Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I. a kiss for grief

When Cody woke up that morning, he had not considered what an absolute disaster the next battle of the campaign would be. He did consider the operations going south, of course. It is the job of every soldier in command to weigh the outcomes and decide on a path for their men to follow.

Yet, the lost lives of his brothers weigh on his soul, each death considered a necessary one; the words needling the skin above his heart unrepentant and sharp. Countless of his siblings dead, spirited away by droids and bombs and blasterfire, with nothing to show for it except their names and numbers carved on Cody’s own bones.

Nothing to show for it except for remembrances and bodies scattered throughout the ravaged battlefield.

Cody breathes.

He is still alive. General Kenobi is, too, and so are many other officers. The enemy is defeated, and the mission is complete. The minutes keep ticking, second after second, no respite and no relief, unstoppable and unyielding to his fugacious—perpetual—grief.

War is war is war; and men like Cody—clones like Cody—were born for war.

“Commander,” one of the newest medics for the 212th calls through the comms. “Please report for the check-up.”

Cody nods. “I will.” It is routine, and it shall be done. He pauses for a second, and asks: “Has General Kenobi been through already?”

“Negative, sir,” the medic answers with a shrug of his shoulders, already becoming familiar with the General’s avoidance of medical attention. From beyond the scope of the comm, Cody faintly hears his CMO shout Tell him to bring the General with him!, the medic tilting his head towards the voice. “The Chief urges you to—”

“I heard, vod,” Cody cuts him off. “I will head towards the medbay as soon as I’ve picked up General Kenobi. Tell Helix to stop fretting. Neither him nor I were gravely injured in battle.”

“Yes, sir. I will.”

“Good. Cody out.”

Both of them ignore the offended I do not fret! coming from the background and hang up the comm. Cody sighs, and scans the camp they are resting at from east to west, trying to see where the General might have hidden himself this time.

Kenobi has a tendency to do such things. After months of working together, of watching his back, Cody is used to finding the nooks and small corners of the world the Jedi likes walking away to after the battle is finished: they are usually not too far from the camp, since Kenobi is always conscious of emergencies and unexpected happenings that might require his presence. Still, they tend to be hidden from the overview of the troops.

Cody has not asked yet about this habit—it is not much of a mystery. Jedi are big on peace, and war might as well be the antithesis to every single tenet of their teachings.

He does not fault the General for wanting a fragment of calm in the midst of the storm.

(From the thoughts Cody cannot acknowledge, from the part of himself he buries so deep he no longer can hear its screams, an innate understanding blooms for his General’s longing. But what is he, if not a soldier? What is he, if not war, grief and strife? What is he, if not a blaster and the weight of his armour? Cody is Cody, but he is a clone, too. And for clones, peace is as abstract as the Jedi’s Force, as intangible as safety, and as ludicrous as a Kaminoan day without rain.)

(Cody is Cody. But he is a clone.)

When he finds him, the dawn is beginning to break through the sky. The sun is not out yet, but light filters still, chasing the night away. It softens the landscape, as if mere sunlight was enough to vanish the rubble and turn it into sculptures. The air he breathes changes too, swept by the rhythm of the world, cold before and crisp now. 

A new day incoming.

He steps closer. The General is sitting on top of a destroyed tank, thankfully with no corpses surrounding it. His eyes are closed, and the stress lines on his face seem smooth now that the battle is over.

“General,” he greets—announces, really.

Kenobi inclines his head. “Commander Cody,” he returns the greeting. “I hope the men are faring well?”

“As well as they can, sir.” It is the only answer he can give. “Forms for resupplying the vacant spots in the 212th will need to be filled.”

There is a moment of silence, and a frown that mars the General’s features. “We lost too many.”

The words, were from anyone else’s mouth, would have sounded reprimanding. Insulting, even. Cody knows how officers think—knows how outside of the clones themselves, not one of them thinks of their lives beyond material resources. But Kenobi’s words come out in a soft sigh, a sorrowful edge colouring each vocal.

The sun breaks through, and Kenobi mourns.

The first sunray is gentle. Kenobi opens his eyes, and their blue—the reflection of the sun trapped in them—is gentle, too.

Cody feels like he might break. On the edge of an absurdly fragile and tender agony.

The General moves. Climbs down and walks until they are mere inches away. Chest to chest. Cody’s heartbeats are a painful, stinging thing.

The sunlight is a warm, aching impression of what could have been.

Kenobi leans in and rests his forehead against his helmet, in the first keldabe Cody has experienced outside of his brethren. In a kiss that sweetens his every hurt, and adds salt to his every wound.

“Nu kyr’adyc, shi taab’echaaj’la.”

And Cody is left raw, grief regurgitating, bleeding out incessantly from his beaten-up heart. “Not gone,” he repeats in Basic, throat threatening to close on him. “Merely marching away.”

It is—

Like the transition from cold to crisp, like the first light of the morning. A balm over a scathing injury left unattended.

A step back from the edge.

“They are one with the Force now,” Kenobi says, unwavering in his kindness. “And they are at peace.”

It escapes him. “Can clones join the Force?”

Can a clone know peace?

