#gallorywrites

What did she even eat for lunch? Does she— or, well, past-her— have plans today? Did Padawan Offee know anything besides the basics of Soresu when Master Unduli took her on originally? If this is real, not the dream she thought it was, not the nightmare she’d feared it being, then have her sudden shields prompted suspicion? If this is real— and the fact that she just threw up is indicating that this probably isn’t a dream— then she has to keep her shields up. She knows that, but she also knows that for a while when she was a padawan her shields had been as leaky as Ahsoka’s got when Skywalker was missing, so her sudden shields could give her away easily. Provided that this truly isn’t any kind of dream or hallucination or vision, but she’s never been prone to visions, not like Ahsoka—

Force sithing hells. Ahsoka.

Her stomach rolls again dangerously, and Barriss hurries to lean back over, waits until her body is finally done. Forces back the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, partially caused by the exertion of her dry-heaving, partially caused by the emotional toll of seeing— of seeing her again.

Oh, Force. Oh karking hells, oh Force, Barriss has the sinking suspicion that this is truly, honestly, real. That she’s actually in the past. Actually been given another chance.

It’s disgusting and unhygienic, but Barriss rests her head against the porcelain basin. Closes her eyes. It’s all too much. Why is she, of all people, the one sent back? Karma? Penance?

Is this to be her punishment? Falling apart in the Temple’s refreshers, a place she’d thought she’d never get to see again? The light all around as she chokes on the Dark Side bubbling up within her, her very existence a betrayal to those she loved, then backstabbed? She knows, she knows that the Force does not punish, but…

Barriss is a traitor, and a liar, and a fool, and the Temple bombing hasn’t happened yet in this timeline, but that doesn’t absolve her, not even close. She led to the death of her fellow Jedi, she personally murdered troopers, just as she’d murdered Trap all those years ago, she framed her best friend because she’d spent years stewing in her fury regarding Ahsoka’s lack of anger after witnessing Barriss gut Trap—

And she’d been stupid enough to think that Ahsoka’s connections could protect her, that Skywalker’s bond with the Chancellor and her Grandmaster being on the Council would soften the blow, that—

A sharp knock on the door interrupts her thoughts. “Barriss? Padawan?”

Kark.

Her former Master’s voice is perfectly controlled, but Barriss can tell that she’s worried. Master Luminara would not have called her ‘Padawan’ if she was not worried. There was always a certain amount of affection in her former Master’s voice whenever she called Barriss that— when introducing her to others, it took the form of pride for the young woman Barriss was growing up to be, when concerned for her wellbeing, it encompassed the question of are you okay, and how can I help— and it’s audible to Barriss right now, just as it always was. There’s that affection in her Master’s voice, soothing the sharp edges of her panic, because Master Luminara loves her and trusts her and cares for her and surely she can help fix this and—

And Barriss had taken advantage of that when she turned her back on everything Master Luminara had ever stood for, and attacked the Jedi Temple. Attacked her home, the place that raised her, that loved her— the place that just hours prior, when she’d been in her cell, staring at Darth Vader standing outside her door— she would’ve done anything to return to.

And in the end, that’s what it truly comes down to, isn’t it? Barriss is a traitor, a betrayer, but— she regrets. She regrets, knows that she would do things differently if she could, and- and it seems she suddenly has an opportunity to do so, an opportunity staring her right in the face. She does not deserve it, but Force hells, since when did anyone get what they deserved?

So if she has the opportunity to make a change, then karking hell, by the Force, she has a moral obligation to herself to do so. To herself, if not to everyone else she wronged in her first life.

Barriss closes her eyes, and breathes in. Breathes out, and opens them, then pushes herself up, off the floor, and tries to smooth down her dress. She doesn’t look in the mirror— knows that she won’t be able to handle seeing Jedi Padawan Barriss Offee, age 14, staring back at her— and goes to open the door.

"Good evening," the man says before Bly can open his mouth. "Do you by chance have something that's memory enhancing? Or maybe some kind of sleep replacement?"

Bly blinks in surprise, puts his knife down. He takes in the bags under the man's eyes, the way he's drumming his fingers against his leg, and internally winces. He's run a coffee shop for long enough to know what it looks like when someone is running on fumes and too much caffeine, and this man could practically be a textbook definition of it. "Sir, I'm pretty sure that selling you any of that right now would kill you, and I'd rather not have to go through a murder investigation right now." Bly pauses, considers that. "Or ever, really, actually. I try to avoid murder investigations."

"Smart," the man says, quickly enough that Bly would wager he's not thinking about what he's actually saying. In his experience, people's brain to mouth filters tend to start failing around 24 hours of no sleep— or after a few days of very bad sleep, if some of the shit Cody said during finals week is any bar to go by. "But if that were to happen— and, disclaimer, this isn't legal advice, no attorney-client relationship is being formed here, consult with your own lawyer if you want legal advice— don't tell the police shit, just lawyer up. All the bullshit pop culture pushes regarding defense attorneys is just that— bull-fucking-shit." A pause, while Bly processes that. Well. It seems like Mr. Exhausted is some kind of lawyer, which does explain the ridiculously fancy everything he's wearing right now. Huh. Interesting. "Why would you get prosecuted if I was the one to be dumb and consume the potion wrong? I mean, assuming that your reluctance to sell isn’t because all the potions you have in the category I asked for are poisonous to humans, as it would make more sense if you just said that to me straight out."

... If Mr. Exhausted is a lawyer, then Bly probably owes Anakin an apology for dismissing his frequent complaints about how much lawyers like to hear their own voices as Anakin simply being annoyed with Obi-Wan instead of an actually somewhat valid critique of the profession. Whoops.

"They’re not poisonous,” Bly reassures him, “ but, in my— admittedly limited— experience, law enforcement tends to assume that if magic is present at a crime scene, magic is also at fault."

The man nods, suddenly looking much more engaged in the conversation. His fingers tap faster on his leg. "And innocent until proven guilty is a standard that only exists in courtrooms, police tend towards guilty until proven innocent in their investigations, which means an investigation could quickly turn to prosecution-- right, yeah, that makes sense, I should’ve known that. Sorry, I'm a bit tired right now. Huh. You know, every day my blood pressure thanks me for not going into criminal law, fucking hell, I don't know how Thire does it. I suspect I would've snapped and murdered a bitch by now if I had to deal with that much fucking bullshit on a daily basis."

