uneasy peace with the ways that the shape of the war itself defied logic and military strategy, this decade of attrition: of planets won, planets lost; of droids and brothers moved, deployed and killed with the chilling precision of a balanced account book; of negotiations started and negotiations stalled; of peace promised but never sued for. 

 “So what do you make of it?” Ben asks, “What is the point? For…us, for the separatists?” 

Cody pauses, and thinks about it, letting himself look at this war that is his life for the first time in years. At the beginning, the war had seemed, if not simple, then comprehensible. The core of Coruscant and the senate needed protection after the attacks had levelled much of the historic district. The dialogue had seemed, if not promising, then at least possible. He’s not sure when that stopped being the case but the war became increasingly intractable and entrenched with the path to victory going from a distant possibility to something Cody knew he’d die before seeing. 

He wonders how to answer, how to give voice to the hidden suspicion that this war will end only when Cody and his brothers can fight no longer, when there isn’t a single planet in the galaxy that hasn’t been touched by the fighting, when the winders have drained planets of their ore to keep building and rebuilding their armies of creaking metal. That realisation, that there wasn’t a greater unified strategy for them, that it made no difference if Cody had a general from Coruscant directing them, or if he was choosing deployments, responding to distress signals, had — before Ben — freed and doomed him.

Ben knocks their knees together, and gives Cody a grim, sympathetic smile.

“It’s a kriffing mess,” Cody says finally, pleased when it startles Ben into a loud laugh. “Between the admiralty, the Separatists, the Senate and the Chancellor… this isn’t a war we are fighting to win, it is a war we are fighting not to lose.”

“And at the same time…” Ben says, and doesn’t finish the thought but Cody knows the shape of it.

So he just agrees with a sigh, “and at the same time…”

It had been years since he had exchanged more than truncated reports, weeks out of date with any of the boys on Coruscant, and even then, the knowledge that their missives would be read by natborn hardliners meant circumspection and codes were all they had. Still, the allusions to what was happening in the Senate had been enough for Crys and Cody to get a clear idea of what was happening.

“Chin up, Commander,” Ben says kindly, perhaps sensing his spiral, “this is the reason for Generals, so you’ve got someone to punt questions like this up the line.”

Cody finds a smile, “Alright then, sir, why are we fighting this war, then?”

“Because, Commander, how could we not?”

Chapter Text

The first time Cody decided to get rid of a superior officer, it had been building for a while. He had helped...redeploy a number of navigators, nosy aides and meddling mid-level officers. But never a general.

Not until Tarkin, their first, held him back from a debriefing, and said, “Commander, the paint has to go.”

He’d always called Cody that. ‘Commander.’ Not out of any respect, but rather because he had not cared to remember Cody’s number, let alone name.

Cody, at this point less than a year off Kamino, having lost more brothers than he had known to prepare himself for, saw red. He had kept very, very still, and said, “Of course sir.” He hadn’t demanded, ‘why, why would you take this from us,’ but rather saluted and observed: “Only, I suspect it will be best to let the paint chip off naturally, the strippers damage the integrity of the armour and could impact troop readiness.”

Tarkin had sniffed, “Fine.”

He had been gone before Cody’s sunburst needed touching up.

That conversation comes to mind as Cody stands in the beating sun on a planet too barren for a name, noting, as he brushed sand off the cheap painted metal, that he’d have to touch up his colours in the next week at this rate. The realisation slices through him. Knowing, with startling certainty, that Ben wouldn’t try to stop him. That he had, in fact, watched over as some of Rex’s boys had done touch-ups in his very first week, and that he had done spot checks for consistency for Brisk, on the rare times he’d armoured up.

For a guilty second Cody even imagines asking Ben to help him paint, almost flushing at the presumed intimacy.

Cody stows those thoughts neatly away, turning his attention to the battlefield and his not-general, but also no-longer-just-a-pretender, strategising in front of him.

“We could always...” Ben is saying, tilting his head at the cliff in front of them.

Cody snorts, following the path Ben is indicating, “That is certainly an option, General,” he says, with a ghost of a smile. He couldn’t actually smile, his bucket was under one arm and his men needed to maintain enough healthy fear of him to continue to debate whether or not he actually could crack a smile on the battlefield. 

It really was an option, Cody had to give Ben that. A terrible option that would leave them overly exposed, but where they needed to be.

“Well, Commander, it may be our best option yet,” Ben says, mock-grimly, shaking his head with dramatic resignation even as he fights his own smile. He glances back up the cliff, considering, probably tracking a potential path up the face, just in case. 

“No, sir, I’m sure it’s not come to that,” Cody says, after a pause, when he considers the ravine they have found themselves cornered in by the persistent troop of winders that had followed them from their meeting with what constituted the local government in these parts. “Of course, we could always,” Cody says and then he jerks his head in the other direction, taking a moment to confirm that the troopers were falling into order while they spoke.

“Oh, yes, I can see why that plan would appeal to you,” Ben says, glancing over there with a smile. Cody is unsure when the last time he had this much fun. “You know… it could work.”

“That is why I suggested it,” Cody says, mild, even though it really couldn’t work, the rocks were too loose for a successful climb up to the top, and getting all the men up there would take far too long.

“It couldn’t be the whole way up, but we could—” Ben starts to say.

“Sirs, what the kark are you talking about?” Rex interrupts, exasperated, working his way over to them.

“Captain Rex,” Ben immediately greets, as Cody nods to his brother. Who returns the greeting shortly, impatience clear.

“Sir, would you like to explain?”

“No, please, Commander, you go right ahead.”

Cody nods, “We’re discussing possibilities for egress, the General thinks if we can make it up there,” Cody points to the first cliff, “we will be exposed to their bombers, but we can make a break for it. Whereas I favoured the other side, which has the cover but the cliff face is too loose once you get past—” Cody pauses in his explanation to Rex, who seems to be following along, but still had that twitch in his left eyebrow that means he is annoyed, and glances back over at Ben.

“Oh, you think we can make it up there,” Cody points, again, “and then use gravity to get the winders?”

Ben nods, grinning, “Precisely, we should be able to get up to the ridge and use that to our advantage.”

“That could actually work,” Cody allows, frowning slightly, Rex frowns too, more deeply.

“I was going to say that Fives reports that his scouts have found a system of cave tunnels up ahead so we should be able to hide out in them.” Rex says, looking between Cody and Ben.

“An ambush then,” Cody decides, forgetting the charade for a moment.

Thankfully Ben has his back, “Exactly, Commander, good thinking.”

Cody gives him the slightest nod in thanks for catching his slip, “So we have a few men up above, ready to knock loose some rocks, and then the rest can wait out the winders in the cave system, ready to ambush the thinned out forces.” Relying on the caves alone could be a disaster, leaving them trapped and with no way to radio for airsupport from the skiffs.

Ben nods, glancing over at Rex, “Does that sound doable, Captain?”

“Of course, General,” Rex bites back, barely civil, he looks at both of them again, and nods, “I’ll get my men ready. Who is going up top?”

“We need people who are light and a good shot,” Cody answers, “So Wooley, the General,” Ben blinks, but nods, “and Tup are our best bets.”

Rex moves in close, “What are you thinking, Cody, the general can’t shoot.”

“Captain, I’m passable,” Ben says, more amused than anything. That’s fine, Cody was plenty irked all by himself, as if he wouldn’t have checked beforehand, “more to the point, I weigh at least fifty pounds fewer than either of you — or any of the other men — on account of the armour alone.”

Rex makes a sound, a resigned snarling kind of sound, before giving them both a perfunctory salute and returning to the small gaggle of 501^st boys, pausing pass on the orders to the closest 212^th  officer as he goes. 

Frustrated, Cody watches him go. Ben moves closer and thumps the vambrace he’d started wearing on the insistence of Hap down in the armoury, against Cody’s pauldron. Cody isn’t sure if Ben had picked up the move from vod’e or if he is replicating something he has done before, with the friends that Cody believes deeply that Ben used to have and has since lost, but he appreciates the sentiment nonetheless.

“Thanks,” Cody says after a moment. The rest of the men aren’t paying them much mind, getting ready to head for the caves or to make the climb, but the support helps, likely more than Ben knows.

“I should probably head up first,” Ben says, and he’s right — if it won’t hold his weight it certainly won’t support the others.

"Aren’t you forgetting something, General?” Ben looks at him, quirks a brow, and so Cody sighs, crouching to unclip his third blaster, the one from his calf, handing it and his set of charges over.

“Ah yes,” Ben says, lips twisting into a smile as he takes them carefully from Cody, “I suppose I will be needing these. Your battle readiness is, as always, greatly appreciated, Commander Cody. ”

Wooley and Tup have arrived by now, and Ben says, “Excellent, troopers you are with me. The rest of you, I shall see once this is done.”

He then turns, clipping the gun and belt of charges in place, and started climbing up the cliff face, carefully testing the strength of his footholds, signalling for the others to join only once he was certain the rockface would hold. He is fast and confident, and Cody once again wonders at who this man had been and how he and his son ended up on their ship.

“The General knows he’s actually a civilian, right?” Waxer asks in an undertone when Cody stops staring after Ben’s route up, and instead starts leading the men towards the cave structure.

“It may do him some good to be reminded,” Cody says, spying Fives and pointing the men into the cave. He may have to mention it when, and if, they survived this battle.

Luke is pouting and Ben casts desperately around for a distraction. He thought he’d gotten away with it, recounting the battle in a way that made it interesting enough to entertain, but not so interesting that he had to explain once more that a battlefield was no place for an eleven year old. Yes, Luke, no matter how good a padawan he was, no matter how much meditation and ‘sabre practice he had done, no matter how nicely he asked: Ben would not be letting him fight in a war.

(Ben had never been so grateful for anything than the way Luke had imprinted on Brisk, not only a medic, kept safe away from the active fighting. But the Chief Medical Officer, who sent his orderlies and lieutenants out to carry and fetch the wounded so he could conduct the medical corps with the precise orchestration of the most impressive maestro. Who knew how and when to send Luke to the galley for food or to Tally to check on supplies. Brisk hid it well, but the way he went butter soft in the Force and his moustache twitched ever so slightly up when Luke barrelled his way in to the Med Bay, spoke to this being a mutual fondness.)

Unfortunately, a couple of the 501^st boys had been walking past them on the way back to their quarters for some study and Luke caught a snippet of conversation that had scuppered Ben’s careful balance, “—bsolutely insane what the general managed to do with those rocks, he almost took out a whole battalion just by himself!”

That hadn’t even been true! Wooley and Tup were there pushing and huffing alongside him, but Cody had insisted it was good for moral to not correct the men when their stories grew outlandish. Ben wishes he could have, because having overheard that, Luke turned baleful and betrayed eyes to him.  He didn’t say anything, which was possibly worse, just looked up at Ben, hurt and upset, big eyes wet and lip wobbling.

“Luke,” Ben says, feeling irrationally guilty. “You know it’s not safe.” Please, he impeaches across their bond, you wouldn’t be able to use your lightsaber.

You can’t either, and you were fine. Luke returned, not accusingly but with more petulance than Ben often got from his young padawan. It made him ache, inchoate for the Temple, for Luke to have been taking lessons with the other younglings. For this time to have been the start of his training as a padawan, rather than a slow continuance of long years just the two of them. The time had been a gift, but Luke deserved to know more than what he could offer. He deserved a family, a community.

Ben even wished, for a moment, as he had done in those early months, that Bail had been able to take both the twins. At least they could have had each other. Ben could have joined, then or later, to train them. But Luke had been too frail, they couldn’t trust that he’d survive the journey to Alderaan, so Bail had taken Leia away, a stubborn, wilful thing even hours old, and Ben had stayed put in that small medbay with Luke and Padmé, keeping a restless vigil.

Luke had got better, Padmé hadn’t.

By the time Luke had been healthy enough for travel, Ben had missed his rendezvous with Mace by months and realised painfully quick the dangers that Anakin’s survival now posed. Even severed as it was, a Master and Padawan bond was no simple matter and Ben couldn’t risk endangering either Luke or the Order by reaching out through the Force to try and find the rest of the Jedi.

With Bail and Leia likely back in Alderaan, or worse, Coruscant, and the Jedi beyond his reach, Ben knew it would have to be just him and Luke. No matter how much he wished otherwise.

Hoping he could have provided a different life for the boy would not solve his disappointment and betrayal in the present, unfortunately.

Thankfully, Ben’s wild casting around had pinged someone’s radar because Commander Cody came striding to the rescue like a hero out of those ludicrous romances Ben has spotted the men reading around the dirigible.

“General, Luke,” Cody greets. He had changed out of his armour, clearly slated for downtime. Ben feels awful that someone went to fetch him and tries to apologise by a pantomimed look of contrition, but Cody just rolls his eyes fondly.

When he’s within reach Cody drops down to a crouch in front of Luke.

“Hey kiddo,” most of the men are excellent with Luke, but Cody stands out in how much time and patience he has for him, “one of the boys told me that you were disappointed to have missed out on the battle earlier.”

Luke sniffs, “It isn’t fair, everyone else got to go. I wanted to come, I'd be safe!”

Cody gives him an understanding smile, “Well, I can understand that. I’m not going to argue with Ben—” he drops his voice to a stage-whisper, “—he’s my general, which means I have to listen to him,” Ben has to actively work not to laugh, and although Cody is fully focussed on Luke, there is a slight quirk to his smile like he knows, “but how about you and I go for a bit of a fly to make up for what you missed?”

The look that Luke gives Cody, is one of such banked optimism that Ben nearly drops to the floor to squeeze them both in a hug. “Can we?” Luke asks with a desperate whisper, looking between the two of them.

Ben doesn’t draw it out like he sometimes chooses to, teasing Luke into a better mood by his feigned indecision, he just smiles fondly and says, “Of course, you can." He pauses to let Luke squeal his delight. "The real question is, am I invited as well?”

Cody slants a look at Luke, eyes crinkling in delighted humour, “I don’t know, kid, what do you think? Should we let him crash our trip?”

Luke actually thinks about it, which Ben is going to take as a win for helping Luke cultivate an independent spirit and an ability to trust people who aren’t him; rather than the snub of his company that it could feel like. He looks at Ben, and down the Force sends a ‘is it really okay?’

‘Yes, kid.’ Ben sends back, smiling encouragingly.

The wide-eyed look of wonder he gets, and the carefully calm way that Luke turns back to Cody, tucking his much smaller hand into the Commander’s and shyly says, “Just us,” tells Ben that this was the right call, even if part of him frets about Luke being anywhere without him.

He trusted Cody to keep him safe.

Fox is going without sleep tonight. Much to the displeasure of the rest of the Tantive. Organa’s crew, at least, are circumspect about it, limiting themselves to frowns and passing comments that Fox could do without but can abide. The Senator, his daughter, her tutor and Thire on the other hand are making their displeasure much more annoyingly clear.

Fox isn’t sure what possessed him to inform them about his plans to stay up for the overnight transfer across hyperspace lanes. He had been sat with them at the mess. With he and Thire finally talking again, Thire’s budding… friendship with the Senator meant that Fox could either eat with the rest of them or eat alone and be treated to varying looks of concern. It was like being back in the training dorms when Bly would get all pinched and huffy, and start threatening to get Fordo to check in on him if he dodged them for too long.

They had mostly found a new, strange kind of peace, with no further conversation about Jedi, so the conversation had followed a predictable pattern. Thire and Organa had been discussing the tea they were going to be trying tonight, the Princess was enthusing to Ferus about the meditation they would be doing in lieu of a storybook and then Ferus had turned to Fox. He had a habit of doing that, an instinct for when someone hadn’t spoken in a while.

That analytical part of Fox’s brain wonders whether Ferus had been particularly lonely as a child, it’s a cruel, but not, he thinks, inaccurate observation.

“What about yourself, Commander,” Ferus had asked, one of those small smiles that Fox constantly finds himself caught by, “nice cup of tea before bed?”

Fox remains unsure about what possessed him in that moment, but rather than name which book he was working his way through, he had shaken his head, and said “I’m staying up to watch the hyperlane transfer.”

There had been something bothering at Fox, as their journey went on, it had matched the itinerary, the new, post-Ferus itinerary, but still something felt... off.

Plus, in that secret, personal place inside himself, Fox remembers staying up on their journey to Coruscant, away from the life he had always known, and feeling that weightless shift as their dirigible had moved from the swirling light and nebulous gasses of the hyperspace lane to the still starry blackness of normal space. Those three minutes of competent manoeuvring before they slowly eased into the next lane, and floated on through had been something that Fox had held on to as a totem of a kind during the worst of the days in the Guard. It felt too personal to admit that, and Fox was too used to the pressure and tightrope politics of Coruscant to ever disclose a suspicion, so he left it there.

“Commander,” Organa says, horrified, “First Mate Yur’ail thinks the transfer could be anywhere from three to eight hours away, you surely can’t mean to stay awake until then?” I can assure you that Helmsman Iroka has everything well in hand.”

“I won’t let it interfere with my shift tomorrow,” Fox says stiffly, wishing he hadn’t said anything.

“Vod, that’s not what he meant,” Thire says, careful, kind, and Organa nods.

Fox boggles at Thire: when did he become someone who translated for a Senator? Fox clearly needed to get his brother in a training ring again and figure out what the kriff is going on, or, failing that, knock some common sense back into him

“Yeah, Fox,” Leia says, earnestly reaching out to grab his hand, Fox lets her, because she is young and sweet, and because he’s not that much of a bastard. “You need sleep, that’s how you grow tall and healthy.” Fox can’t help but quirk a smile at that. Jango Fett was many things, tall was not one of them.

Things must really be improving between them because Thire signs, oh, that’s where you went wrong, and Fox actually has to work not to laugh.

Still, Fox sets a mulish look on his face and holds his ground, the adults seem to accept that he is determined, although they are clearly unhappy.

Ferus frowns, having not said anything, “I’ll join you.” Strangely that seems to appease Organa and Thire, even if Fox is displeased and Leia pouts. Ferus pokes at her, “I’m still going to meditate with you, Leia, and you’ll be asleep by then.” Leia’s lip quivers, and with great feigned forbearance Ferus lets her climb into his lap to finish eating her dinner.

Luke is a gratifyingly excitable passenger. Exceedingly polite to the hangar crew as Cody goes through the pre-flights check with Fielder, asking the men for permission to help with each new task.

Once they were finally ready, he sat still to let Cody check that he was safely buckled in before leaning over to insist on returning the favour.  

“Ready?” Cody asks, taxiing the light skiff to the third berthing that Fielder had left open for them.

“Yessir!” Luke chirps, almost vibrating in his excitement.

With Luke’s safety and Cody’s pride on the line, Cody carefully points them out of the dirigible, and catches the breeze banking towards the gentle canyon to the East, away from the scarred craters of the battle, and towards the sloping river.

They fly for half an hour, Luke’s unadulterated joy infectious and making Cody enjoy the landscape and the pleasure of flying in a way that he hasn’t for years.

He’s thinking about turning them back when Luke suddenly grabs his arm, “Cody!”

“Yeah, kid, what is it?”

He points, “Down there, I think there is something important.”

Cody follows Luke’s finger and spots a flash of separatist dirty gold between the trees.

“Kid, those are some eagle eyes,” he whistles. He has a guilty moment of thinking about Luke suitability for sniper training before firmly reminding himself that Natborns did not consider eleven an acceptable age for battle training. 

He tries to hail the Vigilance but the short range comm system fritzes twice and then doesn’t offer him anything other than silence. He can’t go down there with Luke in the plane, it is far too dangerous, but—

“We should go down there,” Luke says.

“I know you wanted some excitement, Luke, but we can’t.”

“We have to,” Luke says, and there is something piercing and urgent in his small face. “Please, it will be safe, but it is really important that we go.”

“Kid, I cannot,” Cody says, “Ben would—”

Luke has this desperately frustrated look on his face, tears in his eyes, “Please, Commander Cody. We have to.” Cody takes a moment to try and formulate his response when Luke points again, urgently, “Look, there is nobody there but they are coming. It is empty, for now. If we wait we'll lose our chance.”

Knowing that this was a bad idea, Cody angles them down. There was something specific in Luke’s intensity, the same kind that Ben got sometimes, it hadn’t led Cody wrong yet. There are some people whose instincts Cody has learned to trust.

“You’ll stay in the ship,” Cody orders.

With a more serious air than Cody has seen from him since their first meeting in the desert, Luke agrees.

Not wanting to risk anyone stumbling across Luke while Cody is making his quick investigation, he tethers the skiff to a sturdy looking tree. He is preparing himself to abseil down when Luke passes him one of the short range radios.

“So we can speak,” Luke says, again with that intensity and Cody nods, tousling his hair before taking his helmet from where he had stored it when they first boarded and putting it on.

“Alright, watch my back up here, and if anything goes wrong, use the emergency beacon.” Gods, Ben was going to kill him for this, but there was something so intense about Luke’s insistence, that Cody wasn’t convinced he wouldn’t find a way to crash the skiff down to get them at that Sep’ ship if he had continued refusing.

He gets into position, makes deliberate eye contact with Luke, “Remember you must stay here.” He waits until he has verbal confirmation before he drops out of the open doorway, wind whipping past as he sets a punishing descent that jars his knees when he makes contact. On the ground he makes his quick but careful approach, eyes watching for any flashes of metal among the trees.

Cody reaches the ship with little issue, it’s one of the smaller dirigibles, a fleet agile balloon, meant for fast and far journeys, rather than transporting winders. With one last glance to make sure the skiff was maintaining its altitude and that Luke hadn’t tried to follow him, Cody makes one more plea for sanity, fails to talk himself out of the plan and wrenches open the door, plunging inside.

The ship, is to Cody’s palpable relief both small and unoccupied, it takes him fewer than fifteen minutes to sweep the place and find anything of interest, heart pounding queasily each moment. He moves quickly, systematically, sweeping any reports, maps and stray sheets of paper into his satchel as he goes. There’d be time to go through everything back on the Vigilance, for now Cody needed to get back to Luke as fast as possible.

Still, he couldn’t help but find his eyes catching on some of the names and ciphers that appeared on the pages as he slipped them into his bag. They pinged as familiar, not just from reports on the enemy, but from correspondence with Coruscant. With a sinking feeling of dread, Cody began to feel like these documents would cause him a lot of trouble. He didn’t let himself dwell, but rather, quickly set up a charge so that the ship would blow whenever someone tried to gain entry and marched back to Luke, hauling himself and his pilfered papers up the line.

When he reboards, Luke has strapped himself back in, meaning it takes Cody all of thirty seconds to get them hurtling back to the Vigilance. Once the shortrange comms are back working he orders Whisker to get the ship ready for hauling off, wanting to be off this planet as soon as possible.

Luke lets him do all of this before turning and saying quietly, “Thank you for trusting me.”

Torn, Cody eventually says, “Of course, kid. I don’t know what I managed to get from that ship, could be nothing, could be real important. You should never put yourself in danger, but sometimes all we can rely on is our instincts.”

Fox is entirely unsure why Ferus bothered joining him if he was going to come in, greet him and the night-shift bridge team, survey the room, find the best spot and promptly fall asleep.

Fox finds himself glancing at him, the way he looks so peaceful in sleep, the way the steady lines of his waking demeanour shift and soften. He finds he has to force himself to look away, too compelled by the sight.

It is a boring wait.

Yet, still better than many late nights Fox has endured because there are no snotty senators or creepy councillors, for all the night shift clearly didn’t want him there, they were polite, even more so when he made trips to the rec room to get them all caf. It is hour five when the helmsmen announces that they would be leaving the lane within the hour. Fox moves himself closer, trying to remember what he knows about the route from Bellassa to Alderaan, and what the transference window should be. Fox hasn’t spent enough time up on the bridge to tell whether he is actually noticing a subtle shift, or if he is letting his expectations colour his view.

As has been his habit, every twenty minutes, Fox glances over at Ferus, still sleeping, as he has been the whole time. He has mostly turned away when Ferus’s eyes snap open, Fox looks back at him, concerned starting to ask, if he’s okay, but Ferus ignores him, up on his feet and urgently telling the navigator, “Helmsman Iroka, there is a ship waiting for us.”

The navigator swears, turning to his co-pilot and issuing brace instructions. Fox feels the ship judder as the heavy blast shields move to enclose the balloon, sapping their momentum through the ‘lane but giving them protection in case Ferus is right.

“Commander,” Ferus says, and there is something different about him, some of that careful gentleness has sloughed off, revealing more steel than Fox expected, “there are two guards on duty down the hall, get them to wake Bail and Thire.”

Fox decides the order makes sense, and so doesn’t argue, although he spares Ferus a scowl on his way out. A wasted effort because Ferus is already looking away, too focussed on instructing the helmsman on what they should do when they leave the hyperspace lane.

“Oi, you two, we need Senator Organa and Commander Thire in the bridge now,” Fox instructs, when he finds the guards. He pauses, “and then wake everyone else up and tell them to brace.” He isn’t convinced that Ferus is correct about the danger waiting for them, but if he is, then Fox is saving the rest of the crew from bruises. He makes sure they are moving to the Senator and Thire’s quarters before returning to the deck. The light really is changing, as he enters, stretching out from the streaks to more distinct nebulae as the dirigible slows towards the exit.

Ferus is standing a pace away from the helmsman who has strapped himself in, Fox heads over to him, “Why are you so convinced about this?”

“Call it a feeling, Commander,” Ferus says, shrugging.

Fox gives him what he hopes is his best scowl, before realising that he still has his bucket on, which meant both this and the last one had been entirely wasted. In a fit of pique he sticks his tongue out at the man, taking advantage of the fact that it won’t be visible. Ferus’ lips quirk up though, as if he knows what Fox is doing. 

“Five minutes, sirs,” the helmsman says, and Fox tries to calculate how long it will take Organa and the Senator to reach them.

“You best brace yourself when we exit,” Ferus says, wrapping his hands around the brass railing and widening his stance and Fox scoffs, because obviously. Ferus remains amused, like he is charmed by Fox’s reactions which is thoroughly not the point.

Thire and Organa burst in a minute apart, Thire armoured and ready, guns strapped to his thighs, and walking over to them, standing next to Fox, their armour clacking together comfortingly. The Senator follows, looking slightly dishevelled but ready, just as helmsman Iroka says, “two minutes.”

Organa takes one look at the three of them, and joins them at the railing, standing next to Ferus, who shifts closer to Fox to give him space. “What is the issue?” Organa asks, frowning.

“Senator,” Ferus greets, “I’ve got a bad feeling about our transfer window, I think someone is waiting there for us on the other side.” Organa is either credulous or knows something that Fox doesn’t (or at least only suspects) because he nods grimly, bracing himself and shouting over to the comms officer to give the emergency signal to the rest of the crew.

“One minute,” Iroka says, and Fox breathes in, and out slowly, looking over to each of his sides and then out the portview where the lane entrance sits, growing ever closer.

It is impossible to see outside the hyperlane, and Fox understands in his bones why transfers were the most dangerous moments of the journey. Why the vod’e drill endlessly and have prayers for entering and leaving a lane, why so many blimps had been lost. Fox stares out at the 'lane, unable to see the dangers that lay outside it, and after a moment's hesitation moves ever so slightly closer to Ferus. 

Chapter Text

Helmsman Iroka doesn’t count them down, instead, they all watch in uneasy silence as the dirigible leaves the hyperspace lane — the swirling nebulae stretching taffy-like around them until they clear the lane fully. The suspended, weightlessness hardly registers in their queasy dread.

The inky black of space greets them.

So too does an armoured war blimp, canons tracked in their direction.

There is a moment, where time hangs leaden, before Iroka swears and the firing starts.

The Tantive jerks, taking hits, but not ripping apart, her lowered shields absorbing the shots. Fox swallows as he stares at the attacking airship, the colours are familiar from training drills. It is a Sep’ airship, a Lucrehulk.

What was it doing out here in a barely used part of Republican space, just waiting for an unarmed ambassadorial passenger ship? Nothing good. Fox glances over at Ferus who is frowning at the ship firing at them, not confused, as much as assessing. Fox desperately wants to know how he knew the ship would be there, he has an inkling of course, but now was hardly the time.

Instead Fox needs to find a way to get them to their next hyperspace lane, away from this trap. He can see it, it’s only a minute’s drift away, but the Tantive shields might not last that long. He’s the soldier, he needed to step up and get them through this.

What stepping up actually entailed on a passenger dirigible, Fox wasn’t entirely sure, but he would figure it out. 

“Commanders,” Organa says, coming to stand in front of them. He is calm, as he speaks to Fox and Thire, as if his passenger ship wasn’t taking heavy fire, “if you head to the south wing of the lower deck, I think you will find that the Tantive is equipped with some guns that may allow us to return fire. I believe that they will be best use in your hands.”

Fox boggles at him, because the Tantive doesn’t — shouldn’t — have weapons, but the ship jerks violently, taking another hit,  and if Organa is right then they may actually survive this ordeal so he thumps Thire and they move as one.

They are silent as they move through the ship, nodding at the other crewmembers they see in the corridors, busily but calmly going about their business. Nobody they encountered seemed to be unprepared or particularly surprised. If they survived this, Fox was going to subject the crew of this ship to an interrogation the likes of which the Guard would talk about for years to come.

The door is locked when they reach it, and Thire kicks it open with one solid strike, Fox gives him a look, and Thire shrugs, signing, Permission, forgiveness, etc.

Inside, there are guns, good ones at that. The kind of guns that no Senator of a peaceful world should have access too. Surviving this battle is more important than figuring out the whys and hows of their armament, so they both strap into the chairs, watching as the guns fold out from the main hub, but Fox banks his questions for later.

