Chapter Text
When Obi-wan first meets the clone assigned to him, a sunburst in perpetual rain, the proper words to say leave him.
The cockpit of his Delta-7 rattles as he hurls through hyperspace like a stone cast across water, shuddering from one skip to the next. The ship is intelligent enough to fly itself at this point in his journey, and R4 will alert him should any trouble arise. Obi-wan pulls at the force around him, attuning himself to the feeling of being launched and twisted and shaken. A single high note, somewhere between a trumpet sounding and a violin string humming, sings in the back of his mind as he does so, and the force settles over him like a warm blanket.
The rattling fades. Obi-wan holds himself still. The force will warn him if he should encounter any danger on the rest of his voyage to Kamino. Obi-wan sighs, and he shifts his focus to the man he is due to meet in only a handful of hours.
He debates what to first say to the unknown clone that will be closest to him for the duration of the war. He knows that the clone won’t be like a Padawan, but he can’t help but imagine him that way. The Jedi almost always work alone, even if they act as facets of a larger group. If they ever do work with others, it is with their Padawan learners, who are meant to learn from them for a handful of years before moving on. Their small numbers work in their favor. One or two people could slip through crowds unnoticed or present themselves as very little threat.
He doubts the clone will be anything like Anakin, his actual Padawan, but the brief mental image of two Anakins running amuck and causing chaos pulls a short laugh from his lips. Obi-wan would not mind someone a bit more rule-abiding than Anakin, and he doesn’t doubt that a genetically engineered and meticulously trained soldier will likely fit that mold.
The only real danger, he supposes, is if his assigned clone commander is too much of a stickler for rules. Obi-wan, whilst generally a fan of playing by the book, also appreciates completely disregarding the rule book in more… difficult situations.
Obi-wan sighs. He sounds more like Qui-gon with each passing year. Oh, if his master could see him now. Qui-gon had long preached that the Jedi not only could do more to save the galaxy but should do more.
“You got your wish, Master,” Obi-wan whispers to the stars. He knows Qui-gon never expected all out war, nor did he want escalating violence to force them into becoming something they weren’t ready to become. Obi-wan sighs. No one expected the war.
No one, he supposes, except Master Sifo-Dyas. He commissioned the Kaminoans, after all.
Obi-wan falls deep in thought, and his hand pulls at his beard to the point that he fears he’ll accidentally rub a bald spot into existence. He knows he’s off track. He has far too much on his plate to think too deep about the unknowns that he can not answer today.
He shakes his head. He has other things to worry about, like meeting the clone he would be stuck with for the remainder of the war.
A formal Jedi introduction would feel the most comfortable for Obi-wan. He’d offer a simple bow, an acknowledgment of the rank of the clone commander, and a general comment about hoping the force binds them well so that they may work together in harmony, peace, and comfort.
Ah, but he doubts the poor clone has had much of an experience with the Jedi. Bowing and speaking of the force, a concept most outside the Temple consider strange or mysterious, might only serve to make the man uncomfortable or confused.
As he thinks back to his first interaction with the Kaminoans and their little head nods in response to his bow, Obi-wan doubts that they bowed to him based on their own tradition or cultural customs. The gesture seemed clunky and unpracticed, like a direct acknowledgment of Obi-wan’s actions rather than a commonplace gesture.
Bowing is out, then.
He pauses for a moment, and his hand freezes in his beard. He needs to stop overthinking this. The clone is expecting a general. That’s what he is now, what the Jedi are: generals.
His thoughts slip to Anakin, all of nineteen years old and preparing to step into the role of general after he is cleared from medical with that new hand of his. Obi-wan shakes images of Anakin’s wound from Geonosis out of his mind and refocuses. The last thing a legion of soldiers needs to see is their general panicking over something as simple as an introduction.
He ignores the phantom sensation of dust in his hair, but he can’t help the cough that rips up his throat.
He knows that he is safe. That doesn’t quell the feeling of sand in his lungs.
Obi-wan’s Delta-7 rattles, lurches, and then slows rapidly. The stars, earlier a blue blur, pop into place, and the stormy grey skies of the planet Kamino break the ink black emptiness of space. It grows from a marble to a massive planet in the span of a few minutes.
The engines hum as Obi-wan switches back to manual controls. He guides his ship down through the planet’s atmosphere and clouds and rain. Twice, lightning zaps through the clouds around him, illuminating the interior of his cockpit with blue-white flashes of energy.
The cloud coverage becomes thinner as he nears the planet’s surface—thinner by Kaminoan standards, at least. He lets out a breath as his visibility increases.
Eventually, he bursts from the upper atmosphere. The oceans that make up the planet’s surface rage on, twisting and unpredictable, though predictable in that fact. After much more research at the Temple and hours of filing away new observations for the Council’s archives, Obi-wan found reports that that suggest storms on Kamino last the full planetary rotation and remain endless throughout the year. When one storm fades, another pops up, ripe and ready to take its place, with enough overlap that he may as well call it all the same storm.
Amongst the crashing waves, pockets of grey sparkle, like silver veins catching the light in a dark mine. As he zooms closer towards his landing coordinates, the pockets become vast structures, some connected by complex, covered walkways and some standing alone against the weather. Where these buildings, these huge metal cities, stand, the water slams awkwardly, as the current is forced around the massive metal legs that the cityscape perches upon.
The whole thing looks precarious at best.
Obi-wan glides into the northernmost landing pad, platform fifteen, where the Kaminoans told him they’d meet him. As expected, no one waits on the actual landing pad, likely due to the traffic of ships and the onslaught of the weather, but the bay door leading from the platform to the interior of the building is open. A white light emits from the opening, only obstructed by two figures standing just within its confines.
The force shivers as he lands his ship. Obi-wan takes a breath to ensure his own anxieties do not adversely affect his connection with the force. The force, once warm and full, hangs dreadfully heavy in the air, like a bucket of cold water down his back. Though, that could just be the chill of the rain that pelts him the moment his cockpit opens.
He pulls his hood up to combat the storm and climbs out of his cockpit so that he can hurry inside.
The platform is oil-slick and treacherous to navigate, but his boots find purchase on the rain-soaked metal surface with little issue. Briefly, he’s reminded of a diplomatic mission he conducted years ago with Anakin on a faraway planet that saw the sun for only one rotation a year, where they’d spent the better part of a week skating around on thick ice and struggling through heavy snow. Anakin had taken to the terrible conditions rather gracefully.
“It’s like sand, Master,” he said with a smile, gleeful at Obi-wan’s struggle, “you have to let it move you. Don’t try to move it.”
Obi-wan almost snapped that it may be easy for him, as he’d grown up on Tatooine, but he held his tongue. Any time Obi-wan mentioned Tatooine, Anakin’s smile always dropped.
In the snow and the dazzling joy of something new, Obi-wan decided he wanted his Padawan to smile. Besides, after many failed attempts, Obi-wan learned to listen to what his Padawan had said.
Now, he silently thanks Anakin for the lesson in humility as he glides nearly effortlessly to the open hull of the building. The rain stops suddenly as he secludes himself within the safety of the open bay door. He lowers his hood, but the cold and constant air conditioning in the building tugs against his damp clothing and licks at any exposed skin. He pulls his cloak tighter around his shoulders. The air blows colder in here, yes, but, at the very least, the rain can no longer reach him.
Just within the entrance, lit up by the unnaturally white lights of the large hallway, two figures stand next to one another. The first, Obi-wan recognizes.
Nala Se, a towering Kaminoan with careful eyes and a dark stone pendant on her forehead, extends her head to Obi-wan as he ushers himself in. As the chief medical scientist of the cloning facility, Nala Se communicates a lot with the Jedi Council regarding the readiness and usefulness of the clone army. Thus, this is not the first time he’s seen her since their meeting before the battle of Geonosis.
Obi-wan, still skeptical of the ethics of cloning an army to fight the Galatic Republic’s battles, does not harbor particularly pleasant feelings towards her, though he had made first contact with the Kaminoans and, regrettably, became the touchpoint between the Republic and the Kaminoans for these early weeks of the war. He bows at the waist and lowers his eyes, offering her a sign of respect even as the force slithers accusingly around his waist and coils in his stomach, all too aware of his deep confliction regarding his like (or dislike, he supposed) of the Kaminoan before him.
