Archive of Our Own

When Cody gets the comm from Fox, they’re on maneuvers in the Ileenium system, with hyperdrives a solid three-day jump to the Core. Cody doesn’t love running missions without his general, but he’s long since accepted that there are things Obi-Wan has to do for the Order that Cody can’t be a part of, and that means things Cody has to do for the army alone. They’re making do. Obi-Wan likes to say a lot without saying much at all, but he’s very serious about this, the thing that’s grown between them, and he wants to talk about it, often and in detail, so he and Cody are never too far off the same page. Reasonable, he’s said, given their respective positions and responsibilities, that they know exactly where they stand with each other, so they never need worry about misunderstanding.

A good policy, and one that’s worked well enough so far. It’s not shiny and new anymore, the relationship or the attraction that prompted it, painted over like worn battle armor into something familiar and comfortable. If he’s being honest, Cody isn’t even sure it started that way. There’s a part of him that feels like Obi-Wan has always been under his skin, that maybe on Kamino the cloners or the Cosmic Force or some glitch in the technology implanted something into Cody in the tube, something that was waiting to activate through the drills to be better, the best, a perfect soldier, exactly what the mysterious, absent Jedi needed him to be, something that stayed dormant until Cody had a command and orders and a man in off-white robes standing opposite him, holding out his hand with a beatific smile and asking Cody for his name. Some days, Cody thinks he hadn’t really been decanted until that moment, hadn’t woken up, the universe nudging him along until there was a lightsaber-calloused palm pressed to his and the sense of pure, overwhelming relief that yes, the Jedi were here, and wanted them, and this man was everything Cody had ever been made to honor and serve.

When he gets the comm from Fox, he’s annoyed, but not really. His batchmate usually only calls with trouble, but trouble is a distraction and Cody is lonely even amongst the 212^th, who are his brothers, his vode, but who aren’t his Jedi, and who are all good men missing their general too. He answers with a short, “Cody here. What’s wrong, Fox?” and Fox’s face, so similar to Cody’s own – though far more creased with frustration lines and lacking the noteworthy scar – appears on the holo.

“Sit down for this, vod,” Fox says, just as brusque. “They thought you should hear it from someone close to you. Guess they decided that meant me.”

Cody sits, not Force-sensitive but feeling the deck tilt under him, his gut lurching like they’re caught in a gravity well all the same. Cody sits, and Fox ends his world.

He is not given leave for the funeral.

***

The hotel room Obi-Wan has procured for them is probably the nicest place this part of Coruscant has to offer, which is to say it’s dressed-up shit. The lush carpets have questionable stains on them, there are more than a few blaster holes in the gaudily-patterned walls, and the hallway lights flicker low and ominous, twisting the peeling paint into shadows ahead of them. Cody doesn’t mind. He’s been in worse skugholes than this one, even outside the front lines. He likes order more than cleanliness, and he’s not here for the ambiance.

He's here for the company.

Obi-Wan gives him a small smile when they reach the appropriate door, less charming on his distorted face than it would be on his real one, but still enough to make Cody’s stomach turn over with heat – though that may also be remnants of the ale doing their work. His hand is warm where it grasps Cody’s, and he squeezes once before swiping the key against the lock. The panel blinks to green, and the door slides open with a hiss. Cody steps around Obi-Wan on instinct, striding two steps in with his hand on his DC, giving the room a quick, reflexive perimeter scan. He only catches the move when he goes to signal the all-clear, then pauses with his hand raised, half-forming the GAR sign. He flushes as he straightens. By the door, Obi-Wan’s expression is a carefully composed neutrality, his laughing smile one hundred percent in his dancing blue eyes, made bluer by the neon streaks creeping between the slats of window shades on the room’s far side.

“Sorry,” Cody says, still blushing. It’s dark, and even in broad daylight he doesn’t show the color much against his darker complexion, but his partner is an empath, so probably he knows. “Hard habit to break.”

“Especially when you don’t have much reason to break it,” Obi-Wan quips back, allowing the door to slide shut behind him. He reaches for the light, waving it on with a casual hand, and that too flickers, giving the room a yellow quality that washes both of them out. Definitely a skughole, this place. Definitely not here for the ambiance. Obi-Wan adds, “You do realize that placing yourself in front of a Jedi rather defeats the point? Only one of us can block blaster bolts, darling, and unless you’ve developed a Force-sensitivity I’m not privy to…?”

He's smirking, though Cody’s heart misses half a beat, lodging in his throat. Obi-Wan catches the implication a moment too late, his own face falling – his killer’s face falling – with the realization. Obi-Wan can block blaster bolts, and Cody can’t, not with anything short of his own body, but the last time Obi-Wan was on Coruscant, he didn’t, and he died, and Cody wasn’t there to try to save him. He didn’t even warrant an invitation to the funeral. He was completely, utterly helpless.

It's unforgivable, for a clone soldier to be helpless. It’s also the only thing they’ve ever been.

“Cody-“ Obi-Wan starts, and Cody clears his throat loudly, interrupting him, because he can’t handle that tonight, he just can’t. He gives a theatrical eye roll, knowing it will get a rise out of Obi-Wan and needing that sense of normalcy as a raft he can cling to in an ocean of how kriffed up this all is, how much they’re going to need to talk about it, sooner rather than later. Obi-Wan always wants to talk about this thing, this relationship, about what everything means for them as a ‘couple,’ not just a command unit, but Obi-Wan also can’t resist taking Cody’s bait, delights when Cody disrespects his superiors – or at least, one superior in particular. It makes him feel less like there’s a power imbalance between them, Cody knows, and comforts him that Cody doesn’t come to him blindly, simply because Obi-Wan wishes it. That’s not why Cody indulges the habit. He indulges it because he’s a little bit of an asshole, and Obi-Wan has never asked Cody to be anything less than himself.

“Maybe I forgot I was walking with a Jedi, looking at that ugly face,” he shoots back. It’s weak, as a tease, but Obi-Wan accepts Cody’s avoidance with generosity, clasping one hand over his heart as he gives a mock-gasp of offense. There’s a look in his eyes that says they will be talking about it later, but they’re here for a reason, and for now, Obi-Wan will abide.

Instead, he pouts, giving Cody a melodramatic, mournful look. “Oh, to be spurned by my own heart!” he laments, with a performance that would put the 212th’s favorite holodramas to shame, though Hardeen’s voice rumbles over the words in baritone instead of comforting tenor. “And here you’ve been calling me mesh’la all night!”

And, well. As much as Obi-Wan enjoys Cody mouthing off, Cody himself is a sucker for Obi-Wan playing the damsel in distress. Probably it has something to do with the protective instincts bred and beaten into him, the need to serve, but he loves Obi-Wan like this, playing up the wound just so Cody can kiss it better. Like Cody was made for tenderness instead of violence, healing instead of hurt. It’d probably be a lot more effective with his own pouty face, though. Rako Hardeen isn’t an unattractive man, Cody can admit, but he’s a little more rugged than Cody would consider his type, in so much as he has one outside of the very narrow category of ‘blue eyes, copper hair, bearded, surprisingly muscular for his slight build, nominally human and pretty.’ Obi-Wan is handsome, sure, but there’s a clear softness to his features, a delicacy belied by his strength, and when he bats his eyes at Cody and works him up like the brat he is, pretty is the better word for him by far. Cody never really stood a chance to develop interests outside of that; he’d share, if Obi-Wan seemed interested in that sort of thing – the Vode share, are used to sharing just about everything, and Cody is as possessive as a clone is allowed but wanting to have a thing, knowing he has Obi-Wan as thoroughly as anyone can have a Jedi, doesn’t mean any less for choosing to share it out with his brothers – but the benefits on Cody’s end would be more about watching Obi-Wan than whoever he was playing with.

In response, he cocks his head, shifting back on the carpeted floor as he drawls, “I thought the ego boost might be necessary. I don’t mind putting in the legwork for an easier lay.”

It’s a little crass, especially with the cocky grin Cody accompanies it with, a grin he only half feels, but Obi-Wan snorts, grinning back. “Yes, because a few pet names will make a substantial difference on that front,” he says loftily, wetting his lips with a very pink tongue. He bats his eyelashes – not as great a look on Hardeen, but not a bad one, not bad at all, so Cody only regrets a little that they’re still playing when Obi-Wan is like this, that anything further isn’t waiting until Obi-Wan has returned to the Temple for the bone reconstruction surgery. They’re done with the game – Obi-Wan is Obi-Wan again, not Ben, and not Hardeen, satisfying the itch of being a nebulous someone else in Cody’s metaphorical bed – but Cody can’t help but feel like they’re still playing something, as the one who can see and hear, who can tell that this still isn’t his general, his Jedi, at least on the surface. It distracts him, even as Obi-Wan closes the distance, tilting his head coyly as he adds, “I don’t know if it’s possible for me to be easier for you, darling.”

Cody’s pants tighten as he tracks the move, his gut heating. One orgasm in tonight, tingling at the memory of wet lips and a tight throat squeezing his head, the burn is a slow simmer instead of a flare. It allows Cody’s grin to take on a more sincere edge, slipping into Obi-Wan’s space to match his Jedi’s dancing steps and relishing the hitch in his partner’s breath as Cody curls a hand around the back of his neck, fitting his fingertips lightly over the pressure points in Obi-Wan’s nape. “You say that like I’m special,” Cody teases, letting himself be buoyed away from the more complicated feelings of seeing unadulterated desire on his lover’s murderer’s face by that unadulterated desire, Obi-Wan’s pupils dilating at the drawl of Cody’s tone. He drops his voice lower, so Obi-Wan has to sway towards him to hear. “I have it on good authority that before me, you were just as eager to spread your legs for any pretty sentient who caught your fancy, especially if you knew they had a blaster like mine under the belt.” He tucks one thumb in his waistband, just to emphasize the point.

