Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He leaned in, checking around, before whispering:

"Vod, I think Cody might need help."

Wolffe hissed his reply underneath his breath, roughly nudging him on the shoulder and pointing towards cody.

"Oh, you're only just NOW realising this?!"

Rex turned, eyes trailing to the caf machine where cody was pouring his weekly alcohol ration in his 6th cup of caf that day, eyes half lidded with circles darker than the caf he was drinking under them, and watched him knock back the entire cup of scalding liquid in a half a second.

Ever since deployment, Cody has been half overworked to death. Mountains upon mountains of datapads piled in haphazard clusters on his desk, endless cups of caf stacked high to the office ceiling, barely getting even a few hours of rest on the good days, though you'd never hear him ever say anything about it.

He'd give you a thousand yard stare, drink his caf, and say: "I'm fine, just a little tired 's all."

which, if you've ever even spent a modicum of time around Commander Cody, is complete bantha fodder.

This was the reason Commanders Rex and Wolffe were huddled in the corner of the officers lounge, hurriedly arguing under their breath about the state of their vod, watching Cody go through his painful morning routine looking like he just crawled back from the dead.

"No, vod, you don't understand, I saw him earlier in the cargo bay, he was filling out a requisition form in one of the corners, and he just started karking crying out of nowhere!" He threw another concerned glance towards Cody, who was shambling out of the lounge like a corpse reanimated.

"I watched him cry for a few minutes, totally unprepared for it, and then his timer went off, and he immediately went back to work! Like it never even happened!"

His vod winced, casting another glance towards the door.

"It's called time management, Rex."

Both Rex and Wolffe yelped and swore, as Cody appeared from seemingly nowhere directly next to them, without making any sound, filling up yet another mug of caf before disappearing through the door again.

"Kark me, he is far too quiet for his own damn good. We should put a bell on him so he can't sneak up on us. He's like a tooka." Wolffe said as he lowered himself back down into his seat, keeping a sharp eye towards the exit to ensure they weren't jumpscared yet again.

Rex snorted at that, moving towards the counter.

"Well, what're we gonna do? He can't keep this up, eventually he'll run himself into the ground and we can't have that." He asked, grabbing a mug of his own before settling into the seat next to wolffe, steaming beverage in hand.

"No, we can't." Wolffe said, contemplating their options, biting into a stale ration bar.

"I'll bring it up with his general, Codes will listen to him, right?" He'd seen those two getting close through their service, his vod certainly seemed to respect general Kenobi, and the general seemed to trust him a great deal, enough to let him pick up his lightsaber.

"Don't see why not. I'll ask Kix too, couldn't help to have some medic support. Remember last time he nearly put himself into a coma from a caffeine overdose? I swear, Kix was going to kill the di'kut himself the moment we dragged him into the medbay."

They both laughed, getting up, exchanged farewells and moving towards the door.

And so they set off, seeking out their intended targets, for the good of their vod.

Chapter Text

'It's been quiet today' Is what Anikin Skywalker thinks as he traverses the long halls of the Negotiator (A dangerous thought to think. Aboard the ship, it's considered taboo to say, because almost immediately afterwards, Obi-Wan gets one of his "Bad feeling about this" moods, and something inexplicable happens). 

At least, that's what he thinks until he walks past the motorpool, and hears raucous laughter and shouting voices. Peaking in, he is graced with a marvelous sight.

"Shiny! Get out of the kriffing tank!"

Is the first thing he hears as he walks in to the gargantuan room, lined wall to wall with ground vehicles.

There, Commander Cody of the 212th Battalion is standing in front of a Republic Fighter Tank, a cadet's helmet just about poking out of the machine gunner's hatch, staring down at the irate clone commander.

He is thoroughly taken off guard as he observes the scene, filling slowly with humor as he watches the back and forth. A crowd clones are sitting at the opposite wall, chatting back and forth and laughing loudly at the predicament.

"No!"

"Get. OUT of the kriffing tank!" He snarls, poining vehemently and threatening under his breath.

"NO!" The cadet yells back.

"SHINY! GET OUTTA THE TANK!" Cody shouts this time, taking a step forward.

"You aren't my dad!" Comes the reply from within the tank, the eye slits just poking out of the hatch.

