Standard Disclaimer: I own nothing. Star Wars in any shape, size or dimension, belongs to George Lucas. Ro and Wren are, however, all mine so hands off! *points blaster* Trades of permission only occur after proper amounts of chocolate-chip-fudge and cookie dough ice cream have been deposited into my account.

Author's Note: Alright, gentlebeings. Now that the formalities are out of the way, let me welcome you to this newest installment of the Mockingbird series. This will be a vignette series exploring Ro's and Wren's early adventures and the growth of their partnership. Postings will occur every Friday and should something interfere in that schedule, I'll do my best to give notice. Has no one slotted Darth Real Life yet?

Cheers! impoeia.

The Partnership Agreement

Onboard the Mockingbird, en route to Ansion

Wren polished off the last of his nuna eggs, dragging a piece of mealbread over the plate to soak up the remaining yolk. He pushed the bread into his mouth and took a long drag of his caf.

Ro watched him over the rim of her glass of muja juice, feeling a bit like a youngling watching the akk devour his latest kill at the local zoo.

The atmosphere inside the galley was….Not hostile, exactly, but definitely warily expectant.

Breakfast so far had been a very quiet affair, as neither one appeared to really know how to start this new day. Ro herself was feeling a bit tentative in that regard. She normally didn't have a problem with plunging into the deep end of a black hole, but this was entirely new territory to her and she wanted everything to work out so badly.

Not that the galaxy was doing her the favor of making that particular task easy.

Artee was up in the cockpit, flying the ship and happy over the convenient excuse that got him as far away from their newest crew member as possible. Her astromech had not been happy - to say the least - about Wren joining the team. Since leaving Gaftikar the day before, Artee had gone from shrieking dire statistics of doom to wailing off every human platitude his memory banks could provide him with - including the one about three being a crowd - and had finally settled into a sulky silence.

All ol' Artee needs now is a 'No Organics Allowed' holo for the cockpit and he'll be in total emo-droid mode.

Ro, on the other hand, didn't have an excuse or task to fall back on and needed to figure out a way to deal with her altered living situation.

It was the morning after she'd invited Wren to join her on her ship and her quest to stop sleemos and baddies across the galaxy in the name of the Republic, justice and gooey crumblebuns everywhere and Ro had no idea what to say to the man.

The silence that had settled over them after Ro's first enthusiastic good morning and Wren's answering grunt was beginning to edge into the uncomfortable and awkward. She'd dealt with morning grumps before, but having Wren stand in her cozy galley, freshly scrubbed and as wary as a gundark out of its cave, had driven home the reality of the situation she'd gotten herself into. Ever since, her stomach was a-flutter with nervous butterflies and her tongue was all twisted up and shy.

She didn't want to say the wrong thing and make Wren regret his decision to accompany her, instead of staying either on Gaftikar or returning to his old unit. But how long exactly could two people sit across from each other without saying a word?

We didn't have this hitch on Gaftikar, Ro thought ruefully as she refilled her glass for a lack of anything better to do. Didn't take us more than three winks before we were gabbing away. Or bickering. Yes, they'd done a lot of the latter on Gaftikar. Looking back on the last two hectic weeks, it seemed to Ro that, as a matter of fact, they hadn't been able to say two sentences to one another before descending into shouting matches, childish bickering or both. And now?

Total emtix, she thought, not at all happy with the situation. Where had this sudden awkwardness come from, she wondered? She was usually so chatty around people and Wren….Well. Granted, Wren wasn't the Chancellor of Conversationalism, but he could turn a phrase and he'd certainly never been shy about voicing his opinions during their time together on Gaftikar.

She peeked at him from beneath the cover of her long, unruly bangs, but his dark brown eyes were taking in the galley like he was analyzing every nook and cranny. Judging by his expression, he wasn't at all interested in starting a commo with her.

She'd given him the grand tour before they'd left Gaftikar and he'd done his own thorough inspection of her wonderful ship before withdrawing into one of the two empty cabins and shutting the door in her face.

But not before he gave me a whopper reaming for that hug.

Wren had not been appreciative of her little hug ambush.

Oh, she'd known it was probably a bad idea the moment the impulse had popped into her head. The last time she'd asked him if she could hug him, Wren had almost put a blaster bolt through her then and there.