Obi-wan does not recognize the other person by sight.
He wears armor typical of the Clone Garrison, a combination of white plastoid pieces and a skintight black bodysuit beneath the plating, and has his helmet drawn over his head. Orange-yellow paint tattoos his armor and helmet in streaks—color-coded to indicate his battalion, Obi-wan supposes—and a single scuff mark marrs his right shoulder pad. His blaster remains holstered at his side, but present nonetheless.
While his appearance is wholly new, his force signature slams into Obi-wan like a freight train. Next to the dim, grey line that Nala Se cuts into the force, this clone burns so brightly that Obi-wan has to fight against his instinct to close his eyes. In this world of swirling storms and overcast skies, this clone may as well be the sun with how brilliantly he lights up the force around him with orange and yellow bursts, more vibrant than the paint on his armor and stretching like the rays of a far off sunset desperately reaching for the distant horizon. Obi-wan blinks away the dots in his vision, but he only partly recovers before the overwhelming taste of citrus leaves, sweet and earthy and reminiscent of a tea imported from his homeworld of Stewjon that he purchases when he can find it, washes over his tongue like a river of stories he doesn’t yet know but feels tied to nonetheless. The force no longer calls to him with a mixed sound. Instead, the trumpet call blares over the hum of the violin, and the force sings with a brassy fanfare so strong and confident that Obi-wan feels small in comparison.
He recognizes this man, not by sight, but by the way the force around him murmurs like a fragment of himself has been amplified tenfold.
To this man, Obi-wan bows deep, bows until his head is even with his hips, and takes a moment to squeeze his eyes shut. With a deep breath, he recollects himself. He rises after a long pause and looks up. The man shifts his weight awkwardly.
Right, Obi-wan realizes, bowing was meant to be out.
“Jedi Master Kenobi,” Nala Se says as he straightens back out to his full height. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”
Obi-wan slicks back his rain-soaked hair and folds his hands into the sleeves of his robes. He pushes away his distaste for the cloning program and Nala Se. He flashes a smile that he hopes is charming enough to cover the momentary stutter in his grin.
“You as well, Nala Se. Though I do wish the circumstances were better.”
Nala Se inclines her head again and hums thoughtfully. She does not agree with his statement but does not deny it either. Instead, she settles on disregarding it completely. Obi-wan tries not to think about how the escalating war must actually be good for this little cloning business that she and Prime Minister Lama Su run. His thoughts flicker back to the thousands of troops that swooped in to rescue him and the other Jedi on Geonosis. Little may not be the right word to describe this operation.
Obi-wan hopes his smile doesn’t reflect the way his jaw tightens.
“May I introduce CC-2224. He is the clone commander in charge of the two-hundred and twelfth legion. He will be reporting directly to you for the remainder of his services.” Nala Se gestures slowly, palm up, toward the clone beside her.
CC-2224, Obi-wan thinks to himself. The force pangs, unconvinced. That name… that number does not suit him at all. Obi-wan opens his mouth to inquire if the clone goes by a different name, but his previous interactions with Nala Se suggest that she likely would not approve of him calling her creations by anything other than their designations. Instead, Obi-wan closes his mouth and bows his head to acknowledge the introduction.
He makes a mental note to ask when Nala Se leaves them be.
The clone clicks his heels together at Nala Se’s words, snapping from his relaxed position with his feet shoulder-width apart and bringing his hand up to a quick but stiff salute.
It is Obi-wan’s turn to shift awkwardly. His status as a general still rests on his shoulders strangely, like a weight his body has not yet adjusted to carry. This military formality directed at him strikes him like a palm to the cheek, a heavy-handed reminder of the mantle he must now uphold. For some reason, this deepens his dislike for Nala Se rather than him. To direct his irritation at the innocent sent to fight the war of the guilty would only further his own complicity in the matter.
“I am honored to serve with you, Commander,” Obi-wan says. Nala Se’s face pulls in the Kaminoan version of a content smile. Obi-wan grins back, but it doesn't reach his eyes. As he shifts his gaze to the clone, the tension in his face melts to reveal a genuine smile, soft and subtle but guileless.
“CC-2224 will show you to the hangar bay housing the two hundred and twelfth Attack Battalion. As per your request, they will be ready to depart on your designated Star Destroyer within the hour. I will have your Delta-7 docked in the hull of your ship while you prepare to leave,” Nala Se says with a slight bow of her head once more. He considers explaining to her that the Jedi bow by way of greeting and goodbye more than anything else, not with every sentence, but he decides against it. A childish part of him that sounds far too much like Anakin whispers in the back of his mind that he should let her look foolish. “I must leave you now to return to my duties.”
Obi-wan nods and ducks his head. “Of course.”
Nala Se turns and retreats down the hallway with a delicate swish of her robes. Obi-wan watches until her tall form disappears around a bend at the far end of the gently curving hallways. When he and the commander are finally alone, he unfolds his hands and strokes his beard. The clone’s attention rests firmly on him, but he neither speaks nor goes to move. Obi-wan looks at the visor of his helmet, searches for a way to connect, and sighs.
“Are you comfortable taking the helmet off, my friend?” Obi-wan asks. “I would like to see the face of the man I’m to trust my life with.”
The commander hesitates. Obi-wan can tell, despite no obvious visual clues, because the fanfare stutters as if the trumpet player ran out of air for just one lousy, gasping moment. Then, with a subtle glance left and right, as if waiting to be told off by any passing Kaminoans, he slowly reaches up to his helmet and slides it off.
“Yes, sir,” the clone wavers, but he tucks his helmet under his arm with little delay. “But I share the same face as the rest of the clones.”
Oh, but he doesn’t.
He is handsome like his natural-born source, yes. His face is an echo of Jango Fett, of his treachery against the Republic and his attempt to kill Obi-wan, but he bears little resemblance past that initial reminiscence to Jango or the other clones Obi-wan pithily met or observed. The most conspicuous difference is a scar that traces down his cheek. The commander’s eyes trail over Obi-wan with a slow caution that is wholly his own. The muscles in his cheeks pull his expression taut into a constructed image of impassiveness, one that he employs masterfully enough to impress even Obi-wan. Other council members endearingly nicknamed him ‘the Negotiator’ due to his suave attitude and often perfectly projected neutrality, but he would bet money that this clone could put his prowess as the face of impartiality to shame.
Obi-wan does not know how to explain that he is nothing like Jango or the other clones to the commander, so he moves on to the next most pressing issue.
“Do you have a name, Commander? Something other than your designation that you prefer to be called?”
The clone hesitates again. His mask breaks and, for just a single moment, his lips curl down. The ghost of a frown pulls his expression into something between confusion and caution.
Obi-wan exudes as much calm into the force as he can manage, pulling from his own reserves of peaceful thoughts—Anakin’s smile, younglings laughing as they run down the halls of the Jedi Temple, the steady arc of his lightsaber as he practices forms. His fingertips tingle as he does so, and the force curls around his body like a loth-cat rubbing up against its owner’s leg.The commander’s shoulders relax, ever so slightly, though a flicker of uncertainty remains buried deep in his force signature.
“Cody, sir.”
“Cody.” Obi-wan savors the syllables as they fall from his lips. His tongue explodes with the taste of citrus tea again. “That is a delightful name.”
Cody shifts his weight from the balls of his feet to his toes and back again, a nearly imperceptible movement, back and forth, forth and back. More tension melts away as he looks over Obi-wan, emboldened by the familiarity that Obi-wan is building.
“If you would follow me, General,” Cody clicks his heels and lifts his helmet.
“Ah,” Obi-wan waves his hand, “please leave it off. I prefer to see your face.”
Cody nods, but his lips are curving down again. Obi-wan taps into the force once more to push warm feelings—Quinlan’s jokes, Plo Koon’s dancing, and Luminara’s cooking—out towards Cody. It visibly washes over him, less convincingly this time, but it does as it is meant to. His shoulders relax, and a sense of ease drives back out from his own signature in the force.
“Right,” he says finally. “This way, General.”
