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The first time Cody sees Obi-Wan Kenobi, it’s Christmas Eve and him and Rex are bringing hot cocoa to the hookers under South Street Bridge.

They’ve been doing it every year going back to when they opened the restaurant, camping out under the bridge with boxes of hot cocoa in the back of their pickup, so a lot of the veterans know them—and they tell the younger ones, waifish kids shivering in miniskirts and tube tops in 30 fucking degrees, that there’s nothing to be afraid of, not from them.

For a few years now they’ve also been decorating the truck with tinsel and lights, trying to bring a little holiday cheer to the least cheerful place on the fucking planet, and this year Rex and Waxer mounted one of those fake plastic Christmas trees in the truck bed, so when the girls (and a couple guys, who always somehow look like they’ve got it worse) come over to warm up with a hot drink, they can hang around for a while sipping and talking and pretend that they’re at some sort of grimy outdoor Christmas party and didn’t just get done sucking some asshole’s dick in an alleyway.

So that’s how he first sees Obi-Wan, though of course he doesn’t know his name is Obi-Wan yet: lit red and green by the lights on the tree, nursing a styrofoam cup of cocoa, wearing a pair of leather pants that look like they’ve been painted on and a mesh jacket with no shirt underneath, saying, “So, do you two come here often?”

Rex snorts where he’s pouring cocoa for a pale, shivering girl who can’t be older than sixteen.

“Just Christmas,” Cody tells Obi-Wan, who he’s thinking of privately as The Hottest Man In Human History, Dear Fucking God, Why Does He Have To Be A Hooker. “Sometimes Thanksgiving, if we’re in town.”

“Ah,” says Obi-Wan. “So it’s charity work, then. You’re not customers.”

Rex’s snort turns into a choke.

“No,” Cody says firmly. “We’re not customers.”

On top of the fact that it’s important to him, in general, that no one thinks he’s the sort of guy who’d buy a hooker, Cody also doesn’t want this hooker, specifically, to think he’s the sort of guy who’d buy a hooker.

He’s not really sure why, except that he can’t stop looking at Obi-Wan’s intelligent blue eyes, and his very faint, teasing smile, and his neatly-trimmed ginger beard, and he can’t help catching a quick glimpse of pale pink nipples, which because Obi-Wan’s not wearing a shirt under that mesh jacket and it’s below freezing are rock fucking hard, and Jesus God, why does he have to be a hooker.

If Cody met him anywhere else—literally anywhere else—he could ask him out for a drink or for dinner or maybe directly back to Cody’s apartment, so Cody could get his mouth all over those abs and maybe get those knees over his shoulders and potentially also not let either of them leave his bed for five or six days. Right now he’s kind of feeling the urge to take Obi-Wan home and not let him leave his bed for a whole slew of other reasons, namely hypothermia and those bags under Obi-Wan’s eyes and the fact that he might shortly be called upon to suck some asshole’s dick in an alleyway.

But he can't do any of that. Obviously.

He clears his throat, no idea how long he just zoned out for. “We, uh, we own the 212th,” he adds. “You know, the diner down on…on 212th Street.”

“Just like to come down and make sure everyone’s got a chance to warm up,” Rex pipes in loudly. “Spread some Christmas cheer, you know.”

Obi-Wan’s watching Cody with a sly, knowing little smile. Cody gulps. “That’s very kind of you,” Obi-Wan says.

“That’s us,” Rex drawls. “Kind sons of bitches.”

Cody can feel his brother glaring at the back of his head, like he can tell what he’s thinking. Like he’s trying to remind Cody without words what they agreed on when they first started this Christmas Eve tradition: We will not adopt any hookers. We will not try to save them. They don’t want to be saved.

But what if this one does? Cody wants to ask. What if this one wants me to save him?

Obi-Wan’s eyes soften, like he can tell what Cody’s thinking. He opens his mouth to say something, but before he can get it out one of the girls over by the car line shouts, “Ben! Hey, Ben! This guy’s asking for you!”

Obi-Wan looks over, waves to show her he heard, and turns back to Cody with a rueful smile. “Well, that’s my cue. Thanks for the cocoa, gentlemen.” He glances at Rex, tosses him a wink. “And the cheer.”

With that, he turns and walks off, tossing the styrofoam cup in a burning trash can.

A few minutes ago—a few seconds ago, really—Cody would’ve thought he’d be happy to watch his ass as he walked away, but now all he feels is a cold, sick sense of loss, like a soggy bathmat in his chest. He watches Obi-Wan lean over the driver’s side window with an arm propped against the roof of the car, smiling a different smile than the one he just gave Cody, bigger, brighter, faker, then watches him pull open the door and climb inside, watches the car pull out of line and speed away.

That’s it, he thinks. There he goes, like this brief encounter with Obi-Wan was his one and only shot at…something.

Rex must still be doing that brotherly mind-reading thing, because he claps Cody on the shoulder, gives him a squeeze. “Come on, Codes,” he says. “Lots of ginger Brits in the sea.”

“Yeah,” Cody says, voice distant. “I should’ve given him my coat.”

*

The second time Cody sees Obi-Wan, he’s in their restaurant.

He looks—different. More clothed, at least. He’s wearing a brown trench coat and a long multicolored scarf, and he looks like he might’ve slept sometime in the past couple weeks, which is more than Cody could’ve said last time.

Still, Cody’s dumbstruck to see him here, in the flesh, leaning against the hostess stand and looking out over the empty diner with a sharp, mild eye. “We’re closed!” Rex shouts from back in the kitchen. “Tell whoever the fuck it is that we’re closed!” but Cody’s not going to do that. Why the hell would he do that, when the man he hasn’t been able to get out of his head for months now has somehow, miraculously, come back to him?

“Ah,” says Obi-Wan, when he sees Cody coming out of the back. “Hello there.”

“Ben?” Cody says.

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows shoot up, but then he seems to remember. “Right. Well—no, actually. My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi. I’m an investigator with Organa, Amidala & Associates.”

Cody frowns, confused. “Our law firm? But you were—”

“Undercover,” Obi-Wan finishes. “I was undercover, the last time we…the first time we met.”

“Oh,” Cody says. He’s not sure what he feels. Relief? Overwhelming, crushing relief? His entire world tilting on its axis? “You aren’t really a prostitute?”

“No,” Obi-Wan says, smiling a little. “Not a prostitute. An investigator, which is why I’m here—to get some background information on your case.”

“Right,” Cody says, coming unstuck from his spot outside the swinging kitchen doors. “Sit down, won’t you? You want something to eat? Coffee?”

“Coffee would be lovely,” says Obi-Wan, taking a seat at one of the many empty booths along the windows.

