Archive of Our Own

It must have been the impromptu dip in the glacial waters of the ice planet (the name escapes Obi-Wan, never a good sign) and then the subsequent pursuit of the enemy to the molten planet next door. Not to mention the endless string of battles and intense politicking between the myriad Republic fractions that make up this Sith-forsaken war and it's no wonder that even a Jedi can get –

'Sick,' says Anakin, stood in the doorway of Obi-Wan's room aboard their ship. 'You're sick.'

'No need to sound so delighted over it,' grouses Obi-Wan, bringing his fist up to his mouth to cough feebly into it. Damn.

'I'm not, Master.' 

'Maybe you ought to practise what "not delighted" looks like in front of the mirror, Anakin. Or try to sound even just a little bit commiserating.'

Anakin clears his throat. 'Master,' he says dramatically, in shock, 'you look terrible. Are you ill?'

Laughing only pushes the ache deeper into his lungs. Obi-Wan stifles a groan and camouflages his wince as a casual roll onto his side, one hand (even more casually) coming to rest on the lower left of his ribcage. He drags the blanket higher, feeling cold even as his skin runs hot.

The door closes behind the sound of Anakin's footsteps; a shadow falls over Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan stares at Anakin’s knees, and when those bend down, bringing Anakin's face into view, Obi-Wan stares at it in turn.

Jedi do not lie but they're allowed to prevaricate. 

'What brings you here, Anakin? Does the Council wish to speak with me? Strange that they didn't contact me directly, although they must be appallingly aware that my former Padawan sticks closer to me than my own shadow at times. Ah. Well.' Obi-Wan makes a show of trying to sit up, smile pinned to his face. 'Let's go see a hooded Yoda about a mission.'

Anakin places the back of his hand on Obi-Wan's forehead, keeping him half propped up in bed. Obi-Wan locks his elbows so he doesn't fall back down dramatically (God forbid). 'You're burning up. You're sick. Do you need anything?'

Obi-Wan closes his eyes, despairing. That last sentence carries within it nearly a lifetime of the suppressed need to smother. Obi-Wan hates – no – as Jedi are not allowed to hate – Obi-Wan strongly objects to fussing. Especially when it's over him. Especially when Anakin is the one behind the fussing. Give the boy an inch and he'll take it to the end of the galaxy. Anakin is already unbearable in the field; a wound similar to a paper cut will have him whisking Obi-Wan to the nearest healing droid or, finding none, try to heal it himself using the Force, rather excessively as usual.

And now, this: Obi-Wan in bed, sick and feverish, bones aching with fatigue and a wet cough in his lungs. It's practically an eat-all-you-can buffet for Anakin Skywalker.

'I'm fine, Anakin.'

Anakin crooks a smile at him. 'Master, you can barely stand up and,' he playfully pokes a finger into the crevice between Obi-Wan's eyebrows, 'this means you're concentrating really, really hard. Trying not to pass out, I think. I can sense your queasiness in the Force.' 

Obi-Wan closes his eyes as he feels the gentle press of the pad of Anakin's finger. One is followed by two, then three, until Anakin is massaging Obi-Wan's brow with fine sweeps of his fingers across the aching points. The momentary relief in pressure makes Obi-Wan sigh, and he eases back down on the narrow mattress. The Force hums around him, siphoning the excess discomfort. It is utterly soaked in Anakin's presence, a warm, fierce and protective glow in their bond.

'Nothing a little bit of meditation won't cure,' Obi-Wan eventually says, blinking his eyes open. There are halos in his vision. He resists placing his hand over his aching eyes. He wants nothing more than to push into Anakin's soft touch; that tells him he should do the opposite and so he nudges Anakin's hand away. 'And you still haven't explained why you're here.' Obi-Wan frowns, remembering. 'You're supposed to be headed for Oria III, aren't you?'

Anakin carelessly settles on the floor, cross-legged, and leans forward as he says, 'In a while, Master. The Council didn't specifically say I had to leave for Oria III immediately, now did they?' 

'Anakin - !'

'Careful,' chides Anakin, the gall of him, placing a palm on Obi-Wan's chest to keep him in bed. In Obi-Wan's state, it adequately gets the job done.

'I'm sick, not injured,' says Obi-Wan, irate.

