#now to waste/wait more on General Kenobi…

[the-strength-of-the-wolffe]

Wolffe’s Story

Intro  Pt1  Pt2  Pt3  Pt4  Pt5  Pt6  Pt7

Part 8: To Look Beyond (the Citadel)

The bridge hummed with activity as Wolffe entered. The commander on duty, Neb, acknowledged him with a glance but did not pause his round of the stations. The crew were attending their controls in a state of concentration associated with a heightened workload—a change in the flight was imminent. At the forward viewport, General Plo stood silhouetted against the brilliant whorls of light. He had called Wolffe there.

“Final approach,” Neb announced.

With a faint shudder through the floor panels, hyperspace dissolved into the magnificent hazy sphere of Coruscant.

Blinking away the afterimages that lingered so vividly in his augmented vision, Wolffe crossed the deck and joined General Plo at the windows. Last he checked, the capital world was not on their itinerary—in fact, they had been there quite recently.

“New orders?” he asked.

The General’s arms were folded over his chest, as they often were when he was preoccupied with a problem. He stirred, leaning toward Wolffe with an air of secrecy. “Remember the briefing about the Nexus Route?”

Wolffe did, after quick reflection: it had been delivered to commanders and higher some days ago; the two of them had reviewed it together. He lowered his voice to match the General’s. “Those hyperspace lanes…that would give us access to enemy space.”

General Plo nodded. “A Jedi in the Outer Rim has secured the coordinates, but Separatist forces intercepted him and are holding him prisoner. A rescue mission is being planned.”

Wolffe straightened a little. It had been a good while since their last rescue. “Where is he now?”

“Lola Sayu.”

The General’s voice was heavy with significance, and a name, unfamiliar but ominous, surfaced in Wolffe’s memory. “The Citadel…”

“Indeed.”

Wolffe had heard rumors of this place: a prison unlike any other, said to be inescapable, sitting deep in Separatist territory. The gears started turning in his mind. “What’s the timeframe?”

“That has not been decided. I am meeting General Kenobi and others to devise the strategy.”

That brought Wolffe up short. When it came to rescues, the 104th seldom collaborated with anyone outside their immediate circle, for doing so caused delays that they usually could not afford. Success or failure, life or death, hinged on the swiftness of their response in most situations, so setting off without backup and prepping on the fly were the norm for them.

General Plo seemed to appreciate how extraordinary his statement had been, or at least he had caught Wolffe’s questioning look. “What we are about to attempt has never been done,” he explained. “The more help we have, the better. I’ll be in contact.”

Wolffe squared his shoulders. “We’ll be ready and waiting.”

The General inclined his head in a wordless goodbye. As Wolffe watched him stride from the bridge, a peculiar feeling crept over him. He was not accustomed to being excluded from the planning, typically a team effort between the two of them and their officers. It felt wrong. He let out a controlled breath, refocusing his thoughts.

By then, Commander Neb had brought the cruiser into orbit, and soon afterward he reported that General Plo had departed for the surface.

Moored kilometers above the Jedi Temple, there was little for Wolffe to do except ensure that he and his officers were as familiar with the Citadel as possible when the call to action came. He wasted no time summoning all four of his captains to the command center. The prospect of infiltrating the notorious detention facility—what would likely be the greatest feat of the careers of those who would be going—energized them. Jockeying for space around the holotable, they pored over schematics and discussed tactics that the generals might employ.

Wolffe could appreciate now why the Jedi Council had held off on a strike. The Citadel truly warranted some serious considerations. However, when several hours passed with no word from General Plo, he knew his captains were growing restless, for he felt that way himself.

“Alright, men, that’s enough for now,” he decided, tapping the control panel to close a diagram of the Citadel’s lower levels. “Pick your squads and get them up to speed. I’ll inform you of the final headcount when I hear from General Plo. Be ready to mobilize.”

Torc, taking it for the dismissal it was, nodded and donned his helmet. Midnight followed him less briskly, but the other two did not move. Roan remained at the holotable, his palms braced on the rim, while Dire kept his seat on a nearby console, turning his helmet in his hands.

“What is it, Roan?” Wolffe asked. There was something foreboding in the captain’s expression, which, coming from the best strategist among them, gave him pause.

Roan roused himself. “It’s not about the Citadel,” he signed.

“Then what?”

The captain hesitated, reaching up to run his fingers through his red-streaked hair, over the knotted part that hid his scar. He met Wolffe’s gaze with a look that was both apologetic and grim. “Something’s off.”

Everyone stared at him and then exchanged glances, shifting. No one had brought up the subject during their meeting because Wolffe had kept them on task. Now that he was forced to acknowledge it, he knew Roan was right. They had been out of the loop for too long—long enough for plans to change, or move ahead.

“What do you mean?” ventured Midnight, although from his tone he seemed to have an inkling.

“I’ll tell you what’s off,” volunteered Dire, before either Roan or Wolffe could answer. He thudded to his feet. There was nothing vague or reluctant about him. “What are we doing here?”

“We’re awaiting orders,” interjected Torc. “That’s all you have to worry about.”

Dire spared a second to scowl at him. “I mean, why haven’t we left yet? This is taking too long. The Jedi could’ve spilled his guts already for all we know. We should be—”

“You better pray that hasn’t happened,” Wolffe interrupted, harsher than he usually would have if he had not been rubbed the wrong way.

A flash of surprise, then Dire’s eyes hardened in his scarred face. He folded his arms slowly and said no more.

Wolffe clenched his jaw and then sighed. He had not meant to exacerbate the tension, nor offend his friend (however unhelpful). “Look,” he said, firmly but with no heat. “I know this isn’t how we usually operate. But this mission—you know the strategy has to be perfect. That’s what they’re working on.” He gestured toward the planet to indicate the Jedi. “And don’t worry about them, they’ll get it done. They know the stakes as well as we do.”

Dire turned his head away, broodily eyeing the direction Wolffe had pointed. “You’d think they’d want all the help they can get,” he muttered.

Wolffe experienced bizarre twin feelings of amusement and unease. It took a special kind of nerve to consider oneself on the same level as a roomful of high-ranking Jedi tacticians, as Dire apparently did. But his comment also reminded Wolffe of what General Plo had said earlier. He felt a twist of his earlier misgivings, and wondered again if they had all misjudged the situation.

Torc was making a wry remark about the sort of help Dire could offer the Jedi Council. Losing patience, Wolffe stepped forward to intervene, but a ringing beep sounded from the holotable, stopping him dead.

Every head snapped up as the ghostly projection of General Plo appeared in their midst. Marveling at the perfect timing, Wolffe almost missed the transmission for its brevity.

“Commander Wolffe, the 104th will be in reserve for this operation. Stand by.”

For an instant, his brain seemed to lag. He heard himself answer with unnatural crispness. “Copy that. Standing by.”

The holoimage vanished, and a pregnant silence followed. The atmosphere shifted palpably, almost as if the lights had dimmed.

So, they were out. Some other battalion would be going to the Citadel. It felt like a shock—and at the same time it felt like he had known all along. Too many factors had not added up, too many irregularities. He sought Roan’s gaze and registered the same resignation in the captain’s face that he felt himself.

“Reserve?” groaned Dire. He seemed to deflate.

“Who’re they sending?” Midnight’s voice had pitched up in indignation. “Is the General still going?”

Hidden under his helmet, Torc showed no sign of disappointment, but he tarried a moment to trade glances with Roan. “Permission to leave, Commander?” he asked tonelessly.

Wolffe held up a hand to deny him. Professionals though they were, he could not dismiss them in this state. “Listen up, all of you,” he rapped. The four captains stiffened to attention. “Obviously, this isn’t what we wanted to hear. It doesn’t make sense, and we all have questions.”

He glanced at Midnight. “If I had to bet, I’d say the General isn’t going either. In fact, I don’t think he knew until just now.” It was a hunch, but he felt intuitively that he was right.

He addressed all of them again in a bracing tone. “This is what I do know: there’s a reason this happened. We’ll have the answers later, but right now we have to sit tight and follow procedure. Return to your posts.”

It was a bitter pill to swallow and nothing could alter that, but it helped that he believed every word. His perplexity matched theirs, yet it did not supersede his trust. He knew General Plo would have a logical explanation for them when it was all over.

That confidence seemed to carry to the others; the mood was subdued but not dispirited as the captains trooped from the room. Wolffe slapped Dire on the shoulder as he passed, earning a half-chagrined eyeroll.

General Plo did not communicate face-to-face again, but he forwarded brief messages. He was indeed remaining behind, to Wolffe’s relief. The strike team had left, and the cruiser was to stand ready in case an extraction became necessary. From the 104th’s perspective, extractions were less exciting than rescues because infantry units played such an insignificant role in them—the navy ran the show from start to finish. Nevertheless, as the word spread and the wait stretched into another rotation, the tension Wolffe and his captains had felt earlier seemed to build like a thundercloud throughout the ship. He could see it in his own troopers, and in the crewmen as well.

Finally, the order came. They were to make all haste to Lola Sayu for a surprise attack on its defenses, during which an extraction of the strike team would take place. In an instant, the tension burst and melted away, replaced by cool anticipation of the mission at hand.

With his battalion sulkily stowed in their quarters, Wolffe made his way to the bridge to observe. The number of personnel had increased, as had the noise levels. Commander Neb had been relieved by Commander Valor, an officer Wolffe liked well. He and his crew were flat-out in their preflight checklists while Admiral Coburn, freshly arrived, fired off instructions to the fleet from a comm station.

Within minutes General Plo entered, accompanied by another Jedi whom Wolffe recognized but did not know by name. They were deep in conversation and advanced no farther than the holotable, where a conference was getting underway. The command center blast doors were soon closed, effectively corralling Wolffe on the bridge, but he did not mind. As the cruiser jumped to lightspeed, he settled himself among Valor’s crew, who gladly accepted his offer of help.

The work was familiar and absorbing. Only the sharpening ache behind his cybernetic eye betrayed how long he had been standing under the strobic glare of hyperspace. They were late into the flight.

Angling his body away from the viewports to give both eyes a rest, he noticed that the blast doors had been reopened. The holotable was shut off, and the two Jedi had moved to opposite sides of the room. General Gallia—someone had mentioned her name earlier—was conversing with Admiral Coburn, but General Plo worked alone at the starboard display screen where the fleet formations had been pulled up.

Wolffe had not expected to speak to the General during the mission, keenly aware of the tremendous workload he and the others bore. However, on this last leg of the journey, a lull had fallen over the whole deck, a sort of “calm before the storm” where everyone had done their best to prepare and now awaited the moment to act. He checked their ETA. There was still some time.

Curiosity overtook him, and he picked up his helmet, tucking it under his arm decisively. With a sweeping glance to confirm his presence would not be missed on the bridge, he treaded a discreet path into the command center. As he approached, he watched General Plo’s movements carefully, reassured that he seemed to be reviewing, not making adjustments.

“General, do you have a minute?”

The General must have sensed him coming, for he did not turn or react with surprise. “I can spare exactly one,” he said with the faintest hint of teasing, before the characteristic gravitas returned. “What’s on your mind, Commander?”

He was not going to turn him away. Heartened, Wolffe drew a quiet breath. “Why didn’t they pick us for the strike team?”

The General continued to tap and swipe through the data in an unhurried way, but he answered without hesitation. “General Kenobi volunteered to lead it—with General Skywalker, of course. Naturally, they wanted to bring along their own men. I could not go,” he added meaningfully.

Just like that, the pieces started falling into place. None of it was surprising. Having benefited personally from a daring rescue of Skywalker’s, Wolffe expected nothing less of him, and General Plo’s disqualification he had already figured.

Still, something niggled. Not everything about the mystery was cleared up. “I understand,” he said, wondering if he was being impertinent but plunging on anyway. “It’s just—the 104th—we’re good at what we do. Even if we didn’t run point, we could’ve assisted them.”

As the words left his mouth, his body tensed. An inexplicable clutch of doubt informed him that he had said something erroneous even though he had simply voiced an opinion. He had no time to work it out.

General Plo lowered his arm, resting it on the one that curled around his torso. He did not look away from the screen, but the slightest stilling of his breathing and posture signified that his attention had shifted fully to their conversation.

“A 104th unit was considered to accompany the strike team,” he said quietly. “But, I could not go.”

A fresh wave of confusion broke over Wolffe. Forgetting his airs, he turned his head to search the General’s face. He could not read the expression under the mask from that angle, but he had a sinking feeling. “You mean…you wouldn’t let us go without you?”

General Plo sighed. With a strange heaviness, he swung around to face Wolffe, who almost took a backward step.

“As your commanding officer, I am responsible for you,” the General stated, implying with a gesture that he meant all of them—officers, crewmen, troopers. “Your risks are mine. You understand this, I’m sure.”

Wolffe nodded reluctantly.

“I was given a support role for this mission,” the General continued. “I had a choice: to deploy you, or to keep you in reserve with me. I know which you would’ve preferred. You are lion-hearted, as are your brothers. But you do not know the Citadel. It is deadly. There would have been losses, no matter how much planning was done, or who was sent. I would not have you face that danger alone.”

Turning back to the screen, he resumed his work as if the matter were settled and nothing more needed to be said.

The dismissal registered too distantly to trigger a conditioned response in Wolffe. He stepped back automatically to give the General space, but his head remained a whirl of conflicting thoughts.

“You’re disappointed.”

General Plo had not missed a beat.

His unnerving perception brought Wolffe back to himself. “Not disappointed, sir,” he corrected. “I know you’ve got our backs, and I appreciate it. I do. But…we’re soldiers. Taking risks, making sacrifices, it’s part of the job and we all accept that. It’s what we have to do for victory.”

The General’s silence was concession enough. “Even so,” he said wearily. “If I can keep you alive another day, that is a victory unto itself.”

The sentiment caught Wolffe off-guard, as did a memory that shot forward the next instant: blood-red light, fear thick enough to be smelled, and the General standing over him as calm and indomitable as a fortress. Words echoed back to him as though from underwater, murky and near-forgotten.

I value your life more than finding that weapon.

That was the declaration General Plo had made in the escape pod, all those months ago, on the worst day of Wolffe’s life. How quickly he had brushed it off! As he turned it over in his mind, pieces of another puzzle began to take shape.

“What you told Sinker,” he said slowly. “That you’d put our lives before the mission. You meant it.”

General Plo straightened and leveled a long look at him. It was calculating and uncertain at the same time, an expression Wolffe had seen only once before on that face, not too long ago, during another weighty conversation. He did not blink, or even breathe.

After a moment, the General dipped his head in affirmation.

Of course it was true. Wolffe saw the picture clearly now, what he had somehow missed from the beginning:

Why the General had always gone with them into battle. Why he had combed through the strategies beforehand. Why he had helped them recover the dead afterward. Why he had provisioned the wounded with medical care that exceeded (sometimes far exceeded) accepted Kaminoan standards. Why he had opted to carry out certain missions alone, despite the most forceful pleas to reconsider.

It was not about being strategic or responsible, as Wolffe had assumed all that time. It had never been about Republic assets.

I value your life.

A coldness clenched his stomach. Principles he had been taught since cadethood rose in protest: how warfare worked, the greater good, why he and his brothers existed in the first place...

But just as strong—even stronger—the presence of those brothers drew close. Fox. His crew on the Triumphant. Sinker and Boost. His captains. Comet. Lives he valued, valued beyond his capacity to express, many of them demeaned and discarded by those who did not feel the same.

His heartbeat thrummed in his ears. He could not stop it then, or undo it now, but it would not happen again.

Not with two in the fight.

He lifted his gaze to General Plo’s—the fierce aged face, drawn and intent as it observed him, obscured by metal yet deeply knowable and known—and a pang lanced through his heart, warming him to the core.

It might have been his imagination, but the tautness in the General’s shoulders seemed to ease.

His pulse quieted. He became aware of the hum of the screen, its radiant heat on his face. Adjusting his helmet under his arm, he pivoted back to face the display. After a pause, the General mirrored him.

“Fighting will always be in our blood,” Wolffe said at last. It was the truth. They were clone troopers, warriors to the end. They would never shy away from a good cause.

“And the war must be won,” agreed the General, clasping his hands behind his back. “But there is more to life than fighting. Or rather, there are other things worth fighting for.”

Wolffe weighed that and hummed his assent. His brothers’ faces were still clear in his mind.

The General must have misinterpreted the sound. “You’ll see, one day,” he intoned.

It was not a flippant remark; it was a promise. The future was not a subject Wolffe bothered with on most occasions. He did not bother with it now, except for one particular unknown. “And you’ll be there?”

He spoke without thinking, but it felt like a natural assumption and he was not ashamed.

General Plo considered him again, his expression softer. “If the Force wills…I should think so.”

Wolffe could not help himself. He smiled.

A female voice broke in smoothly. “Master Plo. It’s time.”

As soundless as a shadow, General Gallia had closed on their position and stood at General Plo’s elbow, appraising them both with a warm expression.

General Plo nodded to her. She slipped away.

Perhaps she had been eavesdropping, but Wolffe did not particularly care. He folded his arms in a light-hearted imitation of Dire’s earlier disgruntlement. “Well, you Jedi could’ve at least asked for our advice. We had some good ideas.”

“Some of the advice I gave, I learned from the best,” replied General Plo in all graveness. “Care to come along?”

“You’re not flying?”

“Not this time.”

And Wolffe knew why. Another smile threatened to make an appearance, one too many for his liking, so he pulled on his helmet and activated the comm system. “Comet, report to the flight deck.”

The response was instant and energetic. “On my way.”

Wolffe glanced at General Plo, and without a word they fell in step with one another, following General Gallia toward the lifts.

[obiwanked]

My Star Wars Fanfic Recommendations: Part Three

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

walk by faith/tell no one what you’ve seen - After the end of the war with the Empire, Obi-Wan wakes up in his twelve-year old body. Now all he needs to do is convince everyone he's psychic, trick his Master into taking him on before he's sent to Bandomeer, redeem a few bad guys, and try not to have a nervous breakdown. Pretty easy. It's not like the Sith are lurking on the horizon, waiting to devour the Jedi Order.

and the world tilts upon its axis - “You never told us.” Anakin’s words pierce directly into Ahsoka’s heart; she can’t imagine what they do to his master. That stricken feeling flits through the Force again before Obi-Wan can wrangle it again. At least it gets Anakin to look up. He looks torn, agonized, pained, but repeats, unsteady, “You never told us.” “The past is not an easy thing for me to speak of.”

Teach the Padawan - The man that was once Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi, GAR General, knew that his death was finally here. Just as he was struck down he made a wish. As he disappeared from the mortal plane, he didn’t realize the Force had been listening. When he opened his eyes, with a younger body and in a time long past, it was apparent that the Force took a somewhat creative interpretation of his last thoughts. However, the man that was once Crazy Old Ben, Wizard of the Wastes, wasn’t going to squander this second chance. After all, he had a padawan to teach and the galaxy to save.

so old they were, and wise - Obi-Wan's arm had tightened around him to the point of squeezing. He felt sick swoops of nausea. "Anakin," he said urgently. "I don't care what the circumstances are or who you're with, if anyone tries to bring you to the Chancellor, stars forbid leave you alone with him, do not allow it. Do whatever is necessary - cry, scream, fight, use the Force, run - run to find me. Stay away from Chancellor Palpatine. Do you understand, young one?" Wide-eyed, Anakin nodded.

stars sing my name, scars tell my story - Anakin wasn’t sure how to ask, so he didn't. Instead, he waited until Master Kenobi fell asleep and stayed up to tinker in the dark, building his own scanner out of parts stolen from the trash. The chip was in his right thigh.

The Legend of Liob - The Republic sends a combat photographer to be attached to the 212th until further notice, citing the need for a morale boost. The clones make up a fake clone, citing the absolute fact that it is very funny. Somehow, these two things save the galaxy.

Care What It Cost - Five years after Naboo, Obi-Wan becomes aware that things between Anakin and Qui-Gon have become... tense. The obvious solution is to mediate their difficulties if at all possible. That is not what happens.

In all your wanderings - Passion, yet serenity. Shmi leaves Tatooine with Anakin and goes to the Jedi Temple.

Gra’pa - The tyrannical Empire is thriving, the young Rebellion is striving. Exhausted, Obi-Wan Kenobi needs a Hug, and gets two, not one, from his favorite set of twins in the entire universe.

Obi-Wan Declares Himself Dad Shaped - “Hello, there!” the probably-Jedi sumbitch says, completely ignoring the fact that he’s in cuffs, and being paraded in with great suspicion by a squad of six. He sounds more like he’s some politician asking for directions in a palace. ”I’m afraid we appear to have had something of a misunderstanding. I don’t suppose there’s someone I could speak with to get this straightened out?”

everything I have ever learned- Skywalker, the deep hollow voice of the desert says, echoing like a heartbeat in his bones. Do you know what your name means?

Hope and Ekkreth - how Anakin may not have been able to free the slaves on Tatooine, but he could do this. He could do this.

If You Ever Come Back - After Obi-Wan Kenobi's return from Melida/Daan, it is discovered that the Jedi Council and Qui-Gon Jinn have very different definitions of the word probation.

What Have We Become - One of Feemor's greatest regrets, was that he never had the chance to get to know his brother-padawan, but the Force is willing to give him one more chance. And maybe, if he's lucky, he can finally make amends with his former master and save them all in the process.

there you are (you’re there with open arms) - "You're alive," Ahsoka cries. And he's holding her head with one hand, pressing her head into the crook of his neck. "I'm here, dear one," Obi-Wan whispers. And she can't believe that Obi-Wan is here. And he is alive and breathing and he is holding her. "I'm here."

[cc3357]

Assorted Chaos

The Ones (not) In Charge

Razor has added 40 members to the chat.

Razor: Did I miss anyone?

Cody: Yes. Razor: Shit. Cody has added 10 members to the chat.

Razor: Damn. That was more than I’d thought.

Alpha-17: Why am I in here? Cody: Felt like you should be. Alpha-17: Carry on then

Razor: Hang on lemme fix something

Cody: Nothing good has ever come of you saying those words

Razor has changed the name Cody to Mister Smol.

Mister Smol: excuse me?????

Razor has changed the name Bly to Gay Man.

Gay Man: I hate that I can’t deny it

Razor has changed the name Alpha-17 to Scariest Drill Sergeant Ever.

Scariest Drill Sergeant Ever: I see no problem with this

Razor has changed the name Razor to I Will Stab You.

I Will Stab You has changed the name Wolffe to Furry.

Furry: Should I be offended

I Will Stab You has changed the name Fox to Give Me More Caff.

I Will Stab You has changed the name Thire to Caff Provider.

I Will Stab You has changed the name Thorn to Tooka.

Tooka: why Tooka: Razor you promised not to bring that up

I Will Stab You: I made no such promise

I Will Stab You has changed the name Stone to Stone Cold Bastard.

Scariest Drill Sergeant Ever: You done yet?

I Will Stab You: For now

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Ones (not) In Charge

I Will Stab You: So . . . We get assigned Generals today . . .

