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In all his travels, short life and all, Cody’s never been here. A small moon of no political significance. Not enough exports for separatist occupation, not enough reliance on imports for a blockade, and locals not motivated enough to push for a tourism boom. Nothing’s changed since Empire day, it’s still a pleasant but unashamedly backwater place, happy to be invisible in its obscurity. Doubtful more than a handful of the small city’s residents have ever seen a clone.
It’s perfect. Capital P karking Perfect.
He’s surprised, really. Never really thought Rex paid all that much attention to the parts of the map that remained unlit, inert, briefing after briefing, but then toward the end he hadn’t seen Rex all that much. A few joint operations here and there, sure, but not like the early days. Not like the long hyperspace transits together every other tenday, with nothing to occupy a bloke other than reaching for the nearest sparring partner who could keep up, sleeping, or gambling away selectively pilfered credits over a round of pazaak.
Besides, Rex had always been one to adapt to the direction of the breeze while still maintaining the righteous, stubborn streak.
Cody tries not to think about what he really wanted to be doing with Rex back then. But the past is full of bodies, and the present is fucked, and now he’s got to figure out where the hell he sits in all of this.
It makes sense, Cody supposes. That Rex has gone and got himself all tied up with whatever it is he’s calling it. Sneaking around under the nose of the Empire is more Rex’s style than swallowing the company line and sucking it up all in the name of duty and obligation. Nowadays, at least.
Not that that’s what Cody was doing. Cody can think for himself, that’s why he’s here, after all.
Here where the wind is gentle and smells a bit like sulphur. The waves lap at the rust colored beach, and Cody leans against the sea wall as he watches people walk and jog and scoot along the promenade.
Yes, it makes sense. Rex, liberator of clones anywhere who could see past the propaganda and the brainwashing and get a karkdarn clue.
Captain Rex, Liberator of Clones, who’s striding across the wide plaza from the north, in a tight black t-shirt and a low slung blaster holster that makes him look like a water canteen after a week stranded on Geonosis.
Fucking… fuck.
The ARC swagger used to make Cody roll his eyes, now it just makes him wait more time in between blinks.
Rex has that face on. The stoic, determined one he gets when walking to a debrief that’s going to be more shit than polish, and Cody’s afraid he’s going to end up at the receiving end of a right hook that’s had fourteen years of refinement.
That’s not how it goes though. How it goes is Rex, head up and eyes locked somewhere just to the right of Cody’s head, consistent pace only interrupted by a civilian crossing in front of him, strides right up to Cody, puts a hand on Cody’s hip, slides it up his back, and it’s not until Rex’s eyes flutter shut that Cody twigs to what’s about to happen. Right before Rex’s lips slam into his, a bit chapped, a bit dry, but warm and full of something that has Cody’s stomach dropping right down to his knees.
Rex kisses like he’s starving, sucking and biting and stealing Cody’s breath for himself before Cody can do so much as gasp. There’s a desperation that Cody can’t help but return, finally, when his gray matter gets back to pinging off fire in between the neurons. He pushes back, clutches at Rex’s neck, scrambles at that dumb tight shirt until his fingers are twisted tight enough in the fabric to hurt.
A whistle filters through all the white noise and fizziness in Cody’s brain, and he’s aware in a vague sense they’re in public, people can see, but the bit of him that’s wanted this for years, buried down deep and finally crawling up past all the buttoned up decorum and a couple of layers of guilt and repression doesn’t care. That bit of him wants to crawl into Rex’s chest and make a home there. Return the favour.
Rex does eventually rip their lips apart with a shaky breath. There’s a heavy pause, a long count of ten before he speaks, gaze wild and feirce. His hands are still all over Cody, squeezing and clutching, like he’s trying to prove Cody’s real. Then:
“You’re file says deceased.” It comes with a crooked smile that says Rex never believed it.
And yeah, that makes sense. Better to put a big red warning label on the clone that started asking questions, stop the dissent in its tracks and show the consequences. But then Cody didn’t come looking for Rex. Rex found him, somehow, in the massive expanse that is the galaxy, Rex found him. A dead man.
Shit, the thought never crossed his mind, because—
“So does yours,” Cody replies.
His face is wet. His face is wet and his eyes are stinging, and Rex lets go of his hip, grabs both Cody’s cheeks, runs his thumbs under Cody’s eyes, then leans forward. Presses their foreheads together and rolls his head from side to side.
“I didn’t know,” Cody says, and he doesn’t know if he’s talking about Rex being alive, or Rex wanting him back. Maybe both. His breath is shaky and he’s shivering even though the breeze coming off the ocean is warm. “I didn’t… I—”
“Not many do.”
Rex’s thumb is at Cody’s lip now, dragging it down, baring Cody’s teeth. His eyelashes are dark against his cheeks, until Cody asks why Rex trusted him. Why, with all that’s happening, with that thing that’s still in his head, Rex came looking.
“I’ll always look. Always for you.”