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The first time Obi-Wan comes to, it’s only for a moment – just long enough to crave oblivion. Number two brings pain and a blurry awareness of a screeching sound that will surely split him in two. Next come pieces of a puzzle that he doesn’t recall starting.
The smell of smoke. Pain. Pressure. Cold. More pain. And the screeching.
When consciousness finally sticks, things begin to fall into place.
Smoke plus screaming alarms equals destruction. Pressure plus pain equals injury. Cold equals Kijimi.
Right. They were shot down. Or...sabotaged? By Separatists? Pirates? Slavers? Mmmph. Does it really matter? Oblivion is calling once more and he’s millimeters away from sinking to answer, but a blaster bolt whizzes by his ear and slams into the console, silencing the alarm.
Blaster fire plus that sort of precision equals…
“Cody?”
A grunt sounds to his left and it’s followed by the clatter of the blaster falling to the…ceiling?
Pressure plus falling up equals up-side-down.
Well then.
“Cody?” he repeats. “Are you all right?”
Another grunt. This time, it’s followed by a groan, a muttered kriff, and a steady splat…splat…splat.
He looks up – no…down – to see a growing puddle of blood beneath the commander.
Blood plus puddle equals…
Obi-Wan’s awake now. Fully and wholly; reaching for the buckle on his safety harness before that particular math catches up with his hands.
Upside-down plus gravity plus no restraint equals –
He grunts loudly when he hits the floor (…ceiling?) and follows through with a string of choice words that would ordinarily elicit a raised eyebrow and a chuckle from the commander. But Cody doesn’t even crack an eye. He’s too busy bleeding.
Cody minus sass plus blood equals BAD.
Obi-Wan gets slowly to his hands and knees on the debris-strewn ceiling (…floor?) and sways to his feet, using the edge of the console as balance against the wave of pain crashing through him. The first rule of triage is assess your ability to assess.
Head still spinning plus ringing settling down to a dull roar equals probably concussed. Breathing plus sharp pain equals broken ribs. Lower limbs weight-bearing and (relatively) pain free equals no broken bones.
Good.
But there is a sharp ache in his right arm from elbow to wrist and inspection reveals a not inconsiderable amount of his own blood seeping through the fabric of his sleeve, which is shredded and showing spikes of the shattered viewscreen sticking out of flesh. That explains the cold, at least. He has a vague memory of tumbling and boulders and, really, someone needs to talk to the engineers about the durability and design of the transparisteel screen. It should be able to withstand far more than this.
Regardless. No life threatening injuries. At least not for him.
“Cody?” he repeats.
Still no reply, but now that he’s on his feet Obi-Wan can see the source of the blood. There aren’t many weak points in clone armor, but a shard of the viewscreen has found one and lodged itself at the joint of spaulder and chest plate and, judging by the blood, it’s probably nicked the brachial artery.
Kark.
His fingers twitch, wanting to yank out the offending item and throw it as far away as the Force will assist, but that’s the worst possible choice and a sure guarantee to do further damage to the artery. Instead, he assesses the size of the puddle, taking in the blood streaking down Cody’s armor, startlingly red against the white plastoid. It’s quite a lot, but not enough to put Cody at immediate risk of bleeding out, so Obi-Wan drags his eyes away and heads for the small med station to gather supplies. Perhaps the scanner will reveal it’s not as bad as it looks.
The shuttle is a disaster; pieces of gear and miscellaneous items everywhere and panels sparking from bow to stern. The bunks are all overhead now, so he’ll need to figure out a soft place to lay Cody once the wound is taken care of and…maybe he could rip the thin cushions out? And is the comm working at all? He should really activate the emergency beacon, too. They’ll need help sooner rather than–
First things first, Kenobi. Stop the bleeding. Get him stable. Then fret about comfort and rescue.
There’s a small medbay, but it lacks a scanner, so Obi-Wan settles for the handheld that should be in the medkit. A full-sized one would give him a much better picture of the state of Cody’s wound, but they’ll have to make do. He tucks the kit under an elbow and makes his way back to the cockpit, finding Cody reasonably alert upon arrival.
“Careful, Sir,” Cody says. “There’s blood on the…” he trails off, clearly puzzling his way through the same troubles Obi-Wan’s been having regarding direction.
“Yes, Cody. Someone’s been rude enough to make a fair attempt at bleeding out.”
A small twist of a smile comes in response and the sight of it brings relief. If Cody’s feeling well enough to have regained some humor, things are looking up. And, speaking of that, he needs to figure out how to get the commander down without making things worse.
“Cody, can you reach the buckle on your–- No!”
Too late. Cody releases the harness and it’s all Obi-Wan can do to reach into the Force and grab hold before the commander hits the floor like a ton of blood soaked bricks. The landing is far more awkward than Obi-Wan intended, but at least it’s softer than it could have been.
