#letsgetempirical

“The exit’s on the other side of this chamber,” he says, and Cody nods sharply. There’s a breeze wafting through the pile of rubble twenty yards off, which is approximately eighteen yards too many when under fire. Obi-Wan doesn’t think they’re using snipers, but he also hadn’t thought anyone in this century still used ballistics, and he’s not willing to risk it.

He continues, “I can’t block their fire. A plasma blade through metal bolts just creates a spray of molten lead more dangerous than the shot. I can block a few with the Force alone, but it’ll be imprecise work.”

“Got it. So we’ll be using cover fire and prayer, sir,” Cody summarizes, and Obi-Wan can’t help but laugh.

He feels bolstered by his Commander’s easy confidence, his dry wit and solidity, all the way across the harrowing distance, through the hole in the rubble, and into the welcome shelter of a broken cruiser wing’s overhang. Obi-Wan collapses the exit they’d used with a flare of the Force, and they’re safe, finally, with twenty minutes until evac.

His grin falls away when he sees the thick line of red cross-cutting through the band of orange paint on Cody’s left thigh. His commander’s leg buckles beneath him, and he collapses to the ground almost gracefully, landing on his ass with more of a sigh than anything else.

Obi-Wan doesn’t really even process the time it takes him to kneel next to Cody, to slide his hands around the armor clasps and work the thigh guard free. Red, awfully red, a bright and vivid red that sends Obi-Wan’s heart straight into his throat, is pulsating out of the middle of Cody’s upper leg. The armor had kept a modicum of constriction around the wound while they ran, but they need—more—

He struggles to drive the haze of panic and fear from his mind. Ok, first, they need a tourniquet; he’s got his belt for a band, and, what? His lightsaber for a winding rod? No. Obi-Wan breathes sharply in through his nose, holds it, then breathes out. His hands reach for Cody’s belt, a belt with contents he knows just as well as his own, and he pulls out the GAR-regulation tourniquet every trooper carries.

This isn’t the time to get lost in old memories.

Cody watches him through half-lidded, pained eyes as Obi-Wan loops the band just below the crease of Cody’s pelvis, fastens it back, and starts twisting the windlass rod until the red river runs dry. Obi-Wan’s hands are white knuckled around the rod. He locks it into place with hands wet and sticky and arterial blood, and then he reaches desperately into the Force. Beneath his fingers, he focuses on Cody’s body, on the give and take of it, on the weak but now-steady loop of blood rushing through the limbs and to the heart and back.

“You’ve had to do this before, sir,” Cody says, his voice thin but certain.

“Once,” Obi-Wan agrees, and his own voice is steadier now. They have ten minutes until evac, and it’s fine. It’s fine. “Melidaan.”

One of Cody’s hands reaches down to cover Obi-Wan’s, and Obi-Wan can’t help but wonder how Cody isn’t going into shock. How he isn’t pale and shaking, or unconscious, or any number of the other things he’d seen amidst the Young.

They must make them strong on Kamino.

“I’ll be fine, sir,” Cody says softly, and what a poor general Obi-Wan makes, if his commander has to reassure him while weak with blood loss.

“I can’t lose you, Cody,” Obi-Wan says, and it’s a realization that happens the second the words leave his mouth. It’s not a very Jedi thought to have, honestly. A Jedi would be able to accept the loss. A Jedi would tell him to let go. A Jedi had told him to let go.

“You won’t,” Cody says instead. His commander, his stalwart commander, the steady backbone of the 212th and the man who was slowly becoming more than just the bedrock of Obi-Wan’s campaign. “Because of you. For you. I’ll be right here, beside you, always.”

Obi-Wan wants, desperately, suddenly, to run his hands over every inch of Cody, to check for injury, to find the seams of where the man fits together and how he works. To make sure he continues, exactly as he is, exactly where he is, for as long as possible. Obi-Wan breathes out, trying to steady the uneven drum of his heart, choking on memories and being horribly grateful that he doesn’t have to see his history repeat itself. “Always is a long time, Commander.”

“Then I guess I’ll find out just how long, sir.”