'You finally admit it! Good. I thought it would take you all day and Force knows I'm not that patient. Now, lie back down and let me help you.' 

'Your duties - '

'I know my duties, Obi-Wan. That's why I'm here.' 

'Kriff, Anakin, don't say that. You must leave for your mission at once.'

'Uh-huh.' Anakin props an elbow on the edge of the bed, running his hand through Obi-Wan's hair, and there he goes again: touching Obi-Wan without permission. Not that Anakin's ever asked for permission in his life. He's always been tactile – from the lonely boy clinging to Obi-Wan to the rebellious teen still clinging to Obi-Wan – but now it's different. A helpful hand on the arm or waist in the midst of battle has turned into the lingering brush of knuckles on the side of Obi-Wan's neck, innocent (or perhaps not) flicks of fingers on the inside of Obi-Wan's wrist, and –

Force, the way Anakin looks at him sometimes 

- it's unsettling, to say the least, how easy it is to want the touches, the looks, the brilliant presence in the Force that is Anakin all over. 

Attachments are forbidden, the Code says. Many things are forbidden. 

'Please, Anakin, I'm certain the Council doesn't need to say "immediately" for you to know that each mission is time-sensitive.'

The back of Anakin's hand rests on Obi-Wan's forehead once more. 'You're burning up,' he says, wilfully ignorant. 'I reckon it was that last assignment you were on, the one in Kryzan, wasn't it? But somehow you ended up in that Force-damned lava planet instead with your ship blown to smithereens. Honestly, Master, you always warn me about being reckless but you never take your own advice.'

'Do you follow my missions, Anakin?' asks Obi-Wan, amused despite himself.

'Oh, yes, I ask for all of your reports whenever I'm back at the Temple. I'm pretty sure Master Nu is put out with me.' 

'Well, that's unfortunate; I'd hoped some of my wilder exploits would discourage you in doing the same.'

'On the contrary, Obi-Wan, they're inspiring.'

'Have I taught you nothing, young one?'

Anakin grins at him, bright. 'Only the things you didn't want me to learn in the first place.' 

'You're far too charming for your own good,' sighs Obi-Wan, his saber hand reaching up to briefly press against Anakin's in a moment of weakness.

The grin blooms wider. 'A compliment, Master?' 

'Hardly.'

Their fingers tangle together at the first knuckles and Obi-Wan lets it happen for a few lingering heartbeats before pulling away. 'Alright, I'm not at my fittest,' he concedes, 'but I do not need a nursemaid, Anakin. Least of all you.' 

'Well, we'll just have to agree to disagree,' says Anakin cheerfully and gets up to his feet in one smooth motion. He waves a hand at Obi-Wan, eyes sparking with mischief. 'No, Master, stay in bed, please; I'll get you some food and medicine.'

Obi-Wan has enough energy to stop himself from rolling his eyes as Anakin leaves the room. There's no helping it now. Anakin will take care of him whether Obi-Wan wants him to or not. His stubbornness is rivalled only by his ego. 

It's only a Jedi helping another, Obi-Wan reminds himself. It's only Anakin.

(A small, hidden-deep-below part of him hums with satisfaction.) 

Anakin returns with a smile softer than before but no less warm, carrying a tray of real food instead of the tasteless but nutritious (or so the cooking droids claim) gruel served in the mess hall. There's a plastic cup next to the plate, tiny pills rattling round with every footstep. Anakin sets it down on the nearby work table, nudging aside Obi-Wan's datapads and lightsaber with subtle application of the Force. And by that, Obi-Wan actually means gratuitous misuse of the Force. 

'Will you ever change?' murmurs Obi-Wan, draping an arm over his eyes. He already knows the answer, of course, but hope springs eternal. 

'Did you say something, Master?'

'What have you got there, Anakin?' asks Obi-Wan instead, still hiding himself under the cover of his arm. His breath rattles in his chest mid-sentence, and it takes a cough or twelve to loosen it. He can't remember the last time he got sick and laments his current situation. Peace, stillness, acceptance...

Kriff that, a distinct voice in the back of his head says, battle-weary and worn. You deserve a long holiday after this war ends. Somewhere with a nice beach.

The ridiculousness of the thought makes Obi-Wan snort. He can picture Windu's exact face if he ever says those words out loud. Anakin's Force-presence sidles closer until he feels fingers tickling the top of his right cheek before inching below his wrist to push his hand away. It's instantly replaced by a cool, damp flannel. The sensation of Anakin's palm is shockingly warm by comparison. 

