#rini writes

and that’s what silver’s here for, to be a good friend, but his initial worry amplified to the max when he saw the faces of Iyad’s peers.

the whole dorm felt very apprehensive, like everyone was collectively on edge. but now wasn’t the time to dwell for silver, his father has always preached the importance of bravery, especially when others are scared.

silver slips the door open, entering the still room, his blue eyes were immediately drawn to the bump in the bed.

“iyad.. are you alright?”

“go away”

his tone was sharp and angry, in a way it was reminiscent of their previous few conversations.

iyad was becoming distant towards silver, cutting their conversations short, their demeanor became rigid with awkwardness, their relaxed interactions soon became strained and forced, nothing like how they started out.

it hurt to think about for silver.. and for iyad.

silver walked over to the bed, pulling out the desk chair, sitting next the bump. a silence blanketed them both, the air was stuffy.

silver perked up when iyad shuffled under the covers, peeking their eyes out of from under the covers. silver couldn’t help but feel his stomach churn from the look they gave him.

iyad’s eyes, once filled with stoic nonchalance, now colored in with a guarded expression, nothing like it was before, now these eyes…

those weren’t the ones he fell in love with.

those eyes were kind, adoring, hardworking, calm. they warmed silver’s heart and cheeks whenever they met.

but.. but these eyes. they only sent a small shiver down his spine, rattling him out of motion. but even so.

“what happened? everyone’s says you’re sick..”

“it’s fine, i’m fine, why are you here?” iyad hissed through his teeth.

“they… jamil and kalim thought i should see you”

the eyes dropped down hiding behind the once beautifully tanned skin, now drained to make the student pale. closed eyes then being covered by the rich red bed covers.

“i… i don’t want to see you.. you should leave.. like now”

“no.. you’re obviously not well, what do you need? i’ll get it for you”

“i need you to leave”

each word started to crush silver, the pushing away from iyad irked him.

silver didn’t want to go, silver was worried, couldn’t iyad see that? his concern? his worry? his dread? his want?

his love?

“seriously, i can’t—“

“just what are you so afraid of?! huh, iyad? why are you so mean these days? we haven’t talked in forever..!” silver snapped, cutting his ill crush off mid sentence.

…

“…so what?” the words were muffled by the covers but were painfully echoed by the acoustics in silver’s head, he was growing more and more frustrated with the boy in bed.

“so what? so now you’re just gonna avoid me forever?”

Geonosis. His return to the forsaken planet.

The chaos of it all had been staggering. He’d barely been able to hear Cody’s warning before he was shot out of the sky, and the crash that claimed the lives of nearly everyone in the transport had been just the beginning of the hellscape he’d endured.

There was an instant where he’d been sure he was going to die on the field, seconds before the remainder of his battalion was about to be overrun.

He remembers the gunfire surrounding him, piercing the falling bodies of his men as he laid helpless and injured. Cody’s shouting amidst the mayhem. The stabbing pain of his ribs that had blackened the edges of his vision. The dirt that had caked his face and armor. The sheer amount of it had been maddening.

And yet, as the bugs had closed in around him and he’d forced himself to his feet to meet his imminent end, the only thing that had run through his mind was...you.

Your name, your face. The dissatisfaction at the fact that the last time he’d seen it, it’d been distorted, static and blue from the holo you’d shared with Master Unduli. The way you’d hidden a smile as she interrupted his competitive jeering with Anakin ahead of the battle.

At least he’d made you laugh, he’d thought, and with that, he’d ignited his lightsaber.

And then the reinforcements had come. And he’d been left to sink back down on shaking knees with the image of you burning in his brain until the concerned presence of Ahsoka materialized at his side.

He hadn’t had any time to process the stunning realization that he was in love with you. He’d scarcely had a second to gather himself before he was already spouting a revised attack plan to take the droid factory, reverting to autopilot the way he always did when he assumed his identity as a war general.

But the universe had seemed intent on not letting him escape it, regardless. Just days later, he’d saved your life — you’d arrived at Point Rain with Luminara only to be taken by the Geonosian queen to be turned into a mindless, shivering zombie.

“I still haven’t forgiven you for that, you know.” You’d chirped, while tapping his nose teasingly.

“What? The stunt with the worms? You know I wouldn’t have actually let it go up your nose.”

“No, for disobeying an order to fall back and leave us behind.”

His heart had clenched at your words. Never in a million years would he abandon you if he thought there was the smallest chance of saving you. He knew that, finally.

But the fear of losing the only life he’d ever known outweighed the fear of losing you, and he’d settled with yearning for you from afar. It would be enough, he’d convinced himself. He refused to burden you with the knowledge that he’d been pining helplessly for you for Force knows how long, and ruin the careers in the Order you’d both worked so hard to construct.

That was, until now.

Until he’d seen Satine Kryze again, after decades apart, and she’d declared her surviving affection for him from all those years ago, Anakin witnessing the whole thing. After he’d seen the weight of her unspoken truth upon her shoulders. And although he regretted that he couldn’t grant her the relief from her wanting, he’d resolved that he didn’t want to spend the rest of his days the same way — slowly being crushed by his own supression. Even if his feelings were unrequited.

So he’d decided that he’d tell you, Jedi Code be damned. He wouldn’t hold it in any longer.

As the Coronet docked on the landing pad where the Chancellor was waiting, he’d been jittery with anticipation. That, and disoriented from the events that had transpired on the way there. He’d blubbered uncharacteristically when Satine had caressed his face in farewell, Anakin watching delightedly at his back. Then, as he’d turned to find a speeder to make his way to you in the Temple, the universe had yet again toyed with him — you were there, appearing on the platform out of nowhere like a summoned spirit, but not making your way towards him.

No, you were walking straight towards Satine.

You didn’t seem to notice him or Anakin behind you, welcoming the Duchess with practiced cordiality and leading her to the airbus where the other Senators were boarding, glaringly obvious that you’d been assigned on escort duty. Obi-Wan held back a groan. Of all the Jedi.

Anakin had practically collapsed in hilarity, a hand heavy on Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “The Force works in mysterious ways, Master,” he crowed. “I finally get that one.”

———

You’re perched high up on a viewing balcony of the Senate Chamber when he finds you, a little before Satine is set to address the Republic.

“You’re certainly off your game today,” you exhale an amused laugh as he skids to a stop, attempting to compose his appearance as he approaches you. “Anakin told me all about what happened on the Coronet en route to Coruscant.”

His blasted Padawan. Obi-Wan could strangle him.

“I didn’t teach him to gossip,” he grumbles, coming to stand beside you. He'd run the whole way here to catch you, but his rapid heartbeat isn’t from physical exertion. You’re as tranquil as ever, though, and your presence relaxes him despite.

You give a snort. “Maybe not intentionally. He definitely learned how to operate outside the lines of the Code by watching you.” He knows you’re poking fun at him, but his breath catches at the mention of the doctrine that dictates you both.

But he’s set on telling you. Today.

“Actually, I was hoping to talk to you about something similar.”

You turn to the Chancellor’s podium as his voice reverberates through the hall, but Obi-Wan’s hearing is fixed on you. “Of course, Obi, but it’ll have to wait until later. I think your friend is about to speak.”

He opens his mouth to reply, to bring your attention back to him, but you’re focused on the proceedings. He doesn’t like the jovial way you say friend, as if you’re almost happy about it, but he forces his gaze to follow yours as Satine begins her address.

Which, of course, goes terribly wrong. Because nothing seems to want to work out today.

