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There is a waterfowl staring at Cody.
It is vibrantly, offensively yellow, with judging beady eyes. It and its ilk should be nowhere near Cody. And yet.
There it is.
“Commander?” A voice calls, and Cody is jolted back into the present, and out of his mutual staring contest with the… thing. He’s sitting at his desk aboard the Negotiator, the chilly air cycling through the ship not quite enough to prevent the sweat pooling under his legs where he’s been sitting for hours as he completes reports.
Cody flushes, looks up at the person that had called him. “Sorry, General.”
Kenobi waves away the apology with a familiar half-smile, eyes flitting to the newest focus of Cody’s ire. “Ah, I see you’ve found another one.”
That does not sound good. “Another one?”
“Indeed,” Kenobi grins down at Cody from where he’s leaning in the doorway, insouciant as ever. He strides into Cody’s tiny office without so much as a by-your-leave and picks up the offending figure. He turns it over between slim fingers, and Cody valiantly doesn’t fixate on the tiny freckles scattered across the back of his clever hands. “It seems that somebody on board has decided to start a prank war.”
Cody closes his eyes in resignation. Of course. Of-karking-course. “How many so far?” He asks, even though he doesn’t really want the answer, and is in fact already regretting setting the troops free on shore leave at the space station the Negotiator is currently anchored above.
“I’ve found five so far,” Kenobi replies cheerfully, sounding far too amused for the situation. “Chin up, Cody. If Grievous can’t defeat you, I’m sure a plastoid waterfowl won’t stand a chance.”
Cody can’t resist the lure of Kenobi’s good humour, though he makes a perfunctory effort. He can’t be seen giving in to the man that easily. “I suppose we can consider it an exercise in stealth,” he caves, and Kenobi somehow grins even wider. His eyes are almost startlingly blue.
“That’s the spirit,” Kenobi says, and he puts the waterfowl gently back onto Cody’s desk with a wry twist to his lips. Cody diligently keeps his eyes on the man’s face and not his calloused hands. “I did come by for less pleasant reasons, unfortunately. The Council has called with an update on the siege over Kirima; we’re to join the 22nd Air Combat Wing in breaking the blockade over Shamd City.”
Cody frowns. “That’s awfully close to Separatist space,” he mutters even as he pulls up the Kalinda System on his datapad. He keeps his breaths even despite Kenobi rounding his desk to lean over his shoulder to better see the readout as well. “What’s special about this planet?” It really is right on the edge of Separatist space, and even the Senate has been cautious about military action in such disputed territories.
“Vespula Manufacturing and Exports,” Kenobi responds, and Cody tilts his head to give the General a clearer view of the datapad. “They manufacture mining equipment vital to the Kuat Drive Yards supply chain. If we lose the planet, it will be difficult to source any replacements, which would be quite detrimental to the war efforts.”
Cody winces at the thought of the starship suppliers being further delayed. Already non-urgent but necessary repairs to the Negotiator are being delayed while they wait on shipments of replacement parts. “Understood. How long until we rendezvous? I’ll recall the troops from leave.”
Kenobi straightens with a sigh, clasping Cody’s shoulder briefly as he does so. “No need for that, Cody. Let them enjoy at least one evening without the war hanging over their heads. We’re only due to catch up to the 22nd in a standard week; we have plenty of time to get there without disrupting the men tonight.”
It’s a deviation from regulations and what Cody’s strict trainers would insist upon, but he nods in agreement. Kenobi is right – the men deserve a night of rest and relative freedom, as far from the war as they can mange. For tonight, at least. It’s an unexpected softness that the Jedi Generals have brought to the Grand Army of the Republic that Cody and his brothers had not expected, and even now, several years into the war, the consideration can be startling.
“Sounds like a plan, Boss,” Cody says instead of thanking the man for what he knows Kenobi considers to be the bare minimum. He keeps his eyes fixed on his datapad though he can feel the weight of of Kenobi’s eyes on him. “I’ll let the skeleton crew know to ready ship for departure first thing in the morning.”