“We’re closed,” Rex hisses at Cody, when he sees him prepping a pot of coffee in the back. But Cody must be doing something weird with his hands, because Rex takes one look at how he’s pouring the coffee—which seems to Cody to be the same way he always pours coffee, but maybe not—and instead demands, “Who is it?”

“The investigator,” Cody says. “From Organa Amidala.”

Rex frowns. “Do they have bad news?”

“No,” Cody says, not sure how to explain, really without—“Just…look.

Rex takes a peek out the order window. His eyes widen. He whirls back to Cody. “Is that—?”

“The charming British hooker I made you spend Christmas morning driving around looking for?” Cody supplies. “Yes, that would be him. Only apparently he’s not.”

“Not what? British?”

“Not a hooker.”

Rex’s eyes look like they’re about to bug out of his head from everything he’s not saying. Cody gives him an eyebrow raise that means, Yeah, I know, and takes the coffee out to Obi-Wan.

They go through two whole pots while Obi-Wan gets the background information he needs to get started on their case, sitting there in the quiet insular bubble of the booth.

Obi-Wan starts by asking about how the restaurant got started—Cody tells him that him and Rex served together, that when their tours were over they inherited the property from their XO, Jango, who was KIA, and decided to fix it up, open their own place. Rex is the culinary brains, Cody’s the business brawn, and they make a point only to hire vets, mostly guys like them who got honorable discharges for minor injuries, guys their old squaddie Fives sends them from down at the VA, guys they find sleeping rough, who just need a hand up and a place to crash until they can get back on their feet.

Cody half-expects Obi-Wan to tell him he’s being noble, or a good guy—that’s what customers always comment, when they hear the story—and he’s dreading it, because it’s not about that, it’s about—“Brotherhood doesn’t end when the uniform comes off,” Obi-Wan says. “I get it.”—and that it, that’s exactly it, and Cody is…much too attached already.

Much, much too attached.

At some point it starts to rain, and that only reinforces the illusion that the rest of the world has ceased to exist. Even though they’re talking about how Holonet Maps has marked this area as “sketchy” with their new safety filter and essentially erased 212th Street Diner from the map, costing them potentially tens of thousands in business—how Organa Amidala wants to bring a class action suit against Holocom and they’re using the 212th as their test case—it feels impossible to look away from the downturned lines of Obi-Wan’s face as he bends over his pad of paper, the elegant motion of his hand—writing, rubbing his beard in thought, absently wiping his lower lip after he takes a sip of coffee. His nails are slightly yellowed, like he’s a smoker. There’s a scar wrapped around his right wrist that disappears up under his sleeve.

Cody keeps thinking, Jesus, he’s right there, what the hell are you doing. It seems so weird and so incorrect to him that Obi-Wan should be a veritable stranger, that Cody shouldn’t be allowed to reach out and touch him.

It’s only Rex banging around with dishes in the kitchen that reminds him what’s happening here.

He’s sitting with his lawyer’s investigator, a man who he happened to meet before in odd circumstances, a man who—though incredibly, disruptively attractive—is actually a complete mystery to Cody on every level but the very surface.

He’d like to remedy that situation, though—he’d very much like to remedy it. So before Obi-Wan can leave, while he’s still standing next to the booth and futzing around with his scarf, Cody asks, “Would you like to get dinner with me?”

Rex drops something big-sounding in the back.

Obi-Wan’s staring at Cody with a mildly surprised expression on his face, surprise which melts into something soft and apologetic after a moment. “Cody,” he says.

Cody knows what no sounds like. “Forget it,” he says, not wanting to suffer the humiliation of getting turned down for a date with his goddamn brother listening in. “Stupid suggestion.”

“It’s not stupid,” Obi-Wan says. “I would love to, really. I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Cody gives him a jerky nod.

Obi-Wan looks like he wants to say something more—probably some, It’s not you, it’s me bullcrap—but he doesn’t. He takes out a business card and slides it on the table, close to Cody’s hand.

“Call if you think of anything else about the case,” he says. “Or if you have any trouble.” He finishes winding up his scarf, stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Thanks for the coffee, Cody.”

“Don’t mention it,” Cody thinks he mumbles, but he can’t be sure. He’s too busy watching Obi-Wan leave. Again.

*

The next time he sees Obi-Wan, he’s pounding on the door of the diner at going on five in the morning, leaning against the exterior wall of the building like it’s the only thing keeping him up.

“Oh, good,” he says, when Cody comes to the door, squinting, shirtless, with a bad case of bedhead, “you’re here. Can I use your phone?”

“Obi-Wan?” Cody asks. His brain’s always kind of slow when he’s just woken up.

“Yes.” Obi-Wan smiles, tired, maybe a bit fond. “Your phone?”

Cody steps aside to let him in, and it’s when Obi-Wan tries to stand up straight and doesn’t really manage it that Cody notices the hand pressed against his side under the trench coat, and the blood oozing between his fingers. He feels a sick, vertiginous lurch, and reaches out to catch Obi-Wan just before he falls.

Jesus,” he gasps. “What the hell, what—”

“I’m quite alright,” Obi-Wan says, despite the fact that he’s panting like he’s in the process of running a marathon and his face is approximately the color of printer paper. “I just need to…make a call.”

“Alright,” Cody says, shuffling to keep his grip as Obi-Wan tries to step towards the counter. “Alright, I’ve got you, easy now.”

The only reason he lets Obi-Wan have control of the phone is because he thinks he’s calling 911, but incredibly, that’s not what happens. Obi-Wan punches in a number, leaving bloody fingerprints on the keys—“Sorry,” he murmurs, in that posh little way of his, with a rueful smile—and when whoever’s on the other line picks up, turns crisp and businesslike and says, “Mace. I’m going to need you to—Yes. Yes, along the north side. They spotted me, but I got out alright. Make sure you don’t—Yes, I know you’re a professional, I just—”

He pulls the phone away from his ear, frowning. “He hung up on me,” he tells Cody. “Can you believe it?”

“What I can’t believe is that you didn’t call an ambulance,” Cody says, incredulous.

“Oh, psh,” Obi-Wan says. “That troglodyte had terrible aim. It’s just a scratch. I have a first aid kit in my—” He tries to stand from where he’s slouched against the counter, turns an alarming shade of puce, and would go down hard if Cody didn’t still have an arm around his waist “—car.”

“You’re going to the hospital,” Cody says.

“Ah, no,” says Obi-Wan. “I’m afraid that’s not the best idea. Mandatory reporting, and all. I don’t much fancy spending the night in an interrogation room.”

Cody stares at him. “You’re not the one who did the shooting.”

“No. But the police hate me, and I hate them, and it’s all very—contentious. If I could just…sit down for a moment, I’m sure I’ll feel better in a…very short…while.”

“Yeah, no,” Cody says. “I’ve got a first aid kit upstairs, come on.”