They walk briskly through a series of hallways. Minutes pass in silence, which Obi-wan normally appreciates and rarely obtains—cough, cough, Anakin —but he craves conversation with Cody. Cody’s voice rumbles in the same key as the trumpet cadence Obi-wan lives with constantly, adding a harmony he’s never heard before, one he wants to hear again and again and again.
“Do the men have everything they need loaded onto the ship?” He asks in an effort to draw out more words from the tight-lipped commander. Cody shrugs, a barely-there lift and drop of his shoulders that Obi-wan only just catches out of the corner of his eye.
“Their gear is loaded, sir.”
Obi-wan runs his hand through his beard again. The wording of his answer feels deliberate in a way that Obi-wan can’t place. His words fall flat, guarded by some wayfaring sense of decorum. Obi-wan sighs.
He hopes they will not always act like this with one another. A habit seems to be forming—Cody hesitates, and Obi-wan sighs.
Obi-wan sighs again.
“And their personal effects?” He presses. Cody blinks in his direction as they round another curve in the hallway. The lights glint off his polished armor like flares of orange against a backdrop of white.
“Personal effects, sir?” Cody asks, but there’s an edge to his voice, a challenge, as if he expects Obi-wan to retract his question at any second. Obi-wan gives a nod and waits patiently for an answer. Finally, when Cody realizes that he meant what he asked, he continues, “Clones don’t really have personal effects, General.”
Of course not. Of course not. Obi-wan breathes in his mounting frustration with the Kaminoans, intent to discuss that point with Prime Minister Lama Su at a later date, and then releases it into the force. Cody needs to see him as an open and fair leader, and the last thing Obi-wan wants is for Cody to misread his annoyance as directed at him.
Obi-wan waves his hand and tries to remain as neutral in his expression as he can manage.
“Not to worry,” he says, “I’m sure we can find them some things throughout our travels.”
He says it like they plan to leave for a vacation across the galaxy. The heavy weight of war sinks into his skin, permeates into his soul, and lingers around him, stale and unforgiving and terrible. Obi-wan grits his teeth together and avoids thinking about Anakin—but, force , he’s nineteen. His wonderful Anakin, barely an adult but already forced to be so old. Obi-wan worries that, one way or another, he will not have the chance to see his Padawan in old age.
He shifts away from that train of thought as quickly as it derails, instead refocusing on Cody, who he catches smiling. It’s small and tight, but certainly there, even if it disappears in a blink. Obi-wan feels a swell of pride deep in his gut, one that he carefully deconstructs and turns to joy before the white-hot flash of uncontrollable emotion can pull him from the harmony of the force.
“If I may, sir,” Cody says and hesitates once more. Obi-wan nods, thrice over, vigorous in his attempt to help Cody along. “Have you named the ship yet?”
“Named it?’
“Yes, sir.”
Obi-wan’s jaw opens before his brain decides on the right words to utter. He settles on a policy of honesty, the same open honesty the Jedi expect between one another and what he hopes to earn from Cody somewhere down the line.
“I hadn’t thought about it,” Obi-wan says with a shrug. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his Commander’s head tilt to the side—not enough to be an outright question, nor even noticeable to those not actively searching his body language, but a subtle hint of confusion nonetheless.
Obi-wan reaches out with the force, and he can feel the way it hums with life around Cody. It breaks through him in the same way that sun rays strike a mirror—as if Cody, awash in its light, absorbs all the energy around him and in turn, sends it cascading outward.
His face is warm, too, Obi-wan realizes. Despite the distinct look he shares with his… brothers?
Now, Obi-wan hesitates. No training could have prepared him for the likes of this. He had received several hours of apprenticeship on the social nuances across different cultures, of course, as all Jedi must. Translating his charm across cultural gaps had always come easy to Obi-wan. He is good—very good—at maneuvering respectfully and efficiently around situations he doesn’t completely understand. Nothing could have prepared him for this. Working with thousands of clones remains a new territory for him to navigate. Obi-wan shakes his head and steals another glance at Cody.
Despite the distinct look he shares with the rest of the clones, Cody’s defining features are much more subtle and entirely, Obi-wan would guess, his own. He does not remember every clone sharing Cody’s tight-lipped façade, though Obi-wan, himself, has only seen very few clones in person. He remembers every clone sharing that careful look in their eye that Cody has, but none seem to have mastered the range of emotions Cody can convey with a stare and barely-raised eyebrow. There’s a warmth, for lack of a more defining term, that follows the curve of Cody’s lips and bleeds out from every glance.
Bitterly, Obi-wan knows that the Kaminoans would call everything that makes Cody unique a flaw in their perfect design. Although, they haven’t yet picked up on them, he guesses with no small amount of smugness. From what he’s seen of the man, Cody presents himself as the perfect soldier, and the Kaminoans are too proud to assume anything otherwise.
And yet… Obi-wan hums. Cody’s shoulders pull back like a soldier, but he has a tendency to lean on his left leg, just barely off balance. And that scar that curls down his face from atop forehead to his cheek, missing the eye but certainly circling it, looks to be a new blemish on otherwise spotless skin.
Obi-wan wonders if Cody would say that he is defined by his scars. That seems to be the way of the clones, from his very limited experience with them. Building themselves up as if to be the sum of everything terrible they have survived. Obi-wan can’t help but think of Anakin again. His heart breaks a little.
Shaking his head, Obi-wan continues, pulling himself from his wandering thoughts, and an absentminded wave of his hand accompanies his words. “I didn’t really see the importance of naming it.”
Immediately, Obi-wan is aware that he has said something wrong.
The force around Cody contorts and sours—high notes swinging low and the taste of herbal tea turning bitter on Obi-wan’s tongue—and, since Cody does not have a helmet to hide behind, Obi-wan can see, clear as day, the coldness that overtakes his features. Cody snaps his eyes forward, no longer interested in trying to study Obi-wan as subtly as he can out of the corner of his eye. His jaw flexes, and his expression turns vacant enough to rival a corpse.
Unable to contain his shock at the, frankly, whiplash-inducing change in both the man next to him and the force around them, Obi-wan abruptly stumbles to a halt with little of the grace he’d exhibited up until this moment. Cody, ever the diligent soldier, follows suit, though he is far less clumsy in his movements. As he stills, he settles into parade rest, legs spread apart and hands clasped together in front of his body almost defensively, and he gives Obi-wan a glance that is not quite a question. Obi-wan supposes that Cody has learned to control his expressions, lest some ill-tempered higher-up feel affronted that a subordinate is questioning their judgment.
Obi-wan winces inwardly. He makes a mental note to himself about speaking to the Kaminoans about that. Obi-wan would never outright reject the opinion of someone else just because they ranked lower than him. Up until very recently, Obi-wan didn’t have a rank at all, aside from Jedi Master. That title, despite eliciting respect from those within the temple and several foreign dignitaries, had meant so very little until the outbreak of the war.
I'm still earning that , he muses. I must prove to these men every day why they can trust my leadership.
And he knows that starts with admitting when he’s done wrong.
“I apologize,” Obi-wan says, not entirely certain what he’s apologizing for. His hands catch the edges of his sleeves, and he tugs at the hems. The adverse reaction from Cody had struck him so sharply that he feels the need to hide, to protect himself. All of a sudden, it’s as if he’s a Padawan again, bracing against the lecture Qui-gon would preach whenever Obi-wan did wrong. He reels in his spiraling thoughts and takes a deep breath in an attempt to center himself.
Straightening his spine and stilling his hands, he says, “I’ve said something to offend you.”
“Sir?” Cody’s very, very, very good at hiding it, but he is uncertain, too.
“Please, Commander,” Obi-wan pauses, “Cody,” the name tastes right in his mouth, and it rolls off his tongue as if Obi-wan had only learned language to be able to speak it. That thought sends another chill down Obi-wan’s back. Instead of thinking further on why that is the case, he maintains his neutral disposition, “Speak freely.”
Cody hesitates.
“It’s… it’s not important, sir.”
“If it is important to you, then it is important to me,” Obi-wan says, and he’s surprised by the sincerity in his voice. By the look on Cody’s face, somewhere between startled and impressed, he’d wager a guess that he wasn’t the only one caught off guard.
