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The war does not stop for Christmas.
It slows, sometimes. It pauses in strange pockets, where hyperspace lanes go quiet and battalions are told to wait, to refuel, to breathe. It leaves room for things like shore leave and borrowed space and a cat who has decided that this particular cluster of people is hers now.
Obi-Wan wakes to the familiar weight of that decision.
Castana is draped across his chest like a judgment.
She is warm and solid and very much asleep, one paw tucked into the collar of his sleep shirt, her tail flicking once in irritation when he shifts. Her purr vibrates straight through his sternum, a low, steady engine that seems to tell his nervous system everything it needs to know: here, now, safe enough.
He lies still for a moment, breathing with her and allowing the peace to sink into his bones.
The quarters are dim, lit only by the faint glow of Coruscant’s dawn bleeding through the window. The heater hums softly, a steady whirr in the backdrop of his thoughts. The war is, for the moment, far away.
Beside him, Cody is awake.
Obi-Wan can tell by the way his presence sits in the Force, alert but calm, the sharp edges of command filed down to something domestic. Cody is propped slightly on one elbow, datapad abandoned somewhere near his knee, his free hand resting loosely at Obi-Wan’s waist. He seems to be watching their cat.
“She’s decided you’re furniture,” Cody murmurs.
Obi-Wan smiles without opening his eyes. “I had suspected.”
“She’s been there for an hour.”
“A triumph, then, that I have not been disregarded in favour of her breakfast.”
Cody’s thumb brushes a slow, absent arc against Obi-Wan’s side, familiar as breath. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” Obi-Wan replies, just as quietly.
Castana shifts, opening one eye. Somehow, she manages to look wildly unimpressed. She flicks her tail again, this time deliberately smacking Obi-Wan’s chin, then settles back down with a huff.
Cody’s mouth twitches. “She’s festive.”
“She is tolerating us talking through her nap time,” Obi-Wan says with a warm chuckle. “Which is the highest honor.”
They lie there a little longer, neither rushing the morning. There is no immediate briefing waiting, no alarm set for a jump to hyperspace. The 212th and most of the 501st has been granted a rare, precious pause, and Obi-Wan intends to model good behavior by actually taking it.
Eventually, Castana decides she has slept enough and departs Obi-Wan’s chest with a delicate leap that somehow still manages to dig her back claws directly into his ribs. He exhales sharply, then laughs, soft and startled.
Cody reaches out automatically, hand warm and solid against his side. “You alright?”
“Yes,” Obi-Wan says simply, because he is, because today that is an easy truth. “Just whinded by our royal highness.”
Castana flicks an ear and stalks toward the door, tail high and wobbly.
“Traitor,” Cody tells her, mock-serious, a soft grin pulling at his lips.
She does not look back.
They dress slowly, sharing space with the ease of long habit. Obi-Wan pulls on his robes. Cody fastens his blacks, then pauses to straighten Obi-Wan’s collar, fingers lingering just a fraction too long.
Obi-Wan leans into the touch without thinking.
It is not a grand moment. It is not dramatic. It is the quiet proof of marriage, of two lives braided together tightly enough that neither remembers when it started feeling this natural.
Outside their quarters, the halls of the temporary base are already awake.
Someone has strung lights along the bulkheads. They blink cheerfully against durasteel. A cluster of clones pass by wearing Santa hats over their armor, bucket helmets tucked under their arms, laughter echoing down the corridor.
“Sir! Commander!” one of them calls. “Happy Christmas!”
“Happy Christmas,” Obi-Wan replies, smiling.
Cody inclines his head. “Don’t let me catch you slacking.”
“Yes, sir,” they chorus, entirely unconvincing. Everyone knows Cody is off duty, after all.
The common room is chaos.
Not dangerous chaos. The good kind. The kind that smells like caf and sugar and something warm baking somewhere it definitely shouldn’t be allowed to bake. Someone has dragged in a small artificial tree, its branches bent under the weight of ornaments that appear to be a mixture of regulation-issue decorations, improvised scrap-metal creations, and at least three different kinds of explosive casings painted gold.
Castana is already there, sitting beneath it with regal patience, batting occasionally at a dangling ribbon.
Kix is standing on a chair, lights tangled around his shoulders like a luminous stole, trying very hard not to laugh while Anakin gives instructions that are at least forty percent incorrect.
“I’m telling you,” Anakin says, waving his hands, “you have to start from the top. Otherwise the energy flow gets weird.”
“That is not how lights work,” Kix quips, biting his lip. He looks young today, in a way Obi-Wan rarely allows himself to notice. His hair is still sleep-mussed, his tunic sleeves rolled up. There is a smear of something sweet on his cheek.
Ahsoka, perched on the table with her lekku draped in tinsel, grins. “Let him do it, Kix. Worst case scenario, it explodes. That’s very on-brand for the 212th.”