The stairs are a bit of an ordeal, but luckily Cody’s a pretty strong guy and Obi-Wan doesn’t seem like he eats enough, so Cody manages to mostly-carry him up into his apartment. Obi-Wan won’t hear of lying on Cody’s bed while he’s still what he calls “actively bleeding,” so they compromise by laying some towels down on the couch.

Cody takes a minute in the tiny bathroom to breathe and stare at himself in the mirror and try to reconcile all the facts: it’s five a.m., the sun’s just barely starting to come up over the city outside, The Most Gorgeous Man Ever Born, How The Fuck Can He Be So Fucking Beautiful is bleeding out on his couch but does not want to have dinner with Cody but does actually need Cody to get his shit together and find the gauze.

Cody swears, pulls on a shirt, and looks for the gauze.

Obi-Wan’s right, as it turns out. The wound is only a graze, but it’s not shallow by any means—Cody tries to argue that he should go get stitches, but Obi-Wan waves him off again and says, “I’ve had deeper ones heal fine,” which is batshit crazy and horrifying, actually, and makes Cody want to lock him in a padded room or something, so he doesn’t go out and get hurt some more, but even if they were more than friendly acquaintances he wouldn’t have any right to do that, so he just grunts a little to show he heard, tapes him up with some butterfly bandages, and wraps the mess in enough gauze to swaddle the Statue of Liberty.

He’s trying not to stare at Obi-Wan’s naked torso—naked, because his bloody shirt and jacket are draped over the coffee table. It's not like he hasn’t seen it before, but he thinks in this context it would probably be rude, except since he’s also working on putting said torso back together, it’s a little difficult not to look, it’s taking a lot of his attention, what with the the toned abdomen and the thick ginger hair and—fuck, if he smells this good, how must he taste?—so he doesn’t realize Obi-Wan is watching him, eyes heavy and intent on his face, until he reaches out and catches Cody’s hand.

Cody’s breath freezes in his throat.

Obi-Wan draws Cody’s hand to his face, uncurls his fingers, and presses a kiss to his palm. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

Cody would capitalize on that, really he would, he’s not so good a man that he wouldn’t at least steal a quick kiss, but Obi-Wan chooses that moment to slump back on the towels and pass out.

“Fuck,” Cody says, emphatically. He brings his own palm to his mouth, like maybe he’ll be able to taste some trace of Obi-Wan there, but of course there’s nothing.

“Fuck,” he says again.

He cleans up the bloody rags and puts the trash bag out back in the dumpster just in time for Rex to show up for the breakfast rush, and for the next few hours he almost (not really, but almost) manages to forget that Obi-Wan is asleep on the couch upstairs with a gunshot wound.

Rex asks him five or six times over the course of the morning why he’s acting so weird, and Cody just insists that he’s acting normal. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t want to tell his brother about what happened, except that somehow he gets the feeling that Rex wouldn’t approve, even though there’s nothing to really disapprove of.

Nothing happened, except that Cody helped out an acquaintance-slash-friend and maybe had to jack off in the shower like a sick perv but that’s really none of Rex’s business anyways and now he has a raging case of blue balls except it’s not even really his balls as much as his whole essence. His whole being.

He remembers Bly whining to the squad, before him and his wife Aayla got together, that whenever she wasn’t around he felt like he was sick under his nails and behind his knees, like he’d forgotten something or like something was missing, the whole world just vaguely off. Boil had laughed, his arm around Waxer, and said, That’s love, mate. Cody’s pretty sure that’s not what this is, because he barely knows the guy and that would be insane, but it’s got to be love’s purely physical cousin, or something.

The lunch rush is busy enough that Cody can ignore the aching behind his knees and under his fingernails for a while, but then Obi-Wan’s coming out of the door by the office, the one that leads to the stairs that lead to the apartment, and he’s wearing the sweatshirt Cody left out for him.

Cody’s sweatshirt.

They’re of a height, but Obi-Wan’s definitely smaller, breadth-wise, which means—Jesus fuck, the things Cody wants to do to him. He wants to press him back against that closed door with his whole body and just—but he manages to get a handle on that in time to return Obi-Wan’s tired smile.

“Coffee?” he asks.

“Please,” Obi-Wan says gratefully.

The eyes Rex makes at Cody when he realizes where Obi-Wan’s come from and what sweatshirt he’s wearing are not subtle in the slightest, but luckily Cody thinks the investigator is a little to half-asleep and shot still to notice them. So while Obi-Wan settles in at the crowded coutner, Cody just flips his brother off peacefully behind his back and goes to make a fresh pot of coffee.

*

A week later, him and Rex are sitting in the conference room at Organa, Amidala & Associates when he spots Obi-Wan through the glass wall.

Actually, he spots Obi-Wan’s ass before he realizes it’s attached to Obi-Wan, because he’s facing away and it’s a really, truly spectacular ass, which happens, this morning, to be in tight black yoga pants, but since he’s also wearing a USMC sweatshirt that looks awfully familiar, Cody figures out pretty quick who it is.  

“…filing for full discovery based on targeted ads,” Padmé Amidala is saying, sliding something across the table to Rex. “Mostly it’s user-generated data that’s flagging your neighborhood as unsafe, and since most of Holonet Maps’ users are white, there’s a racial skew—what we have to prove is that Holocom knew when they were developing the software that the safety filter would be racially biased, so we’re looking at company culture…”

Outside the glass, Obi-Wan finishes his conversation and moves off down the hall.

Cody swallows down the feeling that he’s about to lose his chance at something. “’Scuse me,” he says, getting up out of his chair. “Bathroom,” he mutters to Rex, and Rex nods.

It’s not even really a lie, because he catches up to Obi-Wan in the hall outside the men’s restroom.

“Obi-Wan,” he says.

Obi-Wan turns. “Cody. How are you?”

“I’m…” Cody starts, then can’t come up with anything. Those pants. And that’s his sweatshirt. His brain feels like goo.

Obi-Wan follows the line of Cody’s gaze down to his own chest, the sweatshirt. “Ah,” he says. “Yes, I meant to get this back to you, but I was interviewing a yoga instructor this morning whose husband served in Afghanistan, and I thought it might be—”

“Keep it,” Cody croaks.

“Oh,” Obi-Wan says. He tilts his head a little, squinting at Cody like he’s trying to figure him out. After a moment, realization washes over his face. “Oh. I see.”

Cody averts his gaze, flushing bright red. He opens his mouth to apologize, but before he can Obi-Wan steps close and puts a hand on his arm. “In here,” he says softly.

He herds Cody into the handicap bathroom, closes the door behind them, and locks it.

Cody wonders if maybe he fell asleep in the conference room and is having a really great dream. That’s how insane this all is. Because Obi-Wan is leaning back against the door, giving Cody a considering look in the harsh fluorescent light, and he’s saying, “Only once, alright? We can only do this once.”