“Well, sir,” Cody says, slowly, testing the waters. He draws out the syllables in an effort to give Obi-wan a chance to change his mind. Cody falters when Obi-wan remains quiet. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. “Names are important to the vod’e.” There’s a beat. “To the troopers, I mean.”
Obi-wan makes a small noise of understanding. He debates explaining to Cody that he does, in fact, speak Mando’a, thanks to an extremely long mission on Mandalore in his youth, but it feels wrong to interrupt. He folds his arms across his chest but keeps his mouth shut a while longer. He wants to ensure that Cody has the room to speak if he so desires to say more.
It seems he does not, though, because Cody does not speak further. He shifts the weight from his heels to the balls of his feet and back again. The force around him is laced with anxiety, and it leaves a faintly bitter taste, like tea left in the sun to sour, on Obi-wan’s tongue. Cody is waiting, jaw clamped shut, and Obi-wan reprimands himself for being too direct. It seems his commander is unused to being treated like an equal, and it is a habit that Obi-wan will have to break him into gently. The force titters with a heavy cadence, like frantic drumming, something too close to war drums to be comfortable, and Obi-wan finds he can no longer bear it.
“Cody, I—” Obi-wan tries to speak in order to break the uncomfortable silence.
“Do you always look at people like they’re giving you a headache?”
Obi-wan blinks.
Cody snaps his head straight forward, and he keeps his eyes pointedly not on Obi-wan. His back straightens, and he pushes his shoulders down. He carries his tensions in his rod-straight spine, in his flexed jaw, and in the heels of his feet. The force coils around him like it would around a caged animal just before it lashes out. It’s a strange sensation that catches Obi-wan off-guard.
Already, Cody is proving to have a more prominent effect on the force than any other being that Obi-wan has come into contact with. It is both dazzling and dizzying.
Different to everyone, the force is, Master Yoda had told him when he was just a youngling. Different, it will feel, when come into contact with them, you will.
Obi-wan wonders, again, that taste of bitter tea on the tip of his tongue once more, why and how Cody resonates in tune with Obi-wan’s own force signature. Only once before had he felt a pull this strong. It had been for just a moment, brief and short-lived but beautiful. Qui-gon Jinn, his former Master, had expressed his pride in Obi-wan and pulled him into a hug. For one shining moment, sunbursts had broken across Obi-wan’s vision and the smell of his favorite tea leaves had perfumed the air.
Obi-wan’s thoughts pull to the memory of Qui-gon falling. He chases the image away as quickly as it surfaces and tells himself (for the millionth time) not to dwell on it. A blur of red curls away at the edge of his vision. Obi-wan forces himself to release that memory into the force on his next exhale.
Still, it takes several moments for Obi-wan to compose himself.
Slowly, he lets a small grin slip across his face. He sees the humor in Cody’s comment, knows that it was likely said in jest, and he can’t help but let that smile grow, despite his questions for the force that he knows will remain unanswered.
“I assure you my headache has nothing to do with you,” Obi-wan says finally, shifting in an attempt to catch Cody’s eye. He places a hand on his hip and sweeps the other towards his face, gesturing at his head as if the headache slowly pushing at his temples is something tangible that he can point to. He continues, pulling his lips into a bemused expression, “yet.”
“Sir?” Cody asks, but he still doesn't look at Obi-wan.
“Be at ease, commander,” Obi-wan makes the decision to reach out and place a hand on his shoulder. He pushes warmth into it, pulls the force around him and pours out all his good intentions. Cody does not relax. Obi-wan tries, instead, to explain, “I only mean that we are likely to be one another’s problem for some time.”
“You’re not a problem, sir,” Cody says. He’s quick with his words. He’s appeasing.
Obi-wan shakes his head, withdrawing his hand. Cody is used to far less open people than the Jedi, Obi-wan knows. He has met enough Kaminoans by now to know that to be true. It will prove difficult to get him to open up.
Still, Obi-wan keeps the smile firmly on his face.
“You’ve not yet gotten to know me, commander,” Obi-wan says wryly, thinking back to all the issues he and Anakin managed to get themselves into on nearly every mission the council sent them on, even if it had been labeled a routine assignment. “I may have a habit of getting into… troublesome situations.”
Cody risks a glance at him then, and he catches the broad grin on Obi-wan’s face. Something in Cody shifts, and the tension begins to leak out of his body and into the force.
“I’ll reserve my judgment, then, sir,” Cody nods, still rigid, but less… less…
Afraid. Cody had been afraid of Obi-wan’s response.
“Cody,” Obi-wan stresses his name, “you are allowed to have a sense of humor.”
Cody looks at him outright at that. His earlier sense of decorum is broken for a shining moment, and he looks at Obi-wan with a rawness in his eyes that makes Obi-wan choke on his breath. Distressed by the fear he sees in the other man, Obi-wan continues in a rush, “I mean it, Cody. I am your general because I need to be, but I would like to be your friend as well.”
Cody follows every movement that Obi-wan makes, but he does not yet seem ready to speak.
Obi-wan sighs and tries again. “Speak freely commander. You may always do so. Even if I have to order it out of you.”
Something in what Obi-wan says clicks for Cody. He nods, and his shoulders drop some of their tension, if only just. Obi-wan watches the shift carefully, hoping to learn how to better read his new commander. Instead, his eyes linger on the curve of the commander’s throat where his neck meets his shoulders.
Obi-wan snaps his eyes up and presses his hands together within his sleeves.
“Yes, sir,” Cody says, gruff and to the point. Then, he pauses. More sincerely, he adds, “Thank you, sir.”
Obi-wan nods his head firmly, matching Cody’s body language.
“Let us go meet your men,” Obi-wan adjusts his robes, allowing himself a moment to be self-conscious before releasing his worry into the force. “We’ve kept them waiting long enough.”
“Sir,” Cody snaps his legs together and starts striding forward. Obi-wan matches his pace.
“And about the ship,” Obi-wan says, offhandedly, “would you please help me find a suitable name?”
Cody doesn’t stumble or show his surprise, but Obi-wan distantly hears that high-singing trumpet again and feels the force wrap its warmth around them like a heavy woolen blanket once more. Obi-wan almost forgets the cold weight of water dripping from his robes and hair… almost.
“It would be my pleasure, sir.”
As they near the hangar bay, the single sound grows into a symphony, and Obi-wan can’t help but smile as he senses his men for the first time.
—·⟢⟡⟣·—
Cody tries not to stare. Honest, he tries.
If his eyes linger a second too long that’s entirely no fault of his own. It’s not his fault that the jetii assigned to his company waltzes in with his flouncy robe and auburn hair, both so thoroughly soaked that he looks like some sort of drowned creature, like the forsaken but hauntingly beautiful sirens his brothers tell tales of late at night when they want to scare shinies into thinking something terrifying lurks in the waters of their home, waiting to drag them in with their charm and claws. It’s not his fault that this jetii walks so strangely and talks so smoothly and smiles so sadly. It’s certainly not his fault that this jetii is probably the most incredible being that Cody has ever met.
He silently berates himself for speaking out of turn. He’s grateful that General Kenobi seems unbothered and more grateful still that none of the Kaminoans had heard his belligerence. Clones could be decommissioned for far less, he knows.
The general doesn’t seem to mind. His posture is open and inviting, and his words put Cody at ease—or, at the very least, at as much ease as he can spare at this moment. Cody finds himself tensing once again as they grow nearer to the hangar bay. He can hear the tell-tale chattering of his men, a low rumble of identical voices muddling together into a dull cadence. He knows that they will be on their best behavior for their first meeting with the general but…
Cody bites down the curse that rises in his throat. His men are idiots, but they’re all fine soldiers. None of them would ever risk acting out or making a bad impression if decommissioning is on the table, and, on Kamino, decommissioning is always on the table.
Cody steals another glance at the jetii general before him. General Kenobi stands with his hands at his side, loose within flowing robes that hide his stance and obscure his figure. His sharp jawline, half-hidden by his closely-cropped beard, suggests a muscular physique. His hair, the same reddish-brown as his beard, drips water onto his face and the floor. A few times, a stray droplet slides like a tear down his cheek. Perhaps Cody has been around the apathetic long necks too long, but the subtle softness that Obi-wan carries with him arcs like sorrow across his features. He’s nothing like the fierce, emotionless warriors that the Kaminoans led the clones to believe all jetiise presented themselves as. He is… kind.