Mister Smol: Your point being

I Will Stab You: Whoever ends up with General Kenobi needs to brace themselves I Will Stab You: Because by extension they will have to deal with General Skywalker I Will Stab You: And that man is a flaming waste dump on a good day

Mister Smol: Point taken. But why do you know that

I Will Stab You: I plead the Fifth

Mister Smol: what Mister Smol: Razor that makes zero sense Mister Smol: what does that even mean

I Will Stab You: I plead the Fifth :bs_smug:

Mister Smol: What Mister Smol: what is that Mister Smol: how did you do that

I Will Stab You: A magician never reveals their secrets Mister Smol: A what now Mister Smol: actually forget I asked.

I Will Stab You: :veryinnocent:

Mister Smol: what the kark

I Will Stab You: oh look, General Yoda. Bye

Mister Smol: wait what Mister Smol: Razor no you can’t just do that and then leave Mister Smol: get back here

I Will Stab You: Watch me Mister Smol: Razor

I Will Stab You is Offline.

Mister Smol: RAZOR

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Ones (not) In Charge

I Will Stab You: alright I Will Stab You: which one of you chucklefucks was it

Furry: what

Mister Smol: what happened

I Will Stab You has changed the name I Will Stab You to Skywalker’s Babysitter.

Skywalker’s Babysitter: I got assigned General Skywalker Skywalker’s Babysitter: and I know one of you recommended me to Yoda for the position Skywalker’s Babysitter: so Skywalker’s Babysitter: I’ll ask again Skywalker’s Babysitter: Which one of you chucklefucks was it?

Mister Smol: don’t look at me

Skywalker’s Babysitter: :AniDoubt:

Furry: what the kark is that Furry: why is Skywalker’s face in the chat

Mister Smol: why do you have one of those with Skywalker’s face? Mister Smol: and what does it even say??? Mister Smol: That is the weirdest text I’ve ever seen

Skywalker’s Babysitter: What? Skywalker’s Babysitter: oh Skywalker’s Babysitter: one sec

Furry: least comforting sentence I’ve ever read

Skywalker’s Babysitter: :AniDoubtAurebesh:

Furry: just because we can read it doesn’t mean it makes sense

Mister Smol: why

Scariest Drill Sergeant Ever: It was me Scariest Drill Sergeant Ever: No swapping Generals. You’re stuck with who you’re with now

Skywalker’s Babysitter: :Offended:

Scariest Drill Sergeant Ever: :squinting: 

Skywalker’s Babysitter: :onefear:

Scariest Drill Sergeant Ever: :triumph:  Scariest Drill Sergeant Ever: now shoo

Skywalker’s Babysitter is Offline.

Scariest Drill Sergeant Ever is Offline.

Furry: what just happened

Mister Smol: I have no idea vod

[meandmyechoes]

BOUGHT IT

NEW HOT TOYS ANAKIN HAS A PONCHO AND AN AHSOKA HOLOGRAM I CAN'T

[duskyashe]

NaNoWriMo Day #5

[masterlist]

Today's prompt is a bit different, instead of Danny Phantom × Batman/DC, it's a Star Wars one! Prompt found here

Also, sorry about that false post, I hit the wrong button by accident...

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There were rumors one would hear, sitting at the bar of a Tatooine cantina, of a Mando hiding out in the Wastes, protecting a foundling from the Imps (or the Hutts, depending on the version). You won't find him wearing armor, you won't find him in a blaster fight, you won't even find him taking up a bounty. Some might contest that he isn't a Mando at all, but those who know more about Mandalorian culture than just their battle prowess and ruthlessness know better. Ben Kenobi of the Wastes may have exchanged his armor for white tunics and brown protective cloaks, he may have hung up his blasters, but he clung to the one core tenant of Mandalorian culture that every Mando worth their armor sticks to. Children are the Future. This is the Way.

============‹«⟨★·•·★·•·★⟩»›============

It started slow. For a few years, the rumors passed around were just rehashing the old, by now familiar story: Imps (or Hutt goons) would run into Ben in the market (or a cantina), a heavily pointed conversation followed (or not, sometimes a fight broke out before words were spoken), and once the dust settled, Ben was the only one standing. But then one day, someone came looking for Ben specifically. It was a Togruta Mando wearing blue and orange armor with a short black cape edged in gold over one shoulder. They'd asked only for knowledge of how long Ben Kenobi had been on Tatooine, and nodded at the given answer, almost as if it had been expected. They asked a bartender to tell Ben that Snips and Rex were looking for him and could be found just outside the settlement's borders. After confirming the bartender would pass along the message, the Mando left without a backwards glance and no mention of how long they'd wait. When the bartender next saw Ben, they passed the info along, getting mildly worried when they saw how affected he was by the names. Ben thanked them, though, so they shrugged it off and went about their day. It was out of their hands, after all.

From that point on, though, Ben started getting visitors, other Mandalorians, generally clad in some mix of blues and oranges, but eventually more color mixes started showing up, too. There were Mandos in black and green, Mandos in browns, some in eye searing shades of yellow, a few with red stripes on primarily blue armor, the list went on. Some followed Ben out into the Wastes in their ships, others came and went, returning every so often with riches beyond the stars. Occasionally one or two would show up with a child or young teen in tow and settle down for a few months before heading back into the black. Sometimes they'd return with an older teen or a young adult with weary eyes and too many scars.

After a few months of this, something else happened. A couple desperate souls had seen Ben interact with a few of the more well known freedom runners while in town and decided to risk it. Two weeks later, a Mando in cheerful yellow and earthy green passed a grandmother an encrypted note that read, "Your brothers walk the skies." It was the first time since the grandmother's early childhood that she shed a tear. So word got out, and more slaves slowly started running to the Wastes. No one ever heard from them again, but every time someone took the risk and ran, two weeks later, a Mando known to interact with Ben would pass one of the grandmothers a note reading the same thing. "Your brother/sister walks the stars."

By the time Ben Kenobi had been a resident on Tatooine for nearly twenty years, the majority of the desert planet was Free, with only a few slaver strongholds left, though they weren't expected to last much longer. A lone hut on the outskirts of the Wastes was now the central hub of a bustling Mandalorian enclave, with force sensitive young being taught alongside their force null companions. And still, the word spread. If you're looking to slip your leash, run to Tatooine's Wastes. Ben Kenobi will set you Free.

============‹«⟨★·•·★·•·★⟩»›============

Ben wasn't sure how it happened, exactly. He never planned to become a freedom runner, nor did he expect to start an entire settlement full of Mandalorians and Jedi alike. He quite meant to live the life of a desert hermit, watching Luke from afar and paying for his sins and shortcomings. Somehow, that wasn't what happened.

"Ben! There's some droids here to meet you, they say they have an urgent message they need to give you! Want me to send them in?" Luke called from outside Ben's office.

Ben sighed. "Go ahead, Luke, now get back to your studies already! You can't exactly become a bounty hunter if you're falling behind in your marksmanship course, now can you," he admonished.

Luke opened the door, and Ben was struck yet again by how much the boy looked like his parents. His father's hair, eyes, and nose, his mother's height, smile, and heart. "Will do, and don't forget! You promised to teach me the next set of Soresu after lunch!" And off he went. Ben smiled. Ahhh, the wonders of youth.

A chirp and trill brought Ben back to the present as a cold weight settled in his stomach. In rolled an astromech, a familiar astromech, followed by an equally familiar protocol droid.

"Dear heavens, are you sure we're in the right place, Artoo? Oh, I would so hate to have come to the wrong place, that would simply be the most horrible—"

Ben stood up and cleared his throat. Both droids came to a stop just in front of his desk. "Hello there."

Artoo let out a greeting and extended his holoprojector. The recording that greeted him made his heart drop.

"Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope."

============‹«⟨★·•·★·•·★⟩»›============

Daaaaang this did not want to be written! I swear, every time I went to work on it, my brain would blank and I'd be left staring at a blank screen (⁠-⁠_⁠-⁠;⁠)⁠・⁠・⁠・ not to mention my false post earlier (⁠╥⁠﹏⁠╥⁠) oh well, I still managed something halfway decent today, so I'm not too upset, y'know? (⁠^⁠～⁠^⁠;⁠)⁠ゞ

I might not be able to write out a full ficlet for day 6, my day is kinda packed, but I'll try my best! (⁠ ⁠╹⁠▽⁠╹⁠ ⁠) If nothing else, I'll post some rambles about a story idea or prompt ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠⊙⁠_⁠ʖ⁠⊙⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯ y'know, something simple.

Y'all are seriously too kind, I love y'all so much o⁠(⁠(⁠*⁠^⁠▽⁠^⁠*⁠)⁠)⁠o have a good day/night/morning!

[captainsophiestark]

Tabloids

Padme Amidala x Reader

Masterlist - Join My Taglist!

Written for Fictober 2021!

Requested: Yes, by @ashwilliamscoveredinblood :) Thanks for the request Maya! I LOVE Padme, and it was so fun to get to write for her!

Fandom: Star Wars

Prompt: “You have no proof.”

Summary: Y/N is a Jedi, and they've been dating Padme in secret for a long, long time. They're completely in love, and they've been doing a damn good job of keeping their secret. However, when a few news holos start reporting on Padme's secret lover and Y/N's friends start taking guesses as to who it could be, it might be time for their secret to come to light.

Word Count: 1,449

Category: Fluff, Humor

Putting work into an AI program without permission is illegal. You do not have my permission. Do not do it.

"Rex, it can't be Anakin. It just can't! He's the least stealthy person alive," cried Ahsoka, leaning forward on the couch as she argued with Rex.

"I'm just saying, they always seem happy to see each other," Rex argued back. "And the general always acts strange when he's around her!"

"You have no proof."

I leaned back on the couch and watched amusedly as the two debated. The local gossip holos and a few of the more credible ones had been buzzing about Senator Amidala having a secret lover, and Ahsoka and Rex had been debating it all day. We were waiting in Padme's office for her to get back, so we could start a protection detail for her. They'd already discussed the possibility of Obi-Wan and Anakin at length, without coming close to an agreement. Any time they asked for my input, I just did my best to stir up trouble.

All this arguing, and they still hadn't figured out that Padme was dating me. So much for the observant stars of the Republic's army.

"I'm telling you, Rex, it's not Anakin!"

"So you really think it's Kenobi? That doesn't make any sense! You saw the way he looked at that duchess on Mandalore..."

"Well then maybe it's somebody else!" said Ahsoka. "Maybe it's somebody we haven't even considered yet..."

I perked up a little from my spot on the couch. Almost twenty-four hours, and maybe they were finally about to get it.

"Like who?" asked Rex. He looked around the room, his eyes going right over me without stopping. "Maybe another Senator? Like Mon Mothma?"

"Maybe!"

I couldn't help snorting a laugh as I flopped back against the cushions. They were both so, so smart in so many other areas, but they were absolute idiots about this.

The two of them looked at me, and I could tell they were about to try to drag me back into the debate again, but before they could the doors swung open and Padme strode in.

Rex and Ahsoka froze and looked at her. She gave all three of us polite nods before continuing to her desk, and I felt my heart swell. She was just so pretty. And I missed her so much. I didn't want to waste a single second I got to spend with her, especially when our futures were so uncertain. Especially when I'd spent the whole day listening to ridiculous speculation about someone else dating my girlfriend.

I stood up from the couch and passed Ahsoka and Rex, who were both still staring at Padme. I walked straight up to where she stood by her desk, then wrapped one arm around her waist. She turned to me, a small smile on her face, and I didn't waste another second before leaning in and kissing her.

We stayed like that for a moment as I enjoyed the feeling of her warm lips against mine. I squeezed her tight before we broke apart, smiling brightly at each other. I felt like I was looking at the sun.

"Should I take this to mean we're telling people now?" she asked me, love and adoration written all over her face. I sighed, not quite able to believe she was real. That she was mine.

"Yeah, I figured it was time," I said. I glanced over at Ahsoka and Rex, who were both staring at us with their mouths open in shock. "I've been listening to these two debate batshit theories over who you could be dating, and I never came up once. It made me realize just how badly I wanted to shout from the rooftops how much I love you."

Padme grinned at me, then leaned up to kiss me again. We held each other tight, but we didn't get too carried away with Ahsoka and Rex still in the office. After we broke apart this time, Padme moved to sit down at her desk. She still had real work to do, after all.

"Y/N... why didn't you tell us earlier!" cried Ahsoka, finally coming to her senses as she shot out of her seat. Rex, for his part, just leaned back on the couch with a smile and a shake of his head. "Like maybe when we were debating whether she was dating Master Fisto!"

I just shrugged, fighting (and failing) to keep a smirk off my face. "I don't know. I was kind of having fun."

Ahsoka huffed a laugh and shook her head, and when I looked over at Rex, he gave me a nod. Padme, badass genius that she was, kept right on working as the other three of us talked. Now that our secret was out, my friends and teammates wanted to know everything. When it had started, how it had started, how long it had been happening, who else knew. Everything.

"Oh, speaking of that, do me a favor and don't tell Anakin or Obi-Wan yet?" I asked. Rex, Ahsoka and I were sitting on the couches again as Padme worked diligently from her desk. "I only saw them for a few minutes this morning, but based on the looks they were sharing, I think they're suspicious of each other as Padme's significant other. I kinda want to see that play out."

Rex and Ahsoka laughed, and I turned over my shoulder to look at Padme with a sly grin. She was finally looking up from her work and shaking her head at me, but there was a smile on her face nonetheless.

"Alright, well, we'd better get going," said Rex with a sigh. He and Ahsoka stood, both still looking amused. "We're supposed to meet up with the generals to talk about security for the Senator's event tonight. Of course, now I get why you're staying here on her protection detail instead of coming with us."

I just smiled and nodded at him. He and Ahsoka headed for the door, but before they left, Ahsoka turned back to me.

"Don't worry. We won't tell Anakin or Obi-Wan about you and Padme. And if we get the chance, we'll fan the flames a little of them thinking it's each other."

"Snips, I knew there was a reason you were my favorite."

We shared a smile, then the two of them disappeared into the hallway. The door shut softly behind them, and once it did, Padme stood from her desk and came to sit next to me on the couch.

"Are you sure it was such a good idea to tell them?" she asked, giving me a worried look as I wrapped an arm around her. "If the Council finds out, you'll be expelled from the Order."

I just waved her off. "Pads, don't worry. I trust Rex and Ahsoka. And I trust Anakin and Obi-Wan too, for when we eventually tell them. They're good friends, and it's not like any of them are completely sold on that whole 'follow the Code to the letter' thing either."

I laid back against the cushions a little more comfortably and Padme snuggled up against me. I kissed the top of her head, then ran my fingers through a few loose strands of her hair. More often than not it was up in an elaborate style, so I had to take the chance to play with it while I could.

"Besides," I sighed, half talking to myself as I relaxed with my girlfriend. "I've been thinking about it for a long time. And if I had to pick between you and the Order, I'd pick you every time."

Padme hummed and snuggled even closer against me. We'd had the same conversation a few times, and Padme always insisted she didn't want to force me to leave the Order. And every time I pushed back, saying it would be my choice, but she never quite believed me.

Hopefully it would never come to it, but if it did, I was more than prepared to show her how much she meant to me. Padme was the love of my life; she was infinitely more valuable than a stupid set of rules that said to be good you had to let go of all attachments.

[uponrightful]

Coriolis Effect - pt. 17: “Arrangement of Operations”

A/N: Well, what can I say? Other than the fact I can't keep a consistent schedule? Hopefully this doesn't disappoint. More action will be coming soon. This was just a rough transition chapter for me and I had a difficult time trying to tie together everything I want to. I've been dreading these last few arcs here since the first chapters I drafted out. Still some plot twists, spice, and development left to come. I'm just attempting to make sure I don't crash a burn at the end of this work.

I do have some little one-shot blurbs coming as well... Hopefully in the next day or two. Nothing great. But it's about one of the more... well-known pilots. I'm hoping to make him my next full-length fic. If you're interested let me know.

Anyways. That's all for now.

Much Love,

Rightful 🤍

Mission details.  

Secrecy. 

Frustration beyond management.

Everything was coming to a head.

It felt as if everyone in the war room was holding their breath. Waiting for the final hour to finally admit that Kenobi’s plan was downright dangerous, and everything hinged on the gut-feeling that the compromise on Geonosis hadn’t been discovered yet. No outside help. Recon for outside information was a far stretch at best. And the 212th -despite sitting in on most of the mission briefs- weren’t even going to be making the trip for the gala event anyways. Echo had never found himself feeling quite this out of place amongst a group of Captains, Commanders, Sergeants, and Generals. 

Cody stood at the far end of the war room table with an almost permanent look of pensiveness creasing the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. Staring down at the holomap and surrounding information on digital displays covering the room. At his side was General Kenobi looking as cool and collected as ever. Not nearly as concerned as he should be. However Echo had a sneaking suspicion that he was just damn good at shielding his apprehension. After all, the mission itself felt like something that the other general in the room -Anakin- would’ve dreamed up on the fly less than one parsec away from a battle zone. Even. The younger Jedi was asking a lot of questions that normally never got asked. Echo had personally seen Anakin fly into danger without batting an eye. However as he got the chance to examine General Skywalker, there was a tinge of… hesitation floating in his eyes. Even Rex, who’d decided to take up a post next to him radiated a thick feeling of nervousness. It didn’t take much to assume the tension in the air was what had Hunter grimacing and rubbing at his temples.

“I still don’t understand why we can’t have someone else go under for this,” Echo nearly growled. “Isn’t there anyone else who knows what’s going on? Or at least smart enough to be briefed on the essentials beforehand?” He paused for a moment, sighing. 

“Forgive me, Generals. I’m in no place to make demands. But I feel it would be a mistake to assume there aren’t spies on Republic payroll hired specifically for this kind of thing.”

Echo scanned his attention to General Kenobi who didn’t look the least bit offended. With over twelve meetings held over the last five days, decorum had been practically thrown out into the Jedi Temple hallways. No one wasted their breath addressing anyone by title at this point. There wasn’t enough time for it. And save for Tech who subconsciously insisted on calling Rex “Cap” no one took time to even address the informality. That being said, it was the first time tensions had risen to the point of Hunter stepping out of line. Even if it wasn’t by more than a little bit. 

“Corporal, I understand your hesitance,” Kenobi said calmly. “If I am to be honest with you, I haven’t had a single moment of question as to what your collective worries are surrounding this assignment.”

Echo hated being reminded of the fact. His removal from direct contact with Jedi’s came as a bittersweet realization, but when in the presence of one, he’d long forgotten just how perceptive they could be should the need or desire arise. And with six clones overpowering two Generals in a war room, there was no mistaking why Kenobi left himself open to their thoughts and feelings. 

“However, you are correct that the Republic has many resources available at our disposal for such a situation as this,” His answer was just as diplomatic as always. “Our collective problem resides in know who and when someone can be trusted to carry out the plan we have formulated.” 

The seemingly endless question no one could find the answer to and the basis of all their problems. Everyone had tried for weeks at this point to avoid getting too close to the Separatists and their business dealings. Kenobi had reached out to trusted companions across the galaxy, Skywalker had done the same. And from what Cody and Rex had relayed over comms and after meetings, they too had turned to friends acquaintances, and even the Corrie Guard to try and get some type of helpful information. All they could learn was what everyone else already knew. Which wasn’t a whole lot. 

“I understand that. But I don’t think sending one person into an entire mansion of Separatists is a safe way to go about this,” Echo responded. “At least let one or two of us go in with her.” He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from wincing at the sound of himself damn-near begging. But for all it was worth, everyone in the room save for Kenobi thought the plan was voluntary manslaughter.

“Echo… she’s the only one who can speak to them in a believable way.” The General protested. 

“It is not of good conscious to send any of you into what could be a very dangerous situation. But I must defend my reasoning.”  Kenobi took a few steps away from the table and settled himself down into one of the many chairs settled around the room. 

“If I was to send anyone and their knowledge of the weapons being sold fall short, it would be an immediate threat to not just our operation but to the entire stability of the war!” He said with a frustrated sigh. “I have no objections to your accompaniment to Naboo. It’s all for the better that there are more eyes on the gala to see any suspicious activity or recognizable faces. But I do not want to underestimate the lengths to which our enemies will go to ensure that their stolen goods are sold to their allies and not a stranger whom has lucked into an invitation and the immense amount of money necessary to even think about attending the auction.” He explained.

“Maybe she isn’t ready for that kind of work yet, Obi-Wan.” Anakin, who had been mostly silent for the meeting finally spoke up in a weak attempt to help out Hunter. 

Kenobi looked to him with a somewhat disbelieving expression.

“Capability has nothing to do with enthusiasm.” Echo found himself gritting out the words before he could even stop himself. Everyone in the room snapped their attention to him and suddenly all that tension in the air had been magnetized to him. The thick weight of expectation to explain himself rode heavily on his shoulders and chest making it hard to breathe let alone form his frustration into some semblance of understandable words. Surprisingly it didn’t take long to figure it out.  

“We’re been going over this plan for days. Memorizing entrances and exits, speaking to contacts about how this gala is going to proceed and where we’re supposed to blend in best on surrounding rooftops to avoid being seen. Everything is nearly perfect except for one small detail  no one wants to talk about.” He breathed heavily, trying to control himself. 

“No one asked Duchess if she was even willing to put herself on the line for this.”

That weight got just a little heavier. 

“Her available mission details with Phantom Squad are… impeccable. And I’ve seen her work in the field up-close, but it’s dangerous to send her into Separatist hands less than a week after seeing them nearly torture her- one of the squad to death.” Echo could feel a stinging sensation in the back of his throat.

Kenobi’s eyes softened in that moment, looking about the room to all of the men standing there. Waiting for his word. Helpless to do anything but follow orders despite all the informality they’d been lucky enough to experience. All of the Batch present knew that their time was running out, and with both Crosshair and Duchess still so far away from what they all deemed normal, it was cutting into their patience. And more so, the protective nature they felt for both of them. This wasn’t an issue of who was the right man for the job anymore. Everyone was clear on the fact that Duchess could handle it the best, with the least amount of effort. It was her mentality that they feared for. And General Kenobi hadn’t bothered himself with experiencing first-hand what her condition was not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. 

“I have sent her the mission request myself. Has she not been aware that this mission as it stands presently rests on her decision?” Kenobi asked with an eyebrow raised.

Finally Hunter found his words with a certain nervousness about them, “Not at present. She was advised by the infirmary to rest and we have not been keen on letting her worry about this until we’re certain she’s up to the task. Not just okay with accepting the responsibility.”

Kenobi gave a short of chuckle, seeming to understand just what they had been trying to get across all this time. “I have to say, that sounds very familiar. For duty to oneself can go ignored when the need of others seems more significant.”

Anakin looked to him with a accusatory expression. “You wouldn’t be talking about me would you?”

“Oh, of course not. You’ve never been the type to put yourself in unnecessary danger to save someone else… Only to end up needing saved yourself now, have you?” His somewhat sarcastic humor wasn’t the most well-timed, but it seemed that the longer they all stood there, a certain recognition had come about and now the question of Duchess’ involvement wasn’t so important anymore. 

Kenobi took another glance around the room and took in a deep steadying breath through his nose. “I see that there are some decisions that need to be made. Alongside a few smaller details that need to be arranged should there be a change in planning. Either way, I must inform you that Anakin and Captain Rex’s presence today was not for posterity alone.”