But she hadn't been able to help herself. Seeing him standing there in the galley, with his bags all packed, a triple-threat hunk of handsomeness all ready to share her space with her, it was all her dreams come true.

She'd finally found a partner who might stand a decent chance of keeping up with her. And her excitement and joy had been so great at that prospect, she hadn't been able to contain the excited energy.

But given the reaction she'd gotten, she might want to find someone else to hug, the next time the urge came over her.

Mental note: Cookie. Hugs. Potent mixture.

Ro's wandering gaze fell on his plate and she felt her lips twitch a little at the sight of its emptiness. Wren was a surprisingly neat eater. Given his fierce nature and his even more ferocious temper, she'd somehow assumed he'd be the type to gobble his food like a half-starved sungwa. Instead, there wasn't a crumb in sight and his utensils lay next to his plate in so orderly a fashion that Ro was certain she could take a ruler to them and find knife and fork spaced evenly to a fraction of an inch.

For someone who was, at other times, such a complete maverick as Wren, this orderliness seemed out of character, yet he went through the motions with the thoughtlessness of an unconscious habit.

Wonder who house-broke him? And how? Whip, chair and reward?

Finishing his inspection of her galley, Wren turned his attention back to Ro. Seeing her close regard of him, the trooper raised his black eyebrows.

"Something on your kriffing mind?"

Ro grimaced. Of all the possible conversation starters. Her new partner had a mouth like a Dagobah swamp.

"You," she admitted. "Us."

"'Us'?" he repeated with that sardonic twist to his lips. The action pulled the scar on the right corner of his mouth tight, giving the gesture a mocking element. "There's no 'us', cheeka."

Ro frowned, pricked by the stinging pellets of his mockery. "Absotively there is," she protested. "We're a team now. Partners." She injected the last word with a bit of tentative hope. She'd been wanting a partner for so long now; even before she'd started traveling on her own as a Jedi investigator.

She'd tried everything, from asking people across the personality spectrum to join up with her, to attempting to insert herself into an established team. But nothing had ever fit; nothing had ever felt right.

With Callista and Geith, she'd always been the third wheel.

Ash Jarvee was more interested in the mechanics of a problem, than pursuing the actual solution.

Vash Dan hadn't even survived the first ten minutes of their first date; wilting beneath the force of her enthusiastic personality like a flower exposed to too much sun.

Kaes was far too self-involved to care about the galaxy's problems and the one time she'd tried to team up with an Antarian Ranger, the poor woman had begged for a reassignment to Tabiid after not even a week in Ro's company.

People liked Ro; but in small doses. Wren was one of the very few organics she'd ever met who had been able to stand a near constant exposure of undiluted essence of Ro and keep giving as good as he got.

He was strong. He was passionate. He was…

"You're not my partner, cheeka. You're my assignment and effing meal-card. Not to mention my escape route off of that fekking mudcrutching Rimmer planet."

He was a total mono jerk!

"Did you forget to read the fine print?" she demanded, more hurt than angry. Rejection tended to do that. "We're supposed to be working together."

Wren snorted. "Really?" he drawled. "Because according to my orders, I'm supposed to be holding your kriffing leash."

Ro blinked, momentarily distracted. "Your orders?"

Wren grunted what might have been an affirmative, pouring himself another cup of caf and Ro was glad she'd remembered to filch some from the Eyat Command Base's mess hall. She didn't drink caf herself, but she'd lived with enough caf-guzzlers to know it was a bad idea to deprive them of their morning's jolt of java. And that went doubly for so natural a sweetheart as Wren.

"Came in yesterday," he told her, his tone nonchalant.

Ro narrowed her eyes at him, suspicion ratcheting up at the change in his voice. He met her gaze evenly and though his face was deliberately bland, she could feel the flicker of amusement dance across his Force-aura, like heat lightning.

He was baiting her.

She took a deep breath. Well, two could play that game. Ro let her irritation with him flow back into the Force and gifted the trooper with a dazzling smile.

"That's stellar," she chirped and made a grab for another flatcake. "You feeling in a sharing mode?"

His eyes flashed in vexation at failing to get a rise out of her and Ro's grin widened. He was very good at getting under people's skin, but then, so was she. Ro knew how to get what she wanted without giving an inch in turn.