They trade smiles at that, weak and weary but relied, as the familiar chum-chum-chum of Republic LAAT/is resounds across the sands.

It says a lot about Cody’s state of mind that he doesn’t notice Wolffe stepping inside his office until he’s grabbed him by the shoulders and violently forces him to get up and walk out. “W-Wait! Wolffe! What the kriff!” he exclaims then. Excuse him, he had some very important reports to make, he doesn’t have time for whatever the hell he wants to do.

“Playtime’s over, Cody. It’s time for you to get some rest,” Wolffe replies, still dragging him to his quarters. Cody tries to resist at first, but seeing that his strength isn’t exactly helping this time, he decides against it. This doesn’t mean he can’t complain about it, however.

“I am perfectly alright and don’t need rest yet.”

“The bags under your eyes beg to differ,” Wolffe retorts, making Cody sigh, but otherwise he doesn’t say anything else, knowing that once Wolffe sets his mind towards something, there’s nothing that can be done to make him change idea.

 Besides, he’d lie if he said that the idea of resting doesn’t sound appealing…

 Once they get to Wolffe’s quarters, Wolffe goes back to talking. “What the hell are you doing?!”

“… What do you mean?”

“Cody, you’re gonna work yourself to an early grave if you keep this up, you know that, don’t you? You can’t keep doing this.”

Ugh, so this is what this whole intervention is about, huh? Cody can’t help but to roll his eyes. “Wolffe, you know I can’t slack off. I am Marshal Commander and I have duties to attend to.”

“Getting some sleep from time to time isn’t slacking off. Or what, you think that now that you’re so high up in the command chain, that you’re too good for that anymore?” Wolffe retorts crossing his arms to his chest.

“You know that’s not the reason…” Cody sighs. They’ve barely started this argument and he feels drained already. He doesn’t have the energy to keep going. “Wolffe, I…”

Wolffe understands, he really does: having people depending on you is a lot of pressure, even more so with such a high rank as Cody’s, but he still needs to take care of himself. Thankfully, this is where Wolffe steps in; he steps closer, resting his hand on Cody’s shoulders, massaging the tense muscles. Cody immediately melts at the touch. “What do you need?” he asks, then. “And I mean what you truly need. For once, don’t think about your duties.”

“I don’t know…” Cody mutters, put on the spot, but after thinking about it after a while, he finally reaches a decision as he lets himself fall in Wolffe’s arms. “Just… Just make me forget,” he whispers, barely audible.

“Are you sure?”

A nod. “Please.”

Oh well, if this is what Cody wants…

 At first, Wolffe is gentle. He goes slow in the way he undresses Cody and himself, covering him in kisses and soft touches.

Even in the way he opens him up there’s nothing but tender care, as he watches in awe Cody arching against the sheets, whining and moaning under Wolffe’s ministrations.

“Feels good, Kote?” he asks, lips a whisper away from his neck. Cody nods, to which Wolffe responds with a bite on his tender skin.

“Wolffe…” the other moans, pushing himself against the fingers. It’s obvious that he craves more, and after thrusting them inside another couples of times, Wolffe pulls them out, ready to give to him exactly what he wants: he gets between his legs, lifting them up, and guiding his cock with his hand, he slowly begins to push it inside, inch by inch, until Cody envelops him completely.

 He lowers himself over Cody, capturing his lips with a slow kiss, hissing when Cody holds onto his back - he’s going to leave marks - but he doesn’t push him away.

Once he begins moving, though, things change. If Kot’ika asked him to make him forget, he needs to go harder, faster, and that’s exactly what he does.

He’s immediately rewarded by Cody’s voice, so overtaken by the ecstasy as he moans his heart out as Wolffe pushes, pushes and pushes. And yet, he still feels like it’s not enough.

A confused sound comes out of Cody’s lips when he pulls away, but Wolffe doesn’t deign him of an exclamation, figuring that he’s going to understand soon what he has in mind; he holds Cody by the ankles, moving them so that he’s folding Cody in two - he doesn’t miss the way his eyes blow open when he does, and he can’t hold back a satisfied smirk at that - and then, still holding onto him, he gets up on his feet, lining his cock back towards Cody’s ass, now up in the air.