“That’s right. Since Obi-Wan can’t oversee this mission through, Rex, the 501st and I will be taking lead of operations on the day of the mission.” Anakin added, trying to be as welcoming as he could.

“Given we are so… cautious, I am most regrettable about the whole situation. It seems there have been threats against a number of diplomats planning a rather long campaign of sorts. Hoping to find more allies in these challenging times. However the threats to their lives are strong enough that myself, the Marshal Commander, and a large portion of the 212th will be at their disposal for the duration of their movements.” Kenobi explained.

“Don’t worry about anything,” Anakin reassured, “I’m completely briefed, and as of today I know good and well what is at stake for all parties involved here. Besides, Naboo will be a very easy to navigate. If it’s helpful we can even leave a couple days early. I have a few connections on-world that could make the trip a lot less… hot and heavy. If you know what I mean.”

It was enough to calm Hunter down at least. Echo still wasn’t sure how he felt about it even if General Skywalker didn’t plan on barging in guns-blazing the day of. A few days on Naboo didn’t mean they wouldn’t be putting Duchess in a real pinch. But Kenobi -despite being cordial- had given his well-spoken ultimatum. It would be completely up to her. And she only had a day or two to decide given that Anakin had his wishes to leave in more than enough time. But with just enough time to give a formal goodbye to Kenobi and Cody giving a curt nod as he trailed hesitantly after him there wasn’t much room to think on the topic any longer. To Echo’s slight relief, Anakin dismissed himself as well, leaving Rex to speak to them alone without the pressure of either Jedi breaking down their necks or looking into their heads.

Rex settled his hands on his hips and stared down at the holomap for a moment.

“Well that was a shit show…”

Over to his right, Tech spoke up. “Although a ill-mannered statement, I must agree. Does General Kenobi sense something that we have not yet?”

Hunter stalked over to a chair of his own, sitting with his chest to the backrest and crossing his arms over the top. “No. He’s just nervous. But about the wrong thing.”

“What do you mean?” Wrecker chimed in.

“The General is more worried about the traitor and them being part of the Republic. No doubt keeping this low-brow isn’t easy, but no one is safe. And that’s what has him pushing this risky mission down Dutch’s throat. I don’t care for it.” Echo grumbled in answer.

“I don’t like it either,” Rex added in rather quickly. “You showed me her charts Echo. She’s lucky she can walk around well. I don’t think playing the part of a rich Separatist enjoying their spoils will be easy. Even if no one asks her to the dancefloor before the auction.” Echo simply nodded, already fully aware of the limited yet still demanding task of physically showing up to the event let alone blending in well.

“I am unsure as to Duchess’s motivation to complete the mission, but it is a fair assumption that -should she be willing- what the extent of her preparation would require?” Tech asked, reviewing what Echo could only guess were notes from the meeting.

“Well, aside from the technical information we all know she would need, I’m not exactly sure. I don’t know how often you boys get invited to upper-class galas, but I haven’t.” Rex admitted rather humorously. “That pre-mission checklist is one I sure would like to see though.”

“Your point being?” Hunter asked, raising his head away from resting on his arms to get a better look at the Captain. 

Echo decided to spare his Sergeant, “When was the last time you thought about wearing high heels for an assignment, Hunter?”

***

Duchess had never seen a release examination before, but Crosshair’s what almost unbelievably difficult. Breathing tests, brain function performance compared to his baselines, cognition tests, reflexivity, and last but not least, an all-out stress-test. She likened the first half of it to the testing that many cadets had to pass before becoming fighter pilots. Small volts of current passing through muscles, and the nuanced information being recorded and deciphered through the machines hooked up to Crosshair. Over two hours of electrostimulation and he still didn’t seem the least bit exhausted. Duchess was at a loss for words. But the testing didn’t stop there. His last request for the test?

Exhaust himself. 

Dutch nearly passed out hearing that. Given everything she’d come to know about the sniper, not only would Crosshair outlast most regs out of sheer physicality, but he would purposefully use every last ounce of mental and physical strength to remind everyone judging his performance that he was better. Elite. Overengineered. Built for punishment and hungry to prove it. Kix had been genuinely kind enough to offer him the choice of water or land. And to her utter shock, her sniper chose land. Foregoing the ease on his joints and the less varying ways to further punish his body in the days following his bacta treatment. In typical, frustrating, fashion Crosshair chose to run. 

Being an “officer” meant Dutch didn’t have to participate in her own trials. Someone else might’ve felt relieved. Duchess did not. It made the painful reality of Crosshair’s situation all the more painful. A life forced into wartime servitude and could be taken away just as easily. A fucking joke. A fucking tragedy a best. Worth doing something irrational a worst. Either thought process did nothing to placate her frayed nerves as she waited in an adjacent room for her sniper to reemerge. Hopefully with Kix close behind carrying good news for his results. 

She had declined to be present in the room whole the test commenced. Despite Kix being more than willing to allow her in and Crosshair being silently unsettled with the idea of her being out of his sight. Duchess couldn’t deal with the visual though. Everyone had already been through enough and the more she stressed herself, the longer it would take to heal. The Batch wanted to meet with her anyways, and leaving abruptly in the middle of Cross’ test. Wouldn’t be conducive to very acceptable results. Though things would’ve been different had she been able to speak to him. 

Muscles in her thighs and the arches of her feet started aching when she heard boot falls echoing from down the stark, white, hallway. Four pairs, all distinct, and a metal clang that assured her of who was approaching. When she saw the first flash of black and red paint, a sudden feeling of weakness overwhelmed her. Heavily enough that she rested her back against the wall and slid down until she sat comfortably on the floor. Maybe it was purely physical and the remaining symptoms of her sleepless, foodless, week that made her feel so tired so suddenly. Duchess felt a sneaking suspicion that have 99’s around just allowed her the opportunity to put her anxiety and fear aside for a little while. Over and over, hey proved nothing bad could happen to her when they were around… Keeping in mind she allowed them. True to that suspicion upon their first look at her, their leisurely pace quickened seeing her sitting on the floor. 

“What did Kix saying about your blood sugar?” Hunter asked with a more fatherly tone than friendly. Chastising in a gentle, yet stern kind of way.

“I’m not feeling lightheaded, my hands aren’t shaking and I don’t feel the least bit dizzy either,” she explained calmly. Watching their apprehension drain into a somewhat level temperament after sensing that she was telling the truth. 

“How long has he been in there?” Wrecker asked rather nervously, looking at the door like he could see through it if he stared hard enough. 

Duchess knew the feeling well. 

“One hour and…” she trailed looking down at her chrono. “Eighteen minutes.”

Everyone shared glances and right away Tech, Wrecker, and Echo excused themselves into the observation room Kix monitored Crosshair in. She understood totally why they were so anxious to see their brother. Since landing on Coruscant everyone -except her and Cross- were involved in the long, strenuous, painstaking, tension-filled meetings. It left no time for visits and even less space for mental anguish and worry over treatment plans or what Kix was doing to heal Crosshair. Whether Duchess liked it or not, the Batch were expected to be soldiers first and brothers second. It broke her heat and stoked a damn-near lethal fire rekindling itself in her chest. 

Left behind in the hallway with Hunter, they had some time to catch up on… well, everything.

“I don’t need to tell you because I’m sure you know… But his is going to take quite a while.” Hunter stated rather abysmally.

Dutch nodded. “He really can’t stand being perceived as anything less than…” She struggled to find the right word.

The Sergeant found it for her.

“Flawless,” He smiled sadly, “He refuses to be anything short of perfection.”

“Utterly ridiculous,” Dutch grumbled back, wondering how she could even begin to tackle the task of breaking her sniper from that awful train of thought.

“It’s always been that way for him. For us, performance was top priority, but Crosshair took it much more personally.” He said, beginning to ease himself down to the floor alongside of her. 

“Crosshair always stuck out as a cadet. Tall like Wrecker, but not nearly as physically intimidating on first glance. So he took a lot of punishment for being different. More than any of us really. Especially because Cross would take heat for something we did. And to make things worse, he couldn’t prove himself even if he wanted to.”

“Because you were trained separately from the regs?”

“Yes and no,” He replied cautiously. “We didn’t train with regs often, but when we did it normally didn’t change their opinion of us. With our enhancements, skill came… easier.  That didn’t mean it was effortless,” He paused to catch his breath. “Crosshair wanted to be seen as an equal more than anyone. But being a biologically crafted sniper meant that even the most difficult shot wouldn’t be impressive,”

“They just expected it from him,”

“Yes. So when he got any chance to prove his worth, he would do it. Any he never grew out of it.”  

Hunter looked down both ends of the hallway with a surveilling gaze. One Dutch caught onto right away. There was business he wanted to discuss. Even the Batch was excluded and she knew exactly why. They had already discussed the mission once in each other’s confidence, and Hunter had been just as hesitant to make it remotely public. All things considered, it was the smartest plan of action. 

“What did the General say today?” She asked hoping to kickstart the conversation. 

“One minor change, one major one. We’re supposed to lift off for Naboo in three rotations,”

“That’s hardly worth making a big deal about,” Sometimes she couldn’t help but think Hunter’s worries were worse than her own.

“Also, Skywalker and the 501st are heading the mission now,” He added, looking to her with a scrutinizing expression. 

Duchess knew she should’ve felt a certain sense of apprehension about such a large change she close to mission time. But knowing that it would be Rex coming along soothed what little nerves she held. As far as her own information went, everyone aside from Hunter thought she still was unaware of the plan. Hunter and herself decided that for everyone’s benefit and safety, he would brief her as information came to him, but they would wait until the last minute to declare that she would be taking on the mission and what responsibilities came along with it. 

Hunter didn’t want any information being old enough that it could fall into the lap of someone who did not have the best intentions. After all there was a traitor present, and even though Kenobi and Skywalker were doing everything right, it didn’t make them immune. For Duchess, she didn’t want Crosshair to find out yet. And Hunter was the only person who could keep that kind of information to himself as long as she needed him to. She hated keeping anything from him, but the last thing he needed to worry about was her going undercover. Every single memory she had of his feeling about her going headlong into a mission were all marked with an overwhelming sense of worry and protectiveness well-masked as anger and sarcasm. If he was going to get off Coruscant in the next two rotations, he couldn’t know what the mission was, or how deeply she was involved. Really… no one could know until absolutely necessary. It would ensure her cover was as believable as possible.

“What about the rest of the Batch? Are they still fairly convinced I don’t know anything?”

Hunter chuckled, “Yeah, I’m fairly certain. Echo practically threw a fit over Kenobi volunteering you. Tech assumes you’ll accept, but he doesn’t have enough facts to put the pieces together. Rex is good at keeping a secret, so you have nothing to worry about there,” He nudged his shoulder into her, trying to get her attention. “They’re all worried about you…”

“And I am too,” she sighed, “You need to try and calm Echo down before he does anything hasty. I’d hate to have to break the news to him just so he doesn’t go AWOL trying to save me from something I’ve already decided to do,” 

Duchess tried not to let that idea get the best of her. 

“But from what you’ve told me, everything should be fairly cut and dry.” She tried to calm the Sergeant down. “Blend in, listen for anything having to do with the Republic and what they’re doing to fight us, go to the weapons auction and-”

Hunter cut her off, “Don’t bid until we give you confirmation.”

“Right. No bids until I get the go-ahead, and then play it casual for a few hours until I get welcomed to the back to pick up my weapons. From there, a crew will be there to pose as my goons…” She couldn’t help but change topic for a second. 

“Finally, I get my own goon squad. It’s about kriffing time,” 

Hunter’s skyward turned eyes and smirk reassured her it wasn’t just personally amusing. 

“But that squad will bring a cargo ship to a loading bay holding the crates, and we bring them back safe and sound,”  She finished, expecting Hunter to give a satisfied nod. Only when he didn’t, she frowned. “Did I forget something?”

“No you didn’t,”

“You’re afraid getting the weapons back is all we’re going to accomplish, aren’t you?”

Hunter sighed, “It’s not that I don’t trust your ability to listen well enough. I’m just not sure we’re going to hear sensitive Separatists movements at a kriffing gala. Doesn’t that sound just a little reckless to you?”

“From my experience, people talk about things they don’t know about more than things they actually do. I would venture to say that a lot of these people know where these weapons are coming from, and who’s supplying them. They might not know a specific name, but I highly doubt there isn’t a well-placed rumor floating around,” Duchess nudged into his shoulder lightly, “Let’s just hope I look convincing enough in a budget-bought gown.”

Duchess couldn’t help but giggle at the thought of herself in some stupid dress. Make-up, hair done, and some dress she’d have never bought otherwise. Part of her was excited for the opportunity to dress up. It had been so long she couldn’t even remember wearing something other than fatigues or a dress uniform. Even to that extent, medal pinning ceremonies weren’t something that Phantom Squad attended in the first place due to their status in the army. Therefore dress uniforms typically stayed in the closet at the apartment she lived in before leaving for Kamino. Since then, they’d been in that chest on Kamino, awaiting her return for when shore leave dictated a visit back to the water-covered planet.

 In the past rotation or so, she’d dreamt up a few ideas of what she might like wearing. For all intensive purposes, anything within her price range was not going to appear very extravagant. So, her musings were kept to a minimum and only brought out of the recesses of her mind when she needed something insignificant to keep her busy. A few shops she was familiar with had clothes that might suffice, but with what money she had left over -a maybe a paycheck she’d been unable to collect- there could maybe be enough to fake real money and power. 

Hunter seemed to notice her deep thought.

“If I didn’t know better, I would say you looked excited for the idea of dolling yourself up for this,” A little well-humored smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth and crinkled the skin around his eye. 

“I am a little, but I’m not going to get my hopes up,”

“Why is that? What’s a little fun for yourself? After all, I’d say you deserve a moment for yourself after all the kriffing trouble we’ve had,”

“The Galactic Bank of Duchess is running low. Has been since I took out that deposit I gave to you in case we needed a cushion on mission. I guess I didn’t think we’d wipe out that much of it so quickly…” She explained, not sad about where the credits had gone, but a little let down that the money needed spent in the first place. 

“Don’t worry about it, Dutch. We’ll get something together in time,” He reassured lightly, “But I do have a question I’m sure you don’t want to answer yet,”

“What’s that Sargent?”

“When are you going to tell him?”

Duchess felt her chest burn with guilt in that moment. It’s was the one part of the mission she had no plan for, and no real way of easing into it gently. Crosshair wasn’t going to like it one bit, but there wasn’t any way for him to stop her once Hunter submitted the documents she had already signed three rotations prior. Her sniper fighting the order wasn’t out of the realm of possibility, but worrying him too much would be just as detrimental. That was the reason she asked Hunter to keep the details of the mission between the two of them in the first place. Crosshair needed rest. Not to fret over the nuance of her playing dress-up and acting the part of a bad guy for an evening. It was hardly the first time she’d done so. And something told her it wouldn’t be the last. 

“What happens now?” she questioned.

“I talked to Rex for a moment after the meeting. Said something about getting you ready for the mission. What kind of preparation that was, I don’t know really. But I’m supposed to leave out in the next few hours and meet with him again,” Hunter informed her evenly. 

“How are you going to get around disappearing from everyone?” Her curiosity got the best of her.

Hunter laughed, “Easy. Fake a headache,” He tapped his temples for a moment. “I hardly ever fake it, so they won’t question me if I say I have one,”

Duchess nodded, “What should I do? While we wait for… whatever Rex has planned?” 

“Do what you do best. Take care of the man who doesn’t want anyone taking care of him,” Hunter gave her a pat on the shoulder. 

“Even when he needs it.”

***

What is she doing?

She needs to eat again. 

It’s been two hours, and I know she hasn’t done it on her own. 

Where are my brothers?

Are they with her?

Echo will make sure she eats something.

Crosshair couldn’t be the least bit bothered by the electrodes sticking to his skin or the sweat dripping down the center of his back and down the sides of his face. Every inch of his body was naggingly sore, but it was nothing he refused to push through. Save for a severe ache deep in his right shoulder, everything else could be ignored. Well enough that after two hours of nonstop movement, Kix still hadn’t called off the test for worry of his health. Long enough that Crosshair was certain he could stop at any time he pleased and go back to doing what he really needed to. 

She’s been quiet all day. 

I don’t like it. 

Ever since they’d woken up together after his treatments had ended, Duchess hadn’t been acting right. Not overly different, but enough that he could tell something was different aside from her palpable nervousness. Crosshair didn’t pretend that he knew everything about her, but he did have a confidence that it wasn’t just lingering exhaustion, anxiety, or dehydration influencing her lack of desire to talk to him. She had barely said two sentences since morning for fuck’s sake. That knowledge alone kept him running at a steady pace. 

It gave him time to think; Time to think of the right thing to say.

I love you.

***

A headache didn’t even need to be faked for Hunter to get away easily.

Duchess was still waiting on Crosshair and the rest of the boys were getting a little bit of rest while they could, knowing that sometime soon Cross and Dutch would both need to sleep and someone else would need to watch over them. The perfect rotation for a family that knew exactly what to do when it needed done. But he needed to do his own work to make sure everything kept working out smoothly and Duchess was well prepped for this mission. Sure, it was a stressful time. He’d been in worse and handled it better. Been in easier ones and royally fucked up. It was a human response to feel this tense all the time. To miss sleep because he was thinking so much. Refuse a meal here and there to spend the time more efficiently. Overstimulate himself amongst the lights and sounds of meetings with the Generals to ensure that the mission was low-risk. 

He just didn’t expect it to be so fucking difficult. 

Hunter didn’t realize how hard it was becoming to keep forcing himself through the steps of a mission that shouldn’t have been so difficult. They weren’t failing. But they hadn’t completed it yet. As if someone was watching over them so closely and planning their decisions so meticulously that nothing they could do was nearly productive enough. Two steps forward and three steps back didn’t even begin to cover the feeling that boiled deep in his gut. There just wasn’t enough information slipping through the gaps for them to catch up quick enough. Hunter hated feeling useless. Especially knowing that his enhancements -brutally ingrained into him- were of completely of no use to anyone for any reason right now. No smell. No sound. Nothing. Useless. Save for the slight possibility that Rex had some Jedi Mind-Trick up his sleeve that could help them get their next foothold on an icy slope that dropped off into a deep ravine of failure.

“Sergeant, you look like you need some sleep and caf. In that order,” Rex greeted him, clapping a hand over his armored shoulder. 

“Caf first. Sleep later, Rex,”

They began walking through the gates to the base and towards the closest taxi service zone marked by paint on the sidewalk.

“Well… how are they doing?”

Hunter didn’t know where to begin, or explain what was more important. “Duchess is airing on stir-crazy waiting on something to happen. Some good news, a mission, literally anything to make her feel like she’s worth the air she’d breathing. Crosshair was in exhaustion testing when I left. Someone will send a comm when he finally decides he’s had enough time,” 

Rex gave him a disbelieving look, “Enough time to do what? Kill himself?” 

“If I know Crosshair well enough, I’d say so he can clear his head. I don’t know exactly what is going on between them, but it’s what I would consider serious. And from what I can tell it isn’t exactly… resolved,”

Rex gave a humph of a sound through his nose. “That sounds a bit messy. You’re not concerned about it?” He posed the question with a genuine curiosity that only two unit leaders without romantic relationship experience could ask each other. 

Both of them quickly got into the back of a speeder that pulled up upon seeing them waiting in a pick-up zone and Rex gave an address that Hunter was totally unfamiliar with. Hunter took the time of getting settled in the back of the vehicle to really think about that question as thoroughly as he could with the somewhat limited and unlimited experience he’d garnered about relationships, Crosshair, Duchess, being a brother, and everything else in between. It was after a few minutes of sitting there did the Sergeant come up with a response that he felt confident with.

“I wouldn’t say concerned in a negative way. I don’t think Crosshair is truly irrational. He can overact sometimes. But it’s never came to a point that I’ve felt his judgement was untrustworthy. And Duchess has one of the most level heads I’ve ever seen despite everything I know she’s been through, and everything else I don’t know about,”

Rex nodded, listened intently.

“But when those two are together, there can be these moments of miscommunication. And not a simple kind. Because both of them say exactly what they’re feeling, but it doesn’t always come out right. And that can cause tension,”

“You mean the verbiage? Or timing?” Rex interrupted politely, attempting to understand as best he could.

“Timing for sure,” he affirmed.

“What happens then?”

Hunter tried to formulate the right words, “It’s almost like they circle around an issue,” he said holding one hand out in front of him steady and circling a finger from the other hand around the former. “Just working at each other from opposite ends until they somehow, silently, decide that the issue needs addressed and that it takes both of them to either fix it, or make total sense of it,”

The Sergeant looked to Rex who had a very fond smile on his face, “Have you ever thought about marriage counselling?”

Hunter rolled his eyes and groaned, letting his head hit the headrest with a dull thud. “Honestly Rex, I thought you of all people would understand,”

“I do understand Hunter, but if you know how they work out there problems and it works for them,  I wouldn’t worry about it. It would be different if they never worked anything out and let it fester like an infected cut,” Rex sympathized. “I’ve had to solve a lot of problems with shinies… 501st men… kriff, even some of my ARC’s. But none of them had the idea to work through it together like that,”

“I just don’t know how to help either one of them when things get like that. And I don’t want either of them to get hurt,” Hunter tried to reason through his own feelings, wondering how a question Rex had asked sent him into a deep-dive on his own emotions. 

“So they have a cool-down? How many times have you needed one with your vode?” Rex asked with a chuckle, “Sure yours might come on a shorter time-frame due to mission duties, or other things… But when it comes to a relationship, I have a feeling that they have a much longer expiration on dealing with issues that come up. Imagine a relationship where you aren’t being controlled the entire time…”

Hunter couldn’t imagine a dynamic like that. But he did see the sense in what Rex was saying about Crosshair and Duchess. There was undoubtedly something going on that he wasn’t privy to. He had a strong feeling it had to do with… well. Feelings. An issue he wasn’t even going to think about when it came to Crosshair. There was hardly a reason for Crosshair to discuss feelings with him on a good day, especially not a bad one. And for the past week alone, there was a lot to unpack. Even for a clone who had more than their fair share of issues to deal with and not nearly enough time to sort all of it out healthily. By the time Hunter had put most of his worries and issues to rest however, the speeder had stopped and Rex was exiting out with one hand held on the door to leave it open for Hunter to follow after him. 

“Where are we exactly?” He asked, looking at the nose-bleed inducing sights of high-rise buildings all around him and the equally gut-churning sight of just as much building below him as well.

“Residential living for Senatorial staff, and other Republic officials that don’t live within the campus grounds,” Rex explained, looking down at his vambrace when a small alert pinged softly.

“We’re here to see a government official? This late at night?” Hunter asked a bit tensely, finding some of his decorum as they both were ushered through the entry doors to the high rise by a well-polished and heavily greased droid that didn’t have a single millimeter of rust or stay wire within sight.

“To be vague, yes. To be specific, they’re expecting us. So there’s not worry about disturbing anyone,”

The elevator they stepped into was controlled by yet another droid with just as much painstaking maintenance as the other one. Even in the reflection of the marbled walls and bright lights embedded in the celling trim, Hunter couldn’t spot a single blemish on the gold metal.