"According to GAR HQ, I'm responsible for making sure you don't get your fekking barvy head blown off," he snapped. "As well as ensure you act," he grimaced in distaste, "'in the best interest of the Republic'." Wren gestured at her with his caf mug. "Doesn't sound like the kriffing GAR trusts you past the fardling red tape."

"Sure does," she murmured thoughtfully. Well, that didn't quite sound like the deal she'd hammered out with Master Yoda and Windu.

Wonder if the High Council knows Wren was issued an alternate version of our deal? Ro had been insistent in her commo with Yoda and Windu that she wanted an equal partnership with her clone escort; a concept neither Jedi had been completely against, though she'd had to settle in the final draft for having Wren promoted to lieutenant. That, apparently, was as close to equal in standing as the military would allow.

But it didn't seem the GAR agreed and the brass in charge must have gone behind the Council's back, issuing Wren a set of orders that might have been the same in context, but were certainly different in wording.

Sneaky and strange. I thought the High Council was part of the decision-making element in the brass department.

"First the damn shinies and now this." Wren's half-muttered words jolted Ro out of her pensiveness. Clearly Wren wasn't happy with his orders either, though for obviously different reasons. "I've been reduced to an effing handler."

Ro slammed down her glass, causing juice to slosh over the rim. "Handler?" she asked incredulous. "Did I need a handler when I was hauling your keister out of trouble at the Shenio mine? Did I ever look like I needed a handler?"

Wren snorted, pointing his index finger first at her long, pale blond hair with the electric blue zigzag lines dyed into it, then let the finger travel down her body, taking in the neon pink shirt that hung off of one slim shoulder, the purple leggings and finally ending by pointing at her fuzzy Lepi slippers through the table.

"I'd say you're in need of a karking asylum, cheeka, but that call is above my vaping paygrade."

Her face went a dark crimson, adding another delightful shade to her already colorful appearance.

"What do you have against my wardrobe?" she asked indignantly. She liked the way she dressed. She thought she looked stellar.

Wren rolled his eyes, beginning to peel a muja fruit. "You want that list effing alphabetical or crinking numerical?"

"It's colorful," she declared hotly. "And my clothes are bombad better than monochromatic hard-skin," she added with distaste, waving an expansive hand at the scuffed white of the plastoid armor he wore, and the black bodyglove beneath. "You look like tauntaun poodoo on a Hoth snowfield. Jerk," she added in a mutter, loud enough to be sure he heard.

Wren peeled his lips back in something halfway between a smile and a snarl. "Barvy cheeka."

"Poodoo head," she volleyed back, adding a glare for good measure, which he returned in kind.

"Dwaning laserbrain."

"Clay-brained, knotty-pated stoopa."

"Vaping kark of a Jedi!"

"Loathsome grub toad!"

They were on their feet now, shouting into each others faces, which were turning crimson with exertion and rage. The fact that Ro had to crane her neck to glare at the much taller trooper only stacked insult upon insult.

"Chuff-brained, snarked-up schutta!"

"Rampallian!"

"Farkling bitc...Wait?" He blinked at her in confusion. "What?"

"Rampallian!" she repeated at the top of her lungs, glaring up at him. Then, just for spite, she added, "Fustilarian! And now I'm out of smart-think insults, so there!"

She stamped one Lepi slippered foot and dropped back into her chair, arms crossed over her thin chest and pouting for all she was worth.

And darn tooting-hooting if I feel younglingish about it! He started with the name-calling.

"What the fek's a fustilarian?"

Wren was staring down at her like she'd grown a second head without having the courtesy of informing him about the event beforehand.

The air in the galley was thick with the spicy-orange taste of irritation and was threatening to edge into the more jagged, red and black sensation of anger. In response to the tension, as well as adding to it, Wren's Force-aura was alive with crackling, lightning-like waves of growing rage, held only in check by the deepening furrow between his brows, as he tried to figure out her last set of insults.

Ro blew her bangs out of her eyes. "Learn to read," she told him haughtily, "oh ye knave of lacking imagination."

"I thought you were out of insults?" he asked sarcastically.

Ro gave him a glare that would have peeled the paint off of her astromech. "I said, I'm out of smart-think insults. Learn to listen while you're at it." Then she sniffed in a perfect imitation of her adoptive mother, Eda, at her most condescending. "Besides, the intelligent woman of class always keeps a spare in case of emergencies."

