Chapter Text
I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.
I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.
Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.
In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood. -Pablo Neruda
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What he can never tell anyone is that he still feels like a slave. He knows he should not feel this way; he has been free as long as he was ever in chains, and he cannot even remember those first years, when he was a baby, a small and oblivious child. Another thing he cannot tell, not even to Padmé, is that his first tangible memory is of hearing his mother scream. Sometimes he still hears her scream, imagines how she must have screamed and begged when the Tuskens took her. He is consumed, still, with wondering what they did to his mother before she died in his arms as he watched, helpless.
He is tired of feeling helpless. That is what being a slave means to him: helplessness. He should not feel helpless. He is powerful now. Armies of men answer to him. And that feels good. Too good, sometimes, for a Jedi. A Jedi, after all, isn’t supposed to feel good about anything. Just peaceful. Except he’s never found peace in the Code, or the Temple, or the Force, when he’s being honest with himself.
Peace, to Anakin Skywalker, is the people he loves. But there’s helplessness in that love, because what if he cannot protect them? What if he loses Padmé?
What if he loses Obi-Wan?
He’s asked that last question more times than he can count. He wonders what it would be like to not ask it. If things were different, if—-
“General Skywalker?”
He turns from the wide window of The Resolute. Rex is standing before him, expression unreadable. The clones are gifted at that. So is Obi-Wan. Anakin can’t wear the mask. Obi-Wan used to tell him he could never be a diplomat. Anakin would answer that he never wanted to be one. Obi-Wan knew that. He just said it to annoy Anakin, or remind him of another reason he’s not the Jedi the Council—or Obi-Wan—would prefer that he was.
In fact they had been fighting right before Jabiim. Something stupid. It’s always something stupid. He would take back the stupid things, if he could. For three months he’s repeated the bargain in his head, begging the Force to listen. If Obi-Wan died—
“General, sir?”
Rex’s voice breaks through again. Anakin blows out a breath and rubs two fingers along his brow, just as Obi-Wan does when he is worried, or thinking. “What is it, Commander?”
“They’ve found him, sir.”
Anakin’s heart hammers in his chest. He wets his lips. “Where, uh..”
“Rattatak, sir.” As if Rex knows what he’s going to say next (and maybe he does; his troops know him better than any Jedi back on Coruscant ever has), he adds, “It won’t take long.”
“Alright, Commander. Make sure we’re ready.”
“Of course, sir.”
His nerves are electrocuted. He is going to pace the damn ship until they get out of hyperspace. It won’t take long? Like a person could hold their breath for three months. Three months wasn’t long at all, when he wasn’t sleeping, or eating, spending every spare second analyzing why his connection to Obi-Wan was, is, full of static.
He wishes he could talk to Padme.
But like so many other things, he can’t tell her how worried he is. It is a kind of darkness that does not conform to words. He can’t call his wife and say “I can’t live without him. He belongs to me, the way you belong to me.”
And more than anything, Anakin knows he cannot tell Obi-Wan.
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He feels like did on Tatooine, when he found his mother, her skin carved by the Tusken’s cruelty. Somehow Obi-Wan looks worse. Troops are milling around behind them, and Rex is crouched near Anakin. The rage will kill him this time. His skin can’t hold back the simmering conflagration. He will find Ventress, the disgusting Sith-witch, and take her down with him into the fire.
“Master?”
Obi-Wan does not crack open an eye, there’s no reassuring slit of grey-blue calm searching for his face. He wants to lean in close to Obi-Wan and apologize for ever saying he wears a mask. His mech fingers run over the smooth surface of the Sith mask. He can feel the vile, suffocating energy, suctioned to Obi-Wan’s face. He does not know how to remove it.
And Anakin’s not sure if it will kill Obi-Wan if he tries to just pry the farking thing off. The Council might know. Yoda. That’s who he needs to contact. Someone else, someone wiser. Obi-Wan is all bony angles against him. Carrying him is shockingly easy, and Anakin tucks the wasted body close. “It’s alright, it’s alright.” A mantra for Anakin’s comfort, because Obi-Wan is far away. Usually they’re stepping over each other’s thoughts, but Anakin can detect nothing of his old Master except that damnable, crackling void.
Rex squeezes Anakin’s shoulder before leading them up out of the dungeon, out of Ventress’s castle.
The void is screaming in his ears. He can hear nothing else. His mother’s scream is the foundation of his life. Everything is built on that. His life is destined for this pain. He’s never enough to keep the people he loves safe.
Helpless.
Three months. Three months.
They’re running toward the ship, and the sharp air pulls stinging tears from Anakin’s eyes. The mask is trying to devour Obi-Wan, but it’s reaching for Anakin now, too, a burning blackness in the Force.
Listen to it. The Dark is the way. You can save him. You can always save him.
But Anakin does not listen, not today. He wrenches the taunting voice out of his head, focuses on the here and now like Obi-Wan taught him, like Qui-Gon taught Obi-Wan. Here is Rattatak, until they can get to a new here. Now is Obi-Wan, who needs him.
Forever is how long Anakin needs Obi-Wan, but that’s not how a Jedi thinks.
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On the ship, Obi-Wan is stabilized. Anakin counts every bandage and needle, every moan. He swears that he will pay Ventress back for each one. Run her through with his blade, again and again. The medic tells him that Obi-Wan will live, though he is malnourished, and will need time to recover from such prolonged torture.
Torture. Three months. What could a demented creature like Asajj Ventress do to Obi-Wan in three months?
Rex sends an emergency call to Yoda, and under the ancient Master’s careful instruction, Anakin is able to unfasten the mask. Obi-Wan finally wakes up as his head is unburdened, and vomits over the side of the cot. His eyes are closed; he takes a shuddering breath that chokes off in a sob.
Anakin yells for the lights to be dimmed. He catches Obi-Wan’s face in his hands, warm skin and cold metal both, and presses their foreheads together, whispers, “Hey, you’re safe now.” He wants to hear a sarcastic line, “took you long enough” or “when was the last time you were acquainted with a toothbrush?”, but instead gets hard swallows and soft whimpers, and trembling hands reaching for his wrists.