If Kenobi had not been so close, he would not have heard the question. But he is, he is, helmet to temple and visor to eyes.

“Every single being that exists,” his General answers. Honesty in his words, in his posture, in his gaze. “That is my faith.”

For a moment, Cody trembles.

Then, he breathes. In, and out.

“The medics have requested our presence, sir. We should not keep them waiting.”

His voice is barely higher than a whisper. He should step away and regain a more professional posture. But Cody finds that until his General moves, he is content to remain under this spell.

“Indeed, we should not,” Kenobi muses. He has not moved either. “We have paperwork to fill, too.”

“We do.”

They breathe. As one, as two, and for every single trooper that does not anymore.

His General leans back and steps away, distance growing and reshaping itself into a new and contrary familiar understanding. Kenobi looks towards the camp before setting his eyes on Cody once more.

“Shall we, Commander?”

The dawn has broken through the mountains on the horizon.

“After you, General.”

A new day begins.

II. a kiss for health

The medbay of the Negotiator is a lonely, imposing place. Cody has never thought so before, has never had enough reason to. Yet, the white on the walls reminds him of Kamino: the two images blend together, stretch through time and space and meet inside Cody’s mind.

It stinks of death, both here and in Kamino's medical laboratories.

A part of Cody wonders why he stays. Another part, smaller and of a fragile quality that echoes danger—a trembling, newborn thing—knows exactly why. He tries to ignore how loudly it screams, sometimes. How it takes over his body and fills it with acute longing that leaves hunger pains in his heart. But it persists and it remains and every single moment spent by his General’s side fuels it, keeps it alive, wretched hope flaming the embers.

Cody buries that part of himself just as he buries many others.

Or, he tries to, at least.

Considering his position, he can consider the attempt a failure.

“Commander,” one of the medics alerts him. “It’s the last call for latemeal. You should go.”

Cody, with much difficulty, manages to tear his eyes away from the still form of his General. “No need to worry, I have a couple of ration bars with me,” he explains. “If your shift is over, go ahead. I will keep watch.”

“Respectfully, sir,” Helix says, in that tone he has heard directed towards Kenobi a hundred times. “But ration bars should be strictly limited to battlefields and emergency shortages. Go to the mess hall.”

“No.”

A pause.

“No?”

Cody returns to his Kenobi-watching duties. “I will be fine. These rations are from before the new shipment came through.”

“Sir—” An audible breath, and then, softer: “Cody.”

The admonishment is barely there, truth be told. But Cody feels the worry and the almost-fretting of his CMO, less soldier and more brother, and he sighs. “I can’t leave,” he murmurs, gaze fixed on his General. “I’m the reason he’s here.”

To admit it hurts. To fight with the shame that rises when he remembers how exactly Kenobi ended up in the medbay pumped with morphine up to his eyebrows hurts even worse. Although, by now, he knows the Jedi would not want him blaming himself.

“General Kenobi won’t take a turn for the worse the one hour you’re not by his side,” Helix tries to reason. “You can come back later. We’ll keep watch.”

But Cody’s legs refuse to move, his body locked down, his mind stuck replaying the battle from earlier that morning. The fighting had been dwindling, and he had been helping an injured shiny get out of the battlefield, covering his six and forgetting no one was covering his own, which had led to—this.

General Kenobi is pale on a good day. Right now, if Cody was not sure he is one hundred percent human, he would say his General is trying to mimic the white of the bed sheets. Dark circles under his eyes, frown lines that were not there a year ago when the war began. He looks unhealthy, and it causes havoc on Cody’s carefully arranged emotional defenses.

On his goddamn heart.

And it is his fault, because he is the one who had not seen the assassin droids getting closer, who had been occupied and momentarily distracted and ended up against four of the clankers. And although he had managed to get the younger trooper away from them, the same could not be said for himself.

General Kenobi—fierce and caring, even towards clones like them—had seen it, somehow, from the other side of the battlefield, and had come to Cody’s rescue. As if he was important enough for it. As if tearing through rows of battle droids to get to one clone was standard procedure.

And then, tired after a siege that had lasted the entire night, the Jedi had gotten stabbed in the abdomen, gotten impaled, and promptly lost half his liver, more blood than advisable, and his consciousness.

Cody has not left Kenobi’s side since then.

He can't.

“I won’t leave. That is final.”

“You’re as stubborn as a bantha,” his medic replies with distaste, an insult somewhere in his tone. “Alright. But leave the ration bars aside, Commander. I’ll bring you dinner once I’m done.”

Cody inclines his head. “Acceptable.”

Helix scoffs, mutters a few unflattering words, and goes back to work. The corners of Cody’s lips lift, amused and warmed by the consideration from his vod, even as he grumbles half-hearted because of it.

He leaves his ration bars out in the open, keeps one for true emergencies, and goes back to sitting quietly at his General’s side.

And there he stays.

He stays, and stays, and stays; as Helix brings him his dinner and as the hours tick, away and away in the isolated medbay, white walls upon white sheets upon white floors.

His General does not move an inch.

At some point, Cody’s eyes start to drop. He has been awake for too long, and although he is trained to survive certain withdrawal from sleep, this is The Negotiator and some part of his brain cannot help but drop his guard.