“I know we’re expected to keep a lot of our movements low-key, but this is making me nervous Rex. What’s going on here?” He asked, turning to face the Captain’s right side. The vibroblade sitting in the sheath on his forearm beginning to feel slightly heavy with a possibility of need to defend himself. Not against Rex, but what could possibly be waiting on the other side of the elevator door. 

“It’s a meeting with a Senator. I’m owed a debt, and this was my payoff for it. I knew Duchess was going to need some help when it came to getting everything in order for the mission, and there was only one person I could think of who could really ensure that Dutch looks the part,” He explained as best he could, decorously avoiding a name of this Senator.

“Dank Farrick Rex! Just tell me who-”

Before Hunter could get the rest of the demand out of his mouth, the doors opened and a warm yellow light spilled in from a large penthouse. Two people stood with open posture and a first-glance non-threatening appearance that instantly made Hunter’s bristle begin to lay down flat against his neck. It wasn’t until he saw one very familiar silhouette and one that vaguely reminded him of many times the batch and himself had sat watching Senatorial meetings on the holo. 

“General Skywalker. Senator Amidala. Thank you for seeing us so late,” Rex’s voice from behind him was cordial, but easy. 

Unusual for a situation that Hunter would’ve found very tense. Even now his neck felt tight, and his hands were clenched so tight that the leather between his clammy fingers were squeaking with pressure and friction. He had no idea what he was walking into. And the arm that the Senator had looped through Skywalker’s made Hunter feel like he was certainly behind on the curve in more ways than one. Even for a Sergeant who was expected to think on his feet at all times, he was really missing the back-up that his brother’s constantly provided. He needed Tech’s quick wit, Wrecker’s easy ability to make friendly conversation, and Echo’s immense talent of reading social cues and the formality of Coruscant and it’s more… refined populations. Everything Hunter felt he lacked, he was feeling it to the fullest extent at that moment. 

“So this is the Sergeant I’ve been hearing so much about,” The Senator said gracefully, taking a step away from Skywalker. Her manicured and soft hand reached out towards him, “It’s a true honor to meet you Sergeant Hunter. Your service is… invaluable to the Republic and people like myself who depend on you and your brothers,”

Hunter took her had out of pure instinct, hearing her kind words but not quite feeling the full effect of them right away. 

“I can assure you that I am nothing but supportive of your current situation. And I will be doing everything I can to help you in the next few days,” she added softly.

“Thank you ma’am,” He spoke back.

“Please. Call me Padmé. I consider myself nothing more than civilian, and you shouldn’t think of me as anything otherwise either,”

***

Duchess’ were the first pair of hands that touched Crosshair once his stress test was deemed complete. Four hours and some change was spent in that singular room. To what extent she truthfully didn’t know. She didn’t stick around to ask Kix questions -being far too concerned about getting Cross back to their barracks. But from what she heard murmured by Tech whom she’d passed by in the hallway, he’d ran steady through the entire time. Not a dead sprint by any means, but fast enough to leave his shirt utterly soaked and his skin damper than if he’d just stepped out of a shower. Her sniper felt hot to the touch -not feverish- but hot. His ribs heaved up and down under her hands, steady and deep. Most importantly one arm wound tightly around her waist and stayed there with a hand fisted into her shirt. Concreting himself to her. Instantly walking along without a word spoken to their closeness or a single mention of what anyone could say about the image before them should the pair come into sight. 

Duchess felt his protectiveness and exhaustion all at once. The weight of his body lying on her enough to remind her he was there in all aspects,  but not enough to make her feel a struggle to move with him. Yet his breaths were labored and droplets of sweat ran off him onto her shirt and on the top of her head. Her main thought was to get him some water. The quicker the better. She determinedly got them down the winding hallways. Doing whatever she could to avoid any prying eyes. Ignoring looks from emotionless buckets snapping in their direction and near-identical faces that shifted when pairing the two of them together. The barracks wasn’t far. By design she supposed. Thankful didn’t begin to cover her feelings as they got through the doors and Crosshair stopped for a moment. 

“Shower,” He said resolutely, leaning the both of them in the appropriate direction.

Duchess didn’t waver on the order. Only moving away from him once she was certain he could lean against the sink counter where she could turn on the water in the refresher and wait for it to get reasonably warm. Over the sound of water hitting the duracrete floor, wet fabric peeling away from skin could be heard behind her. She didn’t dare turn around, simply for Crosshair’s own privacy. Putting a hand in the stream, the back of her hand felt comfortably warm and Duchess did what she could to bide her time as respectfully as possible. Even when he was comfortable, she still didn’t know how to handle herself. Whether it was right to assume they were both on the same page and to take his behavior for the new normal, or begin to try and work up the nerve to admit her feelings again in the case that he truly hadn’t been able to hear her. 

It wasn’t until she heard boots thump to the floor that she knew her time was done. Planning to give him as much space as he could possibly want, she took a step back and kept her head low. A scent of salt, sweat, and Crosshair filled her senses as he brushed up against her back to slip into the open stall. A genuine sound of relief echoed softly against the walls when water first touched his skin. Pitter pattering against what Duchess pictured to be tattoos, fresh scars, and the utterly devastated muscles flexing below. Imagining his closed eyes and flexed arms reaching up to slick the heat off his head and rinse the palpable fatigue off as best he could. Duchess wished there was something she could do. A switch she could flip so that this awkwardness would evaporate. So she could be everything Cross needed without feeling hesitant.

“I’ll go grab you one of my towels,” She said softly, keeping her eyes on the toes of her boots as she spun around towards the door to the main barracks hall.

“No.” 

The quarrel ended before it began. Especially when a vice-like grip from his hand encircled her upper arm and the other caught a deft hold on the back beltloop of her pants. The unyielding pull to walk backwards into the stall was unavoidable and Duchess easily listened once again. Letting him guide her over the small lip that kept water from spilling onto the main floor. Patient. But nothing short of demanding. Water splattered down on her blacks and nearly had them soaked before her back hit Cross’ chest. Her boots already had a healthy level of standing water, and her best pair of socks squished uncomfortably. It would’ve been convenient for him to at least let her take her clothes off. But she assumed there was a good reason why he’d been so against the idea. 

“Let me,” He murmured quietly, giving a small tug at her shirt. 

“Get cold this way,” He reasoned unnecessarily, after Duchess raised her hands above her head; Going just far enough to brush her fingertips against his hair and the tips of his ears. 

The shirt peeled away and hit the floor with a instantly forgotten wet slap of a sound. Crosshair reached for the button and zipper to her pants carefully, and undid them with enough patience to let her bend over to untie her waterlogged boots and pull the entire half of her ensemble off completely. He didn’t touch her or even make a comment about her… admittedly suggestive posture. It was only after she had straightened up did his cold fingertips slid back over her skin. Choosing to only begin when he knew she was ready and prepared for him. Duchess knew it was out of pure respect that he didn’t grope of get too touchy when she was in a compromising position. He liked her when she was strong, and taking advantage of the weak moments like that didn’t strike Crosshair as the right way to act. Duchess loved him for it.

He spent a long while tracing the dips and swell of her hips. Tender. Leisurely. With a trigger finger dragging just a bit heavier than the others. A bit sluggish, but Duchess knew better than to assume he was too tired to do more. He was going out of his way to be outstandingly gentle with her and she didn’t know what was happing -or why- this was what he wanted. 

Duchess stayed liked that with him for what felt like a peaceful eternity. Just feeling his complex presence again in its purest form. The dichotomy of soft hands yet knowing they could create utter destruction should it be necessary. His protective posture guarding her away from the open gap in the stall, reminding herself of just how virile his strength was when directed towards someone with ill-intent. His steady breaths slowing to what she remembered best and the utter devastation she knew when that inhale and exhale were labored and pained beyond what anyone should ever experience. Crosshair held vulnerability in an beskar fist. Like he was terrified to lost control of it. Fearful of how soft he could become and what risk that would allow to infiltrate his life. Yet there he stood. Holding her close in lukewarm water with a silent plea that she not leave. 

His eventual next move was to put soap in her hair. Massaging until thick lather threatened to fall down her forehead. But he gently guided her head back with one hand curled under her chin. Rinsing all the soap off and slicking the stray drops of water and bubbles away from her eyes. Tracing the other hand up and down her side. Squeezing softly when his fingertips dimpled soft flesh Duchess considered unworthy of attention. His thumb brushing over what she knew to be a thin and raised scar on her temple from where his armor had cut her so long ago. She had enough of a though to marvel at how one simple interaction had changed nearly her entire life. The fact that one mistake led her to a back to Coruscant where she stood skin to skin with a sniper that had got closer and deeper to her than anyone in the galaxy every truly had before. 

It was Crosshair's kind of affection. 

Not poetry or flowers. No chance of a slow dance or dinner date. Duchess couldn't care less. It was more attentive this way. No grand gestures to hide behind, or preplanned way of ensuring his affection was displayed perfectly for everyone to see. It was nothing more than the pair of them alone. In a hell of a situation at that. Yet somewhere in one man's unknowable mind, a shower for both of them was deemed of the upmost importance. He didn’t need words to show how he felt in that moment. 

Duchess could feel his steady hands and a warm breath on her neck. A near imperceptible sway in his body weight moving them both from side to side like tenderly shushing an infant’s cries and fussing. Crosshair wasn’t just soothing her, but he was easing himself out of the strain and tension that had been coursing through him for over a week. Finally having the chance to reassure himself that everything could go back to normal now, and he hadn’t the need to feel so defensive of every small detail he could cling to.

Everything will be okay ner’ramser. She thought calmly.

It was the first time she’d believed it herself in weeks. 

***

“What I need is time with her,” Padmé said with a certain tone of stress. 

Anakin -sitting at her side- nodded understandingly. “I get that. We just don’t have that much time to get Duchess adjusted to the ins and outs of fashion faux-pas without abandoning the necessary steps to prepping her,” He explained.

“I doubt the she is unable to adjust, Anakin. You’re assuming that she isn’t talented in the art of a well-planned con,” Padmé chided him, standing from her place next to him on the couch to begin pacing her own living room gracefully. Hunter wondered why she felt it necessary to wear a dress with a train on it in her own home in the middle of the night.

“We need to reach some sort of agreement tonight. All of us. Otherwise we’re wasting time we don’t have. And without some sort of plan, Duchess is going to go in totally blind whereas we could’ve found a way to help her more than the Republic is willing to go,” Anakin spoke up, raising out of his own chair. Finding a path towards the windows overlooking the city’s skyline where he leaned against the wall with a pensive stare towards the Jedi Temple.

One hour had turned to two, and two had become four. Between a Senator, a Captain, a Sergeant, and a General, there was no good reason to explain why they couldn’t have found the best solution to the missing gaps and concerns facing Duchess’ looming mission. There was a question of her handling in the specific social circle at hand and whether or not she was equipped to handle the possible question of her fabricated power within that circle. The age-old worry of risk menaced just as severely. And had it not been for the Senator suggesting that as long as her clothes could conceal a weapon of some sort, they would still be stuck on that particular topic. 

Rex had conveniently become their best delegate of strategy who only spoke up when there was a question of tension in the room. Working efferently as diffusing tension. Anakin was proficient at pointing out the weak points in suggestions, Padmé offered out-of-the-box suggestions that often held plausible success and Hunter remained steadfast as the gauge as to whether or not Duchess would be open to certain suggestions since she could not be there to speak for herself. For the majority of their time spent throwing around ideas and hoping one would gain traction, it seemed that the one major block was getting Duchess to the Senator for at least enough time to make sure that everything was smooth and believable to the eye. 

“I have no doubt in Obi-Wan’s belief that she is ready for this kind of mission. There are nuances to which I would like to discuss with her on the very topic you are worried about,” The Senator said sternly. “I do not tolerate any threat to democracy. However I will not question the talents of a smart woman who is openly willing to do what must be done to ensure freedom. She must be given every affordance, including one to faith,”

And with that, Hunter watched as she removed a small comm device from a pocket hidden in her dress;

“Please clear my schedule for the next three rotations, and prepare for a departure from Coruscant for Naboo. I will be making a personal trip and require a few things be either rescheduled or cancelled.” She stated firm and concisely, keeping a steady gaze on Skywalker the entire time. 

“Right away, Senator,” A woman with a strikingly similar voice to Padmé’s answered. 

“Now. How much time do I have -exactly- before that transport leaves?” she asked, directing it to everyone and anyone in the room.

“Two rotations,” Hunter replied. 

“Can she be brought to me without the rest of your unit being alerted that something unusual is happening?”

Hunter tried to answer as helpfully as possible, “I can get her to you, but I don’t know how long she can be away without suspicion being raised. That is, high enough suspicion that I can’t come up with a good enough excuse,”

Padmé thought it over for a moment, “I can manage that easily,”

“We’re still in session over how to best get her to blend in,” Anakin interjected, sounding upset that his uncertainty wasn’t being listened to.

It was at that moment Hunter saw a glimpse of mischief glint in the Senator’s eyes. And it seemed that he wasn’t the only person to notice it either. A flicker of something dangerously coy and sly. A look he imagined other Senators were terrified of when on the opposing side of it. Patient and cunning, yet explosive and dangerous all at the same time. For a split second it looked like Crosshair when he finally had a target in sight and knew exactly how his shot was going to line up. Like watching the target fall before he had even pulled the trigger. The Sergeant definitively saw a small piece of what made Anakin Skywalker and Padmé such a very unique yet impeccably matched pair. She could match his tenacity and drive.

“Captain Rex, there is a brilliant strategy I plan to employ,” She spoke, grabbing Rex’s attention after not being spoke to for a long moment.

“Pardon me, Senator. I’m unaware of it, but I would love to learn,” The blonde answered, nearly falling out of his chair he was sitting so far out on the edge of it.

“The best way to blend in, is to not blend in at all.”

Hunter looked all around the room to gauge the expressions before deciding on how he felt personally. It wasn’t what he would have considered the first move.  Or even the second. After all most people needed some form of conformation to reassure others that they belonged within a group. The same reason that an outfit change on undercover missions was so very important when preparing. Hells, it was the whole reason the Senator was getting involved. But now that she had made up her mind, there was a question as to how far Padmé thought such a ruse could be stretched before it finally broke. Kenobi’s idea of her being implanted as a shadowed cornerstone of Separatist workings definitely couldn’t be backed up, let alone afforded if it came down to how many credits could be liquidated and given to Duchess in the mere case of emergency.

“How do you expect her to do that?” Hunter asked, still not decided on the idea.

Padmé smiled, “I saw her file. Rex sent it to me early this morning before we set up the meeting. I believe that the best way to avoid her becoming targeted for being different is to make sure that everyone in the galaknows she’s different. At least… for the time being. Besides, I’ve heard of her best traits is – well – how should I put this… feminine distraction. That, paired with her knowledge of the stolen goods in question, it would be almost too easy for her to simply be an ‘interested third-party’.”

Anakin pushed himself away from the wall, with his own surprise at figuring out her plan. 

“You want her to waltz right in and charm everyone into thinking she’s just a Separatist sympathizer who’s got enough credits and knowledge to buy a whole armory worth of who knows what?”

“Of course. Neutral territories and governments do that all the time,” Padmé sighed. “Pose her as what she truly is in her work. A private military weapons contractor. Only, no ties to the Republic or the Separatists. They would be extremely welcoming to new credits, valued knowledge, and a beautiful woman who can appear very sympathizing towards their cause,” She explained. 

Hunter looked to Rex who had caught on the back end of a very deep thought. One he came out of with a sense of understanding and a looking of plausibility that Hunter -despite his hesitation- couldn’t really disagree with. Sure, it sounded… A bit underdeveloped as a cover.  But no one would suspect Duchess. Just like they had left behind evidence of chain codes because of the niche audience that would understand them, no one at the gala could believe that Duchess was one member of that small group who would comprehend what exactly all the data and possible information sitting out in the open could mean. 

She could walk right in and be nothing but a guest. Sure, she could still bid on the weapons and secure them just like Kenobi wanted, but there didn’t need to be such a large ruse behind it all. No ties to Separatist government, no Republic ties either. No messy backstory or a need to explain herself more than a casual ‘I’m looking into my war-time business options’. She could be like everyone else there. Personally invested. Not politically. Essentially, Hunter knew Duchess could pull it off. All she would need to reinforce the story would be to know about the weapons being sold. And he was certain that all she would need was one good look at any of the stolen shipments and know down to the detail what they were, and how to play them to her benefit. 

It seemed that everyone in the room was looking at him. In limbo for his leadership of Duchess and in-lieu opinion. Four hours of discussion and it came down to the simplest of solutions. Let Duchess go in just as she was. No data trail, no identifications to forge, just have her appear out of nowhere and win over their trust. The Sergeant had witnessed her do it time and time again without being part of a mission. With an ease that he couldn’t imagine was easily learned. It was just in her nature. Like the Gods had crafted the talent just like the Kaminoian’s had manipulated his genes. Even the most concrete-minded man Hunter knew had fallen victim to her charm. Moreso than anyone really. If Duchess could do what she did to Crosshair with genuine character; There was no telling just how much the Separatists would love to have her on their side.

He steadied himself and shifted his forearms to his thighs with a nod, “I’m confident that will work. She’ll be the first person I talk to when we get back on base,”

Everyone seemed pleased to say the least. 

Padmé rubbed her hands down over her gown with thoughtful hum, “Sergeant, would you please have Duchess brought to me as soon as you can? I’ll send you with my private comm information so I can get at least a few minutes notice,”

Instant confusion hit him, “I thought we were sending her in… Like she is?”

The Senator laughed happily, walking over to rest a hand on his shoulder. “Hunter. You’re a brilliant man, I’m sure of it. But you must understand I’m not going to pass up such fun opportunity,” her grin brightened.

“Opportunity to do what?” he asked, looking up at the woman.

Not a hair out of place. Every inch of silk and satin material on her dress steamed and stitched perfectly. Padmé Amidala was truthfully the embodiment of perfection. Hunter just didn’t realize until then that it wasn’t only her personality that desired it, but her career that dictated just how often she could allow herself many of the freedoms she fought for in the Senate. Her image was one that needed to present itself as constant, trustworthy, professional. It wasn't until she spoke that Hunter realized that within her power, she had given up so much in the way of creativity and genius that he saw flowing abundantly in her.

“I’ve never had the opportunity to dress someone up like a villain.”

***

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@altered-delta

[tennessoui]

would you ever do a hunger games au? like anakin and obi-wan in the arena and doing a katniss and peeta thing where they both survive? anakin maybe killing the competitors so obi-wan wouldn't have to? (just thinking that child killing is in character for him) anyway no pressure or anything I just haven't stopped thinking about a hunger games au of obikin and. I thought maybe you could do something with it!

i need you to know i shamefully snorted at the child murder thing i'm sorry and i'm also sorry this took so long and it's a bit all over the place and doesn't actually get into the Games at all (+ it's been years since I read the books so all inaccuracies should be tastefully ignored pls) this may not be what you asked for tbh but here you go!!

(content warnings: hunger games typical discussion of child murder, but nothing graphic)

(1.7k)

Anakin’s first emotion after his name is called is a strange sense of relief.

Good, he thinks. I’ll get to go with Obi-Wan. He won’t be alone.

He dutifully steps forward out of the crowd towards the stage, where the announcer is waiting next to Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan who is looking at him with an expression of naked devastation.

Anakin tries to convey that it’ll be alright, that it’s fine, that they knew this was a possibility. Sure, it’s Anakin’s last year eligible to be in the Games. Sure his nineteenth birthday is in two weeks, at which point he would become too old to qualify as a child to the Capitol, but what’s done is done.

Obi-Wan will be his mentor, because Obi-Wan has been the mentor for District Four ever since he won his own Games seven years ago when he was sixteen and Anakin was twelve.

That year’s known unofficially as the most boring Games in Panem history, but the Capitol loves how handsome Obi-Wan’s grown to be. So what if he didn’t kill his competitors messily or with a bloodthirsty joy? He’s so polite in his interviews all these years later, and look at those dimples!

It makes Anakin sick, every time Obi-Wan has to leave District Four and travel to the Capitol to be fawned over and stroked and used. His nightmares are always worse the weeks after he gets back, and he never lets Anakin hold him during them.

And it’s even worse during the actual Games, when Obi-Wan is put in charge of two children’s lives only to see them brutally murdered on screen a week later. The cameras always show his reaction when the competitors from District Four die. They must think he cries pretty or something.

Anakin hates the Capitol. He hates them for what they’ve done to Obi-Wan. What they’ve made him into

As he gets close enough to the stage, he notices that Obi-Wan’s hands are shaking slightly.

He doesn’t even listen to the name of the girl being called. She’s not important. She’ll be dead in a few days time. What’s important is Obi-Wan. What’s important is comforting him, is reassuring him. Is coming back to him.

This is the moment when Anakin resolves that these Games will become known as the quickest in history.

---

The girl is understandably sullen and upset on the train. “I should get a different mentor!” she demands. “It’s obvious you’re going to play favorites with him.”

Anakin doesn’t snap back because she’ll be dead in a few days. Though she really shouldn’t use that tone with Obi-Wan.

“I’m not playing favorites,” Obi-Wan insists. “I don’t have favorites.”

“You literally just wiped sauce off his mouth with your finger,” the girl points out. “And then he licked it!”

Anakin smirks at her. Of course Obi-Wan has favorites. Of course Anakin is Obi-Wan’s favorite. It took him years to wear down Obi-Wan until he allowed him this close, and years after that until he finally got to kiss him for the first time, just a few months ago.

If she thinks he’s going to give up any of his Obi-Wan time so she can get her hopes up about not dying in a few days, she’s got another thing coming.

But Obi-Wan shifts away from him and he looks guilty.

If Anakin could get away with killing the other person from his district, he would. But it’d probably make Obi-Wan sad.

“Is whining part of your strategy?” he asks waspishly instead. “I don’t think it’ll make you many allies.”

She has the nerve to look offended.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan chides. Underneath the table, he squeezes his knee.

“Everyone in the district knows about you two,” she glares at him. “You haven’t exactly kept it a secret.”

Anakin hasn’t exactly tried to keep it a secret. The first night Obi-Wan had kissed him, he went straight home and told his mother, his neighbor, his schoolmates, his cat, and his ex-girlfriend.

(No one had been surprised, except maybe the cat.)

“It’s not fair,” she cries. “Who can I talk to to get a different mentor for me?”

“The ethics board,” Anakin smiles, all teeth, settling back into his seat and slinging an arm around Obi-Wan’s shoulders.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says again, this time more exasperatedly. “Robin, I promise I will be the best mentor you can ask for. It is my wish to see you survive as long as possible in the next few weeks.”

The girl jumps to her feet in outrage. “You can’t even say you want me to win!” she yells. There are tears at the corners of her eyes. If she were a little less annoying, Anakin would feel quite bad for her. Obviously Obi-Wan doesn’t want her to win. Anakin’s right here.

She storms out of the train compartment, her face in her hands. Anakin barely waits for the door to close before he’s slipping into Obi-Wan’s lap and throwing his arms around his neck with a groan. “God, I thought she’d never leave.”

He isn’t pushed away. Obi-Wan must realize they only have a handful of days left to be together before he goes into the arena.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says wearily, even as his arms encircle his waist.