Even your usually optimistic features are set with a grim expression as a testimonial from Satine’s own Deputy Minister slights her leadership, and the Senate turns against her. As her repulsorpod retreats from the center of the chamber, you cast concerned eyes towards him.

“Go,” you urge him, and he’s frozen between staying or leaving. “She needs you. I’ll buy you some time with the security detail.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t want to depart from your side, words hanging on the tip of his tongue, but he knows you’re right. He nods at you gratefully before chasing after Satine.

———

He tries again in the evening, while you’re between shifts of guarding the Duchess’ guest quarters.

“She seems...interesting,” you nod to the Mandalorian guard that passes by to take your post, speaking low enough that your conversation is relatively private. “She certainly had much to say about you.”

Obi-Wan wanted to scream. It seems everyone had been able to get you alone except for him. “I told you about that year on Mandalore after I came back,” he protests, and you shoot him a pitiful wink.

“Not the way she described it.”

Before he can demand just what Satine had let on, the sound of rapid footfalls draws both of your attention to the guard you’d greeted earlier. “Master Jedi! The Duchess is gone. We don’t know for how long.”

You curse lightly and rush down the hall to follow the Mandalorian, and Obi-Wan is about to do the same when his comm buzzes on his wrist.

He sighs in frustration. He knows exactly who it is.

———

After he’d relayed the untampered evidence to Padmé in time for the Senate convocation and Satine had been released from custody, Obi-Wan makes his way to your quarters in a determined stride. The past couple days were nothing short of a wild Bantha ride from start to finish, and he was tired of tiptoeing around you.

As he raises a shaking hand to knock outside your room, he stalls in a moment of fleeting hesitation. The impending metamorphose of your relationship nags at his brain, and he pauses. What he’s about to do will indelibly transform the dynamic between you, for better or for worse. It dawns on him that there won’t be any going back from this.

He hears your voice from a distant memory of late nights in the Temple gardens, basking in the light of the stars. Of course everything will change. Nothing can stop that.

So be it.

He stands as tall as he can manage, and knocks resolutely.

You open the door looking ready for bed, clad in a billowing camisole, face dewy from the refresher and hair still damp. He smiles at you as you open it wider. “Hello, Obi.”

He shuffles inside, meekly nodding in apology of his interruption. “I thought I’d come see you.”

Like routine, you’re already heating up a pot of water for him as you search for his favorite tea in your cupboard. Ever so thoughtful. His heart flutters beneath his robes. “I’m glad to see you found the Duchess,” you chime lightheartedly, “I had a hunch when you disappeared earlier.”

His hand finds the back of his neck. “I hope I didn’t make you look too bad, being on protection and all.”

You shake your head dismissively. “I was just glad to hear she was safe. You helped save her people from Republic occupation.”

Altruistic honesty radiates off of you, and his chest drops, in a good way. You care, and it’s written all over your actions.

You’re the best person he knows. Without question.

For a split second, Obi-Wan wonders if he even deserves you. But he pushes the thought in the back of his mind for later, hell-bent on not letting anything get in the way of what he wants to say.

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

You face him fully, abandoning the tea as you take in the seriousness of his posture. He sucks in a stunted breath.

“It’s about —”

“I know.”

He startles, momentum lost as you interrupt him suddenly. Your gaze is penetrating. “What?” He asks dumbly.

“It’s about Satine, isn’t it?” Your bare arm comes up across your body to hold the other, and Obi-Wan finds himself staring at the way your too-long pants brush the floor as you sway to one side. Your sleeping shirt brushes the middle of your thighs, and he realizes how utterly small you seem in the moment. “You feel the same way about her that you used to.”

His eyes snap up to yours at your words, mind reeling. It takes him an eternity to force out a single word.

“...No.”

You tilt your head confusedly, and Obi-Wan wants to pinch himself to test if this is some sort of stress-induced hallucination. “No? You do know she’s positively infatuated with you, don’t you?”

“No, I —” he shuts his eyes desperately. “I mean, yes, I know, but I don’t —” he breaks off abruptly, opening his eyes at you with newfound willpower. Blast it.

Obi-Wan crosses the room in three steps, reaching his hands out to cradle you delicately as he pulls you in for a bruising kiss.

He hears your breath stutter, shock just about vibrating off of you, but in the next second your eyelashes graze his cheeks as you close your eyes and lean into him. His heart pounds in crazed gratification, and Obi-Wan feels downright dizzy from the sensation. He’s going to faint, he’s going to die right here in your arms —

Your hands find the top of his chestplate, fingers curling against it, but after a beat of his body singing with joy, he feels you apply the smallest pressure on his armor. You detach your lips from his slowly, and he blinks dazedly at you when you pull away. Disbelief paints your frame.

“Obi, what —”

“I love you,” he says quickly, hands still on either side of your face. “I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you. For so long.” One of your hands reaches up to clasp his own against your cheek. “I know that this goes against everything we’ve ever been taught, and you must be confused. I’m sorry.” He breaks off for a second, eyebrows creasing, because he’s not sorry. He could never be sorry for what he’s just done, not with the feeling of your lips still rippling in tingles through his brain. “But I had to tell you. I just...couldn’t go on without you knowing.”

Your mouth opens and closes as you flounder in his confession, and he studies you with more intensity than he’s felt in ages. He’s suddenly hyper-aware of everything about you, offhandedly concentrating to memorize every tiny detail. He’ll relive that kiss a thousand times over for the rest of his life if it’s the last one he’ll get.

“I — I don’t know what to say,” you manage to let out, and he presses his forehead to yours before releasing you. Say you love me, his heart cries. But Obi-Wan pushes the sentiment away.

“It’s alright,” he promises gently. You stare at him as he squeezes the hand that’s still holding his. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“Obi-Wan, I —”

Whatever you’re about to say is cut off by a loud knock from outside, and the way you jerk back from him pricks at his emotions. You quickly pad to the door, opening it a crack as he attempts to conceal himself from your unexpected visitor.

“Sorry to bother you so late, Master,” Anakin’s voice fills the air, and Obi-Wan shrinks further into the shadows. “I’m just checking in before I leave for Vanquor. I wanted to make sure you’re still available to train Ahsoka while I’m gone?”

It takes you a little to formulate a response, your eyes still wide. “Yes — of course, Anakin, always.” You attempt to shut the door, but Anakin speaks up before you can.

“Actually, I was hoping to ask you for some advice as well, if you don’t mind.”

You can’t look at Obi-Wan without giving him away, so he sends a subtle wave of reassurance your way, hoping you pick up on it.

The tension releases from your shoulders, and you nod at his old student. “I’d be happy to. Give me a bit to get ready,” you gesture behind you, “and I’ll walk you to your quarters.”

Anakin must nod in return, because you close the door without another word. You reach up to grab your outer robes from where they’re hung on the wall, and turn to him with a tormented expression.

Go, it’s his turn to coax you as he mouths the word silently. It’s alright.

Your eyes are shining with emotion that he can’t quite read in the dim light, but eventually you slip on your cloak and shoes and open the door once more. With one last lingering glimpse at him in the corner, you disappear into the hall where Anakin is waiting.

As he feels your presence dwindling away, he sends a final thought into the vacant room, more to himself and the aching emptiness of the Force than to you.

Without raising your eyelids, you turn in his grasp, the weight upon you comforting despite the swelter. You hear Obi-Wan mutter something incoherent, but you pay it no mind as you crane your neck slightly in search of his face. Lips meet a bearded chin first, and a hum escapes him, louder now. Still determined in reaching your goal, you stretch, limbs awakening, but mind lagging as it tries to shake free of the clutches of slumber.

