#cole writes

You have the navigation instincts of...well, what’s the animal with the worst navigation? Whatever that is, yours is worse. And you wandered far off the aforementioned path and got lost in the woods. Like Kristoff, minus the cool song and reindeer.

Something about the man in the black slacks and fitted white dress shirt screams “I don’t get lost; I’m precisely where I intend to be.” It should terrify you. It kind of did, which is why you are standing as still as a statue watching the material stretch over the broad shoulders as he dug. 

You suppose you have shoddy survival instincts as well.

Something about that thought makes you want to laugh but you suppress the giggle and quietly snort. The man stops what he’s doing and stands straight up, his head beginning to twist and turn as he tries to find something. It takes you a second to realize he’s looking for you and your heart gets lodged in your throat, pounding away like ritual drums and drowning out any sounds with the rumble of blood wooshing through your ears.

“Who’s there?” He calls. 

His accent is a surprise. Nothing about him screamed ‘British’ until he spoke. He turns around and you get a glimpse of him from the front and suddenly, your pulse is not the only thing throbbing. 

Crimson is spattered across the otherwise pristine, white cotton in a configuration too perfect to be print. The drops and sprays line up exactly as if he were splashed with paint. Of course, you realize, it’s not paint. Paint doesn’t absorb the way these spots have.

It’s blood.

Your brain catches you up and starts screaming in your ear to run. There is a man covered in blood in the middle of the woods digging a hole. A dead body can’t be far away.

But your feet remained firmly planted, your gaze focused on his thin, muscular frame as you peer at him between the trees. The more you stare, the more you start to make excuses because this man is attractive. 

His dark hair, his dark eyes. The stoicism in his face. The power in his shoulders and the dexterity in his hands. You’re so busy admiring him that you almost don’t notice when he plants the shovel in the ground with one, swift motion and stalks your direction.

Your survival instincts take over and you quickly start heading back the way you came, tracking away from the man that is likely going to kill you if he finds you. 

Your only concern is making it back to a more populated area – hopefully the path – before he catches up. Unfortunately, you underestimated him.

An arm wraps around your chest and presses your back into something hard and warm at the same time a hand clamps down over your mouth, muffling the instinctual scream that tries to escape your lips.

“Oh, what do we have here?” His British accent coos in your ear. “Now, love, don’t struggle. I’m not going to hurt you.”

He loosens his grip and slowly moves to your front, removing his hand from your mouth. 

“See?” His hands are empty, except for a little dirt, and his eyes – brown, you notice – are light and curious. A smile plays on his thin lips, something more akin to curiosity than amusement evident in the slight tilt of his head.

“I didn’t see anything,” you rush out quickly.

“Oh, I know you didn’t,” he shrugs, “because there’s nothing to see. Just me with a shovel in the forest.”

“With blood on your shirt,” you add before you think better of it and clamp your lips shut.

“That isn’t evidence of wrongdoing, though,” he points out, his slight smile widening to a lopsided grin. “But what is a lovely darling like you doing this far into the forest?”

“Running.”

“Yes, I quite noticed that. But before that?”

“I was running. On the path,” you explain, “but I got a little lost.”

“Terrible,” he hums. “The only thing to do is lead you back to the path, then, love.” 

He steps to the side and gestures you to follow him.

“That’s it? You lead me back to the path and then what?” You question as you take steps behind him.

“Nothing comes after. Why do you Americans always expect someone is going to kill you?” He looks over his shoulder and you deadpan him, raising your eyebrows as if to call out his obvious bullshit. “Okay, strange man in the woods with a bloody shirt and shovel, I can kind of see it. But, really. I don’t even have a weapon on me.”

“Don’t need one. Plenty of ways to kill someone without a weapon,” you point out. Once again, you regret your quick wit and smart mouth until you hear him laugh.

“You sound like you’ve got some knowledge in that area. Tell me, love, are you a killer? You hardly seem the type,” he teases as the trees thin, the path coming into view in the distance.

“Tell me, love,” you repeat, “would you admit to being a killer if asked by a stranger leading you out of the woods?”

“You’ve got me again,” he notes as he stops. 

It doesn’t escape your notice that he’s paused behind a large tree that shields him from the path. You take a few steps to the side of the tree to make sure you’re visible before turning to face him again. “Thank you for taking me back to the trail.”