Cody shakes himself, and his eyes travel to the lightsaber on Kenobi’s belt. The general is kind for now. He will slip and show his real opinions of the clones soon. Cody doesn’t wish to be disappointed when he does.
Cody sneaks another glance at the general as they reach the large doors that open into the hangar bay. Kenobi sways on his feet like a shiny on his first flight, and his smile, whilst still present, pulls his lips into a thinner line.
Nervous. He’s nervous to meet the men.
Cody can’t fathom why. The jetiise rank so much higher than the clones and always will. Kenobi is their superior because the Kaminoans deemed him so, and the clones would never argue that.
Somewhere buried deep in the back of his mind, a part of Cody simmers with joy. Maybe Kenobi worries about a bad impression with them as much as the vod’e have stressed about making a bad impression on him. If that’s the case, Cody reasons, then Kenobi expects them to live long enough for that to matter. He might even harbor some respect for the vod’e. The Kaminoans hammered into the clones that they exist as expendable objects, property of the Galactic Republic to be used and abused as they see fit. With every lesson in wartime tactics, a clone learns: you are nothing but a number, a piece in this war, a weapon that, whilst honed and crafted to the point of excellence, can be—will be—replaced.
Kenobi had asked for Cody’s name, too.
Cody, sure he meant it as a trap at first, had debated lying about the nickname his brothers tossed around for him. Anytime his brothers call him Cody, pride snaps through him like fire in his veins. His brothers helped him choose that name, and it was a small piece of something he could keep entirely his own, something the Kaminoans could not take away from him. At first, the darkest parts of his mind and heart had whispered, no, no, this belongs to me, and you can’t have it.
But he then saw Kenobi’s eyes.
Kenobi had looked at him with a hopeful little smile, uncomfortable with the formalities but doing his best to struggle through. He wanted to see Cody’s face, to know what he liked to be called. Kenobi, at that moment, had made him feel safe enough to share.
Now, Cody watches as Kenobi braces himself, and he almost smiles.
The doors slip open with a hiss and reveal the full count of his men, all five thousand helmeted clones standing straight and at attention, waiting for Cody and the new general to arrive. Behind the rows of sharp lines and carefully crafted formations, a lone Star Destroyer waits, humming with energy and groaning as the metal compresses and contracts in the cold air. The vod’e all snap to attention as Cody shouts, “General on deck.”
Kenobi doesn’t jump at his words, but he does turn a shade redder around the ears and across his cheeks. A small ounce of satisfaction, of amusement, wedges itself in Cody’s gut. The general seems at a loss for what to do, so Cody guides him. He strides forward, prompting the general to do the same. He plants himself in front of the men with a click of his heels.
“Would you like to address them?” Cody asks softly. He shifts his helmet up further under his arm. Kenobi blinks around the room. He pulls himself together in half a second, but not before Cody sees the surprise on his face. His jaw goes slack, and his eyes widen at the sheer multitude of men in the room, men that he is meant to command. Ironically, Cody knows the feeling all too well.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Kenobi says finally, and his voice echoes around the forever-away ceilings of the massive hangar bay. “This is all rather new to me I’m afraid. You make a formidable company, but would you all mind removing your helmets for now?”
Cody watches the confusion ripple out amongst his men like a wave striking awkwardly at the metal supports of their home, unsure where to go now that its energy has been redirected. Then, beginning with his bolder troopers, they each slowly slide their buckets off. After a few moments, the room is filled with faces identical to Cody’s staring back at the general and him. Most of his men fare far worse when it comes to hiding their bafflement and curiosity, and many of the vod’e crane their necks as much as possible to catch a glimpse of this bizarre jetii.
“Wonderful. Unfortunately, most of our introductions will have to be made as we go. The Senate has already demanded a mission of us that we must depart for immediately. I hope to learn each of your names soon enough, but I ask only for patience as I navigate the coming days.” Kenobi’s voice, stronger now, more suave and confident, lingers in the air a moment longer than it should. Cody hopes he does not share the same flabbergasted expression that some of the shinies wear plastered on their faces.
All of their names? Cody isn’t sure he knows all of their names, and he’s been learning them for the past four months. Kenobi can’t actually mean he plans to learn every single trooper’s name? That goes far past assuming his men are not wholly replaceable. That implies a certain level of care and respect that Cody has never once let himself even consider a nat-born treating him or the vod’e with. He sends a silent prayer to whatever deity is willing to listen that this turns out to be the truth, that this isn’t some elaborate act brought on by the pressure of a first meeting.
Kenobi continues, “I am proud to be fighting alongside you.”
He pauses and turns to Cody. There’s a small please for help in his movements. Snapping himself from his state of shock, Cody nods and steps forward.
“Alright, back to work, boys. Load up and man your stations.”
A chorus of confirmation sweeps through the hangar bay, thousands of voices in tandem, and then the vod’e slam their buckets back on and begin loading themselves, company by company, onto the Star Destroyer behind them. As this happens, Kenobi sighs heavily. Cody glances back at him. His face clouds over with an emotion Cody can’t read, and he doesn’t dare ask.
“May I inquire as to why orange?” Kenobi asks quietly. Cody looks between his own armor, which has an orange stripe across his visor and orange left shoulder guard, and the thirty or so Captains and Lieutenants that wear a stripe of orange on the left side of their chest plating.
“The markings help indicate rank, sir.”
Kenobi waves his hand, a motion Cody initially takes as a complete dismissal before Obi-wan clarifies, “yes, but why orange? Did you choose the color?”
Cody balks at that. Kenobi tosses the word ‘choose’ around as if the clones have had a choice in anything in their relatively short lives. Cody, half inclined to tell him as much, stops the snark from leaving his mouth with a tight-lipped frown.
“No, sir. It’s just the color assigned to the two twelfth,” Cody says when he manages to rein his traitorous thoughts in. Kenobi clicks his tongue and shakes his head.
“Do you prefer another color?”
“What?”
“I asked if you prefer another color?”
Cody’s descended to the afterlife. Or he’s dreaming. Whatever this is, it isn’t real, he’s pretty kriffing sure about that. Does he prefer another color? The Kaminoans never gave him room to consider having any sort of preference, especially not one as seemingly insignificant as a color preference of all things.
Cody looks over his men, most of which have dissimilated into the ship. He silently wishes that Rex was here, or Wolffe, or someone he trusted to help him decode this jetii ’s actions. He stands alone, though, and Kenobi awaits a response. Cody draws his eyes over Kenobi for a moment longer, trying to find the trick in his words and coming up empty.
“I like the orange, sir,” Cody blurts before he can overthink his way into regretting it. “It’s almost like a su—” he clamps his mouth shut. Kenobi won’t care why. It’s a wonder he cares enough to ask about it in the first place. Cody knows his place, so he shuts himself up.
“Like a sunset,” Kenobi supplies, his words soft and his eyes on the pouring rain visible just beyond the open hangar bay doors. Cody’s eyes watch his lips as he speaks. Blinking, Cody shifts his stance and nods.
“We don’t really get those around here,” he jerks his chin in the direction of the storm just beyond the walls, behind the Star Destroyer. His sarcasm pushes what is and isn’t acceptable between a superior and a subordinate, he knows, but the joke feels natural as it leaves his lips. Only Rex and a handful of other vod’e have ever heard him speak openly like this. It’s a gamble, but…
Kenobi smiles.
“Your men are incredible, Commander Cody,” Kenobi says lightly as he trails after the final squad and up the loading ramp to the underbelly of their ship, their new home for the remainder of the war. “I hope I am worthy of them.”
Cody stumbles over his words in a rush to say, “You are.”
—·⟢⟡⟣·—
The first few days pass in a blur.
Obi-wan does his best to mingle with the troopers. He takes meals with them, cuts his meditation time in half to spend more time getting to know as many of them as he can, and, eventually, Cody invites him to spar with them. The careful way he asks, as if expecting a sharp reprimand, breaks Obi-wan’s heart. The troopers, strong though they may be, have an open wound in the shape of their training that weeps with uncertainty and close-guardedness that makes even Master Windu look overly sensitive.