Bly takes a moment to... process all that, and blinks at the man. The man, in turn, suddenly winces, and stops the drumming of his fingers. "Fuck, wow, I apologize, that was both irrelevant and inappropriate. God, I have a trial starting in a week and... you know what, I'm just gonna shut up now.” A pause. “Uh, what would you recommend for someone who needs to memorize a lot in a short amount of time?"

The sun is high in the sky when he lands, the planet a peaceful sort of quiet that's only broken by the sound of a bird's croons in the distance as he takes off towards the 462nd's camp. 

 "Commander Faie," Quinlan says the moment he tracks the man down, waves off his salute. "What happened here?" 

 "Sir," General Faie greets, curt, professional as ever, before diving into the report. And it's a blood-filled account, yes, but it's nothing that he hasn't already heard, nothing that explains the way the Force wails in the back of his mind, as haunting as a siren's song, as raw as an open wound. 

 "What about the town?" Quinlan asks after the Commander has finished. It's where the report indicated that Master Krell died, but the report had also said that they'd taken the town, a fact he's seen a disturbing lack of evidence supporting. "Is it under our control?" 

 "Yes sir," Faie says, with a sharp nod. "We finished clearing it last night." 

 Quinlan waits, but Faie doesn't continue. "...Good," Quinlan slowly says once it's clear that the Commander isn't planning on filling the silence. "And the prisoners?" 

 "Taken care of, sir," Faie responds. "Dealt with them in the field back there." He jerks his head backwards to a grassy ravine, and Quinlan turns, looks. The sun is glaring down from above, and it's illuminating the ground strangely, giving the grass a glossy, almost red sheen in the light. 

 Quinlan stares at it. Hears the way the Force wails, the echoes of the whimpers of— children. He hears the echoes of the whimpers of children. 

 Something low in his gut begins to form as an invisible hand seems to clench around his chest, squeezing tight. His next breath is shaky. 

 Surely this is a nightmare. Surely this must not be real. Surely— 

 "I'm sorry, what ?" he makes himself ask, dimly noting that he almost sounds like Obi-Wan. It would be amusing, if this situation was amusing. If amusement was an emotion he was capable of feeling right now. If he was anything but a plethora of horror in human form. 

 "General Krell ordered us to take no prisoners," Faie says. General Krell ordered us to take no prisoners, his mind repeats to him, and— 

 And Force kriffing hells, there's no deceit in his words in the Force, no indication that he's hiding anything. That he's lying. That he's exaggerated. 

 Quinlan— kriff, Quinlan almost feels sick. Nauseous. Woozy with it, the implications of those words more damning than any simple feeling in the Force could be. 

 "We followed our orders. Sir." Faie continues, indifferent to his turmoil. Or maybe just uncaring of it. Quinlan doesn't know. Quinlan doesn't know that he wants to know. "The bodies have been disposed of." 

 Somehow, Quinlan manages to speak. "The people who surrendered?" he hears himself say, voice quiet, his tongue leaden by the horror of it. "Those who were unarmed? Their children ?" 

 Faie blinks at him. For all that his face is blank, he's radiating an almost child-like confusion in the Force, an uncertainty that makes Quinlan want to scream. A strand of dismay is wrapping around his being, because he doesn't know why Quinlan isn't pleased. 

 Not because of the murder. The massacre. No, Faie is uncomfortable because Quinlan isn't pleased . 

 "Yes. We disposed of them." A pause, then— "He told us to take no prisoners, sir," Faie repeats, seemingly at a loss about what to say. Kriff. Quinlan feels the same way. "So we didn't take prisoners." 

 Force. Force . The implications of those words chill him to the core. How many innocents were there? How many people unjustly lost their lives? How many— 

 Kriff . Quinlan opens his mouth to say something, but. But he can't seem to form the words. He closes his mouth, thinks it through. Opens it, and tries again. 

 Fails again. 

 So instead of speaking, Quinlan starts to walk over to the valley. Feels Faie follow a step behind him. Feels the Force's echoes of the massacre increase with every step he takes, sees a glimpse of shiny white clone armor as unarmed beings are herded towards the ravine when he brushes a finger across the ground. 

 General Krell ordered us to take no prisoners, his mind reminds him when he straightens back up. General Krell ordered us to take no prisoners. 

 It is quiet out. The sun shines. The Force wails. And the grass is tinted red. 

 Quinlan reaches the ravine, steals himself. Pulls off a glove. Crouches down to place his bare hand on the blood-stained ground. 

But he can go inside. He can go in and lie back down, can try and close his eyes and fall back asleep.

He doesn’t.

The dream wasn’t… new, exactly. It’s one he’s been having variants of for years, and he’s honestly lost count of how many times he’s woken up to it. Usually, it happens when he’s overheating, but he’s almost certain that wasn’t the case tonight. Cody’s learned, through years of working together as well as this little trip they’re on, that Obi-Wan prefers it cooler, will ruthlessly abuse the AC the moment it gets anything vaguely close to being hot out. It’s a preference that Quinlan seems to either know or share, considering how he’d been the one to set the temperature the moment they got into their hotel room for the night.

So he almost definitely wasn’t overheating. Which… kriffing sucks, if he’s being honest about it, because that means it was just a osik dream done by his osik brain for no good reason. And that thought has a bitter aftertaste to it, because he thought he was getting better, and life doesn't work that way, but--

Cody shakes his head, ignores the way he shivers. He knows how this works. He knows how his brain works. He knows it will never be a linear progression of things being better, knows that one bad night isn’t a horrible setback, and that’s a weight off of his shoulders even if his brain doesn’t want to accept it.

Once, it would've weighed him down regardless. Once, that bitter taste in the back of his throat would've lingered, lingered and built until it was a beast of its own.

But Cody-- Cody's not tired now, per say, but he's older. Wearier. Used to picking his battles, making concessions where he must. Doing the horrible math of human sacrifice. He's-- he's not numb to it now, but he's better at applying a numbing agent, at pushing off the pain until he can afford to let it hit.