“If I may be so bold,” he starts as he reaches a hand in his pocket.

You tense up and prepare to bolt to the path when he pulls out his hand, a small card tucked into his fingers. 

“You are a remarkable person from what I’ve seen and I’d like to offer the invitation of having a chat over coffee or drinks one evening. My number is on here,” he explains as he hands over a card with his name, email, and cell phone number, “if you’d like to take me up on it. If not, we can forget this ever happened.”

You smile as you take the card from his outstretched hand and look down at it. “I’ll think about it, Buck.”

He nods at you before heading back the way you came, into the denser part of the forest that hides his questionable actions. As he disappears from view, you look down at his card again and grin.

He swirls the brandy, a vintage gifted from Aveline. Usually Grant would save it for company but an exceptionally lonely night deserved something better than cheap ale from Lowtown that tasted like piss. The parchment is well worn, folded and unfolded into his inner breast pocket. He spent too much time idly touching the paper, coveting it as if he were back living at Gamlen’s and it was a note for gold.

Another swirl of the brandy and a long sip, it burns his throat on the way down. No one is here to see it so he ventures holding the letter to his face, inhaling the smell of paper and ink for any lingering scent of Carver. There is none, of course, and it just leaves him feeling dumb.

He places it on the table and drains the rest of his glass. His eyes close and he tries to conjure his brother’s image in the darkness. Every day it seems to get harder to see Mother… Bethany... Father. But Carver is still here. Even in the absence of letters, he has to believe it. An image of dark hair and blue eyes.

He grips the glass and clings to the image, paper crumpling in his other hand as he clenches it tight. Where are you? Are you safe? Are you somewhere in the Deep Roads again?

Abruptly the vision in his eyes changes from Carver before him to Carver, sick and dying. Anders desperate pleas to the Wardens as Hawke held his brother. Another image: Bethany torn apart by an ogre. And another: Mother, horribly malformed and raised like an undead. Father, that once strong and impenetrable figure, pale and sickly on his deathbed.

Yet more images flood, Feynriel made Tranquil, the mages he’d sent to the Gallows that had never appeared again, the cries of a mother separated from her child in Lowtown as he watched silently while the Templars took the boy away.

He balls his hand into a fist, the letter crumbling with it. The burn of the brandy echoes in him, he feels it all over — the pit of his stomach, deep in his chest — and finally it spills into his hands in a fervent flame. The parchment stands no chance in the destruction. It burns into ash and tears threaten to sting his eyes.

Grant shouts through gritted teeth, a fiery frustration. The flame doesn’t stop, he wants to fling it from himself.

What have you done? He hears it in Carver’s voice. Accusatory and angry. His mind supplies Carver’s indignant anger at Grant’s hesitation to bring him on the expedition. Would he still be safe in Kirkwall if he hadn’t?

Grant shouts again and unclenches his grip. All he can do is destroy. Force magic erupts from his hand and sends the empty glass of brandy flying and shattering on the floor.

He had been right. He’d found Bly, found him where he knew Bly would have wanted to be, and he’d kneeled in front of those two graves and begged for forgiveness. For not being fast enough, for not listening to Fives, for not being there. The rumours had been right; Bly had been on Felucia, but he was already gone.

Someone had gone through the trouble of burying both the Jedi and the Commander, had known Bly well enough to know that he’d want to be buried with his Jedi, and Rex had wondered how long it could have possibly been - how the rumours could have been sparked.

Then he’d picked up Bly’s bucket, intent on giving his  ori’vod   one final  kov’nyn while he said his Remembrances, and he’d seen the blinking light of an activated signal.

Someone had staged it. Someone had known that a free clone would come looking if a signal was picked up, and had planted a trap at the same time as they buried Rex’s brother.

He hadn’t even had time to pull out his blasters before the Purge Trooper had been bearing down on him.