“Good man,” Kenobi replies, “and once you’ve done that, you’re to take the evening off.”
“Of course,” Cody replies automatically then scowls. “Wait, what —”
Kenobi’s hand covers the datapad screen, forcing Cody to look up at him. He swallows as he sees Kenobi’s intent look, brow raised. “You’re to take the evening off,” he repeats.
Cody stares, somewhat incredulous. “There’s a blockade to break.”
“And we will have plenty of time to plan our strategies for that while in hyperspace,” Kenobi steamrolls over Cody’s protests. He tugs the datapad from Cody’s grip and locks the screen. “For tonight, you are officially off duty – you did already agree.”
“I’m not sure that counts,” Cody grumbles, but he knows better than to fight the General when he has that look in his eyes. The man is the Negotiator for a reason. “I yield!” he adds hastily when he sees said man open his mouth again, and is rewarded instead with another of Kenobi’s broad, easy smiles.
It would be easy to be envious of the way Kenobi is so free with his emotions, letting joy and anger and frustration and amusement dance so easily across his face. Growing up spending so much time behind a helmet, Cody is more used to certain tilts of the head to show mood, but he’s learning to embrace the natborn demonstrations, and he knows many of his brothers are too. It’s easier when the Jedi Generals are so lax about armour-regs when on-ship and not in battle. Cody isn’t the only one accustomed to no longer wearing his ‘face’ shipboard.
“Glad to hear it,” Kenobi says, winking at Cody as he tucks the datapad back onto his desk, in the same spot Cody always leaves it. The little yellow waterfowl is right beside it. “Enjoy your shore leave.”
Cody doesn’t know what possesses him in that moment, but he retorts, “I’m not going on my own.”
Kenobi freezes halfway out the door, a spamel in the speederlights as he looks back at Cody. “Oh?”
In for a decicred, in for a cred. “With all respect, if I’m due for a break then you are as well.”
Kenobi raises a brow again, but he looks lightly amused, so Cody relaxes. His audacity, as always, he doesn't know why he expected otherwise, is received well. “You drive a hard bargain, Commander,” Kenobi eventually replies, and Cody would slump in relief if he were a lesser man. “In that case, I’ll meet you at the Hangar in 20, and we can catch the next transport down to the station.”
And then he sweeps out the room, leaving Cody shell-shocked in his wake.
The space station hosts a small covered market that Cody is certain has been making good credits off of his men. It’s a shock of colour and noise compared to the dull greys of the venator, a vibrant and pulsing hub of nightlife. He eyes it warily, already concocting a game plan in his head when Kenobi laughs at him. “I don’t think the shopkeeps are out to get you,” he teases gently and Cody side-eyes the menace masquerading as a Jedi.
“You never know,” he returns dryly, “my wallet certainly isn’t safe.”
Kenobi’s teeth flash in the dim light of the market, his eyes shining with the reflected neon light of the duradan soup stall behind Cody. “That is true, but you’re not factoring in one very important thing.”
“Is it my gallant Jedi protector?” Cody asks, and Kenobi’s smile sharpens. “Don’t worry, I did take you into account; I’m keeping an eye out on your wallet too.”
“You wound me, Cody, you really do,” Kenobi comments with a grin and a shake of his head that knocks loose a lock of hair. It flops against his forehead only to be brushed back mindlessly by the man, and Cody has to drag his focus away before he does something stupid like reach out himself to fix it.
Instead, he is rewarded with the sight of one of his men stumbling past, the familiar dazed grin on his face evidence of his leave well-spent in good company with drinks of questionable quality. “Airo, you’re done for the night,” he calls even as the trooper trips into an awning post, recovering less-than gracefully as the young Rodian manning the stall it’s attached to laughs at him.
“Yessir,” Airo slurs out cheerfully, and he winks roguishly at the Rodian who flushes deep green and waves the trooper away with another laugh. Mercifully, Airo does then turn his trajectory vaguely in the direction of the landing pad, which as far as Cody is concerned, should be good enough. The station is firmly in Republic space, and there are enough brothers milling around that even the smallest scuffle wouldn’t go unnoticed.