Obi-Wan’s lips part, breath hot as he pants, eyes dropping automatically to Cody’s crotch with that unabashed hunger before dragging slowly back up to Cody’s face, hot and predatory. It’s enough to have Cody’s dick twitching, reminding him again of an alley not half an hour ago, and a much better use for that smart red mouth. Obi-Wan looks ravenous, as if sucking Cody’s decee halfway down his throat earlier tonight was barely an appetizer. Stewjoni aren’t exactly the sex-crazed fiends that holoporn makes them out to be, but some days Cody wonders if Obi-Wan wouldn’t genuinely be happier on his knees at all hours, nothing more than a couple of holes for Cody to wet his cock in. The color is high in his cheeks, and maybe Cody doesn’t love this face, maybe he relishes the scrape of Obi-Wan’s beard against his skin when they’re kissing, real and sharp and leaving burning reminders in its wake, but he can’t deny; there is a benefit to seeing the strong blush rise up unimpeded on smooth, creamy skin, barely distorted by stubble.

Obi-Wan sets a proprietary hand over Cody’s, tantalizingly close to where Cody’s pants are starting to bulge – not tent, not with three layers of cloth, but he’s not a small man and he’s not wearing a codpiece like Obi-Wan is, so true decency is a lost cause – but Obi-Wan doesn’t quip back, doesn’t take the filthy language one step further towards the breaking point. Instead, his voice goes quiet, his whole expression softening on a too-edged face as he murmurs, “You are special.” Cody’s heart squeezes, his stomach turning at the words – desperately craved but wrong, all wrong, in a voice that Cody keeps hearing, keeps jolting him out of what he needs to be real. Obi-Wan gives him a wry smile, one that cuts unpleasantly across too-sharp cheekbones, adding gently, teasingly, “And I believe you’ve been speaking too much to Quinlan Vos.”

“More like he’s been speaking too much to me.” Cody’s not entirely sure how the Shadow got his private comm codes, but once he had, he’d started sending Cody regular encrypted messages, comprised entirely of gossip about Obi-Wan. “He has a lot of stories to share. Interesting stories.” The kind of stories that, for all that Cody’s responses have been this is an abuse of a secured channel, cease and desist (you Jedi maniac), had more than once resulted in him flinging his comm across the room in his cramped officer’s quarters, staring at the ceiling for thirty seconds, and then caving to shove a hand into his blacks, jerking fast and rough at the picture the words had made. Stewjoni are not sex-crazed fiends. Allegedly. Apparently, Obi-Wan in his young adulthood had made a robust effort to prove the stereotype more than correct.

Obi-Wan’s eyes glitter, as if he knows exactly the kind of stories Vos thought appropriate to share. “You can hardly hold me accountable for the actions of my twenties, darling. Stewjoni are very social creatures, and I was under a great deal of stress at the time. I needed the,” he savors the word with obvious pleasure, “relief.”

Not that different from now, Cody thinks, eyes flicking to Obi-Wan’s lips, and maybe he’ll revisit that ‘sharing’ idea next time Vos gives him a call. Cody knows they had a casual thing, a long time ago, more about mutual release with a trusted individual than any sort of committed relationship. Or some of his brothers: Cody knows a couple who would love to get their hands on the general, and his cock throbs in his blacks at the thought of standing back and watching Obi-Wan spread out on the Negotiator’s command table and made to just take it, falling apart on a decee that looks just like Cody’s – or two, kriff, watching them stuff Obi-Wan’s hungry cunt until it couldn’t take any more, filling every hole until Obi-Wan was a drooling, panting mess, kriff-drunk and pliant and covered in buckets of Vode cum-

Both ideas are appealing, but neither are for right now, and Cody needs to get this show on the road before he starts to chafe in the confines of his pants. He tugs his hands away, rocking back a step to get some much-needed air – air that doesn’t smell like Obi-Wan, his arousal and pheromones faint even in close quarters, but undeniably there, even under his scent suppressants – and unholstering his DC, freeing it from beneath his tightening civvies. He ignores the brief flash of curiosity, even interest in Obi-Wan’s dark eyes, blue swallowed by black pupil as he tracks Cody stepping away, setting the blaster with a clack of plastoid on one of the shabby, mismatched nightstands tucked beside the bed. He’d told Obi-Wan earlier, that won’t be a game they’re playing tonight. Obi-Wan died, and now he wears his killer’s face, and Cody has too many feelings about that alone, much less about holding a blaster on a Jedi, his general, to allow himself to consider it. Another night, maybe, when Cody can be sure his hands won’t shake. When he can be sure a fit of grief won’t have him making a terrible mistake.

 He turns his attention to the bed itself, setting one hand on the mattress to test the relative give (plush, but not more fluff than substance – acceptable). It isn’t the biggest one Cody’s ever seen – they’ve had missions, diplomatic and infiltration, that had them in palaces and even well-to-do senatorial apartments, and those places tend to have beds that could sleep a squad of ten brothers comfortably – but it’s clear that the bed is the draw of this room, not the shitty lighting or the half-hearted attempt at decor. It’s definitely a sight better than the racks Cody is used to in the barracks, the slightly wider bunks he and Obi-Wan are granted on the Negotiator by virtue of rank, and even the modest but not uncomfortable bed Obi-Wan has in his rooms back at the Jedi Temple. All of the above require them at least half on top of each other, if they don’t want one of them to be hanging off the edge, but though neither Cody nor Obi-Wan are small men, they could lay shoulder to shoulder on this one and still have a good foot of space on either side. If not for the quality of everything else around them, Cody would worry about how many credits Obi-Wan had spent securing private lodging for the night, with a bed like that.

As it is, staring up at the just-shy-of-tasteful Twi’lek silhouette hanging above the headboard, the gilded frame knocked slightly askew, Cody has the sudden thought that in all likelihood, this places charges by the hour.

When he turns back to look at Obi-Wan, the other man’s shoulders are tight with restraint, predatory light gleaming in his eyes. Cody half expects him to pounce, and braces to be tackled into the mattress by nearly two hundred pounds of eager felid hunter – winces internally, even, at the thought of Obi-Wan’s armor plates colliding with his for-once unarmored body, even if most of the armor is leatheris instead of metal or plastoid. Instead, as their eyes meet, Obi-Wan’s expression softens again, simmering from heat to warmth, though none of that eager tension abates. Obi-Wan is a patient man, as a rule, though he has confided to Cody that this is more due to decades of practice and training than natural inclination. He waits now, and when Cody invades his space, crossing the room again with a few decisive strides, Obi-Wan just tilts his head to the side, inviting. The last game was Obi-Wan’s. This time, he wants Cody to take on his own terms.

So Cody does. Obi-Wan purrs gently, rumbling up from his throat as Cody hooks a hand around the back of his neck, guiding him slowly into an open-mouthed kiss. The subvocal vibrates over Cody’s tongue, and he groans, tasting the ale from earlier and traces of his release still lingering on Obi-Wan’s palate, unable to tell which bitterness is alcohol and which is his own spend. Cody closes his eyes, leaning into it in spite of the oddness, the fact that he can’t feel Obi-Wan’s beard tickling against his cheek, his mustache bristling against the slide of Cody’s lips on his. It’s hot and wet and slow and thorough, Cody remapping Obi-Wan’s mouth with his tongue like a battlefield, and Obi-Wan surrenders ground far more easily than he would if they were in active combat, humming with pleasure and sucking lightly on Cody’s tongue without trying to take any control away from him. One hand, hot and gloved, lands on Cody’s hip, and Cody breaks them into a keldabe only when it’s that or run out of air.

“Mmm,” Obi-Wan hums, voice deeply pleased, echoing with muffled Stewjoni subvocals of satisfaction and encouragement. The urgency from earlier is all gone, settled into familiarity and comfort – except for how wrong it sounds. “Now, that was truly a proper hello after a long goodbye, wasn’t it?”

Cody shudders, squeezing his eyes more tightly shut, pressing his forehead harder into Obi-Wan’s until the keldabe hurts like it ought. He knows he’s letting more ambient emotion slip through his shields than usual, because as his unease spikes, Obi-Wan stiffens. “Darling?”

It feels wrong. It was fine – not ideal but fine – when they were pretending, but this is Obi-Wan with Cody now, not Ben. He can’t- he wants, but he can’t relax, not if Obi-Wan is going to keep talking, not if he sounds like that. “Take it out,” he commands, his voice thick and rough. He can blame it on being breathless from the kiss. It’s only half a lie.

“What?” Obi-Wan presses harder into the bruising touch of their foreheads, and Cody shakes his head against it.

“The vocoder,” he demands flatly, unable to open his eyes, unable to look. “Take it out. Now.” One or the other, face or voice, he can handle. Not both.

Obi-Wan pulls back – not out of Cody’s space, doesn’t even remove the hand on his hip, but out of the keldabe so he can survey Cody properly. Cody chances opening his eyes and winces at the elaborate red tattoo and rough-chiseled cheek and jawline looking back at him, set over the yellow and green-grey Mando armor, Hardeen’s sharp features drawn in Obi-Wan’s soft uncertainty. He matches the shabby room, rough and jagged edges, sensual in only the bluntest of ways, thrown into distortion by the uneven, sallow lighting. It almost reminds Cody of Prime, which is a horror in its own right. “Alright,” Obi-Wan says placatingly, in his murder’s voice, and Cody stifles another shudder. “If that’s what you want…”

“Yes.” He says it fast, like a slug-thrower bursting past his lips, and clamps his jaw shut, lest anything worse spill out. He wants Obi-Wan. He always wants Obi-Wan, but Obi-Wan had come to him in a delicate state tonight, so sure of rejection over the call where they’d sorted all this out, so certain Cody would want nothing to do with him after what he’d termed ‘a gross betrayal.’ Cody can’t offer him something that looks like a rejection. Obi-Wan has nothing to be guilty about. This is Cody’s burden to shoulder. Obi-Wan did what he had to, and deserves any solace he can scrounge from it, and Cody is not here because Obi-Wan wants him to provide that solace. As always, he is here because there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

And still, Obi-Wan hesitates. “It’s only…” he hedges, then finally allows, “Well, it’s hardly an erotic process, removing it, and I’d hate to ruin our evening.”