Of course, he doesn't have to do that now, though. A bygone skill for a bygone time unless he's about to go looking for another army to join, and although at times he aches with missing the close companionship his vode and him would build in the trench, he doesn't want to go back. Usually. When it's not three in the morning, when he's not out on the balcony of a formerally-Separatist planet while Obi-Wan and Quinlan sleep away the night inside.

He-- he doesn't really want to go back though. He doesn't. He's just overtired and missing his brothers, unmoored without his life's purpose driving him--

Kriff it.

Cody gives in and calls Rex.

+++

"Rise and shine, sunshines," Vos-- Quinlan says next morning, bedhead ridiculous as he grins at both Obi-Wan and Cody, and Obi-Wan hits him in the face with a pillow before Cody can even consider asking him to.

(Truly, they make a good team, even now, even off the field in territory they aren’t familiar with, on a mission with no set endpoint.)

Fact-- Jedi General Quinlan Vos wasn't actually supposed to be on this road trip at all-- not until a few days ago, at least, when a call from General Secura had interrupted their dinner, and they'd found themselves on a surprise rescue mission.

Cody would've been more irritated about it, except for the fact that Quinlan Vos is both uniquely talented at getting on Obi-Wan's nerves without truly angering him, and Cody...

Well, while Cody might not have worked with Quinlan closely during the war, but they did work together. And they did so often enough that Quinlan grew on him. Similar to a somewhat rude, partially-telepathic flirty fungus, which is a description he hates the moment he thinks of it. Great job, self.

Regardless of that, Quinlan is here now, and sputtering at Cody's general in mock-offense as Cody contemplates actually getting up to check his comm.

And last night, he'd finally gone to bed and actually gotten a few more hours of sleep after he gave in and talked to Rex, after setting up the call so that they could talk until they fell asleep without hanging up. It’s a luxury Cody normally wouldn't allow himself, but they're currently travelling on the Republic's bill, and he's feeling a bit spiteful. A bit thrilled that he can just spend money and not have it feeding back into that kriffing contract that's been hovering over his head for years now, that kriffing contract that he never thought he'd escape until--

Until, well. He did. They all did. It's been months, and it still doesn't feel quite real. It still feels like everything he does is going to feed into a bill he could never hope to pay, going to loop him in further--

But it won't. And calling Rex last night had been a good decision. Had been a good, no shit decision, a fact he can recognize now that he's actually gotten some sleep, now that he isn't tied up in his own 1am melodrama.

"Nice shot," Cody says dryly as he finally forces himself to sit up and look for his holocomm. Knowing Rex, the situation is probably that Rex woke up already and ended the call upon doing so, but knowing Cody's luck, the situation might be that Fox somehow got ahold of Rex's comm and is recording blackmail material this very moment. Cody looks around, and grabs his comm, and--

Knowing Rex wins out this time, thank the Force. Cody lets out a sigh of relief as he sees that while there's a message waiting for him from Rex's number, the call is over, and his phone is off.

"Thank you, Cody," Obi-Wan replies, perfectly polite in a way that Cody knows-- mostly from observing his General's interactions with General Skywalker-- is intended to aggravate the listener, and Cody presses his lips together tight as Quinlan starts sputtering once again. "I try."

A moment of silence. Then-- "Bullies," Quinlan declares. "Bullies, the both of you, the 212th is led by bullies, and I hate you both."

"You're the one who decided to stay with us, s-" Cody stops midword, winces faintly. Yeah, there's no good way to play that one off, Force. “Well, you chose this.”

Sith hells. He's gotten better at actually calling Obi-Wan by name, at leaving off the honorifics, but… he's been on the road with Obi-Wan for weeks, and he's been with Quinlan for days.

Which means that little slip is… understandable, even if it's irritating to kark it up. Even if the mistakes are human and all. After all, he’s been expected to be better than that for years, so messing up burns, even though doing so isn't really a matter of life and death anymore.

Maturely, Quinlan grins and sends him a rude gesture in response. Cody doesn't snort, but it's close. The nerve of him, really.

(And he only winces a little with how close that snort was to actually getting out-- with the realization of just how little control over his own reactions he has these days-- which is progress. Hell, it’s good progress, and he has to remind himself of that, because his brain still automatically flips to panic when he thinks of how much his actions would terrify his younger self. When he thinks of the consequences these same actions could’ve had years ago. Would’ve had years ago.)

+++

Fact-- Quinlan likes Arthuria. Really likes it.

It's not hard to understand why. A society where there's almost always a layer of fabric preventing psychic echoes from being formed on objects must be a breath of fresh air to him, doubly so because of the societal custom of wearing gloves. Quinlan stands out here, sure, but not for the usual reasons. Not because he had to choose personal safety over blending in.

Back when they were cadets, Rex had enjoyed fitting in as well-- it was a novelty for him, with a physical mutation while on Kamino. While the rest of them had been desperate to stand out, Rex had never had the option of doing anything different.

And Coruscant is a more forgiving place than Kamino, the Jedi kinder than their trainers ever had been, but being a Jedi is enough to make one stand out when out of the Temple, and Quinlan-- if what Faie has told him is correct, at least-- is an oddity among the Jedi.

So it's understandable, even though it's not personally relatable for Cody. And Quinlan's comfort is infectious, enough so that it has both Obi-Wan and Cody himself relaxing.

Which is good, especially because it’s only after a few more minutes that Cody makes another observation.

Fact-- Obi-Wan doesn't like it here.

Or-- not that exactly, not quite dislike, but-- there’s something here that’s making him tense, something that has the line of his shoulders straight and his High Coruscanti accent more pronounced than usual. And it’s not like Cody isn’t a bit more aware of his manners right now, as they walk through crowds in a city built off of them, but for once, he’s more comfortable than Obi-Wan. And that’s rare-- off the top of his mind, the Citadel is the only time he can think of Obi-Wan being more rattled than he was, and the Citadel was a known Jedi killer, one of their monsters underneath the bed.