Even Cody, his commander, takes prompting to speak freely and moves around Obi-wan as if treading on glass, careful and all too aware that any misstep could send a sharp shard straight into his skin. It drives Obi-wan mad.
In all the years he spent praying for a more obedient Padawan, he never once considered what total obedience looked like. At least Anakin challenges him and feels comfortable making his own decisions (for better or for worse).
He craves that same openness from the clones. Twice now, he has suggested to Cody that they pick up orange paint after their first mission so that the men can paint their armor if they desire. Cody always looks at him strangely when he proposes this, but he never argues against the idea. Obi-wan wonders if he actually agrees or if he just doesn’t wish to disagree with his superior officer.
Obi-wan wants the clones to speak to him as they speak to one another. He hears them, sometimes, in the mess hall before he arrives, laughing and talking and vibrant, but they always quiet down when he walks in. He yearns to share in their happiness, in their openness, but progress is slow. Obi-wan manages. Dealing with Anakin’s shenanigans for the past several years has turned him into a patient man, indeed.
Progress is slow but not nonexistent. On their twelfth day in space, rapidly hurtling toward a moon of the water-logged planet Ando, where the Senate ordered a Jedi to negotiate terms for the Separatist-leaning Ando to remain aligned with the Republic, Cody knocks on Obi-wan’s door bright and early in the morning.
Obi-wan picks himself up off the floor. He had sat, attempting to meditate, unmoving for the past several hours to no avail. His cloak is disregarded and his tunic hangs loose and crumpled around his shoulders, indicative of his lack of sleep and the early hour. Briefly, he thinks to straighten himself out, but he can’t drag himself to care about his appearance at this early hour.
He knows it's Cody before the door hisses open, can sense the man in the same way that he can smell a warm cup of tea brewing one or two rooms over when he’s back in the Temple. Still, he smiles when the bare face of his commander appears.
Cody wears his armor, as per usual, but his helmet rests under his arm. Obi-wan’s grin widens. He usually has to ask Cody to remove it. Cody shifts awkwardly and offers a small, tight-lipped smile in return. Obi-wan looks forward to the day he gets to see a real smile from the man. He already knows that it will exude the same warmth that his force signature does.
“Cody!” Obi-wan says by way of greeting. “What can I do for you this morning?”
The commander fumbles with his words for a moment, seemingly still debating what he wants to say as he opens his mouth to say it. Then, he draws his shoulders back and tilts his chin up.
“General,” Cody says with a small nod. “A few troopers and I are meeting in the rec hall to spar. We wondered if you wanted to join.”
Obi-wan reaches a hand out behind him, and his lightsaber flies through the air to his hand. He clips it to his belt and glances at his robes. He debates whether he should change, but he already wears the white and beige robes he plans to wear in combat. His boots, laced and ready, are the same functional style as the other two pairs of boots shoved in the back of his tiny closet. He often drops his robe when fighting to prevent it from getting caught up in the action or limiting his movements, so he sees no reason to grab the robe tossed haphazardly across his bed.
“Lead the way, commander,” he says with a smile. “I must warn you, though, that I am unfamiliar with the unarmed combat style that the Kaminoans taught you.”
Cody shrugs and starts down the hallway.
“No worries, sir,” he says casually. “It’s always good to practice against something new.”
“Yes,” Obi-wan agrees, “it is.”
The inside of their Star Destroyer shares little resemblance with the buildings on Kamino. Instead of gentle arcs of hallways lit up with bright white lights, the bulky metal of the walls, ceilings and floors turn at sharp angles and consist of dull grey lights that nearly match the color of the hallways, void of the same polished sleakness that the Kaminoan architecture boasted of.
Cody’s armor looks different in this setting. On Kamino, the white light washed out his plastoid-clad figure. Here, his armor catches the glow of the overhead lights and glistens. Cody’s juxtaposition from his surroundings draws Obi-wan’s eyes more than normal, draws his attention to the slant of his waist and the muscle tone beneath his armor. He forces his eyes ahead and falls a half step behind Cody to let him lead on.
They reach the rec room a handful of minutes later, engrossed in a comfortable silence. The large, rectangular open space, retrofitted to the preference of the clones, he assumed, remains mostly empty. In the front of the room, a few sets of weights and workout equipment sit alone, with a single trooper using the weights for an early morning workout routine. The trooper salutes as they enter, but he doesn’t jump up to attention. Obi-wan smiles at him as they pass.
The center of the room has several chairs settled in circles, echoes of the last group of clones who gathered here to unwind and relax together. In the back left corner, troopers have shoved mats together to form an extensive area for sparring. Around the mats, they erected several bleacher-esque structures for viewing the spars and to provide extra seating for hanging out.
At this morning hour, only those about to go on duty or just off duty are awake and mingling. Other than the single clone in the front of the rec room, only ten or so clones hang out in the back of the room. Of those few, four engage in two one-on-one spars. Obi-wan catches one of the clones observing slap credits in another clone’s hand.
Bets. They’re taking bets on who will win.
A mischievous idea takes root in the back of his mind. As Cody leads him back to the back of the room, towards the mats and bleachers, Obi-wan lets a loth-cat-like grin split his lips. He bumps Cody’s shoulder with his own, a gesture far more intimate than anything they’d yet engaged in, considering he’d only barely touched his commander thus far, the accidental brush of fingertips against gloved fingertips when passing a datapad back and forth on the bridge or the quick pat on the shoulder.
Obi-wan can’t explain the tug in his stomach that he feels when the texture of those gloves brush against his skin. He needs to meditate more on it, but he never finds himself able to do so.
Cody quirks an eyebrow up at him but holds his tongue. Obi-wan desperately wishes that Cody would let the mask down a little more, just enough for Obi-wan to get a better glimpse into his mind. He never wishes to overstep, but he can’t tell when he’s done so.
“The troopers take bets,” Obi-wan whispers as they near the others. Cody stops short and turns his full attention to Obi-wan, who follows suit and pauses just out of earshot of the other men.
“That’s against regulation, sir.” Cody doesn’t deny the statement. Obi-wan isn’t sure if he knew that gambling was against regulation, but, frankly, he cares very little for whatever regulations the Kaminoans have regarding what clones can and can’t do in their free time. Gambling is fun and, in this case, useful.
“How would you like to lay me out on the mat, commander?”
“Sir?” Cody splutters and turns his body to shield Obi-wan from the view of the rest of the clones, a few of which take notice of them arriving but don’t shout out quite yet.
“Well, I just mean if they’re going to bet on you, I’d like to at least cut a profit from their favortism,” Obi-wan explains with a shrug. Realization dawns on Cody’s face.
“You want to throw a fight and split the profit.” It’s not a question.
“Yes.”
Obi-wan doesn’t know what name to give to that expression on Cody’s face, somewhere between surprised, impressed, and cautious. Cody glances between the troopers behind him and back at Obi-wan. His eyes, which narrowed when Obi-wan first made the implication about troopers betting, light up.
“You’d let me win?” He asks, then takes a moment to consider Obi-wan’s nod of confirmation. “Alright. But only if you’re the one to tell ‘em they got hustled.”
Obi-wan beams.
Then, in a move that catches Obi-wan off guard, Cody turns and begins undressing. He pulls his gloves and bracers off first, followed by his shoulder pads and chest plate. He organizes his armor on the ground in a neat little pile. With his armor only covering his lower half and his skin-tight blacks revealed from the waist up, he looks over Obi-wan’s robes.
“Sparring in that?” He asks when Obi-wan doesn’t move to undress.
Obi-wan debates saying yes. He prefers to practice fighting in the clothes he actually plans to fight in but, upon closer inspection of the other clones behind Cody, he realizes nearly all of them wear only their blacks, or armor from the hips down, like Cody. Only Waxer, a lovely clone Obi-wan met at the mess hall the night before, wears his full armor with his helmet under one arm, but, if Obi-wan’s memory serves him well enough, Waxer, tasked with counting and cataloging the weapons depo, had endured the graveyard shift last night in the armory, which would mean that he only just got off duty.