Cody has no doubt, but he shakes his head again, desperate. “You sound like him. I…I need you to sound like you.” He pauses, something he hadn’t considered: “Unless…will it hurt, if you…?” The only vocal emulators he’s ever been familiar with function like their helmet vocoders. You don’t swallow them. Obi-Wan hasn’t seemed distressed by it, but would it hurt to remove, the way Cody knows it will hurt to get his own face back, melting and restructuring bone? Is Cody being selfish, asking for this? Surely he can handle it, just for one night…

But Obi-Wan chuffs, lips quirking wryly as he shakes his head. “It’s not painful,” he promises, possibly picking up on Cody’s distress in the Force, trying to soothe him. “It’s not even especially uncomfortable, particularly for someone with my anatomy. But you may want to take a few steps back; I would categorize the sound I’m about to make as distinctly unsexy, and I would hardly blame you if it killed the mood for the rest of the night.”

It’s enough to make Cody laugh, to relinquish the precious space between them in favor of taking two steps back, sitting down as the edge of the mattress hits the back of his knees. Obi-Wan retreats another step into the entryway as well, out of the yellow glow of the lamps, half in shadow as he gives Cody a brief look of consternation. He peels off his gauntlets, then his gloves, depositing them on a side table near the door. He turns in a facsimile of privacy, and Cody watches, rapt with curiosity and then mild horror as Obi-Wan puts two fingers to his mouth, tilting his head back, and then makes a truly horrific hacking sound, the muscles in his throat bobbing and flexing as something suddenly bulges, moving inside it. Cody’s eyes go wide, sitting back hard in, admittedly, more than a little disgust, as the sound dies off into something disturbingly wet, Obi-Wan’s tongue curling as he fishes an orb barely smaller than a droid popper out of his mouth by one of a half-dozen spindly robotic legs. Cody’s own gag reflex triggers sympathetically as they wiggle in the air. What. The hells.

Obi-Wan, for his part, has never seemed to have much of a gag reflex, regardless of what he’s swallowing – or, in this case, coughing up. Cody swallows down the rising bile as Obi-Wan wipes his mouth delicately with the back of one hand, then thumbs over the glowing eye of the device, powering it down. The legs stop squirming and tuck back into the central orb. Obi-Wan wipes off the shine of saliva on the fur collar of his vest, then tucks the emulator into the central pocket adorning the leatheris portion of his Mandalorian armor – more flexible to move in than plastoid or beskar, Cody will give it that, but he doubts it would hold up against real blasterfire. Obi-Wan clears his throat twice, putting one hand to the pale, bobbing flesh, and then lets out of a series of trills and clicks, a little rougher than Cody is used to hearing, but clearly flexing muscles that have been compressed by the plastoid gadget being held there. Disturbing sounds aside, Obi-Wan probably is more built to hold something like that in his throat than the average humanoid; he’d told Cody once that Stewjoni had nearly double the musculature as Human Standard in that respect, on top of whatever other anatomical features let Obi-Wan make a much broader array of vocal and subvocal sounds – not to mention the application on Cody’s cock, when Obi-Wan takes him all the way down.

Cody doesn’t really want to think about how Obi-Wan might have had to drink with that in his throat, much less eat anything. His general has a nasty habit of forgoing food entirely, subsisting off caf and tea and the Force when left to his own devices and giving up his rations to the chronically underfed men of his command. It’s been over thirty rotations since Cody has last seen his general, and he’ll have to check, later, if Obi-Wan has actually eaten anything in that time, barring a single drink at the bar earlier and a mouthful of Cody’s cum, or if Cody will have to sit him down and hand-feed Obi-Wan until he’s satisfied with the man’s caloric intake before whatever next mission or battlefront the Senate inevitably throws them into.

Obi-Wan clears his throat one more time, chirps twice, and then sighs the relief of someone unfurling a cramping muscle into a particularly satisfying stretch. “There now,” he says, and his voice is smoother than Cody expected, purely his own. He turns back into the light again, sickly-looking under the yellow glow, and smiles as he spreads his hands wide for Cody’s appraisal. “Better?”

“Much,” Cody breathes, feeling his own relief loosen in his chest, chasing away the disgust and anxiety. It doesn’t do anything about Obi-Wan’s face, but that’s his voice, playful and teasing, and it eases some of the tension. “Say something…you.”

“Well, that seems a rather fraught request. I could recite my emergency intelligence codes if you’d like, but after that display, I’d rather not give you further difficulty performing tonight.”

Cody snorts. Yeah, that’s his smart-mouthed Jedi, alright. “In that voice?” he shoots back. “Trust me, cyare, you won’t have any performance trouble from me.” Obi-Wan’s silver tongue is a blessing and a curse in equal measure, and Cody has been conditioned to stand right at attention with the right curve of those clipped consonants. It makes his codpiece equally a blessing and a curse, and Cody is fervently grateful he’s not wearing it right now. He leans back on his palms, spreading his knees wide to spawl more comfortably back on the mattress.

“Oh?” Obi-Wan’s grin curls around the word, every ounce the predator species so few people are privy to knowing he is. His tongue darts out again, wetting his lips as he takes in Cody’s posture like a feast. “I suppose I should be flattered, then; I did put a great deal of effort into cultivating it.”

“If you start talking about your dead master,” Cody threatens, because he knows why Obi-Wan has such a crisp Upper Coruscanti accent, when most of the Jedi have much milder mid-city ones, or ones reflecting their native planets and cultures, and it’s not because Obi-Wan’s voice was naturally inclined that way. As far as Cody’s concerned, nothing kills the mood faster than thinking about Qui-Gon Jinn, a man he’d like to have words with, if he were still alive, and possibly ending in killing him again, just for good measure. Obi-Wan choking up an orb almost the size of Cody’s fist is damn near erotic in comparison.

Thankfully, Obi-Wan doesn’t steer the conversation that way, smiling faintly as he crosses the room, boots leaving impressions on the already-matted carpeting. He stops by the bed, polyns just brushing Cody’s knees, and Cody takes the unspoken cue, sitting up with a hand on either one of Obi-Wan’s hips as he pulls the man into his lap, armor plating sinking deep into the plush down comforter. The weight of him is easy to bear, and Cody leans back as Obi-Wan drapes his arms around Cody’s neck, taking in the rebuilding heat of his lover’s expression, and then looking away.

He can feel Obi-Wan’s frown without seeing it, and nearly flinches when Obi-Wan sets a gentle hand on his cheek, not forcing him anywhere, just cupping under his chin. “It’s hard for you, isn’t it,” Obi-Wan says, not a question, but a certainty. “Meeting my eyes like this.”

Cody keeps his gaze averted, though his stomach crawls. He’d wanted more of a handle on this. He’d wanted to pretend, to just enjoy the relief of knowing his general wasn’t dead, the satisfaction of his lover’s return home. Being uncomfortable is the natural state of a clone soldier; Cody had planned on soldiering through any bumps in this road. “Your eyes aren’t the problem,” he mutters, coaching himself to meet Obi-Wan’s gaze. He doesn’t manage it.

“Just the rest of my face.” To Cody’s relief, Obi-Wan doesn’t sound offended, doesn’t even sound resigned or apologetic, no hint of the guilt Cody worried this might trigger. Instead, he sounds fond, and a little wistful, and his thumb strokes lovingly down Cody’s chin, chucking him under it before he lets his hand fall to rest against Cody’s chest instead. “Do you want to stop? If you’d rather just hold me in the dark, we can. Or we can go back to the Temple, and you can stay in my rooms while I…” He trails off, and then murmurs, “You’ve given me plenty tonight, darling. I just want you to be comfortable.”

It's the second out he’s been given tonight. Like before, Cody doesn’t want it. He wants a grip on himself, sure, but mostly he wants his lover right where he is, comfortable in Cody’s lap, even in unfamiliar armor. Green and yellow and grey are not the color of the 212^th battalion; the yellow lighting only amplifies that fact. Briefly, Cody entertains the fantasy of stripping Obi-Wan out of this second-rate Mando armor, of painting orange sunbursts over the planes of his skin, everywhere Cody has his. Armor paint isn’t safe for that, but Cody knows they have body paint at the Temple, that as far as fantasies go, it’s probably achievable.

Just not in this moment. He shakes his head. “I just…need to push through this. It’s fine.”

Reproval radiates off Obi-Wan, and he leans back, frowning at Cody. “That is not fine, Commander-“ and Cody holds in another wince, because Obi-Wan only breaks out his rank in bed as a tease or an admonition, and it’s certainly not the former here- “Sex is not something to be pushed through. What is the rule about you sharing my bed?”

“I have to want to be here,” Cody mumbles. Obi-Wan has been clear on that point; he loves Cody, that much is blindingly, astonishingly obvious, but he had been firm from the first. Their relationship is not as a favor to Obi-Wan. It is not because Cody wants to serve his superior officer. It is because like recognized like, that day on Trandosha, two terrified men acknowledging something between them and vowing to make it work as best as they were able.

“You have to want to be here,” Obi-Wan echoes, much gentler than Cody’s self-recriminating tone. He strokes his hand over Cody’s cheek, then back through his hair, lightsaber-calloused fingertips feather-light against the skin, carding delicately through his curls to avoid any snags. “Do you want to be here, darling?”

“I want to be here with you.”

Petulance isn’t a sound Cody makes often, but he hears Obi-Wan’s chuff of surprise as the words edge close to it. Lightly, Obi-Wan cups the back of Cody’s neck, and Cody allows himself to be moved, closing his eyes as Obi-Wan drags him fully into an embrace, pressing Cody’s face into the vest right over his heart. Cody wraps his arms around Obi-Wan’s waist, clutching him closer, and isn’t ashamed to rub his cheek into the soft leatheris. Second-hand, obviously. It’s not as good as Obi-Wan’s Jedi robes, even softer with wear and warmth, but it’s not bad.

“I have an idea,” Obi-Wan murmurs. His head dips down, and he drops a kiss to the top of Cody’s head, pressing the words into his hair. “Would you like to hear it?”

Obi-Wan’s ideas are usually worth listening to. No plan survives contact with the enemy – or Cody’s ruthless tactical training – but Obi-Wan is practical through his bones, even if he cloaks it in layers of outrageous whimsy. Cody nods, and is rewarded with another head kiss.