“Fucking hell, Wolffe! Hurry!” Cody exclaims, trying to wiggle as much as he can so that he can get back some nice friction.

Wolffe moves his hands from his ankles to his thighs, keeping them nice and spread open. “You asked for it,” is all he says, before going back to business.

 The bunk creaks at each thrust, but Wolffe has faith in its sturdiness, so he keeps going. In this position, he’s able to push even deeper, and Cody feels it, boy if he feels it: he’s been screaming for the last half-hour, trying to hold onto something, anything, as Wolffe keeps fucking him. By now all he can do is to either scream or moan Wolffe’s name, or at least Wolffe thinks it’s his name, it’s hard to tell with how slurred his words are.

“That’s good, Kote. That’s good,” he praises him, not missing the shiver his words send across his spine, or maybe that’s just because he’s been hitting his prostate non-stop with each thrust. Hard to tell.

He’s obviously at his limit, which motivates Wolffe to go even hard, also because he too begins to feel close to the peak. “Let go. I’ve got you…”

All he needs is just another couple of trusts for Cody to let go entirely, coming on his stomach as Wolffe keeps going. The way he screams his name, entirely unhinged, is music to Wolffe’s ears. He too doesn’t last long, and soon he comes as well, buried deep inside Cody.

 After a moment to catch his breath, he lets go of him, and Cody lets himself fall on the bunk, completely spent. Even when Wolffe joins him, he’s barely responsive; even keeping his eyes open is difficult, which means that Wolffe will have to clean them both up, something that he does immediately after finding a rag that he can use, lest they become sticky and uncomfortable.

Once he’s done, he lays down on Cody’s left, letting him turn and nuzzle against him. “You’re gonna fall asleep now?” he asks, caressing his arms. Cody closes his eyes and weakly nods, which prompts Wolffe to lean over and kiss his forehead.

“That’s alright, Kote. Sleep. I’ll watch over you.”

Ahsoka leaves; Maul comes back. That's what it comes down to in the end.

It isn't abandonment—they agree that it will be safer for them both if they split up—but deep in Rex's heart, it feels like being abandoned. It feels like his only vod left in the galaxy is leaving him, walking away without marching, and part of him resents her for it. It isn't fair, but there it is.

And then Maul, again, alone, without weapons, without even his melodic hissing trying to turn Rex's mind inside-out. He sits next to Rex in the dingy cantina and says, "Lady Tano has left you?" As if it's a question; as if he's surprised.

"Why are you here," Rex mutters, slurs, three sheets to the wind because Ahsoka is gone and his vode are gone and his general is gone and everything is kriffing gone.

Maul hesitates, is the thing.

Not for effect, not to be dramatic or to manipulate. He sounds kriffing careful as he begins, "The lieutenant, Jesse—"

But he doesn't get farther than that because Jesse is dead, they're all kriffing dead, and Rex does his ARC Trooper best to put Maul's head through the damned wall. He gets a few good smashes in before he hits the wall himself, held a few inches off the ground by an immovable band around his torso, pinning him.

Rex wishes, viciously, that Maul was Human or an Iridonian hybrid, so he could see the spectacular bruising blooming all over Maul's face. He knows his own strength, he knows the damage he's done, even hidden by ink and blood.

"I know the lieutenant is dead," Maul snarls as the cantina quickly clears out, and he sounds—angry. Angry in the way that Rex feels; angry in the way that hides grief. "He wasn't meant to. I didn't want him to."

And isn't that a kriffing laugh, since Maul is the one who killed him.

Maul's fierce expression wavers.

"Jesse was already gone," he says, softly, looking tired and wrung out. And maybe that's what gets Rex to slump down, to give up fighting. Probably is, in fact. That even Maul is tired of being angry.  "His body may have been moving, but he was Jesse no longer. That I can promise you, Commander."