Rex doesn’t know how long he’s been unconscious since the trooper stunned him, he doesn’t know  why he was taken alive, all he knows is that there are stun cuffs humming around his wrists and the Purge Trooper has him slung effortlessly over his shoulder like he were nothing more than a sack of tubers. Rex is almost a little offended; he knows he’s lost weight since starting his hunt, knows that he hasn’t had the chance to eat the way that his metabolism demands when he’s not on Seelos where Gregor can fuss over him and shove food that tastes like ash down his throat - he has no doubt that his brother can cook, and cook well, but Rex just doesn’t have the energy to taste what he makes, just goes through the motions of chewing and swallowing to make Gregor happy and reduce Wolffe’s stress - but he hadn’t thought he’d lost enough mass to make it easy on the clone carrying him. He’s slung over a surprisingly soft pauldron, staring foggily down at the Purge Trooper’s swaying kama, and he wonders if he knows this trooper, wonders if he could knock the bucket off and place their face.

Maybe he could sway them away from the chip’s programming.

“Commander.” A voice Rex doesn’t recognize, can’t see, says, and the Purge Trooper pauses, gait skipping slightly. “What are you doing?”

“I’ve captured a traitor to the Empire, Sir.” The Purge Trooper says drolly, like they were annoyed at the interruption. “I’m taking the clone to the brig, so that it can be transferred to Kamino for repairs and reconditioning.”

Rex’s stomach drops, heart fluttering in fear. If he was taken back to Kamino, the Longnecks would put the chip back in his head, and everything that made him  Rex  would be gone again. Panic flares in his mind like a heavy fog, threatening to drown him with the memories of staring down his blaster at Ahsoka’s scared face and not recognizing her as his  vod’ika and Commander. He hadn’t seen her as anything but a target, someone to execute - a traitor, not even a person, and if he hadn’t warned her before being dragged under in that split second of horrified realization that Fives had been right, then she’d likely be dead.

“Trooper,” The Purge Trooper’s superior sounds annoyed, like they were dealing with a child that kept bringing feral animals into their bed. It’s almost the exact tone of voice Rex had to use when Tup had tried to slip a  ‘therapy animal’  onto the  Resolute. “You know your orders. Any rogue clone is to be  executed, not detained. If you continue to ignore regulations, I’ll have no choice but to have you returned for retraining.” The Imperial sighs, sounding tired. “I’ve already been far too lenient with your…  defectiveness … because of your skills.”

“CT-7567 is an exemplary soldier, sir, and can be put to use once repairs are complete.” The Purge Trooper argues, and Rex lets out a punchy little breath of shock where he’s still playing dead on the trooper’s shoulder. “He’s one of the best, General.”

  They know who he is.

“And  that’s  what you claimed the last time.” The Imp growls, “Right before CT-9021 destroyed itself  and  the transport it was on. That wasn’t even the first time either. Execute the clone and dispose of it, it’s  my position on the line if I allow your defect to cause any more damage to the Empire.”

The Purge Trooper’s entire body shudders at the order, and Rex’s hands clench against the other clone’s thigh. There’s a stun baton hanging off of the trooper’s hip, if he could reach it, Rex could possibly try to fight his way out of the situation he’s found himself in. But there’s an entire cruiser between him and escape, a cruiser he doesn’t know how to navigate with an unknown amount of Stormtrooper, of which is an unknown percentage of chipped vode, and there’s active stuff cuffs around his wrists.

“Sir, the Empire would lose a powerful asset-”

“CC-2224,  execute the traitor.”

Rex jolts, and it’s not just because he’s been dropped unceremoniously onto the floor. His head is ringing, his chest aches from the harsh landing so soon after taking on a fully armoured Purge Trooper, but all he can think is that it’s  Cody .

Codycodycody  - he’s here, he was just holding Rex. He had Cody within his grasp, after five years of desperately searching for him, looking for any sign that his  ori’vod had survived Order 66. Cody had been collecting unchipped clones, bringing them back to the Empire despite his orders to kill them. The big brother that had found Rex hidden away from the eyes of the Kaminoans all those years ago is still there, still thinking underneath the thrall of the chip, still trying to protect any  vod he could, just like how he had once promised to protect Rex from decommissioning.

Cody is staring down at him from behind the glowing red visor of a Purge Trooper, Rex can see the reflection of his wide eyes in the glossy black of his armour. He barely notices the blaster being leveled at him, too caught up with desperately trying to see his brother underneath the unfamiliar helmet.