A laugh bubbles out before he stop it, cackling with the rest of the troops watching Cody attempting to deal with the wayward newbie.

The Commander stands stock still for a second, going completely rigid before he honest to stars Growls, a low guttural noise, sounding like a particularly miffed Nexu that's just had it's meal nicked, stalking up to the vehicle and clambering aboard.

The shiny laughs, closing the hatch and darting back down into the vehicle.

something about the voice sounds familiar, he notes. Very familiar. Hm.

Cody stands utop the tank, reaching into the hatch and pulling out the offending "Cadet" with one hand, holding them up by the scruff of the neck, barking something indecipherable over the din of laughter, pulling them to eye level and growling into their face.

They look completely unfazed, radiating amusement in the force. They pull their hands up to their bucket, snickering quietly.

"Heya, codes!" The "Clone" laughs, tugging off the helmet, exploding into humor, the rest of the hangar howling with laughter as it reveals his togruta padawan, Ahsoka Tano, cackling like mad as a look of pure tiredness enters Cody's eyes.

"Commander Tano?"

The complete defeat in his tone almost makes Anakin sorry for him.

Almost. 

The look on his face makes it way too funny not to laugh though.

He smirks when he hears the commander say: "Cleaning duty for the next month". 

She attempts to wriggle out of his vice grip, but he keeps his iron grip steady.

"While wearing the cadet armor."

Her face quickly contorts into mild horror.

"And no using your jetii force magic."

He doubles over at the look that crosses his padawan's face.

Chapter Text

Commander Cody is angry.

This, in and of itself, is not a particularly rare occurrence. 

However, on this one specific zhellday, on this one specific ship, Marshall Commander Cody is exceptionally angry. 

Because, at 0500 hours in early cycle, Marshal Commander Cody of the 212th exited his quarters to find a small cylindrical object outside his door.

It takes a second for him to comprehend it, staring at the silver object on the grating beneath his feet, before recognition hits as a sledgehammer might through a particularly fragile piece of stained glass.

Because that, directly outside his quarters, where it definitely should not be, is General Kenobi's lightsaber.

The one that he swore on his Master's grave that he wouldn't lose ever again, for the 7th time that week, Of course, Cody, I am a perfectly functional adult and am well capable of keeping track of my belongings, what do you take me for, an initiate? 

The one that Cody has specifically made him promise to always have on his person under threat of being tossed out an airlock into the cold void of space.

The one that currently is currently outside of his kriffing quarters, at 0500 early cycle, lying at his feet mocking everything that he is.

Feeling as if he is the butt of a cosmically wide joke, he slowly reaches out and grasps the offending weapon, glaring at it as if all the universe has wronged everything he's ever known, using every bit of his beskar-steel will to not violently toss it against the wall and watch it explode into a million seperate pieces.

No, instead, he stands up, ever the picture of the broad shouldered, always level headed, always dependable Commander Cody of the 212th, calmly slotting the saber into the personally modified holder that he was forced to commission after the 27th time the General had lost his light-sword in the middle of battle, and he calmly begins his walk to the hangar, where he knows the General will be for his early meditation.

This is the last straw. This is where the force-forsaken line is being drawn. Little gods above, this is where it will end, he swears by the ka'ra.

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When Captain Rex spots his brother stalking through the halls to the hangar leaking murderous intent like a pissed off rancor that's just had it's lunch knicked, he decides it wise to slowly meld into the shadows as the ticking time bomb that is Cody stomps past, because standing in his way when he's like this is a sure fire way to get latrine duty for the rest of your career.

When he spots the lightsaber hung at his belt though, he instantly knows why, and internally screams into the void. 

The General lost it.

Again.

He lost his karking lightsaber.

Again.

The lightsaber that Cody personally threatened to shove so far up his general's shebs he'd be puking laser for weeks.

The one that Cody had physically stuffed into his general's hand after a battle and threatened to find a way to make him keep it there in way that sticks, whatever way that was. 

Again.

Osik.

This is a situation that needs to be defused, fast, now, fucking yesterday, kriffing urgently, before his ori'vod murders a high general, and of-karking-course, it falls to him by pure un-luck of being the only person near.

