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penfullofwordsaheadfullofstories · 4 years

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No Matter How Many Skies Have Fallen

A/N: I really have nothing to say for myself at this point.

Sequel chapter to this fic here, if you’d like to catch up.

Thank you to @caffeine-in-an-iv for being my incredible beta and to @maybege for letting me rant to you and giving me so many wonderful ideas when I hit my walls. Also to the Obi-Wan fandom in general: Y’all are some of the kindest, most supportive people I’ve ever encountered on this hell site. Thank you for your support and your content!

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi x Force Sensitive! Fem! Reader (no Y/N)

Word Count: 11.9K (I lost all control)

Warnings: SMUT!!! Soft Dom! Obi rights, Also, Sub! Obi vibes, Foodplay (but not how you’d think), Inappropriate use of the Force, Voice Kink, Obi-Wan Kenobi’s Hands Appreciation Society, As Usual: Too Many Feelings For Porn, Emotional Competence Kink, Trust Kink, TW: Pregnancy, TW: A character draws blood on themself unknowingly

Title from one of my favorite quotes:

“Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.”

-D.H. Lawrence

What infinite irreverence the galaxy has for Obi-Wan Kenobi.

As if his master and only semblance of a parent wasn’t taken from him when he needed him most.

As if a boy who needed a father wasn’t entrusted to Obi-Wan quickly following, far too young and full of his own loss.

As if he wasn’t thrust onto the pedestal of parenthood when he really only wanted to be a brother.

As if that isn’t what they became anyway, and as if that wasn’t the exact cloud that hung over the atmosphere of your lives ever since you’d arrived on Tatooine.

As if the being whose life signature resided in your abdomen didn’t throw a punch into each of those blooming bruises by its very existence.

Which is why, you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that you couldn’t tell him yet.

Normally, it’d be no small feat to keep something of this scale from him. But these days, he’s so focused on having his shields up around you, keeping you from both being hurt by or helping with his torments.

You have to take great care to control your body language, because even when he’s shut off from you in the Force, his keen perceptiveness will pick up on something being off anyway.

The art of a convincing lie is having layers. If he senses your feelings and decides to dig, then only give up one layer, and he’ll stop looking.

In this case, it’s your worry over him. It is true you’re trying to shield him from feeling that, not wanting him to carry the burden of it on top of having to work through his own pain.

But it’s not everything you’re trying to hide from him. So you let a small projection of your fear over his well-being escape, like you’re losing control of your feelings. It’s enough to convince him, and something critical inside you dies at the victory every time.

He deserves your honesty, and you’ve never given him anything less until now.

You hate how well your strategic deceit takes root. Because only part is due to your talent as a liar. The rest comes from how much he trusts you.

You’re not stupid, though. You know it’s only a matter of time before the biological changes in your body betray you.

Obi-Wan said he needed time, and you’re going to give him as long as you possibly can before dropping this anvil on him, hoping the further he gets from it all, the better off he’ll be.

You could kick yourself for not being more careful. You hadn’t missed any dose of your herbal Ho’Din contraceptive. It was one of the few things you shoved in your bag with the mere minutes you had to leave Coruscant for good. It was from a reliable medicinal shop, and there’s no good reason it should have failed in any way.

But here you were anyway.

Of course, there are options that free you from the obligation of carrying the child to term. All are expensive, and Tatooine is sorely lacking in any trustworthy medical facilities. The alternative methods could put your own life in danger as well.

Even if it wasn’t, you’d feel so strange making that kind of decision without Obi-Wan. Not that he wouldn’t support whatever decision you needed to make for yourself if you did, but going behind his back is something you’re not sure his trust could recover from.

And really, far too much has been decided for him in his life.

The worst reason why you can’t bring yourself to move towards any solution that ends the pregnancy now, the reason you abhor, is because somewhere within you, despite the awfulness of the time and place, you want this baby.

You couldn’t give a definitive explanation for yourself, but you did. Undoubtedly

Obi-Wan doesn’t press when you ask to cease your combat training for a time, asking to start learning the new offerings of the Jedi texts instead.

He’s concerned when you tell him, but if he’s suspicious as for your reasoning, he doesn’t show it outwardly, at least.

The way he doesn’t even ask about why, though: It makes you wonder if he had a reason all of his own why he’d rather not fight, even in imitation.

The Jedi writings given to Obi-Wan by Master Yoda are often more cryptic and mystifying than logically applicable without deciphering, which you are at first annoyed by, but then strangely thankful for, as Obi-Wan verbally processes his understandings of it, knowing what he does of the Jedi way, and you adding your thoughts from the stance of fresh eyes.

The conversations distract wonderfully, and you savor any way you still get to connect with him.

You don’t push for the ways he doesn’t allow you to connect with him anymore. The way he won’t let you in his mind. Because now, you too have a reason to not let him in yours.

*******

When it’s time to go into town for supplies again, you make up some feeble excuse which you know Obi-Wan sees through as a lie, and this time, he does pry, eyes soft and concerned. He knows you love going to the markets. You simply explain that you’re tired, which is true enough to satisfy him, leaving you behind with a kiss on your forehead before you watch him saddle up your eopie and ride off.

You sigh, sagging against the closed door once he’s disappeared into the horizon. You do love the markets. They’re the most colorful thing the planet has to offer, textiles and rugs and shiny, hanging things.

But the spices. Fragrant and potent, usually so appetizing and intoxicating, you know would turn your stomach alone. And that doesn’t even account for the strange meats being cooked at different vendors, and Maker help you if anyone was selling raw meat of any sort today. You’ve done your best to keep your nausea at bay, at times even tapping into the Force for centering when the world felt like it was rocking. But you know the market would be too much, too many variables.

It’s not a fast journey, even on the eopie, and you don’t expect Obi-Wan to be back for hours. Which is why when you hear a knock on your door, the tool in your hand clatters to the floor, as does the remnants of your project.

You quickly grab one of the long staffs you and Obi-Wan had only begun to use in your defense training, trying to recall the lessons as adrenaline begins to rush through your veins. Tatooine isn’t known for its pleasant company, and if anyone was going to try to rob your home, now would be as good a time as any.

The knock sounds again, and you shout from the inside, “What do you want?!”

“A peace treaty in the form of baked goods,” comes the feminine voice, one you recognize.

Opening the door, you lower the weapon in your hand as Beru Lars blinks at you.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were…” You step aside, gesturing for her to come in.

She waves a hand, dismissive. “I understand.”

You lead her over to the small living area as you fix two glasses of water from the kitchen.

When you set them down on the table, Beru speaks. “I apologize for the intrusion, if there was another way of contacting you before coming here…”

“It’s absolutely fine, I’m glad to have you.” You smile in what you hope is an assuring way. “Although, I’m surprised at it just being you. Where’s Owen?”

Her eyes flick to the stone floor. “He um… doesn’t exactly know I’m here. He’s out on a business deal today.”

You feel your eyebrows go up at that, waiting for her to continue. But instead, she changes the subject. “Where’s Ben?”

“In town. We needed some things from the market.”

Awkwardness settles in as a conversation topic evades you.

She breaks the beat of quiet. “Here, I brought these for you.”

You take the basket in her hands from her, peeling back the thick woven cloth to reveal a simple form of bread. It looks so appetizing your stomach clenches, and you instantly realize you haven’t had anything since breakfast.

But then the smell hits you, hard and powerful, and stars, it’s just bread, there’s nothing that should do that about bread, but you’re on your feet in a minute, forsaking the basket on the ground as you bolt to the fresher, barely making it in time to the sonic sink before you start heaving.

In a moment, you feel soft hands at the nape of your neck, gently holding back the fabric of your shirt and blowing cool air as you continue to wretch.

By the time everything has settled again, you’ve dealt with the aftertaste in your mouth, and splashed on your face with a precious cup of cool water, hot shame rises in your cheeks at how this must seem to Beru.

You wipe at your face with a rag, half muffling your words when you address her. “I’m so sorry, I’m sure they’re absolutely delicious, It really has nothing to do…”

“How far along are you?”

Your spine straightens instantly, and you let the cloth drop to the floor.

“I… what?”

Now she’s the one to flush. “My apologies, it’s just that it’s known for being a very gentle bread, it’s one my mother used to feed me when my stomach ached. If that smell turned you... I just assumed, and I shouldn’t have.”

Your lips purse as you consider your options. It’d be easy to say nothing, or just to nod.

“Two months,” you hear your own voice answer despite yourself. You’ve never been one for easy anyway.

A surge of emotion wells up in you at even being able to speak it aloud, aloud to another human, and next thing you know, to your absolute horror, you’re crying into your hands as your shoulders crumple in on themselves.

Why now, of all times? In front of Beru Lars? Whom you know accepted Luke with her husband without question because they couldn’t biologically have any children of their own?

“I’m… so… sorry,” You manage to choke out through the sobs, disgusted at your own lack of control.

At some point Beru must join you on the floor, patting her hand soothingly on your back. “Shhh, it’ll be alright. You’ll see. It’s not so bad having a young one around, you and Ben have so much to look forw…”

“He doesn’t know.”

Her hand pausing briefly on your back is the only indication she gives of shock.

“Would he not be happy?”

You take a steadying breath in, trying to calm yourself. “I don’t know,” you whisper, small and almost frightened to let the room hear you say it.

It falls silent again, but it echoes around in your brain, bouncing against your thoughts until you feel the onset of a headache.

After you’re to a numb enough state to enjoy yourself, you and Beru make tea and bring it back to the living area.

She lifts her glass to yours, clinking them. “To secrets kept from men and the mischievous company they bring.”

Your head now throbs with pain, but you smile anyway. “Thank you,” you say to her, and you mean it so very much.