“Cody.” His voice breaks -  gods, it must have been Cody who buried Bly, Cody who was probably one of the few people who truly understood the position Bly had found himself in when he’d fallen in love with someone he could never have. Clad in armour so different from those that Cody had chosen, had so lovingly painted to represent a part of him that the Longnecks would have never allowed, Cody just stares back. “Cody - it’s  you.” He’s almost too relieved to see him to feel the fear of his imminent execution. “You’re  alive.” Rex’s voice is bordering on reverent, but he can’t bring himself to care. It had been five years since he had last seen his brother. “Force - I’ve been looking everywhere for you -” he lets out a faint laugh, “- of course  you would be the one to find me instead.” His eyes flicker down momentarily, to look at the blaster aimed for his chest, shaking faintly, and a bitterly sad smile lifts his lips. “Well. I doubt this is the meeting either of us had in mind.” Rex raises his gaze once more to the expressionless helmet his brother was wearing, face illuminated in crimson.

If he were going to die, he’d rather it be looking into Cody’s eyes.

“It’s okay, Cody.” He soothes, “It’s okay. It’s not you - I don’t blame you.” Cody’s body shivers, “I love you,  ori’vod.”

Cody’s entire body jerks, twists, and Rex’s acceptance falls away to shock as his brother swings around to face the Imperial in white. The blaster fires, and the General drops, a smoking hole in their chest, their expression a dying mask of stunned confusion.

“Cody?”

“-execute the traitor.” Cody’s mumble is barely audible through his bucket, as his shaking hands fumble to throw his blaster as far away as possible. “Execute the traitor to the Empire. CT-7567 is an asset the Empire can’t lose.” He jerks again, movement punchy, as he moves towards Rex now and wordlessly lifts him to his feet. “How many - how many - how many are traitors?”

“Cody?” Rex repeats, stunned, as his brother hauls him through the halls, “What the kriff was  that?”

“General Medenhall was a traitor to the Empire.” Cody mutters, voice frantic. “Putting his own needs above those of the Empire. CT-7567 is an asset the Empire can’t lose. He had too much control on the ship. The others are traitors too.” Rex doesn’t even think that Cody is talking to him, wonders if Cody had ever been talking to him. It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself of his words - or trying to convince the chip.

“Cody you mad genius.” Rex says in numb shock, joy blooming in his chest.

Cody was fighting the chip.

“Good soldiers follow orders.” Cody hisses, grip tightening on Rex’s elbow to the point that it was almost painful, giving him a faint shake, and Rex gets the message to shut up and let his brother concentrate on the chip in his head. He shuts his mouth and lets his older brother drag him through the halls. “My orders were to execute the traitor. General Medenhall was the traitor. The asset needs to be secured.”

No Stormtrooper they pass looks twice at them, none of them seem to pick up that their General had just been killed and that the Purge Trooper that they all carefully don’t look at is muttering to himself. None of them seem to notice that he’s imprisoned in his own mind, fighting desperately against the chains. None of them seem to care that he’s dragging a prisoner behind him to Force knows where.

None of them stop them from reaching the shuttle bay, none of them stop them as Cody leads him onto a ship and closes the ramp behind them.

“Holy kriff Cody.” Rex whispers in awe, “You always were too competent for anyone’s good.”

Cody shakes his head, releasing his arm, but he doesn’t step away. Quivering hands grip at a black helmet, and Cody sways momentarily before he’s ripping off the Purge Trooper bucket and throwing it against the floor with enough force to make it bounce away from them with the sound of cracking plastoid.

For the first time in five years, Rex gets to see his brother’s face.

He looks younger than Rex now, his face is less lined by age, somehow, like he had actually aged  only the five years a natborn would have, but his temples have started to gray. It’s still his brother’s face, still the face that had haunted Rex’s nightmares for the last five years, when he hadn’t known if his brother was alive or dead. His scar is even more faded than it had been the last time he had seen him, had been given the chance to heal, the stress lines still etched into his forehead from scowling at datapads too often.

It really is Cody.

Dark wetness drips from his brother’s nose, tracing across the pained scowl twisting his lips, and his eyes look bloodshot, and Rex wonders how much pain his  ori’vod is in from fighting against his chip and its programming.

Fuck, he doesn’t know if Cody can fly in this state.

His gaze slides to the shock baton at his brother’s waist once more.