“I can’t do anything about my face,” Obi-Wan tells him, still murmuring into his hair. “Not without going back to the Temple, and quite frankly, I’ll be in a great deal of pain from the procedure, and sore for quite a while after. I doubt I’ll be up for anything…vigorous.” Cody snorts, headbutting Obi-Wan’s stomach lightly, and Obi-Wan flicks his ear in retaliation. “As I was saying. I can’t simply wave my hand and look myself again. But, if you trust me…”

It takes Cody a moment to realize the trailing off is a cue, but he answers immediately when he does.  “Always.”

Obi-Wan’s breath hitches, and he swallows down a sound so fast, Cody almost misses it. Almost. He doesn’t often have reason to hear Obi-Wan subvocalize that brand of wonder, but it guts him every time. It’s not a pleasant sound, more in line with a Stewjoni dirge wail than a purr. Obi-Wan often makes sounds that translate as pleased I can’t believe you’re real, and you’re mine, and I have you. This one translates more as I cannot atone enough to deserve you. His thumbs curl around the backs of Cody’s ears, fingertips pricking the sensitive tendons down his nape. It’s an intimate touch, for a Stewjoni, the way a keldabe means more to Cody than maybe even a proper kiss, and Cody drags one hand away from Obi-Wan’s waist to cover the hand on his neck, pressing it in harder. “I trust you,” he says again. “What’s your idea?”

Obi-Wan swallows hard, audible in the still of the room. Tucked into Obi-Wan’s torso like this, pinned to the bed with his weight, there’s an odd sensation of floating instead, swaddled in a darkness that blocks out the neon of the windows and the yellow overhead light. Slowly, Obi-Wan murmurs, “You seem…much easier, now that you can hear my actual voice. Would that be enough, do you think? To believe you’re here with me?”

“It’s…hard,” Cody admits. “Seeing…seeing him, and then hearing your words come out.”

“What if you didn’t see me at all? Would that be alright?”

Cody startles. He moves to pull back, to look up, but Obi-Wan’s grip tightens on his nape, pushing him back into the cocoon. Cody goes obediently still, freezing as his eyes snap open, staring down at worn grey leathers, the pocket bulging with the vocal emulator a few inches from his nose. “Not see you?” he repeats. “Like, you take me from behind?” It wouldn’t be the first time his lover has topped him, but Cody will admit, it’s not usually his preference – he needs to be a certain kind of relaxed to enjoy it, a kind of relaxed he rarely encounters. A kind of relaxed he definitely isn’t tonight. That, and he doesn’t think Obi-Wan’s actually taken him in that position before; Cody likes to look at him too much, usually. It’s well worth the stretch it puts in his thighs afterwards, watching Obi-Wan’s pleasure as he pounds Cody into the mattress.

Obi-Wan hums a negative, fingers tapping a discordant rhythm – no GAR signals in it, just fidgeting. “I did promise you my cunt tonight, didn’t I?” he murmurs, “and I suppose you could take me from behind, if you thought that would be enough, but…I had thought something a little more…involved.” His grip lightens on the back of Cody’s neck, and he fiddles with his sleeves, unwinding something, and then finally draws what Cody recognizes by feel alone as a long strip of fabric, probably a wrist or forearm wrap, along the side of his throat. Cody’s mouth goes dry, and Obi-Wan murmurs, “How would you feel about being blindfolded, darling?”

Cody…has to think about that. It’s not just that they’ve never brought something as elaborate as a blaster into the bedroom; Cody doesn’t think they’ve ever used a prop that wasn’t just his armor for Obi-Wan to grind on – hells, they’ve never even used Obi-Wan’s lightsaber, and Cody’s pretty sure they could do something with that, even if the idea of accidentally igniting the blade thrills and terrifies him in almost equal measure. He’s threatened, once or twice, to tie Obi-Wan up with his own belt if he didn’t behave, the obi soft and flexible enough that Cody figured it wouldn’t chafe badly if Obi-Wan squirmed, but he’s never actually done it.

When he tries to look up this time, Obi-Wan lets him. He’s watching Cody carefully, the fabric strip wound around both hands taut. There isn’t an inch of bounty hunter in the look, though, nothing that reminds Cody of Prime or any other Mando he’s ever met. It’s all Jedi tension, a kind of uncertain empathy that is purely Cody’s general.

“I know you don’t like to be out of control,” Obi-Wan says softly. He winds the fabric a loop tighter around one hand. “Would this be too much, do you think? It’s not truly sensory deprivation, but I would understand if it was a step too far.”

“I don’t want to be tied up,” Cody says, even as the thought does something complicated and hot to his blood. “Not…not tonight, at least.” He needs to be able to touch Obi-Wan, to feel that any part of this is still within his grasp. He can’t be restrained when every part of these last few weeks has felt like a mask of self-possession, unable to let on to the hollowness in his chest, where Obi-Wan’s light belonged.

Obi-Wan is shaking his head almost before the words are out. “No, of course not. I’d want a much longer discussion before we brought that into the bedroom, regardless of who was doing what – and if that is something you’d ever like to explore, we can certainly discuss it. No, just the blindfold tonight. Just so you can’t actually see me. It’s just my face they altered, so if you didn’t touch me there…well, everything else would be quite familiar, I’d say.”

Reflexively, Cody’s fingers tighten at the small of Obi-Wan’s back. That…he swallows hard. “That…might work.”

“We don’t have to. I’m sure there are other solutions, if you aren’t comfortable-“

“No,” Cody interrupts, warming to the idea. It’s an elegant solution, like most of his general’s – the ones that don’t involve him getting punched half to death as a ‘negotiation tactic,’ though Obi-Wan would argue that those are elegant in their simplicity. Cody is used to wearing a helmet, has been trained for blackout scenarios or his HUD going down. Blinded isn’t ideal, but it’s not out of control. He can compensate, and, “I can always take it off if I change my mind.”

“Of course,” Obi-Wan agrees. He gives an idle wave of his hand, and the window slats slide shut with the Force, cutting away the neon streaks and allowing for total privacy. “Light on or off, then?”

“Off,” Cody says, giving Obi-Wan a teasing grin when it prompts a pout from the other man. “Evens the odds, and all. Besides, not like it’s doing me any favors.” How Bly can stand to have the color tattooed into his skin, Cody will never know.

“Hmm,” Obi-Wan hums, the twist of his smile telling Cody that they’re both well-aware that Obi-Wan’s night vision is better than even the average Jedi. Still, he gives another wave, and the overhead light goes off, plunging the room into near-darkness. Only the faintest grey dimness remains from the crack under the door. “May I?” Obi-Wan asks, and Cody nods, knowing it will be seen. Gingerly, Obi-Wan’s hands wind the fabric around his eyes before they can adjust too well, securing with a knot not at the back of his head like Cody expected, but a little off to the side. The reasoning becomes clear almost immediately, as the next place Obi-Wan’s hands go are his chest, pushing Cody firmly down into the mattress, a little oof punching out of his throat. Cody grins.

“Comfortable?” Obi-Wan quips, and Cody bites his lip to keep the smile from turning stupid, digging his fingertips into Obi-Wan’s hips hard enough to bruise. Obi-Wan chirrs, and Cody pictures the eager wrinkle of his nose, the delight shining in his eyes as his fingers tug just once at the blindfold, ensuring the knot isn’t digging into Cody’s scalp, and then splay against the mattress, close enough that when Cody turns towards it, his lips brush the exposed skin of Obi-Wan’s wrist.

Into it, in the tease of a kiss, he murmurs, “Would be more comfortable if you got out of that armor.”

“Well, if I must, I must,” Obi-Wan teases back, and then Cody is abruptly bereft of his weight, Obi-Wan sliding out of his lap. It’s followed, moments later, by the distinct sound of armor plates unlatching, as Obi-Wan strips the spaulders, poleyns, greaves, and sabatons from the thick leatheris underlayers, which follow suit with a thwump of fabric hitting the floor. Cody takes the opportunity to strip efficiently himself, not even needing to stand as he shoves off his civvies, then peels out of the blacks beneath them. His cock, softening a little with the delay and the tension, gives a heated pulse even against the cooler air as it’s freed, not quite stiff enough yet to slap up against Cody’s belly. Judging by the little rumble in Obi-Wan’s throat, it’s still a pleasing sight.

“Budge up,” he commands, and Cody follows automatically, crawling backwards on the bed. He reorients with only a few guiding touches from Obi-Wan, until his head is cradled by the pillows, his naked thighs sprawled apart to make room for the growing heat between them. He reaches blindly to grasp himself, and lets out a noise of complaint when Obi-Wan’s fingers find his instead, threading together and pinning his hand to the pillow beside his head.

He isn’t given further opportunity to complain, though, as the light gesture of dominance is accompanied by a leg slung over him. Cody groans, arching up helplessly when Obi-Wan’s strong thighs snug to either side of his hips, the weight of him against Cody’s core made better by the slick heat settled over Cody’s growing erection. “There now,” Obi-Wan trills, throaty and pleased. “Isn’t that better?” Cody’s answer gets choked out of him as Obi-Wan wriggles instead of waiting for a reply, rocking his hips from side to side until he's settled back comfortably, free hand reaching between them to spread soft folds delicately over the thick length of Cody’s cock. “Mmm,” he purrs, and Cody’s fist tightens under Obi-Wan’s hand, panting harshly as Obi-Wan allows himself two easy rolls of his hips, sighing happily as it strokes Cody through the sensitive, heated flesh. All this, already slick and warm, and Cody hasn’t even really touched him yet.

Even without seeing, Cody knows what a picture they make, Obi-Wan’s smaller prick red and pulsing adorably up against his naval, Cody’s cockhead like a fat arrow pointing right to the sensitive base, where Obi-Wan doesn’t quite have a clit, but where his cock meets his cunt in almost the same thing. Obi-Wan hums softly, clearly enjoying himself as he grinds back into that touch, Cody grunting as it ruts the head of his decee into that nook, squeezing pressure on all sides almost as sweet as being tucked up in Obi-Wan’s sopping wet cunt. He grasps Obi-Wan’s hip with the hand he’s allowed, and drags him down for more friction, and Obi-Wan yelps delightedly, allowing himself to be moved.

“Feels alright, darling?” he teases, vowels rounding into the pleasure. Force, is Cody weak for that voice, and it’s almost amplified like this, with his vision cut off, narrowing scope to touch and sound – even the sweetly aroused scent of him seems stronger as Cody inhales choppy breaths, bucking up into the weight against his groin with low grunts of relief. “Oh, that does sound lovely. You did seem to want my cunt quite badly tonight, so I want to make sure you thoroughly enjoy it.”