Fox counts them in, and they start firing. The Sep’ ship jerks when their first shots hit, clearly — like Fox — not expecting the Tantive to be able to fire back.

As members of the Guard, aeronautical combat had not been a skill that either Fox nor Thire had much opportunity to practice. Thankfully their training on Kamino seemed to have burrowed itself deep, because their aim is true and their shots are landing, tearing through the shields of the Lucrehulk.

Together, they push it backwards, gunfire pounding the enemy and Iroka advancing the Tantive towards the next hyperspace lane.

“We need to knock out their engines or they’ll just follow us through,” Thire yells, after seem to take out one of the canons, Fox grunts in agreement. He surveys the situation, but can’t see a way of getting the message to the bridge unless one of them stops firing, and they needed their two guns.

Thankfully the helmsman must be a karking mind reader (or Fox’s suppositions about Ferus Olin are entirely correct) because the Tantive isn’t just pushing forwards, but angling itself at the Sep’ ship in a way that allows Fox and Thire to target where the engine should be.

There is a satisfying explosion, which suggests the Seps’ haven’t updated their ship design since Fox and Thire’s days in the training grounds. Thire lets out a triumphant yell that Fox feels in his bones.

The enemy ship isn’t destroyed, just hobbledL without an engine and down at least one gunning station. Were this a GAR warblimp they would be heading over there to take prisoners and intel; instead, the helmsman aims them at the second hyperspace lane. The damage such that they should be safe, but part of Fox wants to protest about the loss of military intelligence. Lucrehulks are high quality warblimps, not the kind the Seps’ left only to winders, or so Fox’s decade-out-of-date training had, there could be superior officers there.

Even if the Senator were so inclined, it would be a bad idea, Fox and Thire could probably manage an assault using whatever personnel they could appropriate from Organa’s staff, but it would leave their mission objective — keeping Organa safe — unacceptably compromised.

Still the lost opportunity smarts, although Fox is somewhat appeased to see a beacon of some kind eject from the Tantive right before they are eased into the safety of a hyperspace lane once more. This time, the armoured shields lowered so they make swift progress through the swirling colours of the transit lane. Fox didn't recognise the beacon, not being the more bulbous and black one that is standard issue among the GAR, but that isn’t too surprising, the Tantive is meant to be a civilian dirigible, unequipped for warfare. Which speaking of…

“Good work, vod,” Fox tells Thire as they ascend back up to the ship proper, “I don’t suppose you know why Organa’s blimp is packing this kind of fire power?”

Thire shrugs and shakes his head, before removing his bucket for a moment to show Fox his confused frown, Fox follows suit and takes the moment to tap their foreheads together, pleased that they could have this, even after everything.

“Your guess is as good as mine. I suppose all there is to it is to ask.” Thire says with annoying equanimity. Fox huffs: asking politicians was never worth the headache, they were beings incapable of giving truthful or straightforward answers. Still, Thire isn’t exactly wrong. So they make their way back to the bridge to find everyone looking shaken up but alright.

“Excellent work, Commanders,” Organa says with a smile, hair perfectly in place even as most of his crew look frazzled, letting the stress of the situation show now that it had passed. Ferus is looking equally put together and is standing far closer to the navigator’s chair than he had been when Thire and Fox left. He nods to them both but doesn’t stop his quiet conversation with Iroka.

Fox snorts, “We were lucky that the Tantive is so well supplied,” he responds icily, watching Organa for a reaction. The bastard just smiles at him.

“It is incredibly lucky, isn’t it? I had told Breha–” the Queen of Alderaan, Fox reminds himself viciously, “that it was unnecessary, but one of her many cousins works in ship-building and he was so pleased that he’d had the weapons in stock when we commissioned the ship as part of our fleet, I didn’t have the heart to tell him no.”

Fox suspects he is being lied to, but none of Organa’s specific words are pinging to him and his fine-tuned bantha-shit-metre as outright falsehoods, he’s suddenly exhausted. Even as Bail continues — the relieved chatter of an adrenaline come down, or a consummate liar — “I never thought we’d need to use them, I’ve had them locked up the whole time we’ve been using the Tantive and her sister ships. Still I’m glad everything turned out alright, thanks to your and Ferus’ quick action.”

“How did you know there was going to be a ship there,” Fox asks, wheeling on Ferus who continues to look unintimidated, which is karking nonsense because Fox is a scary bastard, or he was, once.

Ferus shrugs, “I get feelings sometimes, I’ve learned to follow them.” Fox continues to glare but Ferus is unmoved.

“And aren’t we lucky you do!” Bail exclaims, moving over to speak to Ferus and Iroka, putting his body between them as he does so.

Fox sighs and shares a commiserating look with Thire, or at least tries to, because Thire is looking more intrigued than aggravated. What? Fox asks him, movement sharper than it probably should be.

Just like Glitch, Thire signs back and Fox feels the familiar jolt of panic-wrong-protect before working to remind himself that they’d got Glitch out, that he was safe from the long-necks. Once the feeling passed Fox could admit it made a good deal of sense, Glitch had, as little as Fox wanted to admit it always had a feel for things, they couldn’t understand it but they eventually came to trust it, to rely on it, until Glitch became a little too noticeable and they had to sneak him away.

“We have another problem,” Organa says, coming back over to them, visibly displeased. He hands Fox a notation of a missive — likely something they got from the ‘Sep ship as they escaped given the hasty tone and the solid three lines of cursing them out. Fox reads it once, and then again. The missive names Organa himself, makes mention of his clone escort before trailing off, clearly running out of time to finish the threat.

“So it was targeted, they knew you were coming this way,” Fox says, stress levels spiralling up again.

“The issue is, Commander, nobody should even know what ship I’m in.” Organa says, and Fox grasps his implication lightning fast.

“My men would never—”

“Peace, Commander Fox,” Bail says with a sigh, “I wasn’t accusing your men — or any of the Guard, for that matter — of being traitors.”

“Then who?” Fox bit back, frowning down at the missive, at the oozing smugness even in the toneless lines of aurebesh taken down in the comms officer’s steady hand. Thire who has been looking at their exchange makes a sound beneath his helmet, a sharp inhalation.

Even as Organa shrugs and says, “Would that I knew.”

Fox glares at him, fully unconvinced, but he wasn't about to suggest one of the Chancellor's men.

“Come, let’s clear the bridge, we can debrief later,” Organa says, smiling widely, as one of the members of the crew brings a defiant and cross looking Leia in, “I need to check in with my daughter.”

She spots them and barrels up to each of them in turn and gives them a hug before crossly announcing, “You can’t leave me out like that! I was worried.” Organa looks delighted, as does Thire, but Ferus is the one who drops to his knees, placing a hand on both of her shoulders.

“I can’t promise that little one,” he says seriously, “but I can promise I will try not to worry you about any of our safety.”

Leia considers that for a full minute before she nods, accepting it as a fair compromise. She sticks out her hand, making him swear to it. Whatever the issues have been in this journey, Fox can fully admit —to himself at least— that he likes this kid’s style.

Organa the elder and younger tromp out of the bridge, and Fox gets the sense that the bridge crew need them to leave and decompress on their own. After Iroka’s flying, Fox is inclined to bow his wishes. He glances over at Ferus who inclines his head, and Thire who signs a defeated, I need booze. Fox sympathises, but doesn’t think there is any onboard.

“I don’t know about you, gentlemen,” Ferus says, when they are in the hallway. He's pretty certain he's listing into one of the bunkheads, the encounter with the Separatists had left him exhausted, Fox and Thire had done good work on the engine but Ferus had been setting up a backup plan to get them out of there. Knowing that both Fox and Thire were brimming with questions Ferus should likely beat a tactical retreat, but he didn't want to be alone after such a close call. Bail and Leia needed each other, and more than that, Bail needed a bit longer to get their story straight, so Ferus’ options were limited, “but I won’t be getting any sleep anytime soon, why don’t you let me treat you to one of my bottles of Korellian ale?”

“I’ve a shift in the morning,” Fox says, unimpressed.

Ferus smirks at him, “I’ve been to bars that serve clones,” the truth, if not why Ferus is so certain, “I know for a fact that you could down the whole thing and not feel it tomorrow. If you don’t want to join me, that’s one thing,” Ferus shrugs, “but don’t pretend you are worried about being battle-fit. I’m pretty sure you were born battle-fit.”

“No way,” Thire snorts, and Fox gets this pained look on his face, one Ferus is pretty certain he got every time Aayla came over to help him with a boy while he was — while they all were — still at the temple, “Fox decanted all clumsy.”

“Vod–!” Fox squawks in protest, forgetting the need for his composure in his rush to shut up his brother.

Ferus laughs, “I have a hard time believing that,” letting himself another glance at the clean lines of the Commander, the red of his armour, the competence of his stance.  Fox preens and clearly decides to limit himself to getting Thire in a headlock rather than fully wrestling him to the ground.

“The offer stands,” Ferus says, “but no pressure.”

Thire, where he is caught, taps out a yes against Fox’s armour. Ferus does not smile, because he isn’t meant to know about the clone’s sign-language, but he is pleased.

“Fine, we’ll come” Fox says, “thank you, for the invitation.”

The alcohol is good, Ferus knows, even if he didn’t pick it out himself. He’s sure Thire and Fox appreciate it, if the way they keep eyeing him and the nice bottle is any indication. Even better, Ferus reckons, is the chance and invitation to nose through his stuff. Thire at least is discrete about it, working in careful sweeps in line with the conversation. Commander Fox would have never survived as long as he did as the head of the Courrie Guard if he was actually this indiscreet, so he either doesn’t care if Ferus knows or wants him to.

“Lot of books,” Fox observes dryly.

“I am a tutor,” Ferus responds, taking a sip and enjoying the smooth slide of the ale.

Fox drags his fingers across a line of books, ones whose titles are painfully familiar, Ferus doesn’t blush, because he’s had to stand up in council meetings and talk about those particular texts, “Doesn’t seem like the kind of stuff a tutor would be teaching their royal charge.”

“Those are all mine. A man needs hobbies,” Ferus says with a smile, enjoying himself more than is wise.

Despite his worries, neither Thire nor Fox seem to want to grill him about what happened with the attack because they aren’t pushing Ferus, and aren't questioning him. Ferus can feel their curiosity in the Force, but equally how they tamp it down. He supposes there isn’t much benefit in demanding answers in Coruscant.

Still, he and Bail need to figure out a story quickly, the men were sharp, and they would quickly figure out that they were not heading to Alderaan.

The day after the attack comes and goes with everyone on the Tantive nursing either a hangover or residual stress, and Fox realises with a sickening jolt that he has been lied to.

He is in hour five of a six hour shift, rethinking the events of the day before. He keeps returning to the brief time they had spent in the transference zone, getting shot at, yes, but how there was something… wrong about the space. Fox is no expert at interstellar navigation, they had all been trained, but there was a reason Fox had been given Coruscant as his brief over Wolffe and Cody. Still, even his unfamiliarity with the complexities of hyperspace lanes eventually gives him the answer: they weren’t where they were meant to be.

He finishes his shift and makes his way into the training salle, where Thire, Ferus and Organa will inevitably come by, if they follow their habit of almost every day since Ferus had arrived. He sits there, leaning against the rack of weights, sipping his caf, and waiting. Ferus and Organa come in first, which likely means Thire and Leia are finishing up something.

This works better for Fox’s purposes. Because the kid and Thire probably aren’t responsible for this nonsense and so should, as far as possible, be insulated from Fox’s ire.

“Commander Fox,” Organa greets when they walk in, “I hope you managed to sleep after yesterday’s drama.”

Fox doesn’t respond, just looks at them steadily. Ferus, catlike in his instincts, is more cautious, slowing his walk and considering Fox as he gets closer.

He huffs at whatever he sees, even looking chagrined when Fox responds coolly, “Senator, Olin.”

“Bail,” Ferus sighs, still walking closer, “I believe the Commander has noticed the itinerary change.”

“Ah,” Organa says, lips quirking, “I had thought you would figure it out sometime after tomorrow, Commander.” And Fox wants to yell or throw something or hit something really, really hard, “You have beaten my already high estimations.”

“I on the other hand,” Ferus says, looking at Fox, as if he can see through his helmet, “thought this was a terrible idea, and that you and Thire should have been told about our true destination immediately.” Fox is unimpressed by this, until Ferus continues, “We needed the Commanders to have a sense of our destination so they could do their job.” He says it with rote familiarity, as if he really has been saying this the whole.

Fox wonders briefly whether he should be concerned that he is more impressed by practicality than morality, he decides not.

“What are you playing at, and where are we actually going?” Fox asks, rather than responding to them. He is spitting mad, and somewhat threatened. He has his pistols holstered, for the first time for most of the journey so far. He’s not sure if he will have to, but he has planned for a way to get to the navigator, likely holding the Senator as a hostage, if need be. Fox doesn’t think it will be necessary, he is karking pissed off, but he doesn’t actually feel endangered by Organa or Olin. Whatever they are planning he doubts it will be something that causes harm, he believes that deeply, in a way that he wouldn’t believe about many, or most, natborns.

“Yavin IV,” Organa answers easily, and both Fox — and Ferus apparently — are thrown by his quick, uncomplicated answer. Fox, because he thought he’d have to demand it out of the Senator; Ferus, for whatever reason Organa had for keeping it a secret in the first place. “As for the what we are playing at…” Organa says, all calm pondering, like it was a philosophical question not a matter of endangering Fox’s ability to do his karking job, “Well that is more complicated. Probably wise we wait until Thire is here, so that we don’t have to answer all your questions twice.”

Fox considers throwing his weight around, Thire was technically his subordinate. Fox arguably should be told first and get to decide what he tells him, and he didn’t necessarily love how close Organa and Thire seemed to be getting, but he is honestly so pleased to hear that Thire hadn’t known himself that he lets it go. Instead he just nods tightly, “Now?”

Organa doesn’t try to argue him away, “Of course, let me just tell Leia about the change in plans and fetch Thire, Ferus can you set us up in the briefing room?”

Ferus gives his assent and lets Bail walk off, a loaded look passing between them. “Come on, Commander, let’s walk.”

Fox had spent so long trying to remind himself that he doesn’t trust Ferus, that the man was a smuggler and hiding something, that he hadn’t been prepared to acknowledge how much he had come to like Ferus personally.

He feels deeply betrayed, and it is his own fault, which makes it all the worse. “You knew?”

“This has always been the plan.” Ferus says, not apologetically, and Fox wants to growl. “In Bail’s defence, we weren’t meant to have an escort, so this has been mostly improvised.”

Fox glares at him, and stays quiet, stiffly taking a seat when they reach the briefing room.

“Thank you for giving me the chance to explain myself,” Organa says, sitting down, some twenty minutes later, sedate as anything.

He had wisely let Thire come in ahead of him, allowing Fox to tell him the news about their change of plans, with Ferus setting peaceably nearby. Thire had taken the news better than Fox had, but was still shocked enough that Fox could be comfortable that at least he hadn’t known beforehand. That was at least one person on this dirigible who hadn’t been in on the lie.

“As I told Commander Fox earlier,” Organa says, “we are in fact not heading to Alderaan as you may have been under the impression, but rather we are heading to Yavin IV.”

In the wait, Fox had tried to figure out where even Yavin IV was. He had quickly hit a wall and then turned to Ferus with a frown, “tell me about Yavin.” Ferus did not blink, before he began listing key planetary and star system information about the moon. It was very factual, almost encyclopaedic, and Fox got the impression that Ferus hadn’t prepared in advance. 

“And why would that be?” Fox grits out, staring down Organa who refuses to be cowed.

“Well you see, Commander Fox,” Organa says, with a smile. “We are heading to the Rebel Alliance.”

Fox pauses, frowns, looks between Organa and Ferus. They don’t look like they are making a joke, he glances over at Thire who is also watching the pair and frowning.

“Is this a kriffing joke?” Fox growls, “You’re a Senator.”

“Exactly,” Organa says, “I believe in doing the best by the Republic.”

Organa says it genuinely, like he believes it, like he isn’t talking about treasonous rebellion. Fox thinks he is possibly more offended by the hypocrisy than the actual rebellion — his relationship to the Republic is admittedly more ambivalent than it likely should be. But after so long dealing with its stink and corruption he can hardly stir to its defence. The principles were a bit beyond Fox’s care when his men were on the frontlines of fighting to protect the gloried republic and getting abused and tormented by the very beings they were meant to protect.

“Forgive me if I am not convinced,” Fox bites out. He is distantly pleased that he hasn’t snapped and told Organa to get karked.

“Of course, Commander Fox,” Organa says, and Fox gets a stabbing certainty that Organa is actually enjoying this, somehow. “I would be disappointed if I could convince you so easily.”

Fox throws his hands up in the air. Even as Ferus puts a hand on Organa’s arm, “Bail,” he says softly, “I’m not sure this is the way forward.”

Organa pulls himself back, “Yes, I believe you are correct. Please Ferus, you go ahead.”

Fox glares at him, “I’m meant to be protecting this ship from the rebel alliance, what did you think was going to happen when we got there.”

“Well I was hoping Commander Ponds could talk you over to our side, once we got there,” Organa says, tiredly, his bluster from before collapsing, even as Ferus breathes out sharply through his nose and elbows him.

“Bail, really,” Ferus says, but Fox hardly hears.

“Ponds?” Fox asks, choked, because Ponds is dead, that’s what the reports had said. His whole ship lost with him. Ferus looks at him, eyes soft and smiles, reaching out both his hands, one for Fox and one for Thire who had flinched at the name.

“Commanders if you would?” Thire grabs his hand immediately, and Fox pauses, considers, but eventually decides to embrace whatever madness is going on, unclasping his glove, and trying not to focus on the unexpected calluses despite the smoothness of Ferus’ hand.

Fox doesn’t have long to ruminate because he plunged into darkness quickly followed by a radiating light, before he is seeing something, a vision of a memory that isn’t his. Fox doesn’t know how, but he knows it is Ferus’. Scratch that, Fox knows it’s Ferus’s memory on two levels, on an intangible, gut sense, and then because Ferus’ blonde fringe keeps getting in his eyes in the wind. He can tell that in the memory Ferus was pleased, amused, looking at a bald Korun male in brown robes who is passive faced yet Fox still knows is in a good mood and a clone in non-regulation blacks. Ponds.

The non-Ponds man is saying something but Fox is too busy greedily drinking in the sight of his batchmate, who has been dead for almost a year and who Fox hadn’t seen since they left Kamino. But it is him, he is there. Fox tunes back in to the conversation that everyone else in the memory is focussed on, as the Korun man is saying, “you’re set to meet Bail and Leia, then?”

Fox-as-Ferus finds himself nodding, “Yes, Master Windu. I should be with them by the season. I’ve got a few stops before we meet, but that’s where I’m heading”

“And then straight back here,” Windu says, looking thoughtful.

“Be careful out there, kid,” Ponds says, going over and knocking Ferus-Fox’s shoulder and it’s like being a cadet again, his batchmate there, their language of touch and support. “Things haven’t been good out in the hyperlanes.”

The memory fades away slowly, kindly, but still Fox wants to fight it, grasp on tighter, and realises that all this means is that he is squeezing Ferus’ hand. He forces himself to let go, and tells himself he is imagining the way that Ferus brushes his palm when they separate.

“When was that?” Thire asks, hoarsely.

“Less than a month ago,” Ferus says gently and Fox sucks in a grateful breath before slowly asking, head spinning.

“So that’s your rebel alliance, one bald monk and a deserter clone commander.”

Ferus smiles slightly, seeing through Fox’s bluster, “They are part of the rebellion, yes, not all of it, but part of it.”

“Kriff,” Fox says, furiously, throat thick and Ferus nods kindly. Thire, he realises has been talking quietly to Organa, and is looking convinced. Fox sighs, resigning himself to following his stupid batchmates to whatever insanity they have allowed themselves to be convinced by. “Why the rebel alliance?”

“Because the Chancellor is a Sith lord and has been trying to kill the Jedi for a decade, because he created this war as a pretext for spreading his power, because clones are dying and planets are being destroyed,” Organa says, a fire lit under him. And Fox can see, briefly, why people would vote for the man.

“Since we’re on the subject,” Ferus says, with a mischievous twist to his lips that Fox wants to bite at, “I should also confirm that I’m a Jedi.”

Fox laughs at that, “Yeah, that much I had guessed.”

Chapter Text

The cold rain beats a soft yet relentless drumroll against the canvas of the main command tent as they wait for the last of the squads to check in. Cody isn’t sure if it’s the weather, the way that the mud squelches around his armour or the ambient stress he’s carried in his shoulder since he diverted them here, but he hasn’t been able to shake off his feeling of dread.

He hopes he hadn’t dragged his men to this soggy planet for nothing.

Crys had been hard at work decoding the stack of files Luke and Cody had stolen from the Separatists for the past week. Some of it had been worryingly easy: written in recognisable GAR codes; the rest: stubbornly resistant. They needed a cipher, if they were going to make any more progress on the files, and for that they needed access to a Separatist base. Preferably one without a full garrison. Hence their presence on a forgotten corner of Donovia.

Only Crys, Rex, Whisker and Ben knew that it had been an Officer-level GAR code that led them here; there had been a memo with list of bases, slated for soft decommissioning— why the Separatists were decommissioning bases, and why someone was writing about it in their codes, Cody did not know.

And only Crys had been there when Cody recognised a particular turn of phrase in the memo. He'd felt his blood freeze, silently handing the page of to Crys, knowing from the sharp breath he'd taken that he had seen it to. It was one favoured by Tarkin, something that only the two of them as Commander and Chief Communication Officer would have been able to recognise. They hadn’t said anything, neither quite willing to name what they were thinking. Cody is still trying not to follow that thought to its natural conclusion.

“Just like home?” Ben asks, interrupting Cody's fretting as he wrings out one of his outer layers a step away from Cody, the water falling heavy and fat against the ground.

Cody shakes his head, watching the path of a stray droplet of water from Ben’s hairline to his collar, “Kamino never stopped raining, and it committed to raining. This stop-start, light and windy rain is pathetic in comparison.”

“Oh? Is that so. You’ll have to show me some real rain sometime,” Ben teases back, he then pauses abruptly, grin slipping before he re-finds it. Cody takes some comfort in the fact that Ben too seems to keep forget that this has an expiration date, undetermined though it may be. He takes the opportunity to remind himself that Ben and Luke will leave and the Vigilance will be so much emptier because of it, even as his heart breaks just a tiny bit.

Cody flounders for something to say, shy with his disbelief that he hadn't ruined everything. Somehow Ben hadn’t held Cody’s reckless abandonment of Luke against him, when, back on the Vigilance, ashen-faced Cody had confessed to how exactly they had come into possession of the records.

Ben had paled, turning to Luke and saying, “Luke, that was very dangerous and you put Commander Cody in an unfortunate position. I raised you to take better care.”

“You also raised me to do the right thing,” Luke had returned, fierce and defiant in a way Cody had never seen. He had been grateful that the pair had waited until the rest of the men were away before having it out, he wasn’t sure he could trust them not to interfere. They had all become unwisely attached to both Luke and Ben.

Ben had sighed, “Yes, I suppose I did,” he had found a smile, seemingly unable to stay mad at the boy. “Go on then, go tell Brisk about your adventure while Cody and I have a chat.”

“But Ben,” Luke had whined, “I want to—”

Bed had laughed, “Young Luke, I am certain you aren’t about to argue back to me after the stunt you just pulled.”

Luke’s little face had screwed up in indignation and a staring match had ensued between the pair before Luke had sighed and said, “Fine.”

“Thank you, Cody, that was really fun!” he chirped, throwing his arms around Cody in a hug that his lack of armour let him feel in its full effect, before shooting Ben one last look and skipping off to see Brisk.

“Ben,” Cody had said, wretched with guilt.

“Cody, it is fine,” Ben had been watching Luke go, hand in his beard, not cross exactly, but the look on his face had worried Cody.  

“You trusted me with Luke, and I let myself be persuaded—”

“Luke should have never put you in that position,” Ben had said, a comforting hand coming out to pat Cody.

“I’m the adult I should have—” Cody protested.

“You have responsibilities to your men and your duty,” Ben had said wryly, “besides, I know full well how hard it can be to argue with Luke when he gets an idea in his head.”

“Still—”

“Still nothing, Cody,” Ben had said, his spine stiffening, “You did a very kind thing for Luke and in doing so you got some excellent intel. This is not a bad thing. I just needed Luke to understand that he put you in a highly unfair position.”

“But—” Cody had tried again.

Ben had stuck his hands on his hips, “Do I need to order you to stop apologising and get those files to Crys to start decoding, or can you be trusted to get on with it yourself?” He was smiling and Cody couldn’t help but snort, fight draining out of him.

“Message received, General, no need to order me anywhere.” Cody had said, barely able to hold back his amusement. He had felt less guilty then, but the feeling had returned double when he realised the severity of what they had managed to steal and what the Separatists would have done to keep it.

He’s not sure whether it is lingering awkwardness from before, or his own uncertainty, but Ben seems to be grasping for words as well.

They are saved when Luke comes barrelling in, let planetside only when thorough scans had revealed little active danger, surprisingly graceful despite his speed, “Ben, Ben, Ben, you have to see this, come on!” Luke grabs his hand and starts to tug on it.

“Let me cover myself from the rain first, Luke,” Ben says, looking at his still damp cloak forlornly. He shrugs it on with all the reluctance of a cat taking a cold bath. Cody hides a snicker behind an after-action report.

Not well-enough, because Luke lights on him, all big keen eyes and says, “Cody! You have to come too!” and grabs his hand as well. Trying not to let his heart swell eighteen sizes, Cody signals for Boil to take over and that he would be back in ten minutes and lets himself be pulled. Luke drags the pair of them down to the water, the rain easing off to a fine mist, as the waves crashing against the beach take over.

“Watch,” Luke says, sandwiched between the pair of them, Fives and Echo, who won the Luke-duty-bet for this shift are a few paces away down the beach, keeping an eye on both the perimeter and Luke. “By the water.”

And the three of them watch as this little creature, all pink and orange skitters up to the surf, ducking its head under the receding tide before skittering away when the next wave crashes onto the beach. Now that Cody is looking for them, he can see that there are dozens across the beach. Again and again these little creatures danced with the surf, chittering and skittering with each coming wave.

It is surprisingly enthralling, Cody doesn’t usually take the time to pay attention to the (non-lethal) wildlife, but with Luke’s glee and Ben’s calmer enjoyment, he cannot look away from the sight. Picking out favourites from a distance, he and Luke keep a running commentary on how well their chosen contenders are faring. Luke seems to have an almost preternatural ability to choose winners.

“Luke,” Ben says, abruptly, “can you head back to Fives and Echo, tell them to take you back to the other and get the ships off the ground. Now.” Luke hardly blinks, dropping their hands and bounding over to the ARC-Troopers who look alarmed but acquiesce. To Cody, Ben says, “Look, in the distance.”

Cody squints, following the line of Ben’s arm to the farthest point of the bay, where a glint of familiar metal peaks out of the water. Winders. He has his comm-system out in moments, calling out a warning to the men to get out and airborne, turning and heading back to the tent, “Kriff, they could have been in the camp before we realised. How did you spot them?” Cody says, as Ben follows close on his heels.

“Sometimes, very infrequently, we just get lucky,” Ben calls back, stopping to help Wooley with his gear when they get to the light-airships.

Cody heads to Boil who has managed to get everything hauled down and packed up in the four minute sprint, “did the last scouting group get in?”

Boil shakes his head grimly, and Cody swears.

“Alright get all the ships but mine in the air," he orders, "take as many extra men as you can carry and get Gearshift to keep ours as low as he can, we’re going to give them another five minutes.”

He thumps Boil on the pauldron, acknowledging who was still missing and what it meant for them. 

Turning to Ben and Luke, he says, “General, you and Luke should go too.” Ben nods, and Cody does a final sweep of their camp.

Cody keeps his eyes trained out in the direction of the final scouting group, waving off each of the four ships with relief as they make for the safety of the Vigilance, out of range from the droids and their weapons.

At the three minute mark, he clambers onboard and glances around at his ship, at half-capacity, checking in with them men on board. He is furious to see Ben and Luke still there, speaking softly to the Gearshift at the helm.

“Why are you both still here?” Cody snaps, drawing Ben away from the men, as much as the small skiff allows. There are a lot of averted helmets (and one defiant child), which he supposes is the best he is going to get. “You both should have gotten on the other ships.”

Ben gives him a cool look, “Commander, I understand, but Luke wasn’t having it.” Cody glances towards the boy and gets a defiant look in return, arms crossed and everything.

“We don’t leave friends behind,” Luke says, imperiously. And Cody has a jolt of sympathy for Ben, he hadn’t quite appreciated until just now how much an ordeal raising a force of nature like Luke probably was.

Ben sighs, clearly having had this particular battle and lost, “No—no, we don’t.”

Cody looks at Luke, and wonders what any of them could have done to earn such fierce loyalty from this boy.

Ben draws Cody’s attention back to himself, a hand that Cody can’t feel through the armour against his upper arm, “We’ll stay out the way, but he needed to be here and I’ve found it best to trust his instincts.”

There is something buried there, in the gaps between what Ben isn’t saying, like always, but Cody is too concerned to try and figure out what it is. Besides it is not like Cody can argue, not with the stunt he pulled when Luke was insistent with him.

He hopes listening doesn’t doom them all, as he glances out waiting.  

At four minutes, he gives the signal for Gearshift to get them off the ground holding their altitude. After forty seconds he is readying himself to give the order to pull away, droids move slow, but still they are likely almost upon them.