He is terribly tired.

Yet, that terrifying moment when his General dropped to the ground keeps coming to the forefront of his thoughts. His heart clenches at the memory, at the fear that invaded him, powerful and paralyzing, when Kenobi had dropped like a puppet without strings.

It pokes at the new-found feelings he has been trying to keep under lock and key. At the growing, blooming and dooming feeling that he refuses to name. Refuses to consider. Refuses to allow.

The heart is, however, not a rational thing.

And Cody—

For once, he does not want to deny it.

He lifts a trembling hand and rests it on top of Kenobi’s. His fingers run through the skin, hardened and rough, more like his own that he would have imagined. He grabs it, then, and in an impulse he will deny until the end of his days, lifts it and presses his lips lightly against it.

His heart beats against his rib cage, dreadful and hopeful and about to vibrate out of his chest.

Cody is certain he will never be able to bury it again.

He rests his forehead against the same place he kissed, defeated and half-begging for his Jedi to wake up. But eventually, exhaustion pulls at his body. The residual fear and the previously tight-wound affection have wrecked him completely, and, without his input, his muscles begin to numb. Adjusting his posture before falling asleep is not easy, considering his position and how uncomfortable the chairs in the medbay are, but he manages it.

With one last look at Kenobi, the sound of his first name lingering on his tongue, he hopes the morning greets him in that coruscanti accent he has come to find comforting.

III. a kiss for rest

When civilians think of war, the image that comes to their minds is the battlefield: the gruesome deaths that permeate the air, the cries of soldiers falling and the whistling of missiles. There is no place in their imagery for the endless hours of waiting between campaigns, or for the tedious task of spending days writing the necessary reports and reading through the stacks of flimsiwork brought from the men under one’s command.

And that, although seemingly innocuous, contains multitudes. Anxiety, grief, frustration, and guilt come the strongest when you needn't watch your back. Cody knows that well enough—it becomes apparent every time he sits down and works on the reports that sometimes simile a list of grievances, a list of remembrances.

War is a cruel, wretched thing.

Cody thought he understood it, back on Kamino. Nowadays, a year and a scant of months into the conflict he has been bred for, he wonders if it is even possible to be prepared for war. Casualty reports, equipment needing replacement, a form for the demand of a new shipment of rations; time passes that way, word after word stinging the only softness left in Cody.

The door opens a couple of hours later, and his General comes in. Cody glances his way, eyebrows furrowing at seeing the stiff posture of his back and the tension on his shoulders.

“Weren’t you ordered to rest, sir?” He asks, a certain worry for Kenobi that persists with every passing day and battle.

“Do not fret, Commander,” the Jedi waves his question away. “I am perfectly capable of signing a few documents. I won’t exert myself.”

“If you say so, sir,” Cody responds. It is late in the evening, anyways, just a couple of hours after latemeal, and he can always nudge Kenobi out of the office once his body starts giving up. Seeing his General blinking half-asleep and yawning should not be something to look forward to, but—alas. “Should I prepare some tea, then?”

He makes to stand up, but Kenobi foils his attempt. “No need,” he says. “I will bring you a cup in a minute.”

Slowly, he sits back down. “Of course, General.”

It is not uncommon for Kenobi to want to brew his own drink, but whenever he does, it tends to contain a variety of exotic flavours that Cody has yet to find appealing to his palate. Not that he would tell, of course.

Tea is a hobby his General is very passionate about. Cody never really thought of tea before meeting him, but now there is knowledge of every aspect surrounding the drink seared inside his brain: the different types of tea, the ways of brewing said tea, and the correct manners when drinking tea in certain social environments are a few examples of it. He has to admit, though, that such knowledge stays there because Cody cannot bear to forget a word his General says while looking as excited, happy and unburdened as he does while talking about his tea.

Therefore, even though he prefers coffee, and likes very few of the variants the Jedi offers him, Cody refuses to say a word about it.

Earlier, he was thinking: war is a wretched thing. It is, and it shows on Kenobi’s face more often than not. Giving him a moment of contentment is, perhaps unprofessionally, a matter of want, for Cody.

A weakness that keeps him on his toes, for every time the other man smiles, his heart jolts in his chest and spreads warmth throughout his veins.

Before he can get too lost in his musings, Kenobi appears in front of his desk and leaves a cup of steaming blue tea by the stack of approved flimsiwork. A chuckle reaches his ears and, embarrassingly, Cody realizes he is without his helmet, looking at the tea with the most dubious expression he has ever made.

“I promise you, Commander, it’s perfectly drinkable,” Kenobi explains with mirth colouring his words. “It’s butterfly pea flower tea, not a suspicious concoction found on Geonosis.”

Cody’s cheeks are burning, but he is determined to ignore it the best he can. “Butterfly pea flower tea?” He repeats, inciting the rambling sure to come, taking the moment to lift the cup and smell what he is about to pour down his throat.