“Do what?” Cody asks, just in case he’s got the wrong idea. He doesn’t think he does, but in his experience it’s always better to check.

“This, my dear,” Obi-Wan says, fondly amused, and kisses him.

Cody grabs him a lot harder than he means to, but judging by the noise Obi-Wan makes against his mouth, he doesn’t really mind. Cody makes a noise in return and bears him over to the counter, hands under his glorious thighs, and Obi-Wan wastes no time in wrapping those legs around Cody’s waist.

“What do you like?” Obi-Wan murmurs against his mouth. “What do you want?”

“What do you want?” Cody retorts, and then licks Obi-Wan’s laugh.

God, he feels out of his mind. All of it—Obi-Wan’s thighs clenching spasmodically against his hips, the tickle of his beard and his warm breath huffing against Cody’s top lip, his fingers digging into the backs of Cody’s shoulders and the bulge in the front of his yoga pants, and that sweatshirt still smells a little bit like Cody—it's like sensory overload. He has to pick one thing to focus on, or he’s going to end up embarrassing himself.

So he chooses kissing.

Usually he’s not big on kissing, but there’s something about Obi-Wan’s mouth that’s driving him wild. He can’t get enough. He feels…hungry, for the noises Obi-Wan’s making and the motion of his lips, the taste of his mouth. He could kiss him for hours, he thinks. Hours, and hours, and hours. For the rest of his life, maybe.

But—Only once, Obi-Wan said. Only once.

Cody’s not sure how he’s going to manage to abstain after this, not when he’s already so addicted. But hell if he’s not going to make the most of his one chance, no matter how much it might hurt later.

A clandestine sexual encounter in a law firm bathroom should be fast and hard, all pushing and pulling and not a lot of room left over for tenderness, but somehow that’s not what’s happening here.

Cody sinks his hands in Obi-Wan’s long silky hair and gets a breathy punched-out sound in return, then something softer, Obi-Wan’s heel digging into the meat of his ass and that lovely posh accent saying, “Fuck, Cody,” against the side of his face, and Cody hopes the bathroom has fucking good soundproofing because he wants Obi-Wan to keep making noises like that possibly until the day they die but he also doesn’t want anyone else to ever hear them, ever.

Cody,” Obi-Wan says, more urgently, and Cody murmurs, “Yeah, baby, tell me what you want,” and Obi-Wan says breathlessly, “Your mouth, love, just your mouth.”

And Cody doesn’t know where this man lives, he doesn’t know where he came from, what he did before he became an investigator, what he wants from life or what scares him—he doesn’t really know anything other than how Obi-Wan takes his coffee and how he looks when he’s trying to pretend he’s not weak from bloodloss—but as he sinks to his knees on the hard tile he thinks that it doesn’t matter, really.

Somehow, it doesn’t matter, because Obi-Wan lifts himself up on his hands to help Cody pull his yoga pants down past his hips, even though Cody kind of wants to suck him through the pants he doesn’t think Obi-Wan would appreciate having to walk out of here with a wet spot of Cody’s saliva on his crotch (no matter how hot that would make Cody), and he’s going commando. And Cody’s never really been big on sucking cock, either, but it seems that Obi-Wan’s the exception that proves a lot of his rules, because God, his cock. Cody’s mouth is watering.

“Cody,” Obi-Wan says, and it’s not just a sex thing, he’s trying to actually say something, so Cody looks up at him.

Obi-Wan is a vision, really, a vision, but he’s also meeting Cody’s eyes, holding, unwavering, and he doesn’t say any more words but something strange and wonderful is happening in Cody’s chest just looking at him, and he thinks, beyond all odds, Obi-Wan must be feeling this, too.

“Obi-Wan,” he says back. He probably gives too much away in his voice, by how he says it, but he doesn’t hang around to get embarrassed about it.

He takes Obi-Wan into his mouth, until his nose is nestled in the ginger hair at the base of his cock.

Oh,” Obi-Wan breathes, his hands tightening in Cody’s curls. He’s still sweaty from whatever yoga class he was at this morning, and it should be gross, but at this point Cody’s not surprised to find that it’s not, that it’s making him even hotter how much he can smell Obi-Wan, how concentrated it is, all linked to the taste of him, the tang of precome and the salt of his sweat, and Cody rubs his tongue over and over the taut skin just under the head of Obi-Wan’s cock, feeling the way it makes him tremble on his tongue and with his thighs around Cody’s ears and the shaky sound of his breath.

He finds the spot, and then he he focuses on it, over and over again, unrelenting, as the muscles of Obi-Wan’s bare ass spasm under his hands and Obi-Wan’s body stretches in an arch like a drawn bow, and Cody takes him as deep as he can, until Obi-Wan can feel the gagging reflex in his throat, and—“Fuck,” Obi-Wan says, panting, “Cody, I’m going to—” and Cody uses his hands on Obi-Wan’s ass to keep him in place, pressed against Cody’s face, as he comes, and comes, and comes.

Cody swallows until there’s nothing left to swallow, until Obi-Wan’s cock starts to go soft and he makes a small pained noise at the overstimulation.

Then he lets Obi-Wan pull him back up onto his feet, lets him tug him back in for a kiss that’s really just the two of them breathing in each other’s mouths, wide open, tongues wet, and Obi-Wan says, “Tell me,” and Cody lets his head fall against his shoulder and pants, “Your hand, just your hand.”

He gets what he asked for, Obi-Wan’s hand on the fly of his jeans and then Obi-Wan’s hand in his briefs, moving over his cock without freeing it, and somehow that’s hotter, that Cody’s still in all his clothes and Obi-Wan’s here on the bathroom counter with the waistband of his yoga pants nestled obscenely under his balls, and then it gets even hotter because Obi-Wan puts his mouth next to Cody’s ear and says, “That’s it, love, you’re doing so good, so perfect for me, you feel so good,” and Cody comes faster than he has since fucking high school.

Obi-Wan, considerate even in this, catches most of it in his hand, then turns the sink on with his knee and rinses it off.

Cody pumps out a few paper towels and handles the rest of the cleanup himself, while Obi-Wan hops down from the counter and wiggles back into his yoga pants. There’s a lot of tucking and arranging involved in the front, and Cody tries not to stare—really, he does, but he thinks the fact that he just had that cock filling up his mouth probably excuses some of his behavior.

Like catching Obi-Wan’s arm and pulling him into another kiss. “This still counts as one,” he says.

“Mm,” Obi-Wan agrees, with the softest little moan against Cody’s lips, “indeed,” and grabs onto him even harder. He seems to be just as reluctant to end their once as Cody is, and Cody—well, he counts that as a point in his favor.