He isn’t the stable one. Obi-Wan never needs him. In the grey ambience the sallow skin and bruises are harder to see. Anakin feels a fleeting relief. He sits on the cot next to Obi-Wan, and draws his arm around the sunken shoulders. They have been left alone. Jedi are not supposed to come undone, especially with an audience. If Obi-Wan was thinking clearly, he would be mortified.
But he is not thinking clearly, that much Anakin can tell, because Obi-Wan Kenobi does not cry, or huddle against Anakin, pressing his eyes into Anakin’s tunics, or clutch onto Anakin like he’s the only thing anchoring Obi-Wan to reality, or life.
Anakin’s lips graze Obi-Wan’s temple. “I’m sorry.” He can’t find it in himself to lighten the mood with a jibe or exaggerated complaint. He sits with Obi-Wan, cradling the back of his head with his flesh hand, and lets his friend weep silently.
It’s the slave that finds something beautiful in Obi-Wan’s trust, his rare tears that only Anakin is permitted to see.
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Obi-Wan was gone for three months, gone three weeks more in the antiseptic bowels of the infirmary. He is released late in the evening, and Anakin is waiting for him. Wordlessly, they walk together in the direction of Obi-Wan’s quarters.
Anakin glances sidelong at the older man. His pallor is healthier, his gait smooth and nearly normal. He is, of course, dressed in proper tunics and dark brown robe, hair combed and parted. Anakin notices his hair and beard are overgrown, or longer than Obi-Wan has preferred in recent years anyway.
“You look good,” Anakin ventures to say, when they step into the lift.
The door hisses shut and Obi-Wan does not move to hit the button for his floor. Anakin quietly pushes it for him, then stands with his arms in his sleeves.
Obi-Wan sighs as they ascend. “Don’t flatter me. I’m so oily, Dex should add me to his daily specials.” He gingerly touches his hair, winces. “I can’t lift my arms well enough, quite yet.”
It is the first time they’ve spoken privately in months. Padmé has spent many nights trying to convince Anakin that Obi-Wan would not be a different man now, even if...horrendous things were done to him. And he sounds like Obi-Wan, though his voice is tired and threadbare.
“But hey, you look good.” Anakin repeats, flooded with relief, and smiles.
Obi-Wan smiles back at him. The static has dissipated from their link in the Force, but Obi-Wan is still shielding tighter. “Thank you, Anakin.”
When the lift opens, Anakin follows him down the hallway, and then follows him into the dark quarters. Obi-Wan activates some of the lights with a faint wave of his hand. The rooms smell like recycled air and floor cleaner. Maintenance droids.
Obi-Wan heads for the couch, not bothering to take off his robe or boots. He sinks against the cushions and rubs his forehead. “Forgive me if I say I’m not relishing the thought of all the paperwork I’ll have to catch up on. Not to mention the report on Jabiim.”
Anakin catches the barbed accent when Obi-Wan says the name of the planet where he was captured. He sits beside Obi-Wan, settles into the familiarity of these quarters, how they seem to respond to Obi-Wan’s presence. Or it’s just Anakin’s perception, the way a room changes when Obi-Wan is in it. “The Council knows...they know what happened, Obi-Wan. They’re not gonna beat down your door for reports.”
They will deal with Anakin if they do.
Obi-Wan gives a slight shrug, head falling back.
Anakin touches his knee. “I’ll get you some water.” Doing is better. He goes to the kitchenette, brings back a lukewarm glass.
Obi-Wan takes it from him. He swallows and grimaces. “Blast. Is it possible to still taste bacta at the back of your throat weeks later?”
Anakin laughs, but it’s not the easy laughter they’re used to.
“I could go for something a little stronger,” Obi-Wan decides, setting the water aside.
“I’ll make you tea, but you know I’m not the best at it.”
Obi-Wan crosses his arms. “Oh, I do know it. After I broke my wrists on Aleen, I spent weeks drinking your concoctions. Before that, I never thought I could describe tea as chewy.”
Anakin relaxes a little. The long-suffering-Master-with-a-gleam-in-his-eye is Obi-Wan’s go-to, and it’s instinct for Anakin to assume his own role. “Well, I can’t be the best at everything. You get so jealous.”
“Who can blame me?” Obi-Wan drawls. “But I meant something stronger than tea. I think I still have that bottle from Senator Organa.”
“Oh. Uh, are you sure that’s allowed? Usually the healer’s discharge instructions don’t include immediate alcohol consumption.”
“Suddenly Anakin Skywalker is concerned with what’s allowed?”
Anakin doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but he goes back to the kitchen and finds the bottle at the back of the chiller. He reads the label and whistles. “Nice. You know how much this stuff costs?”
“That seems rather inconsequential. Can it get me drunk?”
Anakin laughs again, and it’s genuine this time.
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He figures out pretty quickly that certain medications and wine don’t mix. But then, Anakin thinks this is what Obi-Wan was counting on. It’s not easy for Jedi to get sloshed. Anakin has seen Obi-Wan put away twice the drinks as a Wookiee and head straight into battle.
So it’s different, nice, to see Obi-Wan at ease because he wants to be, and not because he’s been smacked in the head or poisoned or...there’s been a lot of “or’s”. The knot in Anakin’s gut loosens, just a little. He doesn’t like wine, and he thinks Senator Organa is another stuck-up politician, but he nurses a glass in solidarity.
A few hours pass, and Obi-Wan sighs, leaning against the couch with his eyes closed. For a second, Anakin thinks he’s fallen asleep, then Obi-Wan mumbles, “What was I thinking? There’s a meeting first thing in the morning.” He draws his hand down his face. “You know, that was an upside to captivity that I never considered: no blasted Council meetings.”
The comment lands sharply in Anakin’s chest. He can’t even blame it on the wine. “You know, if you ever wanna….talk...about what happened…” He starts, sounding lame to his own ears. He looks down at his hands. They’ve had exactly one serious conversation like this, and it was after he lost his mother, after the gristly fight with Dooku. “I mean, I know you’re supposed to move on, live in the moment, but..”
Obi-Wan sits up. His eyes are shot through with spidery red veins, and he lets his empty glass drop on the carpet. “That’s the problem. Live in the moment. Qui-Gon told me that, I think because I had visions and he didn’t quite know how to deal with them. He’d say things like ‘dreams pass in time’ or ‘live in the moment’. The problem with that is you can’t always choose what the moment is.” He wipes at his eyes. “Just now, that moment is...not pleasant.”