Ben grips his arm again, joining him right at the edge of the ships open loading dock, “Give them another minute.” Cody sighs, he wants nothing more, but at what point does risking the lives of eight for three become unconscionable. “Call it an instinct," he says, "I’ll count with you.”

“Fine,” Cody says. “Give us another foot of air, Gearshift.” He turns back and says, trying to bluff through the way his pulse was hammering, “with the two of us here they can jump.”

Ben nods, visibly relieved.

Cody counts, heart breaking as he hits sixty.

“Another thirty seconds,” Ben says, insistent.

“I can’t, we’ve stayed too long already, we’re—”as he’s speaking two things happen, almost at once: shooting starts and Rex, Waxer and Longshot come tearing out of the forest, pausing periodically to fire back.

“Thank Force,” Ben says, barely audible, but heartfelt. “They’re in sight,” he shouts back to the others, as he reaches a hand out to haul Waxer onboard the moment he is close enough.

“Get us out of here the moment I say,” Cody shouts to Gearshift, hardly able to breathe until he is hauling Longshot and then Rex onboard. “Now, now, now.”

The shots are coming heavy and fast and but Gearshift is one of the best short-range pilots they have, he keeps their motion careful and smooth as he angles them out of the forest clearing towards the safety of the Vigilance. They are gaining altitude fast and Cody is so glad to be leaving that rain soaked planet.

“Thanks, Vod,” Rex says, sincere and real under his helmet as he moves out the way. “I think we got it, we found some high ranked bastard and stole—” The rest of what Rex is saying is lost as Luke is coming over and attaching himself for a hug once Rex gets close enough.

Cody nods dumbly after him, relief stupefying for a moment, before starting to pull the door shut as Ben snorts at him, “See, it all turned out—” 

How it all turned out to be, Cody wasn’t going to hear, because three things happen at once. Gearshift swears as he weaves out of the way of some heavier artillery from somewhere in the forest below, at the same time a huge squall of wind buffets the light aircraft and Cody gets bounced backwards off the ship.

Falling is something they are all trained for; how to do it safely, what it feels like, how not to panic.

Cody glances down in the seconds he has and calculates his odds to be worthless and resigns himself to his fate.

There is rain on his skin, a howling wind in his ears, and his people are getting away safe. Maybe it is fitting that he will die somewhere so much like home, but he doesn’t want this to be his time.

He hears someone shout his name.

There is a strange moment of weightlessness, where it feels like Cody stops falling for several seconds, before he jerks and his plummet resumes.

And then everything goes black.

“Commander!” Longshot cries, agonised, and Rex looks over to see the still open portway where Cody had been standing seconds before that squall had hit. Longshot is already pushing past Rex and Luke and everyone else who had been gathering up near the front of the ship where their two guns and best view was.

He's...gone.

Rex feels sick, all his anger and upset, all the avoidance for the right reasons, it was for nothing. He was going to lose Cody and he couldn’t remember the last time he was actually kind to one of his favourite people in the whole galaxy. 

“Gearshift, you have to go back for him.” Longshot says urgently, moving towards the cubby that counted as a cockpit on these skiffs, not quite touching the pilot, because even in grief he wasn’t that much of a fool.

Rex wants nothing more than to agree, to take the fact that he has the highest actual rank on this ship — the pretender general did not count — and force Gearshift to turn around. Rex wants it so bad he can taste it like blood in his mouth, like tears on his face, but he forces himself to say, “No, we need to keep going, we can’t turn back, the fire is too heavy.”

“Captain,” Longshot gasps, all outraged upset, all wretched grief. “I saw him fall, if I had been nearer— I could have grabbed him, we need to go back.”

“No,” Rex says helplessly.

“Captain, he’s— it’s Cody, we can’t—” Longshot wails. The others aren’t saying anything, but Rex knows they are all desperate to go back.

“Get us back to the dirigible, at once, that’s an order, trooper.” Rex repeats, hating himself, “we need to warn the Vigilance about the guns below or they could be blown out of the sky. Once the artillery team take care of it. We’ll come back for C— for the Commander after.”

Nobody says that Cody will likely be dead by then, even if, by some miracle, he survives the fall. They don’t need to: every one of them on that ship had the same basic training.

Longshot is still glaring at him, helmet thrown to a corner so he could stare Rex right in the bucket, and the others seem unhappy, they are hiding it better, but Rex knows they all love Cody, none of them want to think of him lying down there, dead or nearly dead.

“Listen,” Rex tries, “we have Luke and the general on board, I know none of you care about risking yourselves for Cody, but we can’t ask them to risk themselves. Cody would kick our shebs if he knew we endangered them for him.”

That, as much as Rex hates it, seems to do the trick, and the mutinous aura in the skiff eases. He glances around and finds Luke moving over and giving a comforting hug to Waxer, who had slumped against the bunkhead at Longshot’s cry, and if that is what it takes then Rex will take the win.

He looks over again, at the open portdoor, rainwater still falling in—why had nobody shut it, how many more people did they have to lose?— and takes a second to realise why what he sees looks so wrong.

“Where’s the general?” Even asking it feels like Rex’s stomach is plummeting out his body.

A murmur of alarm shivers through the skiff.

“Oh, he’s with Cody,” Luke says, now patting Longshot on the head where he had sunk in his misery.

“What the kri–” Waxer clears his throat pointedly, face tight, so Rex tries again, “What do you mean he’s with Cody?”

The boy frowns, like Rex is the weird one for not getting it, “he went after him.”

Rex looks down through the porthole as he closes the door with a decisive snick, securing the latch. He looks at the rocky forests beneath them, tries to calculate just how far it was and not liking the answer he comes to. He curses his battlefield promotion, praying to whatever forces were out there that it was only temporary.

Cody wakes up neither as dead nor as injured as he— by any rights — should be.

He seems to be in a cave of some kind, in the forest of Donovia, if the distant rain and bone-close chill are any indicator. Not a great sign, since they had just evacuated Donovia. He has been propped against a cave wall at some point, his helmet removed but placed by his left arm, right where it falls naturally, as if whoever did it knew its importance.

Cody takes stock of his body, wriggling toes and slowly rocking his head from one side to another, nothing appears to be broken. He feels battered, but given the height from which he fell, a few bruises were nothing short of miraculous. He closes his eyes, trying to remember anything between falling and waking.

“Ah good, you’re awake,” a familiar voice says, and Cody jerks his eyes open to see Ben, still in his damp poncho from earlier. Ben being here makes even less sense than his survival, Cody thinks, wondering if he has a concussion. He glances down at his fingers and runs through a series of logic puzzles, deciding that if he is concussed he is so impaired that he can no longer tell.

“How am I not dead?” Cody asks maybe-Ben, maybe-concussion-induced-hallucination-of-Ben.

“We got very lucky.” Ben says, squatting down in front of Cody, and running his hands across Cody’s head, checking for bumps, Cody thinks. In normal circumstances Cody would enjoy the touch, would lean into it, but instead he lists into Ben’s probing fingers blindly. It certainly feels like another human, but Cody isn’t convinced.

If he is real, Cody can’t understand why Ben would be here and not safely aboard the Vigilance where he should be. “Did you get bounced off by the wind too?” he asks, voice creaky but there. That version of events could make sense, Ben was taller but lighter, without heavy armour to boot, if Cody got bounced out of the airship by the wind then Ben could have been too.

The slightly shifty look on Ben’s face pays heed to that idea, “I followed you off,” Ben says, with a sigh, rocking back from where he was checking Cody. They are both too damp for any warmth to be noticed or missed, but still Cody feels colder for him moving away.

“You did what?” Cody asks, he wants to laugh, like that makes any sense. Definitely a hallucination Cody decides, and feels pretty confident in that assessment until Ben sits next to him and covers them both with the slightly damp but still thick and warm cloak. The precise feel of that: its heavy, wet, comfort, seems too specific to be invented.

“Keep up, Commander,” Ben says, sharply amused, which is a point against the hallucination hypothesis; Cody never remembers how mean Ben can be, or how much he likes it, “I followed you off the ship.”

Cody decides to leave off the question of how Ben survived the drop because he’s not sure his mind can handle trying to figure out heights and windspeeds, “How did you get me back here, I was out of it, and we are deep in enemy territory and I am very heavy, when I’m armed like this.”

“Ah,” Ben says, stroking his beard, “well I should probably apologise for something then. I may have availed myself of your weapons.”

“All of them?” Cody asks, doing a quick inventory check and finding that he had been left with nothing other than the peashooter he had given Ben when they landed.

“I’m a better swordsman than I am a shot,” Ben says, carefully smoothing out the cloak covering them, “but I needed both.”

Cody moves his foot in his left boot, “And my dagger?” He hadn’t even realised that Ben had known about that one.

“Well—” and Ben retrieves it from somewhere, flipping it over in a motion that Cody appreciates on an aesthetic, conceptual and erotic level, offering it back hilt first, “—I wasn’t sure if I’d need something I could throw.”

Cody has decided that he isn’t imaginative enough to have come up with this Ben, so he must be the real thing. But he can’t get over the fact that this civilian Cody had absconded with nine weeks ago essentially hurled himself out of the safety of a fleeing aircraft after him and then somehow carried him to safety through enemy territory.

“Thank you,” Cody says inadequately, realising that it may come across as thanks for the dagger, before realising once more that in his muddled state he is unable to modulate emotion so that 'thank you' came with every ounce of deeply-touched sincerity Cody is feeling.

Ben nods, hand back in his beard, Cody thinks he may do that whenever he is feeling an emotion, “Of course, Cody.” He clears his throat, “Anyway, we should be fine just to sit tight here, Luke should be able to guide the men to us, and I’ve hopefully cleared enough of a path for them, and taken the winders on a merry little chase.”

Cody stares at him, hardly able to believe any of it, Ben clearly takes as suspicion because he says, “I told him where I was planning to get you before I… disembarked.”

Cody snorts, tugging at the cloak himself. Vode don’t leave each other behind, that was one of their truest ethos, but they also knew better than to risk the whole for the individual. Nat-borns generally — and Generals specifically, by Cody’s experience —saw him and the rest of the vod’e as more or less indistinguishable and more or less expendable. He wasn’t sure what to do with this man.

“They still have to get past the cannons,” Cody says, drifting off again, head rolling back against the hard, rocky wall of the cave.

Ben tuts, reaching out and guiding Cody’s head down so it’s resting against his shoulder instead, his pauldrons shrugged off at some point.

“I suspect that those guns won’t be such a problem.” Ben says with a smug undercurrent that Cody finds deeply appealing.

Cody hums an interrogative, as he rests his head more fully on Ben’s shoulder, catching a whiff of cordite and smoke. His brain catches on something, and he knows there is a question he should be asking but he is so tired he can’t keep a hold of it.

Sleep claims him without mercy.

Chapter Text

“Alright—” Fox says, joining them at the table and sitting down across from Ferus already frowning. Ferus stows his urge to smile too widely. Fox was skittish: showing that you were pleased to see him with anything more effusive than fond teasing was liable to have the man tense up and eye you suspiciously. So Ferus dampened his enthusiasm and instead opted for the barest smile and a nod.

It had been three days since Ferus and Bail had come clean to Thire and Fox, and Ferus isn’t sure a conversation has been started that didn’t begin with “so,” or “alright,” or “I had a question.” He takes it as a good sign that the Commander’s anger seems to have been sublimated into a kind of furious, logistical curiosity.

He also takes it as a good sign that Fox has decided to recruit Leia in his efforts to understand Jedi, asking her probing questions and giving her small tasks. Presently the Princess of Alderaan, Duchess of the Houses Organa and Antilles has been recruited into a game of find-and-go-seek, wherein she and Thire were taking turns hiding themselves from each other. Leia had giddily told them about the game, as she blurred past seeking a good hiding spot in a dirigible that after two months was deeply familiar to all onboard. (Her choice of the air vents is, Ferus is proud to say, genius.)

The game itself was a tactical masterstroke, allowing Fox to corner Ferus and Bail for further interrogation, while letting Thire see not only how accurate a Jedi’s ability to sense beings was, but whether he could figure out how to mask himself from her. In a few days, Ferus will offer to teach them both some shielding, but as things stand, he has not seen either of the clones so companionable or enthused. They must have been very bored.

“What I don’t understand,” Fox continues, “is how we got here.”

“Well, Commander,” Ferus says, because, well, he needed to make his own fun, “you, Thire, Bail, Leia and the rest of the crew boarded the ship on Coruscant, and then I—”

“Senator,” Fox, turning to Bail, says in as long-suffering a tone as Ferus has ever managed to provoke in another soul, “unless you hold me back, I’m going to carry your daughter’s tutor to the lifeboat and jettison him out into the void.”

He’s hiding a smile, however, and Ferus has his number, so he just cocks his head, widening his eyes, the best play at innocence he can muster, “And deprive yourself of my company? Commander, surely there is another option.”

Fox kicks him under the table, it’s a tap more than anything, but Ferus gives him a theatrically wounded look. He is studiously trying not to imagine Fox picking him up and bearing him anywhere. It’s not working, but in Ferus’s defence: his efforts to serve the Jedi council mean that he has both cultivated a particularly vivid imagination and become uniquely primed to such ideas — so it’s hardly his fault.

“Maybe if someone answered my questions,” Fox says glaring back at Ferus.

“You drive a hard bargain, Commander. Ask away.” Ferus sniffs, cheeks flushing at the indignity of their pigtail pulling in front of Bail.

Bail snorts, but stays quiet.

“As I was asking until someone chose to wilfully misinterpret my question. How did we — as a galaxy — get to this state of affairs with respect to the Jedi, the Rebellion, the Republic?”

“You have my apologies, I didn’t realise you were going to ask such a simple question,” Ferus says, to buy himself time and wind Fox up a bit more: he grins when Fox bares his teeth with a snap.

“I would have thought a Royal tutor and Jedi—”

“Knight,” Bail supplied helpfully.

“Jedi Knight, would have been well-placed to answer my question on a matter of such galactic importance,” Fox says, smirking, “but maybe I should have known better.”

Ferus rolled his eyes, fondly, because he liked this caustic man, “The Jedi went into hiding eleven years ago, a year before the clones were introduced to the Galaxy. There had been some…rumblings of trouble both in the Senate and through the Force.”

Fox’s brows angled upwards, intrigued, as Ferus continues: “Much like you saw when I knew there was trouble waiting for us at the end of the hyperlane, Jedi get a... sense of danger, it isn’t always clear, but we usually get a hint.”

“Handy,” Fox observes, as if he hadn’t spent the past three days trying to figure out the limits of Ferus’s ability and Bail snorts.

“It can be,” Ferus says with a shrug, “but the bigger and more complicated the danger, the harder it is to tell when the danger will come and what form it will take.” Taking a fortifying breath, Ferus continues, “What we now know is that Chancellor Palpatine is a Sith Lord—”

“Evil Jedi,” Fox whispers under his breath, which brings a smile to Ferus’s face and jostles him out of the grimy residue of guilt and regret that clings when he has to explain this.

“—and had been plotting to destroy the Order for some time. As part of his plan, he took control of the Republic, started the war with the Separatists and—” Ferus pauses here, because historically this revelation has not gone well, “commissioned the Kaminoans to create you and your brothers,”

Rather than the horror that Ponds and Bly had met that revelation with, Fox merely snorts, “sounds about right. Reckon he had big plans for us that weren't much use without the Jedi to enact them upon.” Ferus tries not to gape, the equanimity was startingly. Fox then furrows his brow, ah here comes the hurt. “What finally made you leave, then?”

“There was a young Jedi, he was powerful, and he had, been…close to the Chancellor for some time. He had,” Ferus sucks in a breath, and Bail reaches out a comforting hand that Ferus leans back into gratefully, “a wife, they’d married in secret and she was pregnant.” Ferus feels Bail’s hand spasm on his shoulder, which makes sense because that's Leia. Except, Force, Padmé, as well. The two of them had discussed Anakin before, but somehow Ferus always forgot that Padmé had been a close friend and ally to Bail.

“We don’t just get a sense of danger,” Ferus explains, the story he was telling was pieced together from the Council and Bail, they didn’t have all the details of what had happened, but the broadstrokes were enough. “As Jedi, some get visions. From what I understand, this young Jedi was seeing visions of his wife dying, the fear of losing her led him to Palpatine, and the darkside."

“Thankfully his former… teacher grew concerned about what his student was starting to say, blaming the Jedi for all manner of sins, and followed him one evening to a meeting. What he heard concerned him greatly, even more concerning was the news that there was a pregnancy and that he had told only the Chancellor. The teacher warned the council, and the Jedi, when they realised the scale of the threat against them, decided to leave Coruscant. It was meant to be temporary but, well…”

Fox had been listening intently with a look of concern as Ferus made his way through the story he had heard only secondhand. His guilt and relief for not being there were something that he had worked hard to move past, but he still grieved the loss of the temple. It was a miracle that the Jedi survived in the face of Palpatine's plans, but the cost of their ability to exist visibly in the galaxy was momentous.

“So, I think I followed most of that,” Fox says, tipping his chair back, a curious look in his eyes, “What I don’t understand is why you, Ferus Olin, speak about this with such a distance. Were you not there when the Jedi fled?”

With a sigh, Ferus tries not to curse Fox's perceptiveness. “I was not. I— I wasn’t a Jedi at the time.” Ferus feels Fox’s interest sharpen on him, chair rocking back to the ground.

“I am a Jedi,” Ferus says, with a hard-won certainty, “I was raised by the Jedi, trained with them until I was eighteen, fewer than two years before the Evacuation, but I left.”

“Why?” Fox asks, his brusqueness sloughing off to reveal a kinder, gentler demeanour than Ferus has seen from the man.

“Someone got hurt on a mission I was on, down to mistakes I made,” there was more to the story, but Ferus had made his peace with telling this part, Anakin’s involvement made everything messier, “and I wasn’t sure I could be a Jedi after that. I took a break, and then the Order went into hiding.”

“So you couldn’t find them?” Fox asks, gentleness sharpening again into a keen interest.

“I’m certain I could have reached out to my master Siri," Ferus admits, "but I didn’t feel like I could. I might have been endangering them, she might not have wanted to hear from me…”

“So what happened?” Fox asks, seemingly attentive as anything, but then again, he also chucks a mug at Ferus across the table.

It was another of his Jedi-calibration measures: testing Ferus’s reaction speed and ability to sense danger. Fox's favourite one, just going by the sheer number of items Ferus had been pelted with in recent days.

Ferus catches the mug with the Force, a handspan from his nose, without blinking. He keeps his face still, and watches Fox eyes take on that pleased glint. Though he cannot see Bail from where he’s sat, Ferus imagines the man is actively smirking. Ferus keeps the mug hanging between them for a moment, before floating it calmly back into Fox’s hand and answering his question without comment.

“Well, as you may be able to sympathise, Bail happened,” Ferus says, turning to the man himself and smiling with every ounce of gratitude he had in him.

Cody wakes again at dusk, shortly after Ben has returned from another venture outside to harass and nuisance the Separatist forces. He had tucked a folded cloak under Cody’s head before leaving and Ben is pleased that it had stayed in place.

While catching his breath, Ben can admit to himself with some complicated blend of regret and nostalgia that it felt like being on missions for the Jedi again, sneaking around, weapon in hand, applying small targeted pressure to reduce harm. Of course, Ben had to be a lot more cautious this time: his senses stretched out keeping watch over Cody as he slept, monitoring the rattled Separatist forces and getting chipper updates from Luke as the men floating in the atmosphere above debated how best to retrieve them. He'd done his best to clear the path for them. There were still the cannons remaining, but Ben wasn’t too worried. He did, however, somewhat regret over-promising to Cody last he was awake: he'd thought he would be able to handle them but the guard rotations were a bit too present for him to handle by himself.

Cody came to awareness in stages, slowly and then with a jolt, sitting upright and glancing around.

“How are you feeling?” Ben asks crouching down and handing Cody some water from a canteen that hadn’t been his when he started the day. The Separatist sergeant he’d liberated it from would likely not have the chance to miss it amidst the chaos Ben had left in his wake.

Cody furrows a brow, eyes still warm and intelligent despite the lingering confusion, and Ben has to acknowledge that he would have risked total exposure to make sure he didn’t lose this face, somehow unique despite being shared by millions.

“Sore, but nowhere near as bad as I should be,” Cody says finally, and Ben winces. If it hadn’t been for that second judder of the ship, he wouldn’t have had to slam the Force into Cody to get him back aloft. He should be no more than a little bruised, but still Ben fretted, allowing himself to reach out and check Cody, making sure he really was alright. His bleariness yesterday should have mostly been the shock, and he seems more alert now.

“Any news from the front,” Cody says with a frown, Ben thinks about deflecting for a moment before he decides that he should play as if he had absolutely no intention of hiding his excursions from Cody. They were likely well past the pretence that Ben couldn't fight.

“None so far, the Separatists are moving closer to their base, so we should be in the clear for now.”

Cody nods, closing his eyes again and Ben hopes he isn’t going to fall asleep just yet, he could always meditate, but he finds himself wanting Cody’s company. “Did anyone else fall or follow us out?”

“No,” Ben says with certainty, “just us.”

“That’s something,” Cody says with a relieved sigh. “How did we survive?”

“I grabbed a parachute and hoped for the best,” Ben says, steadily, it was ridiculous, as far as cover stories went: the skiffs came equipped with parachutes, but for Ben to have had time to get one, follow after Cody, catch him and deploy the shoot before they both hit the ground... Cody is frowning— likely working out precisely how impossible Ben’s excuse was.

But, then, so too was the truth: that Commander Cody of the 212^th Battalion of the Galactic Army of the Republic has been harbouring an exiled Jedi, and that said exiled Jedi put life, limb and lineage on the line to jump out of a moving light aircraft to save him. If Cody pushes the matter Ben might have to try and find a way to explain the Force without getting into the whole I’m-one-of-those-Jedi-who-abandoned-you-and-is-now-wanted-by-the-powers-you-serve situation. 

Ben couldn’t really imagine how to begin that conversation: ‘Well Commander, since birth I’ve been able to manipulate a power that unites all life in the galaxy, known as the Force, and among other things, this power allowed me to slow our fall so that neither of us died. Please ask no more questions because then Luke and I will have to leave you and the Vigilance and he will cry and it will be a whole ordeal.’

Thankfully, Cody is still too dazed from his fall, or has kindly decided that calling Ben out on his nonsense could wait until they were back aboard the safety of the war dirigible because he grunts, and says, “So what are we working with out there?”

“A thinned out and harried Separatist contingent,” Ben reports, again trusting Cody to prioritise their safe return home rather than grilling him on quite how he managed any of this. “My first order of business was targeting the relay stations, so they haven’t been able to call in reinforcements. Then I made sure to sabotage their transports so they shouldn’t be able to give chase, once the men do come. I left the cannons, for now, because those were better guarded than I wanted to tangle with alone.”

“My, haven’t you been busy,” Cody said, eyes narrowing as he glances over at Ben who shrugs demurely.

Cody grimaces, then, eyes sliding shut, clearly still exhausted. “So even if we can stay alive, we need to destroy those cannons to clear the way for the men to land for a rescue mission they should in no way embark upon.”

“Precisely,” Ben says, “easy work for the two of us.”

“You planning on carrying me and shooting our way out of here?” Cody snorts, more resigned than Ben is willing to accept.

“If that’s what it takes,” Ben says, with what he hopes is a reassuring, but not overly confident smile, Cody has no way of knowing but it was going to be alright. “Just get some more sleep, you’ll see in the light of day, things are going to be looking up.” Mostly because having dealt his blows against and left his traps for the Separatists, Ben would be able to spend Cody’s rest healing him up and contacting Luke. They were going to survive this.

Cody grumbles, lying back down with the reluctance of a lothcat before water, but sleep quickly grasps him and drags him into an uneasy slumber, one that Ben gentles into something more restful and easy.

““Bail happened,”” Fox repeats dryly. “Now, why would you think that I had any idea what that would be like?”

Ferus turns away from Bail who had been giving him a proud smile, radiating such fondness in the Force that Ferus wanted to curl up in a ball a take a moment to become a capable person again. He’s not sure what he did to earn such esteem from a man like Bail, but every day Ferus tried to deserve it.

“Jedi nonsense,” Ferus says, out of the side of his mouth, just to see that twitch in the eye Fox got.

Fox is clearly remembering that he has had a whole life dealing with brothers, and didn’t have to rise to Ferus’s gentle baiting, so he just asks, “How did you two meet, then?”

“It was pure luck,” Bail says.

Even as Ferus says, “it was the Will of the Force.”

Fox snorts, “Well which was it?”

“There was this party,” Ferus says,  

“A gala more like,” Bail adds.

“Held by one of Palpatine’s heavies, this was maybe, two years after you—the clones—had arrived in the galaxy, I hadn’t been a Jedi for four years, Leia was in her terrible twos.”

“Pro-tip gentlemen, don’t raise a force sensitive without guidance” Bail says grimly, like a soldier reliving war memories. Ferus laughs, because by all reports he had been a delight at two, well-behaved as anything. “Breha and I had left her with Captain Antilles for a night to show our faces and appease the wagging tongues”

Ferus snorts, Bail and Breha were there to court some financiers for the Rebellion.

“And we turn up and there is a very striking couple,” Bail says getting into the flow of the story.

“We weren’t, at that point, a couple,” Ferus couldn’t stop himself from saying, wry and aching. He and Roan had been dancing around each other, then, flirting and pining from afar. They had started “Olin and Lands” to try and help those who were being pushed out and persecuted by Palpatine’s erosions of the Republic, and it had been going well, so well that they could expand their range of operations outside of Bellessa and add some more legitimate ventures alongside their smuggling. They had acquired their first printer’s office a week before.  

(Bail probably shouldn’t have put too fine a point on Ferus’s relationship with Roan, he knew the breakup still smarted. Although he suspected that he was one of the few non-Jedi's who would see the way that Ferus went distant and bruised at the mention of his ex-boyfriend. It had been an amicable break-up from the sounds of it, but it remained bad form to poke a bruise. Yet, as Bail observes the way that Commander Fox goes still and glances away, face tight around the eyes, he cannot regret the slip. Very Interesting.)

“Although I’ll allow that we were very striking,” Ferus concedes, he draws up a leg onto his chair to rest against, “Roan and I— my business partner, at the time— had helped this tailor who had gotten on the wrong side of one of the Chancellor’s men and she had fit us out with the most amazing suits for the event.”

“Our boy looked great,” Bail says, giving Fox a look that Ferus decides he does not, in fact, want to know about.

“Anyway,” Ferus says, fully aware he is blushing, “Bail was doing a better job than the host and came over to greet us.”

Bail sniffs snobbishly, “Discourteous as well as dictatorial, the Chancellor knew how to pick them.”

“And I recognised him, he’d been…friends with my teacher’s partner for a while,” Ferus says, remembering the flash of realisation that oh Obi-Wan’s drinking buddy was now a senator, “And it was dangerous at the time, but for some reason—”

“Your innate bravery, Ferus”

“—for some reason, I found the courage to say, ‘Senator Organa, I’m not sure if you remember me but I trained with Obi-Wan Kenobi.” Fox's brow furrows, and Ferus wonders whether he recognises the name from some kind of wanted-list, he isn't certain one exists, but it certainly wouldn't surprise him if it did.

“Ah Kenobi,” Bail says in a way that has Ferus wrinkling his nose, because ew, he’d had enough of that with Siri, thank you very much, “Good man. And more importantly enough of a clue that I knew I was dealing with a Jedi.”

“So he turned to me, said, “Mr. Olin, I think there is someone you should meet,” and changed my life,” Ferus says, remembering the way that the Force shivered in delight at Bail's words. 

Morning comes and Cody is annoyed to discover that Ben had been entirely correct, he feels much better. The bruises and aches are gone and he feels distressingly well rested. If it wouldn’t summon Brisk to his side, grousing about slipped discs and risks of exposure, Cody would even suggest that sleeping in a cave may be the solution to his persistent sleeplessness.

Ben seems to be meditating nearby. His takings from his ill-advised ventures outside—alone—are neatly piled up around him. He seemed to have helped himself at least to a set of Separatist denotation charges, some weapons, two sets of uniforms and a box of rations. How he had the time, Cody is unsure. But in the cold light of the morning, Cody can no longer deny that he was dealing with someone far more combat effective than he had any indication of before.

Scarily combat effective, even. Cody isn’t sure he’d trust any of his men to last this long and accomplish this much in enemy territory, alone and protecting their unconscious senior officer. Rex, the ARC troopers and a couple of their more stubborn CTs would probably have managed. 

Cody sits himself up and knocks a boot against the closest of Ben’s loot, a lockbox of some kind. “So what’s the plan, General?”

Ben stiffens, and then consciously settles back into the easier seat of his meditation, opening his eyes and shooting Cody a look, “Why do you suppose I have a plan?”

“These are a non-random selection of items that cannot have been easy to grab,” Cody observes, surveying them once more. “I assumed you gathered them for a reason.” Ben sighs, rolling himself gracefully to his feet and offering a hand down to Cody. That he can pull Cody up without even a hint of a strain is further evidence that their fake General had perhaps been better suited to his assumed duties than they could have hoped.

“Why don’t you eat something first, and then we can chat,” Ben decides, after checking Cody over with the fussy carefulness of a mother lothcat — or Brisk in a good mood. Cody accepts the deal, and finds that he is ravenous when he bites into the rehydrated food.

“This is good?” he says through mouthfuls, outraged and delighted.

“One of the benefits of most of your army being clockwork droids, I suppose,” Ben says around less hurried bites of his own portion, “more resources can go to feeding the organic beings you do have in rank.”