He stared at her. She stared back.

Three seconds ticked by, then fifteen…

And then Wren roared with laughter. "You…" He didn't seem to be able to manage more than that. Dropping back into his own seat, he covered his eyes with one hand, shaking his head as he continued to laugh.

"What?" Ro looked at him, puzzled. And people say I'm mercurial. Still, her lips were already twitching with the need to join the hilarity. For a man who seemed to live on rage, Wren had a surprisingly nice laugh.

She giggled, then quickly clapped her hands over her mouth to stifle the urge. She was mad at him, gosh toot it.

"You," he repeated and managed to force the sentence out in-between bursts of laughter. "You are...the single….most thermal cheeka...this side of the Rishi Maze." There was an undeniable tinge of admiration to the words.

She couldn't keep the giggles in anymore. They spilled out of her like a river, until they grew into a torrent of laughter.

Ro'd always had an infectious laugh, though whether this was a result of her Force-empathy or a natural inclination, she didn't know or care about. The fact was, the sound of her laughter seemed to spur Wren on even more and the tension left the galley - indeed, the entire ship - like clouds being scattered by a warm summer breeze.

The tentative toot of Artee inquiring whether he should release some anesthetic gas to control what sounded like a crazed pack of toklars, managed to settle Ro somewhat again.

Her laughter faded into a big grin as she hollered loud enough for Artee to hear: "No need. Pack's been fed and appeased."

Across from her, Wren snorted into his cup of caf, but the sound was one of good humor, rather than derision.

"That clanker is as fekked up as you are," he told her.

Ro shrugged good-naturedly; a sound laughing-fit in the morning tended to put her in a stellar mindset for the rest of the day.

Things are already looking up. If we can laugh together, then what can't we do?

"Artee's got his quirks and woodles," she replied. "So do I. Keeps things on the interesting side of the scale."

"Sure fekking does," he agreed and popped a slice of muja fruit into his mouth. Wren chewed the fruit contemplatively. "You've got good chow, cheeka."

Which, she reflected, was the second nice thing he'd said to her in as many minutes. If he kept this up, she might have to upgrade him to a decent human being.

"I try. I like your laugh," she told him, deciding it was her turn to dish out some compliments.

Both of Wren's eyebrows rose to his hairline, but the look of mild amusement did not fade from his face. There were traces of bafflement across his Force-aura, like thin lines of heavily diluted paint, as if he wasn't quite certain how to react to being - sincerely - complimented. "Really?" he finally drawled and polished off the last of his muja fruit.

"Really," she affirmed, then startled fiddling with her Padawan braid. "You know, I…" she stopped, uncertain if she wanted to continue on this track. They'd just had a nice moment - sort of. Would she ruin the tentative truce left in the wake of their shared laughter if she brought the conversation back to an earlier topic?

But even as she contemplated these things, Ro felt her traitor mouth running away with her again. " ...I'm heaps sorry you got relegated to Jedi babysitter and believe me that's not at all what I hashed out with Master Yoda and Windu on account that I don't really wanna be GAR equipment. I just want the access and the Intel and I've always wanted someone to come adventuring with me and be the bestes of partners and it would be real mono bombad stellar if we could squeeze in being friends as well, but I don't want you doing the duty just on account of it being ordered officialdom and the likes and I can understand if you want off the bird at the next port and go back to blasting tinnies without the need to hover over some Jedi, new and green to the rank and I…"

She bit down on her tongue to stop the fast flow of words. "I just…" she flushed and lowered her eyes. "I just want you to know you can…" What had been the word the clones had used? "...call endex to this experiment anytime you want. No hard feelings included in the package."

Well, she'd be bombad disappointed, but Wren didn't need to know that.

"Do you ever not kriffing talk?" he wondered aloud. "And 'bestes' is not a fardling word."

She peeked at him through the cover of her bangs and was just in time to see Wren hide a smile behind the rim of his caf mug.

The gesture heartened her and Ro beamed up at the trooper in response. "It so totally is," she protested, "so long as you use it right. So," she added hesitantly, cocking her head at him questioningly. "you...staying?"

Wren took his own sweet time in answering, making a show of draining the last dregs of his caf, while Ro fidgeted with her Padawan braid and the silk string of her holo-locket in turn.

He was torturing her with curiosity, the big mono jerk.