'Lift up, Master,' says Anakin, slipping an arm under Obi-Wan's shoulder and gently holding him up long enough to put another pillow under him. Obi-Wan settles back with a quiet sound, breathing a little bit easier because of the semi-upright angle.

Obi-Wan tilts his head back a little. 'That's nice, thank you.' Obi-Wan soaks in the coolness over his eyes, touching the damp cloth with his fingers; imagining he is slowly frosting from the inside, leeching the sickly warmth from his organs. 

He hears the drag of a chair from across the room and chooses to believe that Anakin got up to retrieve it with his own two legs. Over the years, he's learnt to pick his battles and to be grateful that so far, he's won every single important one. But somewhere deep inside, there is a steady fear that one day he will lose the biggest fight of all. What that fight will be, however, remains to be seen. 

'Are you hungry?' 

Obi-Wan assesses himself. His stomach roils at the thought of food, but he hasn't had anything since yesterday, and what little he'd managed to swallow had gone back up again. 'I could eat, I suppose.'

He hears Anakin make a pleased noise, followed by the rustle of fabric. 'Good, because I got these appleberries from a mission in the Mid Rim a few weeks back.'

Appleberries. Pale purple exterior with a pure white flesh; soft, sweet and tart. A rarity, appleberry production and trade are strictly regulated by the Republic and therefore, in Anakin's hands, very illegal.

'Anakin, upstanding Jedi Knight that you are, please tell me you went through the proper channels to have those.'

'I can give you two answers, Obi-Wan. Which do you want?' 

Obi-Wan resists the urge to smack his own face. 'My head hurts, so please lie to me.' 

'Then, yeah, I went through the proper channels. Definitely not through – quite literally – a smuggler I caught with a ship full of these, along with armaments he was threatening to blow up in the middle of a small city.' Anakin strokes Obi-Wan's hair. If only that doesn't feel good. 'Doing better?'

'Not even a little bit,' says Obi-Wan, and it surprises him to feel Anakin's breathy laughter stirring his hair. He's close, he realises. Too close. Obi-Wan resists the urge to turn his head. He feels something press against his lips and he panics. What –

'It's just the appleberry,' says Anakin, sounding immensely amused. 'Calm down, Master. That's what you're always telling me.'

Embarrassment makes him lick his lips and he catches a brief taste of the appleberry. It sends a signal to his brain, hunger overriding the nausea for a brief moment. He lifts a hand to push aside the cloth over his eyes but Anakin stops him. 'Are you going to feed me?' asks Obi-Wan, doubtful. He ignores the pleasure that sparks in his gut at the idea.

'I just don't want you to overexert yourself, Master.' Even with his eyes covered, Obi-Wan can easily picture the cheeky grin on Anakin's face. 'Here, open your mouth.' Fingers grip his chin gently and the smooth, faintly warm (from Anakin's hand, the thought drifts) fruit touches his lips, a hint of pressure. Obi-Wan opens wide, teeth sinking and breaking through the peel and into the flesh inside; juice drips on his tongue and Obi-Wan smells the tartness just as much as tastes it, gums aching at the sudden flavour.

Anakin rubs his thumb over the dip in Obi-Wan's chin. 'Good, that's good,' he says, voice dropping to a rumble, and Obi-Wan swallows down the appleberry and the utterly inopportune lust. 'How does that taste?'

Obi-Wan stifles a moan as he takes another bite, chews, swallows. Once the hit of tartness fades, the sweetness shows itself. 'Yes, it's very delicious, though I'm not sure how my stomach will take it.'

'They say it’s good for the immune system and cleanses the palate. It's also addictive if you're not careful, the effect similar to that of spice. The wine is even better, or so I'm told. It's got a lovely bouquet and a hint of smoke in its taste.'

'Look at you,' murmurs Obi-Wan, amused despite himself, 'and your knowledge of highly regulated goods. Who have you been expensively wining and dining, Anakin?'

There's a niggle of guilt in their bond, in the currents of the Force. 

'Let me guess,' says Obi-Wan. 'The smuggler happened to have a crate of wine along with the fruits and artillery, all of which were reported to have been destroyed in the fight.' 