Cody grunts in agreement, finishing his portion, only for Ben to immediately pass him more. He thinks about refusing, before shrugging and launching in. “So this plan…”

“I think you’ll like it,” Ben says, eyes twinkling as he started to explain.

Cody did, in fact like it.

The first of their three cannons is a smoking ruin from well deployed charges. It had been a clean strike, taking advantage of a gap in the patrols of this particular weapon, and Cody is grinning like a madman at their success.

The arcs of the thrown charges had been one of the most beautiful and satisfying sights Cody had seen in months— but that may be the long day talking.

“On to the next,” Ben says, smugly satisfied as they watch the first of the Separatists arrive to inspect the site from their perch at a distance, wearing the uniforms Ben had stolen. Their armour is stowed in a bag on Cody’s back and Cody feels the slick pulse of adrenaline through his body. He had not had this much fun on a mission in a very long time.

“You certain of this?” he asks, as they approached the second cannon, half a klick away.

“Quite.”

Cody grins, and pulls his borrowed rainhood further down over his eyes, keeping his distance as Ben marches straight up to the officers in charge of guarding the second cannon.

“Sergeant,” he barks, jolting the man terribly, if his rushed, sloppy salute and wide-eyed glance was anything to go by. The winders in the area continue their juddering patrol. “Our investigation has revealed that it was sabotage that blew up the other gun, I’ve brought a tech here to investigate.”

“Sir, I can’t let—” the man says, reeling back from Ben’s glare, “it’s just there have been no orders, so—”

“Blast it man, of course there have been no orders.” Ben yells, and Cody has to work not to laugh, “Those bastards ruined our commlines, why do you think I trekked over here? To take a rainy stroll!?”

“No, sir!” The man yelled.

“Listen, just watch him while he works and then we can all go about our days,” Ben’s voice goes kind and conciliating.

“Right, good plan, Sir,” and Cody, the man not glancing at his face once under the rainhood, is brought over to the control panel which is opened for him without ceremony, crouching down to grab his tools and start tinkering, Cody palms a charge up his sleeve.

After a few moments Ben comes over, “Well, anything?” While the officer glances towards him, Cody takes the opportunity to stow the charge under the mess of wires. Once he knows both of them are back to looking over his shoulder, he carefully moves the wires aside and makes a triumphant sound.

“Found the fucker,” Cody says.

“Excellent work, officer,” Ben says turning to the Separatist, and clapping him on the shoulder. “You should dispose of this while the tech does a final check.”

Taking it with appropriate care—not knowing that Ben and Cody had already removed the live agent—the officer leaves, allowing Cody the time to efficiently sever all the internal mechanisms and quickly reseal the control panel. Checking that he had time, he then soldered the panel shut — where Ben had managed to locate a soldering iron while Cody slept, he did not know.

“All clear,” Cody grunts at the officer when he returns, before turning back the way they came, leaving Ben to make their excuses as they moved to the next and final cannon.

Once they were clear, they broke into a sprint, pausing only to quickly don their armour under the borrowed raincloaks, it wouldn’t be convincing up-close, but they didn’t need it to be.

“Do you want the guns or the charges?” Ben asks as they draw near. Cody debates for a second, the charges were arguably the most important job, they had far few chances to get it right.

“Gimme the charges,” Cody decides, and finds them pressed into his hands, without either of them breaking stride.

“Excellent choice, Commander,” Ben says, shouldering his chosen gun, “I’ll cover your approach,” and then he puts on a burst of speed and leaps, scrambling up a tree on the outer limit of the cannon's clearing.

Cody takes a moment to stare in baffled appreciation: that was so hot, before he makes his approach. Ready to duck, he instead finds that Ben picks off the patrolling winders with terrifying efficiency, allowing Cody to get into place without any interference at all. Taking pause to check on the wind, Cody aims, then looses the final charges watching them sail through the air, hit the weapon and burst into an inferno.

Above the chaos, Ben’s voice rings out, “We’ve one cannon remaining! All men to its defence!” and Cody watches as nobody, man nor winder, spares a glance his way, charging instead to their already handled second cannon.

Only once they are gone does he let out the laugh of triumph that has been building in his chest.

They could be saved.

Later, waiting in the field that they had marked using the re-tooled radio for their pick-up, Cody can’t help but nudge Ben where he is sat watching the sky.

“Have you been capable of this the whole time?”

Ben turns, giving Cody a wry smile, “Perhaps not the whole time, using your gym facilities certainly helped me limber back up.”

“You were some kind of soldier, then. Something elite I reckon,” Cody muses, “maybe reconnaissance or some kind of mercenary.”

Ben shrugs uneasily, “I was, I’ve been retired for many years now.”

“Hmm, and I never asked, did I?” Cody observes, not mad at Ben, but certainly upset that he hadn’t known the man as well as he thought he had.

“You could, now. Ask, that is.” 

“Would you answer?”

“Of course,” Ben says, eyes up at the sky, waiting for the sight of the Vigilance, and Cody believes him, even though he probably shouldn’t, “You may not like the answers.”

Cody snorts, really looking at Ben in a way that he doesn’t often let himself. He’s older that any brother Cody has, doesn’t wear his strength or experience on his body in the way that the Clones tend to. But there is an undeniable physicality to him, not one that immediately reads as martial, but in the face of this new evidence is startlingly plausible.

“Then the questions can wait,” Cody decides with a sigh. He isn’t actually owed the truth, and doesn't want Ben's return to Luke to seem contingent on any answers. Ben has been very upfront with him about the fact that he is a wanted man, Cody had imagined that his crimes had been more of the rhetorical kind, but imagining him as an active rabblerouser is not beyond the realm of possibility.  

“You really don’t want to know?” Ben asks, mouth hidden behind his hand.

“Do you want to tell me?” Cody asks, standing up, and starting to stretch.

“No,” Ben says, honestly, “But I will if you need me to...”

“It can hold til we’re back on the ship,” Cody decides, he is nervous only in the sense that Ben doesn’t seem to realise how little could endanger his place on the dirigible. Who was Cody to judge him for his past? “Besides, I’m not sure if I’m that impressed.” 

The look of indignation that steals across Ben’s face is a thing of beauty, “You—!”

“Ah so he does have an ego,” Cody teases, “that’s a relief, I had thought you were above all of that.”

Grumbling, Ben gets to his feet.

“What was that, sir?” Cody asks, crouching to survey the documents Ben had absconded with at some point during his adventuring while Cody was unconscious.

“Save a man’s life and this is the thanks I get.”

Still crouching, Cody looks up at him, “Ben,” he says, voice serious and sombre, “thank you for saving me. I owe you my life.”

He watches intrigued as Ben colours beneath his beard, “oh stand up you ridiculous man, I was only repaying the favour you did for me and Luke.”

“Hmm, I don’t know,” Cody says, still crouching, “Deciding to not shoot you and stopping someone else from doing so is not on the same level as throwing myself out of a moving aircraft. So,” he says clasping his hands together, “whatever can I do to make it up to you?”

“Okay, you’ve made your point,” Ben snorts, “Get up, your dirigible is arriving and we can’t have the men see their Commander anything but triumphant in his survival.”

And Cody glances up, waits a minute, and then there it is. His home, his men, the Vigilance coming for them.

Chapter Text

The Vigilance drifts down towards them and Ben gets to experience the combined wash of the joy of Luke in the Force drawing nearer and Cody’s intense relief beside him. He’d never felt worried, during their prolonged sojourn on Donovia, but Ben still feels his own quieter relief at the sight of the war-dirigible that had become home over these past months.

The ship stops, tethers shooting down into the ground with a thunk, and the landing bay opens, a skiff shooting down towards them. Luke must have finagled his way onboard because Ben can feel him so close.

“What do you want to bet that one of my men is going to yell at me before they remember themselves?” Cody asks, seemingly bracing himself.

“Surely not?” Ben asks, having never heard anything worse than Brisk’s gruffness and Rex’s strange banked anger at Cody, the rest of the clones were loud but clearly loved their commander.

“I can almost guarantee it,” Cody says with a sigh.

“Chin up Commander, you’ve faced bigger and uglier threats than one of your men in a snit,” Ben offers finally, after turning over the idea of one of his men shouting at Cody a few times and finding it too strange to contemplate.

“So says you,” Cody grumbles, waving at Gearshift who has become visible with the skiff’s approach. From the man’s face and his feel in the Force, Ben can tell just how relieved the pilot was to see his commander alive and well.

It is a matter of moments for the skiff to dock, maintaining a sensible hover above the ground, as the doors are flung open and Waxer and Boil yank Cody and Ben onboard. There are exclamations of greetings and relief— none of the shouting that Cody feared—that are indistinct amid the utter hubbub of reunion while the engine still roars. The hatch is firmly, and pointedly shut behind them and Gearshift has them heading up towards the Vigilance.

“Kriff, it’s good to see you again,” Cody says, when he can get a word in, clasping Boil and Waxer in turn. While Luke runs over to Ben and throws himself into a hug. Through the Force Ben is offering a comforting litany that seems appreciated but unnecessary, I was fine, Ben, Luke informs him patiently, I knew you and Cody were alright and that we wouldn’t leave you behind.

“Commander, are we glad to see you, we thought for sure you dead,” Waxer is saying to a bemused Cody, “we could hardly believe it when the Crys told us he’d received your radio transmission.”

“Hear that, Ben,” Cody grouses, casual in the company of those in the know, “the utter lack of faith my men show.” Ben can read the grateful relief in his voice so says nothing. Which is possibly why he is surprised when Luke abruptly ditches him to go hug Cody, leaving him open to Boil and Waxer swooping in and crushing him between them in what must approximate a hug in their circles.

“Gentlemen?” Ben wheezes, enjoying the press of their gratitude and relief in the Force, but missing his usual ability to draw in oxygen unencumbered.

“Thank you for saving our Commander, Kenobi,” Boil says, uncharacteristically serious.

Oh. “You’re very welcome, Lieutenants.”

It’s a quick journey, and they are already level with the Vigilance so Ben is saved having to explain just how he managed to save Cody. If he could keep punting the matter down the line until the day the war ended and Palpatine choked on an olive, he would do so gladly.

It seems like the dirigible is moving out of orbit before they’ve even docked in the hangar, consensus clearly being to get the hell out of dodge as fast as the blimp could take them. Gearshift still gives them a soft landing and they open the hatch to an almighty contingent of troopers and officers welcoming them back. The specifics of the reunions are lost on Ben who hangs back with Luke, allowing Cody to begrudgingly bask in his men’s joy at his survival.

“Alright,” Cody yells at one point, ears red, and patience for people being nice to him clearly at its limit, “I’m certain most of you are on-duty right now.” That sends about a third of them grumbling good-naturedly back to their posts, with those on their off-shift milling around more determinedly but still drifting slowly away.

Once it’s down to a handful of officers and the hangar techs, Luke and Ben rejoin Cody, in time to see Captain Whisker break his hug and half-jokingly, half-desperately say, “Please don’t ever abandon me like that again, I do not want your job.”

Cody snorts, “Well I didn’t intend to be thrown out of the skiff, but I’ll do my best for you in future," grinning at Ben and Luke as he says it, before dramatically doing a walk around the emptying hangar inspecting things. “You seemed to have kept my girl afloat so you managed the hardest part.” Whisker bears the inspection with admirable grace, and Ben has to field some overly-grateful thanks from the remaining men— save Rex, who is alternating between watching him and watching Cody. 

Brisk barrelling through to check on Cody, muttering about concussions and falls and generalised insanity does the work to drive everyone but the two captains away. He drags Cody over to a seating area off of the hangar, wanting to make sure the Commander had in fact been okay Ben follows. Cody is, by some luck, completely fine, but following means that Ben has no chance to flee  and while Ben is getting checked out Whisker has to return to the bridge.

“By some miracle,” an unimpressed Brisk announces as he packs up to return to ‘his sane patients,’ an-already-bored-with-Ben’s-company Luke in tow, “you and the general seemed to have survived this ordeal, but in future do kindly cut the nonsense down, if you would Commander.”

Cody snorts as Brisk leaves, and Rex, who had been there, but quiet, finally comes over. Ben hides a smile, that quickly vanishes when he clocks the look on the Captain’s face.

“There’s little chance of that, is there Codes?” Rex asks, icily, “You seem to thrive on terrible decisions at the moment.” Oh Force. 

“Just like that you trusted him?” Fox asks, dubious, “Organa makes one vague statement about needing to introduce you to someone and then you followed him?” If Ferus didn’t know better he might think that Fox was retroactively worried about him. He tries not to be touched by the concern.

“I’m very charming, Commander,” Bail offers and Ferus laughs at the look of outraged indignation Fox meets that claim with.

“You know you and Roan probably would get along,” Ferus says, hoping to forestall the squabble. He does, only because Fox is too busy looking conflicted to argue with Bail's claims. “He basically said the same thing to me back then.”

Roan had been… less than impressed that Ferus was so quickly willing to follow Bail out of the assembly hall. Breha in turn had been unimpressed with Roan’s insistence in accompanying Ferus to their quarters, Ferus she’d accept, on Bail’s word, but Obi-Wan’s friend’s friend was too tenuous a relationship to be brooked. In hindsight, her and Roan’s whispered polite interrogation of each other as the four of them made as inconspicuous an exit as anyone in the company of royalty can manage had been hilarious. At the time, Ferus had been on edge, painfully aware of how many people loyal to Palpatine were in the room. He hadn’t known at the time what had gone down, but nobody else could have ensured that all traces of the Jedi were erased.

“How did Bail convince him?” Fox asks, pained.

“He didn’t. Leia did.”

“Typical,” Fox mutters, but he sounds fond.

“Poor Roan had no chance," Ferus says, Leia had been one of the few things that Roan could appreciate in his return to the Order, "she was adorable at two. And, Force, we made it to the palace and to her room. She was still awake—”

“Even though it was well past her bedtime!” Bail interjects, laugh booming as he resettles, even after Ledi, one of the deck crew, brings over a missive that he reads with a sigh.

“Captain Antilles is an amazing man and an even better captain, but we open the door and he’s standing there looking hectored and exhausted,” Ferus remembers the bodily slump of relief when the captain had realised reinforcements had arrived, “Leia was in her crib playing with a ball, flinging it up and down using the Force.

“When we walked in she immediately stops what she is doing,” Ferus neglects to mention the way that he had gasped at the sight of her, shaken to his core and paralysed with a queasy mix of hope and terror, “ball floating in the air—she had excellent control for her age—and she cocked her head to one side, and said, with this huge smile on her face, looking right at me, “You’re like me!””

When he checks, Fox is wearing a soft little smile that makes Ferus want to do something foolish like press closer and play with Fox's wonderfully curly hair. He continues the story to distract himself from the little wanting sigh resting in his sternum, “We stayed around for the next few months, Roan setting up a branch in Alderaan while I trained Leia, Breha and Bail some shielding techniques to keep them safe.”

That catches Fox interest, Ferus gives it a day before he is being pestered about shielding. “Anyway,” Ferus says, “after we had to leave again, I was confident enough to start looking for the Order again— after all, Leia would need them eventually. I found them, or rather a cairn left by another Jedi—”

“As fun as this has been, Gentlemen,” Bail interrupts, the five minutes he usually allowed himself before attending to any non-urgent request clearly lapsed, “I think I am needed on the bridge.”

Fox watches him leave, a sharp and suspicious air about him, so Ferus presses a question at Bail through the Force, just to make sure everything is fine.

“They are going over our supplies,” Ferus explains, amused when Fox unclenches. “Do you want me to—”

“Nah you are good," Fox says with a generous wave of his hand, "you followed the Jedi clues and found the Jedi temple, right?”

“More or less,” Ferus agrees with a snicker at a year of stress and desperate yearning being condensed so concisely. The weight of retelling these stories starts to leech out of him, and Ferus sinks deeper in his seat, one leg tapping Fox’s taking comfort in the grounding point of contact.

“So what happened,” Fox asks after a long pause of silence, and Ferus gives him a tired look, trying to figure out what could have been left out. He feels emotionally emptied out.

“With you and your… Roan.” Ferus blinks, trying to parse the stillness of Fox’s expression. He decides this was an attempt to be friendly, he could press but surely one of them undergoing an emotional flaying was sufficient.

“We split up, a year and a half ago,” Ferus admits sadly, not looking at Fox. He's not sure if he could bear pity at the moment. “It had been coming for a while. As my work for the Order grew, there was a while where there weren’t many Jedi other than me who could risk travelling in the Inner and Mid Rims. But by then I had taken on more responsibilities, there was a two year period where we didn’t see each other once, we had plans, but you miss one transfer window...”

 “Couldn’t you have done the—” Fox wiggles his fingers next to his temple, “Jedi thing.”

“We did,” Ferus confirms, amused, “it just wasn’t enough.” It had been at first, it had been sweet, exchanging messages through the Force, the distance of the galaxy nothing in the face of their loves, as they counted down the days until they could meet again. Their reunions were always wonderful and hot, the few missions where they could sync up had been amazing, but after a while it became wearying. “We could only speak when I reached out, and well, he deserved a partner in all senses of the word, who he could rely on. So last time we met, we decided to call it quits.”

“Huh,” Fox offers, looking like he had opinions, but ones that he did not see fit to share.

“He’s well, we’re still friends, and I’m still the Olin in Olin and Lands” Ferus says, staring into the distance, he decided to not mention that most of their correspondence now consisted of business memos, he had some pride. “He’s dating a nice Jedi last I heard— one who’s stationed more permanently with the Rebellion, so he can actually help Roan out.” Ferus isn’t bitter, or even upset, but he had to admit that knowing it was another Jedi had stung for an evening until Kit and Aayla had taken one look at his hangdog expression and bullied him into having drinks.

“I’m sorry,” Fox says, and his tone is inscrutable again, probably wishing he hadn’t asked, but Ferus was grateful he had.

“Thank you, Fox,” Ferus says smiling, he meant it, but the way Fox averted his eyes and scoffed at Ferus earnest gratitude was certainly an inducement. “I—

He’s interrupted by Leia bursting out of the nearby airvent, shrieking and giggling, “Thire found me but he’s stuck!”

Fox makes a sound like a dying bantha, covering his face with his hands for a few momentsm before he decisively stands and leaves, likely to go save his brother.

Leia’s giggles have stopped, as she stares worriedly after him. “Is Fox okay—?”

“Oh darling, I think that was Commander Fox trying not to laugh.” Leia gives him a dubious look. “C’mon, let’s go help,” Ferus says, standing.

Ben slips away, likely sensing the argument in the offing — the last of the men having beat their tactical retreats even earlier when Brisk had arrived brandishing his medkit like a battering ram — and Cody whirls on Rex, “What is your issue, vod’ika?” he demands, breathing hard. He keeps himself as still as possible, wanting to reach out and grab Rex by his nape and hold him, shake him, find out why and when his favourite brother started looking at him like they were strangers.

“What is my issue,” Rex demands, his indignation slicing into anger quickly. He slams his hands down against the table near where Cody had been sitting, “What is your issue Cody?” Cody breathes out harshly, an ugly sound out of his nostrils, but Rex isn't finished. “It seems every week you are finding a new insane way to put yourself, the 212^th and now my men in danger.”

“Rex—” Cody says warningly. He would argue that Rex is being fully unfair since being thrown out of the skiff was hardly what Cody called a good time, but he also knows this has been bubbling for a while.

“You shot the General!” Rex shouts, the sound startling in the empty hangar, everyone having absented themselves to give this long needed argument the space it commanded, “You invited a stranger to take his place! You shoved all the natborn officers out of their positions!” He is breathing heavily now, pacing as he speaks, and Cody holds himself still, fighting the urge to grab Rex and hold him close until they stop shouting at each other.

“I had very good reasons for—”

“You took the 501^st, my men!” Rex says, furious, and not listening. “You just stole us away, stowed us aboard the 212^th like nobody would notice, like we’re your fake general and his son.”

“Your ship was disintegrating!” Cody roars back. “I did it to save you.”

“Yeah, well!” Rex says, indignant as a startled mastif and for a moment they are six and eight, three and four, limbs aching from the rains of the cloning facilities, the accelerated growth, the trials of their trainers, poking and pushing each other, “you ruined my plans.” Cody feels the fight deflate out of him, and he can’t help how his lip twitches in humour, Rex spots it and glares, “Vod,” he says warningly.

“Sorry, Rex,” Cody says, clutching onto his composure by his fingernails, “you had plans?” Rex for a moment looks hurt before he schools his expression, and Cody with a guilty jolt remembers the journey from blond cadet to perfect CT to Arc Trooper to Captain. Recklessness had been a privilege of rank that Rex had only recently felt that he had earned. He sighs, gentles himself the best he can, “I didn’t mean to ruin your plans.”

“You never do,” Rex sighs, pouty, and Cody has to laugh, once, a barked, exhausted sound, at that.

“That is blatantly untrue, I tried many time to stop your plans for that waterlogged creature with the feathers you found when you first deployed.” Cody teases, heart soaring with hope.

“How was I meant to know they were deadly…no, we’re not getting distracted.” Rex levels an accusing finger at Cody’s chest, “You stole my men.”

Cody drops down into a seat, “I didn’t mean to.”

“How do you accidentally—”

Cody growls, “Of course I intentionally co-opted the 501^st,” he pauses, as Rex sinks down into the chair opposite, keeping a careful distance, but there. Joining Cody’s level, “but I wasn’t stealing them, I was trying to save them, save you.”

Rex huffs, and Cody has known him long enough to know that that means he is interested by unwilling to admit it. “Did you hear about the Siege of Ryloth?” Cody asks.

There is a pause, as Rex blinks, in that ‘slight diversion, but alright,’ way of his. He says, cautious, “Yes, I did, only briefly mind you. We’re not the 212^th under Marshal Commander Cody, we didn’t get all the missives.”

Cody nods, not about to get into the fact that Crys and his determined network of relay operators and comms officers, carefully cultivated over years, are why the 212^th gets all the news, rather than any consideration from the wider military structure or protocols, “Right, so you know that Commanders Keeli and Bly both went missing. Presumed dead.”

Rex likely had but he still softens as he connects the dots, “…Vod, I’m sorry. I know they were your batc–”

Cody waves him off determinedly, he needs to actually say this, rather than sink into the pain of his lost vod, “What you may not know is that Wolffe and Gree have both missed their last two check-ins.”

“Cody, I–” Rex says and swallows, “What about the rest of their battalions?”

“It’s a mix, the 327^th and the 104^th have all vanished too, but they were smaller, more specialised battallions. Ponds, Gree and Keeli have been reported gone by their lieutenants who made it to their check-ins scathed but mostly unharmed.” Cody says, as gently as he can manage, because Rex hasn’t had all this information until now, he needs time to make the calculations, to try and remember where his batchmates and bunkmates and friends have all been stationed, to try and figure out who he’s lost.

“Is it—?”

“Worse than that?” Cody prompts, “Yeah, I reckon so, it’s got a lot more dangerous out here to be a clone, a Command-Class clone especially,” Cody says with a sigh, pinching his eyes as he remembers the growing dread and panic of those early days before he had grabbed Boil, Waxer, Whisker and Crys and told them to get them as near the 501^st as possible while it sat for repairs.

“And listen, I’ve not found the cause, but I have found some… patterns, battalions with higher numbers of natborn officers, they were more likely to have a commander or a squadron disappear—”

“They could just be… deserting, going AWOL,”

Cody breathes out slowly, “They could be,” he acknowledges, “but I can’t believe Keeli would do that to his men, let alone Wolffe. You know he’s a loyal bastard.” Rex sighs, agreeing but not happy about it.

“There’s more,” Cody says. “I also noticed that any squadron that Vader takes an interest in seems to lose men, a lot of men, in the weeks and months after.”

“Vader?” Rex says, sharp.

Cody nods, “he’d put in a request for the 501^st for his next mission, once you had a new airship…” Rex nods, his face contorting in that way it does when he is either lying, about to lie, or confused about something. “So, I beat him to it, we were already many men down, the Vigilance had more than enough space, and well…” Cody doesn’t think Rex is going to make him say it but is still glad when he nods.

“You couldn’t have just told me this?” Rex asks, whiny, but Cody would never tell him that, or not now at least.

Instead he levels him with a look, “When, vod’ika, was I meant to do that? With you refusing to talk to me longer than two sentences.”

Rex looks bashful, “I was really mad, Cody,” he looks away, drums his fingers against the surface and then says, quieter, “I– you know you were the first person who believed in me, properly that is, who went out of your way to tell me I wouldn’t just survive to leave Kamino but that I could be worth something,” Cody makes a sound but Rex ignores him, smiling wryly, tragically, “Thorn and the others were great, but I only let them in after you took me under your wing.”

“Rex…”

“It just felt,” Rex says, still not looking at Cody, and as much as Cody would like to be looking at his vod, he doesn’t move, “like you were saying that you didn’t trust me, didn’t trust my leadership, that I’d got my ship destroyed and then Marshal Commander Cody had to step in and keep his defective vod’ika safe once more.”

“Rex,” Cody says, thinking kriff it as he goes to give him a hug, “it was to keep you safe. Not because I didn’t think you could handle it, but because I knew we could handle it better together.”

Rex breathes out harshly, and lets the hug go on, their armour clacking together. “I’m sorry I’ve been so mad.”

Cody snorts, “You kriffing should be, it’s been a nightmare. You’ve made me find someone else to talk tactics with,”

He’d meant Whisker, his Captain; Brisk, his CMO who had batted him out of the medbay more times than Cody cared to count, but Rex sniffs, “Well, the General hasn’t been that bad.” And Cody considers correcting him, but this still feels too tenuous, he doesn’t want to start another fight, and it isn’t like Rex is wrong, so he just thumps Rex in the hug.

Fox is smiling as he leaves Ferus’s quarters, he’d followed Ferus in there from the comms station hectoring him about getting a chance to read a pile of papers that Ferus was fascinatingly unwilling to let Fox get a peek at. He’d suspect it had something to do with the rebellion, but Bail saw him try and sneak a look at had just snorted, completely unconcerned by Fox's attempts at snooping. He’d had no such luck, but watching Ferus blush even as he steadfastly refused was joy enough. Even more joyous was the way that Ferus had all but thrown some books at him, muttering something about giving him some reading material if he was so lacking.

“You have a wonderful day, Knight Olin,” he wheedles, tucking the books under one arm and turning around to get in one last parting shot as the door shuts. He sees Ferus’s face and the fond smile amid the blush and feels a rush of satisfaction.

“I mean this with the utmost respect, Commander Fox,” Ferus’s snootiest voice came, “but kindly get karked.”

The door shuts and Fox barks a shocked laugh, smiling wide where nobody could see him. Fox is delighted that he had needled Ferus into such a temper.

There is a familiar sound of boots coming to a stop on and a sharp intake of breath.

“Thire?” Fox asks, alarmed, when he turns around to find Thire staring at him looking poleaxed. “What’s wrong—?”

“You laughed—”

“And? Ferus knows it’s a joke…”

“I haven’t heard you laugh like that in years,” Thire says, heavy and loaded.

They both look at each other, the space and silence between them loaded and weighty, and...something just gives.

“We doing this?”

“Surely, it’s time,” Thire huffs.

“I guess it is,” Fox agrees, slinging an arm around Thire and dragging him towards the best clear room—his own—grabbing a bottle of indeterminable but likely expensive ale. At Thire’s look, he explains, “We’re not doing this sober or where everyone can hear.”

Thire barks a laugh and Fox wonders if they should just let sleeping sarlaccs lie. Surely this peace is worth preserving, they didn’t need to drag everything out again. But then Fox wanted his brother back. Properly, not this half measure.

They decamp in Fox’s room, allowing him to deposit the intriguing pile of pulpy novels Ferus had allowed him to abscond with. What a Jedi was doing with books like these, Fox was going to find out. He pours them both generous cups of ale, and then refills those cups when they throw those back.

They stare at each other for a moment before they both start speaking at the same time: Thire goes with, “Vod, I’m so sorry,” while Fox opts for “I’m sorry, Thire.”

“Kriffing typical,” Fox mutters, the memory of how easy they used to be with each other is a brand in his chest.

Thire offers him a bare grin, “Age before beauty, you first, Commander."

“I’m sorry,” Fox says, rather than dignifying that comment with a response, and it only hurts a bit.

“You don’t need to be, it was my fault!” Thire says, throwing back his drink in a way.

“Yeah,” Fox sighs, “but I should have had your back.”

“I was mad you didn’t,” which Fox had known but it still makes him flinch. He had bowed to the political pressure, to the fact that Thire wouldn’t say a word to him about why he had done what he had done. At the time it had seemed like the best—the only—option, but it had never sat well with him. 

“You shouldn’t have done it.” It might have been the right thing to do, standing up to Senator Amedda, protecting that family, but Thire had done it in the worst way — publicly and messily.

“Yes, I should have,” Thire says, heavy, and now Fox probably agreed with him, “but I should have warned you.”  

Fox snorts his agreement, remembering how he’d been blindsided with the news that one of the Commanders of the Coruscant was currently cooling his heels in a jail cell from the newspapers. Part of that had been deliberate obfuscation out of Yularen’s office, but had Thire given any of them some kind of hint as to what he was planning they could have interceded.

“It’s only—” Thire starts, hesitant and not making eye-contact, rolling his eyes Fox pours him another cup which is promptly finished, “I didn’t exactly know which Fox I’d be getting at the time.”

The dawning horror that Fox had been glancing at in askance—unable to face the implications—since his first (of far, far too many) paradigm-shifting conversation with Bail shivers across his body. The guilt and powerlessness swamped him.

