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He should have known better than to go on a mission on his own.
Cody knows that. He has been taught that, to the point that he doesn’t remember a time where he didn’t follow through any of his Superiors' orders, even if many went against his own judgement.
This rebellious part of him, this rotting feeling that had started sometime in the past month, has something inside his chest squirming each time he has to ask for permission. It made him resent the principles he had once thought himself ready to die for, and worse of all, it has led him there, going rogue on a mission because his ego thought he could do better.
Because, if the ka'artingade he follows could run freely and without a single back up plan up their sleeves, then surely Cody can manage by himself. After all, he does carry a blaster.
One he can’t seem to find right now.
The booming music coming from the discobot makes Cody’s head hurt as much as his pride, and under his feet, the floor spins in a blur of shadows, neons and alcohol spills. He has to blink several times to try to gain some sense of balance, holding onto the wall by his side while he pats at his hip, sure that he had been carrying his blaster just seconds ago.
Someone must have stolen it from him, that can be the only reason. He would have it otherwise, too uselessly protective over an old beaten blaster that wasn’t even as lethal as his assigned DC and that yet, was undoubtedly his and for that he used it better. Carried it better. It felt better.
It must have happened sometime in the last hour, though Cody can’t for the life of him recall when. Everything is blurry, his brain feels heavy and Cody curses whoever had drugged him, daring enough to put something in his drink that would have probably killed someone who didn’t have the exceeding metabolism of a Jango Fett clone.
It had most probably been his drink that had been compromised, as most drinks were in these kinds of lower-level coruscanti bars. That was the whole attraction of them – to indulge their patrons with a low ration of their vices, all while in levels above, their politicians smiled in the face of the law with promises of security and respect.
Cody didn’t know there could be another additive to Chandrillan Squigs when he ordered it, but alas, he had not come here to test his expertise in cocktails but for the deals done under the tables and the criminals hiding in the corners.
And that’s why he is now paying the price of being uninformed.
His confidence over his drug immunity had left him at some point after he had sneaked between the crowd to get into the bathroom, the sickly sweet scent of cheap cleanser hurting his senses and leaving his head in a daze.
A single glance at his pupils in the bathroom mirror was confirmation enough. He was high off his feet.
“Fuck,” Cody grunts, as a wave of diziness sends him to his knees. He extends his hands forward to avoid falling face-first onto the ground, and grimaces at the stickiness on his palms as they come into contact with the dirty floor.
Ugh. He might puke.
A dark leather boot steps near his right hand and Cody barely has the time to pull away, before a second boot steps on where his fingers had been. He feels rage fill him despite the dizziness, maybe even more so because of it. What kind of asshole steps on someone who is down—?
Then he looks up and the air gets stuck in his throat.
The moving lights from above make the stranger’s face unrecognisable from his point of view—cast entirely in shadows as the neon lights hit his back, and yet, Cody could swear, in the single second that their gazes meet, that his eyes had been golden.
Cody blinks in surprise at his retreating figure, not even having a moment to take it in before it disappears into the crowd. He is still hearing the echo of his mocking laughter when he gets back on his feet and Cody squints around, trying to discern the profile of a proud nose, the shape of a well maintained beard.
There, between the sweaty and smushed bodies of the dancers—! That’s him, a dark figure with bright auburn hair that Cody could recognise anywhere.
It’s goddamn Obi-Wan Kenobi.
He is looking at him from the other side of the dance-floor, his gaze clear even when nothing else around him is. Lethal and graceful like a hunting panther. Enraging, even after months of absence.
Cody stumbles his way into the crowd, getting elbowed and elbowing back as he tries to make his way towards him, with unsteady legs and a migraine beating at the rhythm of the bass against his skull.
He feels something akin to excitement propelling him foward, an emotion that fuels him through the nausea, burning with the intensity of fury, crackling in its hunger for hunting.
Disturbing in the way it makes his heart drop at the possibility of having lost sight of him again.
Cody looks around at the sea of bodies and shadows, every one of his senses alert for a single hint of a shade of red, or the glistening silver hilt of a lightsaber.
Someone shoves him in the shoulder as they walk past him and Cody’s body turns at the impact, unprepared, startled and suddenly very disoriented.
He can’t see the bar anywhere close and the path he made from the bathroom has once again disappeared between the dancing bodies of the patrons, as quickly and swiftly as Kenobi has once again escaped from his grasp.
Like a mirage.
Cody trembles as his body is hit with cold realization. He is surrounded by a crowd of dangerous and unpredictable strangers, no blaster by his side, no companion to watch his back, and now, with drug-induced hallucinations clouding his mind.
Death has never felt as close.
Behind him, someone tuts at him, reproachingly, and Cody braces himself as he turns to look at him, at what can only be his mind’s creations of Obi-wan Kenobi.
Just the sight of his eyes should have been hint enough, as there was no way he could have been able to see that clearly under the club’s shitty lightning, no matter how surreal that colour was.
And it is an uncanny eye color. A deeply saturayed and bright hue that even when it is a product of his memory alone, they are still as terrifying as the real ones are.
