moved

“And I have to stay still the whole time,” he repeats flatly.

“Unless you want serum on your blacks. And stop scrunching; you’ll get wrinkles.” You reach up to the crease between his brows, rubbing insistently until he relaxes and peeks up at you with an uncertain expression.

“Y/n I feel like a corpse,” Wolffe mutters. And to some extent, he is right, lying ramrod straight on his back with his hands clasped at his navel, stone-still save for the occasional restless twitch of his fingers. But he’s also being dramatic (oh woe, relaxation).

“Lucky corpse,” you quip, trailing your fingers over the bridge of his nose to smooth over the dark lines of exhaustion etched into the skin of his undereyes. “I’m pretty sure most living people never get to try Corellian heartleaf extract, much less corpses.”

For all his restless graces, you don’t miss how his cheeks twitch at your remark in a floundering attempt to smother the smile under your touch. He looks a bit silly, his eyes and mouth bordered by a stark ring of white silk and gleaming almost comically under the thick layer of serum. But it’s easy to look past the spectacle; you can still make out the proud line of his jaw, his dark lashes, and the somewhat artificial distress in his deep brown eyes as you feel him shiver delightfully under your touch.

Still handsome, you think as you massage your fingertips over his temples, but just a little silly.

“You think I look ridiculous, don’t you,” Wolffe mumbles, grimacing when you laugh.

“Just a little bit,” you admit, and you laugh a bit brighter when Wolffe rolls his eyes. “But it’s cute. You’re cute. Your skin’s going to look fantastic tomorrow, too.”

“Cyar’ika,” Wolffe huffs, the unmistakable lilt of laughter lifting his tone. “Aren’t I usually the one calling you cute?”

“I’m just calling it how I see it,” you smile, and the warmth in your chest blooms with fluttering strength anew when you open your eyes to catch Wolffe’s gaze, soft ease and fond (reluctant) admission that maybe the whole song and dance of skincare was nice after all. It’s that kind of expectant look, as close to pleading puppydog eyes as humanly possible over Wolffe’s near perpetual scowl, but it’s your sure signal that the good commander’s last defenses have been lowered: that you’re not only welcome but very much anticipated.

You take your invitation like a prize and lean down to press a quick kiss over Wolffe’s lips, careful and chaste so not to smear mask gel over you, too.

But it’s not enough, one kiss is never enough, and you lean down over his bedside again, capturing Wolffe’s lips with yours. You tilt your head, murmuring happily into his touch, and you’re so enthralled by this, by him, that you can only vaguely register the weight curling at the base of your neck as the commander’s hand cupped over your skin and pulling you closer.

You only pull away, yelping at the sudden shock of cool gel on your skin when you eagerly press a bit too close and brush up against the mask over Wolffe’s nose. You certainly hadn’t intended it, but it’s cheesy and sweet and it has Wolffe's eyes fluttering shut as he laughs softly, the burdens and obligations of today and tomorrow far out of your mind’s eye. It’s the little things, you concede, and you dip close for one last kiss.

“Cute,” Wolffe muses dark eyes deep and warm, and you realize the only downside to sheet masks is that you can’t jump his bones at that very moment without putting to waste your handiwork. You touch the tip of your nose to Wolffe’s, and his low chuckle resonates through your chest.

“Hey, y/n!” Boost calls into the barracks, Warthog and Comet in tow, and you hastily sit upright, wiping the mask gel from your nose as you catch the boys tossing their buckets onto their bunks. “Can we get one too?”

You open your mouth to tell him there’s plenty to go around, more than happy to pamper the good brothers of your beloved battalion. But Wolffe is faster.

“Not a chance,” Wolffe calls out.

“Wolffe,” you protest, seeing how his brothers suddenly stiffen and exchange awkward glances among themselves. You’re ready to rally the boys to your defense of a batallion spa day when you feel his arm loop around your waist, tugging you close.

Were he but a newly made acquaintance, as he had been when he had known you by name and Fox's fond regard alone, he would most certainly be on his highest guard. But after Obi-wan had very inconspicuously assigned him to your escort detail, placing you through a grand total of one assassination attempt and two stolen frigates, he allows himself a sort of relaxed regard that only comes by a bond forged in the belly of a ship under heavy fire.