“Kriff, Fox,” Thire says, “I’m so sorry, I should— I should have done more, I could see you weren’t doing well, but I thought it was stress.” Thire had taken the news of Palpatine’s long and dark influence on Fox like a round to the chest, shaking with his dismay and looking at Fox with a terror for a solid week. At the time Fox has taken it to be reprobation, but…

“It was stress,” Fox concedes, voice more of a croak than anything and his body a distant thing.

Thire snorts kindly, “I thought it was just stress.”

Fox makes an outraged noise, the idea that he could have been stressed to the point of fucking possession was so offensive. He wishes he hasn’t when Thire draws more into himself.

“We should have done more for you, had your back better,” he sounds wretches, in a way that makes Fox itch.

“You weren’t to know,” he says, actually standing up and dragging Thire out of his slump to embrace him, “Assuming I was being influenced by an evil wizard from our stories would have been a hell of a shot to take. Hells, had you brought that kind of idea to me and I might have been the one sending you back to Kamino.”

Thire laughs, it’s a watery sound, but Fox takes it for the win it is.

“Hey,” Cody says softly, coming into the room, he’d knocked and been quietly invited in. 

“Hi,” Ben whispers back, and he looks soft, Luke’s sleeping head pillowed on his lap, one hand stroking through his hair while his other is doing paperwork of some kind. “You and Rex have your chat?”

Cody nods, heart battered from finally starting to clear the air with his favourite brother, too raw to self-monitor and so he finds aching wildly with want. He wanted this to be his, to be able to come back to Ben and Luke, for these quarters, this space to be for him.

He’d come to demand answers, but the idea of doing so seems impossible in the peaceful bubble of the room, so instead Cody asks, “What are you working on?”

“Hmm?” Ben asks, sleepily, “Oh! I just got Captain Whisker to hand me whatever paperwork we’d neglected while we planetside. I know you and Crys will likely want to get a start on the files from the separatists so I figured this was the least I could do.”

Cody is aware that in the scheme of things, picking up the slack on his paperwork is hardly anything compared to what Ben has done for him. Between netting them more than a year’s worth of supplies and literally (and implausibly) saving his life, this barely should have ranked. And yet, this was what had Cody’s breath catching, so desperately thankful for this man he’d stumbled across in the desert.

He must slump or something because Ben jerks his head up towards him, glancing at Luke, conflicted, before saying, “Cody you look exhausted, why don’t you get some rest here and we can chat in the morning? Luke would be delighted to see you when he wakes up.”

Cody snorts, touched by Ben’s offer, he doesn’t intend to take him up on it, simply sitting down on the other bed to more easily chat to Ben without waking the slumbering child. He’s asleep in minutes, the soft warmth of the room after his day impossible to resist.

Chapter Text

Cody’s restful sleep is interrupted five hours and fourteen minutes in. Around about the time the Vigilance should be reaching the hyperlane.

He’s unsure if it’s that, Luke and Ben’s hushed whispering or an innate sense of wrong, but he’s awake, up and out the door, moving to the bridge fast before Ben’s words: “Cody, I—” fully register.

Cody keeps moving. He’ll have to apologise later. But there is just a feeling you get living on a dirigible as long as he has, a sense of the ways that the path through the black of space can be subtly interrupted. It’s one of the few thi—

The alarm system blares just as he’s entering the bridge, most of his officers already gathered.

“Now that’s just freaky,” Boil says, when he spots Cody over the shoulder of Meter at the internal communications panel, clearly having just ordered the dirigible wide alarm. Meter must shoot him a panicked look, because with a smirk, Boil straightens, salutes, and greets Cody with the deference befitting his rank, “Commander on Bridge, Sir!”

“Gentlemen, status report,” Cody orders, hiding quite how pleased he is that the timing worked out so well. The mystique of command was, on the whole, overrated, but when it could be cultivated with no cost to operational efficacy, Cody did enjoy to flex his muscles.

“Pirate raid,” Whisker informs him with the weary sigh of a man who would like to do nothing more than to quit the service and join a commune on some long-forgotten moon. “They are working their way through the airlock now, must have tethered on to the ‘ship when we were prepping to enter the ‘lane. Jig spotted them.”

“Pirate raid?” Ben, who must have followed his abrupt exit from his quarters, asks at the same time that Boil announces, “General and baby-General on Bridge, Sirs!” Cody does in fact not ask about the ‘baby-General’ comment, if he turns around he knows Luke will be there, smiling, and that is all that matters.

“Announce the specifics to the men before they breach,” Cody orders, “and start lock-down procedures. Always bloody something isn’t it?” He gets a good-natured grumble from everyone as they bustle into action.

Cody leans back against the console as his men get to enacting the lockdown, massaging his temple and wishing he could be back in Ben and Luke’s quarters asleep. His men could handle a pirate raid in their sleep and he could be back in the warm comfort. With a sigh he glances around to see if anyone needed any commanding, most were old hands at this point, but some of the new intake may need a bit of guidance. None of his men seem to need anything as the heavy blast doors clunk into place around them and Meter announces their ‘duct only policy’ until the raid had been repelled to the wider dirigible.

Ben and Luke seem to be the only two with any concerns, although it takes some time, with Cody passing another ten minutes of dull monitoring of the situation until Ben comes up to him and the huddle of officers who were keeping close to the central console. Luke had long zipped over to the portviews, trying to get a look at the pirates with the shinies.

“Why are you so calm?” Ben says, more curious than worried. “This is your home, I expected a more...active response.”

“Hardly our first pirate raid,” Whisker says with a snort. “Do you remember that time, with the Weequay?”

“Ugh, do not remind me,” Waxer complains. "I had a headache for a week, I don't know what they stunned us with. I know given our position we make an appealing target, can't help that we have the best dirigible in the fleet, but—"

“Commander Cody,” Ben says, tightly, interrupting the discussion, before it can get going. Ben rarely interrupts the men, which is likely why Cody immediately snaps his head up and looks at him with concern.

“Ben?” he ventures, immediately picking up on the frantic energy coursing through their faux-general. It says something that Cody isn’t quite ready to face directly that he is more worried by Ben’s tone of voice than the imminent danger around them. It also says something that this, a half-hour into a nuisance mid-flight raid on the dirigible, is the first time Ben had seemed concerned, but then Cody has got very good at not prodding the question of that.

“Commander Cody, could you explain to me the 212^th position in the GAR?”

Of all things! “Ben?”

“Please,” Ben says, softly and that’s worse than an order. “Just — the 212^th, in the GAR.”

“I mean we’ve probably been blacklisted,” Cody says, because it is true, they have fully defied orders by this point. He is not quite stalling, but wanting a lead up, Ben is still and Luke sat beside Boil and Waxer is equally so (when he had arrived at their little huddle, Cody is unsure), “just so you know. This very easily could no longer be the case — but we’re the flagship.” Ben freezes and swears. Cody glances quickly over at Luke who is also looking concerned, his small face scrunched up.

“Hey, what’s the issue,” Cody says, getting close and getting a grip on Ben’s vambrace. He looks nauseous. Glancing around at the bridge, at Cody.

“The flagship, Cody,” Ben says, hushed. “I’ve been pretending to be the General of the flagship of the Republic’s fleet. Luke, likely sensing his distress, slides from where he’d been sat, comes closer and attaches one hand to Ben’s belt and another to Cody, and they stand there, touching in three places as Ben looks like he is trying not to lose his mind.

“It is one thing,” Ben says, to Cody and Luke, the men, maybe even himself, “to coast around on any old war dirigible—”

“Hey, General, don’t talk about the Vigilance like that,” Boils interjects loyally, as Waxer makes to silence him. Again, they should probably be focussing on the danger posed by the raiders, but Cody’s men had the rest of the dirigible locked down, and it had been many years since the battalion had considered a raid of this size a threat. The pirates could tire themselves out roaming the halls while Cody handled this. “She’s a great ship,” Boil continues, talking over Waxer’s hand.

“That’s entirely the point!” Ben says, and Cody has never seen him so agitated, hands twisting. “It is one thing to coast around on any other war dirigible. It is a quite another to be doing so on the flagship of the GAR.”

“Is it?” Cody asks, trying to be reasonable. Ben considers his answer, so long that Cody signals for one of his men to help him out. He’s found Ben can’t resist more than one of them asking a question.

“Yeah, General Kenobi,” Waxer says, prodding him with his foot, where he's still sat, having been abandoned by Luke, “what’s the big deal with us being a flagship. It’s not like we’re the Dominance.”

“Hey,” the boys from the 501^st say, actually offended, even though their dirigible actually collapsed on them in mid-transit.  

Cody sighs where he is leaning against one of the desks, considering Ben. Considering Luke who still has a grip on one of his belt loops. His helmet is off like it tends to be on the bridge, and being able to see everyone better. “Is this such an issue?”

“Yes,” Ben says, worrying his robes where they are draped next to him. “It really is. I cannot be the General of the flagship of the GAR.”

“Explain why,” Cody says, frowning. “Being involved with the GAR was a bad idea yesterday and the day before, why is this being the flagship such an issue.”  

Ben looks at Luke, and Luke looks at Ben. They have this way of communicating, of speaking without a word, completely still, just looking at each other, faces blank. With brothers there is always slight tells: their hand signs for one, the turn of a helmet, the brush of a glove, the tilt of an eyebrow, a language of sight and touch spread across millions, borne of years in a galaxy where so often they could only trust each other. The stillness is disconcerting, there is communication Cody knows it, he has seen them come to decisions without exchanging a word, surreptitiously at first, but more and more blatantly as they spent longer on the ship.

They come to a decision, because Luke smiles and Ben sighs.

Cody is trying to be patient, but Ben still hesitates, “Ben, come on,” he says softly, like they are in his office rather than on the bridge surrounded by officers. “Speak to us, you can trust us. We’ve done everything we can to keep you safe.”

“You’re our General,” Boil says, picking up the thread like a good Lieutenant should. “You don’t know shit about military protocol, but you aren’t half terrible when it comes to strategy on the battlefield.”

Ben huffs, “Thank you Lt. Boil, that means a lot.” He looks over once more to Luke who nods firmly, and Ben sighs on last time. Cody sits up straighter, anticipation a blaster round in his gut.

“I’m not your General.” 

“Whoa, what,” Rex says, rejoining their huddle. He’d been checking in with the other parts of the ship with Crys and gives Cody the all-clear. “This is news to me.” Rex slouches next to Cody, but quickly picks up on the vibe. He curses, straightens, “Uh, what’s going on over here?”

“I failed to realise that this is the GAR flagship,” Ben says, watching Rex intently.

“So? Big whoop,” Rex says with the disrespect of a younger brother, “the Dominance was much better.”

“Vod, it shook apart in a hyperlane,” Cody snaps, wanting to be done with this tangent that he suspects Ben is using as a distraction.

“Details, details,” Rex says, batting Cody’s concerns away, almost too gladly. There is something shifty in Rex’s posture, but Cody can only handle this kind of nonsense from one man at a time, so he focusses his attention to Ben, noting that Rex jumps on the opportunity. “So why’re you so insistent about this whole General-thing today, then?” Rex asks, and there is something about the tone that must press Ben in some way because he sighs deeply.

“Right, okay,” Ben says, before he mutters something which sounded like ‘can’t believe I’m doing this.’

Ben breathes in, steeling himself. “The Vigilance being the flagship is an issue... because I’m a Jedi.”

Rex freezes, Boil snorts and Fives laughs, while Cody frowns waiting to understand the joke. Ben is giving them nothing other than an expectant look.

“You’re a Jedi?”

“Yes.”

“Like the stories?”

“The stories?” Ben says, genuinely puzzled, “I guess? But more specifically, like the GAR’s most wanted list.”

“The GAR’s most wanted list?” Cody repeats, wishing he had a direct line to Fox on Coruscant who would be able to bore him back to solid ground with his stories about the mundane madness of the Guard. Cody bets he wasn’t having to deal with this nonsense.

“Yes,” Ben sighs, “I am certain I — and any Jedi still alive— will be on on it.”

“If you are, then it’s news to us,” Cody says slowly, desperately casting around for a way to handle his eccentric...Ben suddenly claiming to be a member of a mythical order.

“What stories?” Luke asks, piping up for the first time in a while.

“You know the ones,” Waxer says, hopefully not realising that a child asked the question, “those schlocky erotic novels about the warrior monks and the smugglers with hearts of golds that save them.”

Breathing out through his nose, Cody says, “No, I meant the ones that we were told when we were fresh out the vats. Not the ones that you badly smuggle aboard my airship.” He neglects to mention that he availed himself of the choicer volumes, unlike his men, Cody knew the meaning of the word discretion.

“Oh those,” Waxer says, unrepentant.

“I’m sorry, but did you just say erotic novels?” Ben says faintly, “there is Jedi erotica?”

He then flinches and looks at Luke.

“Definitely not,” Fives says with a grin, “we cannot confirm the existence of any illicit novels of a romantic nature on the Marshal Commander’s airship, that would be wrong and against regs and entirely inappropriate for a Republic military vessel.”

“Marshal Commander?” Ben repeats faintly, and Cody winces. “Marshal Commander Cody?”

“Yessir.”

“Don’t mind me, Bail,” Ferus says, plaintive but not looking up from his desk. He’s writing, or looks like he is trying to be: pen spinning between his fingers in long twirling loops, as he stares at half empty page in front of him. “Just doing important work for the rebellion.”

“That doesn’t look like rebellion work,” Fox observes, walking closer to get a glimpse of what isn’t being written. Ferus swears, quickly trying to cover his pages, but Fox is faster and has slid one of the top most sheets out from under his grip. But he forgets that he is dealing with a karking Jedi and watches as Ferus steals it back, floating it to safety.

“It is,” Ferus says snootily, he’s shuffling his papers back into order officiously, but the high red colour on his cheeks suggests that there is more to his reaction than keeping Resistance secrets. Fox steps closer so he can lean against the desk, wondering if he can intimidate Ferus into giving him a glimpse, but no luck. He might be quick to blush, but Ferus kept a steady hand. “It just may not feel as important as I sometimes hope it does.”

Fox hums in agreement, inviting Ferus to say more, even as he tries to find an opportunity to sneak a look at the pages. Ferus writes a lot. When he isn’t meditating or sparring with the Princess, speaking quietly to Bail, or bothering Fox, he can be found head down pen moving, but Fox has never been able to sneak past his cagey protection of his work.

After reading those books Ferus had given him as a deflection, Fox burns with curiosity, “Come on,” he wheedles, “wouldn’t it be easier for both of us if you just showed me and then you can get on with your "oh so important work" without distraction.”

Ferus is considering it. Fox can tell. He’s pretending otherwise, but he has that look on his face, the one he gets when he’s about to give into Leia. A fond, resigned acquiescence. Fox makes note of the warmth that realisation fills him with, to be explored and considered at a later date.

“I’ve already made my way through those books you gave me,” Fox says, rapping a knuckle against the returning pile he had quite frankly devoured. If asked, Fox is going to blame boredom, but in the privacy of his own head he can admit that once he started the books he was hooked, speeding through them as the characters and dialogues danced.

Which: “This Lin Ertrus really knows her stuff, about the Jedi,” Fox says, with measured nonchalance, watching Ferus as closely as he could manage without being overt. And there it is, a slight darkening of the colour high on Ferus’ cheekbones. Fox smiles, “I didn’t expect that an author would know so much about your Order and the Force.”

“Now that Frio Osto, on the other hand,” Fox continues, enjoying the way Ferus tries and fails to stay indifferent, “now he could write a sex scene. More importantly, he seemed to really know what it is like to live with a Jedi.”

“If I let you read these pages will you stop,” Ferus asks, looking at the third, and oldest, book in Fox’s pile with immense trepidation.

“I think I can agree to those terms,” Fox decides magnanimously, resisting the urge to crow with victory when Ferus, with the reluctance of a court-martialled shiny hands over his manuscript.

He immediately starts to read them, desperate to have his suspicions confirmed. When he glances up, having skimmed his way through the first chapter—you read reports fast or you didn’t sleep, in the Guard— Fox takes in the way Ferus seems to have deflated.

Ben visibly flounders for something to say to Cody’s title, but marshals himself by deciding to put the matter to the side. “That is beside the point. What matters is that I am a Jedi and you are all in danger for harbouring me as long as you have.”

“Ben, I know you are displeased,” Cody says, “I should have been more upfront with you, but there is no need to go around making up that you are a member of a fictious religious order to leave us. You can just go.” It hurts, that Ben wants to leave, after everything they’d been through, after everything Ben had done to keep Cody alive…

Ben pinches the bridge of his nose, and Luke is looking delighted like they are putting on a show for his entertainment. Ben mutters something like I cannot believe I’m doing this. “Fictious?” he confirms with a twist to his mouth, the rest of them nod confidently. And Ben sighs again, looking at Luke who nods frantically, gleeful.

Ben moves back from Cody and Luke, Luke dropping his hand even before he starts moving. Ben takes a quick look around the room, settles on something just to the left of Cody, quirks his lip, stretches out a hand and then— nothing.

Except. Except there are sharp breaths around Cody, and everyone’s attention seems to be to his left, so he slants his eyes over. To where his helmet had been, only it is no longer there. Instead it is hovering a few feet above, hanging in the air. Cody makes to grab for it, to touch and see what is happening. But as he reaches the helmet moves away from him, first towards Boil, Waxer, and Fives, then towards Rex who is standing there, impassive, compared to the startled delight of everyone else, finally the helmet, Cody’s helmet, makes its way to Ben, to his outstretched hand. The movement is easy, gentle, unrushed.

The Force.

That’s what the trainers had called it, back when they used to tell the clones that the Jedi were coming, that they would be their generals and they would fight side-by-side. They had been told that the Jedi could use the Force, could lift things, from pens to men in armour, that they could throw them.

But the Jedi had been an Order, there were meant to be thousands of them, not one man, a brilliant one, but a singular one. Probably Luke as well, if Cody understands anything about natborn genetics.

“That’s so cool,” Fives says, “do it again.”

Ben smiles, looks over at Fives and says, “May I?” Fives nods his head, going to take off his bucket, but instead he rises himself, that unseen power levitating him. It is just a few feet above the ground, with Fives letting out a crow of delight, before Ben slowly drifts him back down and deposits him on his feet.

“Holy kark, that is cool,” Fives repeats, staring at Ben in a way that makes Cody distinctly nervous.

Waxer is looking more considering, “Weren’t the Jedi meant to be a religion?” And Cody is so pleased he hadn’t been the one to ask because — though he hides it well — Ben flinches like Waxer had just shot him. “I mean, General, you could just be a space wizard, I’m still not convinced that the Jedi are real.”

Ben stands, breathes out frustrated, but also amused, if the gleam of his eyes is any indicator. “The Jedi are real, and I am a Jedi.”

He removes something from his belt, a metal cylinder, presses a button on it and they watch as it powers it up, revealing a gleaming beam of blue laser. Ben twirls it once, twice, control perfect and stance more confident and comfortable than anything Cody has seen from him yet. He then flicks a hand out and the doors open.

Cody jerks forward, hand dropping to his weapon, alert to the danger but Ben is striding out, deflecting the fire from the pirates with an actual smile on his face.

He is staring, Cody knows he is staring, and he only stops staring when he feels Luke tug at his hand.

“He’s showing off.”

“Wh— what?”

“Ben,” Luke says, sunnily, “he’s showing off for you.”

Cody must have hit his head because there is no conceivable way that any of this is happening. He may in fact utter that thought aloud because Luke, all of eleven, gives him a knowing nod and a pat on the hand.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it,” the child says, acting years older than his age. “And I can protect you, Ben won’t let me go with him, but I can still be useful.” He then removes his own metal cylinder, holding it in a ready position, before it ignites in a similar beam of deadly light.

Has this eleven year old boy been armed the whole time he’s been on Cody’s dirigible?

“This… is this what I think it is?”

“Yes,” Ferus admits, hiding his face which he is fully aware has gone completely red. He is not, generally, ashamed, of his work, but he does object to seeing a hot man— who’s temperament has slipped into one of the characters in this particular novel— read it in front of him. 

“Huh,” Fox says, still paging through the manuscript, he pauses at a particular page and reads for almost a minute. “Hmm.”

This must be a punishment of some kind, from whom, Ferus isn’t sure, but his luck cannot be this bad.

“I never pegged you as a smut peddler.”

Ferus makes a noise, some kind of wheezing wail of mortification.

“Don’t worry,” Fox says,”you write well. It obviously isn’t as polished as your other books, but I assume this one hasn’t been edited yet.”

“I know I write well,” Ferus says, draping his wrist over his eyes and tilting back in a move he had certainly cribbed from one of his heroes, even if he presently couldn’t remember which in the face of Fox’s teasing, so sly and fond. “My life would be so much easier if I didn’t write well.”

“So what’s the problem?” Fox asks, still paging through the manuscript idly.

Deciding not to tell on himself by revealing the fact that it was his crush on the man that was making this experience so singularly mortifying, Ferus fell back to an old classic: “It’s not smut.”

“Ah, my mistake,” Fox says, clearing his throat, ““Jatlo swung his leg—”

“Nope, nope,” Ferus says, positive that he would expire if Fox started reading out one of his sex scenes in front of him, “You’ve made your point. I just meant they—”

“—aren’t only smut,” Fox finishes, smiling that smile that has haunted literally every word Ferus managed to pen during this trip. “They’re romances. Jedi romances. Good ones, I enjoyed them, my men on Coruscant enjoy them...

“Funny that. In a time when nobody is talking about the Jedi… Somehow there are these books, really popular books,” Fox is back to looking at the page, and Ferus has the sense that he is getting a glimpse into Fox-as-Captain-of-the-Guard, sharp and dogged. It is inconveniently sexy. “And it makes a man think. You’re a smart man, a dedicated man, romantic for sure, but I have to wonder—"

And well.

Ferus hadn’t always served the Order and the rebellion in this way. As one of the Jedi with the most established ties to the galaxy outside the Order, with his years dancing across the line of barely legal transshipment and outright smuggling, with his ties to Roan, he had once been charged with protecting and fetching new Force sensitives before Sidious or his Apprentice could get their hands on them.

And then, on a trip to Alderaan to check in with Leia, when Ferus had complained of mild boredom over his long trips, Bail had suggested he take up writing.

Ferus is unsure he’ll ever forgive the man for that particular piece of advice.

When the first book— a kids book with coded stories about the Jedi mixed in with the stories sailors had told Ferus during his padawan days while he and Siri drifted from mission to mission— sold, the Council had been intrigued. When his next book— an attempt to work through some of the confusing morass of lust and love that came with being stuck with Roan on a small dirigible for three-week-long stints— sold well, the Council was paying attention.

When Jedi Master Aayla Secura returned from a mission reporting that she had received a warm welcome and protection from a family who had just finished reading Ferus’ novel—My Love’s Lightsabre—the council called him in for a meeting. Upon realising not only how far Ferus’ novel had circulated, but how much money it had earned — money that had gone directly to the Order’s coffers for retooling long uninhabited temples and to the rebellion’s fund for outfitting their bases — Grand Master Windu had sat him down and frankly asked if he could bear an amendment to his duties.

And Ferus could, and would, bear many things for the Order.

They’d been smart about it, worryingly smart. Ferus had come back from an another trip (this time to offer his second manuscript to a publisher not owned by Olin and Lands) to find an office had been converted for his use and that Siri had convened a tactical unit to assist him. Not only had the council strategized on what they wanted communicated to the wider galaxy (to wit: the Jedi were alive, the Force will be with you, how to your way to the nearest temple if you need anything). But they had played around with genres to see what had the biggest impact, and romances and erotica had won by a country mile.

Others in the Order had tried their hand at writing, but Ferus’ novels sold best and travelled farther. So they refocussed: children’s books were deemed worth it, but not worth Ferus’s time, with a rotating group of knights and padawans put to work on those, while Ferus had editing help and a handful of gossipy assistants who would collect and anonymise any tidbits they came across, as inspiration for the romance novels. 

It was, without a doubt the strangest use of his time over the past seven years. But, eighteen books later, Ferus could hardly argue with the results.

“You have to wonder whether there is some ulterior motive?” Ferus says, finishing Fox’s dangled theorising. “Now, Commander Fox how could that possibly work?”

Chapter Text

“We’re in,” Cody says, standing at Ben and Luke's door. He knows that Boil and Waxer behind him are grinning.

He’d had to talk the men down to two representatives so not to overwhelm. Boil and Waxer had won out as Luke’s unstated—but inarguable—favourite babysitters.

Ben’s handling of the pirate raid, had been...something. Something impressive, something terrifying, something astoundingly hot. By the time they had followed from the bridge, there was only time to see Ben use his lightsabre to knock the harpoon gun out of one of the raider’s hands and send another careening into the wall of the hangar. In retrospect, Jedi was a pretty good explanation for everything about Ben and Luke’s…odder behaviour in recent weeks. The whole time, if Cody is being honest. Their quick trust, those quiet looks between them, Luke’s unshakeable conviction about the Separatist ship. All hallmarks of the heroes and heroines of the confiscated (and quietly recirculated) novels that Cody has been paging through over the years. Ben must have tried to use the Force to save Cody, risking everything, if the terrified way that Ben kept looking at him since the revelation is any kind of clue.

He still doesn't quite understand what must have happened for the Jedi to slip into myth and fantasy, but he knows they are being let in on a well guarded secret.

After the rout— with the pirates dazed, hogtied and quietly escorted to the brig by a grumbling Fives and Echo— Ben had seemed to have a crisis of confidence. Muttering about betrayals and loss of trust. Bemused, Cody had managed to convince him—Luke had been unconcerned in the extreme—that they didn’t care that they were Jedi. (That was, technically untrue, Cody cared deeply, but not in any way that Ben should be concerned about but rather in a breathless, twirling his hair around his fingers way. Which, granted, may be concerning, but Cody was keeping that shit stowed.) But Ben was still insisting that he and Luke had to leave, repeating at intervals whenever one of Cody’s men echoed their continued faith, “We’re in the rebellion. Being near us is treason.”

Cody wondered whether the Jedi and the Rebellion one and the same; Ben didn't seem in a fit state to answer.

Eventually, invoking non-existent post-raid protocols, Cody had managed to usher Ben and Luke back to their quarters, giving him the opportunity to gather his officers and get a sense of where the men were landing viz. their General being a Jedi and perhaps also a member of the Rebellion they were ostensibly tasked with routing, alongside their entrenched battles with the Separatists.

The consensus had been clear and fast.

“You’re in...what?” Ben says after a few moments where he looks at them, eyebrows drawn together. He had looked better, and Cody perhaps should have approached this situation with more delicacy, but why break their pattern of overdramatic declarations when it had worked so well for them thus far?

“We’re in, the rebellion, we’ve signed up—we’re signing up? We’re rebelling, let’s go join them.” Cody says, coming further into the quarters, and with every word he feels more and more certain, it feels right, like it did giving the order not to shoot, picking up the 501^st, orchestrating that first transfer of a natborn officer off his airship. Stopping Konstantine, persuading Ben to stay. 

“No,” Ben says, drawing in on himself, “You can’t—”

“Are they going to turn us away?” Cody asks, leaning against the desk, enjoying himself probably a bit too much. He’s spent the past hours feeling off-balance and uncertain, unprepared for how much of his sense of stability had come from trusting that he understood Ben. The recent revelations had thrown him a loop and he was happy to be returning the favour even somewhat.

“Of course not,” Ben snaps, “I mean to say: you cannot throw your safety away like this. You will be painting a target on the backs of each of the men here.”

“It’s a good thing you got us some extra armour then isn’t it?” Cody says, watching Ben step in closer.

“Cody,” Ben says, “Why are you doing this?”

Cody has an answer, he has many.

“Because the Republic isn’t a Republic anymore, because the Admiralty might actively be trying to kill us with this pointless war. Because I’m sick of my brothers dying for men who won’t do them the courtesy of learning their names. Because I asked the men and they are game, because anyone who fights a battle like you can is someone we” — I — “want to be fighting beside.

“Because, I’ve taken stock of my actions over the past three years and have found them to be rebellious to the point of treason and mutiny, so I may as well put the correct label on it.”

“Cody,” Ben says, hand moving like he wants to reach out, but he holds himself still and doesn’t say anything further. Cody wishes he would, he wants nothing more than for this man, this Jedi in front of him to push closer and touch him.

“We’re in,” Cody repeats, instead, because all of what he said is true, even if he wants more. “Just tell us where to go and we will turn up at this Rebel Alliance with two battalions of clone soldiers, the GAR’s flagship dirigible, whatever supplies we have left, you and Luke, and join them.”

“Cody,” Ben says, and Cody doesn’t tell him that he has said his name in three different, layered ways in this conversation alone. He doesn’t know what to do with how much he notices stuff like that. This time it’s pleased, but there is something else, another note to Ben’s tone— maybe embarrassed, maybe nervous. They are only two syllables, how many different ways can it be said. “I don’t—”

“Please don’t tell us no again, surely you trust us to decide for ourselves.” Cody says, softly.

“Of course not,” Ben says, and he definitely is looking embarrassed, “It’s just — oh Force — I don’t know where they are,” he says it fast, rushed, the words sliding into one another.

Cody glances at Luke, who has kept surprisingly quiet throughout this conversation, Luke looks back at Cody steadily.  “I’m sorry?”

“The Rebellion,” Ben says, mortified, “I don’t know where they are.”

Cody looks at him despairingly. At the door, he hears the telltale sound of Boil’s choked laughter.

“You… don’t know where the rebellion is? The rebellion you made a song and dance about being a member of? The Rebellion that you were going to leave us because you are a member of? That rebellion?”