Rex looks blearily up at him, on the floor now and when did that happen, and laughs. It sounds watery. But it's funny, Maul making him promises and talking about Jesse as if he knew him, as if he cared.

"Didn't you hear?" he says, laugh turning into a hiccup. "I got demoted."

The cold fire in Maul's eyes warms slightly, and between one long blink and the next, Rex is on his feet, a warm around his shoulders, gripping firmly at one of his elbows. Damned if he knows which one. "Captain suits you better," Maul's soft voice murmurs into his ear, warm breath tickling and making him shiver. "Come now, Rex. Jesse wouldn't want this for you..."

Part of him balks at that. Half-dragged out of the cantina and towards a ship, Rex can still summon up some offense.

"How the—the frip would you know what Jesse would want."

It's too loud, echoing around the little shuttle.

Maul slings him down on a cot and looks down at him, head tilted to the side. He looks... curious, maybe? And still so damnably soft. "Because he loved you very dearly, Rex. Now go to sleep."

“Kark you,” Rex tries to say, tries to snarl, but Maul is walking away and even just a shuttle cot is making him well up. Because it smells like a barracks cot. Because it smells like home.

He presses his face to the pillow and doesn’t bother—pretending, he supposes.

Doesn’t bother pretending to be strong, pretending to be okay. Just lets whatever happens next... happen.

.

Cried out, half-suffocated, and mostly asleep, a body warm and cold slips in behind him. Chilled legs pressing up against his, warm arm wraps around his chest.

It isn’t a vod.

Rex pretends anyway.

.

It’s funny, is the thing. Because he’s pretty sure Maul pretends too. Sometimes, at least.

When he’s not being disturbingly intense whenever Rex crawls on top of him or presses him down—and Maul always lets him, is the thing, always goes with it, never says no—then he’ll sometimes close his eyes, press his head back and let Rex use him. He doesn’t say Rex, or Captain, and that’s how Rex knows.

It’s odd to think about, so he usually doesn’t.

(Somehow, they both lost Jesse. If he thinks about that, he’ll have to break things. And breaking things might turn into breaking people. Rex doesn’t want to break people. Not even Maul.)

.

It takes almost two years, before he realizes.

Ironically, it’s because they both end up saying Jesse. And part of Rex wants to scream, wants to bite and scratch and curse. Instead, he kisses Maul over and over, whispering Jesse all the while, until he’s ready to go again. Maul does the same, touching him with fervor Jesse and Rex and Jesse falling from his lips.

After, Rex realizes that he hasn’t commed Ahsoka in months. Hasn’t even looked for her. He wonders when that happened, and why, then looks over at Maul, covered in bites and bruises, even thought he can’t see them.

And, oh.

The hallways of the Venator are quiet. Cody steps out of the meeting room after the general and the admiral and keeps the sigh that wants to escape inside his chest. He’s tired, but so is everyone else. The general is still limping, and Block looks weirdly fragile: Cody didn’t know human beings could look that old. 

They take the lift together, the other two men talking quietly among themselves and Cody wedged against the wall, his bucket in the crook of his arm. The lift stops and they step out; Cody nods in their general direction, and ignores Kenobi’s glance--nat-born officer quarters are on a different deck.

Once he’s alone Cody lets out the sigh. He leans against the wall of the lift with a sigh and thumps his head against the cool durasteel. He pulled something earlier in the day, during that final push--his shoulder feels inflamed and hot. Cody clenches his fingers over his bucket and tries to ignore it. 

His quarters are tucked next to the communal barracks, in a narrow, brightly lit hallway. Cody unlocks his door and breathes. He stares at his little room, with its regulation-made little bed. At the little ‘fresher in the corner. 

It’s bare and it’s cold and sterile. But it’s his. Cody sighs again, hangs his bucket from the rack next to the door, and drops on the bed without bothering with the rest of the armor.

He’ll shower in a bit, but first--first he just breathes. He stares at his little drab room, filled with the little he owns: his armor, his datapad, fresh blacks and dress grays. A rock a kid gave him back on Felucia. His guns and his knife, the repair kit for his jetpack and the cleaning kit for his weapons.