“Honestly, Cody,” he huffs. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”
Cody grunts, shifting to sit up, but is stopped by a firm hand planted on his chest plate.
“Lie still. And that’s an order.”
Another grunt –this one annoyed– but Cody complies, pressing his lips together tightly as a fresh batch of bright blood spills onto his armor and tips Obi-Wan back into worry.
He paws through the medkit with increasingly frantic motions. Where is the scanner? Why is there no scanner? It’s standard issue and it should be right there, tucked between the bacta patches and the suture pack.
Except. Wait. He’d used it earlier in the day to prove to Cody that the recurring twinge in his left knee was nothing more than a mild sprain not given time to heal properly. They’d been sitting at the table in the small common area and he’d left it there, meaning to return it to the kit later…which means…
“It’s in at least three pieces,” Cody puts in, pointing through the door with his good arm. “I can see it from here.”
Kark.
All jedi are given training in the fundamentals of healing with the Force and part of that is learning how to use it to suss out the nature and severity of an injury, but Obi-Wan hadn’t ever been particularly good at it. Proficient, sure. Skilled enough to pass his exams. But, like many things with the Force, an element of pure talent was necessary to really master the ability. Could he even still do it?
“Sir?”
Obi-Wan pulls in a deep breath and blows it out again in a sigh. “I’m going to try to use the Force to get a clearer picture of your wound,” he says. “Lie still and breathe with me, please.”
Cody’s not Force-sensitive –so many things would be so much easier if he were– but it does seem to have a particular affinity for the Marshall Commander; pooling around him in eddies and currents that often come in times of trouble or, like now, moments of distress or pain. This happens with all living things, but for Cody the Force gathers to near coalescence and, occasionally, Obi-Wan feels like he could catch a glimpse of it if only he could turn his head at the right angle or catch Cody in the right light.
Every living being has a unique presence in the Force and the stolid brightness of Cody’s is very familiar to Obi-Wan as he sinks into trance. It’s warm and steady beneath hot spikes of pain that spark against him, but there’s a flow to it and Obi-Wan casts his senses into the current, following along as it weaves through Cody and between them to blend at the edges of both.
“Sir, is that –”
Obi-Wan puts up a hand to silence the question. He’s almost got it. The shape of the shard is starting to form -–a still spot in the turbulence of the wound. It’s jagged and pressed dangerously close to the center of the rapids, which must be the heart of things….maybe ten centimeters in length and tapering to a deadly point.
Not as clear as a scan would be, but good enough. There’s no way to remove it without doing further damage to the artery. At least the path is clear: stabilize, immobilize, get to a medical facility.
Obi-Wan rocks back, settling onto his heels.
“I’m afraid this is going to hurt,” he says.
Cody blows out a short, dismissive phht. “Go on.”
It takes some doing to shift Cody into a position that allows for manipulation of the arm and the motion causes more bright blood to seep from the wound, but Obi-Wan packs it tightly with gauze from the medkit and uses strips of material torn from the hem of his cloak to bind Cody’s arm across his chest and immobilize it. When it’s done and the compression bandage is doing its work, Cody is pale and clammy and the knuckles of his good hand are whiter than a shiny’s armor. He grinds his jaw, but offers no complaint and, frankly, Obi-Wan can’t decide if he’s impressed or annoyed.
Perhaps both.
He’s seen Cody power through all sorts of adversity -–everything from broken bones to blaster wounds–but judging from the ripples in the Force that are spooling out from him, none of it could compare. And there’s no point in hiding his pain here and now; there aren’t any men in need of reassurance.
“Take a minute,” he says. “I’ll go see if I can make something out of the mess back there and then we’ll get out of the cold. Do you think you can stand?”
Stupid question. Of course Cody thinks he can stand. Cody thinks he can tackle Grievous and beat him into submission bare handed.
”Ah–don’t answer that,” Obi-Wan puts up a preemptive hand. “Just…don’t try to do it on your own, please. I’ll be right back.”
His own arm is throbbing, but he ignores it in favor of covering Cody with what’s left of his robe before heading aft. It’s a pity this was a diplomatic mission; deployment would have seen the shuttle stocked with survival gear and better medical supplies. Instead, they’ll have to make do with cushions ripped from benches, two foil emergency blankets, and the rations Cody always has stashed in his pack. He’d have to go in search of water, but for now the canteen is good enough.
Obi-Wan piles the cushions against the bulkhead and unfolds the blankets. Cody’s armor has environmental controls that will keep him fairly warm until the power cells drain, so it's really just a matter of adding some shared body heat to that and hoping help comes before they freeze to death.
Help. Help’s not coming until he gets the beacon activated; and even then it might take too long. When he turns to head back to the cockpit to get Cody, the commander is upright, leaning heavily against the doorway, and, impossibly, paler still.