“Cody,” Ben says, and there, that’s four.

“I’m just getting my intelligence in order,” Cody says mildly.

“I founded the Rebellion,” Ben protests, and Cody will be unpacking that with him later, perhaps most of his recent shocks would have been mitigated had Cody asked precisely what had got Ben in Konstantine and Durge’s crosshairs. He wouldn’t have gotten a straight answer, given the stakes, but he could have pushed harder. “And then removed myself for its safety.”

“Hmm,” Cody says, “you seem to do that a lot.” Ben flushes, and Luke laughs. “Well, I suppose we better start looking for it. Lieutenants, could you get Wooley and Crys to get started combing through our gathered intelligence?”

“Aye, Commander,” Waxer says, as Boil adds, “Oi, kid, want to join us?” Luke looks at Cody, at Ben and then nods, hurrying after Cody’s ARC troopers, leaving Ben and Cody standing in their quarters.

Standing there, still close enough to touch, Ben says “Cody,” again.

“Ben,” he returns mildly and Ben sighs.

“You should tell the men to check for planets with links to Alderaan.”

“Oh I should, should I?” Cody asks, mildly, keeping his face impassive.

Ben smiles, “Yes, alright, I’ll do a debriefing to tell them — and you — everything I know.”

“Whatever you think best, General Kenobi,” Cody says, a hypothesis on his mind, and for the first time since he arrived, Ben doesn’t flinch at that name.

Instead he grabs his vambraces, slipping them on over the sleeves of his tunic, “I always want to hear your thoughts on my plans, Marshal Commander Cody,” Cody huffs, and Ben softens, going genuine, “I believe we work better when we discuss our best steps forward. Together.” He gestures for Cody to lead them out the door into the dirigible hallways, and Cody tries not to read into the metaphor of it all.

Somewhere along the way Fox has made a tactical misstep.

It probably started with him teasing Ferus, flush with the success of his investigation, of having won another new piece of this fascinating man. He’d been leaning against Ferus’ desk while he valiantly tried to get working again (on his tactical smut!) and Fox, not wanting his attention to slip away just yet, flirted something idly out.

He had just wanted a reaction: to see Ferus blush again. To get the man who has been haunting his thoughts since he came onboard to look his way once more before he got on with his evening.

Fox did not expect the devastating campaign of terror Ferus was going to wage in return. He’d thought it was hot, at the time, the way Ferus’s eyes had gone sharp and he had nodded once, decisively, as Fox looked down at him from his perch. Watching for his reaction with the bated breath of an expectant teaser, listing forwards to catch the flush of his success.

He'd been thrown when Ferus had stood up, trailing his fingers up Fox's arm, saying with a devastating twist of his lips, "But Commander, how do you expect me to concentrate with you here looking like you do?" Flustered by the sudden turn in energy, Fox had mumbled something and Ferus had shot him a heated look before leaving with his manuscript. Fox had thought that was the end of it, giving Ferus a point as he stood dumbfounded in his wake.  

He was a fool.

It turns out that Ferus has untapped well of patience and that Fox can dish it out far better than he can take it.

He finds himself driven to distraction over the course of the next week, as Ferus takes every part of that sharp, tactical mind, borne of strategising for his cause and spinning doctrine and ethos into stories that would sell and speak to readers, and uses it to assault Fox’s composure.

He touches, he teases, laughing so sweetly and seeking out Fox constantly so he scarcely gets relief: except for the times when Ferus leaves him alone and missing his sly, sweet presence.

It’s maddening.

It would be cruel if Fox hadn’t brought it on himself.

Ferus sits next to him, during a briefing Organa is leading for Fox and Thire.

Fox is being told important political and tactical information, he is being pitched the Rebellion, he’s being recruited. For the first time in his life, someone who wants Fox’s expertise and skills is asking for it nicely, rather than ordering him about the place. He should be paying attention.

And yet. Fox can hardly pay attention to anything beyond the long warm press of Ferus against his side, the way he keep leaning over, breath warm and soft, to whisper commentary in Fox’s ear. Catching syllables, devastating for the way that they reveal Ferus’ deep, logistical and commanding role in a movement whose scale and magnitude the best GAR intelligence could have scarcely conceived.

It shouldn’t be appealing. But then, there is a chance that someone designed Ferus in a lab specifically to drive Fox to distraction.

Thire, when Fox glances over is nodding along with what Organa is saying, so he’s probably safe to offer Organa a look of neutral consideration, on the occaisions he catches the man’s eye, casting for something to look at that isn't Ferus. When the briefing ends and Ferus follows Organa out for tea, Fox sits in place dazed until Thire thumps him.

A particularly low moment is during a spar, agreed to in a fit of madness, when Ferus slips under Fox’s guard, lingers there for a moment, and then flips him over his hip. He uses the Force to soften Fox’s slam down to the ground, so the way the breath is knocked out of him has nothing to do with the fall.

Thire and Organa are no help, seemingly to conspire with this campaign: duties shift, seats swap and plans are changed, so that Fox cannot go a day without spending hours working side-by-side a smilingly able Jedi who is hellbent on driving him insane. He’s unsure if Ferus recruited them or if they decided to betray Fox out of the goodness of their hearts, but he does not give their innocent act an ounce of credence.

Hiding behind the child offers no respite: Leia is a traitor and a fiend, unable to be bought off with bribes or promises. Fox’s attempts to use her as a shield, desperately offering to read to her or practice or even just sit with her, had two equally troublesome outcomes. Either, she would spend their time bringing up Ferus (—he’s pretty sure she had done this before, there’s no way Ferus would stoop so low as to using an eleven year old in his campaign of terror). Or she would use her Jedi homing beacon and summon her tutor from the bowels of the dirigible, and then Fox had to witness the sweet way they spoke and interacted. One time he found himself pressed close, Leia sprawled across both their laps, having fallen asleep, a smug smile on her lips.

Ferus had given him this inscrutable shrug, offering to carry her to her bed and free him, leaving Fox no choice but to look away and mutter that it was fine, she (and by extension Ferus) could stay a bit longer.

“Ferus,” Organa says and Fox snaps out of his daze, he’d been following the meeting in a similar way he endured the drudgery of the Guard audits, with half his mind dedicated to something better (which accounted to almost anything in the wide galaxy), “how is our progress?”

“Good,” Ferus says, sat across from Fox today and that choice was not the relief it should have been, “I’m ready to publish.”

How Ferus had the time to finish the forsaken novel on top of his single-minded project to take protracted revenge on Fox for his hubris, he did not know. He’d stumbled upon the man, early one morning, as he completed his run around the dirigible—the longest path through the corridors and walkways long since figured out—seemingly meditating beside a port view, eyes glassy and unseeing as his pen made notes on the open pages of his manuscript. With each successive lap, Ferus progressed through the pile, until on Fox's eighth pass, timed fortuitously, the connection broke and Ferus came back to himself, spotting Fox, sweaty from the passes near the engine and offered a wry smile and an explanation, “My editors.”

“Excellent,” Organa says, pleased. “Captain Antilles tells me we are a day out.”

Ferus huffs, "Why ask if I had to be ready by tomorrow?"

"I had utter faith in your ability," Organa says. To Fox and Thire, he adds, “This should be our last stop until we reach the Rebellion.

"Once there you can decide whether you wish to stay, or where you want to go next. As I’ve said, we’d love for you to stay on, but if you’d rather leave, we can certainly facilitate that.”

Horror crashes through Fox: leave? He—he hadn’t even thought to prepare himself for leaving the Tantive.

It had been a week since Ben and Luke’s big revelation, and Cody is realising, to his disappointment, that the support of two battalions worth of his highly trained men has—so far— been no great help in locating the Jedi.

Finding a rebel alliance is equally, unfortunately, unsurprisingly, harder than Cody had hoped. Crys is scouring his carefully kept records for any of the descriptions, names, traces, that Ben has suggested. Some of the names coming up had Cody—and Rex— twitching. He wished again for a reliable way to reach out to Fox or Stone back on Coruscant to ask if they could just go and ask the Senator for Alderaan for the address to the Rebellion— and, if he had a moment, for an explanation on quite how he managed to hide under their noses.

When a breakthrough comes, it comes from a thoroughly unexpected place.

Cody and Ben are in his suite, off-shift after a long morning on the bridge. Cody is ostensibly checking his log for any intelligence he may have recorded (he is mostly pacing), while a bored, almost guilty-seeming, Ben is reading one of the trashy novels in the “confiscated” phase of the cycle Cody and the men had been locked in for half a decade. 

“Fuck,” Ben says, feelingly, with a small helpless, relieved laugh and Cody jerks his attention towards him.

“Ben?”

He’s holding the book, looking at it like it has just given him the answer to all of his problems. Cody glances at the cover page, flushing to realise that it is one of his favourites, with two Jedi padawans who fall in love on a mission after being friends and confidants for years. A Lin Ertrus classic. He’d thought it was just dumb fiction, but having learned more about the Jedi from Ben during their recent debriefs, Cody is realising that some of the novels may have a passing resemblance to Ben’s life before the Jedi fled.

“Are there more of these?” Ben asks, urgently.

“By this author, or just…uh... Jedi romances in general?” Cody asks, carefully not focussing on why romance novels are of such interest.

“Both,” Ben says, and there is an excited sparkle in his eyes that Cody allows himself a moment to enjoy.

“Yes, probably,” he forces himself to say, “across the ship.” There are three in his quarters alone, but Cody is hoping not to need to reveal that fact. “We probably have as many of her books as there are, and most of the other Jedi romances in publication.”

“Excellent,” Ben breathes, looking relieved in a way that Cody did not know what to do with.

“Is it?” Cody can’t help but ask, “I would have thought Jedi would not— uh—”

Ben actually snorts, “You don’t think we are the natural heroes of erotic novels? Commander Cody, my dear, you wound me.”

“No! That’s not what I—” Cody’s cheeks are embarrassingly warm as he tries to dig himself out of this hole.

“Relax, darling, I’m teasing you,” Ben says, all but lounging, “It’s been a while, since I’ve checked with them directly, but I can say with certainty the Jedi Order doesn’t mind.”

Cody starts to breathe a sigh of relief that gets caught in his throat when Ben adds, pleased as a tooka, “They certainly shouldn’t, given that they wrote the damn things.”

Battling a cough for the ability to speak, Cody eventually manages to croak, “I’m sorry, the Jedi Order…”

“Wrote erotica, keep up dear man,” Ben says, toothy with his delight. “Granted, I’ll need to read some of the others to know how deep this goes.” And that he pauses, and Cody burns brighter, “But I can say with confidence that at least this one is written by a Jedi, with a very specific aim.”

“Are you telling me a Jedi wrote this porn?”

“Tasteful erotica, please, Cody,” Ben says, standing, enjoying himself far more than a member of a quasi-religious order who just found out one of his former colleagues has been writing smutty romance novels about their order should be. “You’re looking a bit peaky there, Commander. Maybe you should take a seat.” He then pulls it out for Cody with a flick of the wrist and the Force.

Cody collapses into the proffered chair, mind reeling as he tried to stop himself guiltily remembering how many of these cursed books he’d… glanced over in his time. He leashes his concentration back on task, “You said specific aim.”

“Believe it or not, Commander, I think these novels may have been written to help guide Jedi back into the fold.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, I refuse to believe—” Cody starts, trailing off, “—the Jedi are respected, stoic, they do not write cheap erotica laced with instructions.”

“Cheap?” Ben asks, rolling the word around his mouth which makes Cody realise quite how  thoroughly he is being played with, yet unable to do anything about it. “Denigrating the hard work of my fellow Jedi, not to mention the men’s edifying taste in literature…”

“Sir, please.” Cody begs, covering his face with his hands, unable to cope with Ben teasing him alongside the realisation that the much trafficked erotica on the Vigilance may have held the secrets they have been searching for all along.

Ben pouts, but sobers up, “My fun aside, Cody, I really do believe what I said: I need to read whatever you and the men have on hand.”

“Sir, you have to understand,” Cody says with a sigh, “of all the ways I feared a general turning around to me one day and demanding to see the erotica that the men have been reading, this did not come up once.”

“I did promise to help keep things interesting, did I not?” Ben asks, actually batting his eyelashes the incorrigible wretch. He gently prods Cody’s knee from where he’s perched on Cody’s desk. “Come, Commander, if you get the men to gather the books, I’ll let you spend the day distracting Luke and then you won’t have to see me reading your erotica.”

Cody almost sighs in relief, before tensing, “It’s not my erotica.”

“Of course not, Jedi just don’t do it for you,” Ben says with a nod, standing and offering a him a hand up. Cody takes it, because it is quite frankly the least Ben could do, but he regrets it when the motion of Ben pulling him upright brings him close enough to see the way Ben’s eyes dip down to his lips before smirking. “It’s a shame, though.”

And then the bastard leaves.

Cody stares after him, heart beating like he just survived a salvo and unable to hide either his stupid grin or his stupid feelings.

With as much poise as he can manage he follows after already shouting for the most likely culprits to get their shebs to him now.

Ben feels flush, giddy, with his discovery.

The feeling dampens when an unrepentant Waxer carries in yet another crate of romance novels. His work may be cut out for him, but he was hardly going to be daunted, not after surviving a three week stint with Master Nu in the archives. Not when he was so close.

He is disappointed that the subject matter prohibited getting his padawan to assist, searching a text and picking up the clues Ferus (because that has to be who it is) and whoever else had left would have been good training for Luke, but eleven was too young. Especially since he recognises parts of himself in at least a few of these, he knew he and Siri had flirted occasionally while on missions with their two padawans, but he hadn’t realised it was quite so bad.

Ben is relieved that at least half of the gathered books seem to be rip offs of the generic conventions that the Order seems to have established, easily discarded when some implausible nonsense crops up in the first chapter.

He is also grateful to recognise some of his other fellow Jedi in the heroes and heroines of these books—Aayla very clearly informed the Rodian hero of Love in the Bluest Sea; Kit as the inspiration for at least three heroes and heroines by Ben’s count so far and Mace must have sat with Ferus and recounted the oral history of his early productions with the temple theatre group with how accurately he had recreated the feel of shows put on before he even joined the temple in Performances of Passions — because otherwise Ben fears he would have to hurl himself off the dirigible at the next opportunity.

Yet, within each book, amid the passages meant clearly to introduce readers to the Jedi order and what they stood for (as well as unfurl the romances), there are coded references to places—traditional temples, little trafficked planets—paired with real texture that only those who had been inducted into the Order would pick up on. When he gathers them all together, there is a path, or at least a gesture of a path, to where the Order is. Or could be. He can't quite get it to tesselate into anything clear quite yet. As extensive as the collection onboard the Vigilence is, Ben can tell there are some missing volumes from the bibliographies of the four pen names he can directly tie to the Order.

It wasn’t everything they needed but it was a better lead than they had when the day started. 

For the first time in more than a decade Ben lets himself hope. 

“Is Fox okay?” Ferus asks Thire, watching the man flee from Bail’s briefing without a word. Thire shrugs and Ferus frowns, wondering if he had pushed it too far. 

“How’s it going?” Cody says, poking his head into the door of the office that Ben had taken over for his investigation—Luke having sent him away, throwing aside his company in favour of following Fives and Echoes to the firing range. Cody is not offended.

“Excellent," Ben says, "I’ve got some leads for us to try, some clues, nothing definite yet. But I think we're close."

He's resplendent in his joy, his relief, Cody is struck as he nods along.

"There are a bunch of planets—old, long forgotten temples— that keep coming up, and of course, the publishing houses are an option too. I've been taking notes—" he brandished a hefty sheaf of notes. "We just need to figure out what to do with that information. I’ve made a map.”

A map was too generous a word for the rough chart Ben had sketched out, but it is detailed, and Cody, from what he can see even from his spot at the door, reckons Compass could do something with it.

"This is quick work," Cody says, trying not to think about the fact that Ben had read — or at least skimmed — these novels, ones that Cody had returned to in recent weeks as he worked to keep his feelings in check. 

“Now tell me, Commander,” Ben says, angling towards Cody when he joins him at the table, staying seated, but pushing his chair away to give Cody more space to stand and survey the piles of novels. “Which of these books did you particularly enjoy?"

"Uh—" Cody says, unable to stop himself from thinking of the two that he had reread twice since Ben came onboard, the one's with a teasing, brave hero that felt so familiar. Jedi are empaths, did Ben know? 

"Because you know," Ben says, voice loaded, eyes twinkling, "I'm pretty similar to a couple of these characters, you know I even think that I may have inspired—"

Ben is smiling up at him, pleased and flushed with success, and Cody snaps. He is drawing closer and kissing Ben before his brain has fully had the time to think through angles and implications. Thankfully, in this as in all things, Ben has his back and works with him, angling himself up so the kiss lands true; grounding a hand in Cody’s hair to keep him steady. What could have been a moment of panic, of regret, before he realised that Ben was receptive, is rather a feeling of rightness, of burbling affection for this ridiculous man in front of him.

When they break for breath, Ben beams up at him, a new smile on his face, just as pleased, but kinder, warmer. “Finally,” he breathes, with a short laugh, moving back up for another kiss.

Cody considers letting it lie, but he cannot stop his incredulous, “Finally?!” The nerve, the idea, that Ben has been waiting, without giving him any signs.

“Of course, finally,” Ben says, snootily, quickly pulling on a mask of feigned indignation,  “do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you to pick up a hint?”

“A hint?” Cody repeats outraged, “You could have—”

“I’m your general, Cody, just think of the power imbalance,” Ben says, hardly keeping his tone level, he is so amused.

“You—” Cody starts, staring at the smug satisfaction on Ben’s face, the way he is lounging, so kriffing pleased with himself, before deciding that the best move is to haul Ben up for another kiss, this time a biting, frustrated thing. Ben meets his energy, but soon softens and gentles the kiss, turning it languid and sugar-spun in a way that makes Cody’s heart pound even as he melts into Ben, letting him support his weight as he presses forwards.

But because his brain cannot stop working, Cody interrupts their kisses, long overdue, long awaited, to gasp against Ben’s neck, “Wait, couldn’t you leave one of those… cache things? They are Jedi things right? With messages of some kind?” He hadn’t fully understood the significance of Ben and Luke’s encounter with the pile of bolts at the time— he’d noted it but only with context of knowing that they were Jedi did he understand what it might have meant (if only because caches had been a plot in a couple of the novels). 

“Should have realised you clocked that,” Ben murmurs distractedly, pressing a warm line of kisses along Cody’s face before he draws back, more attentive. “The cairns?”

“Yea—” Cody says, angling back in for a kiss, but this time Ben draws away.

“We could leave a cairn at a publishing house,” Ben says, idea visibly growing on him. “While we continue to search, we could leave something—” he trailed off and detangled himself from Cody’s embrace.

“Wait— I need, Luke,” Ben yells, and then his brow furrows and he gets a look of concentration on his face, remembering perhaps that he didn’t need to shout for the boy to hear him.

“Luke?” Cody asks, anchoring a hand on Ben's belt too amused to be properly upset at being cast aside so quickly.

“Yes, trust me,” Ben says, pulling Cody in for another gentle kiss, a fond, glancing thing. “You are a genius and a wonderful man. This is going to work, I can feel it — I have to get Luke to decide something for us.” He moves away, grabbing four of the books on the table, turning them over, so their back covers are on display.

Before Cody can ask, Luke comes barrelling in. The distant sound of a couple of the men giving chase after him suggests he hadn’t told them where he was going.

“Ben!" Luke chirps, barely coming to a stop in the room, "You told me to come.”

“Yes,” Ben says grinning, grabbing Luke in for a hug and picking him up and carrying him over to the table— “I need to tell me which of these books feels right to you.”

Without asking Luke closes his eyes and moves a hand over them. When Wooley gets to the door, Cody shoots him a look and signs for him to be quiet.

“This one,” Luke decides, after a minute of thinking —sensing maybe? — and points towards the far left novel.

“Excellent,” Ben says, letting Luke down—who immediately goes over to Cody and grabs his hand, smiling up at him— so he can pick-up the novel, opening it up to look at the front matter.

Ben then points down to a planet on his chart, “Here’s where we should go next.”

Chapter Text

Ferus blows his hair out of his eye, as he waited for the all-clear from the publishing house.

The tension was thicker than the clouds around them. Between Fox’s towering mood, Bail’s sulk about having to hideout for this stop and Leia’s taking on the ambient stress of the adults like an empathetic sponge things on the Tantive have been strained.

There is a snort, and his eyes snap to his left, where Fox—out of armour, and still barely talking to them—looks caught somewhere between amused and disinterested. Ferus glances to his other side to see a strand of Leia’s hair drifting down, as if she had followed suit and blown her hair out of her eyes too. Ferus smiles.

“Commander,” he says, on an undertone, which has Fox flinching. But then so had his name when they were disembarking, the contrary man. “There is a sweet shop, across the way: perhaps you and the princess could—?”

“Yes,” Leia says, urgent and excited, even though she clearly should not have been listening in. The money pouch Ferus was going to offer is lifted out of his hands and firmly tucked into Fox’s grip in a use of the Force that Ferus should scold, but is going to let pass because it brings the slightest promise of a smile to Fox’s face.

Leia grabs Fox's hand to drag him away, just as the signal is shown through the upper window of the publishing house.

“Leia! Back here in ten minutes and then wait in the office. And bring something back for—”

“Yes, I know,” Leia says, tugging Fox away.

Ferus has never been more glad she is so tiny, as it gives him a chance to dart close and quickly say to Fox: “That money is yours and hers to spend, I know the Guard isn’t—I know the Guard didn't— but if you choose to stay on… the Rebellion doesn’t have much, but we could figure out pay if that—”

“Ferus!” Leia says, cross, when she realises why her efforts to move Fox are having no effect.

Throwing his hands up defensively with a laugh, Ferus steps back, catching the shocked unreadable look on Fox’s face before Ferus’ spirited padawan bears him away. Ferus watches them go for a moment before he takes a fortifying breath and enters into the beast’s den once more.

When Ferus staggers out, a manuscript and his sense of ego lighter, he finds the main office empty. Sga, because he is a kind soul, put on this planet to persevere Ferus’ sanity, not only hands him the newspapers he’d requested on his way in, but quickly assures him that his daughter and husband (?!) are outside waiting for him. Unwilling to contend with the way that makes him feel, Ferus follows the man’s instructions and nearly crashes into an antsy Leia and a confused Fox standing outside the door.

“Ferus!” Leia yells, taking his hand and pulling. Fox’s eyebrows are not capable of sophisticated communication— no matter how animated they are— so he is little help in explaining why Ferus’ padawan is in such a state. He lets her pull him over to the far corner of the building to a detached dirigible tether.

Now that she has pointed it out, Ferus can feel the way that it glows in the Force — his focus, thus far, being trained on Leia and the Tantive, keeping an eye out for those under his protection. He hadn’t been keeping his senses trained for a cairn, not here of all places.

“Ferus, Ferus!” Leia whispers excitedly. “Is that a cairn, did I find a cairn?”

Still stunned at the boldness of leaving a cairn here, of all places, Ferus manages: “Yes, Leia, I think it might be.”

She lets out a triumphant whoop, turning to tell Fox that she told him. Ferus hears Fox’s reply but the words don’t register in the churn of his nerves.

“Can I, oh please can I?” Leia asks, tugging Ferus closer. They didn’t need to touch cairns, but sometimes it felt realer that way, but Ferus draws her back to him. Wrapping a grounding arm around her tiny frame, vibrating with excitement.

“Wait, Leia. I don’t think it’s dangerous,” Ferus says, already reaching out with his senses, “but let me check first.”

In his arms Leia slumps, likely sulking, and Fox comes closer to them, shielding them from the empty street, as Ferus’ senses reach the cairn before them.

Ferus nearly cries out when he realises: he's too sensible at reining himself in to actually do so, he limits himself to a shaky gasp. Because it’s Master Kenobi.

Alive.

Here.

A sign of life, after more than a decade of silence.

And Force.

It’s Luke, too.

He’s alive, as well.

So like Leia.

“So,” Cody says, on the bridge glancing down at the city below. “You sure this is our best bet at finding your Order?”

“Yes!” Luke says, looking up at Cody from where he had been placed on the console so that Hap could fuss with where his armour sat under his robes.

Ben, leaning against the console with an elegant hand draped over his eyes in amusement or dramatic resignation, offer nothing. While Luke had been regaling the men with the procedures of leaving a cairn—an act that Luke had jealously looked forward to as long as he could remember by his woeful recounting— Cody and Ben had snatched themselves some moments to trade worries and kisses. Why he’d had the wonderful idea to give the pair a room to share when they joined the Vigilance was something Cody rued daily.

Planetside, while a contingent of the men descended upon the book, booze and bauble vendors like a cloud of locusts, Cody, Luke and Ben made their way to the publishing house—Avila’s Amour. Luke handed the old tether bequeathed onto him by a fond Tally to Cody so he could grab a hand each of his and Ben’s for the walk.

Once there, Cody watched, enamoured and intrigued as Ben and Luke, casting a careful eye around the street, sunk into a standing meditation.

To his eye, nothing happened, but after a long moment Luke and Ben glance at each other and nod, pleased. Raising an eyebrow to seek his own confirmation, Ben instead takes Cody's hand and guides it over to the tether.

“Here,” Ben says, and then Cody finds himself awash with warmth and then a vision. One that showed Ben and Luke, moving across planets and hyperlanes always together, always alone, training, meditating, visiting other cairns, until, this one. He briefly sees himself, as the vision tapers off and the warmth slowly recedes.

“Oh,” Cody says. “I didn’t— were they all like that?”

He hadn’t precisely blamed Ben and Luke for the danger of their first acquaintance (in fact he had, for months, been grateful for the opportunity it had granted them all), but understanding more of the danger in which they found themselves (incomplete though his understanding remained) he had wondered at the wisdom of continually seeking out of these cairns. Non-existent as their tactical value had apparently been.  

He understood now.

“They,” Ben says, already starting to usher them back to the dirigible, even as he cast one last, wondering look at the publishing house, “were such a comfort to us, over the years.”

When Ferus comes back to himself, Leia has squirmed out of his grip and Fox has moved to his side—still shielding them from the empty street, but now looking at him curiously.

Gruffly, he asks, “Are you alright?”

Ferus nods, resting his head on Fox for a moment as he grapples with what he has seen—the long years of travelling alone, just the two of them, seeking the Jedi, finding their cairns but never them— before he realises that Leia is making a beeline for the cairn.

Because she would have been able to tell, that it might have been significant, but it wasn’t dangerous. And Leia had never had the chance to visit a cairn, had she? No wonder she was so curious. Nobody other than him was ever brazen enough to go to Coruscant, and any Jedi visitors to Alderaan just stopped by the palace.

Ferus gets his words back in time to go, “Fuck, sweetie. I need you to hold off a moment.” Fox snorts, loudly, and Ferus fights his impulse to smile and sweetly thank him for his contribution. Leia thankfully comes back towards him, “I need to ask Bail something before you— just give me a moment?" Leia nods reluctantly.

Bail, Ferus thinks, seeking out his mind with a giddy joy.

Ferus? He gets back, Bail always startled a bit, when contact was made, unused to the feel of anyone other than his daughter. Is there a problem?

No, Ferus says, unsure if the nuance of the joy is perceptible to a non-Jedi, Not a problem. A cairn. It’s Obi-Wan. And Luke. They were here. Bail offers him an awed curse. They left a cairn. Can I tell her.

Obi-Wan is alive? Bail says, Luke is alive? Of course you can tell her.

Do you want to be here? Ferus asks, because surely Bail would want to.

No, tell her now. I’m coming, Bail says with a delighted laugh, his thoughts about disguises and he’ll be “a damn ghost if necessary, Antilles” bleed through. Alive!

Alive! Ferus parrots back, giddy.

He knocks Fox affectionately before crouching down, “Leia.” He says, thinking of how to explain how momentous this cairn was going to be to her, before he remembers who his padawan was, what she was capable of: “this cairn was left by two people who neither me, nor your father and mother told you about, but who are very important to you. Do you want me to tell you who they are now, or after you reach out to the cairn.

Leia thinks about it, serious face pulling in thought. “Tell me,” she says.

Good girl, Ferus thinks, but does not say. Instead he gives her his best neutral-Jedi-master-with-no-opinion-either-way-nod. “Their names are Luke and Obi-Wan Kenobi, and—”

Leia is reaching out to the cairn, face awed, “I know them.”

“You do,” Ferus confirms, amused that she couldn’t wait, once she heard the names— he’d wondered…

“He’s my brother? Luke? He’s like me, isn’t he, bright?” Leia says with wonder and concentration, Fox, still keeping guard chokes on his breath, but doesn’t offer any commentary. She wheels on Ferus, betrayal alight in her eyes, “Luke’s been training for years!”

Before he can defend his pedagogy against her outrage, Leia’s brow furrows, attention slipping back towards the cairn, “the other one… Is he my father? My birthfather, I mean. I… I think I recognise him.

Ferus chokes, imagining for a horrible moment how bad the fallout would have been if Obi-Wan had got Padmé pregnant. The Order had barely survived with things as they were, an affair could have doomed them all.

“No,” Ferus says, “but I think he was there when you were born.”  

Leia takes that information with a thinking hum.

Fox’s short-range radio crackles, and Thire barks out a panicked code.

“Why is the Senator trying to leave the dirigible in Thire’s helmet?” Fox grits out, levelling Ferus with an exasperated look.

“Ah,” Ferus says, sheepish.