“Enjoy you,” Cody corrects. He chokes back another grunt, hips flexing up in another aborted thrust; it’s so slick and so soft, Cody could probably get himself off like this – has before, in the wonder that is Obi-Wan’s creamy thighs, a touch that isn’t calloused like his hands but smooth and as wet as a mouth blowing him when Obi-Wan gets worked up enough, dripping all over himself – but he doesn’t want to. He wants- “Want to enjoy your cunt, mesh’la.”

Obi-Wan’s breath hitches. “Say my name.”

“Obi-Wan.”

“That’s right. And you did tell me that, didn’t you? You didn’t want Ben’s cunt, and you certainly didn’t want anyone else in the bar. You just wanted me.”

Obi-Wan is all Cody has ever wanted. He was made for Obi-Wan, after all – for the Jedi at large, of course, but Cody knows, knows that he has this man written into every atom of his being, and nothing short of death could tear him away. Maybe not even that – Obi-Wan is one with the Force, and if death is just something passing through, then in death, Cody is sure that whatever there is left of him, that will latch onto Obi-Wan too.

What he says is, “Always.”

“Mmm,” Obi-Wan hums in agreement. “I know. And you were wonderful for indulging me tonight. Let me indulge you now, darling. Would you like to come inside? It’s wonderfully slicked up, I think you’ll slide right in.” He punctuates the words with another roll of his hips, dragging Cody over the soft entrance, letting it catch just slightly, wetness drooling over the shaft. He really is starting to drip now, the longer he teases himself against Cody’s pulsing cock. “Or would you like to savor this a little longer? How many orgasms do you think you can have tonight, hmm? I’d love to wring you dry, until you’re completely satisfied, all boneless and spent just for me. You make such pretty sounds when you come, you know. Very alluring.”

Cody nearly laughs, half-delirious, at the irony. Every one of Obi-Wan’s words is rocked with his own gorgeous sounds, rumbles and purrs and trills that Cody has learned thoroughly, all designed to encourage a mate, to promise a hot, wet hole for breeding, a channel just waiting to be split open on cock, a womb to be spilled deep and tight into, locking down until every drop has been wrung out. Cody’s balls ache; he’s been well-trained by those sounds, eager to spend a few loads. Grief is a funny thing; Cody has been numb to the world since that comm from Fox, and where he usually does near-daily maintenance, combat allowing, just from the sheer amount of hormones his genetically-altered system produces, it’s been weeks since he last got himself off, suckjob notwithstanding. He hadn’t felt it then, but he feels it now, like every backed-up load he hadn’t fired suddenly needs to get out of him, like a blaster rifle with a jammed trigger. “Gods,” he groans, and his hips jerk up, making his cock pop away from the tease at Obi-Wan’s entrance, smacking up against the underside of Obi-Wan’s again.

Obi-Wan chuckles, sliding a hand back between them to press their cocks together, rubbing the overside of Cody’s even as his grip – barely able to clasp them together, and fully unable to close around both lengths – grinds the underside of Cody’s thick shaft into Obi-Wan’s slimmer one. “Tell me what you’d like,” Obi-Wan promises, “and you can have it.”

As simple as that. Obi-Wan has always made it sound as simple as that: Cody wants something, he asks, he gets it. It’s a marvel, based on faulty logic: clones are not allowed to want, are not allowed to ask. They don’t get to have things. Not really.

Except here, underneath Obi-Wan’s form, Cody can have anything he wants. Anything, at least, that can happen in this room in the next few hours. It’s the only promise Obi-Wan can make him, but it’s enough, and normally what Cody wants – what his pride demands – is to be unselfish with his pleasure, to ensure Obi-Wan is thoroughly satisfied, passing a play at dominance and submission back and forth until Obi-Wan has had as many orgasms on Cody’s cock as he’d like, whether Cody pounds them out of him or Obi-Wan pins him down and rides himself through them. But.

But Obi-Wan left him, and Cody understands OpSec, understands that this is war and the mission comes first, but Obi-Wan left him, and came back as his own killer, and he’s always encouraged Cody to be more selfish with his pleasure, to take things he wants, assuring him Obi-Wan will enjoy it regardless. Tonight…tonight he can play for an uneven score, favoring Cody for once.

Obi-Wan will still enjoy it, so it’s not really that uneven, anyway.

“Want-“ he starts, and the word pants out of him, forcing him to gulp in a breath. Obi-Wan waits patiently; Cody would bet anything he’s straining now, perked up and attentive to whatever Cody will say. “Want you on my face,” he grinds out, and feels Obi-Wan’s hips jerk down into his, rubbing their slick cocks together in a beautiful friction. Cody grins savagely, head tipping back into the pillows. “I want to open you up with my tongue,” he says viciously, and hears Obi-Wan keen, grasps their hands together more tightly. “Want to kark it into that wet hole and make sure it’s exactly as ready as I want it to be. Maybe make you come on it, soak the kriffing pillows as I try to lick it all up, because you’re delicious, mesh’la, and I’d rather be drunk on you than the best kriffing ale in the sector.” Obi-Wan moans, and Cody tightens his grip on his lover’s hips, thrusting up hard so his cock jolts in Obi-Wan’s grasp. “And once you’re nice and open, I want to kark that sloppy pussy until it locks, and I can shoot whatever I’ve got left right into that greedy cunt.” He drags their joined fingers off the pillows, down between their bodies, forcing Obi-Wan’s hand open and then closed, forcing him to squeeze Cody’s balls in a tight grip, until Obi-Wan chokes out a high, reedy sound that is pure Stewjoni need, his fingers grasping desperately at the heavy sac. Cody grunts, grinning through bared teeth, “What do you think, sweetheart? Been a month since I’ve gotten you locked up on my decee. Think I’ve got enough charge built up to breed that hungry dalab, whether you want me to or not?”

“Cody.” Obi-Wan’s voice is broken, any hint of earlier dominance fully gone, and his fingers massage hard, as if squeezing Cody’s balls can milk just a little bit more into them, fattening the load. “Yes, darling, yes.”

“’s what I thought,” Cody grins. With the blinds closed, it can’t be a trick of the neon lights, but even through the thin fabric of the blindfold he could swear Obi-Wan is glowing above him, as ethereal as people always swear the Jedi are. “That’s what I want, mesh’la. Want you, just you.”

“Have me,” Obi-Wan breathes, tender and aching. “Every inch of me is yours, darling. You need only ask.”

“Come here.” Cody tugs on Obi-Wan’s hips, dragging him up his body. It smears slick against his chest, and his cock gives a throb of complaint, abruptly losing heat and pressure and friction, jolting up in search of the loss. It’s worth it, as Obi-Wan moves easily, chirping as Cody pulls him over his face, breathing in the thick, heady musk of him. Obi-Wan is honey sweet, earthy and floral, and a few drips hit Cody’s cheeks even as he arranges Obi-Wan where he wants him, smearing where his wet thighs press into Cody’s skin. “Gorgeous,” Cody groans, and Obi-Wan trills in response, breaking into an even higher cry as Cody pulls him down, burying his face between Obi-Wan’s folds.

This, Cody never gets tired of. There’s a novelty in it, certainly: on Kamino, Cody had seen plenty of naked bodies, but they’d all looked nearly identical to his. After, he’d come across holoporn, and been introduced to the wide galaxy of genitalia, some of it similar and some dizzyingly unlike his own. Obi-Wan’s equipment isn’t that different, in the grand scheme of things, especially to look at, but there’s still something thrilling to Cody about it, about the sensuality of a cunt, the way it heats and slicks at Cody’s touch, softening up just for him. Something almost taboo, even: Obi-Wan has this for breeding, and clones aren’t supposed to – maybe aren’t even able to – reproduce. And putting his mouth on it, using something made to breed just for pleasure – and not even pleasure like stroking himself off is, where hypothetically he’s still releasing seed, but pure, unadulterated, un-reproductive pleasure – gets him so kriffing hard that for a minute, he has to squeeze his eyes shut even behind the blindfold, gritting his teeth so he doesn’t shoot off right then and there, painting his stomach when he could be putting it somewhere much nicer instead.

Above him, Obi-Wan isn’t quite caterwauling with need, but it’s a near thing, the Jedi braced back against the headboard as he trembles over Cody’s mouth, clearly fighting to not just mash himself harder down against Cody’s face. Cody doesn’t leave him wanting long; he starts with a few long licks, more to pull Obi-Wan’s sopping wet folds into his mouth, and then sucks hard on the lips, drinking hungrily at the floral wetness gushing over his chin. Obi-Wan keens high and animal, and Cody lets his teeth graze just the way he likes it, Obi-Wan’s hips jerking down, encouraging Cody’s tongue to twine through him, pointing for a sharper sensation, flattening every time Obi-Wan starts to buck away.

There’s no tiny clit for him to navigate – Cody’s a fast learner, but he’s privately a little relieved he doesn’t have to fumble with that, as Bly in particular has some embarrassing stories about trying to find and pleasure the slippery little thing – but the base of Obi-Wan’s cock is just as sensitive as a clit would be, especially the underside, the structure fundamentally the same. Cody pays it a hearty amount of attention with his tongue, grasping Obi-Wan’s thighs with both hands to spread him wider, suffocating himself in the damp warmth as he licks and sucks, alternating between rigid efficiency to get Obi-Wan as wet as possible, and heady indulgence of lapping up each new gushing flood. If Cody has any say in the matter, he’s not going down from a clanker getting a lucky shot – this is how he wants to go marching off, whenever that may be. Hells, if Cody joins the Force between Obi-Wan’s thighs, that probably makes it all the more likely that Obi-Wan will still feel him whenever he reaches for it, right? Or maybe Cody is just fully addled now, from the sheer pleasure of eating his wailing lover out.