He bumps shoulders lightly with Obi-Wan as they take a turn, questioning but not quite prodding, inquisitive but not demanding, a damn sight softer than he’d ever been during the war. Requesting information the civilian way was something he was... getting better at, thankfully. He’s been dealing with Gree’s obscure rants for years now, of course, but even when compared to Gree civvies talk a kriffing ton, about half a dozen things that don’t matter said for every question answered.

And taking that into account, it’s certainly a good thing he’s stuck so close to his General in the aftermath of the war, as Obi-Wan is the only non-vode he’s met who can get horribly off-topic without annoying the osik out of Cody, which is almost certainly a large part of why he’s gotten rather good at softening his questions so quickly.

(Threepwood has not. Threepwood really, really has not. Wooley’s been forwarding him updates, and each one is somehow worse than the last. He probably should not find that quite as amusing as he does, but-- both Obi-Wan and Quinlan had laughed when last night’s message popped in, so… he’s giving himself a pass.)

“I’m fine,” Obi-Wan starts, apparently deciding to answer his silent inquiry, and while Cody restrains himself from rolling his eyes at the obvious lie, Quinlan is not quite as courteous. ‘Really, I am. I just came here as a Padawan once. I was… remembering, I suppose.”

Cody and Quinlan exchange a glance, and Cody inclines his head briefly, letting him take the lead. This is a subject Quinlan knows more about than Cody does, and he’s fully aware that hes probably way out of his depth here.

“Well, your remembering looked quite a lot like moping to me,” Quinlan says, bringing his arm around Obi-Wan’s shoulders just to ruin the moment by leaning all of his weight onto Obi-Wan, causing them both to lurch to the side.

“Vos!”

“-- and moping is not allowed in my presence.”

“Vos you bastard you are causing a scene--”

“Oh, you want me to cause a scene? Because I can show you a scene, baby.”

“Vos!”

Cody steps neatly out of the way of the two, glances at them, then glances away. It’s good to see his General like this, even if a small part of him is currently cringing away as the secondhand embarrassment threatens to creep in. He pushes it away with pure force of will, because for kriff’s sake, he fought in a war, he’s faced worse than a little breaking of societal norms.

(Determinedly, Cody thinks about that, and not about the fact he just realized that Quinlan might be joining Obi-Wan on the list of natborns I actually enjoy hearing talk about dumb things, because the implicatons of that revelation are implications Cody feel are better processed when drunk and with Ponds there to act as the voice of reason. Or at least the voice of sobriety. Reason might be too much to ask of Ponds.)

+++

The ship they've been travelling in is a small thing-- not unbearably so, in that Cody has dealt with worse, but bad enough that he’s certainly not complaining about the breathing room the hotels they’ve stayed in grant him. The hotel rooms grant him distance, privacy, and that’s something Cody values more than most clones, but--

There’s something about the cramped quarters of the ship that has been growing on him. Not as a permanent residence, but-- maybe another trip, another time. He doesn't hate the thought of it. He’s more… neutral to it. Neutral, leaning towards positive.

He told Rex last night that there was a chance he might call again, if Rex didn’t mind, and Rex had called him a dumbass, which… okay, fair. If Rex was unsure about if it was okay to call Cody in the middle of the night for reassurance, Cody would be saying that he’s a dumbass too. Lovingly, of course. But an absolute dumbass.

So while he’s considering texting Rex and telling him that he’s fine, that they don’t need to call tonight, it’s not for the same reasons he was hesitant last night, See, he doesn’t really need to and the lack of privacy here means there's no way he could hide the call from the Jedi, but--

Well, he doesn’t need to hide it either. Obi-Wan and Quinlan know he’s been in contact with multiple members of the 212th, with his batchmates and his former squadmates and his fellow Command Class.

Point is, he doesn’t have to mask his care anymore, doesn’t have to maintain the level of distance he did in the war. It might even be a net positive if he called, as Obi-Wan would probably enjoy talking to Rex, honestly, the two of them have always gotten on well. And Quinlan-- well, he’s got no idea if Quinlan knows Rex or not, but there's a traitorous part of his brain that wants Quinlan to know Rex. That wants Rex to like Quinlan, wants Rex to look at him and approve of--

Force kriffing hells, he’s so pathetic, it’s almost laughable. The war ends, a few possibilities open up, and suddenly his brain is taking everything to the kriffing max.

But-- it’s a tempting idea, now that he’s had it. A persistent one too, and he finds himself thinking of it as he sits at the small breakfast bar in the kitchen, as Quinlan cooks and Obi-Wan banters with him and Cody tries to deal with the fact that Obi-Wan’s arm is pressed up against his own, tries to deal with the fact that their hands are just inches apart--

Oh, Rex is going to give him so much osik for this. So much osik.

For some reason, he doesn’t hate that thought as much as he probably should. The opposite, really, and kriff it, kriff it, he wants to do it and he knows if he waits he’ll just talk himself out of it--

He'll never admit it where Cody can hear him-- he, Caladian, and General Kenobi are much too pleased with themselves for somehow pulling off that nexuosik half-cocked "plan" of theirs, Thire refuses to give either of them anymore satisfaction than they've already got-- but he's more than a little impressed, and more than a little thankful, that they managed to pull it off. Sure, it's not finalized yet-- after all, the wheels of the Republic's courts turn slower than a bantha in a sandstorm, so it'll probably be years until they actually see the end verdict-- but Thire's already seen a substantial improvement in his day-to-day life, and he knows he's not the only one.

After all, Thire isn't the only one who's been dragged to the Jedi Temple's gardens by the bitey little Force sensitive osik that's apparently General Mundi's youngest daughter. It was Bacara who roped him into this after the tiny youngling Jedi named Killi-Adi-Mundi tracked him down, Bacara who decided that if he was being dragged to some weird lineage-family reunion, he wasn't suffering alone. And since Neyo wasn't yet on planet, he'd elected to have Thire join him instead.

This is the first time they've spent any time together without Neyo there to mediate since Neyo had somehow roped Thire into their relationship, and it's not exactly how he'd imagined bonding with Bacara, but it could be going much worse. After all, it's not everyday that one gets to watch a three year old bully the Galactic Marine into letting her sit on his shoulders while General Yoda speaks riddles about the power of the small.

Thire's worked enough with General Yoda over the years to be relatively nonplussed by this. Bacara, it seems, has not.