After his exchange with Thire, Fox begins firmly escorting Ferus and Leia back to the Tantive — having left Thire under strict orders to keep the Senator from leaving the dirigible on pain of further demotion (did they still have claim to their ranks? Ferus couldn’t say/ he was certain Fox would certainly find a way to make a demotion work regardless). Yet, despite Ferus trying to catch his eye, Fox keeps his distance.

Ferus keeps waiting for him to ask about Bail's shoddy disguise attempt, and also, what the kriff had happened back there. But Fox is quiet during the walk back—keeping a silent watchful eye on the streets— as Ferus fields Leia’s rapid-fire questions with his best attempts at answers. Once they walk up the gang-plank, Bail orders Captain Antilles to take flight again and immediately haul both his daughter and Ferus into a hug with a shouted whoop of joy.

Thire joins Fox in watching them as they transition into a hushed conversation, moving out of the hangar to one of the comfortable spaces nearby.

Book-house situation okay? Thire signs to Fox as they trail after, leaving the careful clockwork of securing the hangar to the able crew. Ferus catches sight of the familiar signs out the corner of his eye, realising with a pang that he hadn’t revealed to the men that he had been taught their language.

Strange: danger unclear, Fox signs back, before palming him one of the sweets he and Leia had picked up. Confusion plain on his face, Thire nonetheless pops the candy in his mouth.

Determining that the conversation was shifting firmly into father-daughter territory, Ferus excuses himself and makes to join Thire and Fox on one side of the room. Leaving Bail and Leia to continue their conversation: Leia climbing onto her father’s lap, seeking an almost animal comfort as he strokes her hair and whispers to her.

Ferus sends her a comforting pulse in the Force, before focussing on Thire and Fox. As he gets closer, he hears Thire say: “So what happened down there?”

Fox sighs: “There was one of the… Jedi relay-cache things outside the publishing house, but I—”

They spot him coming and the conversation trials off: Thire offering an amiable smile and Fox watching his approach, with that inscrutable something in his eye.

Though he leaves a pause for Fox to speak first, Fox does not deign to greet Ferus, leaving Thire to ask, “Everything okay?”

“Yes,” Ferus says, with a smile, “Apologies for leaving you to intervene with Bail’s… illadvised disguise, we were— overly excited.”

“I see,” Thire says, when Fox still has nothing to say, just looking at Ferus. “Are Bail and Leia okay?”

“Yes, there was some… family news, think a Jedi equivalent of a letter from a long-lost uncle. So they are reaching out to Breha—” Thire’s face kind of spasms and Fox gives him a look before refocussing on Ferus who very carefully has no reaction.

“Giving them their space?” Fox asks, sharply.

“I only thought it was right,” Ferus returns, propping himself against the panel closest to him. “Besides, I have something to talk to you both about.”

“Oh?”

“Oh,” Ferus agrees. “Did you both understand what happened planetside?”

“While you were publishing your smut?” Fox asks, his heart isn’t in it, but it’s more than Ferus has had in more than a day.

“My erotica, please, Commander,” Ferus corrects, trying not to get his hopes up, not to push too hard.

“So sorry, your erotica,” Fox says: it’s rote, but it’s something. When Ferus glances at Thire, he thinks he catches sight of a reassuring smile.

“Exactly,” Ferus says, letting himself be somewhat enthused, “We found a cairn, one left by a very important Jedi who we thought was dead. One who has been training and caring for Leia’s long lost twin brother—”

Thire gasps, showily, “It’s like one of your books! The lost prince of Alderaan—”

Fox thumps him, looking briefly some brotherly concoction of furious and mortified and Ferus chuckles: some things hadn’t changed at least.

“Quite,” Ferus agrees, trying not to focus on all the ways that his blasted books were proving to be far too apt for the circumstances. “Anyway, the way these cairns work is that we—Jedi— leave impressions of ourselves in them. We can leave our memories, but we can also leave an impression of who we are with as we are leaving them.”

“A bit like you did when you showed us Ponds?” Thire prompts.

“Yes, a bit like that,” Ferus says. “It’s really interesting actually—”

“How does this affect us?” Fox asks gruffly, nudging Ferus so that he doesn’t venture too far off topic, as he was admittedly very wont to do. Ferus felt his neck warm as he tried not to read a promise in Fox’s nudge.

“One of your brothers, I think he is travelling with this Jedi, Master Kenobi.”

Strangely, Fox relaxes, a tension in his shoulder loosens, before he swells up indignantly, “Are you telling me another one of my stupid brothers is risking their lives to pal around with a Jedi?” Fox demands, outraged, but—performatively so, Ferus thinks.

“Besides Ponds and the others,” Thire offers, grinning. “And us, of course.”

Fox actually growls at him.

Until Ferus says, innocent as anything, “You think we’re friends? Thire, I’m touched.”

He watches, delighted as Fox goes through a dilemma before his eyes. Before he splutters, “I suppose that is why the cache was an old-style GAR dirigible tether.”

Ah, Ferus thinks, making eye contact with Fox, who looks guiltily away. He hadn’t recognised the hardware, but he supposes that could explain part of Fox’s strange tension.

“Yes, that would make sense,” Ferus agrees, softly. “Anyway, do either of you know a Clone who wears golden armours like this—” Ferus sketches out the three sunbeams he remembers from the vision on a notebook he’s learned the hard way to always keep close to hand. “Obi-Wan called him ‘Commander.’” Ferus says, as Fox falls back into a nearby seat.

“Cody,” Fox says, awed, relieved and disbelieving. Thire, too seems to have a reaction, but Ferus’ attention is on Fox.

“You know him?”

“He’s my batchmate—” Fox says, on a breath, “I thought he was likely dead by now. He had a— nightmare of a general heading his way. Should have known he would have found a way to land himself with another one of you crazy Jedi. He always ran towards danger.”

Ferus ignores the hypocrisy of that statement and instead smiles, tapping against the table, “Well think of a message, we’re about to try a family reunion.”

He starts to head away, giving the men the privacy they usually preferred.

Fox scrambles after him, grabbing a hand. Ferus carefully does not react, “Really?”

“Yes, really, Commander Fox,” Ferus says, squeezing the hand now in his, steadying Fox as kindly as he could. “But do think fast— I think the shine on Bail’s distraction for Leia is fading fast and I’m not certain there is a force in this galaxy that could stop her making contact.”

“Ben, Ben, Ben!” Luke shouts, careening into the meeting room where he is caught by Boil before he brains himself on one of the consoles.

“Whoa there, Luke,” Ben says alarmed, standing as quickly as he can, having to untangle his feet from where he had been resting them between Cody’s. “What is it?”

“Someone is trying to use the Force to talk to me!” Luke says, eel-ing out of Boil’s grip to rush over to him. “She says she found us from our cairn, I’ve not let her in yet, but—”

Fighting a decade of fear— who else would be powerful and familiar enough to reach out to Luke without him realising, Ben immediately pushes his senses out, finding the connection probing at Luke and opening his senses to it. Next to him, Cody stands, offering him a supportive squeeze on the shoulder.

“Oh, Luke,” Ben says, joyous and giddy with it— in the Force or aloud, he cannot fully tell — when he realises. “Let her in, dear boy. This is your sister.”

“I have a sister?” Luke repeats, awed. That must have been aloud because Ben is vaguely aware of some of the troopers reacting and Cody’s grip tightening momentarily.

“You do,” Ben says, cursing himself: this was going to have to be a very quick explanation: “She has been hiding with one of my good friends, you are both very important to some very dangerous people—”

He doesn’t finish because Luke has let Leia in, and Ben can feel her fully. She is like her brother, alight in the Force: powerful, bright and so warm. It almost brings Ben to his knees, it might have, if Cody didn’t have a hold of him.

“Hello there,” Ben greets, through the Force, closing his eyes so he can see the faint vision of a fierce, beautiful young girl— shorter than her brother, just barely, watching them with an intense look of concentration on her face. “Luke, please meet your sister: Leia Organa, Princess of Alderaan.”

Luke, tucks closer to Ben, and says, shy and curious, “Hello, Leia.”

“It is so nice to finally meet you, Leia,” Ben says, unable to help the way he wells up. She is alive, Bail and he had done it, they had kept them safe and raised these bright, smart children. “I’m Ben Kenobi.”

“Come, let’s meditate,” Ben instructs, falling into a light seat on the ground. “We can speak more clearly.” He is vaguely aware that Cody is chivvying the men away to give them a bit of privacy. Luke follows, sitting close, a look of delighted wonder on his face as he meditates.

In their connection, Luke and Leia excitedly circle each other, voices a feverpitch and words blurring and tripping past each other.

“Hello,” another voice greets, piggybacking from Leia’s connection the way that Ben was with Luke’s.

It takes a moment and then Ben can see him.

“Ferus.”

“Master Kenobi.”

“None of that dear boy,” Ben says, so fucking happy that he is delirious with it. He is still paying half his attention to Luke and Leia, but Ferus is here and a Jedi again. He looks good, older, settled, in a way that Siri and he had always hoped for the young boy, so awkward and unsure of himself in his adolescence. “Lest you want me to start calling you knight Olin.”

“Our padawans seem to be getting on,” Ferus says, deflecting. Taking Ben in, his older face, his adapted robes, in turn.

“Ben! Leia is going to be making her lightsabre with a Krayt Pearl?!” Luke bellows, too loud for how near they are.

“They really do,” Ben agrees with a wince, glancing over at Luke who is beaming so wide, and Ben knows why they had to keep them apart, why Luke couldn’t follow, but for a moment he aches with the decision that the twins hadn’t had this comfort, this joy their whole lives.

“Luke, come over here,” Ben calls, in the next pause between their conversation, “Come meet Ferus.”

Luke wanders over, Leia following behind, clearly talking up Ferus as she does: “—he’s the best at fighting and so clever.”

“Hello Luke,” Ferus greets, crouching down and offering a hand that Luke takes with stars in his eyes. Through their training bond, Ben feels a press of Luke’s impression in the Force (so cool! so pretty!) and carefully tucks away his smile. “It is so wonderful to meet you.”

“Hello, Knight Olin,” Luke greets, polite as anything.

“He’s the best,” Leia says proudly, to Ferus’ blushing delight, before looking at Ben, “though I guess you seem okay too.”

Ben chokes on his laugh, as Luke turns to his sister and starts loudly expounding on Ben’s great qualities.

“Off with you two,” Ben says, needing relief from their earnest sweetness.

“You go by Ben now?” Ferus asks, recovered and seemingly content to let Leia and Luke squabble about their respective lightsabre injustices: that Luke already had his, that Leia’s would be cooler once it was made.

“I do, seemed wise,” Ben says, and then, because if anyone could understand reinvention: “And then, it became comfortable.”

“It suits you.” Ferus says, and through the Force Ben can feel all the approval and kindness Ferus is offering him: for who he has become, for what he has had to do, for how he survived.

“Thank you,” Ben says, meaning: for all of it. “You’re training the girl?”

“I am,” Ferus confirms, looking over to her with such a look of settled fondness, that Ben, in his long neglected role as this man’s elder, feels an inchoate sense of pride. Ferus had grown so well into himself.

“She’s amazing.”

“It’s mostly Bail and Breha.” Ferus demures, and Ben has a relieved

“Are he and Breha—?”

“Well,” Ferus confirms quickly, “Both of them. Really well. Bail was glad to hear you were alive.”

Ben nods, tightly, so relieved he feels nauseous with it. “You seem well suited, you and Leia.”

Ferus nods, looking relieved and touched, “She’s wonderful. My first padawan, and—”

“Yes,” Ben says, smile quirking.

“Luke is incredible.” Ferus says.

“He is,” Ben agrees.

So much unspools between them, but Ben is content to sit with another Jedi for the first time in more than a decade, watching the twins continue in silence.

“I’ve been trying to find the temple,” Ben says to Ferus, when the twins have tuckered themselves out, and are napping besides each of them. Neither of them have ever communicated for this long for this long in the force—they were both sheltered, beloved children in such distinct yet similar ways—and it has clearly taxed them.

Ferus and Ben had taken the opportunity to project themselves fully, beyond the ability of Leia and Luke quite yet. They can fully see each other now.

“You haven’t been able to?” Ferus asks, brows knitting in concern. It is incredible to see the young man that Ferus has grown into, his confidence and ease in himself.

“It was—theoretically possible, and I was tempted,” Ben says, breathing out, running a hand through Luke’s soft blond hair, reminding himself why. “I didn’t want… Anakin to to find us. I couldn’t risk stretching my senses out too far. I tried once, when Luke was healthy enough.

“But I brushed against his rage, and could feel it turning towards me— towards us, like a homing beacon. I had to hide us deeper in the outer rim… just to get away. I’m not sure what he had become, it was so dark, so angry, almost inhuman. Barely recognisable as Anakin except for that he knew and could find me through our old bond.”

Ferus frowns, and Ben feels stabbed by the guilt. “I know you and he… at the time, I know there was an incident — I’ve always wondered if you saw something I — we — didn’t back then.

“I think we must be the only two people alive who have wondered that,” Ferus says with a sigh, “I don’t think you missed anything, I did see something in him at the time. But there was no guarantee, maybe I should have said something, but I felt like was as much to blame as he was. There were warning signs, but — from what I’ve heard —he had been an amazing Jedi, honourable, tempestuous, loving, competitive, ultimately he proved too easily influenced by the Sith through his attachments. But.

“Any steps to the dark were ones Anakin chose for himself.” Ferus looks at Ben, almost nervous, but he shifts into a gentle relief when Ben nods.

“He had every chance to return to the light that day, and every day since,” Ben says, grief an old friend but no longer an unbearable weight. “I’m just so glad that the Order survived his choices.”

“Thanks to you, sir,” Ferus says with a smirk, and Ben gives him an unimpressed look.

“We’ll be having none of that, thank you very much.”

“Of course, sir,” Ferus says. (Ferus knew the difficult weight of gratitude, but had Ben not warned them in time, the day the Jedi fled Coruscant could have been a massacre. He’d found the plans.)

“Anyway, what’s this about you and Bail faking his death,” Ben asks, seeking his own deflection. He’d panicked, for a moment, when he’d seen the newspapers on the way to the publishing house, but when he’d skimmed the quotation of Breha’s speech ‘mourning’ her husband—word for word the dramatic eulogy she’d intone, tipsy and cackling when he displeased her at a dinner party— he realised that it had to be a ploy of some kind.

“The Senate got too hot for him, with Palpatine’s attempts to hold on to power.” Ferus says rubbing at his neck, “They are heading to the rebellion, the reports of his and Leia’s death’s are a way to keep Alderaan safe.”

“Breha approved?”

“It was her idea.”

“Ah,” Ben says, hiding his smile behind his hand, “I had worried her reign would change her. It seems she remains her creative self.” He can’t help the warm flush of memories that come to mind when he remembers his pleasant visits to the Organa estate.

Ferus cocks an eyebrow, intrigued, far too intrigued for Ben’s liking. He scowls, “Don’t think we aren’t going to circle back to those romance books you’ve been writing, young man.”

Proving he hadn’t left his seventeen year old self that far in the past, Ferus scrunches his nose and huffs, “It was too much to hope that you didn’t know about them, I suppose.”

“I wouldn’t have found you if not for them!” Ben spluttered, outraged and indignant. There is a beat, before the ridiculousness of the situation has Ferus snorting behind his hand, before outright laughing. Ben is a Jedi Master, he is not going to follow his lead, but rather he works himself into an appropriate lather. “A Jedi Knight, a former council member! And the only path back to the order is the pulpy romance novels my ex’s padawan wrote about us?!”

Ferus by this point is tearing up, as he fights for breath; Ben feels such a strange swell of paternal fondness.

“I— I had to get you back somehow, Ferus manages to choke out, “for all those missions Anakin and I endured.”

Ben must be scowling, in his attempt not to smile, because he gets a worried tap on his knee: Brisk acting as his spotter. “Ah, look what you’ve done,” he chides Ferus, “you’ve got my company concerned.”

“On that note!” Ferus says, drawing up the memory from the cairn between them, “I’ve got a message for your Commander Cody.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, from Commander Fox of the Coruscant Guard,” Ferus says, pulling up a vision of the man himself, in armour but sans helmet.

“Hmm, handsome,” Ben says, and then cackles when Ferus colours.

“They’re batchmates,” Ferus says, persevering. “He asked me to pass on a message.”

When Ben hears it he snorts, “Oh, now this should be fun.” 

Chapter Text

Ben slips out of his meditation, tousling Luke hair where he remains sleeping across his lap. Sending a warm pulse in the Force has Luke murmuring in his sleep and nuzzling closer. Ben glances up to find Brisk, at the desk, keeping a carefully disinterested watch over them.

Quietly, so not to rouse Luke where he’s napping, Ben asks, “Could you fetch me, Cody?” 

Brisk makes a deliberate show of putting down his paperwork, but goes to grab Cody easily enough. 

“All good?” Cody asks when he joins them, voice mild and pace slow as he makes it to the office — but Ben can read a spike of concern.

“All excellent,” Ben says and lets his joy onto his face; Cody almost trips where he is making his way over.

“Uh, good.” Cody says.

“I’ve got a message for you.”

That draws Cody up short, brow furrowing, “For me?”

“Yes, from a Commander Fox of the Coruscant Guard?”

“Sir,” Cody says, voice thick with emotion, “If this is a joke…”

“Tell Cody that he is a complete bantha-brained, twerp. I cannot believe I’ve been worrying about him, I should have let Fordo punt him off that training wall if this is the kind of kriffing recklessness he’s going to display.” Ben repeats, getting the intonation as close to Ferus’s as possible. He startles when Cody crumples, dropping to his knees and taking big shuddering breaths of relief.

He’s too far away for Ben to touch, and Luke is still softly snoring on top of him. So after a moment’s indecision he uses the Force to scooch Cody closer so he can pull him into the crook of his neck. Ben keeps Cody there, passing a hand through his hair until he has gathered himself.

“He’s okay?” Cody asks desperately against the fabric of Ben’s robes, once he had finished gulping in relieved breaths.

“He is,” Ben confirms, “been looking out for Ferus, the Jedi who has been writing the romances; Senator Organa of Alderaan, and his daughter Leia, Luke’s sister.”

“Kark,” Cody says. “I can’t believe—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, drawing back to sit in front of Ben and Luke, looking relieved and lost and bemused. He reaches out and smooths out Luke’s hair, tucking some of it where it’s grown long behind his ear.

“Is there anything you want me to send back?” Ben asks, gently. “To Fox. Through Ferus, I mean, I can pass along a message.”

Cody doesn’t miss a beat: “Tell him he’s a hypocrite and a fool, and that he better have that drink he owes me next time I see him.”

Ben nods, smiling, and settles back into his meditation, pausing when Cody puts a hand on his arm.

“This Ferus, he’s safe?”

“The safest,” Ben promises, and sends Cody a pulse the fond warmth he’d felt at their reunion as well as a memory of Ferus, only eighteen, putting himself between a villager and a rampaging beast on a mission Ben and Siri had taken their padawans on years ago.

Cody smiles, a devastating thing in its shocked relief. And chasing that smile, Ben shows him Ferus as he’d seem him five minutes ago, settled and grown, a lithe, confident adult. At the projected image Cody’s grin tilts mean, in a way that Ben thrills at.

“Oh,” Cody says, “I bet Fox is obsessed with him.” Ben chokes, his hand spasming under Cody’s grip.  “You should tell him—” and Ben doesn’t need the Force to tell him the direction of that line of thought and quickly hurls himself into his meditation — if he doesn’t hear the message he doesn’t need to repeat it.

Obi—Ben returns a minute or so after Ferus re-establishes the connection, having ducked out briefly to see the Princess off to her father for a bedtime that did not involve collapsing on Ferus’ lap while he spoke to Ben.

He’d also taken a moment to check in with Fox and Thire who had been watching the proceedings with looks of mild disbelief as Bail, Leia and Ferus had—at times—each welled up with tears.

“Comments?” Ferus had asked, primly sitting back in his meditation pose.

“No, you go right ahead,” Fox had said, having returned to lounging. “Wouldn’t want to disturb your catch-up.” Ferus was torn between relief at the return to form and an on-coming madness. He’d written many books about characters who lounged—it was a staple of the form—it made for good imagery, but Fox’s engagement with the practice was an exercise in dwindling sanity.  

Declining to give him the satisfaction of a reaction, Ferus had eased back into his meditation, going straight to Ben rather than through Luke and Leia first.

“I’ve got a response for you,” Ben says, amused, and when he repeats it, Ferus can see why. He does not snicker, because old habits die hard and he never wanted Master Kenobi to think him anything other than a competent and capable Jedi.

“I best convey that to our Commander Fox then,” Ferus says mildly, pleased with his restraint.

“Yes, you ought to,” Ben says, twinkling. “Do give my regards to your Commander Fox.”

On second thought, Master Kenobi can get karked. Ferus pulls a face and Ben angles an eyebrow at him.

“You wrote several romances loosely based on my life, young man. Do not expect me to be forgetting that fact in a hurry.”

Rather than point out that he had done that dubious honour for most of the council, Ferus does the mature Jedi Knight trick he had learned from his best mentors and bows out of the conversation, and by direct consequence, of the link. This way he never has to learn just how many of his books Ben has read.

When he returns his consciousness to the deck of the Tantive, Fox seems to be lounging on a surface closer than the one he’d been on before. Ferus refuses to remark on the change.

Instead he says, “Commander Cody would like you to know that you are a hypocrite and a fool, and that he hopes you are prepared to buy him that drink you owe him.”

“That bastard,” Fox says, choked. Ferus watches, concerned, as Fox shudders with the confirmation, not letting himself fully believe until Commander Cody’s message came back to him. He thinks about getting up, offering some kind of comfort, but there is something brittle and big about Fox’s fractious relief.

With as much gentleness as he thinks Fox will tolerate, Ferus says, “I’m going back in, do you want me to pass on another message?”

“Tell Cody it’s a good thing he’s alive, because I’m going to kill him myself!” Fox croaks, and Ferus nods, reaching out to grip Fox’s hand, no greaves today, to squeeze once in support before plunging back into his meditation.

Ben is waiting for him, sympathetic smile on his face, as if he was prepared for how unbalanced Ferus would feel after telling Fox.

“And how is your Commander Fox?” Ben asks kindly but with enough of an amused edge that Ferus realises that he could actually become friends with this man he had respected in the same distant way he had once respected and admired Mace. 

“He said he was glad Cody was alive so he could kill him himself,” Ferus admits after a half second of debate whether to soften Fox’s words.

Ben snorts, “Cody will be thrilled to know he’s been missed.”

Ferus doesn’t belabour how much he reckons that is true, Ben probably knew just as well as Ferus did what separation had cost the clones.

“So, I hear you want to find the Jedi Order.” Ferus say, and almost has the breath knocked out of him anew at the look of naked hope on Ben’s face.

After, when Ferus has told Ben the closest temple (“Temples?” Ben had repeated, awed and proud) to the Vigilance, Ben had extracted a promise from Ferus that he would warn the Order he was coming.

“They would be pleased to—”

“Please, Ferus,” Ben had said, “I— I can’t risk reaching out myself, they should be warned. And if they don’t—”

“They’ll be delighted,” Ferus insists, unable to hold Ben’s uncertainty against him, not when he himself had feared his return to the Order. "But I will."

When Ferus returns to the Tantive, Bail and Thire had joined Fox, watching over Ferus with varying expressions of curious bemusement.

“Creepy,” Ferus informs them, standing and joining their circle.

Bail waves away his critique while Fox and Thire don’t react, “Are we all good?”

“Yes, Ben and Commander Cody’s men are heading to Yavin-IV to join the Order, they should be there in less than a week.”

“Force,” Bail says, a hand on Ferus and Thire’s shoulder, giving them each a gentle shake, “We can’t be more than a few days behind them.”

“That wasn’t our original—”

“Destination?” Bail finishes, Thire’s question, as Ferus taps a foot against Fox’s, trying to get a read on his mood. “No, we were originally going to head to a Rebellion base, but we could probably…”

“Someone else could deliver the supplies to Echo base if need be,” Ferus agrees, getting nothing more from Fox than a small, hard to read smile.

“Plus,” Bail says, warming up to the idea, and likely moments away from marching over to Captain Antilles and updating him on their new destination. “There’ll be a dirigible heading to Coruscant, so if you two want to head back— either on a mission for the Rebellion or to return to your men, we can—”

“No!” Ferus blurts, hand shooting out and grabbing Fox’s in his alarm. Fox gives him a startled, unreadable look and then a blank, unreadable look when Ferus forces himself to let go again.

“I mean—” Ferus says, releasing his spike of panic out into the Force and calming himself, “—returning to Coruscant poses a significant, unique danger to Commander Fox. Many in his puppet government may not care to tell one clone from another, but Palpatine took specific and sustained interest in Fox. To send him back…”

Still unreadable, Ferus thinks he detects some disappointment in Fox. Likely because he couldn’t return to his men, Ferus thought with a pang. He’d have to try and convince Fox of the danger he’d face if he went back, and quickly teach him some aggressive shielding techniques.

“Oh Ferus, I wasn’t thinking about Commander Fox, I quite thought he’d—ughk.” There was the distinct sound of someone elbowing Bail, it hadn’t been Ferus (he was too busy staring soulfully into Fox's eyes), which left only Thire who was comfortable enough to take the liberty to shut up the formerly sitting senator of Alderaan. “That is to say, I rather thought that Thire would be a better fit. Breha will be making a visit soon,

"And I think you two would get along.” This he says directly to Thire.

Then Thire is looking at Bail, giving him a strange, heavy look. While Fox has decided to avoid eye contact altogether. The energy is weird and Ferus has received too much earth-shattering news in the past twenty-four hours to be willing to navigate more interpersonal weirdness.

“I should inform the Order, about—” he vaguely cast a hand around trying to encapsulate everything. That, at least, got him three small smiles. “I might go to my room for this, if anyone needs me.”

As he’s leaving he hears Bail say, “Of course, now that I’m officially presumed dead—” to the horrified exclamations of Fox and Thire, and decides he has never been more wise to beat a hasty retreat.

Back in the close familiarity of his quarters Ferus drops into another meditation, choosing the luxury of the bed this time. The council is easily reached, they must have been having a meeting. He is greeted and let in without any issue.

Kenobi found, Ferus informs the council and waits for the excited hubbub to die down. He’s alive. Well. He’s been training Luke as his padawan. Looking for his way back to the Order.

Very good, someone says; He couldn’t have written? someone else asks. The boy lives, a third person observes. The cacophony of voices is more than Ferus can handle after hours projecting across the galaxy and carefully shielding that connection. 

How did you find him? cuts through the noise.

Ferus sighs and sends the equivalent of a glare at Master Vos, who is a terrible terrible man with a distinctive voice and no compassion for Ferus’ nerves nor the ordeal that he has endured.

He and Luke left a cairn outside my publisher on Bespin, he admits reluctantly, because he is never going to hear the end of this now. Apparently they found their way back to us by way of the—my books.

Your books, Depa observes, mildly, have been quite the blessing.

Ferus sighs, and quickly moves on to updating them on the sitatuion: Ben and Luke—

Ben?

Master Kenobi’s assumed identity, I believe he prefers it.

That gets a hum but no comment one way or another.

Ben and Luke have been travelling with a battalion of clones, the 212^th under Commander Cody, on the war-dirigible the Vigilance—

That’s the flagship, how’d Kenobi manage—? someone interrupts to ask.

I don’t know, Ferus says firmly, headache too acute from how many hours he’s spent plunged across the galaxy speaking to brook too much more. Ben would be with them in less than a week then he could field these questions himself, The clones saved Ben and Luke from an ambush and have agreed not only to escort the pair to the main temple on Yavin, but wish to join up themselves.

A whole battalion? That is Mace asking, a logistically minded man after Ferus’ own heart.

Yes, he neglects to mention the traces of blue painted armour in Luke-through-Leia’s memories, that had suggested another battalion to boot, and Ferus didn’t have enough detail at this juncture to speculate.

And why, reach out himself has Master Kenobi not? Yoda’s voice asks.

Vader, Ferus says simply. He remains powerfully attuned to his Master, to protect the boy Ben didn’t dare extend his senses past whatever planets he’s been on in years. After a moment, he adds, I believe he was only comfortable speaking to me…

Anakin, even before his Fall and Ferus’ departure, never had much time or fondness for Ferus. If there was a list of Jedi he was scouring the galaxy for, Ferus was likely to be at the bottom of the list. 

I see, Quinlan says in a way that suggests a plan was forming. Ferus neglected to inquire further.

Masters, he should be with you within the week, you have my apologies, but it has been a strenuous day and I should rest myself. Senator Organa has agreed that in light of this new information we too should head to Yavin first rather than Echo base, so I will be able to report in person soon.

There is that sensation, the one that comes before someone starts to speak, but Depa beats them to it, Go, you have done amazing work, Ferus. Rest.

You have my thanks. Ferus says, sliding out of the meditation and into a short slumber with little transition between the two.

Logistically speaking, Ferus’ information couldn’t have come at a better time. The Vigilance was hours away from exiting their current hyperlane, and would have the chance to enter one that could take them to Yavin-IV (and the Order!) in less than a week. Cody upon hearing where the temple was, had immediately given Compass their new destination; set Crys to checking whether any of their files, GAR or Separatist, evidenced any exposure, and got Tally to look through the limited reference collection for any information on the planet.

That done, he’d found Ben, Luke having abandoned his nap to instead excitedly tell in order: Boil, Waxer, Wooley, Kix and Brisk (his favourite, as always) the exciting news.

“How are you doing?” Cody asks, standing next to Ben but not touching him.