Kenobi hums as he takes the first sip. “It’s made with the flower of a plant from the planet Ternate, and though it has many names, I’ve always known it as Aprajita. Master Qui-Gon was fond of it—he said it was the only drinkable tea Master Yoda ever brewed.” He snorts. “Not, mind you, that Master Yoda is incapable of brewing good tea. This one is considered to be beneficial for a lot of species—ah, feel free to add more lemon juice if you find it lacking, it can be a bit dull to humans without it…”

Cody never stops paying attention to his General’s words—who knew flowers could be used to dye clothes?—but he does get back to work, signing and reviewing reports before handing off to Kenobi the ones that need a superior officer’s signature.

The Jedi eventually falls silent, concentrated in his work. It is a companionable silence, and through the motions, Cody’s mind falls into that comfortable zone that lets him know he is safe. Very few times has he experienced it outside of the occasions he spent with the youngest of his brethren back on Kamino, guarded by his squadmates and playing babysitter during downtime. It is a significant tell that he does so with Kenobi: one he tries not to pay attention to, lest he starts indulging and forgets himself.

Hours later, when his commlink buzzes, the alarm Helix programmed to send him to bed activating, he frowns. Cody could have sworn much less time had passed since latemeal.

“General Kenobi—”

“Is it another form, Commander?”

It could be, except Kenobi is one blink away from falling asleep on his desk and his voice carries more yawn than words. “No, sir. It’s time to retire for the day.”

The way Kenobi’s eyebrows draw together in incomprehension first, and then in what could be best described as a pout, is nothing short of adorable. Cody has the urge to smooth it out, and squashes it down viciously.

“It’s that late already?” He asks, voice a touch rough, before rubbing his forehead with his thumbs and letting out a sigh. “Alright, then. Shall we go?”

Cody nods. “Indeed. After you, sir.”

They fall together step by step, in sync even when they need not be.

“Have I not asked to leave the formalities out once we’re both off duty, Cody?” Kenobi questions, turning his tired blue eyes to him, looking sad of all things that he has not yet gotten his way with making Cody call him by name. “You can tell me if it makes you uncomfortable, of course, but I thought—”

Kenobi cuts himself off and looks away. And—Cody does not know how to explain that it does not make him uncomfortable, but rather, that the mere thought of pronouncing his General’s name is enough to lower his dwindling defenses against the feelings taking root in his heart.

If he takes this one step, Cody fears he will never stop running towards Kenobi.

“It’s not that, sir,” he tries, either way, because he loathes the disappointed expression on Kenobi’s face. It stings. “I just—” But as much as he may want to, the words refuse to come. “You’re my General.”

Outside their office’s door, Kenobi takes a step closer. “I think of you as a friend,” he confesses. “I hope I’m not mistaken to think you welcome me as one, too.”

“You’re not.”

Kenobi hums. “We’re alone.” As if that justified it. “Please?”

And Cody might have the discipline of a soldier, but in the end—well. He is just a man.

“Obi-Wan.”

Barely a whisper, voice trembling, it still reaches his General’s ears. The change of expression, the lightness that seeps into his features, the smile that stretches along his cheeks—like seeing a flower bloom for the first time, Cody is awe-struck.

He seems happy. Maybe for the first time since the war started.

“Thank you, my dear.”

Before he can register the use of such endearment coming from Obi-Wan, the older man leans forwards and presses his lips lightly against Cody’s nose. Which is—

Is—

—?

What?

“Goodnight, Cody.”

And with that, his General—Obi-Wan—walks away, calm, as if nothing outside of the norm had happened.

A strangled noise makes it past his throat before his knees give up, hands on his face warming up due to the furnace that his cheeks have turned into.

Force, that’s just unfair.

IV. a kiss for hope

Being stranded in a cave is not the worst of the situations Cody has ever found himself in. He is, in fact, trained for situations such as this. However, considering this time it comes hand in hand with being lost, being injured, and being cold, it definitely makes it to the top ten.

The company of his General is the only solace, and even that hangs in balance because not only is Cody harbouring a head wound—and probably a minor concussion, too—but Obi-Wan has been stabbed—again—by some droid’s lucky vibroblade, and is bleeding all over the place.

His helmet is somewhere lost in the woods, and his other comms are in no working condition—that is to say, he is not able to request a med-evac. Even if he were, the rainstorm that urged them to seek refuge in a cave in the first place is still going strong, and there is no assurance that he would be able to get a message out.

It is quite the predicament.

Ghost Company will be looking for them, there is no doubt about that. Cody is just unsure on how many hours will that take—and how worse his General will be by then. When Obi-Wan fell down the landslide after he dealt with the enemy droid and Cody jumped after him, the battle was far from done.

“You’re worrying, my dear,” Obi-Wan calls him out. His eyes are still closed. “It does not do to dwell beyond our means.”

His General is trembling by his side, curled up and soaking wet, head on Cody’s shoulder. Blood seeps from his abdomen, even though Cody tried his best to wrap the wound as tightly and neatly as his training demanded. His own head-wound is untreated.

“I would ask you to follow your own advice, then, sir,” Cody answers, sarcasm dripping on his tongue. Then his own words register, and he hisses, regret pulsing through his body. “Apologies, General.”

Obi-Wan chuckles, the sound coming out raspy, and of a tired quality. “I can’t fault you for honesty, Commander. I have to say, though, you’re usually less harsh with your words.”