********

The next time Obi-Wan goes into town, you’re feeling well enough to go with him.

You’re not visiting the food portion of the market, after all, so you’re not as much of a risk to set your stomach off. He’s taken to fixing small machinery for trading with the Jawas recently, the extra income helping with the projects around the house.

There’s a trap door that you found within the first day of being there. The staircase carved out of the bedrock beneath the hut leads to a small room that has now served as additional storage and a place for Obi-Wan to work. It’s also quite cool during the day, so if you can stand the smell of the various meats hung to dry, you’ll sit down there with some sort of project, or even reading material if you come upon it.

So today, he’s looking for a few specific tools that will streamline his working.

It doesn’t take long to find a promising stall among the maze of shopkeepers, selling everything from trinkets to weaponry of questionable legality. Obi-Wan finds what he needs easily enough, and it looks like the trip is going to be as efficient as it is successful as you walk through alleyways with him.

At some point, he takes your hand in his, squeezing it gently, projecting an assuring strand of affection toward you. It’s such a small gesture, but you’ll never tire of the feeling of his hand clasped in yours.

You’re almost back to where the eopie, Rooh, as he named her, is stabled when Obi-Wan abruptly slows his pace, dropping into a stall. An alarm goes off in your head when you watch him pick up a frivolous trinket on a table that you know he has no interest in.

You open your mouth to inquire at his actions, but it answers itself once you see him glance out of his peripheral vision to where the holonews plays in the stall adjacent.

Battle footage on what you recognized to be Kashyyk at the presence of the many Wookies plays with the Emperor addressing the viewers in a very two-dimensional, sugar-coated, thinly-concealed threat to any other world that would try to resist occupation.

There’s wreckage and uncensored violence, and you turn your head away.

“May it be known that Lord Vader is quite capable and willing to help those into compliance that require assistance... “

The item in his hands crushes, ceramic tile cracking into his hands, breaking the skin and drawing out drips of red.

But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even seem to register the glass he’s pushing into his own hand. His eyes are wide and he makes a wounded noise from the back of his throat, eyes peeled to the holonews now, not even trying to feign disinterest.

His signature sparks, giving a flash and then a severe cry of anguish, and it hits you then. Pieces of information coming together as you feel Obi-Wan tear apart at seams.

Anakin Skywalker turned to the Dark Side, and Obi-Wan thought him dead. There’s a new Sith Lord now; the correlation and timing can’t be coincidence.

The Toydarian male behind the stall shouts something about paying for it in full, and you quickly hand over the credits with a glare.

You start to pull Obi-Wan’s other hand off the table, but you quickly realize your mistake in that.

The moment it isn’t holding his weight anymore, his knees start to give, and you’ve only a second to react, jamming your body under his arm to keep him upright. His momentum nearly pulls you forward, but you plant your feet and remember at the last second to call on the Force to assist you.

He seems to come to himself enough to walk somewhat as you steer him to the nearest alley away from the vendors.

He braces a hand on the stone wall, but even it isn’t enough as he drops to his knees. He doesn’t even seem to have the will to stand.

Crouching beside him, you place one of your hands on his chest.

“I…. I…” The tremor in his usually so crisp wording and steady voice crushes your chest, making it hard to breathe. “I failed him. I failed him.”

“Obi-Wan,” you start, trying to grasp at anything, everything to comfort him, not even thinking of how you can’t call him that here, even if there’s no one in sight.

If he registers your call, he doesn’t let on, continuing in his whispers to the wall. “He was burning. Burning, but I couldn’t do it. It would have been mercy to kill him, it was my mandate to do it, but I could not...” his voice gives out on the last word, and his shoulders fall forward in a shuddering inhale that transforms into a cut-short sob on its exhale.

“And now…” as the words pour from him, his shields fall, and so do the floodgates on his emotions, and it takes all the training you know to not be washed away in the torrential current of his grief. Does he even know he’s doing it, or has the insurmountable weight of his burden finally overridden his innate control over them?

“I’ve sentenced him to a fate worse than death.” He’s only barely choked out the end of his thought before his shoulders start to shake in earnest and he crumples in on himself as he begins to weep for his brother.

Giving no heed to the odd angle, you throw your arms around him. Trying to get your arms around his body is exactly the embodiment of the feeling of the moment, this anguish you don’t even begin to be enough to cover.

What could you say? What could you do? What would even begin to…

When you press your fingers to his temple, it’s light, a show of how unforced this is, how much he can say no if he needs. Because this isn’t for you. No, it’d be so much easier to not know the exact depth of his pain and rip your chest open with that knowledge. But you’re offering it, meaning it absolutely, desperate for him to take the hand offered to him. “Please let me in. Don’t do this alone. Let me…”

Then he’s pulling you in, not just letting you come in yourself, clinging to you like a person drowning. You remember to steady, to try to keep your own head above the water as wave after surging, overpowering wave of soul-crippling agony like you’ve never felt it engulf you in their surge.

You can’t hold out against it no matter how hard you try, so you refocus from centering yourself to pulling his signature into yours as you wrap your arms tighter around his torso.

And you begin to weep with him.

*********

The suns are drifting low by the time both of you have any intelligible thought, far too late to start the journey back to the hut.

At the inn, as Obi-Wan falls into the beginnings of a restless sleep, a thought emerges, clear and crisp in its awful truth.

You cannot tell him for a long while still.

*******

It’s different now. Because when he wakes in the night, he doesn’t give you falsehoods you see right through. He lets you into the terror and distortional dreams that all reside over one theme.

There’s silence in the first days after. Just silent tears and still embraces and the way time seems to freeze when grief is at its worst.

But then he starts talking. It comes in little pieces, then in larger ones.

The loudest thing his signature screams is guilt.

You tell him how it isn’t his fault, how Anakin is responsible for his own choices, but he just gives you a new reason every time as to why it is his fault, how he could have stopped it.

Because even in what he considers his worst failure, his verbiage is indicative of how it’s not his own image and pride hurting that he’s even considered. All of his thoughts, all of them, are on what Anakin needed that he didn’t give.

At first, it’s just impressions from his mind, unsorted, blurry thoughts and feelings, but it eventually begins to become words.

“After his mother died… I know that he blamed me. How couldn’t he? He told me of his dreams, dreams he knew were foresights, but I dismissed them, multiple times, at that. And the council… advised me against comforting him, but he… I… I did anyway.” His shoulders are forward, body sagging with unsureness that doesn’t fit him right in the slightest. “But it was far too late. I know there was something pivotal about the death of his mother, and I am...” he hesitates, seemingly not because he doesn’t know what to speak, but because he does. “Terrified. Terrified it’s all because I didn’t validate him sooner. If I had not...” His voice breaks off, as he shuts his eyes.

Fear is not something admired by the Jedi, you know. When he speaks of his own emotions, he speaks them like he’s confessing them.

And as he confesses and confesses, you comfort where you can, cry with him when you cannot.

*****

The swells of sorrow ebb and flow in their intense bursts and receding stillness, and despite the moments of not being able to breathe under the weight of it, there are miniscule, almost violating, hysterical intervals where smiles and life spring to the surface, gasping for air.

Or in this case, the inexplicable desire to dance.

You don’t even really know when you start, simply going about cleaning clothing in the sonic washer, and the next, some ridiculous, repetitive tune sweeps you to move your hips and feet, uncoordinated and graceless. The tune itself played from a datachip, scrapped with some pieces Obi-Wan was repurposing to make repairs. You’re not even familiar with the type of music, and it’s hardly the type of music you’d normally choose, but you find that today, it’s an improvement on the quiet that falls upon the house as Obi-Wan works outdoors.

The song swings into a bridge, and you slide across the stone floor, imitating something you saw in a music holo years ago, as you do, your foot catches on the rug you recently added, sending you fumbling for your footing. You eventually catch it before you fall, but as you look up, you decide to lower yourself to the ground anyway at the sight of Obi-Wan, leaning up against the door frame, watching you with an amused expression, the fingers of one hand tracing between his lips and chin.

You sit splayed as tactless and gangly as you danced and let out a short, startled laugh.

“Please, don’t stop on my account. I was quite enjoying myself.”

Maker, could you just hide under the rug you tripped over? “Please tell me you haven’t been standing there long.”

He pushes off his lean on the wall, crossing the room to you. “I won’t tell you lies, my love.”

Shame twists in your gut at his words, chasing the laughter in your throat away. But Obi-Wan extends a hand down, and you take it, letting him draw you to your feet.

He kisses the back of your hand before taking it in his, extending the clasp out to the side of your bodies as his other hand rests hot on the small of your waist.

“But I will join you, if you don’t mind a style change.”

“I don’t know how to dance like this,” you say, factually.

“Then allow me to teach you.” When you look in his eyes, they’re lined with the etches of heartache still, but there’s something else too, brimming to the surface.

“What, to this music?” You give your last, unconvincing protest.

He simply drops his forehead to yours, and the small sounds of the room fade to white as a sweet, moving melody replaces it. It’s not perfectly clear, and it takes a moment to realize that it’s because it’s coming from Obi-Wan’s memory.

The music has a distant, foggy quality, and it has potential to be eerie, but instead, it just lifts you into an ethereal feeling.

He steps, and your feet follow, not as graceful, but he makes it easy for you, the steps hinted out in his thoughts before taking them in actuality.

When you start to feel confident enough in the movements, you look up at him. “Does this mean I can teach you my dances next?”

He laughs, laughs, unabashed and with no emotion harbored under it, and some torn piece of your heart mends at the sound.

“Certainly not.”

You laugh too, even at the thought of him trying. The laugher rolls into a smooth quiet, and you let yourself bask in the feel of his body against yours, the press of his hand on your back as you rest your cheek against him.