That won’t do, Ben thinks blearily, wanting touch after the emotional ordeal of the day. He slips a hand around Cody’s waist and presses in for a hug. He can’t see his face, but Cody goes even lighter and more golden than he usually feels in the Force, so Ben is probably welcome.

“Ben?” Cody prompts after a few minutes and Ben realises there had been a question in there.

“Amazing, shocked,” he says, sinking into the solid, steady warmth of Cody’s body. “I can hardly believe it is real. I’m nervous, but it feels right.”

After a moment, in a smaller voice, “I’m glad you are here with me.”

“Of course,” Cody says, softly back. They could say more, and would, later, once they landed, and both had a chance to see what the Order could be for them, apart and together. But for now, just holding each other was more comfort than Ben had expected from the galaxy in years.

“General, Commander, not to interrupt,” Crys says, interrupting but polite in doing so. “I wanted to ask if there were any plans for the… uh, prisoners. I had some questions about some discrepancies that came up in the investigation I’ve been doing on the files and thought you both would likely want to be there too.”

“…what would some pirates have to offer you?” Ben asks, not following.

“Well, they may have actually been put on our—” Cody clears his throat, and Crys trails off. “That is besides the point, I was thinking the…you know ‘admiral’, actually.”

“The admiral?” Ben asks.

“Konstantine,” Crys says after glancing around to make sure nobody was near them in the office.

“He’s still alive?!” Ben exclaims, quietening when Cody gives him a look. There was nobody else around, but this was a well-trafficked part of the ship.

“Yes?" Crys says, looking mostly at Cody. "He’s been here the whole time, we thought about leaving him behind but decided that we may have to make use of him if you ever decided to leave.”

“I—” Ben says.

“I thought you knew,” Cody says, concerned, “You and Luke, the Jedi, can feel living beings, I thought we were carefully not discussing it.”

Ben supposes he couldn’t blame Cody for that, but truly he’d had no idea. Even now when he spreads his senses across the dirigible he can’t feel anyone unfamiliar to him other than the dozen or so pirates cooling their heels in the bowels of the dirigible.

“Show me,” he says, squeezing Cody’s hand so he knows he isn’t mad.

The actual general is blessedly asleep when they venture down to the brig that Ben had been shown the door of, but never shown inside. At the time he’d taken Fives’ loaded look as a warning, but now he wonders whether the man had been trying to tell him something else.

The cell that the general is in is clearly the fanciest and best equipped of the small, well-maintained but hardly touched brig. There is a window that lets Ben see in, but even though he can see that Konstantine is there, he cannot sense him in the Force. Not at all. In fact—

“Fair warning, Cody, I am going do something that may knock me out. No need to worry, just can you get me out of here?”

“I’d really rather—” Cody starts, but Ben is already reaching out and touching the material of the cell. Ah, there it is, he has time to think before the leeching feel of the metal against his skin causes everything to go black.

When Ben comes back to himself, he is back upstairs, with Brisk, Luke and Cody looking at him with varying degrees of unimpressed concern.

“Ah,” Ben says, guiltily, wincing and trying to sit up. Cody, who is kindly serving as a pillow and a chair, makes a noise of concern. “I’m alright dear man, perfectly fine. Sorry to have worried you.”

“Then why did you do it?” Cody asks, with a bemused sigh.

“Scientific curiosity?” Ben offers, “No, wait!” He gives Brisk a look, and he immediately covers Luke’s ears, “I wanted to be caught in your manly arms.” There, that was flirty, and would hopefully blunt the lecture he could see brewing in the twitch under Cody’s eye.

Cody snorts, and Luke wriggles free with a less indignant “hey!” than anyone other than Brisk would get.

“That cell has that been here the whole time?”

“Since the dirigible was built,” Brisk confirms with a knowing look, the clever man.

“Right, well, Commander Cody you’ve had a prison cell specifically designed for Jedi on your ship.” Ben says briskly, knowing Cody is unlikely to take the news well and hoping to get it out of the way.

Cody, as Ben expected, takes the news like a slap in the face. Ben strokes a hand down his back, trying to comfort. “Ben, Luke, we didn’t know, we wouldn’t—”

“We know Cody!” Luke chirps, before Ben can say anything, “You wouldn’t hurt us. Least of all like that.”

“Our Commander’s no coward,” Brisk agrees. "This wouldn't be his style." 

To forestall Cody's rebuttal, Ben interrupts, "I think I need to speak to Ferus again, I've got an idea about what this means." He starts to meditate before woozily realising quite how much his experiment took out of him. "On second thought, Luke, could you?"

Fox find Ferus in his rooms later, the meeting must have gone okay because he looks refreshed where he's sitting on his bed.

Even after a long conversation with Thire and pacing the Tantive twice, Fox is buzzing, unable to keep still after what Organa had told him, about the fake crash, about the news stories already hurtling their way across the galaxy.  

“The Senator is dead?” he asks, agitated.

“As far as the wider galaxy is concerned, yes,” Ferus confirms, cautiously. Fox is certain he is freaking Ferus out, on a Jedi level, but he can’t get himself back in order, not yet.

“And, Thire and I?”

“Yes.”

That would mean he is free. Nobody will be expecting him back in Coruscant. He could do whatever he wanted. Fox has a strange moment of queasy hope, before he crushes it. He didn’t know what it meant, he didn’t know what Ferus wanted. He’d thought, there had been moments — but…

He’s trying to find words, some way to express his wretched hope that Ferus would keep him, ask him to say, but he can’t find them. They keep slipping away as he looks at Ferus' lovely face, watching him with such kind concern. Fox gives Ferus a look, a placeholder as he tries to put the words in order, to ask for Ferus to want him. 

“Ferus, please,” Fox says, eventually. He’s at his wits end, he needs to know, one way or another. The teasing, the desperate hoping that Ferus wanted him to stay, that he’d wanted him, “mercy.”

There is a moment when he worries that Ferus hasn’t understood, but Ferus as smart as he is beautiful because he makes a soft, “ah” sound.

“My darling man,” Ferus says, standing, and Fox feels a heady mix of desire and embarrassment shiver through him. “Why didn’t you just say something?”

Before Fox can respond, Ferus has a hand in his hair, guiding his head back, and there, aching and held in place, Fox can only think finally as he angles his lips up for the kiss he desperately needs.

Ferus, because he is a devastating bastard put in this galaxy to punish Fox for unspecified crimes, does not kiss him. Instead, he hangs there for a moment, just looking at Fox in a way that makes him squirm. Then, grip in his hair still firm and steady, Ferus leans in— and kisses Fox’s nose.

The shocked disappointment, the innocent sweetness of it, the confident surety of Ferus’ almost possessive hold on Fox’s hair, has Fox whining in protest, his body a mess of contradictory signals. Before, mortified and indignant he opens his mouth to complain.

Then, only then, does Ferus lean in and kiss him properly. Cutting Fox off before he works himself into a lather, and moving him just where he wants him. The confidence is almost as devastating as the kiss itself.

When they break for air, Ferus is smiling at him in a way that is singularly devastating for Fox’s already non-existent composure, before he huffs this gentle laugh that has Fox darting in for another, glancing kiss, train of thought completely lost.

Ferus is carefully guiding Fox back to his bed when there is a knock on the door. Ferus swears softly but feelingly, and Fox wants nothing more than to tell whoever is at the door to fuck right off, thank you very much. He has suffered through too many weeks of teasing, admittedly self-inflicted, to be interrupted.

But Ferus gives him one last kiss, a tender thing with an air of finality before nudging Fox fully down on the bed and leaving to answer the door. “It’s Leia,” he says by way of explanation.

Well Fox isn’t a complete bastard, so he says, “Can’t argue with that.” That gets him wide smile from Ferus, which makes his magnanimity almost worth it.

“What is it, sweetheart?” Ferus asks Leia, when he opens the door, crouching down to her level to allow her to throw her arms around him.

“Luke and Ben have a message for you!” she says, into Ferus’ shoulder. Only Fox gets to see the look of fond resignation on Ferus’ face, before he stands with Leia still wrapped around him and brings her over to the bed and gently places her next to Fox. He then clambers over both of them to take a seated meditation pose.

“Best I find out what they want, then?” he asks. There is a strained tension of exhaustion on Ferus' face. “You’ll keep Fox company while I speak to them?” It’s deft, as an assurance that Leia doesn’t follow him, he hasn’t said as much to Fox, but whatever Jedi communication is obviously taxing on the young girl. Himself as well, but Fox can already tell that Ferus discounts that cost.

The moment Ferus has plunged into his meditation a very serious Leia turns to Fox, “He really like you. Do you promise to be nice to him?”

Caught off guard, Fox still gives the question the due consideration it deserves, because he didn’t think he was an especially nice man, but that wasn’t exactly what Leia was asking. Eventually landing on wording that he felt did them both justice, “I promise to be as nice to him as he wants me to be.|

Leia gives him a pleased smile, says “Good, I knew I could trust you,” and then clambers onto his lap so they can both watch Ferus’ gentle breathing where he sits meditating.

She had mostly drifted off on Fox, some twenty minutes later when Ferus opens his eyes. Leia is immediately alert again when he comes back. Ferus has a grim look on his face, leaving the meditation, but seeing the pair of them waiting for him he smiles and leans forward to kiss both of them on the forehead.

“You are both so wonderful,” Ferus says.

“Obviously,” Leia and Fox say simultaneously, which has Ferus chuckling, even though he remains slightly grim. “What is it?”

Ferus looks hesitant and Leia sighs, squirming in Fox’s lap in frustration, “Ferus.”

He leans over and tweaks her nose, “I’m thinking, Leia.” After a moment he says, “I— we—think we’ve figured out how Chancellor Palpatine was going to use Fox and his brothers as a trap. Ben and Cody found a cell, on their dirigible that was designed to hurt a Jedi. Being inside it would make us weak.”

Fox’s gut churns and Leia makes a sound of distress, but rather than scrambling away from him to go to Ferus, she nuzzles closer into Fox, stroking a small hand down his arm, comforting him.

Ferus swallows but presses on, “We—I think that there was going to be an incident, blamed on the Jedi, and instructions were going to go out, to hold the Jedi for questioning, these brigs were the nicest onboard, so any good soldier would have just put their commanding officer there, just for the time being.

“Then, we think either non-clones close to the Chancellor, or—” this is where Ferus’ voice falters.

“—or affected clones like me?” Fox suggests, and Leia makes a furious sound, turning around and glaring at the world. It made Fox feel surprisingly loved and protected to have this small child so fiercely ready to fight on his behalf.

Ferus smiles at Leia’s willingness to fight the galaxy. “We think an order would have gone out to finish them off, weakened by the cells, not expecting the betrayal, few Jedi would have been able to protect themselves.”

It wouldn’t have taken much, if most Jedi are anything like Ferus, it would only have taken one of them on each ship, brothers trusted and knew each other, and Jedi without their powers were good. They wouldn't have seen it coming. It would have been a massacre.

Sensing both his and Leia’s distress, Ferus moves closer and scoops them both up into a hug — something that should be ridiculous given his slenderness compared to Fox’s relative broadness. But instead, he feels safe and protected.

“We’re safe,” Ferus insists, “he hasn’t had a chance to do this, and Leia, you bright wonderful girl, and Fox you stubborn brilliant man, you both figured out how to fix and resist his powers.

“It’s good we know,” Ferus insists, arms still wrapped around both of them. “Bail will be glad to know.” 

Leaning in close to these two people that Fox could never have expected but wants to protect and care for with a fierceness he didn't know himself capable, Fox can't help but tremble at what could have been. 

Chapter Text

Force, Ben says, looking out at lush green planet outside.

“Good, General?” Cody asks, taking it as a no when Ben doesn’t reflexively correct his use of the false title.

Instead, Ben shrugs expansively, and Cody snorts. 

“You know,” he says, watching Compass direct the men in preparing the hangar. Luke is standing beside them, but sticking close to Brisk who he has been subtly shadowing to with an intensity that suggested he didn’t fully trust Ben’s promise that they wouldn’t be leaving anyone behind. “We could always leave. They’ve probably not spotted us.”

Kissing the side of Cody’s temple— in front of all the men! Ben says, “Don’t tempt me, Commander. I’m trying to be a better man.”

There is a clunk of the Vigilance landing, and Meter calls out a helpful but unnecessary, “Docking successful” over the comms system. The bridge is operating with a skeleton crew, with almost everyone is piled into the hangar to get a look at the Jedi Order. By Cody's eyes they look about what he expected, a large diverse group of robed-figures patiently waiting near a landing strip. He'd probably feel far more nervous if Ben hadn't talked through all of Ferus' assurances one night while he was fretting, Cody had never met the man but anyone who Fox trusted was someone Cody would at least listen to. 

“Besides,” Ben says, reaching out to tousle Luke’s hair, “I reckon we’ve got about thirty seconds to drop that gangplank before they board us by force.”

“We’ve repelled one piratical boarding, we could take them,” Cody says, already signalling for Boil to open her up.

“Ben, there are Jedi out there,” Luke says, wonder in his voice. He is nearly vibrating with excitement, detaching himself from both Brisk and Ben. “So many Jedi.”

“Let’s have that be out back up,” Ben says wryly to Cody, as they follow Luke forward. “Alas we forgot about an attack from with in.”

Luke hardly waits for the door to open before he is out like a shot, charging down towards a handsome male Nautolan standing at the front of the overwhelming welcoming committee, chirping out a greeting that they were too far away to hear and launching himself at the Jedi. They can hear Luke’s squeals of delight when the Nautolan catches him and twirls him around, starting to introduce Luke to the robed Jedi around them.

Next to him, Cody watches as Ben go through possibly every emotion on the spectrum, a hand in his beard, looking pleased, fond, devastated, hopeful, embarrassed, worried and finally amused. It happens over the span of seconds, and had Cody not made such a project of studying Ben’s expressions, he’s not sure he would have caught them all.

“No sense of self-preservation, that one.” Ben eventually observes, waving—almost shyly— at some of the people on the ground. They wave back with the caution of people trying to coax a wary creature closer. 

“C’mon, this isn’t going to get less awkward the longer we wait around,” Cody says, starting to guide Ben down. A handful of his officers follow behind, as planned. As he walks, he picks out some familiar faces in the crowd, unarmoured but safe and well. Ponds, Bly, Gree. All of them, alive and okay. Those karking nightmares, Cody thinks as he catches their eyes, letting him think they were dead all this time.

They reach ground and there is a moment of hanging indecision as they look at the crowd around Luke and the crowd looks back at them.

“Rex!” Someone shouts and Cody turns to see his brother stagger as the sound of the voice hits him. He watches as something unseen levitates Rex’s bucket up and away, before a Togruta woman is sprinting past them towards Rex. Leaping her way up onto the walkway and tackling Rex, who had very quickly signed a desperate stand down to Fives and Echo.

Rex’s face, before Cody’s view is obstructed by the enthusiastic kisses the Togruta lays on him, is joyous and disbelieving. He can see Rex say something, but they are too far back at this stage.

Still caught between his waning panic, shock and the primordial urge to rib his brother, Cody glances back at Ben who thumps him kindly on the back.

“Well that certainly explains a lot,” Ben observes. “Cody, did you know Rex had a Jedi girlfriend?”

“I mostly certainly did n—”

A voice roaring “Cody,” interrupts him.

“Oh fu—” Cody manages, before he is lifted up and squeezed.

“Wolffe?!”

“Aye, you absolute bastard,” the dead-man growls, “What nonsense do you call this?”

“You’re alive?!”

“Of course, I’m alive,” Wolffe scoffs, as if Cody hadn’t been the one to tow the smouldering remains of the 104^th’s dirigible back to the shipyard for scrap. “What could kill me?”

“Me, you fucker” Cody grouses, still aloft, “I grieved you.” Cody can’t help but feel embarrassed, he’d been so prepared to support Ben during this reunion and they’ve barely made it planetside and he and his men are the ones making a spectacle of themselves. 

Wolffe has the good grace to look abashed, and finally puts Cody back down. While Cody was being ambushed, Ben had been subsumed by the Jedi who Luke had been introducing himself to. “Ah yes, unfortunate that.” 

“Unfortunate?” Cody repeats, unimpressed, clocking Boil, Waxer, and Brisk joining him on the ground, Rex and the 501^st were still halfway down with the Togruta woman, though they seemed to be talking now.

“There was some… mess with the Admiral I was assigned,” Wolffe says, as Cody checks in with Ben who is looking overwhelmed but pleased as he hugs and gets hugged by the people around him. He seeks Ben's eyes and only lets himself relax when he gets a signed all-clear to assuage his worry. “He kept sending us on suicide missions, we decided to fake our own deaths before his attempts took.”

Cody sighs, unable to blame Wolffe for the decision, but wishing his brother hadn’t been quite so dedicated in selling the accident.

“Who’s in charge here,” Ben says, emerging ruffled and overwhelmed from his greetings. He knows there is a thick quality to his voice, and he can’t seem to stop smiling or glancing at those around him — Aayla, Depa, Yoda, Kit, Quinlan, they were all alive— even as he attempts to summon some degree of authority.

“That would be me,” someone says, Mace. He is rising from where he had been crouched, engaged in a serious looking conversation with Luke (though even odds it was Mace meeting Luke’s enthusiastic retelling of their adventures with his usual sombre focus).  

“Mace,” Ben greets, dragging the man in for a hug that could generously be described as crushing.

“Obi-Wan,” Mace says, correcting himself to “Ben” when the hug ends. “I thought Ferus told you to be discrete, and I’m pretty sure I told you to lay low.”

Mace is teasing, in that deadpan way of his, unchanged even after a decade and Ben feels home in a way he didn’t trust he’d ever get again.

Still, for form’s sake, Ben sighs. “I tried. They—” he gestures to Cody’s men who had slowly started to disembark, gathering in small groups around other clones and some of the friendlier looking Jedi, “—insisted on following us.”

Mace hums, unconvinced.

“Anyways, before we get—” he waves a hand again this time trying to encompass the hubbub going on around them, “I’ve—we’ve some strategically useful gifts.” Beside him, Cody and Quinlan break their conversation (interrogation), one to nod his approval, the other to cock a brow.

“Oh?” Mace says, intrigued.

“Yes, Crys?”

Crys and his deputy join them, having carefully made their way down from the Vigilance with their crates of evidence. Konstantine and the Pirates were still in the brig, but Ben got the sense that Whisker especially wanted them off his dirigible.

“I believe,” Ben says, handing Mace the summary report Crys had prepared because he is a wonder, “there is evidence here that you and your allies in the Rebellion might find very interesting.”

Mace takes the file, and Quinlan abandons Cody to read over his shoulder, that Mace allows to him without comment suggests there have been some very interesting personnel changes in his long absence.

“Certainly enough to prove that Palpatine is controlling both sides of the war,” Ben says, still marvelling at how much they had gathered when they’d laid it all out. He hadn’t been mad at Cody for following Luke’s instincts all those weeks ago, but now he could only be grateful, it had been a windfall. He’s not sure how much the Order already knew already, but it had taken speaking to Ferus before this part started to tesselate for Ben. “We also have—uh… an admiral? The presumptive General of Cody's battalion until they decided to make a personnel change. Very much Palpatine's man. And a band of pirates?” Ben adds, “Unsure of their actual tactical usefulness, but we have them on our hands…”

“Oh, Ben” Quinlan says, thumping him on the back, hard, “it’s been boring without you.”

The Tantive lands on the main landing dock at the temple with decidedly less fanfare than Ferus understands greeted Ben, Luke and the Vigilance —Luke had excitedly shown Leia, who in turn had excitedly shown Ferus a play-by-play. Still, there is some form of a welcoming party. So when they disembark, Leia pulls Ferus and her father down the gangway towards the gathered Jedi.

Ferus had not entirely forgotten that this was Leia’s first time meeting so many Jedi, but her excitement underlines it for him. For all that any Jedi routing through Alderaan would sneak into the palace to greet the Princess and her parents, he knew she had been desperate to meet more of them.

She slows as she gets near, an uncharacteristic shyness taking hold for a moment before she spots some familiar faces. And then she is dropping their hands and launching herself at Depa, Quinlan and Mace in turn. Her three favourite visitors.

“So quick to abandon you,” Fox observes, amused as anything, when he and Thire come up behind.

“That’s loyalty for you,” a familiar voice, unheard in person for a decade, says.

“Luke!” Leia shrieks, leaping from Mace’s arms and pelting towards her brother, crashing them both to the floor with the strength of her enthusiasm, as Ferus smiles and greets Ben with a hug. Next to him the way that Commander Cody hauls Fox and Thire in for a hug seems decidedly more bruising, and to involve far more curses and complaints.

“Ferus,” Ben greets, voice rough, “Dear boy it is so good to see you properly. I cannot thank you enough, we— this wouldn’t have happened without you.”

Swallowing, Ferus says, “It’s so good to have you back.” And trusts that Ben understands all he is saying.

Bail also gets a hug from Ben, while Ferus goes to greet the Council.

“You’ve certainly been busy,” Mace says tonelessly, and Ferus has learned finally not to balk at the teasing. “You've done well. Siri is cross that she’s not here, she wanted me to tell you that: just because you found a long-lost Jedi and helped solve a mystery, it is no excuse for abandoning your plans to meet up with your former Master.”

Ferus chokes on a laugh, and makes a note to connect with Siri, even as he has to duck and dodge Quinlan’s attempts to mess up his hair and press him for details.

“There’ll be a full council meeting later,” Mace continues, ignoring Ferus fighting for his life to keep Quinlan from ruining his carefully combed look. Unsaid but implied: after Luke and Leia were in bed. Some conversations were not for children to overhear, no matter how capable. Yavin tended to not have as many younglings as either of the other two temples: less of a tactical decision than an outcome of the spread and growth of the Order from the initial evacuation. 

Ferus oversees moving his, Fox and Leia's possessions out of the Tantive, watching as Leia and Luke refuse to detach for longer than five minutes, and Fox finds himself interrogated by his brothers and Ferus' colleagues. 

When Ferus stops, Fox quickly ends his conversation to join him. "I hope you know that nobody other than that Vos guy has had anything but the kindest word to say about you."

Ferus flushes, "Don't worry, they are only waiting until you are in too deep before they start in on the embarrassing stories." It is little comfort that Fox merely looks intrigued. 

“We should go. Sire—” Captain Antilles says, having come back from his briefing with the non-Jedi corps at the temple.

Bail finishes his chat with Mace and Ponds, comes over to Leia to grab her into a huge hug, stroking her hair. “I’ll be back soon, my love. Train well with Ferus and your brother. Stay safe.” It had been a hard decision for Bail to leave Leia, they were meant to have this time together, but Bail ultimately had decided his duty to the Rebellion necessitated the hopefully brief separation.

Leia clung hard to her father, but loosened her grip to swat at Quinlan, who would be accompanying Bail on the trip and must have made a comment of some kind.

“We should also leave,” Ahsoka says, walking past Ferus trailed by a number of clones in blue-painted armour, who must be Captain Rex and some of his men, heading over to where Thire was speaking to some of the clone commanders. They would be heading to Coruscant, Thire to meet up with Breha, Ferus is unsure what work Ahsoka and her new squad of men had planned, he assumes he'll be filled in during Mace's council meeting. 

Thire gives a serious nod, before extracting himself from a discussion with Gree and Ponds. He stops by where Ferus and Fox have been talking quietly, dragging Fox up for a glancing hug before tugging Ferus in for his own one.

“You look after him,” Thire instructed, half-joking, half-not. 

"I'll do my best," Ferus offers, which seems to satisfy Thire. 

Ferus understood that the supplies were needed over at Echo base, that they were expecting them and had planned to have them within the month, and that Breha had a very tight window in which to work. It just seemed so sudden, to go from weeks in the close quarters to a departure.

The two dirigibles take off, within minutes of each other, and then it is just them, most of the rest heading back inside to get on with their lives and duties in the temple.

There is a little hand that situates itself in his, and when Ferus glances down it isn’t Leia like he expected, but Luke. When he glances over, Leia is sat on Cody’s shoulders, bossily telling Ben something. He looks bemused but is nodding seriously along with whatever she is saying.

“Hello there,” Ferus says.

“Hi!” Luke says, “We’re having dinner now, all of us. You should come.”

He starts walking Ferus towards the temple, snagging Fox’s hand without a word and pulling him along now. Ferus watches Fox follow along unthinkingly, before taking a second glance and realising that the other twin was proprietarily moving him along. Ferus wonders whether this comfort comes from Leia’s fondness bleeding through or some native friendliness in Luke. It doesn't seem to matter to Fox, who smiles down at Luke and says, "What adventure do you have planned for us today?"

Three Months Later

Thorn is looking drained and miserable when Stone finds him in the office they had claimed for themselves.

The surviving two Commanders of the Coruscant Guard.

Filling in for Fox had been a pleasure when they thought he was getting a break from the horrors of Coruscant, but after the news reached them of the accident with the Senator’s dirigible, the work became suffocating.

Distantly, Stone knew to be grateful that Organa’s widow, Queen Breha as she signed her missives, had used some of her political goodwill to have to embassies not only maintain but increase the assistance they were offering the Guard. But as it was he felt like he was drowning. In guilt, in work, in the feeling he was starting to lose Thorn in the way he’d been losing Fox, as meetings with the Chancellor became an unavoidable reality of their now formalised duties.

“You okay, Vod?” he asks, tapping their foreheads together and moving behind Thorn so he can retie the braid that has become a mess over the hours he’d been working.

Thorn sighs which Stone supposes is answer enough, “Queen Organa is coming by, she says she has something—”

Oh kark, that was almost cruel, Stone thinks, but doesn’t say as he smooths out the new, neater braid he has plaited for Thorn. The dye in his hair was still bright and golden-lovely, so things were not entirely dire as far as Stone’s scale for Thorn went.

The comm system crackles to life, “Sirs, the Queen is here.”

Squeezing Thorn’s shoulder where it has tensed back up, Stone leans over the desk and responds, “Send her through, Jar. Thanks.”

“She’s an escort?” Jar says back, sounding panicked.

“Him too,” Stone says, pleased to see that Thorn gives a little smile, barely more than a quirk of the lips, but it is something.

“What do you reckon,” he asks in the twenty seconds they have before the Queen enters, “already moving on to some hot strapping young thing?” The senator of Alderaan, was by all accounts a very good man, whose death was probably a loss for the wider galaxy. But Thorn hadn’t smiled fully in months and Stone wasn’t above throwing a dead Senator under the dirigible to get Thorn to laugh.

That gets him the ghost of a smile, but no response. Possibly because there is a knock on the door.

“Please come in,” Stone invites, keeping on his feet and moving to welcome Queen Breha and her guard, an armoured, masked man. He looked a bit taller than a clone, and wore armour in the colours of the Alderaan standard, made of better metals than the cheap stuff the Guard were outfitted in. The bodyguard nods to them both, before taking a position by the door and Queen Breha of Alderaan comes in closer.

“Commanders Thorn and Stone, thank you so much for meeting with me,” she says. For a grieving woman, slender but taller than them both, the Queen seems stronger and more stable than Stone expected. “I’m so sorry about your Commander Fox and Captain Thire—” Stone observes a slight movement in the bodyguard, “—my husband and daughter spoke highly of their heroism before…”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Stone says, voice catching.

“I wanted to bring you these,” she offers two greaves, identifiably Fox’s and Thire’s. “They were salvaged from…”

“I understand,” Stone says, taking them off her delicately, trying not to look too closely at Thorn as he does so.

“And there is this,” she turns and is handed what looks like a novel. This she hands directly to Thorn, “I was told you enjoyed reading, and I thought an early copy of this book would be of interest.”

Of all the things? Stone thinks crossly, but holds his tongue when Thorn accepts the book with a nod of thanks.

“We should be off, but gentlemen, I’m having a dinner at my embassy tomorrow evening, before I leave again for home. I think you should both come.” Stone doesn’t think that is very likely, and opens his mouth to say as much but Queen Breha interrupts him, “Take a read before you decide. I think you’ll find the book most interesting.” And then she winks and leaves."

Her bodyguard hangs back, seeming to look at them both, before he signs—in their code—read.

Stone splutters, standing to follow him and demand how he knew their codes, but Thorn’s hand stops him. “Vod,” he says, voice shaky with what it takes Stone a moment to recognise as joy, “look.”

So Stone looks at the book, recognising it as a romance—with an armoured figure that bore a vague resemblance to a clone’s armour, looking to the foreground where a fully robed figure with a gleaming sword stood—before the title and author sink in. “The Commander’s Jedi?” he reads incredulously, “By Ferus Olin?”

“That bastard,” Thorn says, leaning over the desk, shaking. “Those bastards.”

“What?” Stone asks, alarmed, even though he’s pretty certain Thorn is laughing.

 ““Realising that he can no longer trust the King he serves, Commander Vulpo of the Knight’s Guard sets out on a mission with his trusted lieutenant, joining up with a Duke seeking to return peace and order to the planet. While traveling, the Commander meets a mysterious man who speaks in riddles and seems to be connected to a long forgotten order of monks, the Jedi.

As they travel, Vulpo and this mysterious man find not only trust and love, but secrets that will change their planet forever."” Thorn stops reading the blurb and looks at Stone expectantly.

A reader of detective novels primarily, Stone looks back at him uncomprehending.

Thorn sighs, already more animated than Stone has seen him in weeks, and flicks through the book to find a small note that reads: Go to the dinner, there are plans afoot — F.

“They’re alive, Stone.” Thorn says smiling. Properly, for the first time in weeks.  

“Those bastards,” Stone says, catching himself on Thorn’s shoulder as he staggers with relief. It goes unsaid that they will be joining the Queen of Alderaan for her dinner and likely whatever plans she, Fox, Thire and whoever else have in the works.