“Must be the head wound,” he says, the lift of the corners of his lips betraying his humour.

“Must be,” Obi-Wan agrees with mirth. “Our men will be alright. The 212th is one of the best.”

Cody knows that. Yet, some part of him will never stop worrying about his brothers. “Yes, sir.” And, after a pause: “We’ll be alright, too.”

The scoff that comes out of the Jedi’s mouth warms his neck. “Of that, I have no doubt.”

They come closer together, their bodies aligning, trying to keep the cold away. The rain is a soothing soundtrack, for all that it has them trapped, and at least they have rested far enough from the entrance that it does not reach them.

“We may have to spend the night here,” Cody warns his General. “Temperatures will start dropping soon.”

“Indeed,” Obi-Wan agrees, one eye cracking open to look at the dimming daylight. “We should eat something, or we’ll go from ‘cold’ to ‘in risk of pneumonia’ faster than our medics would like.”

“Yes, sir.”

Obi-Wan shoves him lightly—he does not have much strength left. “I think it’s fair to say we’re off duty for now, Commander.”

Despite the fact that his body should be storing any warmth it can, his cheeks burn. Maybe it does so because his blacks still work, thermodynamic and hydrophobic as they are. “Obi-Wan,” he rectifies, the name in his tongue a privilege. He wraps it around his heart every time it leaves his mouth. “It’s Cody, in that case.”

“So it is, my dear.”

Cody’s cheeks flush again, red as muja fruits. Blasted endearments, he thinks. The Jedi is a menace with them.

Without further ado, they eat a couple of ration bars Cody always keeps for emergencies. Bland in flavour but no worse than the puddles of goo-food they ate on Kamino, Cody is amused when his General’s features tighten as he takes the first bite, but he gets through it as he has done for the last two and a half years of war.

“Do the comms work yet?”

Cody shakes his head. “Not since I last tried.”

“Best to get comfortable, then,” Obi-Wan says, voice resigned and shoulders dropping.

He thinks for a minute what position will be the most optimal to get through the night. “I’ll take off my armour and we’ll huddle for warmth,” Cody decides, enough suggestion in his tone that Obi-Wan can deny the option. “Take off some of your layers, too. They’ll only obstruct us.”

In the end, to make sure Obi-Wan’s injury does not worsen, Cody lays with his back down on the ground, head resting into a makeshift pillow made from some of his armour wrapped with the driest of the Jedi’s robes, arms stretched out so that he can hold Obi-Wan in between.

It is one thing to dream about holding your General close. It is another to live it.

At first, Cody is too concerned with making sure no further harm comes to Obi-Wan to bother thinking about what it means to cuddle with him. He warms them up the best he can, does his best not to put pressure on Obi-Wan’s wound, and arranges the not-yet-lost cloak to serve as a thin blanket.

He also takes notes on his own injury. He is not nauseous, and neither is he bleeding. He has a mild headache, but though his vision is a bit blurry, there are no spots or serious disorienting. Overall, not that worrying. He is safe to rest.

Some of the tension eases from his body. He tightens his arms around his General, and in response, Obi-Wan hums, face tucked into Cody’s neck.

And then the situation crashes into Cody like an avalanche.

“Cody?” Obi-Wan murmurs, exhaustion pulling at his body, a question to the abrupt stiffness in Cody’s arms.

He takes a deep breath. “It’s nothing.” His voice is barely louder than a whisper, but it echoes in the cave. “Rest. I’ll keep watch.”

“There’s no need, dear. We’re safe here.” Obi-Wan nuzzles his neck, oblivious to how Cody’s heart races. “The Force said so.”

A chuckle escapes him. “Well, if the Force said so.”

“Exactly,” he says against his skin. “Let’s rest. Tomorrow will be another day.”

“A better one, I hope,” Cody huffs. The ground is hard against his back; Obi-Wan is warm against his chest. His comment is not for show, but—there is comfort, too, in having his General in his arms, and in feeling his heartbeat through the ribs, orbiting his own.

A hum. “Yes, a better one.”

A year or so into the war, his General kissed him on the nose. The morning after, he had apologized profusely, declaring himself too tired to think straight in between sentences full of I am terribly sorry, Commander, and I promise it will never happen again. He had also threatened—promised—to have himself moved to another battalion if Cody so desired.

Two years and a handful of months into this war, Cody has been called my dear more times than he can count, has had to name the hopeless, burning thing in his heart and has almost thrice lost his life.

And now, his General lays on top of him, pliant and half-way to sleep and exhausted and lovely, despite the dark circles under his eyes, the dirt spread all around his face, and the bloodstains that surround them both.

I love you, he thinks; and it should be in defeat.

It is not.

As if basking in the words unspoken, Obi-Wan tightens his own arms around Cody.

The world, for a second, holds time and space in its hands and gives Cody’s love a place to exist. A slow-motion supernova that fills the cave and carves his devotion in its walls.

Cody breathes at its tempo, and leans down. Tender, his lips press against his Jedi’s temple, everything he cannot express poured into it like the rain pours down the heavens above them.

His eyes start to drop.