It’s a race to consciousness as Obi-Wan starts to stir as well, evidently joining you in your quest for a kiss, and finally, after a few minutes more of half-asleep fumbling, it happens — mouths moulding together blissfully, weak and sweaty from the blazing heat, but your heart flutters at the taste of him.

When you open your eyes, a blue gaze is waiting. Obi-Wan smiles at the way your noses touch, unwilling to separate much from your embrace.

“Good morning.”

You yawn before responding, jerking as Obi-Wan juts an evil finger in your side midway. You’re not sentient enough to shoot him a half-hearted glare, so instead, you mumble it back and accidentally smack him in the face as you move to rise. 

He stops you before you can, chin hooking onto your nearest shoulder and tugging down, and you slump back to the sheets with a subdued giggle. “Feeling better?”

“Much,” you reply, and he nods, obviously pleased. “I have you to thank for that.”

He mouths at the skin behind your ear, only half-listening, but still fully fixated on you. You wonder if you’ll ever completely get used to his unbridled affection, even after more than five years living together in isolation, free to feel and show your love blatantly and unapologetically.

Not without a price that had been paid, but it was soul-healing love regardless.

“The Marstraps and their garden are doing well,” you comment absently, more to fill the silence as he lavishes you in physical worship than anything. “Maybe we should get into hydroponics.”

A sound of indifference.

“Did you know they have a daughter?” At that, Obi-Wan stills, face buried in your hair. You think his hand twitches at your abdomen, but in your groggy state, you can’t be completely sure. He never seems to know what to say when you talk of such things. Not then, not now. 

It’s not like you mean to imply anything by bringing it up, really. It’s more of...a gauge, of sorts. You’re probing. You’re not even sure why.

“Her name is Camie. She’s very sweet.”

Obi-Wan lifts his head lethargically, looking like he wants to utter a thousand words and nothing all at once. This time, he really does grip your hip, thumb grazing your ribcage thoughtfully, but you take it upon yourself to change the subject before things get too complicated.

“What time is it?”

“Still early,” he rumbles, and the gravelly tone sends satisfying vibrations to where your torsos are pressed against each other. “You’ll be able to get a couple more hours of rest.”

“Hmm.” His words trigger your body to succumb to the drowsiness you hadn’t quite gotten rid of, and your eyes droop contentedly again. “Will you be joining me?” 

Obi-Wan slips his other arm from underneath your neck, languidly sweeping over your form and nudging your temple fondly with his nose. “Unfortunately, no,” he murmurs into your hair, “but I think you’ll appreciate why.”

Your eyebrow lifts at the cryptic line, but you’re already falling back asleep as he lifts himself fully from you, and you give into the tiredness as his footsteps fade from your hearing.

———

Moments later — you’re not sure if he’s made good on his promise of extra hours — you feel the pressure of puckered lips against your eyelids, the scratch of his beard poking the thin skin around your eyes as you arise for the second time. This time, however, the enticing smell of food invades your senses, and you realize with a start that it’s not the boiled mealgrain that you usually have in the morning.

“Is that — ?” You shift in bed, reclining upon the headrest, but not yet sitting upright. You’re wide awake now, blinking alertly to find the source of the delectable aroma.

“Iktotch toast,” Obi-Wan announces proudly, setting a tray stacked with plates of steaming food on the table beside your shared bed. “And my attempt at a gartro omelet. Though, I couldn’t get all the necessary ingredients.” He sits on the edge, hand finding your blanketed shin and caressing it like second nature. “Just a fair warning.”

The thin sheet falls to your stomach as you twist to get a good look at his cooking, and you’re rewarded with the sight of brightly colored eggs and buttered bread topped with carbosyrup. Compared to the monochromatic meals you’ve come to expect day to day, it’s a welcome change.

In your excitement, you forget about the abrasions from yesterday, the still-raw skin of your palm screaming out in protest when you try to prop yourself up. Obi-Wan spots the small wince, and reaches for you as you cradle your stinging hand to your chest. “Better doesn’t mean good, apparently.” There’s a teasing to his locution, if only because he knows you too well. You don’t want to make a fuss out of it. You’re bested, anyhow, when he squeezes the blistered foot and you yelp. “Here, too. It still hurts? Shall I redress the wounds?”

A shake of your head precedes your response, as you assure him, “No, there’s no need. Truly.” Still, he’s adamant on being of more assistance, and it seems today is a good day. He’s happy, playful, even — it’s instants like these where you catch a glimpse of a different man, the echo of an old friend.

“Anything I can do to ease the pain?” Obi-Wan smirks, but it’s free of sarcasm as he leans above you, his hair falling in his eyes. It’s grown longer now, not quite the lion’s mane of a mullet he’d sported so many years ago, but unrulier than the clean-cropped cut that he’d had during his last years on Coruscant.

Another life. 

Though, you suppose, the rugged desert look is growing on you.

“A kiss on the bandage, maybe,” you quip, just as light-hearted, basking in the mood — what a rarity, nowadays, but always because of each other. “Perhaps it’ll help it heal faster.”

Obi-Wan scoots downwards, ruffling the sheets and uncovering more of your pajama-clad figure to the world, and grabs for your toes —

“Not there! I meant the hand,” you cry, just short of a laugh. “Were you really about to kiss the bottom of my foot?”

He joins in your amusement, chuckling as he traces his way back up to you with light kisses that begin at your legs. One on the knee, then on your navel, and right under your breast — the tease. His hands follow hotly along the trail his mouth leaves, yet it’s a heat you’re all too willing to endure. “Darling, you’d know I’d kiss you anywhere,” he says, grin honest and eager, and you smile suggestively at him from your place upon the pillows.

The moment turns soft, though, when he takes your injured hand, touching his lips to the pads of your fingers, completely avoiding the wrappings. Instead, he marks the exposed skin peeking from the bandages, leaving warm touches where he can reach. You let him make his way up your arm, relaxing the muscle and leaving it pliant in his hold, and these kisses are tender, sincere, adoring.

His lips brush the inside of your elbow, and you catch his gaze then, eyes serious and lacking the mirth of before. He beams, nevertheless, and it takes another four pecks up your shoulder, collarbone, and neck until he finally reaches your mouth. Your lips connect in a quiet climax, tension releasing and hushed sighs escaping the both of you as hands find cheeks and jaws to hold. His beard is longer, too, and a subtle drag of your fingers along his scruff doesn’t go unnoticed as he groans into the kiss.

Sluggishly, as if he’s struggling against the pull of quicksand, Obi-Wan pulls away, your digits still tangled in his auburn locks. “Eat,” he murmurs, placing one last kiss on your bare palm. As he places the tray in your lap, you sit up properly, kicking the last of the covers aside. “Company is coming.”

———

Company was actually more of a child-sitting gig, with the Lars traveling to Anchorhead and reluctant to let their nephew tag along just yet. The four of you had all agreed it was best to shelter the boy until you and Obi-Wan had gotten better at shielding the signatures of three Force-sensitives, and while you were quickly growing used to the strain of the constant use of the Force, there wasn’t a need for unnecessary ventures outside of the community when Luke could just stay with you and Obi-Wan.

On the other hand, if you asked Obi-Wan, he didn’t see why a trip to Tosche Station couldn’t wait until next week, seeing as how you couldn’t walk much without pain. Luke would undoubtedly aggravate the blister when he begged you to play.