“Hey,” Cody says mildly. “Only sometimes.”
Kix spots Obi-Wan and brightens immediately. “Master! You’re up.”
“I am,” Obi-Wan smiles back, pleased by Kix finally taking it easy. “I see I have missed nothing unusual.”
“Not true,” Anakin interjects, sounding put-out in a way that suggests he’s about to say something very stupid.. “You missed me explaining the spiritual significance of tinsel.”
There it is.
“Tragic. I’m so sorry to have missed it.”
Kix climbs down carefully, hopping off the chair and nearly tripping when the lights snag around his ankle. Cody reaches out without looking, steadying him by the elbow.
“Easy, kix’ika,” he says.
Kix grins up at him. “Thanks, ner vod.”
Cody’s expression softens in a way it rarely does in public. “Anytime.”
Obi-Wan watches the exchange with quiet contentment.
This is family. Messy and improvised and chosen with intention.
They eat together. Too much. Too sweet. Too early in the morning. Obi-Wan makes a show of protesting the second pastry placed on his plate, then eats it anyway when Kix looks at him with exaggerated hope.
“You’re spoiling him,” Cody murmurs, leaning close.
“He’s a Padawan,” Obi-Wan replies, deliberately mild. “It’s traditional.”
“It is not.”
“It is now.”
—
The common room has finally begun to settle.
Not into silence, exactly. Just into the low, contented hum that follows a day away from the front. Laughter still drifts in from the far end of the hall where someone has convinced Anakin to attempt baking with minimal supervision. Music plays softly from a speaker perched on a shelf, something old and lilting that no one can quite name. The war remains at the edges, politely waiting its turn.
In the kitchen, Obi-Wan rolls up his sleeves.
Kix watches him do it, leaning against the counter with a mug already in hand, expression caught somewhere between fond amusement and the familiar, instinctive alertness of a medic who has not quite learned how to turn that part of himself off.
“You’re not supposed to be doing this,” Kix says.
Obi-Wan arches an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’re a general. And a Jedi Master. And you still absolutely should not be trusted near open heat sources without supervision.”
Obi-Wan hums thoughtfully as he sets a pot on the stove. “And yet here I am.”
Kix snorts, pushing himself upright. “At least let me help.”
“That,” Obi-Wan says mildly, “was always the plan.”
They move around each other easily, a practiced choreography born of years sharing small spaces and larger responsibilities. Obi-Wan measures milk with careful precision. Kix retrieves the tin of cocoa powder from where it’s been hidden behind a stack of ration bars, eyeing it with something like reverence.
“I still can’t believe you snuck this aboard,” Kix says.
“I am deeply offended by the implication that I would break regulations,” Obi-Wan replies, stirring slowly. “I merely… creatively interpreted them.”
“You bribed the quartermaster.”
“I negotiated.”
“With pastries.”
“A legitimate currency.”
Kix laughs, bright and unguarded, and Obi-Wan feels something ease in his chest at the sound. There are days when Kix is all sharp edges and competence, when the weight of his roles presses down hard enough that Obi-Wan worries he will forget how young he still is. Today, though, he looks like himself. Like a Padawan who is allowed to be happy.
Obi-Wan reaches into the cupboard and produces a small jar of spice, tipping a careful amount into the pot. The scent blooms immediately, rich and warm.
Kix inhales deeply. “Maker, that smells incredible.”
“Patience,” Obi-Wan says. “Good cocoa is not rushed.”
“Yes, Master,” Kix replies solemnly, then grins when Obi-Wan shoots him a look.
They fall into a comfortable quiet as the cocoa heats, punctuated only by the occasional clink of ceramic and the low murmur of the music. Kix busies himself lining up mugs, all mismatched, some bearing regimental insignia, others clearly acquired through less official means.
Obi-Wan watches him out of the corner of his eye.
The Force around Kix is calm today. Bright. Steady in a way that speaks of belonging rather than vigilance. Obi-Wan does not take that lightly. He remembers the boy who arrived on his doorstep all sharp fear and stubborn resilience, who learned how to survive before he learned how to rest.
He clears his throat softly. “Kix.”
Kix looks up immediately. “Yeah?”
Obi-Wan reaches into the pocket of his robe.
“What I’m about to do,” he says, carefully casual, “is not to be interpreted as encouragement for reckless tinkering.”
Kix’s eyes light up anyway. “Master?”
Obi-Wan produces a small, cloth-wrapped bundle and sets it on the counter between them. He does not push it closer. Does not hurry.
“For you,” he says.
Kix stares at it for a long moment before touching it, as though it might vanish if handled too quickly. When he unwraps it, his breath catches audibly. It’s a lightsaber component. A section of the hilt casing, curved to fit comfortably in the hand, crafted from dark, polished metal. The surface is etched with a pattern that is not quite decorative and not quite practical, lines flowing into one another with deliberate care. It hums faintly in the Force, not alive the way kyber is, but attentive. Grounded.