Obi-Wan cradles you to him, forsaking the pattern of the dance as he encompasses you in his arms, lowering his lips to your cheek, then your mouth in a blazing kiss.

He takes your hand in his, lifting it above your head. Then you’re guided into a spin, and the room spins double with it as you abandon all endeavors of trying to get the dance correct. Your hand drops protectively to your belly before you can even think better of it, and by the time you know you’re not going to throw up, it’s too late. You already feel Obi-Wan’s unmistakable concern right before he asks, “What’s wrong?” extending an arm out toward you.

His complexion is ashen with worry, and when you don’t respond, you feel him start to reach out to your mind; a spike of panic zaps down your spine, and you’re suddenly not sure you’re not going to throw up after all.

Your shields crash down, not enough time for subtlety, and he retracts both his hand and inquiring tendril of energy as hurt and confusion shape his features.

You can’t do this. You can’t keep up this facade or cover this moment with a lie you know he’ll see through. But you can’t tell him either. After all the weight he’s carrying, the weight of the being that grows in you should be yours alone. You can’t thrust that upon him.

But it’s a delusion that you can keep this from him forever. You’re going to hurt him one way or another, and the weight of your silence and lies multiply every day you insulate him from the truth.

You take in a shuddering breath as dread settles into your bones. You know what you have to do.

Even as you slowly lower your shields, opening your signature, your mind screams at you in opposite directions, ripping you in half, and your hand shoots out to the nearest wall to stabilize yourself. How could you be so sadistic to tell him this? How could you not tell him? After all the trust you have in each other?

But he doesn’t take the invitation. “I will not touch your mind if you are still unsure you want me to,” he says softly but resolutely as he approaches you, but stays an unthreatening distance away, as if approaching a frightened animal.

No, no, no. You won’t have him being the one to sturdy you through this. You need to be strong, be ready, don’t force him to coddle you through the blast to his own chest.

So you dial down your own emotions and switch your absorption to amplifying the still tiny, barely recognizable life you’ve been carefully censoring ever since you heard it yourself.

You want to close your eyes, blockade the pain of both how it impacts him and how it will impact you, but that’s not how you two do things.

Summoning every iota of bravery and resolve running in your veins, you force yourself to look up at him as you watch understanding coat him.

His eyes go wide, and his hands clench and flex at his sides in an erratic, nervous pattern.

You can’t keep your signature open to his mind’s reaction, you just can’t. He’s seen enough, and you can put your shields up again. His face is enough to confront all on its own.

Obi-Wan steps toward you, slowly, dazed in a completely uncharacteristic way. With the way he seems to ever be prepared for the blows life throws at him, you hate how you have to be the harbinger for the second one that’s knocked him off his feet.

When he stops in front of you, he places his hands on either of your shoulders and looks into your eyes, searching for confirmation, and you nod, trying to not let fear seep into your expression.

One of his hands covers his mouth as he takes it in.

And then he’s sinking in front of you, off of his feet indeed, and onto his knees. You want to follow, ready to hold him through the heartache sure to follow, at the second child he didn’t ask for while he still grieves the loss of the first.

But his hands instead take purchase on your stomach, tightening the fabric of your tunic around the barely-visible bump before bunching it up and lifting, just enough so he can tilt his forehead against the skin there.

You can feel him reaching out, not taking him long at all to find what he’s searching for, and curiosity beats self-preservation at the last moment, prompting you to open your mind again, just for you to be able to catch elation coursing through Obi-Wan.

You don’t even bother trying to stifle your confusion as he looks up at you with glassy eyes.

Sinking to your knees to meet him, you take his face in your hands, trying to make sense of it all as he takes your hand in his. “I never... “ when his voice comes out unsteady, he clears his throat and tries again. “I never thought I’d have... That we could… didn’t occur to me that now...stars above, how long have you known?”

You don’t recall when you start crying, but tears are falling freely down your cheeks as you shake your head. “I’m so sorry. I… I would never want to keep something like this from you, Obi-Wan, but I couldn’t tell you, not with everything, not with all you already have…and i’m so sorry.”

“Oh, heavens, no. You should not have to do this alone. Please don’t keep things from me, even if you think it to be for my sake. We can…”

You fix him with a pointed, unamused stare. He exhales as he must notice his hypocrisy.

“Your point is well-put and taken, but the sentiment still stands. We’ll not keep secrets from each other anymore. Do we have an accord?”

Despite it all, you smile at his overly-formal phrasing, something you’d normally have a quip about if it weren’t for the concern still nagging at you.

“Are you not angry then? Or disappointed?” you watch him carefully, praying to any deity listening that he doesn’t concoct some half truth to placate you. His first instinct is always to protect, but you’d never want it at expense of his authenticity.

Bafflement marks his brow at first, then he takes your face in his hands. “Darling, no.” He says your name, gathering every bit of your attention. “I dreamt of you. During the war, when I was away. I did not sleep well, even then, but when I did, I’d sometimes dream of you, holding a child that I knew to be ours. When I woke, I would remember it so vividly, so painfully, because I never thought that was an attainable future for us.”

But that doesn’t need to matter if you… do you want this child?” His eyes are so full of hope, and it was the last thing you expected, but here he is laying it down on the altar of your preference, and maker, are you glad those two things aren’t opposing each other.

Because his hope and yours are one in the same, and once he knows it too, at your whispering, choked, “yes,” he’s clutching you in his arms.

And for the second time in a month, you’re both huddled on the ground in tears. The first, bowing under the mass of catastrophe. Now, at the glowing relief of the sprouting of a dream sown in tears, too tender before to even say aloud.

But now? You’re saying it, back and forth, from him to you as your walls fall, permitting him into your mind as he welcomes you into his, and finally you take true comfort once again in the home you’ve built in each other.

*******

The night after, you lie side by side, hand in hand, on a blanket splayed not far from the hut. The suns have sunken, but the pinks and oranges of their palette still paint the sky where it hasn’t yet turned to midnight cobalt. The light of the lantern gives off a similar hue, dousing everything in your reach in soft, warm hues.

It has taken Obi-Wan some convincing, being so out in the open with everything he had to worry about wasn’t his first choice, but you compromised for a small alcove in the rock formations which surrounded you on two sides. More easily defensible. Not that he needed it, but if he was cautious before, it was borderline unbearable now. With the added danger of the Empire knowing without doubt that he lived. With more than ever to lose.

So, he was in charge of safety, you were in charge of snacks. And if they so happened to be almost entirely comprised of those melons you couldn’t quite get enough of lately? That was no one’s business except yours. You brought a few things you knew Obi-Wan liked too, of course.

What little remains of the miscellaneous spread you push to the edge of the blanket so you can both lie down.

“I dare say it’s almost pleasant out tonight.”

You turn your head to him, a snort ready at him discussing the weather of all things, but it instead forms a cloud in your throat at the sight of him.

His eyes are closed, hair rustling in the slight evening breeze, a tranquil ease over his profile.

The small patches of grey in the part of his beard next to his ears catch the first glints of moonlight in a way the rest of his hair doesn’t, giving them away.

The mellisonant lowness of his voice brings you back to yourself, cheeks heating.

“I can feel you staring, little one.” He opens his eyes, leisurely rolling to his side. “Some say it’s quite impolite.” Slanting over you, he lifts a brow, daring your response.

“And is that a problem?” You look up at him through your eyelashes, feigning innocence.

Obi-Wan’s gaze follows back up to the stars, as he plays right along, pretending to have to think on it. “I suppose it depends.”

“On?”

“On whether or not you allow me to return the impropriety,” he responds with a coy smile, moving back to you, so close now you can feel his exhales on your cheek.

Warmth blooms through you as you answer back, “You can always look, Obi-Wan.” You lift yourself to close the short distance between your face and his, pressing your lips together, which he deepens right away. Using the hand not supporting half his body off of you still, he fans out his fingers across your belly, towing the line between caressing gently and clutching protectively.

You pull your lips back from his as an uninvited slither of insecurity slips into your chest.

He senses it, of course, so you speak before he even needs to ask. “Are you really, truly, certain this is what you want? Now? I don’t want you to just say so because…and we could wait, we have...”

“I am,” he says, adamantly, before you even have a chance to finish. His eyes flash to the side. “I…” He rolls back onto his back, looking straight up as he talks seemingly half to you, half to himself. “There is not much I know for certain these days. Some days… I scarcely can remember who I am anymore.”

He turns his eyes back to you, unwavering. “There are seldom few things I haven’t questioned of late, and my love for you isn’t one of them. And from the moment I’ve known, from the very first instant you let me feel the life within you, my love for them hasn’t been one either.”

Your thoughts split into two, one wanting to lean into it, to take him for his word that’s always true, and the other cautioning you, telling you to keep distant and watch for the surface level honesty he gives that hides the brutal one he safeguards you from.

But you’re not hiding anymore, feelings unconcealed in your energy and on your face, so he leans back into you, grasping your arm in his hand, squaring your shoulders to him. You cringe at yourself when you know he’s heard the impression of you questioning. It’s redundant, but self-doubt always is. “Know, please know, my darling.” Taking your hand in his, he brings it up to his temple with an insistence that you have no desire to counter.

And it’s there. Right there and sparking in its clarity, right at the threshold of his mind as you enter it. How much he means his words, no holds barred, no cleverly crafted glazes to an unly underbelly of reality. His reality was this, how severely he craves starting a family with you. How much he already loves the being within you, how he looks forward to the day he gets to hold them in his arms.

The fear is there too, quiet, but not kept from you. The fear of failing as a father, unsure of assuming any role that resembled a mentor again, all-too-familiar with the ghost that will float over him in every lesson he teaches.