"You're not half as funny as you think you are," Bacara grumbles, crankily opening one eye to glare at Thire while Killi starts pulling past-regulation length hair into tiny ponytails that she seems to be securing with the Force. It's quite the impressive display of power from a cadet. "I can see you laughing."

"I'm not laughing," Thire says drily, rolling his eyes. "You sure those new fancy glasses of yours are the right prescription?"

Bacara moves like he's about to make a rather rude gesture in Thire's direction, before seemingly remembering the presence of his General, his General's former padawan, his General's former padawan's padawan, his General's child, and General Yoda, and sticking his tongue out instead. Thire doesn't laugh at him. He doesn't. Coruscant taught him better self control than that.

General Seirr's padawan however, a young Human girl with long black twists of hair and a fondness for purple, seems to have completely missed the Jedi equivalent of those lessons and bursts out laughing.

General Mundi and Bacara proceed to let out identical put-upon sighs, which just sets the shiny Jedi off even more.

"When is Commander Neyo supposed to arrive again?" General Seirr asks pleasantly, turning to look at Thire. And Thire opens his mouth to respond, but he doesn't end up saying anything, because right as he's about to speak, he's cut off by a sudden flash of fabric, and Commander Pix's laughter turns into a high-pitched squawk as her hood is suddenly pulled down over her eyes by an invisible force.

Thire's not quick enough to bite back his laughter at that one, and the Commander's petulant tone when she speaks just sets him-- and General Mundi's brat-- off further. "Ma-ster," Commander Pix complains, as she tries and fails to take her hood off. "Master!"

"Yes, Padawan mine?" General Seirr asks a moment later, seemingly letting go off her hood as he does, if Commander Pix's surprised squeak when she manages to throw it off is any indication. "Is there a problem?"

She pouts. "You're the worst," she says, turning to General Mundi. "Master Ki, tell Master Tarr that he's the worst."

General Mundi raises an eyebrow. "Tell Master Tarr that he's the worst..."

Thire scrunches his eyebrows together, not quite getting what the General is implying, and a brief glance at Bacara confirms that he's not the only one confused. Commander Pix seems to get it though.

"Master Ki, tell Master Tarr that he's the worst, please?"

Face as neutral as ever, General Mundi turns to look at General Seirr. "Tarr, I'm afraid I must inform you that you're the worst," he says blandly.

Thire covers his mouth to hide his snicker, scoots closer to Bacara so he can whisper to him. "You shebs, you didn't tell me your General was funny."

Bacara glares at him, but doesn't react to the fact that Thire's move left their legs pressed together, which is a win in Thire's book. "Sorry, did you want me to include that in one of my official reports? Yes, Admiral, we managed to hold the line, but we require more supplies. General Mundi made a joke today. Any chance the 327th can reinforce us?"

Thire snorts, elbows him. "You know what I meant," he says pointedly, and Bacara just sighs, which is another point for Thire, if Neyo is to be believed. And perhaps he does it because he's riding high on that success, perhaps the end of the war emboldened him, but Thire takes the opportunity to knock their shoulders together too, grins in response to the unimpressed look Bacara sends him.

Perhaps this whole relationship thing will go better than he was expecting, Thire thinks, and that kind of positivity, that kind of optimism, is something he's hasn't gotten to experience in a long, long time. Perhaps this will go well. Perhaps he can actually fit into the weird mismatched families that Bacara and Neyo managed to create, perhaps he's not the intruder he's been worrying that he'd be.

The feeling of hope sits oddly in his chest, and it feels like a risk, like he's leaving himself exposed, but... it's not bad. It's the opposite, really.

+ Then +

Six Months Ago

 The war is over, so it makes sense for this to happen. — Fox saw this coming. He did. He did.

He saw it coming and he tried to prepare himself but it's suddenly becoming evident to him that that's just another endeavor he failed in.

It's not like he wasn't expecting it. There's a world of a difference between mid-war hookups, and some kind of relationship in the aftermath, a world of a difference between stolen kisses on leave, and something more substantial, something out in the open.

Still, he doesn't want it. Doesn't want to hear them say it, doesn't want to have to accept reality.

What he wants has never mattered though, so he doesn't expect it to start mattering now.

+ Now +

"Hey," Fives says into the silence of the room, his voice quiet, and Rex ducks his head to hide his smile, turns to the grocery bags instead. The greeting isn't for him, but his heart thumps uncomfortably in his chest at it anyway.

It's sweet. It's domestic in a way that Rex had dreamed about during the war, but never actually seriously considered to be a possibility. It's Fives.

Fives has made his heart race for years. This isn't a new thing. Force, this is a predictable reaction for Rex, one he'd see coming from miles away.

Still. It's... nice. To say the very least.

Also predictably, Fox doesn't move. Doesn't change the pattern of his breathing either. If Fives hadn't just said hello, Rex would think Fox asleep, but Fives wouldn't risk waking Fox with a greeting, so Fives must be certain that he's awake.

"It's one in the morning," Fox finally replies, voice irritable. Rex rolls his eyes at that, reaches to put the iced cream in the freezer, and Fives laughs, a clear, joyful sound. Puts his bags down on the counter, and goes over to their bed, leaning down to kiss the lump that is Fox covered with blankets on what is presumably his head.

"Good to see you too, babe."

 + Then +

 Fives feels a little like he's been stranded, marooned. Thrown into a situation that he's not prepared for, that he can't bear, and told good luck.

They all three need to talk, that's true, but— Fox is looking back at them, and he's silent, face unreadable, hands behind his back. A parody of parade rest, a perfect soldier, unfeeling, uncaring. And suddenly all Fives can feel is fear. Regret. An overwhelming desire to create a false emergency, to do something to push this conversation off.

Fox doesn't wear the truth on his face. This isn't the truth. Fives knows it's not the truth, knows Fox better than that. But Fox has seemed off since the war ended, slowly pulling himself away from them, distancing, and— that hurts. That hurts, and he doesn't know what is going to come from this conversation, doesn't know what Fox wants. Doesn't know if Fox's freedom will involve leaving Rex and Fives behind.