“I thought I ordered you to stay down until I could help,” Obi-Wan says.
Cody offers a small, but wicked grin. “No, Sir. You ordered me to lie still. Staying down was just a suggestion.”
Obi-Wan shakes his head and moves to support Cody and help him down onto the makeshift cot. “I swear, Commander, you’re going to be the death of me.”
“My job to die first, General,” Cody grunts as he settles onto the cushions. “But I do appreciate the assist.”
There is a moment of eye contact as Obi-Wan adjusts the blanket and it's all laid out bare between them. They've had this discussion in tents, on battlefields, at the temple, and, once —memorably— hip deep in a swamp. Clones are not lesser beings. Blast their training, blast the doctrine of the Kaminoans, blast their blasted sense of duty.
"Your life is of no less value than anyone's," he says.
Cody’s expression hardens as Obi-Wan moves to stand and he snakes his free hand out, catching him by the wrist in a strong grip. “If that's true, it's your turn, Sir.”
No. Now emergency beacon. Now rig power to heat the cabin. Now…
“I’m fine, Cody.”
Now a scowl, familiar and deep.
"You’re not. Clean that, bandage it, and take some pain meds before you go into shock and we both die.”
The Force is crackling around Cody now, angry and…afraid? Yes. Afraid, But not for himself. Never for himself.
Obi-Wan sighs, sinking down next to him. “No one is dying here today.”
It’s gruesome work, but he sets to pulling the shards from his arm while Cody supervises, still scowling. Fourteen come out easily, but the rest are going to need a pair of forceps and, quite possibly, some sedation. He could lean into the Force to ease the pain, but conserving his strength seems the wiser option.
So, he holds the arm up for inspection, blood dripping onto Cody’s armor, fresh against the darker red.
“Bacta,” Cody instructs. “And then bandage.”
The tone is one he’s heard Cody use many, many times with his men. It’s not unkind, but there’s a steely note at the bottom of things that promises it will only get unpleasant if he’s ignored.
The bacta is easy enough to slather on with his off hand, but the bandages prove trickier. Trying to get the patches open and placed at the correct angles is an exercise in frustration until Cody offers to help. His dominant arm is uninjured and, together, they manage to place and seal four patches, only mangling one precious strip in the process.
Obi-Wan smiles a thank you and swipes his left arm across his sweaty brow, preparing to rise, but Cody’s finger’s close again and he gives a gentle tug.
Sweat plus cold equals shock.
“Rest,” Cody says. “Ten minutes isn’t going to kill either of us.”
“Really, Cody. I do wish you’d stop inviting death to this party.”
But the commander is right. He does need a few minutes –-maybe even a little meditation–- and that time isn’t going to cost them much.
“Fine,” he concedes. “But you’re to do the same. Ten minutes. And then I’ll get the beacon up.”
Ten minutes turns into two hours and when Cody wakes, he’s alone in the cabin. The door to the cockpit is closed and the low-level emergency lights are on, as are the environmental controls. It’s not exactly warm in the shuttle, but it’s a hell of a lot warmer than it was when he and the general had pressed close under the foil blankets while resting. His blacks are crusted with dried blood and his arm feels like, well…like a large hunk of transparisteel is wedged dangerously close to an artery.
But he’s not dead. And that’s something.
He considers getting up to offer help in the cockpit, even going so far as to shift his legs for better leverage, but the movement sends a sharp spike of pain through his arm and shoulder and the white-hot blaze forces second thoughts. How much help could he possibly be, woozy and bleeding with only one good hand?
The cockpit door shudders and slides into a series of jerking motions that stop with a violent screech, leaving about a hand’s width open for the general to shove a booted foot through for leverage. More screeching and a series of grunts punctuated with a few choice words –some of which Cody’s never heard before but knows must be foul– follow and, soon, the rest of the general comes into view as he wedges his body through the opening.
He’s pale, but the cold has brought redness to cheeks and nose and it’s actually rather charming, though entirely the wrong time to take notice of such things.
“Ah,” the general smiles. “You’re awake. I was beginning to think you’d sleep through our rescue.”
“Comms up?”
The general nods on his way across the small space. “Enough to get a message to the capitol, who relayed it to the Negotiator. Help should be here in about…” he pauses to take a look at his chrono and frown “seven hours, give or take.”
Well, that’s a relief. Cody fully expects to die before the end of this war, but he’d rather not do it slowly by freezing to death, laid low by a wayward piece of transparisteel. At least let him take Grievous along for the ride, if only as a token of thanks for his service to the Republic.
He shifts a bit to make room as the general kneels next to him, peering closely. Kenobi’s expression is carefully blank in that jedi way, but Cody can sense the worry–even without the Force to guide him.
“How are you feeling?”
Loaded question. He’s feeling like someone tried to run him through with an electrostaff and drained a liter of his blood for an encore, but admitting it isn’t going to ease the general’s concern.