But you hadn’t asked Obi-Wan, you dutifully reminded him throughout his musings over the food, unconcerned at the prospect. Breakfast had been as delicious as it had smelled — your taste buds had been assaulted with the flavor, but it had been a gratuitous ordeal that had reminded you of a bustling diner and the toothy grin of a Besalisk. “Just missing the powdered Christophsian sugar,” you’d praised, and he’d barely hidden his glowing simper as he cleared the dishes. You know his apprehension at looking after Luke today is more out of concern for you, rather than lack of willingness.

Just as there were good and bad days of disposition, Obi-Wan’s interactions with his old student’s son were varying. Some visits were joy-filled and vibrant with childish merriment, at the mercy of Luke’s wild imagination, but it wasn’t uncommon for Obi-Wan to retreat to your bed, floored by the striking resemblance the boy had to his father, the memories he tried so hard to forget rushing back in a dark cloud of resignation. Luke was under the impression that his favorite playmate suffered from intermittent cases of sand-fever, trusting enough to believe the excuse. Though he loved you just as much, it was Obi-Wan that Luke idolized the most, and you couldn’t at all blame him for feeling disappointed when Obi-Wan was too unsteady to come out and say hello.

But today, the promise of a happy afternoon rang throughout the air, and you allowed yourself the indulgence of looking forward to the rest of the day. At five years old, Luke was an adoring child, innocent in ways you’d never been able to see, not even with Anakin. He reminded you of a fresh snowbank, ironic as it was, pristine and untouched by the world. Your heart ached to keep it that way.

Luke launches himself at you as expected when he arrives, Owen being kind enough to deliver him instead of letting Obi-Wan make the ride over. Just as well, too — after the doting attentiveness of the morning, you didn’t want to stray too far from Obi-Wan’s side. The former Jedi catches the boy in midair, strong arms wrapping around his tiny frame and swinging him away from you to save you from exacerbating your wounds, and Luke screeches in hysterics as he’s tossed in a wide circle. He attacks Obi-Wan with energetic pokes when he’s finally set down, the older man letting out a surprised oof when he’s headbutted rather hard in the stomach. You muffle a guffaw in your elbow as Obi-Wan shoots you an accusatory scowl, massaging his middle as he assures Owen he’ll return his nephew in one piece. The farmer thanks you both, leaving without a second glance, and Obi-Wan is whisked away by the young Skywalker to entertain his latest fascination with womp rats.

———

They return before dusk, smelling like sweat and death, acrid scents practically steaming off of their robes. You cover your nose as Obi-Wan staggers in through the side door, steadying a chittering Luke as he trips over the trapdoor to the cellar. “Target practice,” Obi-Wan explains, somewhat apologetically. “His aim needs some work.”

“I blew a rat’s head off!” Luke declares boastfully, and cackles while running a victory circle around the kitchen. “It just exploded!”

You turn aghast to Obi-Wan, who ushers the boy into the refresher and instructs him to wash up. As Luke rinses off the trace of the outdoors, you stop Obi-Wan before he can come any closer. You can almost taste the sour aroma that wafts off of your husband. “Don’t tell me he means an actual womp rat. They’re twice his size. If you’re letting him near those predators, Obi-Wan, I’m going to —”

“Relax!” Obi-Wan exclaims defensively, palms raised as if to shield him from your wrath. “It was just a profogg. And we weren’t hunting in the beginning, just setting stink capsules near the hut. Poor thing got too close when we set it off and its friends decided they wanted revenge.”

The clarification does little to placate you, the knowledge that it’s most likely rodent guts contributing to the fumes only further motivating you to stay at a distance. But Obi-Wan has other plans, and a mischievous expression takes over his features as he runs at you, grabbing for your face as you squeal. “Disgusting! Obi-Wan!”

“Not even a peck for your one true love?” He asks, and you bat his hands away. “I was willing to kiss your foot this morning.”

“But you didn’t,” you remark impishly, holding in bubbling laughter. “I’m not kissing you while you smell like an eopie’s ass.”

“Language.” He seizes your wrists as you squirm, though your spirits are still high. You arch backwards, grappling to escape. “Luke might be listening.”

You catch your breath without inhaling in his direction, but it fails when you descend into snickering when a small voice protests, “No I’m not!”

“Go.” While he’s distracted, you push Obi-Wan towards Luke in the refresher, hard. “It’s time for a trim. I think you have profogg gunk in your beard.”

He stumbles back, too late to stop your words from being heard, and Luke yells, “You told me it was a womp rat!”

Another bout of laughter arises in your throat, and Obi-Wan fixes you with a withering glare you’re too perceptive to fall for. “Thanks,” he grumbles, none too grateful, and disappears into the sink.

———

“Careful of your fingers — you don’t want to cut yourself.”

After the bits of wildlife had been safely discarded down the drain and the boys had changed into fresh clothes, you watch as Obi-Wan guides Luke’s wobbly hands down his own stubbled throat. The sight of the shaving cream that covers most of Obi-Wan’s face is priceless, but you opt for appreciation rather than humour as the touching moment transpires.

“Better to cut me than you, but let’s aim for no one, alright?” Luke nods, tongue poking out in concentration as he shucks off more hair from Obi-Wan’s chin. He’s holding the razor with both hands, standing on a stool while Obi-Wan kneels to stay within reach. “Firmly, but with precision. Very graceful.”

Luke’s hyperactivity is nowhere to be found, and you admire his focus. Maybe you should have him shave your husband more often. Both the Lars and you would certainly benefit from the resulting tranquility.

But, no — you’d miss the beard too much.

“Done!” Luke leans back and throws his fists up in delight. Obi-Wan is quick to snatch up the tool to avoid any accidents, and places it back in its compartment as he turns to the boy overflowing with pride.

“Let’s check, shall we?” He rises from his knees with a low grunt and the pop of his joints — one you don’t miss, but refrain from pointing out. For a second, all you see is the back of Obi-Wan’s head as he washes away the lather, then it’s the dismayed twist of his mouth as the uneven patches of missed hair gleam in the mirror.

Luke bounces up and down, making an effort in vain to assess his work. Obi-Wan quickly readjusts his features as you hide your face, silently shaking with amusement. “Did I do okay?”

Obi-Wan squints down at him warmly, brushing the boy’s bangs out of the way. “Yes, An — Luke, you did.” Luke cheers underneath the large hand on his crown. “You did splendidly.”

In a flurry of shouts and whoops, Luke ducks out of Obi-Wan’s arm and exits the refresher, unaware of the almost-slip, but you freeze, more shocked than you have been in months. Years. Obi-Wan’s never done that before.

He meets your wide eyed stare in the mirror, all remains of Luke’s comical shaving job gone, neither of you able to verbalize exactly what you’re feeling.

But eventually, the impact of his blunder fades, and you break free from the fog of your stupefaction.

Your bandaged hand finds his shoulder, soaking up the droplets from his shower, and rubs consolingly, back and forth. You hope it conveys all that words can’t say. A pang strikes you as Obi-Wan lets out a trembling exhale, the unfinished name falling away to the empty room, and you resist the impulse to crush him into a hug.

He needs space.

The watery eyes you expect to see are dry in seconds, and all is well again.

———

You look on as Obi-Wan props Luke’s tuckered form into Beru’s waiting arms, meeting her gaze with a gentle understanding. She secures him into the passenger seat as she mounts the landspeeder slowly, seemingly sensing the hesitance radiating from two of you, uready to let the day end. When they finally depart, Obi-Wan watches them leave from the entrance of the dwelling.

“It’s alright to love him, you know.” You approach him once Beru and Luke are barely a speck on the horizon. You come up to latch around his chest, tiptoeing to kiss his back. “It’s okay to be attached.”