'It's like you also read my mission reports, Obi-Wan.'

Obi-Wan should be angry. He should take the well-worn lecture on being a proper Jedi off its shelf and recite it for Anakin, again. Only, this time, Obi-Wan is tired, physically and emotionally, and Anakin's bright presence soothes him. 'I'll chalk this up to my feverish delirium, then.' He slides the cloth off, now dry and warming up from the heat he's giving off. Anakin smiles down at him, toothy and surprised. 'You should eat, too, if you're intent on this fool's errand. I don't want you catching what I have. And please, no jokes.'

Anakin pouts, then laughs. 'I'll eat after you.' He offers the fruit again, fingers wet at the tips, and Obi-Wan hesitates briefly before having another mouthful. He keeps his eyes on the appleberry, half-eaten and showing its pearly core, and the way Anakin's long fingers hold it, rotating the fruit each time Obi-Wan has a bite. His stomach behaves itself, accepting the fruit with more grace than Obi-Wan expected, and his mouth tingles for more.

More.

Unbidden, the idea takes root in his head: taking Anakin by the wrist, mouth bypassing the appleberry to lap at the juices soaking Anakin's palm, sucking a finger into his mouth to make sure not a single drop goes to waste. 

Anakin makes a low sound in the back of his throat, eyes darkening when Obi-Wan's gaze snaps up to his. Obi-Wan is certain that he's kept the thought to himself, but something must have leaked through their bond because the Force suddenly feels heavier, richer, drawing close around them and purring. Distantly, in the back of Obi-Wan's mind, alarm bells start to ring. Anakin uses the thumb holding his chin to wipe something away at the corner of his mouth, lingering on the plump curve of Obi-Wan's bottom lip. Obi-Wan bites the tip of his tongue to keep it from darting out, tasting more of that forbidden fruit. 

Obi-Wan gently but firmly grabs hold of his wavering self-control. 'That's enough, Anakin. Why don't you find something to clean your hands with?'

Lips twisting (disappointment? challenge? bitterness? Obi-Wan's too weary to translate), Anakin takes a step back, then another. As the distance between them grows, Obi-Wan's head clears until only the effects of the fever and body malaise remain. Anakin abruptly turns away and drops the appleberry in the bin, clattering noisily in the increasingly uncomfortable silence. Obi-Wan watches the broad length of Anakin's back, the tension in the line of it, fists clenching before Anakin brings them forward, away from Obi-Wan's view.

Obi-Wan aches. The lust from earlier is gone, grown heavy with all the promises Obi-Wan wishes he could make, the distance he wants to bridge. And he does want, so very much, but he also knows he must not. Obi-Wan knows they're circling the same hopeless need, unable to go forward without someone taking a step back. It’s damn dangerous. Even without the war trying to kill them, this entanglement will only cloud their judgment in each other and the Force. Obi-Wan cannot afford that, not when the stakes are too high. 

Not when Anakin is at risk. 

Obi-Wan clears his throat. His tone is light, friendly, almost natural: 'Have you brought me anything else besides the appleberries? Wonderful as they are, I think I'll need something more substantial to go with the medicine.' He tries a smile, crooked, even though Anakin isn't looking - ah, no, there he goes, glancing over his shoulder at Obi-Wan, face a mask.

Anakin stares, eyes flat, and Obi-Wan inwardly shudders at the coldness coming from his Force presence. Hypocrite, he tells himself as he thinks of ways to make Anakin smile. No, what we need is balance. I'm still his friend. I don't want to push him away.

'Or perhaps you have more illegal things in your bag – ' Obi-Wan nods towards the rucksack on the floor by the chair ' – and plan to make me drink my illness away.'

A crack in the stone, lips curling slightly as Anakin shakes his head. 'Your voice sounds terrible, Master.'

'Well, I have been coughing nonstop for days and my old Padawan insists on making me talk.' To emphasise, he pretends to cough into his palm, which becomes genuine as air rattles through his lungs. It hurts, the muscles between his ribs sucking in with the effort to breathe as he curls into himself. Anakin crosses the room in three large steps and places one hand on Obi-Wan's back and another on his chest. Anakin murmurs to him softly, and when the fit subsides, Obi-Wan opens his wet eyelashes to look at him. There is real concern on Anakin's face, all traces of glee gone as fear seeps in its place.