Cody falls asleep with Obi-Wan in his arms. 

When his Ghosts find them in the morning, they will not have moved an inch away from each other.

V. a kiss for peace

If Cody had to name one aspect of the war not taught to the clones back on Kamino, it would be the social one. Not the interpersonal comfort between brothers—that, they have known their entire lives. And not the formal military social norms, either—those are drilled and engraved in the mind of every vod that goes through standard training. But galas? The ostentatious dinners filled with governors and politicians who have never once stepped on a battlefield? The need for good publicity in the form of being photographed for hours as his General is interviewed? Those have Cody completely unprepared.

Three years into the war and a nonsensical amount of galas later, Cody still has no idea what to do in them.

His General tried his best to teach those under his command how to behave, but many of the rules in place for such events seem uselessly complicated to the troopers. The only upside is the food—and, sometimes, not even that, considering the weird dishes some of the upper class are obsessed with.

It is true, however, that if Obi-Wan asks for Cody to accompany him to one such event, there is a hundred percent chance he will say yes.

Because his General needs a security team everywhere he goes, trouble-magnet that he is, of course.

No other reason.

“Ten credits the Commander is unable to take his eyes off the General again.”

“You don’t have ten credits.” A sigh. Then, muttering: “That’s a fool’s bet, anyways.” A pause. “And since when are you into betting?”

And, half-sheepish: “It seemed fun when they did it in that holomovie.”

Cody needs not to turn around to know exactly who they are, but the moment he is about to scold them and assign them latrine duty—the only punishment boring enough to discourage some of the men—Obi-Wan appears from around the corner and all function ceases around Cody’s brain.

See, the thing is: albeit he does not get out of his Jedi robes, Obi-Wan likes to wear make-up during the galas and the high-end dinners they are forced to attend. In his own words, because he enjoys it and it makes him feel more like himself.

Cody knows many of his siblings have started trying out different make-up looks, encouraged by their General and even guided by him in some of the cases. He has not tried it yet; maybe he will one day. For now, the sight of Obi-Wan in golden eyeliner and shimmery gold-maroon lipstick is enough to send his brain cells into a holiday.

“Good evening,” Obi-Wan greets them. “How goes the preparations?”

Cody snaps to attention. “Everything ready, sir. The shuttle that’ll take us to the palace is waiting for us.”

His Jedi smiles. It is distracting.

“As efficient as always, my dear.” So distracting. “Shall we, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

The way towards the palace is spent talking about what kind of food they will serve and whether or not it is appropriate to get up in the middle of the meal to go to the refresher—which is not, go figure—in between other riveting topics such as conspiracy theories surrounding a holoseries half the troopers of the 212th are hooked on, a rant on the latest under-supplied shipment of DC-15s, and what other flavours they would like the ration bars to be.

While the rest all talk, Cody cannot help but gaze at Obi-Wan. 

The planet they are on is on a binary-star system, and the sunsets are long; the sunlight hits the golden eyeliner perfectly applied on his General’s face, and it shines, bright and blinding. His fingers twitch, itching for a chance to touch, and Cody reigns that impulse in as fast as he can.

It is a difficult task.

His feelings are spilling from within, day and night, flooding his senses with Obi-Wan and his heart with warmth. It worsens with time, he has found. He loves and loves and containment is impossible when Obi-Wan looks back, when he smiles at him like Cody is someone precious, soft and loving and a tint of mischief around the edges.

“If I had ten credits, I would’ve won that bet.”

Cody glares at the offender and shuts him up quickly. There is, if anything, an advantage to being a Commander and inspiring respect among his troops.

“Even if you had ten credits, I wouldn’t have taken you up on it.”

Nevermind.

“Lieutenant, shut up.”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

A moment of blessed silence.

“Why is it always me?”

“Because you’re an idiot.”

With a sigh, Cody looks at the sky and wonders. Maybe life would be better without brothers.

Obi-Wan tries to stifle his laughter without much success. “I didn’t know you got into gambling, Waxer. Is it a recent hobby?”

Waxer and Boil, caught by the Jedi, blush at the attention, but carry on the conversation about the betting habits of the troopers and the typical bids. It is not long, however, before they are standing in front of the palace hosting the gala.

The team quickly coordinates to the posts for the operation—one trooper left behind to guard the shuttle—and they waste no time flanking their General.

“I truly believe this is unnecessary, my dear,” Obi-Wan says to him, assured of his safety even though he has been assaulted multiple times in similar settings. “Nothing dangerous registers in the Force.”

Cody almost grinds his teeth. “That may be true now, but it doesn’t hold for the rest of the evening, sir. It’s better to be prepared.”

His General sighs. “I suppose so.” Then, he flashes him a quick smile. “Thank you for having my back, Commander.”

“Always, General.”

The soft look in Obi-Wan’s eyes humbles him. His loyalty is given—not thoughtlessly, but readily, to the man that guides the 7th Sky Corps. To have it appreciated is more than he had ever thought to wish for, and again, it sends him into a spiral of affection he cannot break from.

As a hand brushes his own, he thinks he is not the only one.