They need to talk about this. Need to decide how to proceed now, now that the war is over, and the GAR is no more, now that they aren't duty bound like before. And Fives is an ARC Trooper, so he won't run. He cares about both Fox and Rex, so he won't hide.

But he feels unsteady already. More than unsteady. And he doesn't know if he'll win if he chooses to stand his ground and fight.

 + Now +

 The shriek Fives lets out when Fox yanks him onto the bed is damn near the funniest karking thing Fox has heard all day, and that's impressive, considering the fact that earlier he had a comm call with Cody who decided to show him footage of General Kenobi trying and failing to befriend the zillobeast while General Windu looked on from the side.

Fox hears a snort from outside the covers— presumably Rex— and grins to himself, adjusting his position on the bed so that he's sitting up behind 80kg of flailing ARC trooper, instead of being crushed beneath him.

"You— kriffing son of a shabuir," Fives spits out when he manages to free his head from the blankets, looking up at Fox with a glare on his face. Considering the fact that his hair is a mess, and he's still wrapped up in blankets, it's not that intimidating

"I don't think my cloning vat was kriffing anyone's buir, Trooper. Do you have evidence to back up your claim?"

"I am going to shove your evidence—"

"Actually, I don't think it's possible for cloning vats to have sexual relations at all, so I'm afraid that your accusation is based off of inaccurate intel."

Rex is full out laughing now, and Fox feels his lips inadvertently twitch up into a smile. Rex doesn't laugh often enough, and prying one out of him is no small victory.

"You're the worst," Fives complains half-heartedly, flopping his head back onto the blankets. "The worst."

"You say the kindest things," Fox replies, and he leans down to kiss the pout off of Fives' face. "You planning on joining us anytime soon, Captain?"

 + Then +

 "Fox—" Rex says, and his mouth catches on the word, on the space between Fox's name and whatever the kriff he was going to have come after that, and he breaks off, let's the word die alone in the air.

The conversation has been going in circles, none of them quite managing to say what they mean, and it's exhausting. Fives is blunt in a way that Fox can't believe, and Fox says six different things with a single word that fly over Fives' head, and they've been getting better at communicating, but— better isn't enough when emotions are fraught like they are right now. Better isn't enough when Fox is clamming up, when Fives is pushing to try and get a reaction that's not cool indifference, and Rex is left in the middle, playing code breaker for them both.

Fives and Fox have never served together, and Rex knows that's part of the problem. They're weapons, born and raised for the battlefield, and their first language is the fight, is desperation and sacrifice, tough calls and the resulting remembrances. Rex learned how Fives spoke on Rishi, cemented the knowledge in the campaigns after, and he learned how Fox spoke during their training missions as cadets, during ARC training with A-17 and Vhonte, and during the early days of the war, before Fox was the lead Commander of the Guard, and therefore chained to Coruscant.

So Rex has worked with them both, knows them as he knows everyone who he's served with, but Fives and Fox don't have that bond. Fives and Fox don't have that bond, because Fox had just become the head of the Guard when Domino joined the 501st, because the 501st rarely worked with the Guard as it was. It's Rex who pulled them together, and he'll never regret it, but it's times like this that have him acutely aware of it.

They're both trying. They're both trying, and that's a lot, and Rex is trying too, and he wants to open his mouth and say a million different words and have them be the right ones, wants to bury himself in his own arms and let himself collapse, wants to take a step forward and not have Fox take a step back. He wants, and—

For a brief moment, he kind of thinks he's going to cry.

All three of them worked so hard to get here, and with their jobs it was never going to be easy, but if Rex manages to kark it up because his mouth runs faster than his brain and he forgets to double check every word that comes out of his mouth, he'll never forgive himself.

They have to figure this out. They have to. Rex doesn't want to even consider the alternative.

 + Now +

 "I was being responsible," Rex says, and Fives can't help it, he laughs. The complaint in Rex's voice is audible, and it's a far cry from his usual demeanor. "If either of you would like to help..."

"I would, but I'm kind of trapped at the moment," Fives replies, trying and failing to wiggle out of the blanket cocoon. Fox snorts, then tries and fails to look innocent when Fives glares at him.

"Since your big, bad ARC trooper has been taken down by a fearsome quilt, I suppose I can help," Fox says, untangling himself from the sheets to walk over to Rex. His footsteps are silent, and Fives flops over so he can watch the two of them, their figures barely visible in the darkness of the night. The only reason they have any light at all is because their blackout curtains are a smidge too small for their windows, allowing some of Coruscant's night light to peek in— a mistake that Fox has been complaining about since he and Thire first got and put up the curtains, yet still hasn't fixed.

It's because of Rex, Fives is pretty sure. Umbara was dark, and Umbara was a nightmare, and he's pretty sure Zygerria got pitch black at night as well, and Fives knows that Fox has noticed Rex's reluctance to make a room completely dark. Knows that, because Fox had pulled him aside one day and asked about it, back when they were Fox-and-Rex and Rex-and-Fives, not Fox-and-Rex-and-Fives. It had been the first time Fox had acknowledged Fives outside of a purely professional setting, and considering that Fives hadn't expected the Commander to even know his name, it was a memorable experience.

He'd known that Fox and Rex weren't exclusive, but he hadn't expected Fox to actually give a damn about who Rex was hooking up with when off Coruscant. From the way Rex had described their relationship to him, Fives got the impression that while Rex might've been interested in something more, Fox definitely wasn't. That Fox was barely interested in being friends with Rex, nevermind any kind of romantic relationship.

That first interaction with Fox had forced him to reevaluate that assumption dramatically.

After all, there are things that you do for hookups, and there are things that you do for people you love, and... well, Fives has never tracked down the lovers of any of his own past hookups to ask them about how to make said hookup most comfortable.

Fives watches as the shadow that is Fox comes up behind Rex, stealing a bag from his hands, and sweeping out Rex's elbow range when Rex makes a noise of protest. "I'm helping," he says, his voice sing-song as he saunters to the fridge, and Fives laughs when Rex retaliates by taking the carton of iced cream he's holding and putting it on the back of Fox's neck, causing the latter to yelp. "Hey!"

"There are more grocery bags on the counter, you didn't have to take mine!"

 + Then +

 The fact that neither Rex nor Fives are just flat out telling him that they want him gone is infuriating.

