#any time someone mentions cody and/or fox to seventeen he is like what now do I look like I want to hear

[varpusvaras]

have we seen anything of seventeen in the helicopter parent cody verse? is it the ultimate in judgment or merely how many times did cody get dropped on his head to cause this behaviour?

At the point where we are now, Seventeen has fully washed his hands of everything like "I tried, this is everybody else's problem now" lmao. He watched Cody before Cody got Fox and was like this one is going to be a Problem. Then Cody got Fox and he was like yeah, there's the Problem. 24 get a grip and let go off 1010. Ah whatever.

(Deep down he didn't have the heart to continue and try to separate them. Very, very deep down. He did tell the Kaminoans to let them be, however. He will never admit to that though)

(He tries to tell Cody that it's alright to look after his brother, but he needs to let go, because most likely either of them is going to die. Cody's answer to that is lol no and Seventeen goes well I tried just don't murder anyone too important or anything like that. Whoops.)

[ccinagalaxyfaraway]

hi there, hope you and yours are doing alright! up to you if this qualifies as a prompt but: thoughts on the development of Ploffe’s (professional or romantic) relationship regarding Plo’s telepathy? I really enjoy the way you write their easy compatibility in their later moments, and I’m wondering how Wolffe came to trust Plo with the privacy of his own mind to pull off that mad Pacific Rim drifting

The moment Wolffe reads the line about Kel Dor telepathy, he resolves never to allow his General to touch him. He has little enough he can call his own; his mind is perhaps the most defensible, and he won’t allow any intrusions into his last safe space. In armor, he has little enough exposed skin. In his greys, he’s careful to keep his gloves on, even if it does initially draw some strange looks from his brothers. He uses the shielding training the officer corp had received to resist psychic interrogation, building a towering wall around everything that he is. 

It’s not as strictly speaking necessary as he’d expected; Plo Koon seems to keep his hands to himself whenever possible, even avoiding handshakes in favor of bowing. He keeps a respectable distance from everyone, soldier, civilian, and Jedi alike, and even on the rare occasion he touches someone, it’s always over a few layers of clothing. If he ever learns anything from the rare slip-up when someone touches him first, he never mentions any of it. 

And then Malevolence. Sometime between fiddling with the distress signal and hiding from the hunter-killers, Wolffe catches the General watching Boost and Sinker shove each other, bickering over which systems need rigging and what can be dismantled. There’s a wistfulness to his expression that Wolffe can’t stop himself commenting on. Then his good sense catches up to him, and he ducks his head in embarrassment. 

Still, the General’s matter-of-fact answer comes as a surprise. “The blessing and curse of my heritage. You needn’t be concerned, Commander, I learned long ago it’s often best not to know what others may only suspect. Knowledge changes many things.” He draws his robes closer around him in subconscious demonstration. 

There are campaigns across worlds and charges across battlefields, and despite himself Wolffe grows fond of his General, who is every bit the idiot he had expected, though perhaps in a different arena. They are kindred spirits, in a way; neither of them chose this life but have devoted themselves to it, and to their men, wholeheartedly. He asks advice, takes criticism, learns from his mistakes - though he never does rid himself of the penchant to go tearing off after anything and everything in distress, troopers and nexu alike - and under Wolffe’s guidance, Plo becomes a formidable officer in his own right, able to read and anticipate his opponents from the thirty-thousand foot view. 

The side effect of such prolonged proximity being, of course, that he can read Wolffe with similar accuracy. He knows what Wolffe is thinking; after all, Wolffe was the one who taught him what to think. This, he thinks, is fine. It’s no different than knowing that Fox will always take the body shot, or that Bly will avoid any plan that involves rappelling. They move in comfortable tandem around each other.

In the meanwhile, his brothers are forming bonds with their own Generals. Cody’s already living in Kenobi’s pocket, and it’s no surprise to anyone who knows him when they develop a Force connection. One day, Cody wakes up and just knows that Kenobi’s having a grand old time; he has to get out of bed and go looking to figure out that Skywalker’s kid exploded pink glitter in his face. Cody speaks of it in hushed tones with a sense of relief. He’s been grousing for months that he wishes he could keep better tabs on Kenobi, the lying liar; now he can. 

This, Wolffe thinks, could be useful. Not so useful that he’d volunteer his own mind for it, but he can see the benefits. And then he makes his mistake: he falls in love. He doesn’t even know what the final straw was, Princess Needles von Stabbity or frying a cluster of droids or finally winning his first game of cu’bikad. He just tips over into the knowledge that he wants Plo, that he cannot tolerate being without Plo, that Plo’s well-being is materially important to his own. He has this revelation in the moment that Plo preempts him and offers himself up as bait so that Medical will have a chance to get to the injured troopers. For seventeen long hours, he has no idea whether Plo is alive or dead or lingering in between, or if he’ll ever see him again. It is worse than anything he has imagined.

At hour eighteen, Plo comes waltzing back to camp as if nothing happened, a little dusty with the edge of his robes lightly charred but otherwise fine. Wolffe has his troopers well trained; the watch comes running to tattle the moment Plo is in sight, and by the time Plo actually arrives, Wolffe is waiting for him, smoke pouring out of his ears. 

“What,” he growls, “were you thinking?”

“Exactly what you were, Commander,” Plo says. His nonchalant answer sends Wolffe’s anger bubbling over. He knows what Wolffe was thinking, does he? He knows how worried Wolffe was, and how the prospect of losing him hurt worse than having his eye carved out? Before he can stop himself, he’s gripped Plo’s head with his bare hands, shoving all his torment at him so he can understand what he’s put Wolffe through. 

“You knew what I was thinking, did you?” he mutters, when he’s regained his senses and let go, mortified.

“I suspected,” Plo says, offering a hand. Wolffe takes it. A slow trickle of warmth fills him. It feels like affection, and loyalty. 

“You’re a jackass and I hate you,” he says, drawing Plo in for a hug.

“No you don’t,” says Plo, and Wolffe thumps him on the shoulder.