Cody can’t look away. Like a pathetic fly that finds itself sweetly trapped in the golden pleasure that is honey, he admires his demise with a hunger he can’t satisfy.
He has always thought it ironic that they were of the same colour of the 212th battalion, as if the empty spot of their general could be filled with a renegade with a disposition for chaos and terrible timing. One who looked at the rows of clone troopers with armors painted gold and thought he could claim them with a single smirk.
Oh and he has tried. This ka'artingade had appeared one day and kept sneaking into their ranks from that day forward: befriending the shinies, softening the veterans, settling into his initially unwilling battalion like a persistent rash until they had no choice but to learn how to deal—
How to work with him.
Cody knows it could be considered treason, but when a sith keeps forcing his way among their ranks and the jedi that learn of it only shake their heads sadly, what else can they do? What else could Cody do but to take control and establish lines of conduct so that they could both fulfill their mission?
He could ignore the mutterings in the Jedi Temple about the war feeling like a bleeding wound, and he could ignore the empty room in the Star Destroyer where the general of the 212th battalion was supposed to sleep, but when push came to shove, when it was between life or death and those two facts staring back at him, he could only make a decision.
“What now, Commander?” Kenobi murmurs, in that low, honest voice that makes Cody wants to scowl at him. That even now makes him want to yell to stop looking at him like that, all soft lines and bright eyes, like the last fading rays of the sun before it submerges into the sea.
He wishes he had his helmet on.
Cody takes an step back just as Kenobi takes a step forward, and for a second their faces are so close that their lips would have brushed. Kenobi persists, and Cody steps back, and again, and again
With his tries of stealing a kiss from him frustrated, Kenobi shakes his head at him, half lidded eyes and rosy mouth, and Cody almost can’t hear him through the sound of his heart hammering against his ribs, enthrallled and panicked as he is.
“Don’t run away,” Kenobi whispers and it feels like receiving a direct blow in the gut. A check of reality and acknowledgement that punches the air out of his lungs and makes him choke on his spit.
Suddenly everything feels too sharp, too real. Like being put under a spotlight so bright that there’s no shadow left to hide in.
Because he has wanted this— he has wanted it for so long and so much that it hurts his pride to even admit those thoughts to himself, like the ache of a bruise you can’t help but press on.
This is none other than his enemy, someone who would help both sides if it benefited him. Who cares not about loyalties or discipline or a sense of honour. Cody should not be having these feelings about him. It goes against everything he stands for.
And yet he is unable to fully vanish them, the constant presence of the Kenobi having meddled with his brain so much that even when he isn’t fully in control, when enough time has passed for this blasted heart of his to yearn, he conjures him himself.
It’s ridiculous. He needs to get out of here.
Cody feels the nausea at the back of his throat as he turns on his spot, grunting with every step as his dexterity is still not the best, his knees trembling as it helps to support his own weight.
At his back, Mirage Obi-wan laughs, because his mind tells him he would, because he is desperate to hear his voice again, even while surrounded by sweaty bodies and getting his eardrums blasted by shitty starpop music.
He takes long strides towards the nearest exit, guiding himself by recognising the spots where there are less amounts of people drinking. He pats at the walls until his hands find the lever of an emergency door and then he is gasping in the artificially-produced breeze of Coruscant’s night, breathless, relieved.
“Commander!” someone shouts, but the door behind Cody closes with a thud, cutting it short. A little voice inside his head tells Cody of safety and trust, but he shoves it away, recognising wishful thinking for what it is.
Outside the club, the city shines with ever-present movement, and Cody blinks hard at the neon lights still shining behind his eyelids, trying to think throught the headache.
“Commander!”
Cody doesn’t turn around. He is high, and there is no one here except dangerous strangers, and for a second, Cody regrets that he has been so careful in covering his tracks on his way here. Maybe then, it could be one of his meddlesome brothers the one to appear right now.
Instead, he is alone, and he holds onto that thought and repeats it under his breath once, twice, trying to ignore the calling of his title behind him and the steady pressure of a hand grabbing to his shoulder.
No.
“Commander?”
It’s only him and this drug induced hallucination, that follows him insistently like the real one does, with big honest eyes that are so beautiful that it pisses Cody off.
When has he taken note of the freckles that splatter over the bridge of his nose to his upper cheeks? Of the little wrinkles in the corner of his eyes? Even the pimple scar on his forehead is there, as perfect as the real one, and Cody clenches his jaw in frustration, embarassed at himself.
Had he truly stared at him so much that his mind can portray a faithful projection of Obi-wan without reference?
“Fucking hell,” Cody mutters, and Mirage Obi-wan frowns, confused.
Cody ignores it to look at Kenobi clearly for what feels like the first time that night, with no shadows or crossing people to hide anything from him. He drinks in every wrinkle, every mole the shining lights might have blurred, as well as the straight line of his fancy dark clothes that make him look taller, dignified.
And there it is too, that silver lightsaber — the one that Cody is well acquantanced with, due to his master’s slippery fingers.
Except that there’s something else hanging from his belt, too. A beaten and well loved blaster, mocking and startling Cody at the same time.
