#rexakin

He’s very far away from Tatooine, however—for better or worse. Anakin licks his dry lips, tasting salt, and rubs with his flesh thumb the tip of his screwdriver. There’s something wrong with the wrist joint: it doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t jam, but Anakin can feel the wrongness on the back of his neck, a staticky ball of tension and maybe-future pain.

It’s been four months. Four months since Mom and Padmé. Four months of war. Two months of—of this. Anakin can feel the clone troopers’ minds all around him, distinct and individual and growing familiar, growing comforting. He’s finding he doesn’t mind war that much.

Obi-Wan does. His Force presence is muted, exhausted. He’s being groomed to fill one of the now empty seats at the Council, and he doesn’t like it, but he’s allowing it to happen anyway. Windu’s Venator hovers high up in the sky, hidden by distance and the thin cloud cover. Anakin wasn’t invited; he minds that less than he thinks he probably should. 

Anakin’s finished sealing his arm back up by the time Obi-Wan makes his way across the landing pad and stops in front of him. Anakin clicks his tongue, annoyed, and he can almost hear Obi-Wan’s eye roll before he moves and his shadow slips off Anakin’s arm. 

He’s not alone. Anakin puts his tools away and leans back against the crate, looking up, squinting against the sun and the light. The trooper next to Obi-Wan looks—he kind of looks like Alpha, and he very much doesn’t, at the same time. His armour looks like his but newer, shinier, and in the Force he feels very bright. Anakin blinks, caught by surprise, and turns to look at Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan’s already watching him. He cut his hair a couple weeks ago, and Anakin can’t quite get used to the way the shorter style makes him look older, more serious. It’s not bad, but it isn’t good, either. It’s just new, and weird, and Anakin finds himself, now and then, looking for his master in the crowd, even when Obi-Wan is right next to him.

“Captain,” Obi-Wan says. His blue eyes flash: Anakin rolls his, and heaves himself to his feet with a grunt. “This is my Padawan. Anakin Skywalker.”

“Sir,” the trooper says. He has yet to take off his helmet. He’s stiff, too formal. Shiny. “I look forward to working with you.”

Anakin doesn’t raise an eyebrow, and he doesn’t turn to look at Obi-Wan.

“Sure,” he replies. Obi-Wan sighs.

“Captain Rex is an ARC trooper,” he says pointedly. “He was in Geonosis.”

Oh, so he’s not so shiny after all. Anakin folds his arms.

Obi-Wan clears his throat. He’s looking between them, an unreadable expression in his face. 

“I’ll let the two of you get—familiar. With each other. You’ll be working together more often than not,” he continues after a beat. Anakin nods distractedly, still staring at the captain; the trooper says something empty and official-sounding Anakin forgets almost immediately.

Obi-Wan leaves. The silence grows heavy and awkward almost immediately: Anakin tries and fails to find something to say. His face feels hot. He reaches for the bond, and Obi-Wan tugs at it impatiently, tucks himself away: he’s tired and exasperated and kind of laughing at Anakin, because he’s a bastard.

“So,” Anakin starts. He clears his throat. The trooper is still looking at him, very still, very stiff. He’s hard to read in the Force: Anakin could, if he tried, and the temptation is there, but so is Obi-Wan’s potential disappointment, so he doesn’t. “So. Have you been an ARC long?”

The trooper twitches. 

“... no. Not really. Sir. Just a little over a month.”

He sounds defensive. 

Silence falls again. Anakin wishes he could go back to fiddling with his arm. 

“You can take off your helmet. If you’d like,” Anakin blurts. He just looks so—off. So new. Against the pockmarked concrete of the tarmac, against the carbon scored larties and the washed out blue of the sky, the white plasteel of his shell feels out of place. “You don’t have to. But you can.”

The trooper tilts his head at him. For a beat, for two, he just stares, hard to read, hard to understand. And then he reaches up, breaks the seal of his helmet, and there it is. His face. Brown skin, darker eyes. A shock of blond hair, unexpected, buzzed very short. 

He looks young. They all do, but it hits Anakin harder this time. His jaw is still soft, his face round. There are freckles over his nose and a small, new-looking scar on his chin. When he smiles, tiny and crooked and weirdly knowing, Anakin clears his throat and looks away. 

“Sergeant Seventeen has told me quite a lot about you, sir,” Captain Rex says suddenly. Anakin blinks. His face feels hot.

“Nothing good, I’m sure,” he mutters. Captain Rex’s smile widens.