So, Obi-wan shrugs and stretches his arms up. After he warms his muscles up a bit with the movement, he reaches for the neckline at the back of his tunic and pulls it over his head. With the tunic removed, his tight undershirt goes next, leaving Obi-wan’s top bare. He readjusts the sash he uses to tie his tunic closed around his hips like a belt, and the ends hang loose from the knot at the center.
Cody’s eyes linger on Obi-wan’s torso. Obi-wan holds himself steady. He is used to eyes on him, on his body. Politicians and dignitaries, alike, often looked over the Jedi like pieces of meat, like something to be desired. Obi-wan is no stranger to letting them look, lest he offend or put off someone the Jedi need to ally with.
Cody’s eyes are different, though. He lacks the same hunger that others display. Instead, he looks almost … impressed.
“You’re not as scrawny as your robes make you look,” he says as his gaze moves back to Obi-wan’s face. Obi-wan chuckles, and his shoulders relax.
“That’s rather the point,” he admits.
Cody inclines his head, but doesn’t say more.
“Shall we?” He offers with a jerk of his chin in the direction of the others. Obi-wan obliges and follows him into the center of a mat.
Some of the troopers, Obi-wan recognizes: Waxer, of course, and the trooper he seems attached at the hip with, Boil, who possesses a colder countenance but a similarly kind heart. Captain Gregor sits about halfway up the closest bleacher, just behind Waxer and Boil, and he waves at Cody as they walk up. He recognizes Wooley as one of the troopers sparring on the mats. The other troopers, two in the stands and three engaged in sparring, Obi-wan believes he hasn’t met yet.
Cody leaves Obi-wan to stretch quickly. Obi-wan watches out of the corner of his eye as Cody walks up to Gregor and whispers something in his ear before handing him a few credits. Waxer and Boil, who lean in to hear whatever Cody says, engage in the exchange of credits as well.
Obi-wan hides his grin by looking down to unclip his lightsaber from his belt, followed by the utility belt itself, leaving only the sash around his waist. When he looks back up, he realizes that the sparring matches around him have paused, and all the troopers present are now staring between him and Cody. Obi-wan hopes they enjoy the show.
“Waxer,” he calls over to the clone. Waxer turns and smiles wide at Obi-wan. Obi-wan tosses his lightsaber and belt in his direction. Waxer catches them with deft fingers, and his face lights up in awe as he turns the lightsaber over in his hands. “Hold on to that for me.”
“Yes, sir!” Waxer holds the belt and lightsaber close to his chest and throws up a salute. Obi-wan bows his head towards him as a thanks.
Cody wanders back over to the mat, either oblivious to all the eyes on him or totally comfortable with it. Obi-wan settles into a comfortable stance across from Cody, who drops into more of a squat position.
“Ready, general?” Obi-wan asks.
Cody nods and raises his hands in fists, “Ready.”
The spar starts slow.
Obi-wan and Cody circle one another, stepping counterclockwise as they watch they way the other moves. Cody steps with a wide right step and a shorter left step, moving one foot out to gain ground and snapping the other in to a shoulder-hip distance stance a second later. His feet never cross over one another.
Obi-wan’s own feet cross several times, left over right, but his stance is on his toes instead of centered on the balls of his feet like the commander. Obi-wan’s movements are more fluid and quick, but no less measured.
After nearly a full circle around one another, Cody acts first. He steps forward, almost a metre away from closing the gap between himself and Obi-wan. He advertises a jab with his shoulder movement before he throws the punch in his direction. Obi-wan steps to the side, to the side of him that Cody punched with, and catches the commander’s arm by the wrist and plants his other hand on his shoulder. This position prevents Cody from catching him with his other hand unless he tries to reach his arm across his chest and over or under the arm Obi-wan holds steady.
“Come now, commander,” Obi-wan whispers in his ear, “no need to go easy on me.”
Cody grunts, but a slow smile is spreading across his lips. He steps forward and twists the wrist in Obi-wan’s grip to break his grasp and take hold of Obi-wan’s wrist. He yanks hard, pulling Obi-wan towards him as his other arm swings for a hook. Obi-wan drops and slides between Cody’s wide stance to duck the blow. Cody, still holding Obi-wan’s wrist, is pulled down awkwardly, and he lets go before Obi-wan threads him through his own legs. As Obi-wan stands, Cody twists and slams the back of his fist towards Obi-wan. Obi-wan bats it away and straightens himself.
They step apart, both analyzing the other’s movements for the next trading of blows.
Obi-wan moves first this time. He launches forward and pitches two punches in rapid succession at Cody’s chest, both of which are deftly blocked by a sweeping motion of Cody’s forearms. With Cody’s hands occupied, he snakes a leg between Cody’s and sweeps at the back of Cody’s knees. Cody falls back as his knee buckles, but not before he catches Obi-wan around the waist and pulls him to the ground with him.
Someone whoops out a cheer.
Obi-wan lands on top of Cody, and he feels legs wrap around his torso and ankles lock together at the center of his back as he moves to pull up and away. Cody twists his hips and rolls onto his stomach with his legs still tight around Obi-wan’s torso, which throws Obi-wan uncomfortablely to the side with him. Obi-wan braces against his hands as he’s pushed into the mat.
Cody’s legs unwind as he rights himself in an upright position. The commander settles atop Obi-wan with a knee on either side of Obi-wan’s hips, and he levels another jab towards Obi-wan’s face. Obi-wan catches the blow with both hands and pulls Cody down towards him so that he has to catch himself on his elbows. With his face only centimeters from Obi-wan’s, there is enough space for Obi-wan to tuck his knees in and yank his legs out from under Cody, which uproots his stance and knocks their foreheads together, before planting both feet on Cody’s chest and launching him a few feet up and back. His added strength through the force is enough to lift Cody off the floor with the movement, but Cody slams his legs down straight to catch his momentum in a standing position even as he skids back a few metres on the mat.
“Using the force is cheating,” Cody says, but he’s grinning. Force, he’s grinning.
Obi-wan smiles back but gets only a second to admire the warmth and admiration on his commander’s face as Cody runs back in, lifts his leg, and slams his heel down. Obi-wan presses his feet over his head, rolling backward, before planting his hands on either side of his head and lifting into a handstand to avoid the stomp. He lets his legs fall from the handstand back to the floor and comes up standing. Cody raises an eyebrow but doesn’t pause to comment further on Obi-wan’s theatrics. Instead, he’s throwing punch after punch at him, leveling him with such a sheer amount of blows that one or two break through Obi-wan’s defenses and catch him in the side and chest.
Obi-wan goes on the defensive, lifting his arms to protect his face and neck. Cody swings wide, leaving his side exposed, so Obi-wan ducks the blow and slams his hand, palm open, into Cody’s ribs. He can feel the muscle ripple where his hand meets his blacks.
Cody grunts but takes the hit.
Obi-wan grabs the next punch he throws and turns in, tucking his back against Cody’s chest. In that hold, he whispers, “think they buy it?”
“I do,” Cody breathes back.
Obi-wan smirks and drops his shoulder, which allows him to use his leverage and hold on Cody’s arm to throw him over his shoulder and to the ground. Cody’s quick, though, and he manages to brace himself for Obi-wan to land on top of him, keeping his hands out of reach of Obi-wan’s grasp.
“Time to sell it,” Obi-wan mutters, just loud enough for Cody to hear. The other clones are cheering fairly loudly now, though Obi-wan isn’t certain who they’re cheering for.
Cody’s grin returns. He drops one knee and pushes Obi-wan with the other, which flips their position. Now on top, Cody is free to pin Obi-wan’s hands to the mat. Obi-wan struggles for a moment, more than certain he could throw Cody off if he really wanted to without much effort, but he then lays still.
Cody sits back, releasing his grip, and stands. He puts out a hand to help Obi-wan up, which he takes appreciatively.
The clones are whistling and hollering, and they talk excitedly amongst themselves about the fight.
“Gregar, Waxer,” Cody says, panting, “I think you owe me some credits.”