He pulls away to breathe only when his lungs scream at him – and since Cody can hold his breath quite a long time, by that point Obi-Wan is shaking, his legs trembling with the effort to hold himself upright. Cody pants, puffs of his breath ricochetting back against his cheeks, groaning as he rubs his face into Obi-Wan’s slick-drenched inner thigh. Obi-Wan keeps himself neatly trimmed down here, but there’s still a bit of growth, and it reminds Cody of Obi-Wan’s beard, a strange relief that kissing him here feels almost more real than kissing his mouth does right now, like at least one set of Obi-Wan’s lips wants to stay familiar to Cody. Probably only his grasp on the headboard is keeping Obi-Wan upright at the moment, and the only reason he hasn’t come yet, Cody knows, is that Cody hasn’t let him, backing off to light and gentle teases every time he feels Obi-Wan start to quiver.

“Obi-Wan,” he groans, and Obi-Wan lets out a moan of Cody’s name in return that has Cody’s cock jolting, angry and neglected. Well, this is about Cody’s pleasure tonight, isn’t it? “Decee’s getting cold,” he grits out, tilting his head back into the pillows to resist the temptation of just diving in again. “Think you oughta warm it up a little, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan agrees, and he all but throws himself forward, collapsing like a cut puppet towards Cody’s groin. Cody chokes, hard, as Obi-Wan’s forearm braces firmly against his thigh, grasping his base in tight fingers. They have to be tight to circle him; Cody is thick enough that it takes effort for Obi-Wan’s fingertips to touch anywhere on his shaft, and at the thickest points the squeeze to make it happen is almost unbearable.

He’s swallowed halfway down before he can get his wits about him, Obi-Wan moaning eagerly on his length as he bobs his head until the tip hits the curve of his throat, letting it wedge in snuggly and then just sucking with a wet gurgle and purr, drooling happily around Cody’s cock. Cody’s hips jerk up reflexively, and he groans, bruising Obi-Wan’s thighs with his grip. “Force, yeah, just like that. Keep it warm for me, mesh’la, get that decee wet and ready. Want to holster it in that tight dalab where it belongs, shoot a fat load into that sweet, hungry hole.” Not before; Cody can have a third orgasm tonight if he really wants it, but he’d rather pump Obi-Wan full of his cum, filling him up in the most intimate place they can be connected.

Obi-Wan groans agreement, and his fingers come up again to clutch at Cody’s sac, rolling it between them in a thorough massage, pressing up every so often against his taint until Cody’s hips jump, the tip of his cock shoving down Obi-Wan’s throat with a pop. Obi-Wan chirps around it and Cody swears, biting hard into the meat of Obi-Wan’s thigh, vision whitening as he fights not to blow.

The pinching of teeth must alert Obi-Wan to Cody’s building peak – that, or the Force, because apparently Cody is blinding in it when he comes, whatever that means – because he backs off a little, easing into a softer subvocal that only vibrates a little, an apology without contrition. Cody pants, chest heaving, and closes his eyes. Okay. Gods, okay. He’s not going to shoot off like a shiny before he gets himself sheathed in what has to be the galaxy’s best pussy – though his data may be biased on that front. Soon, he promises himself, but he’s got work left to do.

When he’s sure Obi-Wan isn’t going to try having his own way, coaxing out an orgasm without Cody’s say, Cody rewards him by tugging Obi-Wan back down to his mouth again, this time using one hand to part his folds, teasing his fingers between them, digging in to massage the most sensitive parts. Obi-Wan wasn’t wrong: even blind, this is all familiar to Cody. Maybe especially blind; he can’t usually see much in this position anyway. He gives a few more long strokes of his tongue, lapping up a little more of that sweet, honey slick, then unerringly finds Obi-Wan’s soft, grasping entrance, and pushes the tip inside. Around his cock, Obi-Wan moans, and his fingers tighten impossibly more around the base.

Inside, Obi-Wan is all clenching heat. His walls contract eagerly around Cody’s tongue at the sheer relief of finally having something to clench down on. It’s so hungry for him, and Cody spears his tongue deeper, laving it through the ring of loose muscle, thrusting it in and out in a parody of what his decee throbs to be doing instead. Obi-Wan whines, giving a few pulsing sucks, and Cody responds in kind, sealing his lips around Obi-Wan’s cunt until Obi-Wan wails, his gag reflex finally making its appearance as he chokes minutely, stuffing Cody further down his throat until his lips almost meet his hand at the base of the shaft, sucking more frantically as if to spur Cody on.

“I’ve got you,” Cody pants, drawing back just enough to gasp in air before diving back in. He can’t get his tongue deep enough to give Obi-Wan all the stimulation he craves, so he adds his finger too, massaging hard into the spongey walls as they contract, getting closer and closer, prizing Obi-Wan open on his tongue in tandem as he licks into him firmly, insistent, commanding entry into the tight heat. He finds the best spot, grinds in, and flicks his tongue fast and hard and demanding- and Obi-Wan comes with a yowl, popping off Cody’s dick and grasping tight with both hands, burying his face into Cody’s groin as he screams his pleasure.

Obi-Wan has told Cody he’s only loud in bed with exceptionally satisfying partners. Brothers clear on the opposite end of ship’s quarters have asked Cody if the general is hiding a tooka in heat in his private rooms. Even more than the orgasm – Stewjoni can have them quickly, frequently, and in almost alarming succession – the sound has Cody grinning smugly, open-mouthed and panting as Obi-Wan gushes all over his face, licking his lips as he falls back into the pillows with satisfaction. Now wet from the flood, the blindfold clings unpleasantly to his skin, but Cody will bear the stickiness for now, since it’s a clear sign of a job well done.

He fingers Obi-Wan lazily through the orgasm, pushing and tugging, coaxing out the waves until Obi-Wan is whimpering, chirping mate and please and ready into the thatch of hair at Cody’s groin, his fingers trembling where he grips Cody’s cock like a lifeline. Cody waits until the chirps take on a tinge of easy now, not quite a stop but edging up to it, and then lets his fingers still, two of them hooked inside open, rippling heat, relishing the contractions still sucking him deeper, blowing the digits like Obi-Wan’s mouth on his cock. “Delicious,” Cody teases, voice kriff-drunk and satisfied. He hears Obi-Wan chuff in response. “Best drink I’ve had all night.”

Obi-Wan’s voice rasps as he replies, “I should hope so. We both know kri’gee isn’t really to your tastes.”

The quip is too breathless to really be sass, and Cody laughs, tugging his fingers free and nudging Obi-Wan until he slides off of Cody, curling into his side, though he keeps one proprietary hand on Cody’s cock. He strokes it absently, like he’s taken the instruction to keep it warm to heart, buried in his orgasm-addled subconscious. Cody hums, flexing his stomach muscles up into the touch, enjoying it for what it is: a tease, a steadying, a keeping him ready for whatever Cody wants next. Cody noses into Obi-Wan’s jaw, then regrets it as he isn’t met with beard – isn’t even met with the familiar shape of the jawline, squarer than he’s used to. Right.  

He manages not to flinch back, though he probably goes still too fast, because Obi-Wan eases away first, with one last friendly squeeze to Cody’s cock. His voice is kind as he says, “I’ll be just a tic, darling. Stay right there.” Cody startles, moving half-upright, but before he can more than open his mouth in question, Obi-Wan is gone.

“Obi-Wan-“ Cody starts, heartbeat racing, but then stops as he hears water running. An attached ‘fresher, obviously, but why…?

The answer becomes clear when the water shuts off and the bed dips again moments later, and Obi-Wan murmurs, “Eyes closed. This won’t take long.”

Cody stays still obediently, then still from surprise, as Obi-Wan slips the blindfold off him, the sticky fabric leaving trails against his skin. “Oh dear,” Obi-Wan says, though he sounds more amused than anything else. “You really have made quite a mess of yourself, haven’t you?”

“I’ve made a mess?” Cody repeats incredulously, then has to shut his mouth as a wet cloth drags across it, cleaning Obi-Wan’s slick from his chin. It swipes over his cheeks, then finally up to his eyes, clearing the stickiness out of his eyelashes and lids, so that when he starts to blink, they aren’t glued together from drying vaginal fluid.

“You’ve made a mess,” Obi-Wan confirms loftily, grin evident in the words. His fingertips slide Cody’s eyes shut again, and then he starts winding a fresh, dry strip of cloth around Cody’s head. Well, that does make sense. Wrist wraps usually come in twos. “I’ve told you, darling, I can’t be held accountable for my actions when a gorgeous man decides he’d like to lick me out until I come. What was I supposed to do?”

Braced for it this time, Cody does the only thing he can; he seizes Obi-Wan by the back of the neck (or, somewhere near his shoulders, at least, since his aim is obviously a little off in the dark) and hauls him in for a violent kiss, their teeth clashing until Obi-Wan’s chirp of surprise cuts off and he melts into it. Cody kisses him thoroughly, ignoring the sense of wrongness beneath. This is Obi-Wan, his insane, self-sacrificing, karking incredible Jedi General. Cody is used to reading the difference between individuals in an eyebrow being a micron off, an eye being a half-shade lighter of amber, but right now he can feel it, what Obi-Wan means when he says that it doesn’t matter how the men look, he can tell them apart blindfolded, all uniquely themselves in the Force. Cody doesn’t have the Force, doesn’t need it, doesn’t care. But right now, he gets it, what Obi-Wan means, because Cody is kissing a mouth that feels all wrong, and the warmth behind it is everything, is written under his skin from the moment he was decanted, is something made right in the universe.

“Oh,” Obi-Wan says softly when they break apart, sounding dazed. “Hello to you too.”

“I’ve missed you,” Cody says. Not for the first time tonight, but the first time he means it, completely and totally, not just as a statement of acceptance and truth but as an acknowledgement: I missed you, and here you are again.

“I’m sorry.” Not the first apology either, but: “Never again, I promise.”

“You can’t promise me that,” Cody says. It’s not an accusation; he understands, even if it aches. But he hears Obi-Wan shake his head.

“I can. I’ve already told the Council, I won’t do a mission like that again. It hurt too many people, and that’s not a cost I’m willing to pay a second time. We’ll find another way. Besides,” and here, his voice lightens, not fully into the whimsy he uses to hide unease, but the private warmth for Cody, sharing a joke between the two of them, “after my miraculous resurrection, I do think it will be harder to convince anyone I’m really dead.”

