Waxer and Boil take not one, not two, but three separate trips from the cargo bay to the barracks holding various bags and pretending not to look out for officers. Somehow, they miss Cody standing next to the caf machine every time.
It’s too godsdamned early for this.
Cody downs the last of his coffee and interrupts them on their fourth trip. “Troopers,” he calls. They nearly drop their oddly shaped bags in their haste to snap to attention. “What are you doing?”
Waxer scratches the back of his unhelmeted head. “Ah, nothing, sir. Just, uhm, moving supplies.”
“I see. What supplies?”
Boil shifts from one foot to the other. “Supplies for, uhm, the troops?”
“Troopers.”
“Commander.”
“Troopers.” Cody crushes his empty coffee mug and throws it over his shoulder into the trash. “What do you have.”
It takes perhaps another thirty seconds of blank staring for Waxer to break. “They’reLifeDaydecorationssir,” he confesses, face turning as read as the CG’s armor.
Cody blinks. “They’re what?”
“Life Day decorations, sir.” Waxer shifts from one foot to the other and something in his bag clinks. “To. You know.”
“Celebrate Life Day,” Boil finishes.
“Yeah.”
Cody raises an eyebrow. “I see. And this was authorized by…?”
Silence.
Cody looks from Waxer and Boil’s hopeful faces to the bags, then over their shoulders to the barracks. He thinks about morale as of late. He looks back to their big tooka eyes.
Slowly, decisively, he turns back towards the caf machine. “Dismissed, troopers.”
“...Sir?”
“I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary,” Cody says, pouring himself a new cup of caf. He shouldn’t have thrown the old one out, but, well. Dramatic effect and all that. “In fact, I will continue to see nothing out of the ordinary.”
Boil clears his throat. “What?” There’s the sharp sound of clattering plastoid and an offended noise. “Oh. Oh. Yes, sir. Of course.”
“Thank you, sir,” Waxer adds. “We’ll just be in the barracks, then. Doing. Nothing.”
“Dismissed, troopers.”
The next month is busy, to say the least. Maybe ‘catastrophically hectic’ would be a better term. Either way, Cody hardly has time to eat, let alone contemplate Galactic holidays and the GAR’s participation therein.
Sure, hypothetically, he’d known that natborns got each other presents on Life Day. Hypothetically, he understands the concept of giving gifts. Hypothetically, he’s totally prepared for Life Day.
He’s totally fucked.
“What am I supposed to do?” he despairs. “I can’t get presents for all of them! I can’t only get presents for some of them!”
Across the room, Obi-Wan chuckles. “Cody, dear, you don’t have to get them presents. You’re their commander, I’m sure they’ll understand.”
Supposedly, they’ve been working on paperwork for almost an hour. In reality, Obi-Wan’s been doing paperwork and Cody’s been staring blankly at his datapad, mind running a klik a minute while he tries to figure out what the fuck to do about Life Day. “It’s not that simple! They’ve never had the chance to celebrate Life Day before and I guess I just, I don’t, I don’t want to let them down,” Cody finishes, trailing off and fighting the urge to slam his bucket back down over his head.
Obi-Wan sets his datapad down and fixes Cody with a long, searching look. “Cody, as often is the case, I can’t claim to even begin to understand. All I’ll say is that nothing you do with genuine intentions and care is going to be wrong. It’s a holiday about family. Caring is the most important part, and you’ve got that more than covered.”
Cody frowns, chewing his lip. Family. “General, I think I might have an idea.”
“You want what?”
“Look, Slippers, can you make it happen or not?” Cody raises an eyebrow at his intelligence officer, daring him to say anything insubordinate.
Slippers gives him an exasperated sigh. “I, I, I suppose I can, but it’s so far back that at this point it’s going to be like finding a tick on a bantha, sir.”
“Slippers, please.”
“I don’t have time for—”
“I’ll give you half my caf rations next month.”
“I’ll have it by morning.”
Cody has turned a blind eye to several Life Day related illicit activities in the past month. He’s not seen troopers carting around armfuls of tinsel, sparkly boxes, and what looked like a whole karking tree, but none of his not-seeing had prepared him for the sheer level of festivity Waxer and Boil had brought upon the barracks. Not an inch of the ceiling is visible. It’s completely covered in strings of lights, fake foliage, and assorted baubles. None of it matches. The bunk frames are wrapped in wrapping paper and recycled flimsiwork adorned with pen drawings. In the far corner is something that passes for a Life Day tree, strung with caf popcorn. A slightly ludicrous number of presents of definitely ludicrous size sit under it.
“Where the fuck did you get all of this?” he breathes, ducking under a paper snowflake to step closer to Waxer and Boil’s bunks.
Waxer’s all grins. “It was… creatively sourced, Commander.”
Cody shakes his head, too mesmerized by the lights and laughter to begin to care about the legality. “It’s incredible,” he admits. “It’s… They look very happy.”
Boil snorts. “Yeah, well, this company’d lose it over a flimsiboard box with a tree painted on it. Doesn’t mean it’s anything special.”
Waxer punches him. “Anyways, Commander,” he continues over the sound of Boil’s protests. “We got you something.”
“And by ‘we,’ he means ‘us,’” Boil adds.
“And by ‘us,’ he means ‘all of Ghost.’”
“Yeah,” Boil agrees, and produces a little box from his belt.
“Oh,” Cody says, too dumbfounded for a moment to realize he’s supposed to take it. “Thank you, you didn’t have to.”
“Just open it,” Boil urges.
It really is a small box, barely heavy enough to feel in his hand. It’s wrapped in shiny red paper that crinkles loudly as he tears through it. Inside is…
“Really? ‘Number One Dad?’”
Waxer is laughing so hard he’s fallen into his bunk.
“Put it on, Commander,” one of the shinies calls. “It’s a sticker. For your helmet!”
Cody closes his eyes and begs the Force for patience. “You all are children. You know that, right?”
“And this,” Boil interrupts before Cody can lunge at Gearshift for giving him the finger, “is your other gift.” He tugs something over Cody’s head, too quick for him to get a look at it. Instinctually, he recoils, lashing out with one hand and putting the other to his head only to find something… fuzzy?
He tugs the hat off. It’s lopsided, clearly hand-knit in 212th orange and white with a mangled sun on the front and a pompom on the top. It’s soft.
“Waxer found the yellow, I found the white and the needles, Juniper found the pattern, and DK and Mini knitted it,” Boil tells him.
“This is…” Gods dammit his eyes are burning. “Thank you,” he says to the room at large. He pulls the hat back on. “All of you.”
“You’re welcome, Commander,” choruses back to him from all across the room and shit, he’s got to give his present and get out of here or else he’s really going to lose it.
“Waxer, Boil, with me.” He beckons them closer, herding them towards the bunk and away from the crowd. Once he’s got their attention, he fishes the datastick out of his pocket. “This is your present. It’s for all of Ghost, but I’m giving it to you two first.” Both of them cock their heads in curious sync. “After we left Ryloth, Numa went to live with her aunt and uncle. This is their comm code. They’re expecting a call from you.” Boil’s mouth falls open. Tears spring to Waxer’s wide eyes. “Here, take it.”
Waxer’s the first to recover, taking the chip from Cody and staring at it like it’s made of pure beskar. “Commander, how?”
“Pulled a couple of strings with a couple of people, bribed a few intel officers,” Cody admits. “She’s excited to hear from you two.”
For a moment, he’s the subject of twin stares. Then, they’re tackling him in a hug that’s more like a battle.
“Thank you,” one of them whispers.
“Happy Life Day, troopers,” he answers.