Even if Obi-Wan’s not feeling this insane, desperate need that Cody’s feeling, he’s at least feeling something. An appreciation for Cody’s technique, at least.

Cody has no idea how long he stands there, hands buried in Obi-Wan’s hair, kissing him. But eventually his phone rings in his back pocket, a text from Rex, where r u?—and Cody’s totally prepared to ignore it, except that it breaks Obi-Wan out of whatever stupor he’s in, because he pulls away, smiling ruefully.

“You know,” Cody says, “I’m really starting to hate that smile. That Sorry smile you do.”

“Sorry,” Obi-Wan says, half-teasing, half-not. He kisses Cody one last time—chaste, quick, like he’s on his way out the door in the morning—see you later, honey—not like they just had a brief but extremely intense fuck in the men’s room. Then he unlocks the door, and slips into the hallway.

*

Cody should have known the abstinence would hurt like hell.

And he did know, but somehow even in the aftermath—in this confirmation of the knowing—he can’t bring himself to regret it. He can’t regret getting to see what Obi-Wan looked like when he’s out of his mind with pleasure, when he’s trying not to give himself over to it but it’s just too good. He can’t regret learning what it feels like to have Obi-Wan smile against his mouth.

He can maybe regret just how many times he’s jacked off to the memory of Obi-Wan wearing his sweatshirt, and of his legs in those fucking pants, but in the end he can’t really regret that either, because the only thing that ever pops into his head when he touches himself anymore is Obi-Wan, and masturbation is starting to feel like an act of fealty.

He sees Obi-Wan a few more times over the next month or so, but only ever from a distance. Grabbing a smoke in the alley behind Organa Amidala, the distinctive line of his trench coat swaying in the breeze and his hand cupped around a lighter to keep the air from putting it out. Getting out of one elevator while Cody’s getting in another. Disappearing into the subway while Rex is still swearing at the lack of street parking on front of the firm’s building, nothing more than a flash of copper hair and a sketch of how he carries himself, head down, shoulders tense.

“You’ve got it bad, mate,” Boil tells him, when he finally wheedles the truth out of Cody. “Though I can’t blame you.” He whistles lowly, looking over Cody’s shoulder at the office computer. “Fuuuuck me. If I wasn’t a married man, I’d throw my hat in the ring.”

“Shut up,” Cody says absently, intent on the screen.

As low a profile as Obi-Wan has to keep in his function as an investigator, he’s at least got some sort of online presence. Everyone does. Mostly it’s social media, but in Obi-Wan’s case it’s news articles, stuff from back when he was a cop.

The police hate me, he remembers Obi-Wan saying, and he wonders when that started, because from the looks of these articles Obi-Wan was the city’s goddamn golden boy.

Rookie Cop Busts Underage Prostitution Ring, reads the first one, with a picture of a nauseatingly baby-faced Obi-Wan looking serious and exhausted in his uniform blues, and then Hero Cop Sets Sights on Organized Crime, Hero Cop is Youngest Detective in City’s History, and then—“Shit,” Boil mutters over his shoulder, and Cody feels like all his organs have just dropped down a slide—Detective Shot and Killed by Local Mob Boss, Obi-Wan bowing his head grimly in front of a twenty-one gun salute as he accepts the folded flag for his murdered partner, identified in the copy as a Detective Q. Jinn.

Boil squeezes Cody’s shoulder wordlessly and leaves him on his own, after that.

Cody keeps reading, because he’s not sure what else to do. His chest has been cracked open, scooped out, and his heart has been chopped into tiny little pieces that are all laid out in this “Obi-Wan Kenobi” Holonet search.

He sees Obi-Wan standing solemnly at the shoulder of his new partner, a “rising star” on the force named Anakin Skywalker, while Skywalker gives a press conference on a big drugs bust. He sees him in press photos for a senator’s wedding—Senator Amidala, Padmé Amidala, Cody and Rex’s lawyer, who apparently married Skywalker a few years back.

He doesn’t find anything about why Obi-Wan left the force, but he finds plenty of articles about Skywalker leaving: Senator’s Husband Exposed as Dirty Cop, Senator’s Husband in Pocket of Russian Mob, Senator’s Husband Guilty of Homicide, Senator’s Husband Sentenced to 15 Years. Some of those articles mention Obi-Wan obliquely as a vice cop whose partner was shot and killed in his first year as a detective, and he lingers in the back of some photos, escorting Padmé in and out of the courthouse, sitting behind the defense table in court illustrations. But he’s never the focus.

How can he not be, Cody wonders, even though he knows that’s a reflection of his own bias. How is he not the focus.

Obi-Wan calls him early one Saturday morning.

It’s a near thing—Cody’s off the hook for opening today, he’s supposed to be sleeping in, and when he rolls over and sees Unknown Caller he’s about to hit decline, except something about the number strikes him as familiar, so he answers.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to let me borrow your truck,” is what Obi-Wan leads with.

Cody’s so surprised to hear his voice he almost swallows his tongue. But he manages to playact being a normal person, even freshly woken up with his face still in the pillows.

“Do you know how to drive stick?” he asks.

“Ah,” Obi-Wan says, which means no.

Which is how Cody ends up using his Saturday morning to drive Obi-Wan to the federal pen to visit his ex-partner.

It’s still his day off, so he puts the windows down and turns the music up. Obi-Wan makes the same face Rex did when he found out Cody liked country, but Cody shouts back over the roar of the wind, Driver gets the aux!, and Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, shaking his head, and Cody thinks it’s a pretty elegant solution, making all this noise to excuse Obi-Wan from the conversation Cody can tell he doesn’t want to have.

He waits in the parking lot for half an hour while Obi-Wan goes in for the visit, trailing behind mothers and wives with toddlers and skinny teenagers who have to be coaxed and prodded by older siblings to shuffle through the front doors to the visiting area. It’s a nice day, weather-wise, the first nice day they’ve had this year, not quite warm yet but not-cold enough that Cody can kind of smell spring creeping around the corner, so he leaves the windows down while he’s waiting and listens to the sounds of birds and the sounds of metal gates clanging and electronic bells glaring as they shuffle the inmates through the yard.

Obi-Wan comes out before the rest of the family day visitors, head ducked, hands plunged deep in his coat pockets.

He makes his way quickly across the parking lot, squinting in the sun, and climbs in the cab, staring straight ahead. It still doesn’t seem like he wants to talk about it, and Cody doesn’t really have any right to ask, so he doesn’t.

He’s reaching down to start the truck when Obi-Wan sucks in a breath—sharp, sudden—and leans forward to put his head against the dashboard.

“Sorry,” he says, voice thick and a little watery. “I’m usually alone for this part.”

Cody doesn’t really like the idea of him being alone for any of this, but he doesn’t have any right to say that, either, so he just reaches out and puts a hand on the back of Obi-Wan’s head.