Telling that to his gut is a different matter, however, and Cody is turning to escort the staggering trooper to the transport when Kenobi’s hand cups his elbow. He jumps when Kenobi’s breath brushes against Cody’s ear as he leans in, a solid weight against his side. “I’ll keep an eye on him, so to speak,” the man reassures and Cody clamps down on his desire to shiver from the sudden proximity. The noise of the market isn’t really enough to justify such closeness but Cody is hardly going to complain. Instead, he nods jerkily and strides determinedly into the crowd, with Kenobi trailing at his heels.
Cody knows that Kenobi is onto him by the third stall they visit together. “Don’t say a word,” he warns, and the Jedi smirks at him.
“I’m not going to judge your… strategic approach to shopping,” Kenobi demures, in a tone that assures Cody that he is definitely being judged, and that Kenobi thinks he’s amusing. As ever, there’s no malice in the other man, but Cody flushes anyway from the weight of the attention. So what if he’s calculated the best way to get through this market with minimal risk and maximum avoidance of his men? It’s his night off, as Kenobi had insisted, and he can do what he wants.
Kenobi certainly doesn’t have to trail him like a lost mooka chick.
Again, however, Cody is hardly going to complain. Kenobi’s commentary in his ear as they continue through the market is dry and entertaining, and he doesn’t hesitate to share his knowledge or little anecdotes as they go. With the press of strangers around them not wearing the same face, Cody can almost pretend they’re… something more than what they are as they wander together through the stalls and little shops.
Cody viciously shoves that thought down and away, and shrugs off Kenobi’s curious look. “You’re paying for my beebleberry ice at the next stall,” he informs the man instead, and ignores the affronted delight that crosses Kenobi’s face.
“Oh, I am, am I?” he asks, but he eagerly tugs Cody away from the stall selling speeder gears refashioned into jewellery of dubious quality. Cody waits patiently as the Jedi orders two of the requested frozen desserts, and grins smugly when Kenobi returns. Together they elbow their way through the crowd until they reach a quiet corner where they can lean against a wall, scant inches between their shoulders.
“Thanks, Boss,” Cody teases so he doesn’t do something stupid like close the inches between them, and Kenobi rolls his eyes.
“I’m off duty,” he complains, “at your insistence.”
“I didn’t do much ‘insisting’,” Cody snarks back after he’s swallowed a blissful mouthful of the sweetened ice. “You caved like wet flimsy.”
Kenobi scoffs around his own mouthful of ice, and jostles Cody’s shoulder instead of returning a verbal spar, and Cody grins around his dessert. He savours the warmth he’s surely imagining that radiates from the point of contact between them. He is still wearing his blacks after all, and Kenobi’s robes are thick enough that the brief moment shouldn’t have transferred warmth.
They lapse into silence, comfortable and familiar but for the location. They’ve spent countless hours together shipboard, strategising, completing flimsiwork, and drafting reports for the Council and Senate. It’s nice, Cody thinks, to just spend time quiet together without any pressing need. The orders for the morning loom, but such thoughts are brushed away by the bustle of the crowd that still swarms the market despite the late hour.
Despite the moment to decompress, Cody can’t quite shake the watchfulness ingrained by his training, and so he doesn’t quite startle when Kenobi nudges him again, pressing needlessly, tantalisingly close. Cody glances at him, and he nods down at the melting ice in the flimsi-cup and Cody flushes. He’d all but forgotten the frozen treat in his musings, especially embarrassing after he’d made the other man buy it for him. Not that Kenobi wouldn’t have bought it for anyone that asked.
Cody hastily finishes the last of the beebleberry ice, and likes to think Kenobi’s eyes linger on him when he instinctively licks the stickiness from his fingers. Wishful thinking, of course.
“You’re distracted tonight,” Kenobi murmurs when Cody is finished, and this time he does twitch in surprise at the sudden conversation, proving the Jedi right.