Anakin presses a kiss to his nose and then another to his cheek. “It’s alright to have favorites, Obi-Wan,” he murmurs. “And she should know there’s no way she’s winning anything. Don’t waste your time.”

“I will do everything I can to make sure she survives as long as possible,” Obi-Wan repeats. “I don’t think I can survive anything else.”

Obi-Wan’s voice sounds shaky, so Anakin presses their lips together. Best not to talk for awhile.

------

“We should discuss strategy,” Obi-Wan says later that night through frantic kisses. “Sponsors, story, training--”

“I have a strategy,” Anakin murmurs back as he moves further down the bed, rucking up his partner’s shirt. “Win.”

----

“You look absolutely radiant,” Anakin tells the girl in an undertone while they’re in line for their interviews. She turns around to glare at him. The designer for their district has gone for the typical fish designs that people always associate with District Four, and they’ve dressed her up in a shimmering iridescent gown that flares at the ends like a fish’s tail.

Anakin’s own outfit is mostly a fishing net draped over one shoulder and a pair of tight pants. The designer, much to Obi-Wan’s embarrassment and Anakin’s satisfaction, had taken one look at his shirtless chest and decided to dress him in as little clothes as possible.

“Weird braid,” is all she says.

Obi-Wan had done it late last night when both of them had tired each other out and Anakin had curled up on his chest. After his Games, Obi-Wan’s hands like to do something. The repetitive motion of braiding and unbraiding Anakin’s hair soothes his demons.

It’s one of the reasons Anakin’s grown it out to his shoulders, much longer than is practical for his district.

Obi-Wan had gone to unbraid it, and Anakin had stopped him. He wanted to keep it. To wear it into the Games.

“Thank you,” he says generously. “I saw your score. 7’s not too bad.”

She sneers at him. “Did you celebrate your 11 with your boyfriend?”

“Oh sorry,” he winces. “Did you hear us? I’m just so bad at biting my tongue when he does this thing with his.”

She scoffs in disgust and turns back around. “I hope he has to watch you die.”

Anakin glares at her back. He knows he can’t kill her himself. But there has to be a way to hurt her and her chances and still have plausible deniability.

When it’s her turn for an interview, she’s vapid and pretty. She laughs and touches the interviewer’s arm.

“I’ve never spent much time in District Four,” the interviewer says jovially. “But tell me, really. Is everyone there as beautiful as the people you keep sending us? I mean. Obi-Wan Kenobi, ladies and gentlemen, am I right?” The audience laughs and hollers. Anakin hates them all. “And now you, Robin, and Anakin Skywalker. Damn!”

Robin--Anakin needs to stop forgetting her name--giggles high in her throat. “It was a very, very enjoyable train ride up,” she says with a stupid wiggle of her eyebrows. “Just this side of too long.”

The audience loses it.

Anakin loses it.

He can’t believe she’s sitting there publicly suggesting that Anakin shares Obi-Wan with anyone. With her. The nerve.

The camera pans to Obi-Wan in the crowd, who looks shocked, embarrassed, and deeply troubled.

Anakin won’t let this stand. He just hopes Obi-Wan forgives him.

The interviewer greets him excitedly when he walks out, and Anakin gives him a sheepish sort of smile.

“Lady killer Skywalker!” the interviewer says. Anakin laughs along with him. “All the girls back home must have been heartbroken to see you leave.”

“But I’ve heard they love watching me go,” he jokes with a charming smile. If that girl--Robin--can do it, he can do it much better. “There’s really only one person for me though,” he murmurs, letting his smile die.

“Oh?” The interviewer asks, leaning forward with interest.

“But sometimes I wonder if they’re only using me for my body,” he says, casting his eyes down. “I love them. Heart and soul, everything I am. But when I told them, they just laughed.”

This is technically true. The first time Anakin had told Obi-Wan that he was in love with him, the older boy had laughed his confession off, saying he was too young to know what he wanted.

“Oh, to be young and in love,” the interviewer sighs theatrically. “So your plan is to win the Games and then win her heart when you get back home?”

Anakin makes himself look sad. Tragically sad. Like he can’t bear to go on.

“They came with me,” he says.

If the audience’s reaction to Robin’s fake confession was huge, its reaction to Anakin’s words is even bigger. Of course they think he’s talking about the girl. That’s exactly what Anakin had wanted. Now he’s the broken-hearted boy and she’s the vapid, self-absorbed bitch. She'll have a hard time finding sponsors now.

It’s very, very hard to hide his smile, a task made exponentially more hard when he sees Obi-Wan bury his face in his hands.

“It’s alright,” Anakin tells the interviewer, without taking his eyes off of Obi-Wan. “I’ll survive.”

[nevertheless-moving]

Pop Star Wars AU: Waking

Drabble set in this au which I wrote way back a few weeks ago.

Back then, I had only recently decided to look up my tumblr password for a third attempt at being an appreciative fandom community member instead of just trying to think really hard at internet strangers, and maybe shout into the void a little. (But there’s like, several people here now??? How did you even find me on the internet? )

Anyway I have since learned how to spell Anakin’s name and insert links. Also that if you resize your window while typing directly into tumblr everything disappears.

Self Indulgent Crack Pop Star Wars Time Travel Fixit (star wars au no 3):

After several years of exile in the Jundland Wastes, Ben Kenobi had not quite finished mentally unpacking the decades of mistakes, grief, and failure that had led him to the desert. It was the work of a lifetime, and some days were harder than others. But after several forays in and out of alcoholism, spice addiction, and every other form of geographically-accessible self-destruction, he could at least say that some days were easier. 

The process was no doubt made more difficult by the abject solitude. Unlike the chaotic years that constituted the fall of the Republic, he had all too much time to think, and no one around to share his thoughts with. He closed his eyes in the dark of his hut, thoughts drifting between past and future. 

The past was as ugly and lovely as ever. The larger future didn’t look much better, but he could find some joy in the thought of tomorrow and fresh bantha milk when the herd roamed near. Owen was always much less begrudging of his presence when he came with an offering, and Beru would likely invite him to stay for noon meal where he would share in fresh cheese as Luke rambled about his plans to fix-up a junked speeder bike.

The thought of Luke’s happiness at the treat allowed him enough peace of mind to meditate more deeply.

He carefully broke off a piece of unfair-bitterness from his larger loving-grief. The bitterness he released into the force. The grief he turned over and soothed until its edges dissolved. He accepted it, now smoother if not smaller, laying it to rest alongside his hard-earned wisdom and unfinished poetry.

Tired, but fractionally lighter, Ben Kenobi drifted to sleep.

He opened his eyes to the first rays of daylight peeking in his temple chambers.

The room was intimately familiar. For a few years they were Ashoka’s, on the rare occasion she found herself temple-side and in want of privacy but not complete solitude. For a solid decade before her, the chambers were Anakin’s, though he was quick enough to accept the common room couch when Ashoka entered their life. And before that...they were his. That was his model rocket on the shelf, and his astronomical mobile hanging from the ceiling, and his robes scattered on the floor, though they hadn’t been arranged as such in this room since his apprenticeship with Qui-Gon. He sat up. 

Glad he had put energy into meditation last night, he used the lingering clarity of mind to try and work through possible explanations. 

Vivid Dream? No a quick pinch to his inner elbow debunked that, as well as the fact that the morning taste in his mouth was more the minty tang of denti-cleaner, rather than the saltiness of dried meat which he had grown accustomed to.

Hallucinogenic mushroom flashback? Possible, though it still wouldn’t explain the detail of physical sensations he felt, running his hand from the temple-spun linens on his bed to the warm-carved wood of his bedside table. He stood and did a perfect forward flip in place. Shockingly his knees didn’t ache at impact, but a drug induced hallucination of this intensity would have some sort of impact on his equilibrium, and he felt perfectly balanced, at least physically.

Force vision seemed most likely. Sinking into cross-legged meditation, he gradually lowered his mental shields. There was no whisper of Vader or Palpatine anywhere near Hutt space at this time, so the risk of reaching out was both manageable and necessary. Rather than the pure energy he personally associated with intense visions, he felt gradients of light, echoing ripples of emotions, and the unique solidity of force-imbued stone walls.

Heart beginning to race as reality set in, Ben concluded that he was, indeed, in the Jedi temple on Courascant. Even if he had suffered a complete psychotic break, his force sense couldn’t lie with such crystal clear detail. Confused unreality mixed with images of the past and future, sure. But this was the temple. It just was. 

He couldn’t make sense of it. Even if he had somehow been found, drugged, and transported to the heart of the empire, the rooms as he sensed them didn’t exist anymore. The contents were lost or burnt, the stone walls destroyed and rebuilt into a wing of the Imperial Palace.

Obi-Wan sank deeper into the force and reached out further, searching for he answers. In general, the force felt light, the shroud of the darkside was a hazy irritation in the distance, not a smothering blanket. The manifold wounds in the force formed by senseless war and destruction were absent. Also gone were the tang of grief and loss that he had begun to associate with the temple’s signature even before- even before the purge.

The temple was also full to the brim with tens of thousands of lights in the living force. He reached out to them incredulously, nudging many just to feel a living, sentient response. The last time he remembered feeling so many Jedi all in the temple at the same time was...well, when he still lived in this room. The nearest living force sensitive presence was achingly familiar, though notably and unquestioningly living. He could feel the presence moving nearer and retreated, pulling himself fully back into his body.

The only explanation that fit was that he had suddenly, miraculously, inexplicably traveled back in time. 

He half ran to his closet, opening the door with a yank to reveal a full length mirror. A once-familiar, 25-year old padawan stared back with visible shock. Of course his knees didn’t hurt, this body hadn’t yet been broken and abused by knighthood, war, and Tatooine. His hands examined the smooth chin, the unwrinkled forehead, and even the terrible, terrible haircut.

Obi-wan startled at a knock at his door, freezing in place. 

“Padawan?” Came Qui-Gon Jinn’s voice softly, “I don’t intend to pull you out of meditation prematurely, but is there a particular reason you were sprawling over the temple this morning? You startled me somewhat. To be perfectly honest, I think you might have alarmed a few people around the temple, I’ve already received messages from council telling me to reign in my padawan before he hurts himself.” 

Qui-Gon sounded more amused than reprimanding, and he paused, clearly waiting for an answer. 

Obi-Wan’s jaw locked up. What could he say? How could he even to begin to explain what had happened? He sank to floor, head pressed to the ground and tears silent streaming down his face. All he could do was offer to the force were words, the feelings could come later Thank you. Thank youThankyouthankyouTHANKYOU. 

For whatever reason, the force had granted him a second chance. Regardless if it was intended as punishment, gift, or inexplicable chance, he would build a better future than the one he left behind. 

“Padawan?” Qui-Gon knocked again, sounding concerned, “Are you alright? If you don’t answer I’m going to have to come in there.”

And all at once he had flipped back to not enough time to think and too many people needing his attention.

Obi-Wan managed to open his mouth to call out some meaningless assurance, intent on gaining more time to process the fantastical situation. Much to his surprise, what came out was a strangled, keening sob. Qui-Gon burst through the door. 

Obi-Wan realized, with a little embarrassment, that he was curled up practically into a ball on the floor, tears streaming in a shocking waste of water. It was probably not the most dignified, nor the most reassuring position for Qui-Gon to walk in on. 

Qui-Gon rushed to his side, pulling him up by the shoulders to frantically look him over. “What happened?” he demanded, “Are you hurt? Did something go wrong while you were meditating and you were trying to reach out for help?”

Obi-Wan smiled at the barrage of questions. He had almost forgotten that on the rare occasions when Qui-Gon’s perfect Jedi serenity broke, he became somewhat counterproductively intense. 

“I’m alright, Master,” he tried to say, but what came out was more of a croaking, “MNNrlerR.” 

This predictably, only increased Qui-Gon’s concern.

To Obi-Wan’s deep consternation, he was dragged by Qui-Gon to the healer’s wing. He remained quiet during the examination, not wanting to risk whatever was compromising his ability to speak. It could be readjusting to his younger body, or a manifestation of the admittedly great emotional shock he was still experiancing. Or simple lack of practice- it had been several weeks since he had last heard the sound of his own voice, from a certain point of view.

After finding no physical cause for concern, Master Vyr asked Qui-Gon to wait outside.

“Padawan Kenobi?” The Tortugan healer asked gently. “Your Master seems quite insistent that something is wrong. Would you like to discuss what the problem seems to be?”

Obi-Wan cleared his throat and was relieved when his voice came out smooth and under his control, “I’m alight, Master. I apologize for disruption. I experienced a... particularly strong vision when I woke up this morning, and temporarily lost control over myself. I’m already feeling more stable. I believe I simply need to meditate on what I’ve seen. My master unfortunately came in while I was dealing with some of the emotional aftermath.

“I see,” Vyr responded. “Did you experience this vision before or after your expansive foray into the force? I understand a surprising swath of the temple felt your presence press against them this morning.”

“I reached out after,” Obi-Wan admitted. “My vision was...particularly dark. I felt the need to ground myself with the presence of other Jedi. I’ll make certain to apologize to anyone I may have startled.”

Eventually he was cleared with the strict instruction to stick with shallow meditation for the next few days as well as a strong recommendation to seek out Master Yoda, Sifo-Dryfas, or one of the other Master known to experience visions. 

Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan walked back to their quarters together in a peaceful quiet. It wasn’t until the door clicked behind them that Qui-Gon rounded on his padawan.

“What vision could possibly have left you in such distress?”

Obi-Wan walked to the kitchenette to make tea, stalling before answering. “You have always told me to stay focused on the present, Master”

Qui-Gon frowned. “Yes, however this...vision seems to have altered you somehow. You are grieved by it.”

“Yes. But what I grieve may never come to pass.” 

It won’t come to pass. I might not know his every tool, but I do know Sideous’s biggest secret, and I WILL stop him.

“Will you not tell me what you saw?” Qui-Gon asked, sounding somewhat hurt.

Obi-Wan poured the hot water carefully, feeling torn. If he told Qui-Gon everything... would he believe him? Perhaps, eventually but...what would become of Anakin, still just a boy? And the moment he knew of Palpatine’s evil...he knew Qui-Gon. He would favor the direct approach, underestimating the sheer breadth of the trap the sith had laid (Obi-Wan himself lived through it and only began to understand long after it had closed).

“I saw...a great shadow fall over the republic.”

He sat at the table, relishing in the simple pleasure of pouring a cup for Qui-Gon and himself from a shared pot.

Qui-Gon cradled his mug in his hands. “I see. Nothing specific?”

“Your death. At the hands of a tool of darkness. You ran ahead...” Obi-Wan took a scorching sip to stop himself. “It was foolish. Unnecessary. And I was forced to fight alone without you.

Qui-Gon set the tea down to stroke his beard in thought. “Well. I have no great desire to die. While I make no promises, I will endeavor to avoid leaving you behind ‘unnecessarily.’”

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan replied, over sincere. 

They drank in peaceful silence. It was interrupted by a shrill noise from Qui-Gon’s comm.

“I’ve just received a personal request from the Chancellor to immediately assist in negotiations with a Trade Federation blockade around Naboo. Are you feeling up to it?”

“You know, I think I am”

[mqgriett]

Crosshair- It Won’t Stop

Prompt: “Hey, look at me. Focus on me alright?” and “I didn’t know where else to go” requested by @bluehumanknightzine !! Thank you so much for the requested

Pairings: Crosshair x Fem!Reader

Warnings: blood and being shot

Summary: Crosshair will never pass up on an opportunity to teach a shiny a lesson, so when someone insults Echo he has to take charge. It doesn’t always go as planned.

Notes: this is based off of @sorry-but-no-sorry ‘s art!! Please go check them out!!

79’s was basically deserted, mainly because it was pushing 0300 in the morning, but Crosshair couldn’t sleep. Not after what had happened earlier that night. 

Typically the callus sniper wasn’t easily pissed off. Odd looks and judgemental whispers from regs was something he was used to by now. He developed thick skin, learned to just enjoy a night of drinking with his brothers and let loose a little. He was used to the rude remarks, Echo wasn’t. 

None of the regs recognized him anymore, his robotic legs and the bolts screwed into his head along with his pale skin made him difficult to recognize. The normal clones would never intentionally bully the lost 501st member, but they would happily bully a bad batch member. 

Crosshair scanned the room for the 312th trooper, knowing he would still be here. Worst thing was, the trooper was a shiny, and he had only identified his battalion by association. 

Sure enough, he was still in the back booth, lips practically swallowing a young twi’lek dancer. He rolled his eyes, strutting over to the pair in the back. 

The shiny seemed to feel Cross’s icy presence, taking a break from his makeout with the dancer to move out of the booth. 

“Back so soon?” asked the trooper, crossing his small arms and jutting his chin out. 

The sniper of Clone Force 99 didn’t waste any time with small talk, he withdrew his fist and landed a punch to the jaw of the shinty. It was so strong that it even knocked the reg back, the only thing that was preventing him from falling to the ground was catching himself on the table. 

The clone rubbed his jaw, eyebrows arching to form a cold smirk on his face. “Lose a touch of common sense in your test tube? Eh, defect?” he grumbled. 

Crosshair didn’t reply and calmly pulled a toothpick from his pocket, sticking it in his mouth and allowing it to methodically roll from side to side. He prepared to charge, but what he didn’t expect was for the shiny to pick up his blaster and shoot him in the side of the stomach where his armor didn’t cover. 

Cross stumbled backwards, hand already gripping the underside of his stomach. 

The trooper had no clue what he had done, he had reacted out of pure instinct and hadn’t calculated the consequences when he fired. He froze momentarily, proceeding to toss the blaster to the side and sprint out of 79’s. 

Crosshair still couldn’t believe what had happened. Even as he started down at the crimson liquid beginning to stain his blacks, he refused that he had been shot. 

He couldn’t go back to the Marauder, he wouldn’t make it back alive. 

There was only one other person on Coruscant he knew he could get to before bleeding out. 

***

At first you thought it was a dream, when you heard the knock at your door. You rolled onto your opposite side, flipping the silk pillow to have the cold side press against your face. 

Another knock made its way to your bedroom. 

If there’s a third then I’ll get up,

Five seconds pass, and the third knock sounds weaker than the first two. 

Swinging your legs off the side of the bed, you reach for your housecoat and move a few pieces of hair out of your face. “Coming!” you shouted, voice a little groggy.

As you enter the living room, you catch a glance at the clock and see how late it is. 

The small droid in your room beeps in attention, it’s different colored panels lighting up. “It’s alright R4, I’ll see who it is.” 

R4 chirps in response, rolling to the kitchen and out of view. 

You opened the doors to your room, the cold chill of the hallway hitting your bare legs. Squinting, you could hardly make out the figure in front of you. “Crosshair?” You yawned, wrapping your robe around your torso. 

His words sounded difficult to push out, “I’m sorry.” He sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth, something falling and hitting your foot. 

“For waking me up?” you responded tiredly, reaching down to pick up whatever he dropped. 

As your hand touched the fallen toothpick, you found that something was dripping from his armor. At first you perceived it to be nothing but sweat; however, the putrid smell that met your nose told you otherwise. 

“R4 turn the lights on.” You said sternly, within milliseconds you could fully see him standing in front of you. 

“Shit.” You mumbled, finally seeing the huge gash in his stomach. 

His entire face was pale and he was obviously nauseous, yet he still refused to let you help him onto the couch. He stumbled his way to the sofa, collapsing once he got there. Every movement that Cross produced was followed by a muffled groan or wince.

You crouched down next to him, starting at ripping all of his armor off while calling out to your droid, “R4, get me the emergency bag.” 

Your hands tore the soiled fabric away from his torso, leaving him with nothing but a sad excuse of a shirt and his pants. “Dank Farrik, Cross.” You said out of pure frustration, seeing just how bad the wound was. 

His head lulled to the side, a small stream of tears falling down the side of his face as his eyes closed. 

“Crosshair, no.” You reached up and pinched his chin, jerking his head to face you. It woke him up, “hey, look at me. Focus on me alright? I need you to tell me what happened.” You were no medic, but every senator was required to know basic medical skills. 

“79’s,” he began as R4 handed you a bottle of alcohol, Cross winced as you poured it onto the gash and shifted uncomfortably, “shiny made-“ he groaned loudly, “- shiny made fun of echo.” His brother’s name was clouded by his shaky breathing as you poured more alcohol. 

“What’d he say?” 

You placed a clean rag on top of his wound, cleaning around it as he tried to continue, “Went back and he shot me.” He ignored your previous question, not wanting to say it out loud. 

“This is going to hurt, but you need to stay still.” You commanded, the threaded needle lingering over the exposed and seared skin. 

Without looking up, you heard him speak again, “what’s happening?” 

“You’re bleeding out.” You sighed, “I need to give you stitches.” 

“No, this,” he wiped his face with his bare hand, examining the clear liquid dripping down his palm. 

“You’re crying, you got shot.” 

He shook his head and tried to sit up, “no, what is happening? This isn’t possible.” He wiped his face again, over and over. “It won’t stop,” he sobbed, “why won’t it stop?” 

You wanted to console him, but you had to get this gash closed. You stuck the needle through his skin, and it was almost like he didn’t feel it due to how preoccupied he was with the fact that he was crying. 

Cutting the thread with your teeth, you handed the needle back to R4 and placed a strip of bacta over his wound. “R4 comm Tech. Tell him to come down here immed-“

“No!” Cross jumped, “he can’t see me like this.” 

You placed your hand on his knee, “he’s seen you hurt thousands of times.” 

He pointed to his face, “Like this.”

His eyes and cheeks were stained red from crying. Blood was dried in his hair and it stained all of his body. You knew how embarrassed he felt because he understood how helpless and weak he looked in the moment.  

You calmed your tone, not wanting him to jump again and possibly burst the stitches, “R4, comm Tech that Crosshair drunkenly stumbled to my quarters in the senate building and is now sleeping on my couch.” 

Beeping in approval, your small Astro droid excused himself to your room to fulfill his duties. 

Your hands would most definitely be tinted red tomorrow morning, rather this morning, at your meeting with Bail Organa. 

Wiping your forehead, you stood back up to inspect the damage that had been done. 

Your white couch was now a lovely red tie-dye, as was your white nightgown. 

Crosshair refused to look at you, “I didn’t know where else to go.” 

“I’m glad you came here.” You ran your hand up and down his thigh, just as a gentle touch to remind him that you were still there. 

“I need a shower.” he mumbled. That was his way of asking you to help him get cleaned up. 

Carefully, you helped him to the refresher. Your back was turned to him as you drew a bath, wanting to give him as much privacy as possible as he undressed. You poured a small amount of salts in the water, to help rid his body of any bacteria that had already begun to settle in his wound. He rejected your offer to help him into the bathtub, his ego not allowing him to accept. 

You sat behind the marble tub, just so you could see the back of him. Placing your hand on his forehead, you gently pulled his head back and poured water over hair. His dusty green eyes fluttered shut each time you did this, his shoulders finally relaxing. 

Once his hair was rid of blood, you moved onto his face. You wetened a clean cloth, and benevolently wiped it under his eyes and neck. He sighed heavily, “he called him a deficient defect.” His jaw clenched under your grip. 

You froze momentarily, feeling your own anger bubble up at the thought of Echo having to hear that. Echo had always been tough, but you knew that that probably hurt him. If it didn’t, Cross wouldn’t have gone back at 0300 to teach the shiny a lesson. 