His hair is warm from the sun. He lets out a breath, thin and shaky, and reaches up to hold on to Cody’s hand, twisting their fingers together.

They drive back to the city with the windows up and the radio turned low on NPR, so the voices are just a murmur. Obi-Wan spends most of the ride with his hand on his beard, staring out the window at the passing countryside. Cody spends most of the ride trying to keep his eyes on the road.

It’s not until they’re almost back in the city limits that Obi-Wan says, “He told me not to visit him again.”

Cody looks over at him.

Obi-Wan shakes his head, sighs. “He tells me that every week. He tells me that he’s guilty, that he did it. That I need to move on. But Padmé…it’s too hard for her, to see him like that. And his mother passed last year. No one else goes to see him. And I can’t…I can’t just leave him in there.”

“Brotherhood doesn’t end when the uniform comes off,” Cody says softly.

Obi-Wan graces him with a sad smile. “Yes,” he says. “Quite right.”

They don’t go back to the diner, and they don’t go back to Obi-Wan’s building, where Cody picked him up. Instead they go for a drink. Obi-Wan raises some token protests, but Cody overrides them.

“Tequila,” he says, in a tone that leaves no room for argument. “You need tequila.”

“It’s one in the afternoon,” Obi-Wan points out, not unreasonably.

“Tequila,” says Cody.

“Right, then,” Obi-Wan agrees, sort of teasing. “Tequila.”

Two hours later they’ve had rather more tequila than Cody anticipated, and the booth in the back of the dive bar where him and Rex go to drink with their old squaddies is starting to feel a little wobbly.

“You know,” Obi-Wan says, in a thoughtful but sort of officious tone of voice that makes Cody think he might be about to use the royal we, “I think the last time I went out for a drink—a real drink, not a drink where I had to pretend to be someone else—was…was…so long ago I can’t even remember.”

Cody’s heart frowns. He puts an arm around Obi-Wan’s waist and pulls him in close against his side, because suddenly it feels impossible and wrong not to be touching him.

Obi-Wan grins around his next shot of tequila, then turns to Cody. “Hello there.”

His lower lip is just the tiniest bit wet. Something drops low in Cody’s stomach like an engine starting.

“Hey,” he says, one hand moving to the side of Obi-Wan’s face, thumb stroking over the line of his beard. “Hey, baby.”

Obi-Wan makes a hurt, hungry sound, and curls into him. Cody hugs him in as close as he can, almost into his lap, his fingers guiding Obi-Wan’s face, guiding their mouths together in a simmering, bone-melting kiss. Obi-Wan makes that sound again, only this time it’s against Cody’s lips, vibrating over Cody’s tongue, and whatever it is that got started in Cody’s stomach uncoils like a panther.

Insanely, tequila-ly, he wants to pull Obi-Wan inside of his body; he wants to unzip himself and nestle Obi-Wan in close next to his heart so that Cody’s own ribcage can protect him. But he can’t, it’s not physically possible, so he has to settle for holding Obi-Wan’s head in both his hands and coaxing him gently into his lap, where he can hold him and just kiss him and kiss him.

Obi-Wan is a very focused kisser, very intent, but the tequila is doing things to him, loosening him up around the edges, so that Cody can tell there’s a total fucking hedonist in there somewhere, wanting to just moan and lay back and be fucked, and Jesus fuck Cody has never been so hard in his entire life. If they don’t go somewhere he’s going to start humping Obi-Wan like a fucking teenager in this booth in this bar that is fucking empty because it’s still the middle of the afternoon, fuck.

“Truck,” he says against Obi-Wan’s lips, “let’s go to the—”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan says, breathless. “Yes, lovely idea. Perfect idea.”

Cody has never been so glad that the pickup truck has a bench seat. It means there’s plenty of space for him to press Obi-Wan down and lay on top of him, between his spread legs.

Obi-Wan’s still in that goddamn trench coat, and it pools up underneath him like a blanket even as Cody works a hand between them to pull it open, exposing tailored slacks and a button-down shirt that he manages to get open down to the bottom of Obi-Wan’s sternum, dragging his lips over the wiry bristle of red chest hair and pausing briefly to put his open mouth over one nipple like he’s been wanting to do since that first night, before Obi-Wan mutters, “God, love, get back here,” and hauls him into another kiss.

This one is heavy, drugging, and wet, God, so fucking wet, and Cody feels his hips roll down against Obi-Wan’s without any input from his addled, melted brain.

He feels like he's at the fucking prom, humping in the front seat of his dad’s truck, close to coming already just from the heady, dizzying grind of their cocks, even through so many layers of pants. Obi-Wan’s body is warm and solid underneath him and Cody thinks that it can’t possibly be normal, or healthy, how much he wants him. He thinks he’ll have to ask Bly about this. If this is what it felt like. Cody doesn’t know what else it could be. He rolls his hips down again, and again, air going hot and liquid in his lungs, and anyone could walk by the truck and look through the window of the cab, but that doesn’t make him want to stop, it just makes him want to shield Obi-Wan more with his body, because no one else gets to see this—no one else, just Cody.

Obi-Wan is making more noise now, breathing harder, his inhales pressing his stomach up against Cody’s, and he hooks one leg around the back of Cody’s knee, fingers digging in the back of his shoulders, and asks, “Say it again. Cody, say it again—”

Baby,” Cody rumbles, mouth tucked against the side of Obi-Wan’s face. Obi-Wan gives a full-body shudder underneath him, makes a high-pitched sound that’s almost a whimper, and what can Cody do but press sloppy kisses to his cheek, his jaw, his open mouth, roll his hips again, murmur, “Come on, can you come from this?” to which Obi-Wan makes another high, choked-off noise that Cody takes as a yes.

Obi-Wan's fingers dig into Cody’s shoulders hard enough that Cody knows he’s going to have bruises later, but he couldn’t be further from caring, because Obi-Wan’s hips are jerking up against his in these little involuntary motions, his control unraveling, and the only thing that matters to Cody is making him come apart underneath him.

He slides a hand under Obi-Wan’s ass to help him get enough leverage to grind up against him, and the only thing that keeps Cody from coming first is the fact that he’s so focused on Obi-Wan he’s barely even aware of his own arousal.

“Come on, baby,” he says, hauling Obi-Wan against him, and Obi-Wan makes a noise like something inside him giving way and comes in his pants.

“Fuck,” Cody breathes, because that is so fucking hot, oh my God. “Fuck, Obi-Wan,” and Obi-Wan makes another strangled noise against Cody’s neck, his hands in Cody’s hair, riding out the long, shuddering waves of his orgasm.