“You’re going to have the whole army thinking you’re unkillable,” Cody says. The men still don’t know, for the most part, just a few officers of the 212^th Cody trusted to keep their mouths shut. OpSec is still technically in effect until debrief tomorrow. When it breaks, Cody is sure the celebration will be almost as unbearable as the month-long eulogy. He shakes his head, fingers curling into the bedspread. “I don’t want to talk about you dying anymore tonight.”

“Not tonight,” Obi-Wan agrees. They will have to talk later, and Cody resigns himself to that fact. Feelings are not his strong suit. He was bred to be uncomfortable, trained to accept, adapt, and move past things. It makes him compatible with a Jedi’s ‘letting go,’ but Obi-Wan has been clear; when it’s between two people, things have a way of coming back to haunt you, even the ones you thought you’d left behind. He won’t let them leave words unsaid. “For now,” Obi-Wan says, “would you still like to kriff me, darling? You were certainly thorough enough getting me ready for you.”

Cody snorts. Less than half an hour of head and two fingers is not his idea of thorough – never mind that as a Stewjoni, Obi-Wan rarely actually needs the prep. He tugs Obi-Wan a little closer though, placing a hand on his chest so he can orient himself, and then smooths his fingers down between Obi-Wan’s legs, until Obi-Wan’s breath hitches in delight and Cody can push said two fingers back into his sopping cunt with a squelch. It swallows them up again easily, and Cody hums like he’s being thoughtful, instead of throbbing again in his taut and aching prick, grinding it into Obi-Wan’s thigh for a bit of relief. He’s still wet with drying spit, cold against the burning in his veins. He presses his fingers in deeper, searching for the sensitive thread of nerves that traces from the underside of Obi-Wan’s cock up to his inner locking, and then grinds in until Obi-Wan moans, legs clamping around Cody’s hand to keep up the pressure. “Well,” Cody says, aiming for conversational instead achingly desperate, “I didn’t pack a kriffsleeve for the night, so it’d be a shame to waste perfectly good cunt.” He crooks his fingers, and Obi-Wan yelps, clenching down eagerly. “Especially since it’s already warmed up and ready for a fat decee to fill it tight.”

He can feel Obi-Wan’s shudder where they’re pressed together, moving to press his forehead into Cody’s neck and then obviously thinking better of it, aiming for his shoulder instead. “Ready for you, darling,” Obi-Wan murmurs. “However you want it. Want…want me.”

“Mmm,” Cody agrees. Obi-Wan enjoys the objectification, he knows – knows better now, maybe, why Obi-Wan, with all the pressures of being a man, a Jedi, a general, might find so much unabashed pleasure in being reduced to a hole to stuff a cock in – but he’s clearly remembered what tonight is supposed to be for Cody. He’s meeting Cody there, and Cody’s chest tightens, warming in time with the heat surging back into his gut. He pulls his fingers free, ignoring the slight keen of loss that bubbles in Obi-Wan’s throat, and cups his clean hand around the back of Obi-Wan’s neck, fitting his fingertips to the pressure points there. Intimate, for a Stewjoni. About trust.

He doesn’t dig in, but Obi-Wan relaxes anyway, pliant as he waits. Cody considers; inventive with props, they may not be, but there aren’t a lot of positions he hasn’t kriffed Obi-Wan in at this point. There are benefits and drawbacks to each one, from a tactical point of view. “On your back,” he decides, and uses his grip to twist them, guiding Obi-Wan back into the pillows. Obi-Wan’s thighs part around him automatically, smooth calves drawing up along Cody’s flanks to coax him in. Cody braces himself against the mattress with one hand, moving slowly to avoid kneeing anything important in the dark.

He squeezes Obi-Wan’s ankle with his free hand, then runs it up over the calf and thigh, playing with the silky hairs as he situates himself, snug in the cradle of Obi-Wan’s hips. His blood-heavy erection falls against Obi-Wan’s belly, sliding through the slick puddling there – he can’t see, wonders how much of that is Obi-Wan’s own watery spend, dribbling from the tip of his now-soft cock. He rubs his thumb over the crease of Obi-Wan’s hip, then flattens his palm against the plane of Obi-Wan’s stomach until Obi-Wan sucks in a breath. It’s too close to concave; Cody will have to feed him later, something other than cock. He slides his hand up the center of Obi-Wan’s chest, then back into a detour to flick a nipple, earning a mewl and a squirm that rocks their lower bodies together, Obi-Wan arching up into the touch.

It’s rare for Obi-Wan to be quiet in bed, but he is now, only making soft subvocals of encouragement as Cody maps his body with his hands. There are ridges under his fingertips, scar tissue and the hollow around bones, turning Obi-Wan’s lean body into mountains. Cody is holding a Jedi, a force of nature in his hands, and he recognizes every curve of muscle, every dip where the stress of war has eaten fat away. Cody is not allowed to want much, as a clone. He wants to see Obi-Wan well-fed.

He sets the heel of his palm into Obi-Wan’s throat, feeling the hollow of it flex and bob as Obi-Wan swallows. He could dig down, cut off the air if he wanted – Obi-Wan would let him, and Cody knows without seeing the trust in his eyes. But he doesn’t want to. There is not a single thing Cody would deprive this man, including a single breath in his lungs. “Obi-Wan,” he breathes, and Obi-Wan breathes with him. “Mesh’la.”

“I’m here, darling. I’m with you.”

Cody exhales, dipping down enough to press his forehead to Obi-Wan’s. Like this, he can’t feel the difference, the lack of a beard, the new shape of his face. Obi-Wan curls his fingers around the back of Cody’s neck, and even though Cody is human, not Stewjoni, and can’t be scruffed like Obi-Wan can, the gesture is still clear in its intimacy. They hold one another, and then Obi-Wan’s legs are moving, his heels nudging lightly into the meat of Cody’s ass. “Come inside,” Obi-Wan murmurs, and Cody shudders through his next breath. “I’m here, darling. You have me back. You have me.”

Drawing out of the keldabe aches, so Cody only goes as far as he has to, wrapping a hand around himself as a guide. It’s messy, aiming himself through Obi-Wan’s folds, and Obi-Wan just hums when Cody slips, dragging his aching prick through soft, wet lips until he blindly finds the entrance. He exhales again hard, mouth dropping open and eyes falling shut beneath the blindfold as he presses his hips down. The loose ring of muscle barely offers a token resistance before Cody pops through, sinking in. It’s snug around him, rippling as Obi-Wan clenches lightly in encouragement, and Cody drags his hips back, just to feel the catch of his head at the sucking rim, then pushes forward again, sheathing half his cock in one easy stroke.

“Oh,” Obi-Wan breathes, fingertips playing down the knobs of Cody’s spine. “There you are, darling. A perfect fit.”

“Ner dalab,” Cody murmurs, and presses back into the keldabe, teeth gritted against tears pricking at his covered eyes. He digs in until it aches, skull grinding beneath skin, but Obi-Wan doesn’t shy away, just pushes back harder against him, like he also needs it to hurt. “Ner jetii. Ner yaim, meg ru’kir’mani ni.”

“Meg ru’haa’tayli gar runi,” Obi-Wan corrects effortlessly, his voice just as thick as Cody’s. He clutches at the back of Cody’s head, threading his fingers through the tight curls, and Cody groans, hips jolting forward, sheathing him another inch. “Gar ru’gana vasor ni, cyare, bal ven gana sha ca’nara dar’ni.”

“Obi-Wan.”

“Take what you need, Cody. We have plenty of time.”

It’s a pretty lie, no matter how much Obi-Wan means it. Time is something they never have enough of in the day-to-day of running an army, something Cody knows in his bones they won’t have enough of in the immeasurable stretch of a war. What they have is time tonight, commlinks off, no one but the Temple knowing that Obi-Wan is even available to call, Cody’s officers swearing they can handle one night without him. Cody will take it. He rolls his hips, barely drawing back, just pushing himself in, and in, and in, until he’s sheathed balls deep in Obi-Wan’s silky slick cunt, Obi-Wan keening softly with mate and mine and need. It’s not about Obi-Wan’s need tonight, though, so Cody just grinds himself in, breath short, circling his hips to drag against the hot, clasping walls, grunting with each enticing clench. It makes an obscene noise when he drags back and shoves home, skin slapping and squelching wetly together, and Cody bites down on his lower lip until he tastes blood, decee throbbing, balls aching as he stuffs himself deep, until even his sac is soaking wet from being pressed into the lips of Obi-Wan’s hungry pussy.

“Gods,” Cody groans, and Obi-Wan echoes it in a throaty chirr. He thrusts a little harder, slow on the drag out, fierce on the push in. “Missed this,” he grunts. “Best kriffing pussy I’ve ever had. Would have known the minute I slipped in who Ben really was. Force, it’s good, so good, mesh’la, gonna fill it right up.”

Obi-Wan, politely, does not remind Cody that ‘best’ isn’t much of a praise when the number of pussies Cody has had is a resounding one – and gods, with a pussy like this, why would he ever want another? He’s too busy panting agreement, his breath heaving into higher and higher keens, even as his subvocals drop into rough, guttural begging every time Cody thrusts in, dragging out his pleasure as much as he can stand. He’s boiling, gut overheating, the familiarity of a blaster rifle getting charged up to fire off a shot. It quickens his pace, slamming his hips against Obi-Wan’s as he starts to piston in like a machine, frantically chasing release.

“Gonna come,” he grunts, and Obi-Wan makes the noise that means receptive – that really means breed, means fill me until I’m stuffed with cum and have to catch on your seed. His tip keeps hammering into the furl of Obi-Wan’s cervix, softening with every blow, and Obi-Wan writhes under him, legs locked tight at the small of Cody’s back to keep him close, yowling in ecstacy as it starts to open up to let Cody in. Cody’s brothers swear by every cunt any of them have had – Twi’lek, Togruta, Theelin, every human, near human, and truly alien species they’ve managed to pull on shore leave or amongst grateful, saved civilians – but they’re all idiots because holoporn doesn’t lie about one thing: Stewjoni cunt is the best there is, Obi-Wan’s cervix blooming around Cody’s head as he shoves it deeper and deeper into Obi-Wan’s channel, growling low in his throat as it clasps and demands more. Obi-Wan is caterwauling loud enough now that Cody is shocked nobody has pounded on their door yet – or maybe they have and Cody just can’t hear it over the blood thundering in his ears, everything drawing up tight and hot and so kriffing good in his gut as he plows himself in with a force that slams the headboard into the wall over and over again, unwilling to give any quarter as he barrels towards the edge.