An image enters Anakin’s mind: Asajj Ventress’s ghoulish, black mouth, widening in shock, as he guts her with his ‘saber. His heart is beating faster. Anakin shakes his head. “I should’ve found you sooner. I should’ve found that miserable sleema and—“
Obi-Wan brushes his fingers against Anakin’s sleeve. There is no anger, or even sadness, in his weary gaze. Because he is a good man, and a kind man, and Anakin knows, has always known, they are nothing alike. “I never doubted you would find me.”
Anakin rubs his neck. He longs for Obi-Wan’s approval, but when he gets it, he feels itchy. Like he needs to give it back. “Yeah, and it only took me three months.”
“That speaks to Ventress’s rabid single-mindedness, rather than any lack of skill on your part.” Obi-Wan assures him. “As for the talking, I’ve been advised to see a soul healer. I saw one when...I got back from Naboo, but it didn’t help.”
That time is a blur to Anakin, upheaval and hope and such an aching hole inside of him, where Mom and his friends and used to be. He recalls walking beside Obi-Wan, watching his long, brown robe sweep as he moved, thinking that Obi-Wan looked like he stepped out of a dream, every kid on Tatooine’s dream of what a Jedi should be. But Obi-Wan was so quiet, seemed to speak in a whisper those first few weeks, and he would disappear, and others would be there instead, showing him to classes, giving bland answers when he asked where Obi-Wan was. “I didn’t know that.” He says, because he can’t think of anything better.
Obi-Wan swallows thickly. “I didn’t go very long. It was another...moment I didn’t want to live in.”
Anakin stares at a shadow on the floor. Obi-Wan encouraged him to seek out the soul healers after Geonosis. He told him ‘dreams pass in time’, whenever Anakin confessed the demons that came to him in his sleep.
Obi-Wan claps Anakin’s knee and stands, wobbling, somehow makes his way to the chiller. He returns with a clear bottle of liquor and plunks heavily onto the couch. He unscrews the lid and takes a long drink, then belches under his breath. “That’s terrible.”
Anakin takes a swig; it nearly doesn’t go down. “That’s...grass.” He coughs and hands Obi-Wan the bottle back. He can’t quell the shiver that races up his entire body. “Fark, who would drink that?”
Obi-Wan, miraculously, drinks more, compresses his lips as he waits for the burn. “Qui-Gon,” he rasps. “Herb liquor from Ryoth. I don’t know why I have it.”
Anakin doesn’t know either, because it’s worse than Watto’s moonshine he sipped once, although he hasn’t thrown this up. Yet. He runs his hand through his hair. “Maybe we should call it a night.”
Obi-Wan is making quick work of the clear liquor. He sits back and looks Anakin right in the eye, maybe for the first time since Jabiim. “Why? Do you have someplace to be?”
Always. When he’s on Coruscant, always. Anakin has never let it slip, but he’s almost certain Obi-Wan knows anyway. Padmé. Raised brows, hinting comments, an unspoken disapproval. Anakin realizes that other Masters would not let it go on. The reason Obi-Wan does is unspoken, too. “No. You just got home. I mean home home, not the healers. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, Master.” His chest feels lighter, because he’s telling the truth. He loves his wife, misses her to his core, but it’s been three months, three miserable months…
Obi-Wan’s eyes soften, and he briefly grips Anakin’s shoulder. “I had a lot of time there to...to think, when I could think.” He swallows, “I’d like to believe I’m a Jedi and could just...become one with the Force peacefully…”
Anakin hates this. He hates to even consider this. His jaw clenches. “Hey, it’s..”
“But the days were long. Not days. Just a night that went on, and on. And when...certain things happened, and I began to think she might kill me after all…”
This is Anakin’s torture, these vague references to specific agony. His metal fingers grip his robe, tight, where Obi-Wan can’t see. Sith-spawn wretch disgusting witch you’ll regret it I’ll make sure you regret it.
Obi-Wan pauses, and the shadows in his grey eyes fill Anakin with shame. He cannot be overtaken by his rage. He cannot threaten Obi-Wan’s calm. So he breathes in, and pushes the other thoughts down, where he can deal with them later.
Maybe on Rattatak. If she’s still there.
“I never doubted you would survive.” Anakin lies.
“Ventress was...determined.” Obi-Wan strokes his long beard. “She was full of anger. Rage. To her, I represented what she might have been. Yet I saw flickers of humanity in her. Sometimes I thought that would save me, but other times, I thought…” He smiles at Anakin grimly, “I thought the part of her that was still a frightened child hated me most, and that’s the part of her that would ultimately kill me. I have been on the precipice of death before. I was not afraid.” His voice softens, reminds Anakin of what a gentle voice Obi-Wan really has, “But I was...very sad, that I would die without seeing you again.”
Anakin has to turn away and look at the window; the blinds are closed and only strips of the night glow through them. He is not made to handle this. Just the tone of Obi-Wan’s words is killing him. He will be crushed by it. His chest will cave in. “Only you can be drunker than a Weequay pirate and still sound so much like...you.”
Obi-Wan takes another drink. “Well, I must always be me, mustn’t I?”
“You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.” Anakin says, dizzy from Obi-Wan’s honesty more than the alcohol. He has spent so many nights in these quarters, staring at his ceiling, thinking that his Master did not understand him. Entire years passed with Anakin believing that they would never move beyond the resentment, the constant friction. “A lot of people were pretty worried about you.” Anakin ducks his head and waits for his eyes to stop stinging before looking at the other man again, “Myself included.”
Obi-Wan lays his hand on Anakin’s shoulder and leaves it there. His fingers and palm are warm. “Yes, and you’re the one here.” He murmurs, then laughs. “And now you know that I’m a maudlin drunk.”
Anakin notices the chrono. Damn it. He’s not much of a friend if he lets Obi-Wan keep this up—the Council generally doesn’t take kindly to hungover Masters. But the night feels sacred. Obi-Wan is safe, and open like he’s never been, sharing pieces of his history, little revelations that Anakin will fold up and save. He wants more, while he can have it. He settles back on the couch, drawing his knee up so that it’s touching Obi-Wan’s. “What kind of a drunk was Master Qui-Gon?”