Cody keeps grinding against him, fucking him through it, and eventually Obi-Wan’s wordless moans turn into a gasp, and then, “Yes, take it, fucking take it,” and it’s so obscene, hearing him swear, feeling the avian twitch of his cock through his pants in the bright light of day, that it only takes Cody a few thrusts before he’s coming harder than he’s ever come in his life, huge and unending, like all his organs are evacuating via his cock.

He’s still seeing stars, brain taking a long meandering walk back to awareness, when Obi-Wan shifts them so they’re side to side on the bench seat and then climbs out of the truck.

Cody’s brain slams back into his skull real fast. He sits up. “Where are you going?”

Obi-Wan has a dark, frowning look on his face. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Before Cody can even process the feeling of a long, slow knife sliding between his ribs, Obi-Wan’s pulling his coat closed around the wet spot on the front of his slacks, his hair a wild mess from Cody’s fingers, hurrying, head down, across the empty parking lot, and then he’s gone.

*

Rex gives him a lot of shit for skipping out on his shift Saturday, but since Cody’s literally never missed a day before except for that one time he had a 103-degree fever and spent twenty-four hours puking his guts up, the shit doesn’t go on for too long.

Cody does get that drink with Bly, and when he asks the question Bly laughs and laughs and then claps him so hard on the shoulder it jars Cody’s internal organs and says, “Sorry, mate, I think you’re gonna have to marry him.”

He asks Padmé about Obi-Wan once, when they have to go in for a deposition. She smiles, charming, like she always is, and says, “He’s babysitting my twins, today, actually. My normal sitter is sick.”

“Your twins?” Cody asks, distant, sort of hamstrung by the idea of Obi-Wan and kids.

“Luke and Leia,” says Padmé sunnily. “Here, I have pictures.”

Some of the pictures, devastatingly, have Obi-Wan in them. Obi-Wan not quite smiling, just smiling with his eyes, in that way Cody’s come to realize means he’s happier than an actual smile, because actual smiles are a tool, but smiling with his eyes is involuntary. Obi-Wan with two of the most adorable four-year-olds Cody’s ever seen hanging from his shoulders, Obi-Wan holding two babies still small enough to be swaddled with a quiet, attentive love in his gaze that makes Cody’s throat close up.

It’s a good thing Padmé’s there to hand-hold him through the deposition, because Cody doesn’t think about anything for the rest of the day except Obi-Wan and babies.

When he’s out on the curb, he calls Bly and says, “I’m so fucking fucked.”

Bly just laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

The case goes to court—it’s to be expected, Padmé says, when they’re suing such a large company as Holocom—and  the first day Cody sits up at the plaintiff’s table he’s so conscious of everyone watching him, so nervous with it, that he spends the whole time sitting at the equivalent of attention and almost doesn’t notice Obi-Wan slipping in the back of the room.

He does notice, though, because Rex elbows him hard in the side and mutters, “Seven o’clock.”

Cody glances surreptitiously over his shoulder.

Sure enough, there he is. Obi-Wan, lingering near the courtroom door in his long brown coat. And he never approaches the bar, never tries to talk to Padmé, so Cody can’t think of any reason for him to be here other than for Cody. Because he knows Cody would want him here.

He tries to find him, after, but in the crush of everyone in the courtroom getting up and gathering their things at once, Obi-Wan manages to slip away. Again.

*

At three a.m. on a very rainy night, Cody wakes to someone pounding on the door.

He’d ignore it and go back to sleep, because they are the definition of closed, but he’s found that people willing to knock that hard in the middle of the night aren’t usually the sorts who just give up and leave, so he’s got to get up and deal with it. Sighing, he heaves himself out of bed, finds a shirt in the dark, puts it on maybe backwards, and thunders down the stairs into the diner, too tired to make his footsteps quiet. He’s expecting a bunch of drunk people—usually at this time of night it’s a bunch of drunk people who think all diners are 24-hours just by nature of being a diner and aren’t too happy to hear they’re wrong—but it’s not drunk people.

It’s Mace Windu, Organa Amidala’s other investigator.

And Obi-Wan, in tight leather pants and a mesh jacket, so out of it he’s basically unconscious, nothing but Mace’s arm under his shoulders to keep him up.

Cody unlocks the door so fast he’s pretty sure he breaks a finger. “What happened?” he asks, raising his voice over the driving rain.

“Rohypnol,” Mace answers gravely, hauling Obi-Wan inside in a spray of raindrops. “He wanted to come here. Wouldn’t let me take him anywhere else.”

Cody’s heart twists, and he closes the door behind them so he can get his shoulders under Obi-Wan’s other arm. He’s soaked from the rain, and shivering, not wearing nearly enough clothes, and as they drag him up the stairs to Cody’s apartment he’s slurring something officious and rambling, the thrust of which seems to be that he’s perfectly fine since he’s been roofied before and really they don’t need to go to all this trouble.

“Shut the fuck up, Kenobi,” says Mace.

Cody bristles, but since he’d been about to tell Obi-Wan the same thing in gentler words, and since Mace is Obi-Wan’s friend, he figures it’s better not to start anything.

Mace stays long enough to help him get Obi-Wan into some dry clothes and dump him on the bed, and then he says something about a trail that’s going cold and disappears into the night.

Cody’s not really paying attention. He’s too worried about Obi-Wan, who’s boneless, making needy noises against Cody’s pillow, which is now wet from his hair, who someone fucking drugged, who someone tried to—tried to—Cody sits down hard on the edge of the bed, and sends a prayer of thanks to whatever god happens to be listening that Obi-Wan made it here, into Cody’s waffled henly and his pajama pants and his warm, safe bed, where the night isn’t something dangerous. Where the night is just a dark curtain outside the window, past the droning thunder of the rain.

Cody’s not sure how long he sits there, watching Obi-Wan sleep. Long enough to be creepy, probably. When he realizes what he’s doing he starts to get up, intending to go try and grab another hour or two of sleep on the couch, but then there’s a hand around his wrist, holding him in place.

Obi-Wan’s eyes are open. Hazy, but still sharp. Still bright. “Stay,” he says.

Cody swallows. He wants to, of course he fucking wants to, but Obi-Wan’s not in his right mind.

What he’s thinking must be clear on his face, because Obi-Wan says, “Not like that. Just…you make me feel safe.”

Tears prick behind Cody’s eyes. He swallows again, then nods, and climbs into bed.

Obi-Wan wriggles in close against him, burrowing his face into Cody’s chest.

Cody’s arms go around him instinctively, like he’s done this a million times before, held Obi-Wan while he slept, except there’s also something terrifyingly new about all this, something fragile, because he knows that as soon as the sun comes up Obi-Wan’s going to leave again.

All this is going to go away.

Why can’t we have this, he wants to ask him. Why won’t you let us have this. But he can’t, because Obi-Wan is asleep.