He shifts, rotating so that his back is to the wall after he’s sealed off the door. His own arms raise to encircle you, and you lean your cheek against his bicep before he plants a kiss to your forehead. It spells devotion as you sink further into him, muted ardor enveloping you both. “I know.”

“Do you?” Your voice is quiet to preserve the shroud of calm. “I worry you’re holding back, and you don’t have to. Not here.” Another kiss to his skin. “Not anymore.”

You feel the deep inhale more than you hear it, and his breathing soothes you more than you ever thought possible. It’s proof he’s here, real in your grip. You have each other. “I’m not,” he promises, lips stuck to your hairline. “Though you should know, my heart is reserved for you.”

That brings a laugh out of you, tinkling and bright. You clutch him tighter, warmth swelling inside you in spite of the cooling air of the evening. “You have room for Luke in there.”

Obi-Wan examines you closely, pausing only for a second before he speaks again. “Perhaps more than just him.”

And there it is, the admission you’ve always been curious for yet never wanted to ask. Your breath hitches — only a tad, but you know he picks up on it, and you peer at him cautiously. It’s a conversation you’ve avoided so many times before. 

Admittedly, today was the perfect day as any to prime the subject. You’ve never been sure whether Luke has assured Obi-Wan that he wants nothing to do with parenthood or if it inspires a desire to have a son of his own.

It’s not revisited until you’re crawling back into bed, back to his bare chest, and the ghosting touch of his hand smoothing down your front draws your attention away from the sensation of his body enfolding around yours. He’s trying to be discreet, you can tell.

“Practicing?” You whisper, with only a hint of knowing so as not to scare him off. There’s no need, you realize, when you feel his mouth twist into a lopsided smile against your nape and his fingers spread unabashedly across your stomach.

Gree had made sport of your visible enthusiasm at clocking out, lazing expertly along your desk as you closed out the rest of your tabs on the fifth datapad you’d held that day. His shift had ended hours prior, orienting the newest shinies to fill the ranks that had been lost since last shore leave. You know it’s a bittersweet feeling for him, meeting the replacements for his fallen brothers, so you let him stay whenever he seeks the company of someone who doesn’t share the face of those he’s internally mourning.

Usually that consists of him bothering you with mindless factoids of the newest fauna he’s become fixated on, but today, he’d burdened you with oversharing explicit details of his most recent passion party.

You’re closer than most officers are with their clone commanders, always have been, but your relationship had only strengthened since you’d covered for him the last time the 41st had been on Coruscant. After a rowdy night at 79’s, he’d been AWOL right until the hour before the Corps were scheduled to ship out, and you’d run into him sneaking back into the barracks covered in the bites and scratches of what had looked to be from multiple species, looking all too pleased about it.

That, and the fact that he’d managed to find out your secret relationship with his ori’vod after finding a yellow-painted vambrace in your cot after a late night of gossiping in your quarters on the Venator.

It was to your endless misfortune that Gree was as smart as he was salacious.

Gree was a good secret-keeper, though, and in exchange for not exposing him as a red-blooded slut to your General, he’d sworn to not tell anyone that you were sleeping with the revered Marshal Commander of the 212th. A tit-for-tat arrangement, on top of your friendship forged in the midst of war-borne ridiculousness and erudite pastimes.

“You know,” He’d grinned at you as you’d shrugged on your coat over your officer’s uniform, “if you and Cody ever want to add a couple people into the mix, I’ve got plenty of suggestions.”

You’d laughed — really snorted at the prospect. It wasn’t that you and the commander weren’t looking for ways to spice up your relationship, but you doubted Cody would be open to sharing your bed with one of Gree’s wild and unruly conquests. Far from prude, Cody wasn’t opposed to less than intimate (or perhaps increasingly intimate) situations, but you knew he had a certain preference for such activities.

Your lover was a particular one.

(Of course, you didn’t exactly fit into that specific preference perfectly, but you also liked to consider yourself more than someone who merely shared the sheets with Cody. A permanent exception, of sorts.)

As you’d respectfully declined the offer, he’d roped you into a one-armed hug and a squeeze to your shoulder. You’d bid him goodbye with a pat to his middle, and discreetly pocketed the durasteel rings you’d snagged from his utility belt as you’d separated from his side to hail a speeder home.

You figured Gree could survive without his stun cuffs for the night. It was the least he owed you after dumping images and stories about his sexual escapades you would never unhear.

‘Home’ is only a ways away from the GAR central headquarters, a short ride to the Residential district, and you’re stepping lighter and quicker than usual as you cross the steps to your entrance as the last rays of the sun tickle your exposed skin.

Not two seconds after opening the door, you look up with a start at the sound of muffled crunching by the sink, and surprise morphs into warmth when you realize it’s Cody, slurping quietly from the bowl he always seems to favor whenever he’s over. He shovels another mouthful in as you look on with barely disguised amusement, bantha milk dripping comically from the corner of his mouth. He’d beaten you here.

The initial stupor fades as you share a laugh, forgoing a greeting in favor of a well-placed jab. “So, not only did you stop by Dex’s and not get me anything, but you’ve perused my groceries as well?” He tries and fails to hide his smile behind his spoon, and you get in another verbal poke before he swallows. “Everyone knows Dantooine cereal is served dried for a reason.”

“I prefer it this way,” he mumbles, staring pleasantly at his evening snack. You know as much — Cody’s secretly a picky eater.

You tuck your coat into the fold of your arm before striding forward, wrapping the other one around his neck to pull him down for a sweet and milky kiss. He murmurs something unintelligible against you before reconnecting your mouths, and you hum contentedly as he balances the bowl to better curve downwards. “Hello,” you trill, tongue darting out to clean his lips. “You shower yet?”

He shakes his head, taking a moment to peer unreservedly at your face. His own brightens at your happiness to see him, and your chest swells at the sight. Unlatching from him quickly, you set your things on the table, making sure to slide them inconspicuously out of Cody’s reach. “Was waiting for you,” he rumbles as he kisses your palm.

Good. A thrum of satisfaction vibrates low in your gut as you hum, plastering a front of nonchalance across your features as he revels in the rare opportunity to drink you in. It’s hardly ingenuine, as his presence never fails to wash away the majority of your worries whenever you’re close. Even in the company of other people, which he sometimes seems to be physically allergic to.

You pat his cheek affectionately and watch him lean into your touch. “You tired?” As you inquire again, you reach for his bowl, holding back a retort when he maneuvers it out of your way. You continue speaking to his back as he turns and washes his own dish, always insistent on cleaning up his own messes. “You wanna sit down?”

He makes a noncommittal sound, but sits anyways after he cleans and dries, and you flock to his lap, presence adoring as it relieves him of any remaining stress of the day. You massage his shoulders without prompting, and he gazes up at you sincerely in thanks.

“Should I be asking how you managed to get a breakfast order from the diner at almost dinnertime?” You melt into his hold as his hands wander your back, uncharacteristically free from his combat gloves and armour. He’s down to his blacks, you realize, and a smile crosses your face at how perfectly the situation is falling into place. “Or is that classified information?”

He chuckles lowly, indulging in your lighthearted ridicules with prepotent comebacks of his own. “Maybe Dex just likes me,” he says, an intentional taunt to his voice. “Hermione always lets me order whatever I want.”

At the mention of Dex’s waitress, you bristle slightly, but respond cooly when he raises a challenging brow at you. He doesn’t usually make such insinuations, but it inspires a prickling jealousy despite. You watch the corners of his mouth quirk up when you reply. “Bet there’s a couple things she can’t give you.”