Obi-Wan’s eyes are wet from the alcohol. A small smile twitches at the corner of his mouth, like he would smile wider if he could. If he thought it was proper. “He only drank with other people, you see. He loved nothing more than sitting around a fire with people he’d just met that afternoon, and listening to their stories, telling some of his own. He would drink...anything.”
Anakin swallows more of the bitter, grassy booze. “Yeah, I know.”
Obi-Wan laughs. “He had that enviable quality of never drinking too much. The next morning he would look as if nothing had happened, whereas I was always slightly green.”
Anakin giggles at the image. “I kind of forget that you were a Padawan. It doesn’t seem possible.”
“Oh?” Obi-Wan crosses his arms in exaggerated offense. “Because I’m so old? I was a Padawan when you met me, you know.”
Anakin knows. He stood in the corner while Obi-Wan’s braid was cut, can still see Obi-Wan’s solemn face, his grey eyes meeting Anakin’s from across the room, beckoning him forward. He does not remember the exact words, only that they were traditional, and the way Obi-Wan whispered them sounded more like a sad song, as he gathered a section of Anakin’s hair to weave into a Learner’s braid for the first time. “Yeah, but I can’t imagine you being an awkward Padawan. By the time I met you, you were already…”
He realizes he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence without embarrassing himself, or Obi-Wan.
“Well,” Obi-Wan continues, “I can assure you, I was just as awkward as every other Padawan who stumbled through the Temple halls.” He sighs raggedly and sets the empty bottle on the table, wipes his hands on his leggings. “But it was a long time ago. And an entirely different universe.”
Anakin doesn’t like the heaviness in the last words. He rests his hand on the nape of Obi-Wan’s neck, where but quickly withdraws. “Wow, Master, you weren’t kidding about the grease.”
Obi-Wan tries to stand, doesn’t even tut when Anakin reaches to steady him by the elbow. “I didn’t want to be bathed by an apprentice healer. I think I’ve suffered enough indignities of late. I’ll figure it out in the morning. My arms are just sore.”
Anakin saw the chains on the duracrete wall of Ventress’s dungeon. The memory sticks and twists in his gut, sharp as her rotten, pointed teeth. He thinks of Obi-Wan, not wanting to be a bother in the healer’s ward, even though he hates being dirty, has washed his beard in a puddle of rainwater. His chest hurts again. Anakin gets to his feet and places his hand on the small of Obi-Wan’s back. “I’ll help. Come on.”
The liquor seems to have caught up with Obi-Wan. He starts as if to walk to Anakin’s old, currently empty, room.
“Not that one, remember?” Anakin teases, steering him to the open door of the larger, dark bedroom.
“Ah, well...was mine…” Obi-Wan mumbles and presses his face against Anakin’s shoulder. “Ugh.”
“Don’t get green on me.” Anakin waves on the low lights as they make clumsy progress to the attached fresher.
“Neither figuratively or literally, promise.” Obi-Wan is leaning on Anakin, which makes it harder to bend down and start the bath. While the tub fills, he turns to Obi-Wan and blows out a breath. “Alright, I’m not an apprentice healer, so don’t worry about embarrassing me. I’ve seen your skinny butt enough not to care.”
Obi-Wan huffs. He half heartedly tries to unravel his tunics, appears grateful when Anakin takes over and he can just stand in the quiet ambience, eyes drifting closed.
Obi-Wan’s scars are faint, white threads against freckled skin. Wrists, shoulder blades, chest, ankles. The running water is a soothing sound, but Anakin burns nonetheless.
I’ll kill her.
As if he hears the sudden turn in Anakin’s thoughts, Obi-Wan pries open one eye. “Alright?”
Anakin musters a smile. “Yeah.” He unbuckles the long, leather boots, and Obi-Wan sounds relieved as Anakin slips them off. He hesitates at the leggings, but he has just assured Obi-Wan of his indifference, so he finishes stripping him, eyes on the floor. Then he helps lower Obi-Wan into the tub. “Is it okay?”
“Mm...um...yes,” Obi-Wan’s answer floats along, slurred and relaxed. His chin dips into the water, and his beard looks darker, his skin flushed. “Thank you, Anakin.”
Anakin is transfixed, seeing his former Master so unglued, just a tired man in a warm bath. He feels the same surge of protectiveness he feels when he looks at Padme. He tells himself he will never let Obi-Wan be hurt again.
He can be the shield between Obi-Wan and pain.
He finds washcloths, soap and shampoo. Obi-Wan makes a noise of protest when Anakin wets his hair, but relents as Anakin works the shampoo into his scalp. They’re used to quick showers, passing through sonics on the way to the next mission. Obi-Wan is breathing slowly, eyes closed.
“...’m awake.”
Anakin shakes his head, laughing. “You don’t have to be, you know. You’re not exactly helping much.”
“Can’t have you drowning me. I have...work to do.” Obi-Wan finishes around a yawn.
“And why would I drown you?”
Obi-Wan sighs, water beading on his forehead. “Oh, the usual reasons. I’m heartless and ruined your life.”
It is a flippant comment. Anakin is supposed to counter with something rude and exaggerated. But there’s a subtle difference in Obi-Wan’s tone, probably unintentional, and Anakin swallows hard, dips the washcloth in the warm water, watches the faint ripples move across Obi-Wan’s body. “I thought I ruined yours.”
Obi-Wan opens his eyes. “Is that how the story goes now?”
Anakin drags the soapy cloth over arms, shoulders. “It’s our story, isn’t it? It can go however we want it to.”
“Ah.” Obi-Wan rests the back of his head against the lip of the tub. The water stirs around him. “In that case, I’d like to go to...bed.”
The washcloth slips out of Anakin’s hand, slapping into the bathwater. “Sorry, I think I ran it too hot. I’ll get a towel.” He stands and turns to the closet, heart beating in his ears. When he turns around with a thin, Temple-issue towel, Obi-Wan is climbing out of the tub, pale skin gleaming and the white froth of the soap clinging to his legs and hips. Anakin sees everything. But he has seen everything before. “Careful,” he warns, noticing Obi-Wan’s pained expression. He grips a slick arm and Obi-Wan steps onto the mat with less than his usual grace.