Cody doesn’t sleep. He stays awake as the minutes melt together, listening to Obi-Wan’s shallow breaths and the noise of the rain outside, memorizing the feeling of Obi-Wan in his arms. Part of him is afraid that this is the only chance he’ll ever get to know Obi-Wan like this, vulnerable and soft in sleep, pale eyelashes dusting against his cheek and eyes moving under his eyelids, his hands fisted in Cody’s shirt in the curve of the small of his back, his body warm and heavy under the blankets. If it is his only shot, Cody wants to make the most of it—he wants to see as much as he can, so that he remembers, and that means that he can’t fall asleep, he can’t press a kiss to the top of Obi-Wan’s ginger head and let his lips rest in his hair and drift away.

So he keeps his eyes open, and eventually he hears Rex banging around downstairs. Then he extricates himself, careful not to disturb Obi-Wan, settling him back on the pillows, and slips down to the diner to make a pot of coffee.

“Call Crys to cover my shift,” he tells Rex, once Rex is done bitching about the front door being left unlocked. “I need the morning.”

Rex opens his mouth to argue, but Cody gives him the same look he used to give him on the battlefield—the one that means shut up and fucking do as I say—so instead he just closes his mouth, accepting the seriousness of what Cody’s asking, and nods.

Cody’s made a decision. He’s not sure it’s the right decision, or a smart one, but he feels better already for having made it, for having a course of action set out ahead of him.

He puts a white mug of coffee on the bedside table, next to Obi-Wan’s sleeping head, and sits back in the chair with his own cup of coffee to wait for Obi-Wan to wake up to the smell.

He does, gradually, with a soft noise of confusion before he blinks over at Cody and seems to remember where he is, what happened.  

Cody raises his mug and nods to the cup of coffee on the bedside table.

“Ah,” Obi-Wan says, dry-sounding. “Thank you, my dear.” He picks up the mug and drinks deeply, like it’s water, until the mug is mostly empty.

Cody lets him have those few moments of peace, to drink his coffee and wake up, and then he says, “Tell me why this is a bad idea.”

Obi-Wan blinks. “Sorry?”

“This.” Cody gestures between them. “Us. Tell me why it’s a bad idea.”

Understanding dawns on Obi-Wan’s face. He looks away, swallowing, and Cody can see him start to close down, the walls going up behind his eyes. “Cody…”

“No,” Cody says. “I could accept it when I thought it was just me. When I thought that I was more attached to you than you were to me. But you came here last night because I make you feel safe. I feel—crazy, when I’m with you, and even crazier when I’m not. I’ve never felt anything like this before, never, not with anyone, and you can’t tell me I’m the only one. Not anymore.”

Obi-Wan stares at him for a long moment, frozen, then sighs and looks away. “There are a lot of people who want me dead,” he says, after a minute.

“What?” Cody says.

“There are a lot of people who want me dead,” Obi-Wan repeats, with that rueful smile, like he thinks he’s just put the nail in his own coffin. Like that’s going to make Cody want to leave, Jesus. “There are specifics, of course, but the long and short of it is that you’d be putting yourself in terrible danger, being with me, and I’m…I’m just not worth it.”

“That,” Cody says, slowly, “is the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes widen.

They stay on him, fixed, as Cody sets his mug down on the floor and prowls over to the bed. He takes Obi-Wan’s mug out of his hands, puts it back on the bedside table, and kneels on the mattress next to him, sliding one hand into Obi-Wan’s hair. “You’re worth the whole world, Obi-Wan, you’re worth—everything, just fucking everything.”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows are furrowed, and he’s staring at Cody’s mouth, and Cody can tell that he’s ready to give in, so he says, “Please, baby, let me—”

Obi-Wan makes a small noise of surrender, and kisses him.

He grabs tight fistfuls of the front of Cody’s shirt and pulls him down into bed with him, over top of him, kicking the covers away so that they’re body to body, tangled together in Cody’s sleep clothes. “Oh,” Obi-Wan says, as Cody moves to mouth over the line of his throat, and tilts his head back to give him better access, and Cody is hugely, improbably happy, so happy he almost feels like he’s getting away with something.

And then the feeling gets even worse, because Obi-Wan’s lips skim over his hairline, breath warm and muggy with sleep, and he says, “Cody. Cody, Christ, I love you so much.”

Cody makes a sound he’s never heard himself make before, hands tightening on Obi-Wan’s back.

Something hot and pressurized builds in his chest, and he doesn't know what it is. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Obi-Wan says, “Sh, love, I’ve got you,” and moves them, easing Cody back into the pillows, feathering wiskery kisses under his eyes, holding Cody’s face in his hands and kissing him again, and again, not going anywhere, just gentling him. Soothing him. Bringing him back.

“I love you too,” Cody says, teary, when words come back to him, and then he’s saying it against Obi-Wan’s mouth, I love you, I love you, I love you, and pretty soon they’re going at it again, but it’s gentler before.

They’re hard but they’re not cranked, there’s no rocket-racing towards orgasm—they're just moving together in bed, slow, langorous, something about being here in the light of day in Cody’s apartment, in Cody’s bed, that feels realer than all the other times before, and not just because they’ve finally talked.

And Obi-Wan gets a hand between them, curled around the shape of Cody’s dick through his thin sweatpants, squeezing him, moving over him, and Cody moans so hard it shakes his ribcage, so hard Rex can probably hear them in the kitchen, but fuck, it doesn’t matter, because Obi-Wan’s biting his chin and then biting his neck, breathing hard, saying, “Let me hear it, let me fucking hear it,” saying, “Can I make you come like this?” and Cody arches into the pressure of his hand and makes a noise that means yes, fucking yes.

And he does come like that, in his pants like a goddamn teenager, so fucking hot for it he can barely breathe, and then Obi-Wan’s grinding down against his thigh, cock hard and straining in his borrowed sweatpants, and Cody gets his hands on his ass—fuck, he loves Obi-Wan’s ass—and helps him, pulling him down and down, in and in and in, murmuring total fucking filth in Obi-Wan’s ear until he gasps and his hips stutter and he comes shuddering against Cody’s leg.

Obi-Wan’s orgasms are long, once they start, and Cody holds him against his thigh and lets him ride it out, humping him in involuntary little spasms until he’s empty, until there’s nothing left.

Then Obi-Wan collapses on top of him, boneless. He’s not light by any means, but the weight of him makes something purr contentedly in Cody’s stomach, so he just wraps his arms around him, settling in with a hum.

“The sex can’t be that good forever, can it?” Obi-Wan asks, sounding dazed.

Cody laughs underneath him, carding his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know,” he says. “But I intend to find out.”

Obi-Wan's eyes soften, looking at him. "Me too," he says quietly, "me too, Cody," and kisses him again.