What shocks you there is his faith in you. In how much he’s already learned from you about the impact of open affection, in how you don’t let your feelings lead you, but you let them breathe, not suffocate them. It’s part of how he even can acknowledge his fears to himself and to you without berating himself under the too-simple phrase “fear leads to the dark side.” There’s truth in it, but also inaccuracy.

Because he’s afraid, and yet, there is so much light in the acknowledging of it to himself, and in that very act, it loses much of any power it could have had over him. Oh, how deeply he wishes he could have articulated that understanding to Anakin.

The pain is fresh, but so is his anticipation for the future, swirling together in a potent drink, and his throat bobs with the effort to swallow them down simultaneously.

He knows you’ll help ground him through it, he trusts you, even in his uncertainty in himself.

It breaks your heart but also warms it: the knowledge that he lets you into that place where he keeps the questions of himself, the place only you and the man who’s caused most of this doubt have been permitted.

With a thankful short farewell, you part from his mind as you know exactly what you want to do.

The remains of your snacks still rest on the edge of the blanket, including the shells of the deep purple-pigmented melons. The one draw-back to their delightful taste was how badly they stained your fingers. You had to break them into tiny pieces, plopping them into your mouth without allowing them to touch your lips unless you wanted your mouth to stain too.

But right now? The staining quality was just what you needed.

Although first you needed a blank canvas.

“May I take your tunics off?” you ask, sitting up.

Despite a short twitch of confusion and then interest, Obi-Wan follows, raising himself up into a kneel, slightly lifting his arms in compliance.

The paleness of his skin catches all the light of the lantern, highlighting your view as you slowly slide the fabric up and off, gliding your hands up the line of hair dipping below his navel as it becomes more exposed. It grants you a quiet, steep intake of breath from him and you suddenly give halt momentarily, distracted by the alluring appetite you’ve created.

No, you won’t give in. Not yet. He needs to know this.

You take one of the broken pieces of melon rind in your hand, where little tart bits of the fruit still cling, dribbling pigment, but before your finger makes contact with the taut skin of his chest, you pull back at the realization you might have bitten off more than you can chew.

How do you even begin to describe him? Obi-Wan is so many things at once, so many attributes, and every descriptor that comes to mind falls blatantly short of him.

Then you recall Obi-Wan going through the motions of Alchaka, watching his body fight to maintain the poses at times. Being such a personal practice, you felt honored that he let you see him go through the exercises, and even more honored that he opened up to you about the purpose behind it later. It was an exercise of both physicality and Force use, and the goal was absolute exhaustion. That was the destination. Trying, knowing from the start that he’ll fall short in the end, but doing it all the same. Because there’s so, so much to be said for the trying.

So you do. You bring the messy fingertip to his clavicle, smearing the first word you know to absolutely be true of him, as if starting the premise with a whisper of I know you’re even more than the sum all of these singular praises.

The word “complex” appears in your penmanship on his skin as you drag it to life. You look up to his eyes, and his curiosity is clear there, but also so is the tenderness that is elemental to any time he looks at you. And just like that, you have your next word.

Kind.

And at the way he flushes so lovely for you at that?

Beautiful.

You feel his protest before you see it, the objection in his signature, and you know you’re going to have to switch methods.

Just then, a droplet from where you’ve written the last word on his pectoral falls, down, down, threatening toward the hem of his trousers, but you’re fast, dropping your mouth down and catching it all on your tongue before it can stain the bleached beige of his remaining clothing.

When his stubborn revolt at the affirmation quiets in his mind in exchange for a flash of searing lust, you know exactly how you’re going to continue.

Because Obi-Wan Kenobi, general, warrior, negotiator, Jedi Master, legend, has rarely ever been affirmed as such, and he squirms under the thick blanket of his humility and deprivation anytime someone endeavors.

So you need his mind to be preoccupied enough, guards down low enough, so he can even hear the message get through.

When you place your hands over his waistband, locking eyes in inquiry, stopping when he hesitates, scanning the area around you, vigilant as always. Overly so now.

“We’re alone. And wouldn’t you be able to sense it if we weren’t?”

He looks down at you as he answers. “If I stay mindful enough to do so, yes.”

Good, he’ll be even less prone to fight you if he has some of his mind sensing outward.

You look back up at him with the facial equivalent of asking “well?” to which Obi-Wan sighs in response. “Very well then.”

With your familiarity with ridding him of clothing, it only takes moments before you can finally taste him where you want to, where he’s already hard and swollen for you.

You know you won’t be able to take him as much as you want, a recently-developed overactive gag reflex preventing you. But it just so happens to be convenient tonight, as the resulting taunt should have him right where you want him.

A gentle kiss, right to the head of his cock is all the warning you give him before taking the whole tip in your mouth, swirling your tongue around him, pulling a choked hum deep from his throat.

Oh, oh, Maker, have you done a grand miscalculation, because you forgot an entire factor in this equation: the way you have been borderline hysterical in hunger for him.

You’ve kept so much from him, and part of how you’ve even managed is starting to convince yourself of less than fact. Facts like how many times you’ve had to change underthings recently, physical evidence of desire unwilling to comply to your head’s demands. Facts like how you’ve literally had to bite your finger to keep the feelings at bay.

You’d expected changes in your body even before your belly grew, but this was one you hadn’t anticipated. In some ways, it wasn’t that different than usual. You never knew you could want someone with the breadth that you want Obi-Wan.

But this? Of late? It feels like it’s been amplified tenfold.

You’re not keeping any cards close to your chest anymore, but you do have to ignore your own body’s screaming cries as you complete this.

He needs to know.

Nerves still serenading his brain with feedback, you re-wet your finger with the purple juice and write the next words across his abdomen.

Wise.

Perceptive.

He’s caught on to your scheme by now, cued by the all-too appropriate addition of the last word, and he lets you know it, an impression projected, speechless but still unobstructed. He’s still powerless against it. Or rather, letting himself be powerless. Trusting you with the control he has left, trusting you in his vulnerable places. The places where he’s weak.

Strong.

The word spread over his right upper arm, where he’s obviously just that. But may the tint of the word bleed through his skin, may it run through his veins, because that’s how deep and deeper still that his strength runs. It’s in the way he doesn’t flaunt it. It’s in the way he chooses to wield it.

Gentle.

He closes his eyes, flinching at the onslaught of acclamation, and you dip your head down again, wrapping your lips around his cock, letting him slide to where you can take him comfortably, just starting to build a pace as his hips squirm in harmony with his suddenly erratic breaths. Oh, how you’d love to let him deeper, allow his cock past your lips beyond the teasing amount you can take now, but the little writhes his body gives in protest are enough to almost make you okay with how your mouth won’t agree with your ambitions. He says your name, groaned out in bliss as he cups a hand on your cheek.

His barriers are down, so it’s easy to hear when his deprecating thoughts quiet again, and you switch back to coloring him again.

You know the moment you look up at him that it’s a mistake, because he’s flushed, so torn, suspended in the limbo of your give and withdrawal, mouth ever so slightly open, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.

You’re only human, so before you draw anything else, you bring your lips to his, which is yet another mistake, because among the many things Obi-Wan is, he is a deep kisser, and as his tongue delves into your mouth, your will power takes a devastating blow.

You pull back, reeling at the reminder of how easily he can take back control, knowing you have to complete this before you let him.

Stars, how you want to let him.

For now, you need that control back, so you take him into your mouth again, filthily wet and not nearly long enough as you quickly pull back, watching in satisfaction as he heaves forward at the loss, correcting himself quickly back into straight posture.

With a smirk, you drag your slippery, pigmented finger across his lower stomach.

Disciplined.

There’s so many more words, so much more he needs to know, and if you covered every inch of his skin in the smallest writing it still wouldn’t be sufficient of all that he is.

Or you could whisper it all through the Force, embed it all in his mind.

But because you’ve been there, know his mind inside and out, you know every time he sees his own skin, all he sees is the red of blood on his hands. The blood of his brother.

And that’s exactly why you’re going to stain it in your own colors. Take back territory and push back the front lines that the army of guilt has taken over on him.

Your Jedi, ever-adorned in unassuming beige, now drips in the color of royalty.

Charming.

Humble.

Confident.

Steadfast.

You’re only left with enough space for one more word, and you want some sort of conclusion to it all, something to summarize the expanse of the man kneeling in front of you.

Nothing can.

But maybe, just maybe, one word encapsulates what he is to you.

Treasure.

This time you do chant it across his thoughts, prompting him to open his eyes and look at you.

Cerulean blue blinks open, slowly, almost painfully and nearly overflowing with emotion.

Thank you, is all he says, unable or unwilling to say it out loud, much too heartfelt and newly-budded for that.

You know his pain has older roots than those tended to in this moment, but you vow to yourself that you’ll never stop trying.

Lowering your mouth around him once again, you don’t tease him anymore, at least not intentionally, even though you still can’t take more than half of him.

“Look at you, you’re…” he hisses in a breath as you swipe your tongue against that vein on the underside of him. “Stunning. You’re doing so well, little one.”

The taste of him compels you as much as his words, seizes you in spice-like addiction, and how interesting it’s going to be explaining that taste craving to him, among your sudden adoration for those damn melons.

“Darling, I’m…”

You feel it in his energy before he says it, already pulling off, replacing your mouth with your hand, dropping your lips down even lower, mouthing at his balls, and the feedback is instant. An outpouring crest of his pleasure blasting outward as he lets out a depraved moan, netting his hands into your hair.

Your hand is wet and so is where he’s spilled on his still flexing and releasing stomach, clear white maring the lettering halfway through “disciplined.” You’d clean it with your tongue if you weren’t sure how your overly sensitive taste buds would react now.