Kix lifts it reverently, turning it over in his hands.
“You made this,” he says.
Obi-Wan nods. “I did.”
“It’s…” Kix swallows. “It’s perfect.”
Obi-Wan watches the way Kix’s fingers trace the etching, the way his shoulders loosen as if something inside him has quietly unclenched.
“I wanted you to have something of mine,” Obi-Wan continues, voice low. “Something you could carry with you. Not as a reminder of expectation, or duty. Just… connection.”
Kix looks up at him, eyes shining.
“You didn’t have to,” he says, voice thick.
“I know,” Obi-Wan replies gently. “I wanted to.”
There is a pause. Not an awkward one. Just a space where something important is allowed to exist without being rushed.
Kix steps closer, hesitates for the barest fraction of a second, then leans forward and presses his forehead to Obi-Wan’s shoulder. Obi-Wan’s arms come around him automatically, solid and sure, one hand resting between Kix’s shoulder blades.
“You’re doing so well,” Obi-Wan murmurs, for perhaps the hundredth time in Kix’s life, and with just as much intention as the first. “I’m very proud of you.”
Kix exhales shakily, fingers curling briefly into the fabric of Obi-Wan’s robes. “I know.”
He sounds like he believes it.
They stand there for a few more heartbeats, the kitchen warm around them, the cocoa forgotten but not burning. When Kix finally pulls back, he wipes at his eyes with the heel of his hand and laughs, a little embarrassed.
“Okay,” he says. “Before I get sentimental all over the mugs.”
Obi-Wan smiles. “A noble goal.”
They return to the task at hand, pouring cocoa into cups, adding marshmallows with deliberate extravagance. When they’re finished, Kix gathers the mugs onto a tray, balancing it expertly.
“Ready?” he asks.
Obi-Wan nods. “Ready.”
As they step back into the common room, warmth and laughter greet them. The tray is quickly descended upon, grateful hands reaching out. Castana weaves between their legs, tail high, and Kix carefully sets aside one mug with extra marshmallows, nudging it toward Obi-Wan without comment.
Obi-Wan catches his eye and inclines his head in thanks.
They take their places among the others, cocoa warming their hands, the tree lights blinking softly in the corner.
And for this moment, in the midst of war and winter, father and son sit side by side, thriving quietly in the simple joy of being together.
—
The gifts come later, once the worst of the sugar frenzy has burned itself out.
They gather around the tree, clones settling cross-legged on the floor, Ahsoka sprawled comfortably against Anakin’s side, Obi-Wan against Cody’s. Kix has been pulled into a cuddle pile of clones, held firm to Rex’s side so that he can’t wiggle away. Someone dims the lights further, making the ornaments glow.
The exchange is informal, names called out at random, laughter bubbling up easily.
Kix opens a box from the troopers that contains a new medkit, custom-modified, its compartments rearranged exactly the way he prefers. He goes quiet, then blinks rapidly.
“You didn’t have to–”
“We wanted to,” Rex interrupts, grinning. “You keep us alive. Giving you the right kit to do it just makes sense.”
Kix swallows thickly. “Thank you.”
Cody receives a pair of gloves, reinforced and heated, the fingers worn in exactly the pattern of his grip. He flexes them once, appreciative.
Anakin gets something ridiculous. Ahsoka gets something heartfelt. The room hums with shared warmth.
Eventually, a small bundle wrapped in blue paper is handed to Obi-Wan.
He hesitates only briefly before accepting it.
Cody’s knee presses against his in silent support.
Inside is a simple pendant, smooth stone strung on a durable chain. It hums faintly in the Force, grounding and steady.
Obi-Wan exhales, the sound catching just a little.
“It’s from the gardens,” Kix says, voice soft. “On Coruscant. The ones you like. I checked. It’s… safe. It helps with focus. With sleep.”
Obi-Wan closes his fingers around it firmly.
“Thank you,” he says, and the words carry more weight than he can unpack here.
Cody helps him fasten it, fingers brushing the nape of his neck, a familiar, intimate gesture. Obi-Wan leans back into him, just slightly, and the soft clink of the rock against his pre-existing necklace makes his chest warm with something complex.
The war presses at the edges of the day. A muted report murmurs from a datapad in the corner. Armor waits by the door. Tomorrow will come.
But for now, there is laughter. There is warmth. There is a cat asleep under the tree, tail twitching as lights blink overhead.
Later, as evening settles in and the room grows quieter, Obi-Wan stands at the window with Cody’s arms around him, Castana tucked under one arm like a warm, purring secret. Outside, snow drifts lazily past the transparisteel.
“We’ll be called back soon,” Cody says softly.
“I know,” Obi-Wan replies, equally soft.
He does not flinch from the thought. For today, this is enough to keep him going.
They have made a garden in the middle of the war. And for Christmas, it holds.