Camaraderie, he had called it breathlessly as you wiped engine grease from your robes, collapsing against him after you had finally toggled the hyperdrive online.

Friendship, you had countered with the firm clack of your wrench on the helm. You recall with brilliant clarity that his hand had been warm when you had gripped it tight, illuminated the ghostly blue of the streaks of light flooding the viewport.

Comrades were bound to duty; friends, something much more. So he allows himself to stand back at pause to admire how the setting sun gleams over your skin, how your nose scrunches just slightly as you fuss at the sheer inconvenience of your heels, as if you are not as radiant in his eyes as the fading light sparkling and rippling over the water.

"Truly, an unfortunate part of the democratic process, y/n," Cody chuckles.

Without the presence of other senators to demand the formalities of titles and decorum, you watch his shoulders slacken from sharp attention as he calls you by your name. The cool neutrality of his gaze as a soldier softens into a warm amusement meant for a dear friend, and you are happy to bask in its glow despite the groaning ache in your feet.

"If I knew there would be this much dancing in politics, I would have listened to my mother and taken her speeder shop," you groan.

"And deprive the Senate of your voice?" Cody asks, and his smile, as discreet and small as it may be, is irresistible.

"You have to actually convince me, Cody."

"Fair enough. Then, deprive the 212nd of your acquaintance?"

You hum, your fingers suddenly still over your heels as he watches you genuinely contemplate his words.

"Just a bit closer," you prod, a playful gleam in your eye.

"I thought you said you didn't like 'fawning sycophancy,'" Cody snorts. "You and your politician language."

"I don't like groveling politicians. I won't turn down flattery if it is from you, my dear commander," you respond, unable to hide the bright smile high on your lips.

"Then, say you'd taken the speeder shop. Would you deprive me of your acquaintance?" Cody relents with a huff. It's nothing but a puff of breath exhaled soft, but it's a welcome sound close to the rich warmth of his laughter, the sound of the poorly concealed joy glimmering in his deep brown eyes.

"If you help me to a quiet place where I can simply sit for the rest of the evening, I might just tell you if that was enough," you tease, offering your hand to him with a haughty flourish as if you were the queen of Naboo herself and not a common voice of the people of Coruscant. Cody rolls his eyes, breaking into a brief grin that flashes over his expression as brilliant as the sun.

You're already in a bit of a secluded spot a few paces away from the swelling quartet music and bureaucratic chatter, giving you the space to break your level-headed courtesies and poke fun. But more than anything, you simply want time alone with the commander in all the impeccable neatness of his uniform dress. Besides, while you think you make quite a pair—the clean press of his formal whites and the shimmer silk of your ivory gown shimmering in the sunset—the old senatorial farts have little regard for the handsome soldier in your company (and it's, really, their loss).

"Are you suggesting I help you escape from your very important diplomatic duties?" Cody asks, a low gasp light on his lips. How many times have you played this game, knowing damn well that the both of you would much rather die in a firefight than sit through a foggy senator raising toasts? It's become close to second nature, now.

"I absolutely am, commander," you nod firmly. "As I always say, sometimes, commander Cody, diplomatic duties may be set aside. This is one of those dreadful times."

He rolls his eyes again, but this time, he takes your outstretched hand, complete with a low bow as he plays along with your theatrics. You rise, only to wobble on your heels, but Cody is there to gently grasp your arms, ever steady. The consternation that flashes over his eyes for a brief moment is deep, more than simple concern, and while you cannot exactly label what his expression betrays, it sets your heart fluttering in your throat all the same.

What Separatist arguments and militaristic rebukes could not rile in your unflappable calm on the Senate floor, Cody effortlessly awakes. It's his power, you think as you regain your footing. The man spun from gold.

"There's a place over the water by the back of the villa," you say, falling into step beside him as the din of the party recedes behind you. "I think we should find some peace and quiet there."

"So you already had an escape route planned out?" Cody laughs. "I guess you never needed a security detail in the first place."