It’s not the first time you’ve had sex since you’ve known you were pregnant, but it’s the first time since he’s known, and it’s the first time you’re not hiding the symptoms. Before, you carefully shied away from anything that might give you away, and between the preoccupation of everything on his own mind he was trying to keep from you and his respect for your boundaries, he never pressed. He had questions in his eyes, but you knew how to carefully reveal partial vulnerabilities to keep him off your trail.

Your chest flares at the memory.

We’re not hiding now.

It’s your chant, your reminder, your comfort. How nothing of this caliber will be kept between you again.

His eyes confirm it, sincere and exact as they fight to break through their dazed slipping.

Never again. His voice in your head is home, so consoling it can and has put you to sleep before.

Right now, it wakes you up in a different light, dowsing you in heat as Obi-Wan takes your hand in his, wiping it on a piece of his discarded clothing before wiping the spend off himself.

Then he’s taking your face in both his hands tilting you up before kissing you soundly.

I love you, he says across the wire that ties your minds, the wire that keeps growing stronger every day. So, so very much.

You say it back, a fact as simple as breathing. You love him.

You want him, borderline need him the way you need your next inhale, you don’t say, but he must hear it anyway, because that cocky little smirk that’s been gone far too long is back.

“Shall we do something about that?”

You’re about to just lift your shift dress up and off in response, but he halts you, grasping your wrists.

“Allow me.”

He pulls you into another sultry kiss, completely neglecting the task of ridding you of clothing.

Or so you think.

There’s buttons all the way down the dress, and you’ve never used them, always wondering at their purpose if it can so easily lift over your head.

At first, you don’t even know he’s doing it until you start to feel the coolness of the night air on your nipples. Opening your eyes, you pull back from him to watch as seemingly in thin air, your buttons undo themselves.

“You needn’t seduce me further. You already know how much I need you,” you gasp, breathless from the kiss.

Obi-Wan just gives a small smile as he drops a hand, dragging it down your side, then down your thigh. “Hm. So impatient. All this from just pleasuring me?”

Maker, he knows! He knows that you are. You always have been, and it’s not as if you weren’t projecting your feelings too.

When he reaches a hand between your thighs, parting them and making a single, tempting stroke through them, his fingers come back glistening.

“I should think you could feel that I am.” You let the tide of your frustration spill over into your connection to his mind.

You know he had to hear you, but he gives no indication that he did.

“Mm. Desire needn’t always be indicatory of impatience,” he punctuates his statement with a hand at the base of your skull, tipping your head back to expose your neck. “I need you to be patient, little one. Let me savor you.” And with that, his mouth makes contact with your neck at the same time his other hand plays with one of your exposed nipples.

You whimper at the attention, quietly pleading with him for more. Among the still slight changes to your body, this has been the most notable one. How sensitive your breasts have become to even the scrape of the fabric of your clothing.

And with the rough pads of his fingers working only one, leaving the other to pang in want...

“Obi-Wan,” it’s a prayer, a request. He doesn’t need his hands to cause sensation, and you’d beg him right now if he asked.

He lets up on your neck, only barely, lips moving against the now throbbing skin. “Answer me first.”

Clearing your throat, you give the most cogent response you can muster. “Depends on if you’re definition of savor is synonymous with torture.”

He locks eyes with you then, gently grasping a breast in each of his hands, dragging his thumbs over the nipples as you moan out your assent.

His chuckle is far too self-satisfied to be becoming of a Jedi, but you’re already too far gone to call him on it.

“Is that what you want, little one? For me to torture you so?”

An affirmative whimper is all the response you can give, and Obi-Wan reacts quickly, taking your chin in his fingers and tilting your eyes up to his again.

“Then you will be patient for me. Because I’m always happy to stop, and we can begin again when you decide to adhere.”

Your brain short circuits on the spot, and all energy is redirected much, much lower. His voice, stars above, his voice when it takes a commanding tone.

It’s intimate, it’s personal, and yet this game is almost inappropriately playful for how sincere the moment is.

But such was being loved by Obi-Wan. Full of dissimilar feelings that shouldn’t fit, but moved together in liquid consistency. Like metaphors that didn’t rhyme but still somehow gave their own life-giving rhythm, not dissimilar to the sound of his heartbeat when you lay your head against his chest at night.

Making quick work of the remaining buttons of your shift and underwear, he beckons you to join him as he lies back down, large, warm hands guiding you to turn around so you’re facing away from him.

You know that the purple stickiness of the fruit will smear from his body to yours like this, but you can’t at all bring yourself to care.

You gasp a sigh of relief as one of his hands finds your breast, brushing a knuckle over the too-sensitive nipple.

“Please.” Your whispered beg sounds pathetic, even to your own ears. But as you arch against him in a frenzied attempt at skin contact, Obi-Wan juts his hips forward, grunting into the exposed column of your neck, and stars, yeah, maybe he didn’t find that so pathetic after all.

“What do you want, darling?” His voice doesn’t divulge any desperation, and for only the hundredth time do you envy his immaculate self-control.

“You know, don’t pretend you don’t.” Leaving any doubt to the wind, you push your chest against his barely-touching hand.

“Specificity can be a virtue; that I also know.”

You change techniques, driving your hips back softly into where he’s hard and insistent against your ass, hoping it compels him.

Then you simply… can’t anymore. You’re frozen, unable to move your lower half at all.

Tangling your desires into a knot and tucking it away, you find the mindfulness to reply. “Yeah, so is mercy.”

“Indeed it is. I shall concede when you do.”

You won’t win a battle of the wills with him. You’re not sure anyone could.

So you bring his hand over to your nipple. “Touch me here.”

You feel his smile without even seeing it as he starts tweaking the bud. “Like this?”

It’s so much sensation, all concentrated on such responsive flesh, that you want to beg for him to switch to touching you between your legs.

You haven’t even finished the thought when you feel his unmistakable metaphysical brush against your thigh.

Extending a tendril of your own energy, you invite him in, and he takes it eagerly, ever as eager if not more to be entwined with your mind as with your body.

He hears it all, the besottment, the arousal, the neediness. The panic that he might drag this out longer, that you’ll have to go a single minute longer without...

“It’s alright. It’s alright.” He sends soothing waves through your connection, and he swaps the positioning of his hand with the curl of power. He turns his hand so that the back of it runs through where you’re aching for him, gathering up your slick on the backs of his knuckles. You have to contort your neck to see what follows when he takes the hand back behind you, and your mouth goes dry when he sucks the knuckles in between his lips.

You want to hear, you want to know what he’s…

He’s welcoming you in, navigating you to the brink of his mental barriers, letting you take that final plunge into the unsuppressed fullness of your bond to each other.

Now it’s your turn to hear it: how his carefully constructed unaffected persona is not at all a match for his naked, wanton need for you.

And under that, the foundation on which that desire is built, not the product of it, is his love, his unyielding, unashamed, iridescent love for you.

It’s all you can do but to pour it back, affirming and soothing and calling his love into action with your own.

You both don’t want anything else except the most complete of entanglement, and that’s exactly what he moves to do, situating your bodies, hiking your top leg in the crook of his arm as you feel the initial breach of his body into yours, and all breath leaves your lungs in an exhilarating evacuation.

His audible gasp is an echo of his emotions, how he thinks he’s prepared for this onslaught of feeling, but how you take him off guard, how his equilibrium threatens to teeter every time.

The web of his consciousness enveloping you, it’s easy to pick out a single thought blaring within him: How much he adores the way you fit together. Your back against his chest, how your breast fits in his hand, how the snug joining of where his cock presses into your body sends you into trembles, how comforting your very presence is to his soul when he lets you in like this.

Tears, without warning, seep out of your eyes as he starts to move against you, slow and deep. You close your eyes, willing the powerful emotion away, but glimmers of light flash out behind our closed lids the moment you do, and how the kriff does he stay composed?

Anchor. Anchor against me.

He stills, letting you have a break from the barrage of pleasure blinding you as you search him out, looking for the cords of his intellect that seemingly both steam downward and beam upward, grounding him.

You find it, and you clasp on tightly.

But the moment he starts moving again, you lose sight of it all over again.

Your heightened hormones make your flesh so susceptible, and the tears start to fall again. Obi-Wan rolls your nipple in between his thumb and index, and he’s so good, and you’re so full, and you can hear his pleasure as your own, adding, doubling everything…

Scorching, electrifying heat speeds through your veins, hitting hard and fast, leaving you astounded and even more sensitive than before.

Obi-Wan’s signature spikes as your climax resounds through him, and you can feel the vibration of the wanton noises he’s making right where his beard scratches against your neck.

But he doesn’t allow it to overtake him, letting it run through him without resistance, making himself pliable but unmovable, keeping himself back from the edge.

You still have much to learn.

Because that control? Gives him the ability to not even stop, not even hesitate once, even at both yours and his own ecstasy flowing through him.

When he starts striking his hips hard into yours, the weight of him inside you dragging exactly in the right place, you start to cry in earnest. Obi-Wan stops for a millisecond, concern radiating off of him, even when he can hear how much you want this so clearly, has access to every little passing thought.

“Don’t stop, I’m fine, I pro…” He does just as asked while moving his hand down to your belly again, a soothing touch to his rough thrusts. Your eyes are blurred with wetness, overwhelmed with him.

He’s listening to it all, applying every micro-feeling of feedback into action against your desperate, post-orgasmic skin, hand switching back and forth from your nipples to loosely clutching your neck, Force energy focused on applying pressure to your clit.

“You’re doing so well, so good for me,” comes the wisp of his sultry tone, lips pressed against your ear.

Since you aren’t even thinking about changing position, you know it’s his own preference that has him withdrawing, guiding you onto your back.