"The way I see it," he finally said, "the GAR wants you contained. You're an uncertainty and the military does not kriffing handle uncertainties well." He snorted at this and his eyes flickered from side to side, as if he were reliving some private memory. The right corner of his mouth twitched in what she privately thought was not the beginning of a smile. "You," and he pointed a finger at her, "are going to drive them thermal and I'm not about to miss the effing fireworks."

She blinked at that. "But isn't it your job now to make sure there aren't any fireworks?" She wasn't sure if she understood his stakes in all of this correctly. He was clearly an adventurer and ardent risk-taker, if his behavior on Gaftikar was anything to go by. And there was a wildness about him that definitely did not conform well to the military standard form. Which was sort of why she'd gotten the impression that he'd rather walk out on their new partnership than be relegated to a secondary position of making sure she didn't step out of line.

He smirked down at her, the expression a mixture of supreme confidence bordering on total arrogance and lazy amusement. "I was bred to pull the fekking trigger and die for the crinking glory of the Republic, cheeka. Nothing in my flash-training about reigning in Jedi. Besides," and the smirk widened into a grin that could have cut through durasteel, "why would I deprive myself of the fun of watching you run the kriffing brass into the ground? Commander."

Her new rank seemed to amuse him even more and he startled to chuckle, the sound a low rumble coming from his chest.

Ro cocked her head from left to right, as if this would help her turn his words over in her mind. Not just wild, she decided, but with a chaotic bend the size of a Hutt slime-trail. And he wanted her to be the source of that chaos. Because then he can disappear into it, she realized. He can be as 'mongos a maverick as he likes, so long as his superior is the same. I'm the commander; I'm the boss. If I do craziness, then he practically has to as well. It's the perfect cover.

She felt her admiration for this man grow exponentially.

She'd thought she was doing him a favor by offering him a job that would tax his considerable skills and talents - something he'd obviously been lacking on Gaftikar.

And he'd taken the opportunity and run with it at lightspeed, getting down and dirty with all the possible means by which he could exploit this situation. Without realizing it, Ro had given Wren the perfect place and opportunity to do exactly as he pleased and be himself without any reservations. All he needed to do was take care to fill in the proper reports and keep his activities stashed beneath her craziness.

And ensure I can stand him for that long. He'd called her his 'meal-ticket' but she wondered if he'd fully grasped just how dependent he was of her good will.

I don't want that, she thought. I don't want a dependent. I want a partner.

"So you're down with bending the rules?" she asked aloud.

That caused him to raise another sardonic eyebrow. "Haven't read my file yet, have you?"

"Well...no," she admitted. She had five datapads worth of information regarding her newly acquired position as a Jedi commander in the Grand Army of the Republic and his file was just the tip of the asteroid. "Haven't really gotten around to it. Good read?"

"Good enough for a kriffing promotion, apparently."

"You don't like being a lieutenant?" she asked in surprise.

"It'll fekking do."

And that was, apparently, all he was going to say on the subject.

Ro scratched the top of her head, then pulled thoughtfully at the end of her Padawan braid. "So you'll let me do as I go, despite what the GAR wants."

"More fun for me," he confirmed with a flash of teeth.

"'Kay, I can roll with that. But if we're not going to follow GAR rules or Jedi rules, then we need some rules of our own."

She jumped to her feet, snapping her fingers together as the idea crystallized in her mind. "Think-flash, and this one's a beaut."

Ro raced over to the kitchenette part of the galley, pulling open drawers and cabinets as she searched. "Where is it? Where is it?" she hummed under her breath, while Wren watched her with growing interest and some small amount of concern. He hadn't know her for all that long, but he'd already learned to regard any 'think-flash' of hers with a good portion of wariness. Especially if that idea involved him.

"Aha!" Triumphantly, she held up a pad of flimsis.

"If you're looking to make yourself a hat," Wren drawled from his position at the table, "I believe the convention states tin-wrap is best for keeping your thoughts in your head. Such as they are," he added.

Ro stuck her tongue out at him and skipped back to the table, flimsi-pad and stylus in hand. But instead of returning to her former seat, she plopped herself down on the bench that ran along one wall, right next to Wren.

"Skooch?" she asked entreatingly, nudging his shoulder gently to get her point across.

He glared at her, but complied, clearly too puzzled and curious to deny her.