Anakin pats Obi-Wan dry, then wraps the towel around his trim waist. He catches Obi-Wan’s gaze and can’t help smiling, furrowing his brow in feign concern. “You need to eat more. You really are skinny.” Anakin says, smacking his butt as the man walks past. He has done that before, too, when spars dissolved into playful wrestling, to lighten the mood in the barracks or just to get a rise out of his unflappable mentor.
“Uncivilized,” Obi-Wan remarks. Anakin senses surprise and amusement skitter across their link in the Force and...well, he’s never been adept at parsing much more complex emotions than that. His ears burn at the tips. He did run the water too hot.
Obi-Wan limps the rest of the way to his bed and collapses on his back atop the neat coverlet, still naked except for the towel. He exhales slowly through his nose and sinks against the mattress. “I have not been in a proper bed for...a long time. I think Ventress provided better accommodations than the infirmary.”
“That’s why you need to take better care of yourself. Pretty soon they’re just going to move all your stuff to the Healer’s Ward, you’re there so much.” Anakin watches him turn on his side, the towel turning with him, mostly. He folds the coverlet over Obi-Wan. “I’ll get you some water before I go.”
He feels a fleeting pulse of panic in his head. Not his own—but Obi-Wan is drunk, and half-asleep, and comfortable as he hasn’t been in months. He couldn’t be panicking. Anakin follows through on his offer, brings Obi-Wan a glass of water and leaves it on the bedside table.
Obi-Wan’s eyes are closed; his chest rises and falls quickly. Too quickly.
Anakin hesitates. Obi-Wan is so private. He always meditates his feelings away as soon as he gets them. And Padme is waiting. He imagines her in their bed, silken hair fanned over the pillows, her creamy skin and soft curves half-exposed by the towel slowly slipping...He sits on the edge of the bed and touches Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “Hey, are you alright?”
Obi-Wan exhales, inhales,and Anakin recognizes the rhythm as a calming technique he learned when he was briefly housed with the other initiates. He steadies his hand on the shoulder, feels the subtle tremble beneath his fingers.
“Hey. Talk to me, Obi-Wan. It’s just me.” On the ship back from Rattatak, Obi-Wan cried into Anakin’s chest, let himself be held and comforted, when it was just the two of them. Anakin moves his hand up to Obi-Wan’s cheek, strokes his thumb across the bone. No one else can do this, be this close. “I won’t go if you don’t want me to.”
Once, when Anakin was getting ready to leave for another extended mission on the Outer Rim, Padme embraced him from behind and whispered “don’t leave me” into his back, again and again. “I love you I love you I love you Anakin.”
Jedi Masters are not allowed such desperation. Obi-Wan closes his eyes: he is obviously working to control his breathing. “No, it’s,” he clears his throat, but his voice isn’t any stronger, “I’m fine. You need sleep as much as I do.”
Anakin’s fingers drift to Obi-Wan’s damp, cool hair. “I can sleep here.”
He senses the wrench for control, can practically hear Obi-Wan reciting some ancient mantra in his head. “I’m alright, Anakin.”
“Yeah, well what passes for ‘alright’ in your book doesn’t pass in mine.” Anakin says, decision made. He will contact Padme later and let her know. She worries about Obi-Wan too. She would want Anakin to stay. He motions off the lights and finds a pair of clean sleep pants in the spartan chest of drawers. “Come on, you don’t want to wake up with a wet towel under you.”
“Honestly,” Obi-Wan snatches the pants. “This is unnecessary, Anakin. I appreciate your concern but—“
“For once, can we just leave it at ‘you appreciate me’?” Anakin motions off the lights and stretches out on the other side of the bed. Obi-Wan shifts under the coverlet, awkwardly shimmying into his sleep pants. Anakin tosses the discarded towel toward the fresher and then lays back, crossing his arms behind his head.
They are silent as the dark settles into the room. Anakin hears an aircar zip by outside, and he’s struck by how strange it is that other people exist, people who have neither met or loved Obi-Wan Kenobi. What good would Anakin be if he were one of those other people? How much smaller would his life have been without Obi-Wan?
“I do appreciate you, Anakin.” Obi-Wan says quietly. “I’m sorry if it ever seems otherwise. I’m not...it’s not easy for me. I don’t mean to seem cold.”
Anakin turns to face his former Master, seeing only his profile in the still, black shadows. “You’re not.” He whispers. “I used to think...but I was wrong. I thought you didn’t understand me. It took me a long time to realize I wasn’t trying to understand you. But we’re alright now, right? The Team? We’ll be fine. I mean, if you stop getting captured.”
Obi-Wan pats his forearm. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”
Anakin impulsively laces their fingers together and squeezes. “I don’t know what I would do...if…”
“You would go on. Like I did.”
Anakin wants to say that it’s not the same, because he loves Obi-Wan more than Obi-Wan could have loved Qui-Gon, because Obi-Wan’s heart adheres to the Code. “I would have killed her.” He still might. The rage roars inside him. Sometimes the rage is all he can hear.
“I know.” Obi-Wan murmurs.
Anakin grips Obi-Wan’s hand tighter. “You don’t know. You’re not like me.”
A pause, then the pressure is returned. “I know because I killed the Sith. I touched the other side of the Force. But it wasn’t right. It didn’t feel right. I couldn’t kill in revenge, even if the desire to do so was...overwhelming. It would have destroyed me. Qui-Gon wouldn’t want that for me.” Obi-Wan moves his hand to rest over Anakin’s chest, over his heart, “I don’t want that for you.”
Anakin seals his eyes before the hot moisture can run down his face. “I hate her.”
“I don’t.” Obi-Wan answers.
Anakin stayed to comfort Obi-Wan. He doesn’t know why he is the one unraveling now, pressing his forehead against Obi-Wan’s, battling a seething onslaught of tears. “Months...months imagining what she was doing to you...if you were in pain...if you could die without me knowing…”
“I’m right here.” Obi-Wan whispers.