Cody longs, with an acute ache, to hold his General’s hand. Before he goes on towards the crowd of nobles and politicians trying to vie for his attention, away from Cody’s reach. Somewhere he cannot follow.

Maybe it is an ache that Obi-Wan senses in the Force: the wish for more, in a setting he should not be wishing on. Maybe it is that the war is winding down, both the Separatists and the Republic tired and half-leaderless—Count Dooku and Chancellor Palpatine dead after the Siege of Coruscant—and peace seems less like a far-away dream and more of a fast-approaching reality, these days.

Be that as it may, Obi-Wan grabs his arm before they enter the room reserved for the gala and, 212th gold enhancing his eyes and shining on his lips, smiles at him so tenderly and closes the distance between them.

His kiss lands on Cody’s cheek, soft and steady.

“Shall we, my dear?”

The gala awaits. The squad takes their positions. Obi-Wan walks on, weaving his words and swaying all manners of influential people to his side, to his views, towards peace, towards better support.

Cody stands at attention, vigilant.

An imprint of Obi-Wan’s lips on his cheek.

Chapter Text

+ I. a kiss for love

The war ends after the defeat of General Grievous at the hands of the 212th on Utapau. The skirmishes fade; the fight is over. The new Chancellor of the Republic signs the peace accords with the leadership of the CIS. The Jedi draw back from their mantle as Generals of the GAR and the troopers are granted leave.

Cody wakes up, day after day, and wonders about peace.

War is war is war. It is all he has ever known. He is a soldier, a trooper, a clone.

“… time for our boys in white to make their own decisions. Today, three ten-days after the Clone Rights Act was approved by the Senate, the Bill guaranteeing the clones the sentient rights of a Republic citizen is finally in effect. What will that mean for the GAR? We have yet to see…”

What is Cody if not the weight of his armour?

What is Cody if not the recoil of his blaster, the eternal sound of sorrow?

(What is Cody, if not a soldier?)

“… our sources, many of our troopers have decided to stay for the time being in stand-by and relief teams, rumoured to be led by the Jedi. How much of that is true, however, we won’t know until the official…”

And yet.

He is Cody, and today, he is free.

(It is as terrifying as it is exhilarating. It brings relief as much as it brings grief.)

He marvels at the sunlight coming from the window of the room he has been staying at. On Coruscant, daylight is a strange sight. And in the Temple, not all rooms are on the surface level, either; many of his brethren live in those beneath it, floors upon floors of vod’e occupying space that had been empty for centuries due to the diminishing of the population of Jedi. Sunlight is artificial in those rooms, but warm nevertheless. And in the upper floors―where most Jedi live nowadays―light filters at dawn graceful, dainty, almost caressing its residents.

It is not a Commander’s privilege that landed Cody this room.

No, it was Obi-Wan offering him Anakin’s old room―“just until you find something better, my dear”―that did it.

Cody had said yes.

There is no world in which he would have said no.

The housing offered to the clones goes into effect today as well. Cody, unlike many of his siblings, will not take it. Well―that is not the plan, at least. He is sure the ones who have found the Temple welcoming and want to settle down for a while will not, either. Others will get out there and explore the world, eager and young, trying to find a place in the stars that feels like home.

But Cody―

Although he does not know himself without war, without blood, or without grief, Cody knows what home feels like. He knows he wants to keep being by that person’s side. That whatever may come, whoever he may become in the absence of warfare and blasterfire, it will be someone that knows the warmth of a heart reaching out to his own.

He has known for a while, for a few months, evident as a clanker’s steps, the taste of love at the tip of his tongue.

Obi-Wan had not been shy, after all.

Merely patient.

“… the Shrieks have been on a winning streak lately, haven’t they? Ah, but will they keep it up after tonight? They’re playing against the Lothwolves, the number one favourit―”

Cody turns off the commlink’s news channel, no interest whatsoever in sports. Rex has lately been watching some, he thinks, but Cody honestly cannot pronounce the name of it. Maybe Rex will go and become a pro. He snorts at the thought and scans through the endless messages from various of his vod’e, sending back his own congratulations on their new sentient status. He confirms the plans to meet up with some of the 212th, Rex and his ilk, and a couple of commanders he gets on well with later that day, too, and after a moment of incredulity, sends his resignation form.

(His face is doing something weird, he thinks. There is a sadness that wants to fester, and a happiness that threatens to overwhelm him.)

(What a conundrum.)

He gets up and makes the bed. The anticipation humming in his bones is no reason to be remiss of his discipline. He brushes his teeth, puts on his blacks―still, other than his greys and his armour, the only piece of clothing he owns. He fears his wardrobe will grow soon, considering the back pay promised to all of the vod’e and the speculative looks Obi-Wan has been throwing his way after talking about it, but Cody is surprisingly okay with it. There is a brown leather jacket he wants to try on somewhere a couple levels below, and although choosing what to wear every day for the rest of his life feels daunting, it is also terribly elating.

He takes a deep breath and slides the door open.

Obi-Wan’s apartment is a thing of light. There are plants in every corner, artwork hanging from every wall and a myriad of trinkets and books, leather-bound, in shelves made of oak wood. The floors are a soft mat under his feet, and despite its relatively small size, it is spacious and welcoming. Cody likes it, and he loves waking up every morning to the knowledge that he now shares it with Obi-Wan.