Manda, where was Fox when you needed him?, (The traitorous part of his brains whispers, Abandoned by his brothers to coruscant, before he viciously quashes it and stuffs the thought into the furthest part of his brain.)

Damn his luck to every corellian hell pit and beyond.

Slowly, as if approaching a feral tooka (Cody might actually space him on the spot if he says as much, so he immediately shuts that thought down), he slinks out of the shadows and matches Cody's pace, just quiet enough that he won't get his neck snapped just for being in proximity, but just loud enough to alert him to his presence.

He clears his throat uncomfortably as he matches shoulders with his vod, treading carefully as one might around a minefield, before opening his mouth and:

"Soooooo..."

It comes out very awkwardly, falling short a solid 500 meters before the proverbial Line, and he winces beneath the helmet.

"You look."

He racks his brain for a word, because if he doesn't phrase this carefully, there is a non zero chance of being forced to run laps around the entire venator in full patrol gear if he messes up and being mocked by the entirety of the 501st for it.

"Pissed."

Beautifully put, simply elegant, Rex, A-fucking-Plus job, you di'kut.

Cody, thank the little gods, simply only glares before resuming his march, and he can only be grateful he wasn't melted to a bubbling pile of flesh inside his armor from the sheer heat of it, even through the helmet. Lesser beings would've been simply turned into flesh slag by sheer proximity, but Rex is simply stubbornly immune by virtue of being the shabuir youngest sibling, but that doesn't mean that it isn't the scariest kriffing thing since the Kamino trainers.

"What gave it away?", Cody asks, probably through gritted teeth, obscured by the helmet, (Rex is a borderline prodigy at armor body language and could quite literally trace the expression with his finger through the helmet, stretched scar and all, but putting his hand near might actually get it torn off so his arms stay resolutely by his sides).

"The stomping around like a rancor off its leash, for one thing", his stupid mouth runs off before he can stop it, his damnable lack of self preservation and annoying younger brother instincts flaring up again, fuck his life, Wolffe would've been so much better at this!

Cody doesn't respond, but the way that he bristles tells him he is about 0.1 seconds away from being strangled, so he steps just a little bit farther to the side, hopefully out of strangulation range. 

"So, where are you going?", he says, trying to inject as much innocence into the words as he can. 

"The hangar", comes the tart reply, and he can feel the somebody-done-fucked-up-severely rolling off the words in waves and he winces at the sheer strength of it, because that means somebody's getting outside airlock door cleaning for the rest of the campaign and he prays for whatever poor soul that ends up being.

"That's. Nice.", He says, words suddenly lost to him, at a loss for solutions. Talking, obviously, did not work, and nothing short of pulling his pistol and knocking him out then and there will, so now he is the one that is well and truly karked.

"Is it.", is Cody's reply, not a question, that's a period right there, he can envision it clearly, a completely flat sarcastic declaration dryer than tatooine's dune seas.

Rex internally sighs, because Kenobi's fate is well and truly sealed at this point, so all he can do is try to minimize the fallout in the wake of the blast and hope none of his troops get caught in the blast.

They walk silently to the hangar, Cody so angry the entire kriffing jetii temple could probably feel it all the way from coruscant, and Rex resigned to whatever happens next, completely ready to simply ignore that it ever happened and never answer any questions about it, ever.

They reach the doors eventually, passing a number of troopers on the way who instantly recognize the mood and cautiously edge away, memories of previous 'incidents' still fresh in their minds.

The moment the doors open, they are greeted to the sight of early cycle bustle, mechanics triple checking LAATS, pilots running diagnostics, fuel drums being rolled around, accompanied by a pleasant din of shouts, grinding tools against metal and talking.

And all the way ahead of them, all the way at the at the big bottom airlock, sits General Obi-Wan Kenobi, in a light meditative pose, completely oblivious to his impending doom in the form of the irate 212th marshall commander.

Manda preserve his soul.

Cody stops, barely past the first LAAT bay, and turns to him.

"Rex."

The way his name is said and the tone instantly sets him on guard, but he cautiously answers anyway, "Cody?".

"How many feet do you think there are from here to the airlock?"

He doesn't know why he's being asked this, but he answers anyway for fear of the aforementioned latrine duty and flesh melting glare, "A few hundred feet, why?".