It's infuriating, because it's hope-inducing, and Fox has spent so long trying not to hope. It's infuriating, because he can take the truth, he doesn't need them to dance around it like he's fragile, like he's going to break. It's infuriating, because if it's not infuriating then it will undo him, and Fox is barely keeping his composure as it is.

They've never been good at communicating, Rex and him, have brushed up against each other's jagged edges since they were cadets and an eight year old Kote was glaring them down as they both managed to say the wrong thing, twist their metaphorical knives with their words. But— they worked at it, kept working at it, again and again and again until they could get it right, and that has to count for something. It has to.

And Fives— Fives is a wild card, but he's always been an honest one. Fives is unpredictable, has swept him off his feet since the very first time they met, but if there's one thing that's consistent with him, it's his honesty. Fives can't lie. Fox knows this like he knows his own soul.

They're both saying words that Fox can't quite process. Words that don't make sense in the sentences that they're arranged in, that leave him all twisted up inside.

Fox can't— he doesn't want to lose this. He can, if he must, he will and he'll survive it, but the very thought of having to do that hits him like a punch in the gut. Everything is cold, and he thinks he might be shaking despite the fact that he's standing in parade rest, and—

"Fox," someone is saying, their voice anxious and worried, but firm enough to break through his spiraling thoughts. "Kriff, Fox, we're not breaking up with you."

Impossible.

"Obviously!"

"No, not obviously babe." And he can identify that voice now— Fives. Fives sounds amused, for all that Fox can see the stress in the way he holds his arms. And— and that's reassuring, in an odd way, to know that this is affecting Fives. To know that he's stressed, despite all of his bluster, all his grand declarations and passion.

Knowing why exactly he's stressed is another matter, but... cadet steps, and all.

"We're not breaking up with you," the voice that is Fives repeats, and it's something out of his wildest fantasies. Something he wants. Something he can never have.

He turns to look at Rex's jaw instead. It's infinitely safer there, because Rex's jaw is clenched, and he's not speaking, not saying words that fill his heart with warmth, and his lungs with ice.

"Alright," he makes himself say. "Alright you aren't. But. But I can go."

"I'm sorry, WHAT—"

"Fives," Rex says, cutting him off. It's not his Captain voice, but it's firm all the same, and with a grumble, Fives falls quiet. Fox can barely make himself breathe. "Do you want to go?"

No, his mind cries out. No, Force no, please don't make me. "I can go," Fox repeats, because he's not selfish. "I can go, if that's what you want—"

"What I want?" Rex demands, cutting him off. He sounds furious. He sounds hurt. Fox hates that, hates that he's the one who caused it. Wants to flee so he never can cause it again. Rex is built for better things than pain. "Fox, I— we want you. The question here is what do you want?"

The statement is gutting. The question moreover. How could Rex not know? "I want you," Fox hears himself say, "Both of you. How is that even in question?"

He forces himself to look up, to meet Rex's eyes, and it's just as uncomfortable as it's always been, a prickly burn behind his eyelids as he's laid bare but he needs Rex to understand, and discomfort is a small price to pay to keep Rex in his life.

In seconds, Rex is breaking the eye contact, looking down at their intertwined hands, making a soft noise of frustration low in his throat. "No," he says, soft but firm.

"Don't karking—"

"No," Rex interrupts, and yanks Fox forward so their heads collide in a kelebe kiss. It's just on the right side of painful, and Fox winces, feels Rex's arm slide up his, a silent apology. "Don't put yourself in pain to prove your authenticity," Rex says, and it's an order despite the fact that Fox outranks him, an order that has his chest seizing up because Rex sees him, doesn't need the eye contact, to strip him bare to understand or forgive. He sees, and he understands, and he respects Fox's boundaries even when Fox won't respect his own boundaries, and Fox shudders with the wave of emotion that washes over him, tightens his grip on Rex's hand.

He... doesn't think he can speak right now, wants to but the words are crowding his throat and he fears that if he opens his mouth, he'll choke, so he simply nods against Rex's head, allows himself to sink into his lover's touch. Fox hates feeling like this, weak and wrung out and overemotional, but he knows from experience that there's not much he can do about it.

"Stay," he hears Fives say, and Fox shudders with it. "Please. If you want to stay, stay."

 + Now +

 The fireman's carry Fox throws him into once the groceries are all away is probably the most predictable thing he's done all night.

Rex still sputters when Fox does it, because Fox is an infuriating shabuir who has mastered the art of surprise, but Fox ignores that, instead carrying him across the room to the bed just to dump him on Fives. Fives squawks, just as Rex sends Fox a disgruntled look, and Fox doesn't quite laugh, but Rex knows him well enough to know that it's a close call.

Rex reaches up to grab the front of Fox's shirt just as Fives pushes Rex off him, causing Fox to come crashing down on top of them in an undignified heap.

"Di'kut," Rex feels Fox mumble into his collarbone, and he laughs, brings up a hand to stroke the top of Fox's hair. "That goes to both of you."

"You do call us the nicest things," Fives says, and he sits up, evidently having managed to untangle himself from the blankets. "Truly. 'Di'kut' is my favorite pet name."

"Oh, great," Fox says into Rex's collarbone, not protesting the hair pets, a silent victory that Rex cherishes. "Now I have to come up with a new one."

Rex snorts, and Fives huffs, but he doesn't retaliate, just readjusts the blankets, tossing one side of one of their blankets over Fox and Rex, and crawling under it next to them, laying his head next to Fox's. The request is clear, and Rex dutifully raises his other hand to pet Fives' hairs, grins at the noise of contentment he makes in return.

"Go to sleep, you two," Rex says, and he feels Fox smile into his collarbone, feels his own heart swell when Fives curls in tighter next to him.

Rex watches the shadows move as the light from Coruscant's night changes, feels Fox's breathing even out on his shoulder, feels Fives' muscles go slack, and he lets the peace wash over him, letting it take him away, until he finally feels his own eyes flutter shut.

Clutch is... fine. He and Cody were friendly on Kamino, are still friendly, technically, even though Cody would be lying if he were to say that... things haven't changed since Geonosis. Still, Clutch is fine.