There’s no inhibition this way, not the way there is when you’re on your side, no separation from your bodies being flush when he pushes into you again. You have to anchor in him, both mentally and with your fingernails clawing at his shoulder blades as your body starts into tremors.

He’s keeping the weight of his chest off of you, even though your belly is still barely swollen into distinguishable roundedness, and as much as you miss the contact, you can look into his eyes like this, can see the unfiltered attachment and all the weight of all the emotion he wills his body to not cave under.

But then the tremoring transforms into series of contractions throughout your body, centering through your slick core, and you thrash your head to the side catching a glimpse of Obi-Wan’s fingers clenching into white knuckles, grasping into the exposed sand from the blanket being bunched up.

He projects his thoughts across the tether to you, how thoroughly impacted by the very fact you’re carrying his child, how affected he is by every little thing about you, honored that he’s allowed to touch you like this.

You roll your hips back up into his, and that’s what it takes. His stuttering body is the lightning, and the searing, molten pleasure across your connection is the thunderous repercussion.

It completely overthrows you, and your body bows against him as his high instantly cues yours again.

You can feel him throb inside you at the very moment you do, his turn to experience the secondary sensory white-out of your mate’s climax through the Force, his shuddering shout meeting your breathy whines in the close distance between your mouths.

And he does kiss you then, soundly but with the haze of afterglow slowing it.

“Have you any idea how bewitching you are to me?” He breathes it out, and despite all the ways you’d normally scoff at such words, his eyes tell the story, and you listen to it’s truth.

His eyes hold that constant infiltrating study of you, the one that could be unnerving if his mind, still tethered to yours didn’t hold such amor, heart bleed such fondness that settles in the creases around his eyes.

How interesting it is watching someone as knowledgeable as him having such an inquisitive outlook on life, and being so frequently the object of those investigations.

Did the galaxy know her debt to him? Did she know the sum owed to inflicting the worst of life’s pains on someone who refused to let it build anything except an even gentler man of himself? When does she plan on repaying him? What does she offer in exchange for her cruelty of the hand she’s dealt Obi-Wan Kenobi?

Then the whisper comes, soft but crisp, from somewhere in the threads of existence around you, “Can’t you see? It’s you, child.”

You could argue it. You could scream how it’s not enough, how you’re not enough, how he deserves so much more from some dark insecure place inside you. Or how love shouldn’t be treated as currency in exchange for pain, how the galaxy could still have your fists if that was how it tallied.

But the finality of it settles in your soul, more impressionistic than in solid wording: there is no easy conclusion that ties the suffering of life into purpose, no experience that erases or mends its pain. But love. Love makes the complicated endeavor of trying to find purpose in the madness worthwhile.

Obi-Wan’s hum of agreement resounds in your ears and through to your head. His Force signature feels so familiar, so at home within yours and yours within his, that you’d briefly forgotten he could still hear you.

With all the strength still left in quaking limbs, you wrap your arms around him, and he melts into it.

The compassion of his soul hardly matches his war-ravaged skin, his guilt-ridden memories. Every good thing here came to be with a war waged, refined and not burnt away in fire at his sheer tenacity.

It’s a growing thing, blooming in the desert. The beliefs in both of you. Your love for each other. Your own trust in the Force.

Healing is no short journey, but her two sojourners here are determined.

And if that tender hope can blossom here?

Then maybe, just maybe: Tatooine is exactly the place for a baby after all.

*********

In the valley beyond the hut, a boy jets quickly away in some mechanical contraption he recently motorized, a girl in a similar vehicularized compilation of junk not far behind.

On the cliff’s edge stands Obi-Wan, eyes scanning the landscape intermittently for any sign of threat between longer affectionate looks at the children before him.

He turns, feeling your approach in his keen awareness as you set a hand on his shoulder from behind. His temples are now even thicker with sun-bleached silver, and his eyes wield the lines of laughter around them.

And you? You’re as roped in by his gravitational pull as you’ve always been.

He puts a hand over yours, clasping it to bring you in front of him, where he can still watch the children and encase you in his arms at the same time.

“Slow down, Luke! You’re going too fast!” comes the distressed cry of your daughter, Ahlina, drawing your attention away from admiring Obi-Wan and back to the valley. Her vowels curl in the same way her father’s does, but her more casual phrasing was certainly thanks to you. Luke shouts back at her, “Come on, keep up!” while he races on ahead.

Obi-Wan smiles, seemingly amused at a secret joke.

“They are much too young for this nonsense still,” he speaks, muffled slightly as he hides his lips in your hair.

“Probably,” you reply with an airy laugh.

Not long after, the engine on Luke’s small contraption gives out, jutting him off and tumbling forward into the sand.

“I told you!” Ahlina yells, her own machine coming to a halt not far away from Luke.

When they make it back up the cliff, Obi-Wan couches and opens his arms, and they both come running with smiles. They’re still young enough to be unshy about affection, and Obi-Wan knows to soak it up, closing his eyes in relishment.

Luke is the first to wiggle down, waving before running over to hug your leg, which you happily return, brushing some of the blonde mop of hair from his forehead. You adored the nights that the Lars let him sleep over.

Although the nights that Ahlina slept over at theirs certainly had their allure too.

“Can we have a snack, Daddy?” Ahlina asks, still happy to be hoisted up on one of his arms.

“Hm. Perhaps I can make some of those ahrisa sweet breads again?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Can Mommy make them?”

“Why not mine?”

“Because you always burn them.”

He bops a finger lightly on her nose with a smile. “Cheeky.”

She goes to bop him on his nose in return, but he catches the finger, holding it.

“Give it back!” she screeches through a giggle.

“No, no. I think I’ll keep it now.”

The suns are dipping low as you retreat into the hut, the two children running ahead, racing to gather the ingredients to help you bake the bread. Luke especially was an enthusiastic sous-chef.

You step to follow them, but Obi-Wan grasps your hand. You turn back to him, and he barely gives you a second before he joins his mouth to yours. Sliding a hand into the auburn beard, you open your mouth to him, letting his familiar taste permeate your senses.

He reluctantly breaks after a long moment, and you take his hand in yours. When you turn back to the horizon, the suns are dipping, blanketing the landscape in the most celestial light of the day.

The planet’s eyes aren’t harsh in the way you used to see them. They’re still intense, and frequently unforgiving.

Perhaps they never changed. Maybe only you did.

But as they sink now, you give a silent, partial farewell, knowing they’ll greet you again in the morning.

Because if Dark’s patience is infinite?

So is the promise of the return of the Light.

Tagging upon request: @million-dollar-legs

#obi-wan kenobi #obi-wan kenobi x reader #obi-wan kenobi x you #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi wan kenobi x you #obi-wan x reader #obi-wan x you #obi wan x you #obi wan x reader #obi-wan kenobi smut #obi wan smut #obi-wan smut #obi-wan #obi-wan x oc

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nebytheneb · 3 years

Text

The love of a Jedi.

“The reader grew up as a Jedi or near the Jedi temple (you decide) and she knew Obi Wan all their life. She fell in love so hard because it slowly builds itself over years and years and then some day, after Obi Wan doubts himself after a failed mission or something about Anakin, she just can’t take it anymore and tells him everything.” 𝚁𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 Katevino

If you wish to make a request, please check out this post!

Pairing: Obi-Wan x Jedi!reader

A/N: OKAY BUT LIKE I ENJOYED WRITING THIS ONE! I will admit it was hard to express the emotions, but I think I did alright? This has definitely been one of my favourite ones so far. Thank you for requesting it! Oh, and I hope it was what you were hoping for.

𝙿.𝚂: 𝙸 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚏 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚌𝚠 𝙾𝚋𝚒 𝚘𝚛 𝙴𝚠𝚊𝚗 𝙼𝚌𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚘𝚛 𝙾𝚋𝚒-

---------

A Jedi has a lot of responsibilities, fighting in a war while harbouring extreme feelings for a fellow Jedi shouldn’t be one of them.

Obi-Wan Kenobi, one of the most well respect Jedi in the council and someone you have known since he got his first lightsaber. You were there when he became Gui-Gon’s padawan. You were there when he was grieving over his master’s death, and you were there when he took Anakin in as his padawan.

Safe to say, you knew him more than anyone else. Though, something had grown over the years.

Every time he looked at you, when he took charge in making a plan of attack, the way he fights, when he grins. It made you stumble, a warm feeling floods your chest, blood would rush to your cheeks and ears.

However, you could never utter a word about these feelings even if you wanted to yell from rooftops about the emotions that plagued you every day. Although, you pushed the feelings down, ignore them, and pretend that those feelings don’t exist because it was against the Jedi code.

You were on a Star Destroyer with Obi-Wan and Anakin after an unsuccessful mission, which resulted in a planet being taken over by the Separatists.

The meeting with the Jedi High council had just ended in the situation room. The three of you stayed silent. Tension thickening by the minute until Anakin was the first to speak up.

“They trusted us,” He said, fists clenching. “and we failed them.” Both you and Obi share a look, one of concern.

“Anakin, we were outnumbered-” Obi tried speaking. “We could have still taken them on!” He countered. “Stop this, It won’t get us anywhere.” Obi said, resulting in his padawan storm off out the door in anger.

Obi-Wan pinches the bridge of his nose, like he would do in situations he doesn’t know how to handle. You lift your hand up to wave away the clones that guarded the door to which they left through the same door.

“I should have known that they would outnumber us.” He said, sighing before looking at the holomap laid out in front of them. You grip the white cloak you wore. “Obi, we didn’t know.” You said, walking closer to him but keeping a notable distance.

“He is right, we failed them. I failed them.” You could see this jaw tightening, shoulders were stiff as well. “No, Skywalker shouldn’t have run in like that. He acted reckless.” You said, trying to reason. “Perhaps, I failed him.”