Cody simpers, far too smugly for your liking. “Maybe.”

You kiss him then, deliberate and vigorous, and he lets you, face angling to yours in an instant. He pushes up from the chair, stretching his torso to meet your touch robustly, and you fight off the daze that threatens to consume you after mere instants of his lips under yours. Lifting one eye open, you reach across the table for your coat pocket the same time you push your tongue into Cody’s mouth.

His grip tightens around your waist as you find what you’re looking for, and while he’s distracted by a few more gratuitous moments of clacking of teeth and brushing of tongues, you capture both of his wrists swiftly and secure them to the middle rung of the chair with a distinct snap.

You detach your from Cody as his eyes shoot open, claps holding tight as he wriggles his arms behind the back of his seat. You hold in a snicker at his expression, though by the ease of which you’d distracted him, you almost wonder if he’d purposefully let you lock him there.

“Binders?” 

“Stun cuffs,” you correct, only for the hundredth time. It was an ongoing argument between the two of you.

Cody rolls his eyes as per usual, so far that for a second, you only see the whites of his eyes before he fixes you with a flat stare. “Only COMMOs call them that,” he chides, managing to still sound authoritative even while cuffed beneath you. “I’ve told you this.”

“Yes, well, you’ve told me a lot of things.” You mimic his actions with a snarky look of your own. “I don’t always agree.”

As you shift in his lap, his eyes flash noticeably. The air thickens again in a second, and you feel your hands tighten around his thighs as he flexes the wide, corded appendage below you. You can tell he’s slowly relaxing into the seat, body loosening as he breathes deeper against your chest, but his last grasp at control doesn’t surprise you. Cody always seems to need to feel like every decision is his own, even when he’s backed into a corner — or in this case, strapped to a chair.

The words send sparks down your spine, nevertheless. 

“I like it when you listen.”

A smile spreads slowly across your face, and you lean closer to him, making sure to drag your hips torturously along his crotch before letting the tips of your noses bump briefly. The action draws a near-silent grunt from the man underneath you, and your lips trail lightly along his as he squirms. After tracing a full circle around his mouth with your own, you deprive him of a kiss as he cranes his neck upwards to reach you. Roguishly, your smile spreads slowly into a smirk. “And I like it when you beg.” The sharp intake of breath that comes from him fills you with much more triumph than you let on. “Am I gonna get that, tonight?”

Cody swallows audibly as his honey-glazed gaze flits back and forth between your eyes. He begins to nod, the last shreds of his resistance falling away to the quickly growing lust warming his skin, but you shake your head in disapproval. “I need to know, Cody.” Your arms stretch behind him to tap the cuffs around his wrists, and you feel his fingers extend to grab for you. They fail, for the most part, but he settles on running his thumb along the back of your hand as he stares at you earnestly. “Is this okay?”

It’s a long time before he speaks, but with difficulty, he manages an affirmation. “Yes,” he whispers, almost inaudibly. “I want it.”

You almost shriek with glee.

Instead, you opt for a restrained grin as you smooth your palms across the width of his shoulders, his admission igniting a heat in your blood that pulses with every second you caress his broad chest. Like a flame creeping towards gasoline, it grows steadily at the prospect of testing the composure of the most patient soldier you’ve had the pleasure of laying eyes — and lips — on.

Because Cody doesn’t come to you for patience. He comes to you for reprieve.

The racy desire rises faster within you the lower your fingertips dance along his body, catching on the thin fabric of his bodysleeve, and the clothing is thin enough that you can feel his abdomen tighten and constrict as you spread your hands over the plane of muscle. Almost cruelly, you sweep your palms back up, thumbing lightly over his nipples before stopping at his arms, squeezing lightly around his biceps, and Cody twitches in response. It’s then that you decide, with little remorse, that yes, you’re going to play with him today.

“Don’t worry,” you whisper, lips gentle along the shell of his ear as you press your body to his. “I didn’t have time to snatch the stun remote.” You nip playfully at his lobe. “Unless you want me to, next time.”

You don’t give him a chance to respond before you descend to his bared neck, skimming your mouth along his pulse point and lightly sucking. You graze his skin occasionally with your teeth, mild lovebites blossoming blue and purple along the dark brown, and Cody releases his first groan of the night as you purse your lips against the base of his throat. Too late, he realizes you’re teasing, and he yanks at his binds as you pull the neckline of his blacks far down enough to mark the juncture of his neck and shoulder, leaving a line of hickeys you know no one else will see but you.

Your fingers spider along his torso, daintily prodding and pinching, and each touch draws a huff or a jump from an increasingly frustrated Cody as they drift across scars and muscle alike. His abs contract deliciously when you ghost below his waistline, but before he can buck his hips for more, your hands are already on his collarbone, barely scratching as you mouth at the spot behind his ear.

When you move along the sharp line of his jaw, pointedly avoiding his puffed out lips, he breaks slightly, voice croaking out a half-baked request. “Please,” he rasps, sounding more desperate than you’ve heard him before, “let me kiss you.”

You don’t cease in your mission to drive him to near-insanity, stringing the beads of sweat that have started to collect on his forehead together with your tongue. Mirth bubbles within you at his plea, though, and you’re surprised at how patronizing your voice comes out in return. “You mean let me kiss you,” you chastise him, mindlessly noting how lovely he looks when he’s at your mercy. He shudders at your admonishment, and you lick your lips at his reaction.

“Yeah. Kiss me.” He says simply. “Please,” he repeats, when you tilt your head loftily.

As you linger above him, taking his bottom lip under your thumb, he slips his tongue hesitantly along the pad of your finger, eyes imploring and utterly helpless. The sight is intoxicating, and you take a mental picture while waiting for your brain to catch up with your body as he mutters a third please.

Your cheeks expand with delight as an answer occurs to you, his favorite phrase coming flawlessly to mind, and you beam at his waiting form as he fidgets impatiently under you. You lower your mouth to his, not quite a kiss — more a dusting of a touch as he strains to press closer. Pushing down with both hands, you breathe against his lips. “Be good for me, won’t you?”

Today, ‘bending the rules’ takes the form of relief-born handsiness as he interrupts you working in your quarters, his favorite caf coincidentally brewing in the portable machine he’d gotten you for your birthday. You still aren’t completely sure how he managed to even buy it — perks, again — but it’s proven to be a wise investment over the course of the war and your effectively discreet relationship. It prepares a cup faster than the standard model in the mess, but not fast enough to finish before Cody’s lips find yours.

He keeps you sat on the chair you’d been perched upon while reading transmission reports before he’d come in, caging your body with two calculated hooks of his arms around you. As tantalizing as his lips are on yours, it’s not enough — and you move to raise your own arms to reach for his shoulders, needing some kind of bodily contact. Before you can get very far, a large palm smooths over your hip and pushes down, sending you back the couple centimetres you’d risen with a small oof. It’s immediately followed by a sour pout.

“Stay put,” he murmurs, the ghost of a smile flickering across his lips, which widens the same time your frown does. “I’ll come to you.”

Your eyes roll on instinct. Does he really have to be in charge all the time? “Come on,” you titter, “you haven’t even taken off your armour.” Your hands find his vambraces as if to prove your point, but his hands don’t leave from their place beside your thighs on the chair, patiently flexing instead. A flash of amusement glints in his gaze — but you spot the hunger there, too. A matching fervor blazes in your own.

“Can’t you be good for one minute?” It’s a tease — and a challenge. You rise to meet it like a tidal wave.

“If you make it worth being good for.”

