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Standing in the communications center of the Negotiator looking at the collected strategic data from the last battle, Rex feels every single campaign of the war in his bones. The weariness is so deep-seated that it has become a part of him, and he rarely gets to acknowledge it; mission after mission commanding his full and unwavering attention and focus.
Now, though, fresh off the last gruesome campaign, the 501st and the 212th are not on their way to their next deployment. Rex can’t remember the last time that they had actual downtime. With the battles intensifying on a daily basis, Generals Skywalker and Kenobi have been traveling all across the galaxy to various engagements over the last several—weeks? Months? It’s difficult to tell as days and weeks and months bleed together to an indistinguishable blur of strategizing, analyzing and fighting.
As it is, General Kenobi sits sprawled in an armchair having just finished briefing the Jedi Council about the last mission. He has a datapad in his hands that he is looking at, though truthfully, he doesn’t appear like he’s seeing it at all. Even still, the general—despite his battle-weary robes and armor—is the picture of perfect composure; such a stark contrast to General Skywalker whose irreverence bleeds out through every pore.
If General Kenobi feels even half as exhausted as Rex, he’s not showing it. Rex is mildly aware that Jedi can utilize the Force to assist with their own well-being, though to which degree remains a mystery. Even so, he doubts that even Jedi can replenish the needs of their bodies solely through the Force.
The door cycles open to reveal General Skywalker. He—very much unlike General Kenobi—looks like he is holding himself upright by sheer force of will.
“Anakin,” Kenobi says with a hint of a reprimand in his voice. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”
Skywalker staggers further into the room, and a faint blush spreads across his cheeks. He rolls his eyes but it doesn’t do anything to mitigate the color high on his face and the effect it has on his features: a pleased expression flashing clear as ion fire. Having made his way to one of the chairs, he drops down onto it with the elegance of a Hutt.
“Couldn’t fall asleep,” he mumbles as he puts his elbows on his knees and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. It’s a rare show of anything other than his self-assured confidence and the easy arrogance of one who knows there’s barely anything in the galaxy that can get to him. Skywalker draws in a deep breath, shoulders rising with the motion, and exhales; the air rushing out audibly, as if he’s trying to breathe out whatever core-deep fatigue is taking over his body.
Rex can’t help the fleeting thought that it’s nice to know that even his Jedi can feel this wiped out.
“Checked on Ahsoka, though. She’s dead to the galaxy,” Skywalker says as he rights himself on the chair, blinking his eyes rapidly.
Kenobi inclines his head in agreement. “Good. She needs it.”
“So do you, Obi-Wan,” Skywalker points out with an almost child-like petulance, and Rex nearly has to bite the inside of his cheek so as not to snort. As if General Skywalker has any ground to stand on.
At that, the expression on Kenobi’s face becomes so unbearably soft that Rex has to look away, feeling as if he’s intruding on a deeply intimate moment.
“I suppose you’re right,” Kenobi says with a chuckle. He puts the datapad on a low table next to the armchair.
Skywalker snorts lightly. “It wouldn’t hurt you to admit that I am right.”
Kenobi hums. “Come here, sweetheart.” He says it softly but there is an unmistakable command in his voice.
And Skywalker goes as if he’s being pulled by an invisible thread; as if he is the needle in a compass aligning north; as if there’s nothing else he can—or even wants to—do.
Kenobi holds out a hand to him and Skywalker grabs it, fingers entwining upon contact, and then Kenobi pulls him onto his lap and against his chest.
Skywalker is a tall man, a warrior, poised and deadly: an unstoppable force. He folds himself on top of Kenobi like a docile predator with the familiarity of someone who has done the very same thing for years and years. With a sigh, he burrows his head against Kenobi’s chest, ear pressed over his heart, knees pulled almost all the way to touch the tip of his nose. Kenobi curls an arm around his shoulder as he gazes down at the other man with a look of pure love in his eyes. A slight smile ghosts over his lips as he cards his fingers through Skywalker’s hair before settling back on his shoulder.
Rex doesn’t know when it happened, and he couldn’t point to something about Kenobi exactly and say, that’s it, but sometime between Skywalker curling up on him and now, some of his steadfast composure has melted away to reveal his own exhaustion.
“Sleep now, dear one,” he murmurs.
But General Skywalker is already asleep. Kenobi leans down to brush his lips over Skywalker’s head, and it’s an achingly tender motion that Rex has to look away again. He focuses back on the data in front of him. He needs to evaluate it.
Unbidden, his gaze sweeps back to the Jedi. Kenobi’s eyes have drifted shut and going by his deep, even breathing, he’s fallen asleep as well.
Rex regards them for a moment.
Here, now, the generals are gone. There are only two men on that armchair, worn thin and carrying the exhaustion of two whole battalions between them, seeking—needing—the comfort of each other’s embrace as if it’s the only thing that can bring them peace.
No, not ‘as if’, Rex thinks as he turns off the projector and walks to the door. He turns off the overhead lights as he quietly exits the room.
It is.