After wiping the final strip of blood off of him, you turned your head and helped Crosshair up. He wrapped a towel around his waist, flinching as it touched the wound. Luckily the medicated bandage on top of it kept it numb, making it easier for him to do things on his own. 

It wasn’t unusual for the bad batch to randomly stop by whenever they were on Coruscant. When General Kenobi would ask for their aide in a mission they often needed to wait a few nights for approval from the council. This usually led to all five of them sleeping in your bed with you. In the morning Hunter and Tech were frequently found on the floor though. 

You set a fresh set of black pajamas on the edge of your bed for Crosshair, leaving him in your as you went to choose a new nightgown from your closet. You chose the same sleepwear you had on now, just in black and not covered in blood. 

It felt immaculate to shower, and with enough scrubbing all of the blood successfully left your hands. 

Crosshair had already situated himself on your bed, flicking through the holodramas you had recorded. You wrung the excess water from your hair, tossing the dirty nightgown into the trash can and doing the same with the towel once you were finished. 

Once you were comfortable, Crosshair turned his head towards you while his eyes were still fixated on the holo. “What’s the one you, Tech, and Wrecker watch?” 

You raised an eyebrow, “I thought you said it was annoying.” 

He didn’t answer, facing his head back towards the colorful projection. 

“Ails of Alderaan.” you smiled, pointing to the title he was about to skip. 

Despite his lack of core strength in the moment, he still managed to pull the blanket underneath you to get you closer to him. He gently pressed his head on your shoulder, gingerly touching at your fingers before intertwining them with his own. “Don’t tell the boys, please.” 

Crosshair wouldn’t care if you told them he was shot, he was referring to the fact that he cried earlier. 

You moved your head to the side and kissed his temple, “I won’t.”

[levitatingbiscuits]

How would Anakin and the others react if they ever found out the truth about OB-1?

Kenobi was a cockroach. A thorn in Sidious’s side that never fell out no matter how many deadly missions the kindly old chancellor personally requested that he take. One might think that the exhaustion would make him sloppy, if nothing else, but Kenobi handled everything Sidious threw at him with a dogged determination and competence that seemed beaten into his DNA. At times he acted more like a droid programmed to be the perfect Jedi than a real, flawed sentient; obedient and selfless to a fault, utterly unwilling to advocate for himself but frustratingly eager to advocate for others. His Force signature never wavered, never fell out of balance no matter how Sidious stacked the scales. 

Surely Kenobi must have some weakness, a psychological hangup to exploit or some emotional scar to rip back open. Sidious hired someone to slice into his Temple records, then hired a bounty hunter to take care of the slicer.

What he found was intriguing, but frustratingly incomplete. Wide swaths of the record from his time as a padawan were vague to nonexistent. There was nothing indicating why Jinn had taken him on in the first place, nor why he hadn’t returned to Coruscant at all for the first few years of his apprenticeship.

Sidious knew how to hide things. It made him very good at sniffing out others’ secrets.

Weeks of snooping eventually led to Halle Burtoni, the senator from Kamino, who told him the delicious truth of the matter without even having to be bribed or threatened for it. She was eager to brag; the Jedi clone was Kamino’s most successful product.

And so Sidious kept the truth to himself, waiting for the most opportune moment to twist it to his will.

-

Rex shares an eye roll with Cody when Skywalker steps out of the command tent to take a “very important comm message.” It’s either the chancellor or Senator Amidala; Skywalker never answers that quickly for anyone else.

General Kenobi stands hunched over the holotable, projecting the terrain where the newest Seppie stronghold is. The locals are, as usual, worse than useless when it comes to defending their own planet, so Kenobi’s brow is already pinched even though they haven’t yet seen combat.

Rex is never sure how to help his oldest brother when he gets like this. With any other brother he would; ages hardly mattered among the rest of the vode, but Kenobi holds both seniority and authority over the rest of them. He takes his role as ori’vod, as their protector and leader, seriously, even though most of the GAR don’t realize the meaning behind it. 

Rex can’t understand it. His brothers are the most important thing in the galaxy to him, but Kenobi gets all of the responsibility with none of the brotherhood. He’ll respect his wishes to keep it quiet, all the same.

Skywalker comes storming back into the tent, scowl thunderous and saber ignited, and Rex jumps to attention--has there been an attack? 

“Anakin?” the general asks, straightening up. “What’s--”

And then Skywalker levels the saber at a startled General Kenobi.

Cody’s hand is immediately on his blaster, but he doesn’t draw. Rex doesn’t either. He has no idea what to do.

“What in the Force’s name has possessed you now? Were you eating strange bugs again?” Kenobi demands irately. He makes no move to draw his own saber. His trust in Skywalker is, even in this situation, absolute.

“Shut up,” Skywalker snarls. “Captain, Commander, restrain this man.”

“General Skywalker, I cannot allow you to do this,” Cody snaps, shoulders tense with anger.

“He’s an impostor!” Skywalker yells. “A clone!”

Rex’s stomach sinks like a tubie learning to swim. If Skywalker hadn’t known Kenobi was a clone beforehand--if nobody had realized but him--

“He replaced Obi-Wan for kriff knows how long, and no one noticed!” Behind the mask of rage, Skywalker’s eyes are frightened. “I didn’t notice!”

Rex had. Rex had noticed almost as soon as the damn war started.

Cody, who doesn’t know that it was the clone who had earned his loyalty instead of the natborn, jumps to cuff him after that. Kenobi doesn’t struggle. Rex starts to help a few seconds later, mind a screaming void of panic and guilt, and his heart clenches when Kenobi cuts him a concerned, questioning glance.

This may be a Seppie spy, may be an enemy that Rex helped, but he’s still acting like a brother.

“I suppose I always knew it would come out eventually,” Kenobi says once he’s chained to the center tent pole. He doesn’t sound mocking or angry or even worried. He sounds resigned.

“Drop the act,” Skywalker orders. “You’re not Obi-Wan, stop pretending to be him.” He looks deeply unsettled. Rex has only ever known the clone Kenobi, but Skywalker must have grown up with the original. 

Kenobi meets his eyes steadily. “This is what I was made for. I’ve always been him.”

“I don’t care what the Separatists told you, you are not him,” Skywalker says. 

For the first time, Kenobi looks surprised. “The Separatists? I wasn’t commissioned by the Separatists, that’s ridiculous.”

Skywalker is incensed, but Cody looks ashen. This must be overwhelming for someone who thought Kenobi was a natborn until a minute ago. There’s also the sobering implications of a third party with the power to dispose of, and replace, a Jedi Master, without anyone noticing. How many more Jedi could be plants?

Surprisingly, it’s Kenobi who breaks the silence. “I understand your... reservations, but this frankly seems like an overreaction. We are in the middle of a campaign, Anakin--”

Skywalker backhands him across the face. The loud crack that reverberates through the tent tells Rex that it’s with the metal one.

“Shut up, meat droid!” Skywalker roars. Rex feels sick and hot hearing that term from his general. “You aren’t him, so stop acting like it.”

Kenobi breathes deeply through his nose for a second. His lip is split. “I understand that my discovery means that I will be decommissioned, as per contract, but I must advise that doing so in the middle of a war is a waste of resources.”

It is very, very strange to hear High General Kenobi talk about being decommissioned so frankly. Every other clone is terrified of being decommissioned, of being recycled into raw organic matter for more clones to be grown from, like natborns are of death. Kenobi talks like he’s always known it would happen eventually.

“You are vastly overestimating your own importance, clone,” Skywalker says, and Rex has to fight not to flinch at the anguish that darts across Kenobi’s face. “Tell me where Obi-Wan is.”

“Dead,” Kenobi says, the word as loud as a detonation. “He’s been dead for years.”

Skywalker stumbles back. “No,” he says, voice trembling. “No, I would have known. I would have felt it.”

“How could you have felt it?” Kenobi pleads, “Anakin, you have me.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

-

The interrogations continue for days. The men are confused and restless, the campaign indefinitely put on hold. The 212th are especially restless, having gone days without word from their general. Even Cody drifts aimlessly around the camp without saying much to anyone. Rex thinks he’s mourning, but doesn’t know how to tell him that he probably never even met the prime version of his general without getting decommissioned himself for not reporting General Kenobi’s clone status sooner. 

Rex and Skywalker are the only ones who go into the command tent, now. Rex technically isn’t supposed to, but Skywalker definitely isn’t following POW protocol and Kenobi won’t be able to answer any questions if he doesn’t at least get water.

Rex goes there now, once it’s past dark and Skywalker is holed up in his own tent. The 501st clones guarding the tent look just as conflicted as he feels; he doesn’t envy them for having to listen to the interrogations. Not many of the men know who’s in there, because if too many of the 212th find out there will be a real risk of widespread mutiny. Hell, learning that their general is a clone would just make them more loyal, not less.

Kenobi’s face is so bruised, beaten, and bloodied that it’s almost unrecognizable. He thinks that’s probably why Skywalker did it in the first place.

Rex kneels next to the tent pole to help Kenobi sip from a canteen, and is shamefully relieved that he doesn’t bother opening either black eye. His hands are still bound behind his back; it looks like Skywalker’s broken a few of his fingers. From the way he winces when Rex touches him, he’s probably broken more than just that.

“Sir, you have to answer his questions,” Rex whispers, both to avoid being overheard and to keep his voice from wavering. “I... I’m worried Skywalker is going to kill you.”

“Oh, he definitely will,” Kenobi rasps once he’s chugged the whole bottle. His chuckle is wry and forced. “No use denying the inevitable.”

“Why can’t you tell us who commissioned you? Are they a threat to the Republic?”

“No, he was just as loyal as you or I,” General Kenobi says. That’s all he’s said to Skywalker for the past few days: I am loyal to the Republic. He learned pretty quick that saying anything else that wasn’t an answer to a direct question wouldn’t end well. “And even if he weren’t, he’s long dead.”

“As long dead as your prime?”

“No,” Kenobi says, beaten face unreadable but body tense, “Not quite so long as that.”

Rex scrubs a hand over his shorn head in frustration. “Why are you protecting him, if he’s dead? You’re the only one who will be hurt if you refuse to talk.”

“Because Anakin would be hurt,” Kenobi says softly. “Anakin worships him. Loves him far more than he loved me, if he ever truly did.”

Rex wants to refute that. Anyone who’s seen them interact before this fiasco would know just how deeply Skywalker respects and trusts his master, but...

All those feelings are for the prime. They are not for the clone that took his place, so fully and flawlessly that even the man who loved him best never noticed. 

“So Skywalker knew him?” Rex probes. The general’s silver tongue is looser than normal today.

“I doubt anyone truly knew him but me. No one ever suspected... no one cared enough,” Kenobi murmurs, head slumping to the side. Rex puts a gentle palm on the least bloody part of his forehead, and hisses when he finds it hot.

“Kriff, you’re burning up, vod. You need a medic.”

Kenobi doesn’t respond. He might be unconscious.

Rex sits in a dark tent with a cloned Jedi, a brother, who might be dying right beside him, and makes a choice.

The comm takes a while to connect (come to think of it, Rex has no idea what time it is in the senate district on Coruscant) but then there’s Fox, looking sleep deprived and livid, as always.

“CT-7567? What the hell is going on with the Open Circle fleet? You haven’t contacted the Order in a week, the senate thinks you’re either dead or MIA.”

“Vod, you have to help me,” Rex begs, surprising Fox into silence. “Contact the council. Tell them Skywalker is killing General Kenobi.”

[wanderinginksplot]

Rex + Engineer!Reader

This is the prequel to the Rex + Blanket Fort + Kisses one-shot found here on my masterlist. As this is a prequel to that story, you don't need to have read it for this to make sense. And as you could probably tell from the picture, this takes place during the Onderon arc.

Rex x gn!reader: intended to be early romance, but could be read as platonic.

Word Count: a bit more than 3,400

Warnings: canon-typical violence, including spoilers for the Onderon arc (S 5, E 2-5) of Star Wars: The Clone Wars

---

"And Captain Rex will train everyone in the encampment on basic combat skills and maneuvers," General Skywalker announced.

You didn't pay overly much attention to that. The general was younger than you had anticipated, but he was clearly used to combat and had the kind of authority usually honed through commanding large groups of soldiers. Still, you knew his order didn't apply to you and moved to slip away from the area. Your schematics needed a lot more work before the rebels could attack without bringing buildings down.

"And where are you running off to?" a muscular man with light hair asked, stepping into your path.

You gave a tight smile. "Classified, sorry."

The man nodded toward the general. "General Skywalker says everyone needs combat training."

"Oh, not me," you reassured him. "I'm a contracted engineer, not one of the Rebels. I'm just here to make sure they destroy as little of the infrastructure as possible while they take back control."

"And do you live in the encampment?" he asked.

You narrowed your eyes at him, feeling sure this was a trap. Eventually, you gave a short nod.

"Then you'll be training with me," he said firmly. "Captain Rex, 501st Legion."

You reluctantly shook the hand he offered and introduced yourself, finishing with, "-but I'm strictly an engineer."

"We're worried that this isn't likely to end without one or several attacks on this encampment," the captain told you. "A few hours of training could save your life."

"And a few hours of work on the city's schematics could save the lives of countless civilians," you argued. Sending that he would continue trying to convince you, you shook your head. "The Gerrera siblings are the ones who hired me. I'll let them make the final choice."

"And I'll leave it to the Generals," Captain Rex agreed.

Clearly not taking chances, he marched off toward where Steela Gerrera and Lux Bonteri were talking with Generals Skywalker and Kenobi, as well as a Togrutan female you vaguely remembered as being a commander.

"Generals, Commander," Captain Rex greeted with a crisp salute. You rolled your eyes. Soldiers. "We were hoping you could settle a difference of opinion."

"A difference of opinion?" General Kenobi repeated with a frown.

"What opinion would that be, Rex?" General Skywalker asked.

The captain explained the situation while you stood in silence. Steela met your gaze at several points during the conversation, looking concerned each time.

"We're only here to train the rebels," General Skywalker said after Captain Rex had finished talking. "Not anyone else."

"All of us are rebels," Steela argued, ignoring your signals that you didn't want training at all. "Just by being here in opposition to the Separatist forces, we are all considered a threat to their power."

"A contracted employee is different than someone who joined your cause because they believe in it," the commander countered, wrinkling her nose. "We aren't offering training to mercenaries."

"We're talking about an engineer, not someone hired to perform assassinations," Lux contributed. "What could it hurt?"

"Generals, Commander," Rex said, his quiet voice somehow drawing their attention. "I think every member of the rebel group needs to be trained. I think it's important."

"Rex…" General Kenobi sighed, but Skywalker interrupted before he could expand on his thoughts.

"I trust Rex's instincts," he told the older general. "If he thinks everyone needs to be trained, we'll make it happen."

You made a frustrated noise before you could stop yourself. "I don't need training. I'm an engineer. I don't work in combat situations."

"That's the thing about combat," Skywalker said with a shrug. "You don't always have to look for it. Sometimes, it comes to you. Especially in wartime."

The group split up immediately afterward, seemingly having come to an agreement. You followed Steela, determined to make your case and get back to your schematics.

"Steela, you know I'm not here for fighting," you said, jogging to catch up to the young woman who had hired you. "It isn't part of my contract."

"It isn't, you're right," she agreed. "But I would think carefully before I turned down a chance to learn such a valuable skill considering how dangerous the galaxy is right now. Surely this could be helpful as a freelancer traveling the universe alone?"

You didn't have an immediate answer to that. Steela clearly noticed, nodding solemnly at you before turning away. "The choice is yours to make."

You gritted your teeth, but your feet refused to move from the spot. To your left was the strategic tent and your unfinished set of schematics. To the right, the Jedi were helping the rebels set up some kind of training ring.

"Well?" a voice prompted. You already recognized it as belonging to Rex.

You stood still for a beat longer before giving a loud and heartfelt groan as you turned toward the freshly constructed training ring.

---

You were bad at fighting.

It wasn't really a shock to you. You had never been particularly graceful or good on your feet. That was why engineering had been such a draw - all mental work, almost no physical.

Rex, to his credit, turned out to be a surprisingly good teacher. He had kept everyone basically together as they learned new skills and practiced as a group. Still, he was determined that you would learn to defend yourself and here you were, fighting to shoot targets in the dying light, long after everyone else had scattered.

"I'm sorry," you apologized yet again as you missed. You were half an hour into intensive shooting lessons with Rex and you had yet to hit a single target.

"You don't need to apologize," he assured. "We'll just keep working until you get it down."

"I don't know if I can," you admitted, lowering the heavily modified blaster pistol until it was resting on the table in front of you. "We're losing the light and it's a bad idea to illuminate any more of the jungle than we have to."

"That's true," Rex agreed, rubbing at his neck while he studied the unharmed target. After a moment, he took the blaster pistol from your hands and holstered it at his side, then removed the holster belt as well.

You nodded sympathetically, hoping you could call it a night and put in a few hours of work on your schematics so the day wouldn't be a total waste.

Rex sighed, removing the subtly armored jacket he had been wearing during that day's training. "I guess we'll… we'll just have to switch to something less impacted by visibility."

"Wait, what?" you had time to ask before the stoic captain flat-out tackled you.

You were aware enough to know that Captain Rex had twisted to take part of the impact himself, but you still hit the ground hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. In that moment of hollow gasping, Rex had pushed you onto your stomach and pinned your hands behind your back.

"The first rule of unarmed conflict is that you can't let anyone surprise you." Rex paused for a moment. "Actually, that's the first rule of any kind of conflict."

"Is the second rule that you shouldn't suffocate your sparring partner?" you croaked out, turning your head slightly so your face wasn't actively being pressed into the dirt anymore.

Rex laughed. It was the first time you had heard anything other than firm orders from him and you paused. It was a nice laugh. You were forced to gather your thoughts a moment later as he released you and helped you to your feet.

"You probably won't see a lot of hand-to-hand fighting with droids, but the armies aren't capable of anything beyond following orders. The armies are commanded by sentients, and those sentients are often closer to the armies than you would think."

"I have no intention of going after Grievous without a weapon," you joked. "Preferably more than one."

"You should stay away from Grievous no matter how many weapons you have," Rex advised. "But this is good to know, anyway."

"Actually, I agree with that," you said, surprising you both. "I'm a freelancer. Anything that helps me defend myself in a potentially hostile situation is a good thing."

"Okay, let's work on your hits, then," Rex suggested.

What followed was two full hours of unarmed combat practice. Rex was always the target, letting you throw punches and kicks against his open palms. When he realized that you were pulling your strikes because you were afraid to hurt him, he found a padded guard among the assortment of equipment the Republic had sent along.

Eventually, though, you were panting and bone-tired. Rex seemed to realize that without you saying anything.

"One last set of strikes and you're done for the night," Rex told you. It was the most beautiful thing anyone had ever said to you.

But as you punched, Rex moved the guard you had been aiming for. You shot him a look, but he only held the guard up, wiggling it slightly. You set up again, but Rex pulled away at the last second, dodging your fist to bop you on the shoulder with the guard.

"What are you doing?" you asked, exasperated. "You said this was the last set."

"It is. Or, it will be as soon as you actually manage to make contact."

You grimaced at him. This time, when he twisted the guard away, you turned with it. You were focused on keeping your footwork correct and your hit strong. You never even saw him move his foot between your ankles, but with a light tug, you were on the ground again.

"Seriously?" you asked from your spot in the dirt.

Rex laughed again, and this time, you didn't enjoy the sound at all. "Do you think your opponents are going to stand there and let you hit them? They're going to fight dirty - they always do. You just need to-"

As it happens, you never did learn what you needed to do. Rex had stepped too close, and your engineering experience told you that his ankles were at an angle that made him vulnerable to a hit. You kicked his ankle lightly, barely making contact, but it was enough to send one of his feet careening against the other. Rex stumbled, failed to regain his balance, and fell.

All of this was done on instinct and you felt as surprised as Rex looked when he landed on his butt in the dirt next to you.

"Good job," he said, breathless but sincere.

"Thanks," you accepted with a grin. "Does that mean I surprised you?"

"Not a bit," he denied, deflating your ego a bit. "I knew you were capable of it. You're an engineer. Engineers like angles and math. That's all combat is, adjusted for whatever you think the other side is going to do."

"Wait, that's… that's a really good point," you mused slowly. "Can I see your pistol again?"

Rex didn't move. "If you shoot me, you'll surprise me in the wrong way."

You snorted. "I'm not planning on shooting you, Captain. I just want to test how the application of math might help me."

After eyeing you for a moment, Rex stood in an enviably graceful motion and hauled you to your feet as well. Wordlessly, he handed you one of his blaster pistols. He had warned you before you began shooting that he had made numerous alterations to them, but you were still surprised by the weight of the weapon in your hand.

This time, instead of relying on instinct - point, aim, shoot - you worked to apply some logic. When you were sure about your angle, you squeezed the hyper-sensitive trigger and watched the resulting beam of weaponized light hit the target.

It wasn't a perfect shot, of course. Math couldn't fix everything. Still, you had hit the target and you cheered aloud, echoed by Rex's congratulations behind you. You had the presence of mind to set the pistol down before you turned, then Rex was grasping your forearm in the odd way warriors shook hands.

"Great job!" he told you warmly. "You're getting better."

"Thanks," you accepted, trying to vocalize your gratitude. You probably could have been offended by the tone of surprise in his voice, but you chose to overlook it.

"Now we just have to dial in your aim and get you comfortable with firing at moving targets, especially during chaotic situations."

Despite your best efforts, you felt your expression fall at that. Rex laughed again. When had he gotten so cheerful? "I'm kidding. That can be done tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" you repeated doubtfully.

Rex folded his arms across his chest and stared at you steadily. "In one session, you've gone from unable to shoot a gun or throw a punch to knocking me down and hitting a target. If you can keep that pace of improvement, you'll be a force to be reckoned with."

"Or at least be able to stop clients who try to cop a feel," you added.

Despite his darkening expression, Rex's tone was unconcerned. "I'm sure you could break the hand of any di'kut dumb enough to try it now. With some training, you'd be able to tear that hand off completely."

And so you continued to train with Rex after everyone else had finished learning to disable tanks and other intense activities. During the day, you finalized schematics, studying holoimages of Onderon’s capital city of Iziz. Your goal was to record your best guesses for the most and least structurally-sound sections of the city.

The dedication the rebels showed for the safety of the Onderonian people was a big reason you had agreed to take this job. Despite what the Jedi seemed to think, you weren't actually a mercenary. You chose your jobs very carefully, and if something didn't match your morals, you would respectfully decline.

Between schematic work in the day and training at night, your time with the rebels flew past. Captain Rex continued to be patient and helpful as you worked to master the combat moves he taught you - ones decidedly more focused on self-defense than the moves he taught the rebels. The first day you had beaten him in a grappling situation, he had beamed up at you with dirt on his face and told you how far you had progressed. The squeezing of your heart at the praise warned that it was probably good that the captain and both Jedi generals were withdrawing from Onderon shortly, leaving Commander Tano to assist with the remaining rebel efforts.