"Well, 'needed' isn't exactly accurate. Maybe 'strongly preferred?'" you offer, and Cody laughs a bit brighter. It's funny, how you barely feel the ache in your feet as contentment blooms triumphant in your chest.

By the time you sneak past the serving droids, stifling soft laughter when you hide from a few stray representatives, the sun is a slim arc curved over the silvery waters of the lake. In the moments of approaching dusk, you stand far from the treaty talks and ulterior motives before an old gazebo, its curved arches heavy with flowering vines like verdant curtains awaiting your arrival.

You look to Cody with bright eyes and squeeze his hand.

"We only have a few minutes of light left," you say in a hushed, excited whisper as the the purpling darkness of night begins to chase the sunset light. With little but the soft lakefront winds breezing through the blooming pavilion arches, there is no need to whisper. But your time with the commander is a precious, fragile thing, so easily burst by the sudden arrival of your colleagues or his men. A whisper is only a savoring tribute to this rare moment. "Dance with me."

"I thought you said dancing was 'nasty business,'" Cody chuckles.

"With you, a dance is a pleasure," you say, the whispers of laughter on the tip of your tongue.

"All due respect, but this is the first time we've shared a dance y/n," Cody teases as you tug him to duck under the creeping trellis vines and onto the sun-kissed stone of the little pavilion. "What makes you so certain you'll enjoy this one?"

"Dancing at these," you wave your hand with a sigh, "little parties are nasty, only if by virtue of the other senators with whom I am obligated to dance. They see me as a rival or a signatory to be won over or fought, and dance is little but a means to an end. But with you..."

The words fall back on your tongue as Cody emerges from under the low-hanging leaves, immediately awash in the glimmering gold light of the sun. He is a kind of breathtaking awe in the cresting cold of dawn, chin held high and proud. But in the resplendence of the waning sun, as he tugs his gloves from his hands, he is the warm and steadfast comfort of home.

In his relaxed posture and soft, dark eyes lies the kind of beauty that you ascribe to an ancient sun rising from behind a waking planet. A star brimming with ageless wisdom and forgiving light, as the sunlight dances over the commander's even, tawny skin, he is nothing short of life breathed into pure gold.

"With you, even a dance can be something I hold dear," you finish as he catches your wide-eyed wonder with a wry smile.

"Very well, senator," he says, a smooth, diplomatic cadence that's sickly enough for you to laugh. He extends a hand to you with a flourish, and you relish in the pure joy. "May I have this honor?"

"With pleasure," you grin.

Although he claimed to never have danced, Cody fluidly assumes a regal sort of poise, moving your hand to his shoulder and settling his free hand light on the small of your back. You have seen him heft his brothers over his shoulder; you have seen him cast aside his blaster for raw strength; you have seen the firm hand he carries wherever he goes. And yet, he is gentler than ever as you step close and meet his eyes to share a smile.

With a soft inhale, you begin a simple waltz over the warm stone.

For the first few steps, there is form. You quietly nudge him to take your lead, step by step, and he is a diligent student as he follows. But where political waltzes have always kept rigid time, space between your chests and guarded caution to the orchestral suites, you quickly fall into something sweet, unhurried and soft as your steps become slow sways in the fading light.

Wordless, brimming with joy, you are free. Cody lifts your hand above your head, laughing with you as you tiptoe through a spin that gently flares your dress, and a few dizzying turns and careful dips later, you can't help but wonder if Cody's heart is racing as fast as your own.

Too enraptured by his steadfast composure (even with the warmth in his eyes), you do little to mask your surprise when Cody shifts his hand higher up your back and tugs you close, pressing you flush to his chest under the emerging starscape above.

Shock, then saccharine goodness, sweet on your tongue, floods you as you slip your hand from his. After a beat of hesitation, testing, careful, you slowly reach up and rest your arms over Cody's shoulders, waiting for the bashful regret to overtake you when he might gently let you down. (It's unbecoming of you, you think shamefully, no matter how closely you may regard him as a friend.)

But the rejection never comes.

Instead, as the sun slips below the lake horizon, Cody simply fixes you with a soft smile and clasps his hands behind your waist, pulling and keeping you close while he continues to sway with the lake breeze. He does not need to speak for you to know his presence bared to you, not as a soldier or as your guard, but as a humble man to bear witness to the starlight in your eyes.