There is a gnawing hole inside Anakin. It’s been there forever, before the Temple, before he could put into words what it was. Sometimes he thinks it can be sated by battle, by flying, by his bottomless love for Padme and Obi-Wan. But tonight it is going to take him over. He is going to fall inside it, fall forever...He takes Obi-Wan’s face in his hands. “Tell me what she did to you.”
Obi-Wan must be very tired, because he doesn’t try to escape Anakin’s desperate grip, or refuse his desperate questions. “She hurt me. I screamed. I wept. I thought I would starve to death. I was very alone and when she brought the mask… it was trying to destroy me. I felt like the Sith who killed Qui-Gon was crawling inside my skin. I thought I would vomit in the mask and choke. Most of all, I was afraid I would die, and you would not be able to let me go, that Ventress would end us both.”
Anakin does not let him go. Obi-Wan is right. He can’t let go.
“I would hallucinate that Qui-Gon was with me. He would sit and talk to me, as if he had not died. It was the only time I felt anything like hope. He told me you would find me, and that I was strong, and would need to be strong for you.” Obi-Wan curls his fingers around Anakin’s, where they are splayed across his bearded cheek, “I was so alone. And being in the infirmary just reminded me of when I had been there as a Padawan and as your Master. The same with this place. So many memories and now...I’m alone.”
“You’re not. You’re not, Obi-Wan. You have me.” Anakin says. “And you’re the strongest Jedi...the strongest man I know. The best man I’ve ever known…”
Obi-Wan leans in and kisses Anakin’s cheek. “Thank you,” Obi-Wan whispers, “I don’t…” He kisses him again, on the same patch of skin, and then again.
Anakin laughs, a spontaneous bubble of surprise and confusion, and puts an arm around bare shoulders, presses his lips to Obi-Wan’s forehead. He smells like plain soap. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“I don’t..” Obi-Wan repeats, starts pulling away. His hand comes up to Anakin’s chin; Anakin can feel that he’s still trembling, vibrating at the edges.
“Obi-Wan, are you—“
The rest of the question is silenced by Obi-Wan kissing him on the lips. It is a slow, warm kiss, and Obi-Wan is breathing heavily, moaning as he searches Anakin’s mouth.
Anakin cannot believe what is happening, except he believes it enough to kiss Obi-Wan back, tastes the liquor on his tongue, feels the scratch of his beard, and he sinks into the kiss.
He loves Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan is kissing him like he would kiss a lover. Anakin has never thought of Obi-Wan as someone who uses his lips for that, but he is kissing Anakin with such deliberate softness, touching his neck, his face. The sound of their mouths meeting is so slight, yet it fills the room, and Anakin keeps kissing him while a knot is forming in his throat. This is the opposite of the dark chasm in his chest.
Light.
Obi-Wan.
He is not falling. This is not falling. It is…
Obi-Wan breaks the kiss as abruptly as it began. He starts to turn away, but Anakin catches him first, holding him against his chest. Obi-Wan’s heart is pounding. His shoulders shake. “It’s okay,” Anakin whispers into his hair, “I love you. I love you so much.”
He can tell Obi-Wan the truth, because the man is exhausted and drunk, and won’t remember when the morning comes. Anakin knows this is why it was wrong to kiss him back.
And Padme. But he cannot think about that.
“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan‘s breath hitches, “I don’t...she left me there alone so long I thought...I thought I would die alone...with the mask…with that d-damn mask…Anakin, I’m sorry…”
Anakin closes his eyes, gathers Obi-Wan closer. He is lightheaded. He is not meant to be the strong one. Even Qui-Gon knows this, and Qui-Gon is dead. “Don’t be sorry. I’m not sorry.”
He isn’t.
Ventress will be the sorry one. Anakin rubs Obi-Wan’s back and kisses his forehead and thinks of killing Asajj Ventress by inches, drawing it out, as she drew out Obi-Wan’s torture for three months.
“I don’t know why I did that.” Obi-Wan says against Anakin’s tunics. “If you want to go, I’ll understand.”
Anakin settles into the blankets, keeping Obi-Wan in the circle of his arms. “I’m where I want to be.” Obi-Wan is reassuring warmth, here and in the Force. He wonders if anyone else has held Obi-Wan this way. Maybe Qui-Gon, but that was a long time ago. “When you were missing, nothing made sense. I don’t make sense without you.”
For Anakin, balance is equilibrium in his head. He’s never figured out how to get it on his own. He needs Obi-Wan for that. He needs him, and after tonight, he is starting to think that Obi-Wan needs Anakin, too. Doesn’t just appreciate him in that aloof Jedi way, but needs him. He still feels the warm pressure of Obi-Wan’s kiss. He bites his bottom lip.
“I shouldn’t have done that.” Obi-Wan rasps.
Anakin can’t help but think of when Padme told him the same thing, just as they began to give in to each other. Padme and Obi-Wan, stable and responsible and duty-bound, yet they both yearn for Anakin, with all his conflict and desire.
Anakin rests his chin on the top of Obi-Wan’s head. “It’s about time you did something you shouldn’t. You’re way behind.”
“Ah,” Obi-Wan snorts, “But you’ve done enough of those things for the both of us.”
Anakin chuckles softly. “Probably true.” He concedes, and feels Obi-Wan relax against him, limbs heavy. “I bet Master Che would file keeping you up half the night and getting you drunk when you’ve just been released from the healers under ‘things I shouldn’t do’. And she’s vicious. Not to mention what Master Windu would do if he found out I’m the reason you missed the Council session tomorrow morning.”
“Hmmm…” Obi-Wan sighs, his presence in the Force becoming looser, “You are a bad influence, Anakin.” The words are slurred.
Anakin wants to counter with ‘but you kissed me’, except he doesn’t know how Obi-Wan would take it, and he’s too tired himself to form a response.
“Night,” he says. Obi-Wan is already asleep, and Anakin follows him, because following him is natural.
-------------------------
One thing Anakin never needed to learn (or unlearn) when he joined the Order was how to wake up instantly. He has always gone from unconsciousness to total alertness, no muddled in-between. When he hears soft, pained whimpers, his eyes fly open, heart in his throat, and he expects to see Padme beside him.
“What is it?”
But it is Obi-Wan, these are Obi-Wan’s quarters, he is in Obi-Wan’s bed.