“Failed him?” You said, scoffing at the idea. Obi-Wan sighs while trying to analyse the holomap. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Don’t know what to do? I don’t believe that. You’re an incredible Jedi Master with a brilliant mind and I-” You stop yourself, feeling the bubbling of emotions in your throat ready to spill out.

Obi-Wan looks away from the map to look at you. In that moment you wondered if he knew, had he figured it out? The idea terrified you. “What?” You back away from him, turning your back to him while running a hand through your hair in a frustrated manner.

You take a deep breath before twirling around to face him again. “Obi-Wan Kenobi, I never want to hear you say that you failed anyone, not even Anakin. You do not know,” You pause, considering your words. “how much you mean to me, everything about you makes me want to crumble.”

This is when everything comes out, all those emotions that have been piling up over the years finally start pouring out. “The way you take charge in a meeting, planning an attack, and you stroke that beautiful beard of yours while you’re in deep thought.” This sudden outburst of yours stunned him.

A feeling in your chest became heavy as it feels like your mind was going a million miles an hour. “I,” Tears welled up in your eyes, frightening to fall. “I love when I see you looking proud of Anakin for whatever reason or when a mission goes well and I get to read the report of it afterwards. Reading all the great things you did and all the people you saved.”

You reach up, placing your hand against his cheek, feeling the prickly hairs of his beard in the palm of your hand. “Obi-Wan, I love you more than a friend or childhood best friend, more than you could ever know, and it hurts, it hurts so much.” You sighed heavily before letting your head drop. Tears falling down and hitting the floor.

The fellow Jedi was speechless. The confession along with the tears that travelled down your reddened cheeks. He never expected this. Perhaps he was blind to the feelings his close friend was feeling, Regardless of whether he returned the feelings, this still all felt overwhelming to him, to know how much love you had for him.

He pulls you into an embrace where you let tears dampen his clothed chest. Never in your life have you felt so many emotions at the same time. Although one stood out, that makes you let out a smile. You pull yourself out of the embrace and you look up, smiling at him.

“I never knew I meant this much to you.” He said while running his hand over his hair, messing it up. “You mean a lot to so many.” You replied as he reaches out to wipe the tears off your cheek, you lean into the touch and you could have sworn that he was close to tears.

It felt like it lifted a weight off your chest, finally after years of pushing away the feelings that were oh, so forbidden because of the Jedi code.

The door to the room slides open and Anakin walks in. Almost in unison, both you and Obi-wan look at the holomap. “This looks like a weak point. Perhaps we could send a squadron there.” You say, and Obi strokes his beard while nodding. “Ah, Skywalker! We were just about to plan an attack.”

Anakin walks over to the holomap, standing across from you two. “Master, I apologise for my outburst.” He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact with the two of them. “It was out of order-” He gets cut off by his master. “Anakin, it’s fine, but let’s focus on trying to regain control on the planet.” Obi-Wan said.

He nods and gets straight to analysing the map while coming up with plans. He even calls in Captain Rex.

You glance at your childhood friend, sharing a smile with him. Saying your feelings out loud was the greatest thing you could have done ever since becoming friends with this Jedi that stood by you. However, some words would forever be unspoken by him. Unlike you, he could never utter such words you said today.

But that was okay, as long as he knows how you feel and how valuable he is to so many.

#obi wan fluff #obi-wan x reader #obi wan imagine #obi wan needs a hug #obi wan x you #star wars imagine #star wars x reader #tcw x reader #tcw imagine #obi wan x y/n #insert reader #obi wan kenobi #obi wan x jedi reader #tcw #fluff

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beewisethoblog · 4 years

Text

Betrayal of the Cruelest Kind

Prompt: You Find Out Obi-Wan Faked His Death

Author’s Note: So I was watching the Clone Wars and the Deception arc came up where Obi-Wan fakes his death, and I was feeling angsty because of it, so this came into existence. Let me know if you’d be interested in a part two, I’m thinking of writing more from this.

Word Count: 1,989 words

It had been weeks since the night Obi-Wan died and the snake of pain that constricted your chest still hadn’t lessened its hold. Everything around you felt like a reminder of him and that he was gone.

Your apartment felt littered with him and his things. An extra cloak he left once when he visited hung by the entrance. The glass he chipped while the group had been over for dinner. His favorite drink sitting untouched in the fridge. Pictures on the walls of him. Even toiletries he bought and left there from the times he would watch over you as your bodyguard and needed to stay the night. You could barely stand to be home anymore.

Yet the streets weren’t much better. Everywhere you looked you saw him. There would be the flash of a cloak in a crowd, and your heart would pound in anticipation only to remember that he was gone, and the cloak couldn’t be him. You would pass someone with his same strawberry blonde hair and reach for them only to apologize as a stranger stared back at you.

He haunted you not just in your waking state, but in your sleep as well. You were tormented by images of him being shot and falling from that roof, the limpness of his body, the lifelessness of his face. You hadn’t been there when it happened, and yet somehow you knew that what you saw was the reality. You would wake, every night, sobbing, clutching the robe that once belonged to him, his scent long replaced with your own after the countless nights you held onto it. You had taken to using his soap from the other bathroom just to remember what he smelt like.

None of this went unnoticed by Anakin and Ahsoka, who had taken to spending every day they could with you since that night. You and Anakin found solace in each other and your kindred aching hearts. The two of your had always been close, Anakin was the one who introduced you to Obi-Wan after all, but in those weeks your friendship had only gotten stronger. You were the reason he didn’t kill Obi-Wan’s murderer and instead sent him to jail, you kept him reeled into the light side, stopped him from falling too deep into his emotions.

Anakin had suspected before your feelings for Obi-Wan, but seeing your reaction, smelling his soap on your skin, seeing you wearing his robe around your apartment made him sure. It had never been outright stated, you never felt it needed to be, but you loved him. Even now, even though you knew he was gone, your heart still yearned for him. You only wished that you hadn’t felt like you had all the time in the world with him, that you hadn’t taken the time you did have for granted. You knew that Obi-Wan adhered to the Jedi code, and you never wanted to make him choose between his life, so the two of you had never been anything more than friends. But you had been content just being close to him, knowing you couldn’t be anything more.

The man who murdered him, Rako Hardeen, had been put in jail. The night Anakin confronted him, you had almost wished he would have killed him, that you could have gotten revenge, justice for the hurt that man had caused you, for the life he ripped away from you. You knew that Anakin had done the right thing deep down though, that he had done it for Obi-Wan and for you. But that was until Hardeen managed to escape jail, sending you and Anakin almost off the deep end. Ahsoka was the one who had to remind you two to keep a level head.

An unspoken agreement had gone between you and Anakin then. You could see the anger in Anakin’s eye, and you knew that he wouldn’t give Hardeen another chance if he found him. A part of you felt it should stop him, but the greater part of you wanted nothing more than to see Hardeen dead.

You, of course, weren’t allowed to accompany him and Ahsoka, seeing as you weren’t a Jedi. They had bid you goodbye three days ago. It was the first time that you had been truly alone, and Anakin realizing this, had sent Padme your way.

You went to bed late one night, after going out drinking with Padme. You had both fallen asleep on your couch. It was barely hours later and you woke to a loud banging at your front door. Padme was stirring next to you on the couch and the two of you turned towards the door, wincing at the headache forming in both of your heads.

The banging didn’t stop, and you groan as you walk over to the door. You had barely opened it when Anakin pushes it open and comes stomping through, Ahsoka following behind him.

“Master, you need to calm down.” Ahsoka tries to tell him, but you could tell her heart wasn’t in it. She too seemed upset. You were just standing there, staring at them with confusion, unsure about what was happening.

“Calm down! Snips, how am I supposed to calm down after what we just learned?”

You gasped as Anakin turned around and you saw all the bruises littering his face. You take a step closer to him, reaching out.

“Anakin what happened?” From the couch, you could see Padme’s worry as well. Anakin stepped away from your touch, turning away from you again in anger.

“Ahsoka what happened? Did you find Hardeen?” You ask the padawan instead, seeing how upset Anakin was.

“Oh, we found him all right.” Anakin scoffs, and you look to Ahsoka for answers. Her eyes seemed red as if she had been crying, and you could see the disappointment she held in them.

“What does that mean? Is he the one that gave you those bruises?” You look between the two of them anxious for answers.

“Y/N, I think you might want to sit down,” Ahsoka says gently, leading you back towards the couch, where Padme watched with the same confusion you felt.

“Y/N…” Ahsoka starts before sighing and looking towards her master. She seemed to not know how to continue. “Obi-Wan, he’s-“ You continue to stare at her, mind racing for what she could say next. “Well, he’s alive.”

You gasp and look at Padme, whose face was equally in shock.

“What do you mean he’s alive! I thought-I thought that he was killed by that blaster! We buried him, I was there at the funeral, he can’t be alive.” You ramble, heart beating out of your chest, breaths uneven.

“We found him. Turns out Hardeen didn’t kill him-” Ahsoka continues. “But Y/N-“

“What’s the matter then! He’s alive! This is great news. This is- I- can I-“

“Y/N-“ Ahsoka tries to interrupt, but you ignored her, pushing to your feet.

“Can I- can I see him? Where is he? Is he alright? Where has he been?”

“Y/N,” Ahsoka urges and you turn to her expectantly.

“Obi-Wan faked his death. He’s been masquerading as Hardeen.” Anakin finally spits out and you blink at him.

“I don’t understand.” You reply slowly, taking in Anakin’s angry face and the downcast eyes of Ahsoka. “What do you mean he faked his death? Why- why wouldn’t he have told any of us?”

Padme stands up and puts her arms around you, seeing how your form was shaking, and tears were starting to form in your eyes. You lean against her as you try to steady your breath, each one coming out ragged and dry.

