#foxcody

There's a pause, though Cody isn't naïve enough to assume that means Fox is leaving. It’s Fox. The only one who can give him orders even sometimes is the Supreme Chancellor himself.

No one, really, now that Rex has seen to it that the Supreme Chancellor won't ever be giving another order to anyone.

“Cody,” Fox says, more evenly this time, and he stalks across the tiny bunk, barely a handful of steps, though he still manages to make them look showy, the idiot. Cody snaps his eyes shut, like that will hide anything, but…peekaboo logic seems like the best he can do right now. If he can't see Fox do a double take, maybe what he saw in the mirror earlier was just his imagination.

“Not scared of catching it?” he asks, tries to make it dry and can't quite swallow down the tremor in the words. It’s fine, though. This is just Fox. He’s seen Cody at his very worst. They dragged each other through training, survived Alpha-17, survived half a dozen battlefields that should have killed them before Fox was removed from the 501st and shipped to Coruscant to ride herd on the whole Senate. Fox of all people isn't going to judge Cody for freaking the heck out in private, where it won't damage morale.

Another pause, and then Fox scoffs, dropping to his knees in front of Cody with a creak of stupid, flashy kama. Light fingers skim the edge of Cody's jaw, slide up, hook around the back of his head to cup the curve of his skull, and Cody tries to pretend that the familiar stroke of Fox’s thumb behind his ear isn't almost enough to crack what little composure he has left right down the middle.

“This is what you’re freaking the hell out about?” Fox says derisively, but when he leans in, the thump of his forehead against Cody's is light, doesn’t even sting. He pauses again, his other hand finding the spread of scales that frame Cody's eyes, and he says, almost bemused, “White and gold? Bly's going to knife you for stealing his colors.”

A laugh shakes though Cody, startled out of him, and he opens his eyes because he can't not, doesn’t try to resist as Fox hauls the blanket down and leans in, crowding Cody up against the wall.

“I'm a dragon, Fox,” he says, and his voice maybe cracks a little, but—after the insanity of the day, Cody thinks he’s more than earned it.

“You're a bastard and an idiot,” Fox says promptly, but he wedges himself in against Cody's chest, drags Cody's legs up over his own. The familiar, appreciative squeeze Fox gives his thighs in the blacks is so normal that Cody chokes out a laugh, loops his arms around Fox’s neck, presses his cheek to Fox’s stubbled one.

“And you forgot to shave,” he says, like Fox has ever shaved regularly in his life. 17 used to have to bully him into it, and the bitching wouldn’t stop for hours. “If I get you written up for uniform violations, maybe they’ll finally put you back on the front.”

Fox snorts, pointedly rubbing his stubble against Cody's throat, right where Cody won't be able to hide it and where it will make Rex blush like mad when he sees it. “If I see you turn into a karking white and gold dragon regularly, just to wreck whole Sep battalions, you’re not going to walk straight until the whole kriffing war ends, Cody. Kriff, that was amazing.”

Cody breathes in the smell of sweat and soap and armor, perfectly familiar, and closes his eyes. There's a curling, humming need rooted in his chest, a heady mix of mine and treasure that’s fixed solely on Fox, and having Fox surrounding him, caging him in, hanging on to him—it feels like home.

“Wooley turned into a griffin,” he says into Fox’s warm skin, the words muffled but still incredulous. “Waxer started glowing. I don’t know what the heck is happening to us.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Fox says dismissively, stroking the white scales framing Cody's eyes again. When Cody opens his eyes, Fox is watching him, and his golden-brown eyes are so full of everything they’ve never said that Cody can't quite breathe. “Whatever it is, it’s hitting all the clones, so it’ll get the Guard eventually. And until then, I get to enjoy you looking at me like that.”

Cody swallows, twisting his fingers into the soft, tight curls at Fox’s nape. “Like what? Like you're a headache and a half?”

Fox snorts, but he closes the last few centimeters between them, fits his mouth to Cody's so carefully, so gently that it shakes right through Cody's bones.

Free at last, Cody steals copies of records of any brothers still existing in service to the empire. One number catches his eye: CT-1011. His trembling hands lose their grip and the datapad falls to the floor with a clattering thunk.

‘It’s not possible,’ He thinks to himself feverishly, ‘no… it’s not possible.’ Despite his frantic denials, he knows that it must be so. Somewhere out there, in the past, Fox birthed his child alone and in the Empire’s clutches thinking Cody hated him.