'Are you alright?' he demands, almost sounding angry that his fun is at Obi-Wan's expense. 'I thought you’d shake apart.' 

'I'm fine, it'll pass soon,' says Obi-Wan, trying to be reassuring with his voice sounding worse than before. A wave of dizziness passes over him and he slumps in bed, eyes closing.

'Master – ' This time, the worry is clearer, palms pressing into his chest and back. 'Should I call a Healer at the Temple? You're really sick.'

Force, Obi-Wan doesn't like Healers. 'There's no need,' he gasps out, opening his eyes to reassure Anakin he hasn't lost consciousness. 'I just need rest and quiet. That's all, Anakin, I mean it.'

Anakin scowls. 'See how you're such a bad example for me?'

'I said quiet, Anakin.'

Huffing, Anakin sits back down on the chair, taking his comforting touch away. 'I can be quiet. We'll commune through our bond.' He prods at it, letting his exasperation at Obi-Wan's own brand of stubbornness shine through. Underneath it, however, are dapples of shadow, anxiety that Obi-Wan might get worse. Obi-Wan clasps Anakin's hands metaphorically: reassurance and acknowledgement, showing a glimpse of his exhaustion and asking for tranquillity once more. 

'You should drink your medicine,' Anakin says out loud, reaching for the plastic cup and handing it over to Obi-Wan, his other hand picking up the glass of water. 'Your soup's all cold by now, anyway. I'll reheat it later after you've rested some. The med droid told me the blue one will help with your coughing and the red with your fever.'

Smiling gratefully, Obi-Wan opens his palm and Anakin upends the small capsules onto it. He swallows it down with a gulp of water, the coolness a relief to his raw throat. Anakin drops everything back on the tray and touches Obi-Wan's forehead with his palm. 

'It won't affect me that quickly, my dear,' says Obi-Wan, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

Anakin gives him a stern look. 'Shush now, Master. Go to sleep.'

'Ordering me, are you?'

'I'm taking care of you, so you have to do what I say.'

'Anakin – '

Anakin rolls his eyes. 'Obi-Wan, as much as I love our banter, you said you wanted to rest. So rest. You want me to go do my mission, yeah? Only way I'll do that is if I know you're better.' 

'This is suspiciously close to blackmail and insubordination,' Obi-Wan points out.

Anakin mimes zipping up his mouth and closing his eyes, snoring for effect.

'I do not,' says Obi-Wan, outraged and breathless, 'snore.'

'Sure you don't, Master. Just go to sleep already.' Anakin brushes back a few stray hairs falling in front of Obi-Wan's face, knuckles catching on his hot cheeks. Fever or a blush, Obi-Wan will never tell him.

Obi-Wan closes his eyes.

'Finally,' mutters Anakin under his breath.

Obi-Wan sends the mental equivalent of I heard that through their bond. The Force thrums with Anakin's amusement.

Anakin touches him once more (how will Obi-Wan cope without it once he's better?) and Obi-Wan thinks, Sod it, and turns into the touch with a sigh. Just this once. He's falling asleep already. It can be a dream: Anakin's fingers tracing a path from his cheekbone to his nose, whispering sleep well and think of me and Master, please into his ear, into their bond, into the Force.

Finally, oblivion.

He rarely dreams. They are more fanciful ideas than anything real; weird shapes, the rules of Physics tossed out the window, ancient animals he'd seen on holocrons.

In this one, Anakin is crying. He's raging. Obi-Wan can't hear the words he spits out but he feels how they slice through him truer than any lightsaber. Obi-Wan holds his hands out in supplication, desperately trying to find the boy he raised – his best friend and comrade, his brother and the centre of his universe – but sees no one but a stranger. Soon, their complex relationship crumbles easily into ash in the fire of Anakin's fury. 

He yells back, his own pain and betrayal erupting from deep in his heart: Anakin, Anakin, Anakin, how could you?

You made it easy!

