Chapter Text
If there was anything that startled Waxer into wakefulness, it was the smell of fresh air. He was very, very used to the scent of recycled air. Shipside, it sometimes contained traces of smells from other parts of the ship, and as the filters of the various air systems got closer to needing to be replaced, the smells got stronger and more intermingled, oil and engine grease mixing with the inexplicable, almost staticky smell of the hyperdrive, and the scent of cooking and laundry overlaying it all. On Kamino, everything had a sterile cleanliness to it, even in the hangers where they kept their ships and the live-fire training room, except for specific parts of the maintenance tunnels where one could smell the rain and the ocean.
He still wasn’t used to their new living quarters, not the noises, and certainly not the smells. It was a temporary prefab that had been set up for them on a lovely temperate planet that the Jedi ExploraCorps had flagged as suitable for humanoid habitation years earlier. It still smelled like the packing crates it had come in, and some of their furniture was real, genuine wood, and they had a smell like freshly sawn logs.
Waxer was still getting used to it, but Boil was enamoured with it, all of it, the prefab and the planet and the fact that they had furniture that belonged to them. He had taken to leaving the door open, a thin curtain draped over the doorway, when he was awake, and it let the smells of the forest into their home, the wet earth and the leaves and all the good green growing things.
Waxer rolled over onto his side and peered blearily out of his blanket cocoon. The sun was shining, there was the sound of birds singing and insects humming, and more distantly, construction.
He could see Boil crouching on their front porch, talking to one of the cadets that had come to live in the colony following the dissolution of the cloning facilities. Content to let himself wake slowly in the quiet peace of the morning, he turned back in to the blankets, blocking the light back out. It was cool still in the mornings, and Waxer liked the comfort of their weight.
When he woke up again, it was to Boil singing to the radio, slightly off-key and out of rhythm and altogether charming. He rubbed at his eyes, instinctively searching out his partner.
He was dancing about next to their kitchenette, wiggling about in his shorts and the ‘kiss the cook’ apron that one of his batchers had gotten him, flinging his arms and the spatula he was holding through the air in emphasis, thoroughly untrained and thoroughly enjoying himself.
The tantalizing smell of caf and whatever it was Boil was cooking gradually pulled at Waxer. He sat up with a sigh and stretched languidly.
“Morning Wax!” Boil chirped, glancing over his shoulder. Waxer waved sleepily, pulling one of the blankets over his shoulders and rolling to his feet. He wasn’t used to being able to leave his bed unmade, but he would leave it at least until he had eaten, to get himself better used to it.
“Morning Boil.” Waxer mumbled, draping himself around Boil’s shoulders. Boil didn’t stop moving, gently dragging Waxer around the space as he finished his cooking, still dancing to the music.
“We’re going to the falls this morning.” Boil said, depositing Waxer on one of the floor mats next to their low table. Waxer made a low noise of protest at being left, and Boil grinned at him. He had always been an undeniable morning person, especially when compared to Waxer, who had only ever been a morning person because he had to be.
“Any particular reason?” Waxer asked as Boil plated breakfast, setting plates down on the table before going back for mugs of caf.
“Well, Little Mag left Littlest Mag up at the falls when the class was there for a field trip yesterday, but I was planning on asking you to go anyways.” Waxer took the mug of caf and held it close. It must have been Little Mag, who had named herself after one of the grumpiest troopers Waxer had ever known on their voyage to the colony, and been saddled with the Little as a point of differentiation, who had been talking to Boil earlier. Littlest Mag was a stuffed loth-wolf, a gift from Big Mag, who grumped every time someone called him that, and Little Mag’s prized possession.
“I love you.” Waxer said, just to watch Boil blush. “You old softy.”
“Oh hush.” Boil said, but he blushed all the same. “They deserve every nice thing.”
“I know.” It was a blessing for these cadets to get to grow up with grass under their feet and the care of their elders, with no threat of war or of longnecks hanging over them any more. “So, shall we go and rescue Littlest Mag?”
“I’ve packed a picnic.” Boil said. “I figured we might spend the day at it.”
“So long as we get Littlest Mag back by bedtime I’m sure.”
“Well, yes, I assured Little Mag that she would be back safe and sound.”