Slowly, making sure not to alert him, Rex reaches, curls his fingers around the hilt, and before Cody can react, he’s sliding it free. He activates it quickly, and, with an apologetic wince, the former Captain presses the sparking weapon against the unprotected patch of his brother’s side. Cody is seizing up immediately. He instinctively tries to pull away, but Rex follows. He blocks out the garbled noises of agony his brother releases, ignores the tears tracing through the grime on both of their faces, and he holds it there until Cody slumps, twitching, but blissfully unconscious.

“Sorry, brother.” Rex whispers, fumbling through his brother’s belt until he finds the key to his cuffs, and he’s barely aware of swapping them onto Cody’s wrists instead, as a last resort if he woke up while they were flying. “Sorry.”

Dead to the world, but no longer under the fist of the Empire, Cody doesn’t answer.

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Wei WuXian had been teasing Lan WangJi as per usual, he laughed as he was carried over one shoulder and finally plopped onto the bed. The impact made him gasp through his laughter and he quickly sat and tossed his legs disobediently over the edge of the wooden frame. A smirk pulled at Wei WuXian’s lips as he faced that beautiful man he so admired.

“Lan Zhan~” Wei WuXian cooed and the ever so perfect faced man rested himself before him, and let out a muffled sound.

“Hum…?”

“Let me have your forehead ribbon!” Wei WuXian loved asking for it, he loved the soft change in Lan WangJi’s expression every time he asked. Most of the time he couldn’t tell if it was a look of contempt or something else; either way it was always fun. This time however Lan WangJi  surprised him and reached behind his head untying the ribbon and pulled it away from his forehead. His actions were reluctant, but elegant. The silk pieces floated like feathers off his shoulders as he brought the ribbon down. Wei WuXian instinctively held out his hands and the item was placed over his palms.

Wei WuXian was thrilled, excitement bubbled within him. He still hadn’t said anything about having found out the true meaning behind the ribbon and delighted in his little secret. Lan WangJi ’s fingers pressed the ribbon tightly against Wei WuXian’s warm hands as if timid to actually release it into Wei WuXian’s possession. With a laugh Wei WuXian pulled from his grip and lifted the ribbon to his own forehead. He peaked at Lan WangJi whom cast his gaze away from him, regretful however unable to protest now that it come this far. Then Wei WuXian lowered the fabric over his eyes, tying it loosely behind his head. He couldn’t stop the smile that pulled across his lips as he leaned back on both hands.

“Lan Zhan, would you kiss me?” Wei WuXian didn’t quite know where the words had come from, it shocked him a little. Perhaps curiosity, perhaps he just enjoyed teasing Lan WangJi  so much. He expected Lan WangJi to rip the forehead ribbon away, as he’d now abused the privilege. Lan WangJi should know he was always up to no good. And with the silence and the piercing feeling of his cool gaze Wei WuXian quickly began to laugh, as if it was no big deal and this perhaps was exactly what he expected. He could picture Lan WangJi’s expression; as soft and cool as ever but something in his eyes glistening as if golden fish swam in a frenzy within the pools of blue. Would he use his typical insult? Or would he become more creative this time?

“I’m sorry. Really sorry. HanGuang-Jun, I didn’t mean it. Don’t do it. Please...” He strung the words together speaking quickly through his laughter. Then cool fingers pressed against his cheeks.

Wei WuXian’s voice halted in an instant, Lan WangJi’s warm breath rushing over him and the intoxicating smell of sandalwood reached his nose. He had no time to mutter a thing nor think before those soft lips pressed into his. Tickles like butterfly wings fluttered helplessly over him as well as a sensation of familiarity. When had he felt such a thing before? Wei WuXian’s mind felt dizzy as Lan WangJi had his way. Wei WuXian feared that the arms he supported himself with might buckle and give out.

His mind buzzed with an overflow of thoughts; Was Lan WangJi drunk? Had Lan WangJi secretly drank something without him noticing? How was it that Lan WangJi obeyed him so obediently? Maybe this moment will never end? Then those lips, he couldn’t admit he yearned for, pulled away. Suddenly he felt a little robbed. He’d spent the time overthinking and now it was over. His heart pounded in his chest, his arms shook, still feeling as though his breath had been sucked from him. After a long moment of quiet passed between them, and Wei WuXian’s lips had regained a bit of feeling. He pinched the ribbon between his fingers folding it back just enough to glance with one eye at Lan WangJi, whom had retracted to his previous position, eyes downcast, dark lashes shadowed his eyes.The sight made Wei WuXian’s heart throb.