Heart beating wildly in your throat, you press a bit farther, leaning forward to rest your head on his shoulder. You have all but stopped your lazy waltz, simply swaying in place with the cool night winds fast approaching. In the stillness, you feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against your ear, a steady, reassuring rhythm that quells the giddy excitement from your chest. Yet you still start when he lifts one hand from your waist to the nape of your neck, raising delightful shivers as he strokes his thumb over your skin.

"Cody," you murmur.

You are certain it is no mistake that when Cody turns towards your voice that he presses close, his lips ghosting over your brow. You are no stranger to his closeness in harrowing blaster battles and narrow escapes from certain death. But this is new, the tenuous gossamer of intimacy not yet shared, as you reach for him and he reaches back.

"Yes, cyar'ika?"

(Cyar'ika? You do not recognize the sound, but it floods heat over your cheeks all the same.)

"My answer. About whether it was enough to choose the Senate over the speeder shop," you begin, reveling in how close Cody stands, cradling you so close that you feel his soft breaths over your skin. "Sometimes I wonder if I would have been happier outside of the politics."

"I hear a 'but,'" Cody muses. But instead of any teasing bite to his words, there is only patience, fond and warm.

"But if I had stayed in the lower levels; if I had never come to the Senate, I would have never left the surface. I would have never come to call a jedi general a friend, nor would I have known your men. I would have never met you. And to meet someone like you..."

You pause, sighing deep as your heart begins to pound anew.

"It is beyond enough."

Upon your last word, you hold your breath close.

You had only intended this to be a part of your teasing game of lighthearted chase with the commander. What was meant to be a quick and breezy escape from the politics of gowns and frivolities (even if you could not deny your affections for the commander) has brought you here, wondering if your words might be a push too far. Truths they may be, but they open you to uncharted waters. And you tremble in the falling night at the vague possibilities and consequence.

"Cyar'ika." Cody's voice, still as the lake stretched behind you, rumbles above your ear. "Do you know what that means, y/n?"

You shake your head slowly against him, only to meet him with eyes wide in surprise when he gently takes your jaw in his hand and tugs you upright.

"It means," he says quietly, sliding his palm from your chin to your cheek. "Sweetheart."

You're too stunned to do anything but blink when you feel his lips on your forehead.

"Darling."

Another touch, this time, pressed to your cheek as your eyes slide shut. You wait, anticipating with blooming wonder the promise of more lingering on his tongue. But when he does not return, you open your eyes, and Cody is waiting for you, dark eyes and soft smile radiant even without the glow of the setting sun.

"Beloved," he says at last, and tips your chin to press one final, dizzyingly gentle kiss to your lips. He may not meet you in vivacious energy, but Cody holds you close, pressing unhurried, luxuriant touches over your skin as you hold tight. His touch is chaste, stolid restraint holding him to only slow, deliberate motions, but you savor every fleeting moment in the evening calm.

When you part, you open your eyes to dusk in its clear, cold darkness, bejeweling the lakefront with scatter of stars high above. Yet all you can see is Cody before you, his soft smile and beating heart glowing brighter than any constellation in the inky black of night, his own radiant sun, spun gold.

Enchanted, you reach one hand up from its place on his shoulder and slowly, trembling, touch one finger to the scar carved around his brow. And he knows that you mean nothing but adoration as you trace the dark ridge of his scar beneath his eye, then lower, over the proud line of his cheek to cradle his jaw in your palm.

"I am only a soldier," Cody murmurs, nuzzling close into your touch. "Cyar'ika," he calls, leaning close to kiss your cheek. "Will you have me all the same?"

The cooling wind rises across the water, brushing stray petals from the trellis vines as your gown flutters around your feet. You wonder if this is what it feels to fly through the aftermath of a supernova, the silence of what was and yet the promise of what might yet be, glittering dust and neon gas diffusing into the ever expanding possibility of the universe. You wonder if this is right where you were always meant to be, aching feet and politics and shared breaths with a simple man with eyes full of light and heart like the sun.