Cody ducks his head, not quite sure how to put his jagged, disjointed feelings into words. How does he explain the way his heart lurches when Kenobi presses close to avoid them being parted by the swell of the crowd, or the way his mind so sharply reminds him that they’re at war and there’s no time for such frivolities. It’s an unpleasant conflict, and he doesn’t know how to speak it aloud.
Mercifully, Kenobi doesn’t push. He never pushes, preferring instead to let Cody know that he’s there to listen if Cody wants. Cody has seen him with the rookies and experienced troopers alike, sometimes talking, sometimes listening with his head tilted to the side and his focus entirely fixed, sometimes with the hands of a trooper clasped between his own, a physical reminder of the ‘here and now’ he’s so fond of.
But Kenobi never pushes, never insists that the men or Cody speak with him, and Cody is so, so grateful for it. He and his brothers have so little of their own, but Kenobi has always respected them and their boundaries.
In this, Kenobi gives Cody the space to dig up an answer to his unasked question, finishing his own ice treat and sliding Cody’s empty flimsi-cup from his hand to take with him as he saunters back into the market crowd. He returns a few minutes later with two steaming cups that smell incredible, and Cody practically salivates over the one Kenobi hands him before he even takes a sip.
When he does, he savours the first mouthful of warm, spiced caf that contrasts nicely with the lingering taste of beebleberry. “What is this?” he asks, awed, because it doesn’t taste like any caf he’s had before, and Kenobi will never begrudge him a lack of knowledge. Kenobi smiles as he settles back against the wall beside Cody, and this time he’s close enough that his elbow bumps Cody’s arm as he raises his own cup to drink.
“The stallholder called it ‘Sunrise Caf’ which seems appropriate,” Kenobi replies, “He was very keen to discuss his inspirations, though he was more tight-lipped about the particular spices he uses.” The man smirks then, and Cody has to hastily take another drink so he doesn’t swallow his own tongue instead. “If you like it, I’m fairly sure I could recreate it, however; I have quite a refined palate.”
“You should,” Cody manages around inappropriate thoughts of Kenobi’s mouth, “it’s very good.”
Kenobi grins. “I’ll brew a batch large enough for the Command crew at least. I’d need the Temple kitchens to make enough for the whole ship, unfortunately.”
Cody’s heart swells at Kenobi’s consideration of the troopers. “After the war, then,” he says and he can’t stop the sincerity that seeps out without his permission, the answer he hadn't known how to speak. “Something to look forward to.”
Shockingly, Kenobi flushes, and the man turns away, uncharacteristically bashful. Cody can’t stop himself from staring at the pink working it’s way up the Jedi’s neck.
“Don’t hide from me,” Cody whispers, and Kenobi jolts back around, bright spots high on his cheekbones and his eyes wide. “Sorry,” he adds hastily, “that was—”
“Don’t apologise,” Kenobi interrupts, and it’s the first time he’s ever cut Cody off. “Please don’t.” He ducks his head briefly, but when he looks up his eyes are clear and locked on Cody’s face. He’s smiling, too. “I would be honoured, after the war, to continue to spend time with your brothers. With you.”
Cody’s lips twitch up into an involuntary, helpless smile that mirrors Kenobi’s. “After the war,” he repeats, intent this time, and Kenobi – who might one day be Obi-Wan – nods once, before looking forward again. As he does, he shuffles over just enough that he presses warmly against Cody, shoulder to thigh.
“After the war.”
Cody is still thinking about their discussion much later that evening, after he and Kenobi had ventured back to the Negotiator. They had abandoned their night off in favour of escorting some incredibly inebriated brothers back to the ship, with matching wry grins at their return to responsibility.
Cody is still thinking about it when he slides into his narrow bunk, stripped down to his lower blacks, and curses when he lays his head on his pillow only to feel a hard lump.
He fumbles for the light, grabs the offending object and curses.
A tiny orange waterfowl radiates smugness up at him.
Only one other person has access to Cody’s quarters.
Kenobi.
He should’ve known his brothers wouldn’t come up with a prank like this on their own.