His brow sets in dark resolution, but he leans forward nonetheless, mouth inching ever closer to yours, but he turns, angling towards the sweet spot on your neck. You’re almost craning in anticipation, lips nearing their glorious mark, but just as you feel the hover of his presence on your skin, an enthusiastic beep shatters the tension between you. Cody smiles.

“Caf’s ready.” He swoops up and around your seat with a pompous grin, breezing to the counter where two mugs are waiting, but you’re not letting him get away that easy. Be good, my ass, your consciousness retorts, and suddenly you’re up and pushing him backwards when he turns to face you.

His back hits the wall next to the cafmaker, and your lips are on his before he can even blink. His eyes flutter shut, though, when he feels your tongue breach his mouth and wrap around his own. When his fingers find your sides and spread hotly along your uniform, a thrum of satisfaction burns warm through your veins. Your noses bump as he slants into a deeper kiss, and you sigh contentedly when he squeezes you to him.

Unfortunately, you’re interrupted again by the sound of a tentative knock on the door to your cabin, and you detach yourself from Cody’s face with an exasperated gasp. He smirks at you, infuriatingly, before cornering you back against the chair, leaning over you once more and fisting the back of the seat as a hand weighs heavy on your shoulder, leading you down to your original position. He teases another kiss along your swollen lips, holding steady as you try to rush into it again. “Sit down.” He breathes out the command under his breath. “I’ll get it.”

You’re glued to your spot in an impatient daze as the trooper — Buzz, you recognize — greets Cody with confused hesitance and asks for your help with some of the newer communications officers that are struggling to delegate without you.

“She’s occupied at the moment,” Cody replies flatly, and suddenly, you’re quite thankful he hadn’t taken off his armour — paired with his appearance and level-headed diction, your trooper doesn’t seem any the wiser. 

You’ve always said Cody’s the best liar in the GAR. 

“Is it really a problem that requires the attention of the chief communications officer?” The way he says your title with just a hint of annoyance brings a laugh tickling in your chest, and you exhale fondly as he saves you from whatever small mess is happening on the bridge. He really does sound like he’s just been poring over flimsiwork. 

Buzz pauses. “Um, no, sir.” Then, again. “At least, I don’t think so.”

Cody stares back, unimpressed. “I suggest you let the new COMMOs know that they can’t ask for their C.O.’s help every time there’s a little bump in the road. This isn’t a training simulation.” You hear the thud of Buzz’s foot as he straightens in a salute. “And next time, have them come get her themselves. You’re a trooper, not a messenger.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Cody punches the release to send your door sliding closed as Buzz makes his retreat, and you tap your ankle to quell the mirth in your system. When he meets your eyes after circling back around to face you, the businesslike decorum falls away once he sees your bitten smile. 

“Don’t start,” he groans, but you’re already laughing.

“I’m just saying,” your fingers find his face, pulling down as he smiles against his will. Your heart preens at the view. “My men aren’t used to your harshness. Wouldn’t want any bad blood between the 41st and the 212th.” He kisses your thumb when it glides down from across his scar, relaxing more the longer he’s in your hold. “It’s hard enough smuggling you in here without a couple people noticing. ‘Ensuring uniformity between departments’ is getting a little old.”

When he dips his head lower to mouth at your neck, the heavy heat of before breathes back to life in your chest, and it reflects in his glowing gaze. “Getting old, huh?” His knees hit the floor as he descends in front of you. “Hopefully that’s the only thing.”

You grin wider at him, his dominance bleeding into clinginess after the forced interaction. He always acts as though every unnecessary conversation pains him, but you know it’s only because he’s got too many headaches of his own to deal with. You do, too, which is what makes each second spent together so precious. “Don’t worry, I’m not tired of you yet. Gonna take a lot more than your attitude to drive me away.”

He hums, finished with conversation. He’s spent the gamut of his words, today. A curl of steam from the counter catches your eye as he traps you further in your seat, both with the expanse of his body and his affection.

“Caf’s getting cold,” you breathe, only half serious. He presses his lips to yours before answering you a final time.

“Let it.”

“Shh!” You free a hand to clamp over his mouth, and Rex flinches at the sudden contact. Your hand is warm, no doubt from holding the datapad for too long. But he’s thankful, lest you feel the heat rising in his cheeks from your touch. “You’re gonna blow my cover. I’m on a mission.”

Rex’s voice is muffled, but his words come out clear enough. “What mission?” 

You usher him back down the hallway from where he came, dropping your arm from his face. “Can’t tell you,” you reply, gazing up at him with an intrepid grin. Even without your expression, it’s easy to see through your jest with your overtly joking tone. “It’s top secret. Goes all the way up to the top.”

Rex raises an eyebrow. That is new. It’s not often you’ll hide something from him. You’ve always been an open book around the 501st, saying it helps the boys comfortably emote after the trauma of the battlefield. You’re naturally trusting, and it encourages reciprocation without force. Even the General had noticed and enjoyed the calming presence you’d had on his men, hence your current station as head engineer of their mobile base. Good thing, too — Rex is pretty deep in his feelings for you. Has been since the moment you’d stuck out a surprisingly calloused hand and introduced yourself to him. To the benefit of everyone, his command is noticeably more effective after a late night in your private quarters or his separated bunk.

“I think I’d know if you were assigned on a mission,” he holds the door open for you as you duck inside your room. “Seeing as how I’m your C.O.”

“Is that the case?” you tuck the datapad on a bookshelf next to your bed. You turn to speak over your shoulder, obviously attempting to conceal the information you’d been recording from him. “Didn’t realize I’d be dating my boss when I got involved with you.”

Rex stumbles on his own two feet at that, and you laugh at him outwardly.

He’s still not the best with confronting the relationship between the two of you, as under wraps as it may be. After losing so many brothers to the war that birthed them, it’s hard to be vulnerable the way you ask him to be. He wants the same thing you do, but being open about how he feels is almost impossible for him.

Thank the maker you’re patient, though, and can put up with his inability to call himself your boyfriend. It doesn’t stop you from showering him in affection.

“Well, I do outrank you, even if you are a civvie tech.” Recovered from his blunder, he eases himself down on your cot, undoing the straps of his armor. “So, I could just order you to tell me what you were doing.”

A pout materializes. “You’re no fun.”

“Got me mixed up with Fives if that’s what you’re looking for.”

You sigh dramatically, plopping into your favorite sitting corner next to his feet. The stool you usually prop your feet up on is missing, though he suspects it’s in the refresher since you seem to be too short to reach the cabinet there. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

Rex lets a corner of his mouth rise in a half smile. He enjoys the way you let your reactions show, exercising the full range of your emotions. You pick up the slack he leaves in that regard, and he braces as he turns, leaning his elbows on his knees as he tells you, “You do know you were holding the datapad backwards earlier, right? I clocked the screen in the hall.”

Your frown deepens, and you cross your arms at him. “Rex.”

“What’re you lookin’ up Mando’a for, anyway?”

He’d immediately recognized the script of the language on your pad. You blow a strand of hair away from your face, the remnants of your so-called mission story falling away with the conversation. “I wanted to learn it, obviously.”

Rex casts his eyes to the ceiling. “Obviously. My question was why.”

You fix him with a thoughtful stare that lasts a second longer than normal, and he extends a hand to you in your corner. When you take it, he guides you to the bed next to him, resting your legs in his lap. His fingers tap your ankle in impatient waiting. 

“Does there have to be a reason?” You flex your toes, wiggling them as you speak. “Maybe I just want to understand you better.” 

“Sweetheart, you understand us plenty. Jesse said you gave him a hell of a therapy session just last week.”