Cody turns back to where Kenobi sits, wearing what he's sure must be a pensive look beneath the bucket, "D'you think?", not fully answering his question.

"I'm. Fairly certain?", It comes out as more of a question than he wants it too, but the words are out and Cody seems semi-satisfied with them.

"Alright then.", comes Cody's answer, in a tone that is distinctly not nice, probably wearing a smile with too many teeth as his arm reaches down to the belt where the offending object that started this whole ordeal hangs.

Realization comes like ice sliding down his spine, dread filling his gut, a rushed "Cody, don't you karking dare!", making its way out of his lungs desperately, as if that could somehow stop it, but it's too late.

The 'saber is hefted, and deftly tossed as one might with a grenade off center stage, sent soaring over the sea of helmets that crane to watch the cylindrical silver object hurtle overhead like a spear, perfectly spinning in an arc that would put weapons specifically devoted to the purpose to shame, 

Directly into General Kenobi's cranium, with a particularly hefty *thunk*.

He's aware he's openly staring gobsmacked beneath his helmet, but the situation warrants it.

He expected the General to catch it with his force osik, maybe detect their presence and stop it before it even happened, but the weapon clatters damningly noisily to the floor,

And Kenobi drops in a heap with it.

Belatedly, he realizes all activity has frozen in the hangar and every head has turned in their direction, Cody's arm still outstretched as it's leisurely returned to the owner's side as if he hadn't just fucking knocked General Obi-Wan Kenobi of the republic flat out on his shebs with his own weapon by fucking tossing it at him.

"cody."

"Rex."

"CODY!"

"Rex."

"You just!"

"Yup."

"To the karking general!"

"Mhm."

He inhales, praying to whatever deity he can think of for patience, before asking: 

"why?"

There are so many things he means by that, and he hopes to dear stars that he manages to convey just how desperate he feels in the word.

"I did warn him."

He drops his hand into a hand, completely flummoxed, and utterly done.

Chapter Text

Cody worries that this might potentially become a habit.

There is a lightsaber in his hand.

His General is running around the battlefield, somehow disrobed with his entire chest bare to the world and the advancing droid army, and missing his lightsaber, backflipping through the air and destroying droids in hand-to-hand combat with his Force fuckery. 

Cody has no karking idea what is going on. His brain is somewhere halfway between perfectly calm and thirty air raid sirens in a wind tunnel. 

However, Cody is nothing if not pragmatic, so, disregarding his half-naked superior officer boxing battle droids and throwing them about like ragdolls with invisible force-fuckery (not an easy task by any stretch of the word, it's like a magnet for his eyes, that smile is just unfair-), he sets about commanding the troopers and corralling the gawking shinies away from staring at said half-nude flying space monk and actually shooting at clankers. 

Cody shoves the lightsaber into his blaster holster and shoots the head off a B1 in the same movement as the endless wave of tan armor and blaster fire further encroaches on their position surrounded by rubble and vehicle remains, using them as cover and periodically picking them off where they can under the virtual hail of red bolts.

Finally, after the clankers are thoroughly destroyed through rigorous application of heavy weaponry and explosives, the General stands in front of him, hands clasped neatly behind him with his chest still open and bare to the world, typical smirk/smile in place like a Tooka that got into the grenade box as if he hadn't just fist-fought an entire droid battalion by himself.

Cody, who is tired, and has been tired since he first stepped an inch out of Kamino, with very little patience at all for this particular brand of bantha-shit and sorely deprived of the caffeine stimulants needed for even looking in the general vicinity of the clusterkark that is Obi-wan-Kenobi, says, flatly and aggrieved, "What the kriff, sir."

The General stands primly, probably entirely aware of what Cody is feeling (even Cody does not know how he feels at the moment, somewhere between weirdly aroused and mortified-), eyebrows raised before answering back, "Pardon?"

He pointedly looks down at his still entirely half in the nude General.

Kenobi cranes his head downwards to his bare chest (and not even a scratch on it, what the kark even-), and says one word, as if coming to a sudden realization, "Ah."

Stars save him from stupid survival instinct lacking force-bullshit-stick wielding space monks. 

Chapter Text

"General Kenobi."