Kenobi’s hand on his shoulder shakes Cody out of his trance, and between the surprise and the anger and the fear, Cody can’t find anything to say to this worried and very real Obi-wan Kenobi.
This goddamn thief.
Something in his expression must have betrayed his thoughts because Obi-wan shakes his head in astonishment, pulling away with soft disappointment.
“Do you really think so low of me?” Obi-wan says, oftly leading Cody’s hand to his hip so that he could take the blaster by himself. “It was left on one of the bar stools, your force energy was all over it.”
Cody probably snatches it with more force than he should have, but he doesn’t care one bit. If he cannot trust his own mind, then he surely does not believe the words of this sith, specially when their kind are well known to manipulate thoughts and intentions with a single flick of a wrist.
Cody’s headache hammers at his temple once again and Cody tries to breathe through the sudden dizzziness, refusing to be manipulated again nor look weak in front of someone like him. He glares at him instead.
Kenobi squints at him for a few seconds, reading maybe in his face or in that forsaken Force something Cody can’t even imagine.
He hums disapprovingly, “What have you been doing here, commander? Where are your troops?” Then he sighs, and suddenly he looks extremely tired, defeated. “Are you even aware of how the world would be if anything were to happen to you?”
Cody opens his mouth to respond but then Obi-wan is raising his hands to his face, shutting down anything he might have said with a single brush of his fingertips.
His hands feel cold against Cody’s sweaty skin, but his touch is gently over Cody’s cheeks, even when he is sure it must feel uncomfortable after a pair of days without shaving.
He holds Cody’s face for a second before moving up over his cheekbones, over his nose, tracing softly the ridged line of Cody’s scar before settling over his forehead.
Cody has seen this same hands using masterfully the lightsaber, and though Kenobi has denied it, he bets they would be pretty good at the art of thieving too.
But moments like this, in which he reaches out into this invisible mantle he calls the force? That he has seen innumerable times and yet he will never get truly used to it.
It is disturbing too, to see the fingers move as if they were grabbing onto thin invisible threads, and yet, that makes something in the world shift, turning the air thick and every body in his hair stand up in alert.
Kenobi reaches out and Cody must be acting weird because of the headache, because unlike so many other kaartingade that had tried to use their healing hijinks on him, Cody actually lets him. He closes his eyes as his fingers press to his forehead even, letting a relieved sigh as a cold feeling soothes and relieves the exact bundle of pain drumming inside his skull.
“You need to take better care of yourself, Cody,” Obi-wan says, the cold tip of his fingers leaving a tingling sensation on his skin, and when Cody opens his eyes, the sensation is gone along the pain and the diziness, as well as his paranoia about Obi-wan.
Now, there is only familiar and logical distrust.
Obi-wan takes a step back from him, and then another, and Cody doesn’t follow. He takes the moment to enjoy the feeling of lightness his limbs again instead, and he notices that though he is indeed feeling tired, he feels free, too. Finally in control.
He might still drink an entire jar of water once he gets in his quarters, just to cleanse his mouth of the shitty cocktails, but he feels good, aside from the dehydration.
He has been saved by this sith once again, but perhaps—given that there is no one else here but them, no armor to remind him of his duty and no outlandish plan proposed—he could express his thanks beyond than a simple and curt nod.
Breathing out, Cody moves to slowly raise his blaster, the end pointing at the sky and his hold on it lax, as it is not a warning nor a threat but a showing.
“Thank you for this,” he speaks, looking at Obi-wan with an honesty his helmet had always hidden for him.
Thank you, his eyes say. For finding it for me, for making my head clear once again, for not taking advantage of my weakened state.
It is admittedly more than Cody would have expected of him. He is aware of how Obi-wan looks at him sometimes, and more than once he has evaded his touch, even if it was just a single finger trailing a bit longer on his palm after Cody has handed him his lightsaber.
Obi-wan wanted, maybe even more than Cody did himself. But the fact that he hadn’t gone over a caress over his face speak volumes.
A kiss, sometimes, could be a bigger betrayal than a dagger to the heart.
Then, Cody smiles, clipping his blaster to his hip in a swift move, and adds, “We are even now.”
And the fact is—they are not even a bit close. The amount of times Cody has picked up Obi-wan’s lightsaber is closer to the hundredth now, and a single retrieving of his blaster during a moment of weakness, when Cody has been giving his lightsaber back in moments where it had been vital for Obi-wan to keep his life, could not be compared.
Maybe he could fully pay him throughout a lifetime or two.
He thinks it wouldnt be so bad then, as he looks at Obi-wan lets out a startled laugh.
“I suppose we are now,” Obi-wan plays along, making a short sign of respect and farewell with his hand. “Until next time we lose our weapons, commander.”
“Until next time you decide to make things harder for me, Kenobi.”
There is nothing left to add but to exchange small courtesy nods, and Cody sees Obi-wan get close to the edge of the dirty parking lot to jump to the one under, where a ship with an R4 unit waits for him.
As he sees the jedi get onto his ship and fly away, Cody lets out a deep breath, promising to himself a time in his bunkroom to unpack everything he had gone through in the last couple of hours, and moves to look for his own ship to leave too.