 Clutch falls in step with him easily, and they walk in silence at first, as Clutch seems to be psyching himself up to say something. Cody doesn’t press him— at least, not at first.

 It's right as Cody starts contemplating whether or not Clutch would respond well if Cody offered his condolences for the loss of his men and his Jedi General when Clutch suddenly speaks up.

 "A few months ago you mentioned that your General was supposed to take a Padawan," Clutch says bluntly.

 Ah, kriff. Cody can already see where this one is going. "Clutch—"

 "All I'm asking is for you to ask Ponds to ask General Windu. Nothing more, nothing less."

 "You could ask Ponds yourself, you know," Cody says sourly, but he's already pulling out his comm, a silent admission of defeat. "You and Ponds are friends."

 He hears more than sees Clutch nearly skip a step, and internally, Cody winces. Ah. Right. Friends is probably not the correct term to describe whatever the kriff those two have going on, but... Cody also can't think of a better one. 

 "... Yeah, I guess," Clutch says, uncertainty audible in his tone despite the brusque wave of a hand, as if to shoo the words away, "but you're a Marshal Commander, and I'm not," he finishes, voice normal again. "Plus, you're batchmates, and that's not a bond easily broken by time or distance. I, on the other hand, haven't seen him since Geonosis, so if I suddenly reached out, it would be weird." A pause. "To say the least."

 To say the least for-kriffing-sure, Sith hells. To say the least, Forcedamn. Whatever the kark happened on Geonosis that killed all but two members of Knockout squad left Clutch and Ponds awkwardly avoiding each other— and looking incredibly guilty as they did so— is a secret that neither of them seem inclined to speak of; despite the fact that conversations with drunk Ponds mean Cody knows Ponds is certain that Clutch both blames him for it, and uninterested in hearing his apologies.

 And until a few seconds ago, until Clutch said he shouldn't reach out directly to Ponds, Cody had no reason to doubt Ponds' perception of events. Had no reason to think that pushing Ponds to reach out would do anything but drive Clutch away further.

 But now... hm.

 Ponds might be correct in saying that Clutch is uninterested in hearing his apologies. He probably is, honestly— in Cody's limited experience, Clutch has never been one for bring apologized to, having always preferred actions over words— unlike Ponds himself. It makes sense for Clutch to be uninterested in hearing those apologies, for Clutch to want to truly see change, not just hear promises. 

 What doesn't make sense is the fact that Clutch seems to be avoiding Ponds, because Clutch knows full-kriffing-well that for someone to show an apology through their actions, you actually have to see said actions.

 Clutch avoiding Ponds therefore makes no sense... unless one knows that when Ponds is angry with someone, he wants space from said person. Unless one knows that while Ponds values verbal apologies, those apologies can't be pushed on him when he's not ready to hear it. 

 Oh, those di'kuts.

 Cody looks up from his comm and the message he's halfway through composing, sends Clutch a dead-eyed look. "I hate you," he says blandly, knowing that Clutch will almost certainly assume that the words are about Clutch potentially saddling Cody with a tiny Jedi, and not about Cody's sudden realization that his months and months of silent anger regarding the fact that Clutch had seemingly just dropped Cody's vod without any regard for Ponds' feelings is actually misplaced. Clutch isn't being a dick, he's just being a di’kut.

 Clutch tilts his head the barest amount to the side. It's a very smug head tilt. "Sir, I'm about to make your Sergeant's kriffing year," Clutch says, and Cody might not be able to see his face, but by the Force he knows that Clutch is grinning... just as he knows that Clutch is completely correct in saying that this will make Waxer's year. Bitch. Bitch . "I'm sure you'll get over it."

 Cody rolls his eyes as a response, looks down at his comm, and then he has an idea.

 He's not the only one who needs to get over it, after all. 

 +++

 A few days before the 212th is scheduled to leave, Clutch bursts into the barracks the 212th are staying in while on Coruscant.

 "Shabuir, the kriff did you tell Ponds?"

 "Hm?" Cody asks innocently, looking up from his reports. Clutch has his helmet off, and saying he looks flustered would honestly be a karking understatement. Cody ruthlessly squashes the spike of satisfaction he feels behind his breastbone— no celebrating until he's certain things actually went well. "Is there a problem, Clutch? I was under the impression that General Windu had approved of integrating both you and your Commander into the 212th."

 Clutch glares at him. The effectiveness of said glare is rather undercut by the mess that is currently his hair. "Yeah, no, that's all fine."

 Cody raises an eyebrow. Oh, this is going to be good. "Then what's the problem?"

 "The problem is that was not an answer to my kriffing question. ”

 Cody reins in a snicker, instead looking back down at his report to he jot down a few more notes. Clutch's handling of his own personal irritation in spite of the fact that he's obviously imagining throttling Cody reminds him a bit of Rex, actually. Huh. He'll have to see how the two of them work together when the 212th and 501st are next assigned a joint mission. 

 "All I asked Ponds was to bring up the possibility of transferring your Commander to the 212th," Cody says smoothly, looking back up at Clutch.

 "Commander—"

 " But, I do admit that I may have also mentioned that, despite whatever happened in the aftermath of Geonosis, after the kind of disaster you suffered on Thustra, you surely would enjoy the company of your only remaining squadmate, would he care to give it. I also may have mentioned that your avoidance of him made little sense if you truly blamed him, as you've never been the type of person who just drops those whom you're angry with." Cody takes a pause, sets down his pen. "I'm assuming your presence here means he got his head out of his shebs?"

 Clutch glares at him yet again. It's objectively a good glare, though Cody has seen better. "I didn't ask you to meddle. "

 Cody snorts. "Commander, did you not ask me to tell another Commander to ask his General about the possibility of having your Commander assigned to General Kenobi? Because that sounds a lot like a request to meddle to me."

 "... Respectfully," Clutch says after a long, long moment. "You're the worst, sir."

 Cody keeps his face perfectly neutral as he responds. "I'm sure you'll get over it, Commander,” he says, and… kriff it, Clutch deserves this. “Perhaps Ponds can help. Should I presume you'll be sleeping in his bunk whenever the 91st and the 212th are on Coruscant at the same time?"

 Silence. Then —