The two grumble and pull out what is owed as the rest of the clones laugh. Once Cody has collected his cut—Boil had bet on Cody, so he receives a few credits, too—he counts out half and tosses the remaining credits to Obi-wan. Obi-wan catches the credits with a grin and lets out a small chuckle.
“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Commander,” Obi-wan says with a bow. Cody snorts and shoves the credits into his belt.
The clones look between them, confused. Finally, Gregar barks out a laugh. Waxer, his eyebrows raised and his jaw slack as he processes the betrayal, turns to stare at Obi-wan accusingly.
“I was rooting for you. I bet on you and you threw the fight,” his voice, scandalized as it sounds, cannot hide the laughter bubbling up from within. His mouth curls up with a grin, and he shakes his head.
Obi-wan just shrugs.
“I appreciate your support, “ Obi-wan says, grinning. He offers no apologies for his actions, nor does Cody, whom Gregar jumps down to clap on the back. Obi-wan looks over the clones he does not recognize. “Though, I believe betting is against regulation, no?”
The clones pause for a second, all unsure if Obi-wan’s tone is about to shift rapidly from jesting to reprimanding. Then, Cody laughs. He laughs, he laughs, he laughs, and Obi-wan is laughing too. The clones melt from anxious to overjoyed. Dissonance in the force pulls out into harmony, a brass line of high notes arcing up and up and up. Obi-wan rests his hands on his hips and says, “Now, I believe some introductions are in order.”
The progress is slow, but it is progress, nonetheless.
He enjoys that final day of peace with his men, sharing in meals and stories and betting on more spars that Obi-wan does not take part in. He collects his lightsaber, belt, and robes and heads back to his room late into the evening, intent on meditating but struggling to release this overwhelming happiness into the force. If he lets it linger in his mind, these wonderful sunbursts in his vision from every brief thought of the day, he’ll never admit it.
The progress is slow, but it is progress.
The war crashes back down upon him far too soon.
—·⟢⟡⟣·—
From the moment they step foot on Ando’s forested moon for the negotiations, something feels very wrong to Cody. From the snide comment about Kenobi’s reputation as a negotiator, a reputation Cody knew of previously from a cursory holonet search of the jetii before he arrived, to the Andoan leader attempting to pull Kenobi away from his landing crew, Cody’s instincts bristle.
He already argued with Kenobi about the planet’s intentions. Kenobi, ever the jetii , rebuffed him and wore only his ‘battle robes’ as he called them: normal robes in white and tan instead of his usual brown and tan. Cody about had an aneurism right then, but, instead of arguing further about the general’s complete lack of armor or protective measures, he just put in a request at the armory for arm bracers, shoulder guards, shin pads, and a modified chest plate for Kenobi.
Cody swears that, on their next mission, either Kenobi will put the armor on or Cody will put it on him.
The Andoans turned out to already be working with the Seppies—surprise, surprise, General, it’s almost like someone suggested that may be the case—but they only found that out when hundreds of battle droids descended upon the landing party of two troop transport ships, which consists of about thirty troopers between the two ships.
Cody, Obi-wan, and their men fight their way back to the ship. The battle droids had cut their numbers by a third at the first ambush, and Cody did not foresee more than half of them making it back to the ships, which rested at the bottom of the hill they’re currently running down.
Despite the circumstances, watching Obi-wan fight, truly fight, proves absolutely incredible. His lightsaber glows a brilliant blue, blue like his eyes, and hums with power as it illuminates the trees they zigzag through. The blade arcs through the air gracefully, and Obi-wan is very, very good with it. He practically dances with that thing in his hands, all leaps and twirls and quick deflections of blaster fire that surely would have spelled Cody’s demise.
As he watches the general’s movements, Cody realizes just how much he’d held back when they sparred. The thought sends a shiver down his spine.
Cody does his best to lay down cover fire for his general, but the onslaught is heavy. Cody and Obi-wan lag behind the rest of the men, waiting to catch stragglers and hoping to cover the rest of the troopers’ retreats. Cody commends Obi-wan for his instinct to protect the vod’e. He never expected the jetii to so willingly place himself in harms way for his men when he first heard that they would be presiding over the Grand Army of the Republic, but Obi-wan is almost reckless in his fierce defense of his men, leaving himself open to blasterfire that comes a little too close for comfort in Cody’s opinion.
Cody hears the telltale rapid beeping of a grenade before the general does.
He moves on instinct, grabbing the general by his bicep and yanking with all his might. He twists his body, angling his torso so that his back is to the blast and his body is between the jetii general and the impact. The general turns, his lightsaber still brandished at the ready, only to be pushed back by Cody’s torso colliding with his.
Kenobi catches on to what’s happening a second before the blast goes off. His blade zips back into his hilt, and his arms wrap around Cody’s torso. At that moment, however brief, Cody faintly thinks that the general is hugging him.
There’s a boom that is quickly cut off by a low humming that rips through the air. It’s unlike any sound that Cody has ever heard before. He quickly realizes that he is not, in fact, dead, despite the bomb that most definitely just went off behind him. He shifts to check behind him and catches sight of the general’s position. His forearms extend out on either side of Cody’s body, and his hands are tense. His lightsaber is no longer in his hand. Cody doesn’t remember hearing it hit the ground, but it’s not on the general’s belt either. His face, close enough to Cody’s that his helmet almost bumps him, is pulled in tight lines of concentration as he stares at something over Cody’s shoulder. Cody turns his head fully.
He stops cold.
Ten feet away, pulsing unnaturally, is a ball of pure energy. Kenobi’s outstretched hands press in towards one another in a vague mirror of the fireball. Cody realizes that the general just stopped a grenade from going off. He just contained a kriffing bomb.
The general grunts, his expression twisting with the obvious exertion it is taking him to hold in the blast. He lifts his arms and pushes. The contained blast flings back towards the onslaught of droids and finally breaks free of its bubble, leveling several of the tall, skinny trees that surround them and taking out a chunk of droids. The explosion rocks them back, but Kenobi’s momentum is still carrying him forward. His chest slams into Cody’s with a fair amount of force as they are flung into one another, but, given the fact that he just saved them both from an untimely demise via explosives, Cody doesn’t have it in him to complain.
Cody grips the general’s elbow to steady him. As he steps aside, he notices the glint of metal on the ground. He scoops the disregarded lightsaber up quickly, all too aware of the zing of blaster fire impacting around them. He passes it off to the jetii, who grins at him, and they continue their retreat down the side of the mountain.
“How are we alive?” Cody asks over the roar of the battle. Obi-wan grunts, but he’s grinning.
“It’s anyone’s guess,” Obi-wan shouts back with a swipe of his blade. Blasterfire ricochets from his blade back towards the clankers.
“I thought you were supposed to be one of the best negotiators in the galaxy,” Cody jokes, firing off a clip’s worth of charges at their attackers. He reloads in half a second, sticking close to Kenobi for cover.
“Yes, well,” the general is smiling again. Cody can’t help but smile too. “I tend to fare better when they haven’t already made up their mind about which side they’re on.”
A shot zips towards Cody too closely for comfort. Cody throws up his arm to try and catch the brunt of the blast, but it never lands. With a flick of his wrist, the general deftly deflects the blast back towards the clanker that fired it.
“Excuses, excuses,” Cody says instead of thanks. The rush of adrenaline must be making him particularly bold. He knows he shouldn’t be speaking to his superior like this. He keeps talking. “Maybe we should name the ship the Negotiator, sir, because your reputation needs all the help it can get.”
It’s too far. He’s said too much. He should never speak to a superior like—
Obi-wan laughs. He laughs, brief and wild and so alive. Cody grins despite himself.
“I rather like the sound of that, Commander,” he deflects another blaster bolt back at a clanker. “We should put it to a vote to make sure the men like it.”
The men will like it because they like you , Cody thinks to himself as they reach the safety of the transports. The metal doors slam shut behind them, and the ships roar to life and launch back into space, heading to dock at their Star Destroyer lingering just beyond the planet’s upper atmosphere so that the 212th can high-tail it out of this galaxy.
Cody looks over at the general. They need to count the fallen and write up reports, but Cody doesn’t want to think about their losses right now. Instead, his eyes meet Obi-wan’s, and a real smile breaks across his face.