Ro shoved the plates and the rest of their breakfast out of her way, before settling the flimsis and beginning to write.

"What the fek are you doing?" Wren wanted to know, peering past her arm at what she was writing.

"I told you," she said, rolling her eyes at his obtuseness, "You really do need to learn how to listen, Cookie. You and me," she said, clearly emphasizing the conjunction, "need our own set of rules. Something that's us." Ro quickly glanced at Wren, wondering if he would object to the personal pronoun again.

His eyes met hers briefly and she could actually taste the careful calculation that was going on behind those brown depths, it was so focused. He gave her a single nod, to show she could continue and Ro felt her heart leap a little.

She smiled, feeling that urge to hug him again, but decided her galley wouldn't survive another temper explosion like he'd gone through yesterday.

"Alright, so us. What's us?" she wondered, staring down at the flimsi pad, tapping the stylus against her bottom lip.

Wren read over what she'd written so far and snorted. "'The Partnership Agreement'. Trying to go for lawyer, cheeka?"

She glared at him and tried to elbow him in the ribs, but he dodged her attempt even in these close confines and retaliated by jerking on a strand of her long hair, the motion just on the edge of being painful.

"Hey!" She swatted his hand away. "Let me concentrate."

She reread what she had, then carefully printed out the words Shiv and Eda had hammered into her about what it meant to have a partner.

Wren watched, groaned in exasperation and snatched the pad away from her.

"Cookie! Warn a gal! I could have smudged the page!"

"Shove it down the airlock."

Wren's handwriting was broader and bolder than hers, but also far neater.

This time, she was the one to peer over his shoulder, watching him write, her chin barely an inch away from resting on his shoulder bell.

Wordlessly, he shrugged her off and shoved the pad back in front of her.

She reread his addition in conjunction with hers and found herself grinning like a loon and not giving a hoot about it. "I like this," Ro declared.

"It's a paragraph and two fekking rules, cheeka. Don't get cocky."

She graced him with her most innocent smile. "Seeing as you're the masc in this party, I'll leave all 'cocky' related issues to you, Cookie."

That surprised another bark of laughter out of him. "You little bitch."

"Watch your mouth," she replied in mock-indignation and threw a breakfast roll at his head.

He caught the roll, pulverizing it into crumbs in his fist, then threw the entire mess back in her face.

Ro screeched and dove beneath the table, coming back up again on the other side, where she grabbed the mealbread basket as her next source of ammo. She cocked her arm back to throw her improvised missiles, but her target was already gone.

Confused, Ro hesitated a vital second, giving Wren - who'd also ducked beneath the table - the opportunity to grab her legs and pull them out from under her.

She yelped and the mealbread basket went flying as she tried to brace for impact.

"Cookie!"

"Fekking cheeka!"

"Jerk!"

From up in the cockpit, almost lost in the din of the fight, came Artee's admonishing, I told you so.

Cleaning the galley had almost resulted in another fight, but neither Ro nor Wren could argue with the result.

The galley sparkled and smelled nicely of the citrus-scented cleaner Ro liked to use.

Once everything was done and the last crumb of pulverized bread had been swept up, Ro pinned the flimsi to her conversator.

The flimsi sheet had gotten a tad crumpled and stained in the fight between Jedi and trooper, but Ro deemed it to be in good condition still and used a Wookiee-shaped magnet to pin it in place.

"Utterly fekking ridiculous," was Wren's comment to the entire affair.

Ro adjusted the magnet so that the flimsi hung just so. "That's not what you said when I was stuffing syrup down your ears."

The reminder brought about a blistering volley of invectives in three different languages, to which Ro replied with a laugh and an outstretched tongue.

The Partnership Agreement:

From this moment on, the two parties, heretofore referred to as Jedi Commander/Jedi investigator Roweena Arhen and Lieutenant Wren, hereby agree to adhere to the following rules, written down on this here piece of flimsi, for the duration of their partnership and for the betterment of cooperation, the preservation of goods, the ship and Artee's sanity, as well as for the hinder and hamperment of sleemos, bad guys, bullies and the criminal element in this, the known galaxy.

Partnership Rules:

Rule #1: Partners watch each other's backs.

Rule #2: Never fekking screw over your partner, unless you want to end up slotted by said partner.

Translation: Emtix = vacuum (Bocce)