He stiffens instinctively upon hearing that name spoken in that specific tone of voice by that one specific person.

He turns, slowly, wondering how in the Force Cody had snuck up on him like that while he was meditating, and sees him standing in the doorway of his quarters aboard the Negotiator, posture ramrod straight and hands neatly tucked to his sides in parade rest, presence shallow in the Force as always, making him unusually effective at scaring the pants off Jedi at the most inconvenient times.

"Commander," he hazzards, eyes immediately frantically searching for escape routes away from whatever conversation this is about to be because the Force is radiating absolute amusement at something and nothing good ever comes from that-

The door slides shut as Cody presses a button on the keypad and Obi-Wan's mind immediately wanders to a very different direction where this conversation could be heading, watching the door warily.

"Sir," Cody begins, voice stiff and obviously pained about something, "Please, for kriff's sake, put a bloody shirt on, this is a conversation I'd rather not have my superior officer half in the nude for."

"What?" he says, very confident that he had in fact put a shirt on when he crawled out of bed, but then he looks down and sees that the top half of his torso is completely bare and there is not in fact a robe covering it.

Blast.

"Oh," he says, the tips of his ears heating in embarrassment. He swears it, there was in fact at least a layer of cloth over his chest a moment ago, but the complete lack of it remains glaringly obvious, especially in the face of Cody looming in his doorway, politely looking off to the side.

Cody simply sighs, tilting his head up to the ceiling as if praying to whatever will listen.

He does not scramble to get up, because he is a Jedi Master, and Jedi Masters do not scramble to do anything. He is grace, pure tranquility, but maybe just a little hurried about it as he flings open the closet and shrugs on one of the many, many replacement robes.

He can feel something in the living Force mocking him as he does it, and he knows for sure who to blame. 

Why is it always him. He's a Master, damnit, not an Initiate losing items every which way, he has a reputation to preserve!

He steps back into the office part of his quarters, now more suitably covered, and Cody lets out an audible sigh of relief.

"Shall we get to it?" he prompts, sliding into his seat.

Cody nods and gingerly sits in the seat across the desk, clearing his throat before beginning, "I have- a question, if you'll answer it."

"Of course," he replies, meaning it.

Cody shifts, armor rustling, before asking in a quieter voice, "Lightsabers are very important to Jedi, correct?" 

Well, that's somewhat of an extreme understatement, but he nods, slowly, wondering where this is going. "Yes, indeed they are. Why?"

Cody seems to hesitate, before eventually deciding kriff it, and says, "Would you be open to me carrying a modified holster for your lightsaber in battle?"

He blinks. 

Ah. Some part of him warms at Cody coming to ask about something so significant before going ahead and doing it, but he would've been fine with it either way.

As much as it physically pains him to say it, even mentally as he pictures his Master turning steady circles in his grave, his 'saber does have the annoying tendency to suddenly disappear from his hand at the worst moment and always somehow find it's way into the Commander's.

"I don't see why not," he eventually decides, nodding. If the Commander is going to be in possession of it frequently enough to prompt having this conversation, having a space to put it in that doesn't hinder utility in an otherwise constantly moving battle would be useful. 

The Commander loses some of the tension in his shoulders, and moves to stand with a simple nod, quietly sighing.

"Thank you," he blurts, and Cody sharply turns back around. 

"For asking," he clarifies, and the Commander shortly nods again, hesitating for a moment, seemingly unsure, before bustling out the door at his usual pace, presumably to go put out whatever new fire at the moment has his immediate attention in the storming conflagration of the Republic's slapdash logistics. 

The door closes with a quiet hisss, and Obi-Wan contemplates, stroking his stubble.

A pleasant interaction, if slightly stifled by the yawning gap between his and the Commander's position, but pleasant nonetheless. He finds that he wouldn't mind future talks with him. His presence in the Force wasn't large, per say, but it was steady, constant, a rock breaking the ebbing flow of a river around it, standing resolute as an anchor point, presence grounding.

A secondary feeling accompanies that one, somewhere along the lines of comfort and contentment, but he can't quite put his finger on it as his brow furrows, unable to put a name to it. 

He sighs, stands, and resigns himself to meditating on it, and keeping a much closer eye on his top layers this time.