micyclethearcangle:

the siege is hitting the one-month mark in three days, and all obi-wan wants to do is get off this force-forsaken planet, where everything is damp and his head hurts from the sound of blaster bolts, grating and unrelenting. 

if nothing else, nights have become easier. the vode have taken to sleeping in the gunships, in the tanks, anywhere there’s dry space, and after about a week or so of fighting, obi-wan had joined them. ( well. one of them, at least. ) if nothing else, nights now are dry and warm. 

( things sometimes become hazy, underneath his cloak in the back chamber of the gunship, where he rests his head on his commander’s chest, cody’s chin tucked over his head and arms wrapped around him. for warmth, they’ll both claim, if asked. and it’s true, in a way, but it doesn’t explain the bubble of warmth rising in obi-wan’s chest when he wakes up one morning to see sunlight, for once, streaming through the slats of the gunship door, illuminating cody’s sharply-lined face, eyes still shut peacefully, the morning casting his scar into impressive contrast. )

as he always does, cody blinks awake a few moments after him, somehow always managing to sense that obi-wan is awake, no matter how still he tries to hold. 

cody groans and stretches, sighing as he rests his head against his general again – there’s still quite some time before the two of them need to be up, and this is a comfortable place to be. he can hear obi-wan’s heartbeat, quiet but steady, and smell him – the mud of the planet, yes, but also tea and the faint sense of ozone all the jedi had to them. like starlight and raw power, and cody nosed briefly against obi-wan’s skin, looking for that smell now and laughing once after a moment. 

obi-wan arches an auburn eyebrow at him, mouth curling wryly at one side in amusement. ‘ do feel free to share the joke, commander. ‘

cody strokes over obi-wan’s shoulder for a moment, voice still rough with disuse and the early time. ‘ i thought jedi weren’t meant to have possessions. ‘ something sad, unreadable, crosses his general’s face. 

‘ i don’t own you, cody. ‘

yes you do, in every way that matters, some bitter part of him that is cc-2224 whispers. my life, my vode, we are numbers under your command. you helped the republic buy my existence; in what sense do you not own me?

yes you do, in every way that matters, a deeper part of him says, quietly – all cody. no programming or kamino-built loyalty is behind the way that he is obi-wan’s, just as obi-wan is his general. cody would follow him into hell without question. 

but either answer would lack propriety, and shatter this moment, so cody just hums and lets his nose drift to obi-wan’s hair. battlefield dust, weariness, and ozone. his general.