“Tired,” he says. “And a little sore.”
The general’s left eyebrow arches impossibly high, but he refrains from comment in favor of laying a gentle hand on Cody’s chest and slipping into the Force.
“Oh, Cody. If that’s ‘a little sore’, I’d hate to see what agony is like.”
He’s been in agony, actually. This is close, but not quite there.
“I’m fine, Sir.”
Kenobi huffs out a snort and, to Cody’s dismay, it hangs in the air between them. It’s that cold in the shuttle. In fact, now that he’s closer, Cody can see that the general’s lips are a little blue and his teeth are on the verge of chattering.
“Sir,” he says. “Are you familiar with Conduct Regulation 46-03.2?”
The general looks to the ceiling for a moment, eyes lidded in thought. “No GAR officer shall requisition the use of local livestock for food unless all supplies have been thoroughly damaged or exhausted and the troops have gone at least forty-eight hours without a meal.”
Kark it. How does the man remember such things? It’s not like he had them flash-drilled into him as a cadet.
“My mistake, Sir. I think the cold is getting to me. Would you mind sharing the blankets?”
And there’s the look. The one that says Just who do you think you’re fooling, Commander?
“Ah,” Kenobi makes a show of stroking his beard ponderously. “I think you must mean 43-06.2, Commander. 'When faced with dangerously adverse conditions, the trappings of rank can be abandoned in favor of survival; up to and including –'”
“Huddling for warmth, Sir.”
The general nods once, crisply. “The very one. I’ll forgive the mistake, seeing as you’ve nearly bled to death and that must surely affect cognition."
“Appreciate it, Sir. Won’t happen again.”
It’s not simple. The general had tucked Cody in quite tightly and unwrapping the layers of cloak and blankets without aggravating the wound is tricky. But, they’re two of the finest strategists in the galaxy and highly motivated to not die of hypothermia before rescue can come so, eventually, they’re pressed together in a pocket of relative warmth.
On Kamino –and the venators and even in the camps– Cody’s brothers often share space like this. Warmth is sometimes a factor, but there is real comfort to be found, too; tactile and solid reminders that you are not alone in the galaxy. No matter how bleak things might seem, the weight of someone against you –heart beating and breath rising in time with your own– brings peace.
They’ve been this close before, jammed together in tight spaces on ships and in trenches. Once, Cody’d spent the better part of an hour buried under the jedi’s weight in a partially collapsed building while they’d waited for Ghost to come dig them out. But this is different.
No danger. Well, no immediate danger, anyway. Sure, he could bleed out if one of them moved too quickly or in the wrong way, but what were the odds of that? The general would be careful. He always was.
“Better?” Kenobi asks.
It is, actually. Very much so.
“Better.”
They sit in comfortable silence for quite a while. Cody’s got a million questions to ask the general; everything from minutia about the administrative aspects of running the 212th to queries about what it’s like to be a jedi. But he takes his cue from Kenobi in most things and the general seems to be lost in thought, so Cody settles in, breathing against the pain as he shifts, and starts making mental lists about duty rotations and supply requisitions.
Somewhere in between wondering if it made more sense to request a restock of linens before or after their next campaign and pondering the potential ramifications to Ghost’s morale if he sent Wooley off to ARC training at the same time Flood was at ARF, he must have fallen asleep again. But it’s only obvious because pain jerks him awake.
“Sorry,” the general says, wincing in sympathy. “My leg was falling asleep.”
Cody grunts a reply. He’s usually one to find coherence quickly upon waking, but this time he has to gather his consciousness with deliberate effort.
“No problem, Sir. Must have dozed off while waiting for my spa treatment.”
The corners of the general’s mouth twitch in amusement. His color is better now and his hair is mussed – he must have slept, too.
“Ah, yes. The ice baths of Kijimi are known to be very restorative,” he deadpans. “Though I’ve always thought you to be more of a hot stone massage sort.”
Hot stone massage? Cody’s never heard of such a thing, but every single word sounds absolutely amazing.
“That’s my after dinner appointment, Sir.”
That gets a full on laugh and the sound of it brings warmth flooding into Cody’s belly. It’s rich and ringing and delightful and he doesn’t get to hear it nearly often enough. Three times a day, every day would not be often enough. He could live in that sound – right between the inhale and the first expulsion of breath.
“Well, I hate to break it to you, Commander. But you’re going to have to reschedule. We’ll be on the Negotiator by dinner time.”
In fact, the air in the shuttle has started to thrum with the pulse of a lartie's engine and, moments later, several thuds on the ceiling (…floor?) alert them to the fact that Ghost is on the hull and looking for a place to breach.
The comm in Cody's gauntlet crackles to life and it can't compare to the general's laugh, but it's still a glorious thing.
"Take cover, Sirs," Boil says. "We're coming in."