Obi-Wan comes first. He usually does – Stewjoni come fast, and often, and when they come it’s more like a series of orgasms in tight, unending waves as Cody gasps, shouting in relief as Obi-Wan’s back bows, the Jedi crying out as his whole pussy clamps down around Cody’s cock, rippling fiercely, and Cody slams home right into the lock at the base of Obi-Wan’s cervix, which squeezes onto him tight and refuses to release. Cody chokes out a groan of pleasure, shoving his whole weight down onto Obi-Wan, burying himself as deep as he can in desperate, humping thrusts, tears pricking his eyes again in overwhelming sensation. The lock catches just behind his glans, so kriffing sensitive as it sucks and sucks and sucks, demanding Cody spill his load, demanding every single drop as he twitches and comes and comes, balls aching with the force of the anatomical command.

Cody is a good soldier. Cody obeys.

It’s been so kriffing long.

When the white haze clears from his mind, the blindfold is soaked again, this time from Cody’s tears as he pants, struggling towards clarity. The fierce suction of the lock has eased up into a softer clasp that has Cody twitching with oversensitivity just shy of pain, which means it’s been minutes, not seconds, of Cody spilling himself, hot cum gushing straight into Obi-Wan’s womb. The buzzing in his ears resolves itself into a rumbling purr, vibrating through his skin everywhere it touches Obi-Wan’s, and Obi-Wan’s legs have fallen apart, going slack around him, so Cody has a nice, wet channel warm on his cock, instead of a predator trying to milk him of every drop of spend with a tight ring of muscle squeezing his cockhead, unwilling to let go. Obi-Wan’s fingers stroke lightly over the back of his neck, and Cody buries his face into the hollow of Obi-Wan’s throat.

“Easy,” Obi-Wan soothes, his voice low and gentle like his fingers. “Just relax, darling, it’ll be over soon.”

Cody would give every credit he doesn’t have for it to never be over, to stay right here in Obi-Wan’s embrace for the rest of eternity. Instead, he mumbles, “Am I squashing you?”

Obi-Wan laughs. “A little. I don’t mind. It’s a good weight.” It’s not as much as it could be, Cody supposes. Obi-Wan isn’t the only one who could be better fed. But that’s up to the Republic, and the Republic has learned that clones can survive on almost nothing, in the short run. Funny, how being cost-effective in the short run always translates into a long-run without, and Obi-Wan isn’t the only one who gives up rations to shinies. Cody is used to discomfort. He’s used to giving things away.

He rubs his cheek into Obi-Wan, wincing as the lock finally gives, letting Cody slip soft from its hold. He’s large enough, he doesn’t slide out right away, and it’s its own kind of intimacy like that, Cody soft inside Obi-Wan, tied together now only by their stillness, by their determination to cling to one another.

Cody relents first. He shifts back, pulling free with a quiet hiss from Obi-Wan, and pushes up the blindfold onto his forehead as he looks down between them. Strands of slick cling to his flacid shaft, Obi-Wan’s folds puffy and red, shining but not painted with leaking white seed – that is what the lock is for, to keep Cody inside him, and Cody swallows hard at the image, resisting the urge to put a hand back to Obi-Wan’s stomach, to try and feel himself through the skin. The taboo of a pussy is that it’s for breeding, and Kamino claims the clones are sterile but the medics have taken no chances, so none of the brothers really know. Obi-Wan has been on birth control the entire time Cody has known him, but still…a tiny piece of him, the piece Cody can acknowledge is not a good soldier, wants. He has Obi-Wan, in every way that he can. Selfishly, he wants more.

Fingers find his, and Cody looks up. He doesn’t flinch. Obi-Wan still wears the wrong face but here in the darkness, Cody can see the eyes, shining and blue and kind. Obi-Wan watches him, uneasy, and Cody gives him a soft smile.

“Think we should get cleaned up,” he says. “Do we have to get back to the Temple?” This room probably rents by the hour. They never have enough time.

But Obi-Wan shakes his head. “We have all night,” he promises.

“Good,” Cody says. Until sunrise, at least.

They get clean together in the dark, not turning on the overhead light or the one in the attached ‘fresher. They wipe each other down more as an excuse to keep touching, balanced on one another, still stripped to their skin by the time they get back into bed. Obi-Wan clearly dithers a moment before Cody takes the initiative, spooning up behind him and scooping him into his arms. He presses kisses to the nape of Obi-Wan’s neck, to the fuzz of stubble on his scalp, to the shell of his ear. “We’ll need to talk,” he says into the quiet, and Obi-Wan hums a rueful agreement. “Not tonight. After you’ve changed back.” When he can look at Obi-Wan again, without the ache. “Alright?”

The question is about timeline, not inevitability. They will need to talk. Cody’s feelings are still knotted in his chest, relief and love and…yeah, there’s some anger and grief still lurking too. He’s not sure if it’s at Obi-Wan, or the council, or the chancellor, or himself, but it’s there all the same. Obi-Wan squeezes his hand, where Cody’s arm has been drawn over his waist. The pattern he taps is an acknowledgement in dadita, the Stewjoni chirr another apology. “I love you,” Obi-Wan whispers into the darkness. “I hope…no matter what I do, at the council’s discretion or otherwise, I do hope you don’t doubt that.”

“Never have,” Cody says. He even means it. Unbelievably, Obi-Wan loves him. But Obi-Wan loves him, and that, Cody has never doubted.

“If you wake up and need me…” Obi-Wan says. “Well. I’m here.”

Cody’s cock gives one more interested twitch, stirring sleepily, and then settles again. He smiles and drops another kiss, to Obi-Wan’s shoulder this time. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmurs.

He wakes up twice in the night. Once very late, still in pitch black, and once just before daybreak, the first beams of light stealing into their room from a window that will never truly see the sun, layers and layers beneath the upper city, where politicians and Jedi run a war without end. Twice, Cody wakes up, with a haze of fear and need. Both times, there is crushing relief. Both times, Obi-Wan is still in his arms.

***

Three revolutions after High Jedi General Obi-Wan Kenobi’s death, Naboo has a peace festival. Thirty rotations, three tendays, one whole month where Commander Cody, designation CC-2224, has to lead the 212^th all on his own. It is a privilege, Cody knows. The kind of thing only considered because he’s a Marshal Commander, and Obi-Wan’s right hand, and the Jedi know him enough to know that throwing a new natborn general, Jedi or otherwise, at the grieving battalion is a surefire way to get somebody killed – namely, the new natborn general, and then a hell of a lot of clones. Cody lets CC-2224 carry the load; they’re one and the same, really, but it’s easier, to fall back into being a nameless, faceless soldier. Easier, to pretend he doesn’t remember the brush of fingers around a bottle of ale, a seedy bar on Trandosha, the scratch of a beard against his cheeks, warm lips desperate against his own. Easier, and so much harder, to realize he and Obi-Wan don’t have anything unspoken between them, because that is the rule besides “you have to want to be here.” It’s horrifying, in hindsight, to realize there’s nothing more he wishes he could have said to his general, besides “I love you, I love you, I love you,” because Cody can never say that enough times to capture just how much he means it. Horrifying that there is no seed in his heart of “If I could just see him again, I’d tell him-“

Closure, in its own way, aches like a battle scar.

Clones are meant to be uncomfortable. They are meant to adapt, to move on. They are not meant to want things, or if they want them, they are meant to accept they are things they can’t have. Cody had Obi-Wan, and now he doesn’t. Accepting that has always been their way.

He does not get a comm from Fox when the chancellor is attacked, and subsequently saved, although as head of the Corrie Guard, Fox would know all the details sooner than anyone else not on the scene. He does not get a comm from Rex, or any of the 501^st, in orbit while their general and a squad of the Guard keep an eye on the man who, by virtue of being the most important person in the Republic, holds all of their lives in his hands. He does not get a call from a single member of the Jedi Order, although why would he? They don’t talk to Cody personally when not assigned alongside him, except for Vos, who is off doing who knows what for the Shadows, and who hasn’t pinged Cody’s comm once in the past thirty days. The comm he gets is from an encrypted channel, scrambled to hell and back, with a familiar set of emergency intelligence codes that have Cody’s knees giving out from under him, like gravity has been altered all over again.

The man on the other end, when Cody answers, has the face of his beloved’s killer and a set to his shoulders as if his entire world has ended. He smiles weakly when he sees Cody, and says in an unfamiliar voice, “If you’d like to shout at me, this is a secure line.”

Cody’s throat goes tight. He recognizes whimsy, and he knows everything that lies beneath. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t even get angry, though he feels something shatter in him, numbness cracking into agonizing, aching relief. “Cyare,” he says softly, fingertips reaching for the holo, as if he could touch the light. “Are you coming home?”

“Soon,” Obi-Wan promises. “The secrecy of the mission is still in place, but I’ve been given clearance to inform you I’ll be returning to my post within the week.” He gives an ironic gesture down to himself, a Jedi in a bounty hunter’s skin. “I’ll be back to myself in no time, and back with you shortly, I promise.”

There’s a twist under the words that Cody catches immediately, something that makes him frown. Wistfulness, maybe? He can hear Obi-Wan’s subvocals, less clear over the comm than they are in person, but not swallowed down with Cody. Never with him. There’s loss in his voice, a longing Cody doesn’t understand.

That’s why they talk. To understand. And there is one thing, really, that Cody ought to say to his lover. One thing he didn’t get a chance to, because it happened after he was already gone. Cody’s voice catches, and he has to swallow hard, forcing himself to drag the words past protesting lips. “They didn’t let me go to your funeral,” he says.

Obi-Wan’s expression changes, eyes widening, face falling. A face that Cody has hated for one month, three tendays, thirty rotations. A lifetime. His lips part, and then he sits forward, and every line of his body is strange, but the posture is not. “Oh, darling, I’m so sorry,” he says, and the dismay grabs hold of Cody’s heart and squeezes, finally pumping blood again. “I want you to tell me everything.”