Despite your determination to stay out of the conflict, you had eventually been forced into it when the Separatist armies had attacked the rebel base. One of the rebels you had known by appearance if not by name had been hit by blaster fire before he could use the rocket launcher held in his hands. He had held it up to you, begging with his eyes that you take out the ship that had fired on him before it could do more damage.

You had accepted, and the ship was a roiling ball of flame before you could make yourself nervous about shooting anything other than Rex’s now-familiar blasters. You tossed aside the rocket launcher and found a discarded blaster. From that point until the combat had ended, thoughts of schematics or building solidity were gone from your head. You were as much a part of the rebel group as anyone else, and you watched with the same horror as Steela Gerrera fell to her death, despite the best efforts of Commander Tano.

The funeral was lovely. Onderonians didn’t believe in mourning for their dead. Instead, they truly celebrated all that the departed had done to create a better society… and Steela had done a great deal.

When things had ended, you were sitting on a raised set of stairs overlooking the ceremonial area. The dais holding Steela’s cloth-draped casket was filled with people far too important for you to bother. You were glad to see Saw speaking with King Dendup. After he had handed you the agreed-upon payment for your services - despite your many attempts to refuse the credits - Saw had left, ignoring the sympathy you tried to offer. He needed to speak with someone, and if that someone was the man he and Steela had worked so hard to save, so much the better.

“Nice ceremony, huh?” someone asked from behind you, and you twisted a bit to find General Skywalker standing there with Captain Rex beside him.

You nodded, but you could feel that it was a half-hearted motion. “Steela was so young. She had a lot of promise.”

“She died fulfilling the mission she set out to finish,” Captain Rex countered. “She knew the risks and thought Dendup was worth it. Her choices were her own. All we can do is respect them.”

With a joyless smile, you said, “Doesn’t make it any easier.”

“It never does,” General Skywalker admitted, sitting next to you. Rex’s comlink chimed and he stepped a respectful distance away before answering it.

Skywalker sat beside you in silence for a while. Normally, you would speak first just for sake of politeness, but you weren’t feeling that generous. You let the silence linger while you watched the activity on the dais.

“Have you ever thought about using your talents for the Republic?” the general asked eventually.

“I thought I was a soulless mercenary?” you asked before you could think better of it.

“And I thought you didn’t work in combat situations,” Skywalker countered. “But I’ve seen the battlefield recordings. You handled yourself well.”

You glanced over at him in surprise. “Are you trying to contract me on as a soldier?”

“Force, no,” he denied quickly. “As an engineer. I sent samples of your work to a friend of mine who works as an engineer in the private sector and they were impressed. The GAR is struggling to find good engineers comfortable working in combat. The pay is a bit lower than you’re used to, but it’s steady work.”

Ah, he had cut straight to the heart of your problem with freelancing. The fight to survive between jobs meant that anything extra you were making was eaten up by the time you were hired on again. And your morals meant that jobs weren’t nearly as frequent as you would like them to be. But being in constant combat… Yes, you had survived this time, but that didn’t mean you were rushing to repeat the experience.

You grimaced. “I appreciate the offer, really, but I don’t know if it’s for me. Combat engineering isn’t really my specialty.”

“I think you’re selling yourself short,” General Skywalker told you seriously. “I’ve seen samples of your past work, and a lot of it is on worlds that have a lot of fighting. I’m sure you know that none of your structures have sustained extreme damage, no matter how much combat was happening around them. That’s an impressive record.”

“You researched me?” you asked, feeling a little stunned.

“Well, the Republic likes to know who they’re hiring. But honestly, I’m not the one who did the research,” Skywalker said, looking past you. You followed his gaze to Rex, who was suddenly very intently looking at his comlink. With a mischievous grin, the general added, “I think my captain has taken a liking to you.”

You fought back a grin, turning away from the captain, and your eyes fell on Steela’s casket once more. Suddenly, keeping a straight face wasn’t as much of a struggle. “If I said yes, what would my official job duties be?”

“You would oversee a group of construction experts - both civilian and enlisted - using maps and satellite footage to find the best possible choices for locations to build bases, bridges, or other structures to help us complete campaigns,” he answered easily. “Preferably, to win campaigns, but that’s more on us than you.”

“And would I work with your group?”

“The 501st?” Skywalker asked, sounding surprised. “I’m not sure, but probably. We’re a planetary landing battalion, so we always need someone who has the knowledge of places to build. You might have to stay behind on some planets to supervise base construction, but you could always catch back up with us. Is that something you would want?”

“Yes,” you said firmly. “If I did agree to that-”

“I’m no good at negotiations,” he interrupted with a self-deprecating smile. “You speak clearly about what you want and I’ll do what I can.”

“I’ll work for the Republic,” you said, feeling the nerves twist in your belly. “If you can make sure I’m permanently attached to the 501st.”

“Deal,” General Skywalker accepted immediately, holding his hand out for you to shake. “Welcome to the 501st.”

---

A/N - I assure you that there is no timeline of any sort happening in my writing, so don't think too hard about where this should fit into the narrative. It won't end well.

Thanks for reading!

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[the-yellow-saber-legends]

What is Lost is Forgotten

Chapter 3 - The Truth

Summary: Obi Wan finally learns the mysterious Mandalorian’s past. 

Obi Wan made his way to the Lars’ residence. The stormtroopers by now were far gone as Obi Wan knocked on the door to the small hut. Instead of Owen answering the door, Beru, Owen’s wife, opened the door. She didn’t seem surprised to see him, in fact she seemed to be expecting him by her unfazed expression. 

“You shouldn’t be here, he’s not in a good mood.” Beru muttered quietly to Obi Wan.

 Obi Wan gave a mental sigh, he always mentally braced himself when meeting with Owen who was less than welcoming to Obi Wan. Though, he felt that he couldn’t fault Owen too much, he only wanted a peaceful life, one away from the chaos Obi Wan seemed to bring, something even Obi wan could understand. 

Before Obi Wan could reply, a voice spoke in the background, “It’s alright Beru, I’ll speak to him outside.” Obi Wan looked past Beru’s shoulder to see Owen ushering young Luke out of the room though with little success as Luke was immediately looking past the corner to see who was at the door. Beru stepped aside to let Owen through. Owen gestured up the small staircase so they could speak without his family listening in. When they reached the top, Owen didn't waste time in getting to the point. “I didn’t tell them anything, in case that's why you are here.” Owen said rather grumpily. 

“It's good to see you too, Owen.” Obi Wan always tried to be cordial with Owen but he couldn’t help but feel slightly annoyed at his checking in. “Thank you, Owen. I…” Owen cut him off before he could go on, “They were looking for that mandalorian you told me about, he's a wanted criminal and you are letting him help you in looking over this place. Do you even realize the level of recklessness you have brought to us? Though, I suspect nothing more from you Kenobi.” Owen made a slight emphasis when he said ‘Kenobi’ as if to jab at him.

 Obi Wan took a deep breath before answering, “I’m sorry for any worry I caused on your end, I have already sent away this Mandalorian as well as giving him  an incentive to stay away.” Owen crossed his arms and huffed, “Listen, it's not just the Mandalorian that threatens us. Your closeness with us is exactly what is making the Empire become more and more interested in us. I think it will be best for Luke if you kept your distance for the time being.” Owen said quietly to the jedi knight before him.

 Obi Wan stopped and considered before nodding and turning away. Before he left, Obi Wan turned over his shoulder to address Owen, “I will still guard this residence and look after Luke, but I understand your proposition.” Obi Wan then walked back into the dunes towards his home where the mandalorian was waiting for him.

By the time Obi Wan arrived at the cliff top to his hut, the twin suns had already set and the mandalorian had made a fire outside the hut entrance where he was cooking a stew in one of Obi Wan’s pots. Obi Wan sat at the fire where the mandalorian poured him a bowl of the, admittedly delicious smelling, stew. “I suppose I ought to tell you the truth now.” Mando’s voice quietly broke through his helmet's modulator “Too late to back out now?” he half joked. Obi Wan smiled “afraid not” he said and gave the armored soldier his undivided attention as he ate. 

The Mandalorian sighed before going on. “I was on the run from some former friends of mine. Though friends may be a bit too generous to use. I worked as a mercenary with this group for a while. We mostly did bounty work but the occasional bodyguard or shipment wasn’t off the table as long as the price was right.” The Mandalorian stopped and looked at Obi Wan as if to continue. Obi Wan gave a nod before the Mando started again.

 “Our last job was…difficult, we were employed to fetch some weapons for a wealthy syndicate who called themselves ‘Crimson Dawn.’ Little did we know that our employer hadn’t actually paid for the weapons and we were soon surrounded by Imperial guards.” 

The Mandalorian at this point was staring at the ground, hardly looking up at Obi Wan while fiddling with the fire every here and there. “I had to make a quick decision and I chose to finish the job and get the credits and I left one of my partners behind…” The Mandalorian went silent for a moment before continuing on. “When the rest found out, we had already gotten paid and I was so ashamed I was planning on leaving when everyone was asleep. They found me in the hangar with blasters out. I managed to grab a ship and got flying but they chased me down and they followed me here to this planet. I tried to shake  them in a dogfight but there were too many and they shot me down.” The Mandalorian finally looked at Obi-Wan. Though he still had his helmet on, Obi-Wan could tell just how guilt ridden he was.

 “The man I left behind had a sister…I really broke her heart after everything I did. I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me but I don’t think I could forgive myself after that either. I broke my code, It is a warrior's way of life to never leave anyone behind and yet I broke my creed for a few credits. I always honored The Way but how can I still wear this helmet if I left a man behind then fled like a coward.” The mandalorian finally fell silent and stared at the fire. 

Obi Wan was shocked, he had never seen the mandalorian speak so much, not to mention drop his stoic demeanor since he met him in the bar. Obi Wan stayed silent too for a few moments, he watched as the mandalorian took a gloved hand to his helmeted head and rested his head on it. 

After a long pause, Obi Wan spoke, “I may not know much about being a mandalorian, but I do know that your people hold honor above all else. I understand the feelings of regret you may have and I understand how you may be feeling like you could have done something better. But something I have learned that I am still coming to terms with is that you must forgive yourself.” Obi Wan stared into the fire, its smoke and bright orange flames reminding him of a memory that has haunted him for years. “What’s done is done and there isn’t much you can do about it now. But, it's what you choose to do now, how you better serve the galaxy that will redeem you.” Obi Wan looked over to the Mandalorian, he too was still watching the fire.

 “How can I still redeem myself if I broke my creed. It’s the one thing that I have that means so much to me.” The young mandalorian admitted. Obi Wan thought for a moment, he probably shouldn’t share so much, after all, he still knew too little about the man next to him. Yet, Mando had shared so much and finally opened up to Obi Wan. He couldn’t help but give in to comfort the young man next to him. 

“Believe it or not, I once too shared such values as you. I believed, if I wasn’t the best possible version of myself, if I did not uphold every single value that had been taught to me, then I wasn’t good enough myself.” Why was he sharing this? Why was he sharing things he had hardly ever told anyone about? Yet, he couldn’t stop, especially since the mandalorian had now shifted his focus from the fire to Obi Wan.

 “Perhaps we are more than our ideologies. It’s only taken me this long to realize that if you hold yourself to something so strongly and refuse to listen to someone you may disagree with, you lose what was important to you in the first place.” Obi Wan closed his eyes, images of his best friend and former padawan flashed through his mind, the good man who had always been by his side. Then, images of the smoke at the temple, then the bodies and blaster marks littering the ground before finally the image of Anakin on fire, screaming at his former master sunk into his mind like a rock. A memory he will never forget whether he liked it or not. “I suppose what I am trying to say is, don’t define yourself on your code, that's how you will end up a shell of a man when destiny doesn’t look at you kindly. You must define yourself.” 

His words lingered in the air a moment, the Mandalorian staring intently at him, no emotion could be conveyed on his faceless helmet. Obi Wan found this stare-down by the young mandalorian to be quite uncomfortable but he held his gaze anyways, he figured the young man hadn’t meant to make him feel that way. Finally, The mandalorian stood up and turned to Obi Wan.

 “I appreciate your wisdom Ben, I really do. But you don’t understand the warrior's way of life, my people are nearly all gone and me abandoning our ways is the biggest disgrace I can think of towards our fallen.” With that, the young mandalorian walked into the hut for the night leaving Obi Wan by himself at the fire. Obi Wan closed his eyes and silently whispered to himself. “If only he knew…”

Din hardly got any sleep that night, though, sleep was something that never came easily to him, oftentimes just staying up until exhaustion overtook him. The words of Old Ben still lingered in his head, further limiting his sleep. Had he really understood what he was going through? Din knew that the old man kept a hidden past, one he similarly did not want to share until he had to. But Din knew that Old Ben could never understand mandalorian culture unless he was one, something he knew to be untrue due to Old Ben dawning robes instead of beskar armor and a T shaped vizor on a beskar helmet. Din sighed and looked over across the room, Old Ben had come to bed late and was across the room in his sleeping mat, sound asleep.

 Din rolled onto his back and closed his eyes behind his helmet. He attempted to sleep again when he heard something outside. It was subtle at first, but the sound happened again, this time Din got up to check what it was. Din stumbled outside the hut, it was still dark out but something was off. He walked to the cliff edge only to see the Lars’ residence being swarmed with Tusken Raiders. They were shouting and stealing moisture vaporators and destroying the droids on the farm with their sticks and rifles. “Dang Ferrik!” Din spun around to grab Old Ben only to see him already outside the hut with a rifle in one hand and Din’s pulse rifle in the other. “C’mon, we don’t have time to waste.” Old Ben tossed the pulse rifle to Din and they hurried down the cliff to the farm.

Din and Old Ben raced towards the farm, the tuskens, Din counted seven in total while they hurried to protect their loot. Three of them continued to load and tie down the moisture vaporizers onto a bantha while the other four took arms against the two men. 

Din threw himself at the closest tuskan, grabbing his spear and redirecting it to the side before aiming a swift punch to the side of his opponent. Another one came up and swung his gaffi stick at Din’s head. Din dodged easily but was hit by another gaffi stick from another tusken in his blind spot. The two tuskens aimed their attack at Dins legs but one got shot twice by Old Ben with his rifle, falling to the ground dead. Din then kicked the other tuskan and knocked him to the ground with another punch to the tuskens clavicle. Right away, Din got shot with a blaster fire. Luckily it only hit him in the shoulder but it was enough to seriously dent his old armor and leave a good bruise later on. He eyed where the shots were coming from. One of the tusken was hiding behind the wall of the house and was firing shots at Old Ben and Din. 

Din looked over and saw Old Ben taking cover behind damaged bits of machinery, obviously unable to get a clean shot though he had managed to shoot the few remaining tuskens that were loading machinery onto the bantha. Din raced towards the tusken hiding behind the house, turning the corner only to be smacked in the face with the butt of his rifle. Din staggered back and took out his viroblade, the tusken in front of him charged with his rifle, Din dodged and aimed a cut to the tuskans back. He missed, only cutting a small bit of fabric but got hit by the quick swing of the rifle to his side. Din groaned in pain as his opponent swung again to his head. This time, Din managed to grab the rifle end before it collided with his head. Din managed to wrangle the rifle out of the Tuskens' hands and push his opponent onto his back. The tusken raised his hands in fear as Din was about to aim a shot through his opponent's chest. Din stopped and lowered the rifle, the tusken looked up, almost surprised at Din’s show of mercy. Din then jerked his head to gesture for him to run away now. The tusken did just that and disappeared into the night, into the vastness of the Dune Sea.

 With the chaos over, Din walked back to Old Ben who was busy untying the moisture vaporators from the clearly startled bantha. Dead and unconscious tuskans lay about as well as destroyed machinery and droids. “Well done, Mando.” Old Ben gave Din a pat on the shoulder. Din nodded in thanks back. 

“Kenobi!?” a voice behind the both of them shouted. Both men turned only to see Owen Lars’ at the doorway to his house. “Is everyone alright?” Old Ben asked the farmer. “Yeah, yeah just a bit spooked is all. Beru and Luke are still inside. We heard you fighting out here and…” Owen looked around, “It looks like you've gotten it all taken care of.” Din looked around again at the mess then back at Owen. Owen looked to the Mandalorian then back to Old Ben who apparently went by Kenobi around the Lars’. “I thought you had gotten rid of this criminal, Kenobi. What is he doing back on my property?” 

Before Din could react, Old Ben put a hand on his shoulder. “Owen, you should be glad he’s here. While I was fighting with those invaders, this mandalorian came out of nowhere when I needed backup the most and helped me fight all of them off. Isn’t that right Mando?” Old Ben looked at Din, a warning to not object and to go along with it. “That's right.” Din said. Owen looked conflicted before thanking the two men. 

“Thank you, I had heard that there were some recent raids on nearby farms but I thought they had taken all they needed. Hell, I’m lucky Luke listened and stayed inside for once instead of insisting he can protect us himself. But, these damn tuskans… These savage creatures can hardly be reasoned with, they take anything they want and let nothing get in their way.” complained Owen. Old Ben gave a small chuckle, “They are quite determined, I'm just glad we got here in time. I fear things may have ended much worse if not for our friend here.” Again mentioning Din’s courage to loosen Owen up to the Mandalorians presence.

 “Now, what shall we do with this?” Old Ben nodded towards the now much calmer bantha. The creature, while no longer tied with the vaporators, was wandering about the Lars’ residence, curiously digging in the sand for anything to eat. Owen contemplated for a moment, “We may be able to sell it, its meat and fur may be good money to make up for the damages made here today.”

 “No.” Din suddenly interjected. Both men looked at the helmeted warrior in unison, obviously surprised at his sudden burst from silence and intrigue at how to best deal with the creature. Din tried to be as steady as possible as he said; “I will deal with it. It’s meat and fur won’t be worth more tuskens following you to get it back.” Both Old Ben and Owen seemed to agree and let Din deal with the creature, though Din suspected they had no real clue what plan he really had.

[chokemeanakin]

Give Me Love

Chapter Nine

Wc: 2.2k

MASTERLIST

It took weeks before you got a conclusive word on how things were going on Kamino. You spent every day throwing yourself into work, staving off the thoughts of what might be happening to people fighting that battle-- to Anakin fighting that battle.

It was selfish to miss him, but you couldn’t help it. You wanted him back here with you, catching your eyes from across the room, smiling at you in the mess hall, nodding at you in passing. You wanted to go to Dex’s with him, to fly in his starfighter, to sleep next to him. You wanted that swirling tempest of an angel back under your fingertips, taming it as you studied everything that should have made him human.

Even your weekly breakfast-dinner’s at Dex’s with Sabe and Ahsoka had to hold off as the tense atmosphere of the Temple seemed to leach out onto the streets of Coruscant, the citizens holding their breath as they waited for an attack. Ahsoka was busy with Jedi duties, and Sabe worked tirelessly to sign a bill that would send more troops to back them up on Kamino.

You watched, day after day, as medics were deployed out. You were one of the only ones left in the Temple, and it made you angry how they held you back. Were you not of the best medics here? No one else had training like you, no one else had experience like you. How could you just sit back and watch as everyone left for Kamino except you?

The stress of it all became too much. One night, you decided you couldn’t toss and turn in bed anymore, plagued with the constant “what-if’s” racing through your mind. You dragged yourself out of bed, threw on a dress, and headed toward The Core.

It was a nightclub, but a little less rowdy than the ones found in the deeper ends of the city. A jazz band played on stage, aliens of all shapes and sizes milling about. They carried drinks and ate food and played cards. You sat at the bar, nursing a small drink as you took it all in. People-watching always helped quiet your mind.

“You’re far too young to look so troubled,” a gruff voice spoke next to you.

Without sparing it a glance, you shrugged. You kind of expected someone to come on to you, as it was almost guaranteed if you were a young woman alone at a bar on a Friday night. You were prepared for it, but you still didn’t want to deal with it.

“Oh come on,” the voice teased. “You don’t want to tell me what’s wrong?”

He didn’t sound like he was coming onto you. In fact, his inquisition seemed nice enough. You decided to spare him, glancing over to see a blue man with bulbous antennae coming out of his head. His eyes were black through and through, and a patchy silver beard hugged the lower half of his face.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you replied, pleasant. He took it as an invitation to occupy the stool next to you.

“You’re frowning like your husband died in war.”

You jolted as if you’d been struck. Furrowing your brows at him, your anger took control. “That’s a very inconsiderate thing to say at a time like this.”

“My apologies,” blue lips pulled into an impish smile. “I see I’ve struck a chord. Does this mean you have a husband off fighting?”

“No,” you swallowed your drink hard, burning as it slid down your throat.

“No husband? Then it looks like I could have you all to myself.”

You leaned away from his touch, the hand reaching for your cheek pausing in midair. He let it drop, laughing. “What? Too scared to have some fun?”

“With you, anyone would be scared.”

His silence caused your heart to stutter in fear for a moment, wandering if you’d now struck a chord. Your hand inched toward the knife you kept strapped to your ankle in case you had to use it.

“You fucking virgin,” he spit, and the words punched you straight in the gut. “No one would want to fuck you anyway.”

You’d been on the receiving end of angry, rejected male rants many times before. In each instance, they’d never bothered you. You’d been called a slut, whore, a dirty bitch, every name under the sun really. But never that. You fucking virgin. That one was new.

And personal.

Out of all of them, this one sent shockwaves through your system as if you’d been slapped.

What’s wrong with being a virgin? You wanted to call after him. Why is that a bad thing?

Unable to get your rolling emotions under control, you decided it might just be best to head home. It was getting awfully late, and you didn’t want to be on the streets when the bars closed.

The blue man’s slurred insult pushed at your mind the entire way back to your apartment. Admittedly, tears stung at your eyes a few times, but you managed to stave them off until you got to your room. You walked into the bathroom and caught your reflection in the mirror, your smoky makeup and messy hair didn’t give off any pure or innocent vibes. How had that man been able to tell?

If he could, does that mean Anakin could as well?

Stressed tears finally broke through the dam you had built up. You turned away from the mirror, unable to look at yourself any longer. Tragic, your mind hissed. People are dying in war, and you’re crying over being a virgin.

You were quick to stop the tears, opting to take a shower and drown in self pity as you watched the water run down the drain. How had life gotten so dull? Before Anakin, you’d been able to find joy in the mundane tasks of your everyday routine. But now, with Anakin off fighting, and you not knowing if he was alright or not… everything was grey.

It’s not like you’d never seen him off to battle before. Ever since you began working in the temple last year, Anakin had been deployed countless times. He was rarely in the Temple more than he was off on some other planet, pushing back at Separatist forces and making a name for himself on the Holonet as the Hero with No Fear. But this time was different. This time, you knew the touch of those hands and the twinkle of that smile. How his curls tickled your neck, and heart beat beneath your palm. Every second he was out there, his life was in danger of being ripped away from him. Away from you.

Anakin will come back, Ahsoka had assured you. He always does.

Those were the only words you would allow to enter your mind as you drifted off into a restless sleep. You had barely woken up when you were being shoved onto a ship, zipping up your field suit and buckling yourself into a transport ship to head to Kamino.

You weren’t nervous, not one bit. This was exactly what you wanted. Your mind zeroed in on the tasks that you would be met with once you touched down--

“The fighting on Kamino is over, but the Republic has faced heavy losses. We need every medic we can spare out there, which is why you’re heading there now,” your boss, Rico, shoved a field suit into your hands and a medcase on top of it. “Don’t expect it to be pretty.”