To the sight of Obi-Wan meditating on the floor, the days he has nowhere to go until hours after sunrise; on the kitchen, the days he has a class to teach or a council session to attend and still makes time to share breakfast with Cody; on the sofa reading and drinking tea, when Cody wakes up late due to having a night out with his brothers.

It has barely been a month. Cody has trouble, sometimes, acknowledging it is real. That he gets to live with Obi-Wan in a time when he can laze around without a battle hanging over his head like a damning vibroblade, when he can spend an afternoon without worrying about casualties, about shipments, about strategies.

(In his hands, this domesticity feels fragile.)

(Yet, he cannot imagine living without it.)

Today, Obi-Wan meditates on his favourite spot: under a great ivy his Master acquired during his years as a Padawan. The stress lines from the war seem to have vanished, and there is a smile softly drawn on his face.

It is peaceful. It is peace. Cody might not have been made for it, might not even know what to do with it, a being stained in ash like he is, so unlike his Jedi, but he wants to discover it all the same. He wants to learn how to breathe without the drums of war echoing his every step.

Peace is new, but it is worth it.

And freedom―

“Good morning, Obi-Wan,” he greets. When those blue eyes open and look at him, as gentle as they were in that first dawn of grief, lovely as they have ever been, shining with joy and brimming with affection, Cody takes a breath and smiles. “I love you.”

Obi-Wan stares at him in slight surprise, before he throws his head back and laughs. It is a beautiful laughter. Cody could hear it for the rest of his life and never tire.

His heart aches, joyous and tender in all the right ways.

“Oh, my love,” Obi-Wan says, voice dripping with fondness. He stands up, then, and walks towards him, pace almost languid. Once they are in front of each other, his Jedi lifts his hand and cups his cheek and strokes it with his thumb. Cody feels his eyes begin to water, emotions unravelling in his chest, echoing his words, I love you, I love you, I love you. “There is no moment in which I haven’t known. You shine in the Force with the strength of it; my sun, my Cody. How could I not love you in return?”

“Obi-Wan,” Cody chokes out, hand coming up to grab Obi-Wan’s wrist, to keep his hand stable as he nuzzles it. He refuses to let his tears fall.

“Though, I must admit I thought you knew as well,” his Jedi adds, rueful, and Cody barely notices his other hand coming around his waist, wasting no time in bringing him closer, to the point they are chest to chest and breath to breath. “My apologies.”

Cody shakes his head. “No, I―I knew.” By the end of the war, it was impossible not to. “But we’re free now, me and my vod’e.”

They are. And―

Freedom, freedom is―

“Indeed, you are.” Obi-Wan smiles, happy and as ever, kind to a fault. His Jedi, his General, the man he loves. The man he is allowed to love, now. That he has the right to love. It is as marvelous as it is petrifying. “What is it that you will do with it, my dear?”

There is only one answer he can deliver with certainty. One question his lips have begged during years to part for.

“Kiss me?”

Breathless, like he had come back from running fifty consecutive sprints, with all the over-spilling feelings he had kept hidden throughout the war. Wrecked with devotion, with affection, with love, as always, for the man in front of him.

“Well, if you ask so politely,” Obi-Wan quirks up with mirth, before leaning towards him and finally, finally, kissing him on the lips.

It is firm, his kiss. It grips him, it devours him, yet it is not rushed. It washes over him like a tidal wave, and it is full of warmth and reciprocation and all of what he thought he could never have. He melts into it with a sigh of relief, moulding his lips after Obi-Wan’s. Someone hums into it, might be him or it might be not; Cody barely knows where he ends and begins, right now.

It feels like too much; like not enough; it feels like he was not born for war, but for this, for the lips that play with his own and the erratic thrum of their heartbeats combined.

There is liquid sunlight bubbling inside his veins threatening to burn him from the inside out, and Cody cannot bring himself to care.

They part much too soon. The kiss lingers, and Obi-Wan looks at him and murmurs against his mouth: “Like the sun peeking from the clouds. Oh, Cody.” And―

Cody surges and kisses him again, the urge a sunburst from within.

Freedom, he thinks, freedom is―

“I love you,” he repeats between desperate, loving kisses that keep growing in intensity, as if each was the last they could have. “Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan.”

“Yes, my love?” Comes out of his Jedi’s mouth, voice rough and panting, sky-blue eyes staring up at him with the most adoring gaze Cody has ever been under. He brings their foreheads together, unable to keep himself away more than he has to. “You’ll waste my name like that, you know.”

Force, but Obi-Wan is the love of his life.

“Can I?”

“Waste my name?” A short laughter, swallowed by another press of their lips. “All you want.”

“All our lives?”

A hum. “If that’s what you wish for.”

“It is.”

It is, it is, it is―

“Then, yes. All our lives.”

A blink. Tears that fall. A kiss broken by a smile.

“I love you.”

It comes out shaky. Cody thinks he is trembling.

“And I love you.” A thumb washes the tears from his face. “My dear Cody, how much I do.”

Indeed, it is freedom, and it is his.