His former Master is still asleep, making distressed little noises. He pulls at his own beard, rakes fingernails down his face. “Please…no no no no no no…”
The mask.
Anakin touches Obi-Wan’s hair gently. “Shhhh.” He whispers, not wanting to wake him, not if he doesn’t have to. Obi-Wan’s energy in the Force is frenetic, sparks of confusion and raw fear. He lays his forehead against Obi-Wan’s, and thinks of green grass and soft rain, of sweet and calm things that remind him of Obi-Wan.
He imagines peace, and gives it to Obi-Wan, who is curled against him, his whole body shivering. Anakin wraps his arms and the blankets around him. He can be the strong one.
He can be anything for Obi-Wan.
“It’s alright. It’s alright now.” Anakin says, and his hands slide down Obi-Wan’s back and land on his waist. The skin there is warm, smooth and bare. He doesn’t know why, but he is imagining Obi-Wan rising out of the tub, and how his skin gleamed from the soap. He is hard. Obi-Wan is asleep, though, and doesn’t notice.
And sometimes things make him hard, and it doesn’t mean anything. He feels a little sick, but not enough to move.
“Shhhh. I’m here.”
He feels Obi-Wan’s terror uncoil, and the man all but melts onto Anakin’s chest. Peaceful.
Anakin does not feel peaceful. He stays awake a long time after that, mind racing with thoughts that have nothing to do with grass or rain or calm things.
-------------------------
He crawls to consciousness when the sun is just bleeding through the blinds. Obi-Wan is already gone, of course.
Anakin rolls onto his back. He can sense the lingering presence of his former Master in the sheets, the echoes of his pain in the quiet room. He does not want to leave, wants to be here when Obi-Wan returns. But that’s not how it works. He has obligations, will be lucky if he doesn’t have to ship out somewhere today.
The thought of leaving Obi-Wan now, when the man was so vulnerable, afraid to even sleep alone, makes Anakin’s chest feel tight. He can’t comm him. He’s probably still in the Council meeting, and will have three months’ worth of catch-up to do after that. Knowing Obi-Wan, he won’t find his way back to these quarters until the sun’s gone down again.
He hears a chirp, and rubs at his face. “Shavit.” The chirping continues as he slides out of the sheets and follows the insistent sound to the main room, where his cloak and comm are piled on the couch.
Missed calls. No messages, because they don’t leave messages to each other. He was caught up in...whatever last night was, and didn’t call Padme.
Shavit.
He gathers his things and rushes out the door.
-------------------------
She is sitting on the sofa when he walks in, still wearing her dressing gown, dark hair in loose curls around her shoulders.
Anakin’s breath catches. How long has it been since he’s seen her? He tries not to think of her waiting for him the night before, waiting and then worrying when he didn’t show up, eventually giving up and going to their bed, alone. Guilt flares inside him.
“Ani,” Padme stands as soon as she sees him, open relief shining in her eyes. All at once the space between them closes, and her arms twine around his neck, her lips are kissing his softly. “Oh, I missed you.”
Anakin pulls her tighter against him and buries his face in those silken curls. “I’m sorry. I was going to call—-“
She frames his face in her hands. “No, I know you’re busy. I was just...I missed you.”
“Never too busy for you,” Anakin kisses her forehead. “But Obi-Wan was released last night.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. What a relief.” Padme touches his cheek and smiles. The happy lilt in her voice is genuine. Anakin knows there is a place in Padme’s heart for the other Jedi. It was a comfort during Obi-Wan’s capture, to talk with someone who loved Obi-Wan and didn’t chide Anakin for loving him, or being scared out of his mind for him. “How is he?”
They move to the sofa together, sit against each other with their arms entwined. Galactic City is awake in earnest now, air cars streaming across the orange sky. Anakin glances at her expectant face. “He wasn’t...okay.”
Her brows knit. “What do you mean?”
“He tried to play it off like nothing had changed, but Ventress...she tortured him.”
Padme folds his hands between her warm fingers. “Oh, Ani…”
“He can’t even wash his own hair. So I stayed with him and helped him with that sort of thing, and when I got him to lay down, he didn’t want me to leave. He didn’t come out and say it, he’s still Obi-Wan, but I just sensed that I needed to stay with him.”
She lays her cheek on his shoulder. “Of course. Of course you needed to be with him. He’s been through so much, and he’s alone—“
“Yeah, that’s just it. He’s alone.” Anakin stares at the bustling panorama ahead of them. “He’d eat his own saber before admitting it, but he needs someone right now.”
“It hurts my heart to think of what he’s been through.”
Anakin backs up to look in her dark eyes. He cradles her chin in his hand. “It’s killing me to think of what he’s been through. Ventress…”
Padme leans in to kiss him, slowly. “He’ll be alright,” she murmurs.
“”He’s not even angry at her…”
“You shouldn’t want him to be angry, Anakin. Anger will not heal him. Friendship, reflection, time. That’s what Obi-Wan needs most. He needs you more than I do right now.”
The words make him restless. He stands and pulls her up with him. “Do you need me?” He whispers. Anakin kisses her,and she presses close to him. He feels the cool silk of her nightgown and the warmth of her breasts beneath it, and he unties the robe.
She lets it fall to her feet. Her skin is smooth and creamy and unscarred. He places kisses up the curve of her shoulder while his mech hand slips under the strap of her lavender nightgown.
Padme shivers at the touch, but he knows it’s because the steel is cold, not because she is uncomfortable. She accepts everything about him.
Everything that she knows.
She begins to unwrap his tunic with the ease of practice, the insistence of arousal. “Anakin...I miss you so much…” Her voice trembles. “I miss this…” She traces the hard lines of his chest and stomach, kisses his collarbone and stands on her toes to kiss his neck.
He closes his eyes, lets himself be carried away on the building currents of need. “I love you,” he whispers into her skin, hands on her waist.
She looks at him through the haze of their desire, smiles and bites her lip before they kiss again, deeper.
“I’m sorry…” Obi-Wan whispers.
Padme’s hand grips his hard cock through his leggings and Anakin moans into her mouth, pressing forward, wanting the friction, wanting...
Obi-Wan’s hands on his face. “I don’t—“
He caresses her smooth jaw—
and he sees Obi-Wan’s eyes and hears his shuddering little breaths and tastes the stale liquor on his tongue.