Abruptly, Obi-Wan wakes up, flushed and sweaty with heat, heart throbbing in his chest. His breathing is sharp and fast, catching on the phlegm in his lungs, and he tries to focus around the pain, the panic, the terror making his head spin. The image of Anakin's blood on his hands won't leave him. Lightsabers cauterise the wounds as they're inflicted but there had been so much blood, rivulets of it running down Obi-Wan's arms. A mad fever dream or something worse? Something truer, the touch of the Force, and no, no, not Anakin –

'Master, breathe with me,' a voice tells him, breaking through the thick fog choking Obi-Wan. Steady hands touch his throat and hip. 'In,' says Anakin, and Obi-Wan inhales, 'and out,' and Obi-Wan exhales. He coughs, wheezes. 'In, Master, and out.' Obi-Wan can feel Anakin's chest against his back, and he narrows down on the sensation, following the rhythm of Anakin's words and the rise and fall of his ribcage. The repetition calms him down until he’s no longer fighting to get air into his lungs. His coughing still rocks through him but soon they taper off, leaving behind a burning throat and chest, and Anakin's grounding weight on him disappears. Obi-Wan tips onto his back, and with his mind no longer consumed by the dream and its effects on him, he finally notices how he's cocooned in his blankets, the insides damp with his sweat. Obi-Wan feels needled by his own overreaction. He should be stronger than this. A mere dream and he'd almost lost his head. Obi-Wan wriggles an arm loose and massages his temples, hissing at the ache in his muscles. He pushes the dream to the back of his mind, wary of investigating it further. He would need to speak to Master Yoda about this. The Force has never graced him with prophetic visions before, and Obi-Wan doesn't wish to start with this one.

You made it easy! 

Obi-Wan shudders. Easy, how? By pushing away? By drawing close? 

Enough, Obi-Wan tells himself. He groans when he tries to sit up. His strength barely keeps him upright.

'Don't,' Anakin says, a tad too sharply. It pokes at the tender spot his dream had left. Obi-Wan recoils from Anakin's outstretched hand, then immediately regrets it when Anakin stills. 

'Obi-Wan?' He sounds confused, hurt.

'I'm – ' It's agonising to speak but Obi-Wan clears his throat, gently, wincing at the pain. Anakin cautiously moves closer, handing over the glass of cold water. Their fingertips touch and Obi-Wan dips his head in gratitude as he drinks. 

'Careful, now. You'll choke.' Anakin's hand hovers between them, hesitating.

Obi-Wan slows down. He swallows the last drop of water, feeling marginally better. Anakin plucks the glass from him and puts it away. He turns back to face him, lips pulled in a frown.

'What happened?'

Obi-Wan's arms tremble and Anakin is quickly there to wrap him in his own, holding him up against his chest. Obi-Wan should –

Should –

Sighing, Obi-Wan presses his face into Anakin's throat, feeling the jut of his collarbone against his cheek. Anakin tightens his grip. The embrace is somehow familiar even though they've never been this close before.

'You held me as I slept,' Obi-Wan says, no louder than a whisper.

Anakin rests his cheek on top of Obi-Wan's head. 'You seemed so cold even though you were bundled up.' 

The concern for him sends a warm rush through Obi-Wan. This feels right. The Force agrees, humming around them, serene. Obi-Wan doesn't know if this will last beyond the night. He knows exactly what this is and it's frightening. Exhilarating.

'Are you taking advantage of your poor, sick Master?' 

(Or is it the other way around)

'Yeah, of course,' says Anakin, a hint of hope in his voice. Fingers comb through Obi-Wan's disgusting, sweaty hair and he thinks, crazily: this must be love.

Obi-Wan prods Anakin down, and Anakin lowers himself, bringing Obi-Wan's blanketed form with him. It's hard to breathe when he's putting weight on his lungs, so he carefully shifts until he's on his back, the pillows keeping him half-reclined. Anakin curls in next to him, close but not overwhelming, eyes wary in the faint light of the lamp. Obi-Wan wonders when they started fighting, if they're trying to win the same war. The taunt echoes in his mind again. He hasn't had a serious conversation with Anakin in too long. There's always the next mission, the next battle. Their language has been reduced to tactics and code.

Obi-Wan is sick and his defences are low, his judgment impaired. The Jedi Code is always playing in the back of his mind. 

'Hey there, are you cold? You're shivering,' says Anakin, delicately running his finger along Obi-Wan's prickly jaw. His eyes are question marks.

Just this once is a slippery slope Obi-Wan is already falling off of.

Obi-Wan turns his head to look at Anakin, smiling in defeat. 'Yes, I am. Come closer, Anakin, and let me feel you.'