“It never is.”

Strangely, you felt calmer now than you had in weeks. With every second this transport ship was in the sky, you grew closer and closer to Anakin. You itched to see him, but you also itched to work. To rush around the aftermath of battle and hush wounded men’s cries, to free them of their pain, and ensure that they would live another day.

It took hours to get to Kamino, and when you arrived, it was already beginning to turn into dusk. Smoke filled the sky, billowing up from buildings all over Topica City, blood washing off the platforms and into the roiling sea below.

You hit the ground running, moving from clone to clone as you assessed their wounds, patching up the ones you could, helping the ones that could walk to the medical transport, and marking too many for bodybags. Bit by bit, the awful groan that seemed to come from the core of the city itself quieted, until the last clone was being loaded into a medical transport. You wiped your hands on your field suit, caked with blood as if you had been in battle yourself.

With the tasks at hand done, your mind was left to wander. Technically, you were supposed to get on the same ship you had arrived on to go back. But… there was someone you wanted to find first.

“Y/n,” a male spoke behind you, the first non-clone you’d heard in hours. Your heart jumped into your throat, until you turned around and saw that it wasn’t who you hoped.

“General Kenobi,” your eyes immediately landed on the way he clutched at his shoulder. “You’re hurt-- let me help.”

“Perceptive, as always,” Kenobi grimaced through a smile as you urged him to sit on an overturned crate. He shook his head, and then looked toward a ship behind him. “The Council needs us back right away— if you don’t mind hitching a ride with us.”

Of course you didn’t. You followed him to the Republic cruiser, stepping on to find clones wearing yellow and blue armor, running around to get the ship started.

“At ease, men,” Kenobi calmed them as he limped past. “This battle was a difficult one-- take some time to rest.”

Your eyes softened at his words. You could tell by the way every clone you saw had blood spattered over the white of their armor, how the ones with their helmets off were pale and stricken, how they all seemed to work in silent shock. They had been through hell.

You were glad they had Kenobi to look out for them. He was one of the best Jedi you knew, as well as a good man. He had vouched for you ever since arriving on Coruscant after running away from Noxella. Your home planet had cancelled your certifications, as you had left illegitimately, and the Temple wasn’t going to take you in to work at the medbay like you hoped. Kenobi stood up for you-- you were young, and already so gifted. Why should they waste such talent?

It was mere coincidence that he also happened to be the Master and best friend of the man who occupied a special place in your heart. Kenobi, as a result, had always earned your utmost respect.

“How did this happen?” you asked as he made it to the piloting station. He sat in a chair at the back of the room, requesting gently for the clones to find their own rest, before taking off his shirt. His shoulder was purple and crooked, very obviously wrenched from its natural position.

“Unfortunately, being thrown off the top of the building and catching yourself on a loose rafter isn’t the best for your shoulder joint.”

“I couldn’t have guessed,” you played along, keeping things light hearted to calm his nerves. There was no need-- Kenobi was always calm. You’re not sure how he did it, but his presence was soothing you right now. You’re not sure he even meant to, especially because he must be in excruciating pain.

You examined his shoulder, noting the extent to which it hunched out of place. Sometimes it was difficult to determine if it was a subluxation or complete dislocation, but you were pretty certain Kenobi’s was the latter.

“I’m going to have to set this now,” you gave him the bad news. “But afterwards, the pain should ease up.”

“Do your worst.”

He looked absolutely exhausted, and weary, and beaten down. It tore your heart apart, seeing one of the Republic’s bravest heroes so worn out. He didn’t even look like he minded the pain, rather his eyes were filled with a deep sorrow that made you want to take all of the hurt away.

You could fix one thing, so you turned your focus on extending his arm out straight, one hand gripping onto his elbow and the other positioning your palm onto the out-of-place joint. With a steady and firm pressure, you pull on his arm until the bone popped back into place, earning a low groan from the older Jedi.

“Anakin,” he grit out of his teeth, eyes fluttering as he caught sight of a presence behind you. “Perfect timing.”

You turned your head, hands still holding Obi-Wan’s arm in place. Your heart began to beat double time as the weeks of worrying and stressing melted away.

There he was.

He stood tall in his black leather armor, curls dark and dripping with Kaminoan rain. His skin was pale and grey circles stained his undereyes, but he was beautiful as ever. Here, alive, and in once piece.

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[crispyjenkins]

fic with ahsoka as Obi-Wans Padawan? Maybe some angsty jangobi? (Used to be together but broke up and now they pine from afar™️)

(i’m devastated that i don’t get to write ahsoka much, especially as obi’s padawan, so that an anon would come into my inbox.... and request jangobi on top of it..... seriously, though, thank you! can’t say i wasn’t inspired by @autumnchild22’s Kenobi Tano AU, but this doesn’t share almost anything with their take of events (ノ*´◡`) i’m flattered y’all thought i could do something of theirs justice lmao

i have written entirely too much backstory for this one, i think my brainstorming ended up longer than the actual fic so like. rip. 

support artists and writers by reblogging, message me for more info if this confuses you!)

  It surprises everyone except Obi-Wan that not only does Jango join the clones on the front lines, but he does so as the ARC troopers’ medic. That the son of the Mand’alor murdered by the Jedi would allow his kid to be apprenticed by a lifetime Council member is already hard enough for the galaxy at large to swallow; believing that the man who had at once been the most feared bounty hunter in the Outer Rim wouldn’t even ask for a command position? Impossible.

  Obi-Wan knows better. Just as Obi-Wan had picked up Soresu because he could not protect his master on Naboo, Jango had learned to put people back together because he could not save his buir on Korda 6. 

  Besides, Obi-Wan thinks Mace is a wonderful match for little Boba, even though he’s joining the Jedi older than even Anakin had been. Knowing Mace was among the Jedi to liberate the spice freighter Jango had been sold to, and that he had continued to check in on Jango for years after he got his armor back, Obi-Wan actually finds it rather silly that others on the Council had thought Jango would trust Boba to anyone else. 

  Which does leave Obi-Wan in quite the predicament, when less than a year after Anakin's knighting, Mace sends him a new padawan in the middle of a campaign. 

  Ahsoka smiles with all canines, and calls Anakin Skyguy, and has to be tricked into wearing more armor because, according to Cody, she is "not to take the General's lack of self-preservation as the status quo, nor as the basis for field safety." Which, rude, Obi-Wan wears plenty of armor when the situation calls for it; he simply doesn't find many situations where plasteel has kept his men or the Jedi from dying horribly.

  Letting Ahsoka gallivant around a battlefield in a tube-top without even a cloak, however, is out of the question, and Obi-Wan thinks Waxer does a brilliant job in sizing down the armor to fit their collective padawan over the next few months. Force, had Anakin really been younger than she when he first started taking him on missions?

  "Master?"

  Obi-Wan blinks, and smiles down at Ahsoka standing next to him, his apprentice looking quite dashing in the orange paint of the 212th. "Sorry, my dear, what were you saying?"

  She shrugs, eyeing him suspiciously. "'Was just asking if we would be working with the ARC troopers on Kiros; Captain Fordo said he would show me how to use a blaster rifle next time they were on the Negotiator."

  The Kaminoans intended for a few ARC troopers to be sent with each battalion, but it had quickly become clear that Jango had not trained them that way. Instead, he had raised and created a strike team so efficient, it would have been a waste to separate them; Obi-Wan knows Jango had hand-picked them from cadets, had searched for a spark in them that the Kaminoans hadn't already snuffed out completely. Jango had been like that once, too.

  "I would be surprised if we didn't," Obi-Wan decides on, turning back to observe the 212th loading into the Negotiator, and he would be, because the ARCs are often deployed with Obi-Wan’s men, have been since the Battle of Kamino. "But I have not heard anything from Master Shaak Ti, nor Captain Fordo as of yet."

  Ahsoka scrunches up her face into a pout, an amusing show of her age that she usually does not allow. "We'll probably get halfway through the mission and they'll just show up."

  Obi-Wan chuckles. “Hm, yes, probably,” he agrees, starting to make his way down to the hangar to join his men with Ahsoka trotting along behind, “but perhaps I can convince Captain Fordo not to surprise us too badly this time.”

-

  When the ARC troopers finally storm the Kadavo Processing Facility with Anakin and the Jedi on their heels, the warden Agruss is already dead.

  The sudden swell of Jedi presence is nearly blinding after a month of helplessness, but Obi-Wan can't tap out, not yet. Rex, satisfied and vindictive and relieved, sways dangerously and automatically reaches out to Obi-Wan to steady himself. 

  That Rex trusts him enough to not even think about rank before asking for help warms Obi-Wan in ways he doesn't yet have the words for — he wraps Rex's arm around his shoulders and takes half his weight happily.

  "Thank you," Obi-Wan finds himself murmuring as he helps Rex towards the doors, and only smiles at the captain's bemused expression. 

  "Whatever for, General?" he asks, even as he looks back over their shoulders across the room, to Agruss impaled to his chair with the electrostaff still sparking. Then he returns Obi-Wan’s smile, shaking his head. "That's not very Jedi-like of you, sir."

  "I'm afraid I haven't felt much a Jedi since Kiros, my dear." Which is perhaps too honest to allow himself before he's had a proper meal and a full night's rest, but if there is anyone who will understand, it is the man that lived it with him. "We could wait up here for Anakin to find us, but it will likely be a while before they can spare him to start looking; do you think you can keep your feet long enough for us to reach the ground floor?"

  Rex snorts and gives a vague wave of his free hand towards the elevators. "Well, I'm certainly not going to wait up here like some damsel, sir, and General Skywalker would kill me if I let you wander around on your own."

  "Well!" Obi-Wan laughs, for the first time in weeks, and hitches Rex up to get a better grip on his waist. "In that case, we really should not keep him waiting."

  They somehow time it perfectly for what the 187th and the 501st to have just finished rounding up the slavers in the courtyard when he and Rex hobble out of a side door of the warden's tower. Lieutenant Law oversees the Togrutas' move to Mace’s flagship Solace, and Obi-Wan easily picks him and Boba out from the crowd, standing at the base of the loading ramp and speaking with the Kiros colony's governor. Anakin is nowhere to be seen, but Obi-Wan doesn't get the chance to keep looking before Kix spots them from his place by the medical frigate; a shout passes over the nearby clones like a wave, until Kix and an ARC trooper break away to (gently) manhandle both him and Rex to the frigate. 

  The 187th's medic, Oro, is already on board seeing to the Togrutas too injured to wait for triage on the Solace, snapping a distracted salute that Obi-Wan quickly waves off as he helps heft Rex onto a hoverbed. He fully intends to duck back out and check in with Mace, though things seem well in hand without him, but the ARC with Kix takes off his helmet and glares, until Obi-Wan meekly shuffles to the next hoverbed over.

  He could never refuse Jango, after all. 

  "You repainted your armor," he says conversationally, as Jango pulls a scanner from the bandoleer around his chest and has Obi-Wan roll up his right sleeve. 

  "'Lost the last set to a sarlacc before our deployment to Kiros," Jango snorts, Concord Dawn accent stronger than any of his clones. "Though it looks like your mission had its fair share of excitement." Running the scanner over the electrical burns on Obi-Wan’s arm, Jango raises an eyebrow at the dried blood on the shoulder of his tunics; Obi-Wan honestly doesn't remember if it's his or not.

  And he can only smile at Jango, because even with a decade and a war between them, the corner of Jango's mouth still twitches when he's stressed. "Well, it certainly wasn't boring, my dear," Obi-Wan says, opening the neck of his tunic enough for Jango to stick him with a hypospray that hopefully won't make him too high. "And I can't say I'm looking forward to what is surely going to be a long dip in the bacta tank."

  He gets a laugh for that, and can't think of the last time they had done more than make eye contact from opposite sides of a ship. Perhaps it had been Kamino, when Taun We had first sent for the Jedi to meet the army created for them. 

  Obi-Wan had rather thought Jango dead until then, when he had disappeared from the galaxy abruptly as if he had never lived in it at all. For a time, Obi-Wan believed he had just gotten cold feet, that finally meeting Anakin made it all a little too personal too quickly, but then even Mace could not get a hold of him and no one had seen a Mandalorian bounty hunter in months.

  Their... conversation, Jango's stilted explanations of his absence and of how little he actually knew about the purpose for the clones he helped create, left far too much unsaid, but then Obi-Wan had been sent to Geonosis and, well. It's been nearly two years now, and Obi-Wan isn't sure if he's even seen Jango without his helmet since then. 

  His eyes flick over Obi-Wan’s face, the left side of his lips twitching as if knowing exactly what Obi-Wan is thinking — and he might not put it past him. 

  "Where are Anakin and Ahsoka?" Obi-Wan hears himself ask, when the silence grows heavy with those unsaid words. And he really would like to check in with his padawan, he can't imagine her last month has been a picnic either.

  Jango sticks him with another stim before answering, "Mace sent Skywalker to make sure no slave is missed, and no slaver isn't arrested. As for your new foundling..." That little smile comes back, as Jango nods out the back of the frigate to where someone is cutting a line through the clones guarding their new prisoners. 

  "Oh dear," Obi-Wan mumbles, barely having time to brace himself before Ahsoka is launching herself at him, and all he can think is how relieved he is to see her out of her slave disguise. Jango steps cleanly out of the way to let Ahsoka smother herself in Obi-Wan’s chest, though it doesn’t stop him from starting to prep bacta patches to tide him over until they can get to the Negotiator’s medbay.

  “Hello, little one,” Obi-Wan murmurs, carefully loosening the tight net of his shields for the first time since Zygerria and letting Ahsoka’s presence flood his mind. 

  “It’s good to see you, Master ‘Nobi,” she says into his tunics, and her voice does not waver at all.

  He manages a chuckle, though it does not hold nearly as well as Ahsoka’s, as he feels himself finally relax. Anakin, of course, senses the both of them immediately and prods at their minds, but neither Obi-Wan nor his padawan acknowledge him. “I take it the Queen is dead?”

  Ahsoka sighs and pulls back enough to nod. “Count Dooku was there, Skyguy barely got us all out.”

  “That was a week ago,” Jango adds, not looking up from the datapad he’s logging Obi-Wan’s injuries into. “Even with the Queen giving us the location of the Processing Facility, we had to wait for the 187th to catch up.”

  Running his palm from the top of her head down her hind lek, Ahsoka melts back against him with a Togruta churr he rarely has the pleasure of hearing from her. “Hm, and I imagine Boba was thrilled to work with the ARC troopers.”

  Jango snorts, because they both know Boba is thirteen and his rebellious stage where he wants nothing to do with his father for fear of losing his independence. “Originally, the 104th was the closest battalion, but were held up in their own campaign. ‘Honestly didn’t think we could keep Skywalker from rushing in anyways.”

  And Obi-Wan has to wince at that, because no matter what he does, he can’t seem to find a way to teach Anakin about attachment in words he understands; truthfully, Obi-Wan wouldn’t have had him knighted until he had at least attempted to master that part of his mind, but, well, the War had different opinions.

  “I’m actually just surprised he didn’t try to fight Dooku,” Ahsoka admits, finally releasing Obi-Wan only to hop up on the hoverbed next to him. Jango immediately pulls Obi-Wan’s bare arm back to himself to start slapping the bacta patches over the worst of his burns. “Master Windu had a talk with him, though, I think it was good for him.”

  “I’d like to see that!” Jango barks, only half sarcastically: he knows better than most, the sorts of things Mace Windu can talk someone out of, and if it worked for one ex-slave, why shouldn’t it work on another?

  Ah, perhaps that shared history should not have slipped Obi-Wan’s mind, not here with thousands of freed slaves needing aid for injuries Jango is intimately familiar with.

  “And are you alright?” he asks before he can talk himself out of it, as Jango is cutting his sleeve further back. His brow ticks back up, clearly bewildered by what Obi-Wan could be referring to, but it’s Ahsoka that leans around Obi-Wan to sniff triumphantly up at Jango.

  “I told you he still likes you,” she says, and Jango’s hand freezes on Obi-Wan’s wrist.

  Obi-Wan sighs. “Ahsoka.”

  But instead of denying that he might have actually had such a conversation with Obi-Wan’s padawan, Jango coughs on a laugh. “So you did, edee. To be fair, I did not think that was the issue.”

  Ahsoka rolls her eyes, leaning back into Obi-Wan’s side as he automatically raises his arm to accommodate her. “He thinks he lost his chance, Master ‘Nobi,” she tells him. “Even Cody thinks he’s full of banthashit.”

  Where Obi-Wan feels a little shell-shocked by the turn in conversation, Jango simply keeps that tiny smile — even if it looks bittersweet and self-deprecating now. “Your foundling has spent the last week talking me in circles about this, I almost think she’s as stubborn as you.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, I think,” Obi-Wan returns, sarcasm an automatic, subconscious response. 

  “I wouldn’t need to talk you in circles if you two just talked to each other.”

  Shaking his head in bemusement, Obi-Wan gently fixes Ahsoka’s slika beads to lay properly around her montrals. “I’m afraid there’s quite a lot of history there, little one; most of which I’m sure Jango did not actually share with you.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “No, he refuses to tell me anything except that you met on a mission. And that he saved your ass from Jabba the Hutt.”

  Obi-Wan snaps his eyes to Jango, who looks absolutely anywhere but at him. “Is that how you remember it going, my dear?”

  “Could we do this later?”

  “Because if I recall correctly, and I do, this is not the first time you’ve lost your armor to a sarlacc.”

  Jango looks to the ceiling for patience. 

-

Mando'a: buir — “parent”, gender neutral  Mand’alor — “Sole ruler”, contended ruler of Mandalore. edee — “teeth”, “jaws”, used here as an affectionate name for Ahsoka. because she teeth.

[snarwor]

CodyWan prompt: the most painful reunion scenario you can think of

You. I like how you think. CW for lost memories/time, attempted suicide, open/ambiguous ending.

Once

“Marshall Commander Cody.”

“Chancellor Palpatine, sir. You requested to see me?”

“Yes, yes I did. Take a seat over here. Would you care for a drink? I know most of you and your men don’t get the chance to often indulge...”

“I...no thank you, sir.”

“I insist.”

“...very well.”

It’s all black after that. Cody wakes up shoved into a pile of trash, somewhere on Coruscant’s lower levels. He is out of his armor, out of his blacks, left in some ratty garb he can’t make heads or tails of. Before standing, he takes inventory, once the initial shock wears off. He looks around, trying to get his bearings, but without a comm, or some kind of vambrace datapad, he can’t right himself. He’s used to navigating battlefields, judging distance by sunlight and the stars. There are neither in this underworld.

Elevators. He can use the elevators to get higher.

He stumbles around, limping from some injury to his side, his balance and vision a little blurred from the pounding in his head. When he touches the spot that hurts most, his fingers come back bloody, like he’d been in a fight. That would explain the concussion, but not the clothes. A familiar sense of fear flushes over him, followed by the instinctual wash of calm that makes him so effective in the battlefield.

The elevators are all pay-per-use down this low. Stairs it is.

It takes the better part of seven hours to even get up to a level where he can see sunlight filtering through the smog, though by this time, it’s getting rather dark. He’s still low-level enough that he can’t find any vode, but he’s been alone in other situations before.

“Cody?” A voice asks, lyrical and just close enough for Cody’s heart to pound. He turns and sees General Kenobi, though not in his usual robes or armor, instead wearing something a bit closer to what the other Coruscanti citizens would wear. He’s so surprised to see the Jedi that Cody doesn’t do much more than gape at him. “Cody, you’re hurt.” Obi-wan walks closer, his hands fluttering over his body. “What’s happened?” “I don’t-I don’t know, general,” Cody rasps, his voice hoarse, like he’d been shouting. “Let’s get you back to base. I have a speeder not far from here.” It’s a bit of a blur from there, getting him back to base, put back in a set of new blacks, putting in armor requests, letting the medic into his quarters. Obi-wan doesn’t leave his side for most of it, waiting for some kind of explanation, it seems.

“Cody, will you please tell me what happened? Assaulting a member of the GAR, let alone the Marshall Commander, is a very serious felony, and--”

“I was at.” Cody’s jaw clicks shut as he tries to speak, frowning when his mouth can’t make the words come as he wished. “I was called to.” Click. Again. “I had a meeting with.” This time, Cody’s jaw aches when he tries to speak, and the exertion distresses him, more than he already had been. “I don’t remember,” he tries, quietly.

It doesn’t look like Obi-wan believes him, but it’s the only answer that he can give.

He tells no one about his meeting with Chancellor Palpatine, and tries to forget it as best as he can. Thinking about it for too long usually ends with a migraine, and he can’t let those blank spots in his memory keep him from being battle-ready.

When the Order comes, Cody feels it in that long-healed scar at the back of his head, a pulsing, throbbing ache that makes stars flash behind his eyes, like he’d been in retraining at Kamino for too long. He uses the rarely-utilized GAR-wide comm, and passes the word.

“Blast him.”

Years pass. Guilt festers into a sort of madness. He’s a bit of droid himself, now, operating on orders and under familiar, untouched choking power he’d only seen from one Jedi--and that’s another word he can’t think too loudly, else the migraines return. He’s trained, he’s retrained, he’s restrained, he’s seizing, he marks the days by trips to the infirmary aboard the star destroyer.

“The once Marshall Commander Cody.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I have a mission for you.”

“I’ll see it done, my lord.”

“I know you will. Execute Kenobi protocols.”

The ache in his head turns to a burn, and it’s only the stiff trooper armor which keeps him upright at the sudden onslaught of pain.

He takes a single ship, a fast cruiser with just enough fuel to get him to where he needs to go. Memories are ripped from his synapses.

As much as it was really a trying time, I think I liked Tatooine. I think it’d be a nice place for no one to find me.

Why wouldn’t you want anyone to find you?

Oh, except for you, of course, Cody.

It’s sandy. It’s dry. It’s hot. Cody doesn’t think about anything other than forward. He asks what questions he must of the locals, disguised as he is in the clothes he’d stolen off of a corpse. He hardly registers the blood on his hands and face. Some part of the madness which had grown in him extends to his senses, and blocks the sensation of his shaking hands.

Deep in the Jundland Wastes, he finds him. Just as he’d wanted, once.

Once.

Cody fires a warning shot at the dewback he encounters, and it lumbers away. In its place, stands an old and broken man, who Cody called his, once.

Once.

Cody wants him to remain quiet, in this held breath of a moment, knowing the storm was just at the doorway. Knowing there was only room for one grave, between the two of them.

We’d fit in one together, you know.

Fit in what?

A grave.

A morbid thought. But somewhat romantic.

Thought you’d say that.

The ache in his head forces his hand, raising the blaster in a shaky grip. There’s wetness on his face, but it hasn’t rained on Tatooine in a thousand years. Tatooine hasn’t met the commander who was born in a perpetual rainstorm, though.

Through the madness, through the pain that had once locked his jaw against the secrets, through the rusted fraction of a man he once was, Cody manages a, “Make it stop.”

He manages a, “Please.”

He manages to pull the blaster barrel away from its target. He changes the target to the underside of his jaw, and the initial target cries out in horror, leaping forward to make it stop, indeed.