Anakin’s stomach flips. It’s his nerves. It’s been a strange few months, and he missed her, he just missed Obi-Wan, was so worried...
He takes Padme’s soft, white breast in his hand, gently teases the rosy nipple until it stands out, an invitation for his mouth. Padme gasps as he sucks, throwing her head back and uttering his name once, twice.
“Anakin...Anakin…”
“I don’t—“ Obi-Wan’s mouth, hot and searching and not at all like he expected.
“I’m sorry.”
He lifts her and she wraps her legs around him. He carries her into their sunlit bedroom and lays her out on the bed. Her nightgown pools around her thighs. She is soft vibrancy: lilac and cream and dark waves. He climbs on top of her and she raises her arms so he can slide off her gown. He looks down at the expanse of smooth skin, runs his hands along her curves. They are almost always apart, divided by planets, but that means they are never quite used to each other. They haven’t had the chance to grow accustomed to these touches, to one another’s bodies. His heart still races with excitement when he sees her like this. The image of her like this has saved him in the doldrums of hopeless missions, soothed the lonely ache inside him. She palms his erection and it sends a jolt from his loins to his toes, and it’s so fucking good and hot and perfect, her delicate hand on his thick cock.
And this is what he likes, which is why it doesn’t make any sense that he keeps seeing Obi-Wan where his beautiful wife should be, where she is, naked and ready and right in front of him. Anakin leans against Padme and kisses her on the mouth while his fingers trail down to touch her where she is already wet for him.
She runs her nails down his arm. “Oh...that...oh…”
He smiles and kisses her again, harder, his tongue finding hers, his fingers working slowly inside, his cock straining and it’s a relief when she pauses to help him out of his leggings and the cool air hits his bare flesh.
Except he is still on fire, swipes his forearm across his sweaty face. He sees Obi-Wan again but this time, he sees him rising out of the tub and kissing Anakin, and Anakin puts his hands on Obi-Wan’s soap-slick, slender hips and—
“Anakin, please, I need you…”
Padme’s voice is rough with arousal. Her legs are spread. Open, for him. Anakin saw Obi-Wan’s quiescent cock in the bathtub, nestled among wiry, ginger curls. He slides his fingers inside Padme and he wonders how different it would feel to wrap his same fingers around Obi-Wan’s cock or—or—
“Anakin, I need you here…”
Here, a tight and yielding warmth, and he pushes his cock inside and closes his eyes as the pleasure surrounds him and he still cannot stop imagining that it is Obi-Wan beneath him, the thought is running faster than he can keep up with, he cannot stop.
How would Obi-Wan sound? “Anakin, I need you.” And just the words make his cock throb; he thrusts and he hears Padme’s breathless moans but the moans can be Obi-Wan’s too, because Anakin would fuck him so good, would find the sweet spot that even Obi-Wan must have and he would drive his cock home over and over and over because isn’t that what Obi-Wan wanted when he kissed him, kissed him like that with his mouth so hot and soft and his beard still damp from the bath.
Anakin’s eyes open and Padme is touching her breasts as she moves her hips with his desperate rhythm. He sees her, he wants to see her, she is beautiful and all he’s ever wanted, and she loves him, she is not afraid of her love and she doesn’t deny it, she aches with her love and aches for his cock and it’s always been enough so why does he ache to feel Obi-Wan’s body, hard and strong and scarred, feel Obi-Wan surrender to him just like this.
“So good...so good…”
Padme tightens around him and Anakin thrusts again deeply, then withdraws and eases her onto her stomach. He slides back in, wrenching a moan from them both, and grabs her hips. He knows Obi-Wan is all lean muscle, would feel different, firmer. His skin is pale gold, always with the ghost of recent bruises. Anakin could give him new bruises, in the shapes of his fingers, as he dug them into Obi-Wan’s slender hips. Would he accept the thrusts like Padme, or would he push back, pound himself into Anakin’s cock? Would they fight for control of each other even as they fucked? Would Obi-Wan give in, as he usually did, just barely allowing Anakin to win, knowing Anakin needed to win?
Would he be warm and soft there, the place Anakin cannot stop thinking about? Obi-Wan has never been fucked, it is what Anakin decides as he’s fucking Padme and he hears her cries grow more ragged and free and he feels sweat pooling where their bodies smack together. No, Obi-Wan doesn’t do this, even though his kiss was that of a practiced lover. He is naturally skilled at most things he does, why would kissing be any different—
“Ani, I need—“
He knows what she needs and he gives it to her, finds the angle and the slow, deep motion and he kisses the smooth skin of Padme’s back, feels her shudder…
He just needs this he only needs her she is his wife he promised he promised her that day and fuck she feels so good and right what is wrong with him
what is WRONG with him
that he is kissing her naked body and is thinking of Obi-Wan’s kiss. He would be so good. Obi-Wan would be so good. He would lay on his back and open his legs and—
“Oh...oh!”
Padme moans, Obi-Wan moans. He sees eyes rolling back in climax, and they are bright blue.
Anakin’s eyes fly open and Padme is coming on his cock as he orgasms helplessly, harder than he has in months. “Fuck….fuck…” He slips out of Padme and sits back on his heels, panting, spent cock somehow stiff. She turns over and her face is flushed; she combs the hair out of her eyes, the lines of her body relaxed and satisfied.
“That was…” Padme starts, then dissolves into a dreamy smile, strokes as much of his knee as she can reach. “Wow.”
Anakin’s face feels hot. “It’s all you,” he answers, leans over to kiss her.
-------------------------
“Will you be back tonight?” Padme asks, walking with him to the door. They are dressed in their uniforms again: the humble Jedi, the elegant senator.
Anakin takes her elbow before she can palm the door controls. He caresses her face. “I...uh...think I have to be there for him. He might kick me out but I’ve at least got to try... Unless you don’t want me to,” he adds hastily.
“No, no, of course not.” She reaches up to kiss him. “Obi-Wan needs you. I’m glad he has you, after all he’s been through.” Her eyes are deep and brown and completely sincere. Trusting. “I hope you can help.”
He feels a rush of guilt and strange, jittery anticipation. “Me too.” Anakin says.
————-