You raise a brow at him, mimicking his expression from before. “I want to understand you, Mr. Brooding-and-closed-off,” you sit up from leaning on your hands, and poke him in the shoulder pointedly. It’s true that he relies on his mother tongue much more than the rest of his brothers. He’ll sometimes unknowingly switch from Basic, to your endless confusion. “I seem to be able to help everyone but you.” You purse your lips before peering at him amusedly. “And I think you mean psychoanalysis, not a therapy session.”

Rex makes a dismissive face. “Whatever.”

You drop your gaze, absently trailing your hand down his shoulder, and he grimaces internally. He can tell you’re already used to him pushing you away. You’re visibly preparing for it, even now.

He’s really bad with words — it’s ironic, considering how efficient he can be when he assumes command. Although he’s known for thinking on his feet, that doesn’t necessarily transfer to his communication skills. He’s never had the patience for conversation like Cody, or the power to convey his thoughts with threatening glares like Wolffe.

But he is good at taking action. And he’s tired of disappointing you.

He takes your hand, squeezing it gently as he brushes his thumb across your wrist. Hopefully, his intentions are obvious enough by the way he pulls you closer and looks you straight on. “You know you can always ask me what stuff means,” he says, “instead of trying to listen to Fives’ annoying voice.”

You laugh, and his heart flips in his chest. His brain reminds him to get it together, but he allows himself to relax into your touch. “He does speak too fast for me to decipher,” you wrap an arm around his waist, almost chin to chin with him. “Though it doesn’t take a protocol droid to figure out that haar’chak is a curse word.” You imitate the foreign word with decent accuracy, Rex notes. Maybe he really could teach you.

“It is. And kaysh mirsh solus is ‘he’s an idiot’.” He pauses. “Well, it actually means ‘his brain cell is lonely’. But that’s a little wordy.”

Your eyes light up, both at his seamless transition into the language and his correct anticipation of your first question. It’s his most used phrase, especially around his brothers. Though, the sincerity and circumstance in which he uses it varies wildly.

“There’s another one similar to that,” you press on, and he drinks in your excitement. It’s awfully endearing, even to Rex. “Hardcase says it a lot. It ends with ‘kee-rah-mood’?”

“Kaysh mirsh’kyramud,” Rex grins at your attempt. “‘He’s a brain assassin’. It just means someone’s boring.” A realization dawns on him as you giggle at the literal translations. “Wait, when has he said that?”

You shrink back a little, suddenly more conscious amidst your amusement. “Um…”

He looks at you flatly. “It’s after my briefings, isn’t it.”

“Yep.”

“Or’dinii.” After a beat, you nudge him. “‘Moron’.”

Another laugh breaks past your lips, and you lean your head against him. Despite his grumbling, he tucks you under him and kisses your temple, his face dissolving into a contented expression. You’re happily indulging him with the physical contact he’s always craving, and he silently offers you the first concession he’s given since you kissed him for the first time in the hangars before battle all those months ago. Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum.

“What’s that mean?”

Rex jerks up in surprise, angling his neck down to see you watching him curiously. He hadn’t realized he’d said it aloud.

It’s not like him to be so out of his head, but then again, this hasn’t exactly been a regular day. He sucks in a breath, committing fully to the sentiment. He’s never made the first move with you. You’ve had to elicit every last moment from him, breaking down wall after rebuilt wall.

Not this time.

“I love you,” he murmurs, but you hear him, loud and clear. “It means I love you.”

Your eyes blaze with something he can’t get a read on, but you respond with an alarmingly straight face. “Is that what it means literally?”

Rex blinks. “Um, no. It means — ”

“I’m joking,” your facade drops immediately, and you break out into that wide, face-splitting smile he loves so damn much. “Rex, I love you.” You reach up to gather his jaw in your hands, and drag him down into a sweet kiss, and he swears he’s never felt happier. “I love you too, Rex, stars.”

Against your lips, he mumbles it again, the words glistening on his tongue. “I love you.”

Thankfully, he wasn’t a dick about it, and had offered to buy you a replacement drink for the one that was now absorbing into the grimy tile. You’d swiftly declined, but he’d been insistent — following you back to your friends (at a respectable distance, albeit) and hailing the bartender to put your tables’ drinks on his tab. He’d tapped the tattoo on his temple as he said it, then winked at you as a good-bye.

“You can have him,” you’d automatically deadpanned, just as your friends had opened their mouths to ask.

Coincidentally (or not, seeing how it was a clone bar) you ran into him again at multiple girls’ nights out after that, and he’d had a new line for you each time:

“I’m head over heels for you!”

“You know what this armor’s made of? Boyfriend material.”

“Sorry I made you fall, angel, but it couldn’t be worse than the one from heaven.”

You had yet to laugh at any of them, though the last few had made you crack a smile. You tended to brush off his attempts with a roll of your eyes, or a cheeky stuck out tongue, and then, when he’d finally turn away, you’d go back to watching him when no one else was looking.

Maybe he wasn’t the greatest at comedy, but from what you could tell, he was a good friend. Or brother, you weren’t really sure. Regardless, he was charming and kind when he wasn’t trying to be.

At least to you.

The way he’d always make space for you when you passed him in the crowd, how he counted attendance for his squad regularly even at his drunkest, his readiness to defend his brothers with his fists — okay, maybe not that last one — it all won you over better than any of his flattery did. He was growing on you.

Maybe that was what possessed you to glide up next to him at the bar, in a cast and more bandages than you could count, but still looking as handsome as the day he’d toppled you over. You’d dismiss your actions as spur-of-the-moment friendliness when your friends badgered you over it later that night.

He seems surprised to see you as he turns, his companion donning similar armor noticing you quickly and retreating with a knowing smirk. You give him a tentative smile.

“In the mood for jokes today, then?” Fives sips his neon drink slowly, wincing a little as he swallows it down. You bite back a snort.

“You don’t look like you’re in any shape to be telling them,” he peers at you curiously at the playful lilt of your voice, “but it’s not like your A-game would be much better.”

His demeanor immediately perks up at the challenge. “That so? And here I’ve been saving all my best lines for you.”

“They’re not exactly humorous.”

“I’m not exactly trying to be funny.” You look up at him at that, but the seriousness is gone in a flash when he juts his chin. In its place is the same lively expression he always wears when he’s laying it on thick for you, and you fight to control the heat rising in your face. “Consider your bluff called. If you can make me laugh, I’ll end my pickup campaign. If you can’t, I get your number.”

You start for a bit, confidence wavering, but it comes back in a surge when he raises an eyebrow. “Okay,” you hum, tapping your finger on your lip in thought. He follows the movement with his pupils.

In a sudden motion, you tap his temple where his tattoo sits, bold and proud. Just like he did the first night he met you.

“Is that your rating on a scale from one to ten, or is it just your IQ?”

He stares — really stares at you. For fifteen seconds. You count them. The silence is aggravating, but you match him, unwilling to react first.

Then, he breaks down in a fit of laughter, and you exhale a sharp titter of your own, though it’s more out of relief than amusement. He catches his breath after one, two, three moments, and when he glances at you anew, there are tears in his eyes.

“I can’t believe the boys haven’t thought of that one yet,” he practically sings, and you realize your cheeks are beginning to ache at how hard you’re grinning. “Alright, sweetheart, I know when I’m beat. No more flirting. Promise.”

Again, you don’t know what urges you to do it, but you saunter closer, enough that your noses almost touch. You watch his eyes widen exaggeratedly, and it sends a spark of courage up your spine. “Do me one better?”

He barely breathes. “Which is?”