ccinagalaxyfaraway:

In this universe, Wolffe derives his authority from Plo. Everyone knows his unit is Plo’s favorite, and when he speaks it can be assumed he does so on Plo’s behalf. He doesn’t need a Corp when he has a Councilor.

In the universe next door, Wolffe claws his way up to Marshal Commander, and he drags Plo up the ladder with him. Plo is a Jedi still, and that lends him a measure of autonomy, but he’s just a Master. He’s trained a few Padawans, undertaken more than a few missions, but so have many, many others. The Council sends him to Wolffe’s 104th and he stays there, except for a few instances of turning tail and vanishing at the first whiff of suspicion that someone might have ideas about quadrupling the size of his command.

Wolffe, though. Wolffe is a Battalion Commander with his eyes on Marshal, and nothing short of death is going to stop him from earning his dots. He is very, very good at what he does, and the Above take notice as appropriate. When Regimental Commander Saks is requested for a hush-hush assignment, he selects Wolffe to take his place.

It’s been long enough that of course Wolffe goes to Plo with the news first. He’s comfortable preening over it, and Plo is comfortable letting his tusks twitch under his filter in quiet pleasure and offering his congratulations. They share a meal and a laugh over the impending convolution of the chain of command. 

(Plo, see, is a Master, which makes him a General, which means he’s supposed to be leading a legion at least. Seniority in the Order suggests he would be head of a corp. How he ended up occupying a junior Padawan’s position is beyond anyone’s comprehension. So he’s officially head of the 104th and backed up by a Battalion Commander-who-won’t-be-Wolffe, and Wolffe is Regimental Commander overseeing four battalions (sans Jedi Commander, because nobody wants to throw in the issue of a Padawan giving a Master his marching orders) including Plo and the 104th, which makes him higher up on the chain except that Plo is still technically a General and – look, we could go in circles forever, it’s all complicated. Suffice it to say Plo smiles, nods, and does as he’s told, and Wolffe does his best not to think too hard about giving orders to his boss.

Anyway.)

There’s a couple interesting weeks while they adjust to the state of things, but really aside from the increased load of paperwork Wolffe gets to do and directing larger battles from a slightly higher vantage point, things are the same. There’s still evenings in the command tent planning movements and covert kicking-each-other-under-the-table. The war goes on, and so does life. 

Wolffe gets himself a brigade after a time. There are a lot of troopers under him, and a number of Jedi too. Technically there’s another Jedi General he’s supposed to be working with, but he’s not going to just give up his Pack. They’re his. Plo is his. And it’s kinda funny to watch the confused squirming when Plo has to deliver a message to another Battalion Commander in his robes and does his Senior Commander Wolffe said routine. Also having Plo on hand to run errands for him is viscerally satisfying, in a way that sending actual messengers isn’t. There’s some exploring to do there, he knows, but Plo and his blasted rules won’t let him before this whole abuse of power thing gets sorted out. A little longer – a few more months of catching himself staring after his jetti and dreaming about crossing boundaries that look less firm by the day. It’s almost a relief when there’s some reorganization, his brigade expands into a legion, and he is finally, finally unquestionably not-under-Plo’s-command. 

There’s a lot of fun had afterwards. We don’t have to go into detail. Behind closed doors and all that. But that isn’t the end; Wolffe wants Marshal, remember, and he hasn’t got there yet. 

The 63rd Forward Corp is tasked with reclaiming a planet in the mid-Rim, and Wolffe’s legion assigned the business of establishing a defensible landing ground. In the two weeks before the assault, he sleeps poorly, running the simulations over and over again, hoping to find another option. There is none; someone is going to have to lead the way, and the only people he trusts to do the job right are the Pack. The survival rate for such a position is atrocious. Geonosis, Point Rain – the numbers speak for themselves, but if anyone can survive this and maximize the odds of success, it’s Plo. He cannot trade hundreds of brothers to spare one Jedi. When he lays out the plan in front of his officers, he meets Plo’s eyes through the goggles, drawing courage from him, and Plo nods and says It will be done. His pride in Wolffe is slim comfort.

Three weeks later, he is finally cleared to land. He steps off the shuttle into the encampment the Pack has set up, and it is Commander Abesh who greets him. If he asks the question and things are as he fears, he will be useless for the rest of the day. He allows Abesh to escort him around camp, taking reports and issuing orders, and when things are stable they walk to Medical.

Sergeant Catch looks up from wrapping a leg and hands his patient off to someone else. Abesh vanishes to give them privacy, and they duck into a tent filled with tanks. In the third tank from the right, Plo floats unconscious, stripped bare to allow the burns covering the right half of his body to heal. After they’d lost contact in the first week, he’d been caught in a blast while redirecting incoming fire.

And Wolffe knows this was bound to happen. His jetti leads from the front and has for as long as Wolffe’s known him. There isn’t a danger he wouldn’t face for his men. All the same, the sight of him injured carrying out Wolffe’s will twists at his insides. It has never been so easy to understand attachment, staring up at Plo with one hand pressed against the tank.

He isn’t there when they pull Plo out. He’s halfway across the continent, dealing with a cluster that unexpectedly promoted a lot of people before they were ready, including Wolffe. On the grounds that he’s the only senior on-site with experience in mountainous terrain, he takes charge of the defense. It’s a testament to his skill and good fortune that they don’t end up besieged. He comes limping back into camp with parts of several legions trailing behind him, battered and bruised but gloriously alive with the Separatist flag in hand to boot. The oldest members of his Pack preceed him with the news.

It adds to his satisfaction to see Plo when he enters the command center unaccompanied. They’re working on something, probably logistics – Plo’s great with them and Wolffe hates them more than almost anything else – and Plo is leaning on the table, moving stiffly, bandages peeking out from under his armor, but he’s alive and in one piece.

Plo looks up, attuned as ever to Wolffe’s presence, and in a voice still hoarse but filled with pride, he calls the room to attention for his Marshal. Wolffe smiles, meets his eyes, and puts them at ease.