“Anakin, please explain.” Padme pushes.

“We tracked Hardeen to Nal Hutta. There we spotted him on a ship with Bane and managed to get them to land. Hardeen came out of the ship and I attacked him in anger,” Anakin closes a fist. “He defeated me, but I felt Obi-Wan’s presence. I had a suspicion that he was still alive. When I confronted the council about it at the temple, they revealed it to be true.” Anakin finally looks you in the face, his eyes tormented with emotions. You could see the worry he held for you at this revelation. “He’s alive Y/N.”

Tears start to stream down your face, emotions conflicted within you. Obi-Wan was alive. The man you cared for deeply and wanted nothing more in the world to see again was alive. You imagined being able to look up into his blue eyes and see his smile as he teased you for missing him, as you hugged him and felt his arms around you.

And yet, you couldn’t help the anger building up inside of you. He left you. He let you think that he had been killed, that his murderer was out there on the loose, and instead, he was there alive, pretending to be somebody else. Were all those sleepless nights spent crying for him, was the pain that had been left in your chest all for nothing? He left you and the people who care about him in misery for what? Secret intel for the Republic? Is that really all you mean to him?

And then it hit you. If not you, then Anakin. How could he do this to his best friend?

Your heart pained as you realize that the Jedi would always come first, that if he could leave you like this, in pain, not realizing what his death would do to you and the others, then he truly never cared for you. The need of the Republic and his duty came before anything he felt for anyone. He was a Jedi after all, they weren’t supposed to have attachments. Maybe you had all been fooled into thinking you meant something to him.

You pull out of Padme’s arms then, and Anakin and Ahsoka look at you in worry, taking a step forward. Your face had hardened, and your fists were clenched. You wanted to scream, you wanted to throw something, you wanted to sob and bang your hands against the floor and rid yourself of the pain that was growing in your chest. But you just stood there breathing heavily, tears streaming silently down your face. It wasn’t until one of them tried to reach for you that a scream finally cut through your mouth and you screamed and sobbed till your throat felt raw. And all around you objects started to fly against walls, crashing and crumbling to the ground. You sank to the floor as destruction ensued around you. Ahsoka was calling your name, and Anakin you could feel had gone to protect Padme.

“Y/N, it’s okay. You’re okay. Calm down.” Ahsoka wrapped her arms around you, and you turned to sob into her. The shattering and noise quieted suddenly, and your head pounded some more as you finally felt your self calm down. You were afraid to open your eyes, to look around you at the destruction you had somehow created without lifting a hand.

Suddenly you felt another body wrap you in their arms, and you knew it was Anakin. And then Padme was there too, and together you all cried for the betrayal of someone who was meant to be a friend. Of the pain you endured for weeks under the false belief of his passing. Of your shared misery through the bond you all felt at that moment.

“How can I ever forgive him?” You whisper hoarsely as you all pull apart. You stare at Anakin then, and you saw the same conflicting feelings in his eyes.

“I don’t know.” He answers honestly.

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papercinders · 4 years

Text

exile

PART II OF ENIGMA

PAIRING: obi-wan/reader RATING: PG WORD COUNT: 3.0k SUMMARY: he had a home, once, but now it is gone. you offer yours, if only for the night. or: the second time you ask obi-wan who he is. A/N: this is the second installment of enigma, a six-part series; updates every saturday. let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist. otherwise, enjoy!

previous part | next part | ao3 | masterlist

By the time you reach the farm, night has almost fallen. It’s not cold, but compared to the blistering heat of day, Tatooine by night is pleasant. The sky is painted in strokes of bluish gray and amber, the brighter of the two stars following the other as it sinks below the horizon. Soon, the farmstead will be cast in an expanse of pure darkness.

You hold the reins of the eopies, watching from a distance as Ben carries the bundle to the two silhouettes standing at the edge of their settlement. It’s a humble abode. The landscape is barren. You watch as the infant is passed between them. His name is Luke, you remind yourself.

You wonder who these people are. They take the baby with outstretched hands and little words, and the man wraps an arm around the woman as they turn toward the sunset, as if they are the last people in the galaxy, standing against some insurmountable obstacle. It’s just a baby, you tell yourself. It’s just an orphaned baby, and not even orphaned anymore.

Ben stands there for a moment, cloaked, a dark stain against the residual light of Tatooine’s binary sunset, but only for a moment. Then he turns back toward you, face unreadable, and though he arrived in Tatooine with empty hands, it doesn’t look like he has let go of anything.

When he is near enough for you to call out to him, you hold back words. He stops before you, eyes not meeting yours, and then slowly raises his head to meet your gaze. The world remains silent for another moment, and then ―

“I haven’t even asked for your name.”

He says it as if you haven’t noticed. To him, you suppose you’re just a speck in a sky of grief. His face seems to fit into the mold of a smile so well, so often, and yet he has shown you little joy. You suspect he is here because of some unspeakable tragedy.

You realize that he is still watching you, and you say your name quietly, as if afraid to give too much of yourself away. Even though names, at their base level, are meaningless ― you learn far more about a person from actions and words ― there is something in that uselessness that makes a name all the more intimate.

Ben pauses for a moment, eyes still holding yours, and then he nods once, a single acknowledgment. “Thank you,” he says, but he does not repeat your name. You wonder why.

He crosses to one of the two eopies and hauls himself over the side of the creature and into the saddle; casts a glance at you from the side, and then dips his head in some form of goodbye.

Before he pulls the reins, the words come pouring out of your mouth. Part of it is genuine curiosity, but the other part of it is some desperate desire for him to stay. You tell yourself it’s because you haven’t figured him out yet. Just like before, you can’t quite explain why you speak. But just like before, you do.

“Where will you go?”

There’s a lull in the breeze, and everything holds its breath before he forms words. Ben searches your eyes. “Here,” he says, and from beneath his cloak, produces a few credits. They clink together. He holds out his hand for you to take the credits.

You look at the offered credits, glinting in the quickly-fading light, and then back to Ben. His hand is still outstretched, open. “I said I’d be your guide for free,” you say, and make no move to take the money.

Slowly, he pulls his hand back and stows the credits away again, still watching you. His eyes are blue like water, or maybe an ocean. You’ve seen bodies of water before, of course, but they don’t exist on Tatooine. At least, not until he arrived.

“Where will I go?” Ben muses, and he finally breaks eye contact, sweeping a gaze over the endless landscape of sand and horizon, interrupted only by the farmstead. “My ship, I suppose. I’ll return the eopies.”

“And after that?”

“After that?” he repeats, glancing at you briefly. His eyes are not wholly troubled, but neither does he seem unburdened or at peace. Exhausted, maybe. He sighs, shoulders rising and falling. “I’ll find somewhere to stay. Somewhere near here.”

“On Tatooine?” you say, and you can’t keep the disbelief from bleeding into your voice. He has a working ship, from the looks of it, enough credits to spare, and no reason to remain on Tatooine. Who would willingly stay here?

Ben is quiet for a beat. “Yes.”

The word why almost slips past your lips unhindered, but you remind yourself that you are still strangers. It’s one thing to know where he is going and how he will get there; it’s another to ask him to explain. Especially when he doesn’t seem keen to answer.

You follow his gaze to the small, round house on the edge of the moisture farm. The couple has disappeared inside with the baby. You wonder what Luke is to Ben; what it meant to take care of him, what it meant to give him up. You have the barest of ideas that he intends to stay on Tatooine for the child, but you wonder why, then, he gave him up in the first place.

“I should leave now,” Ben says.

Both stars have disappeared beneath the horizon. Light still radiates where sky meets land, but with every minute, it is leeched away. Darkness has already rendered the clouds gray and the opposite horizon a palette of muted tones.

Night is falling. He’s right. He should leave now.

But instead, you ask, “You have nowhere to go?” Behind the question is a variety of implications. You hope he takes it at face value. A ship, after all, is not a home.

He hesitates, as if weighing whether he considers a single-pilot starfighter to be sufficient. In the end, the silence stretches on, and you decide for him.

“There’s an extra room at my place,” you say, but your voice is quiet. You’re suddenly aware that you’re offering to let a stranger into your home ― even if your home isn’t much ― and you don’t even know what he does for a living or what his surname is. It’s in a different category than offering to be a guide.

Ben’s brow furrows, and he looks at you as if trying to figure out why you would offer something of yours so freely. “Why?” he asks, and it’s a fair question.

You’re not sure what to say, so you settle on honesty. “A ship is not a home.”

“Do you offer a room to every traveler passing through Tatooine?”

“No,” you say. A pause. “But you’re not a traveler passing through.” You know why he asked the previous question. He’s unsure of your motives; you can read it through more than just his words. “You just…” You search for words to describe what you know of grief. It’s futile. “You seem lost. Alone.”

When there’s more silence, you nearly backtrack, take back all of your words as if they are crumbs you can sweep from the floor and throw away.

But before you can retract your offer, Ben says your name. It sounds strange, unfamiliar ― it has been a long time since anyone has called you anything except girl and you ― but it is a part of you, after all.

“You’ve already been kind to me,” he says, and his voice is soft, even in the slow breeze as it rolls over the sand dunes. “I only need a place to stay for the night. At first light, I’ll be on my way.”

You’re surprised. He doesn’t come across as the kind of person who would accept help without a fight. But then again, he seems tired. Weary. Perhaps a little broken ― or a lot. Maybe, you decide, he has already survived a battle. A war. And maybe that’s why you have given him your time, your home, and your kindness.

The Republic is now the Empire. The war is now the past. It has left behind pieces and shards and ashes, and perhaps it is your job to pick them up. Or perhaps you only tell yourself that because you have no other purpose in this endless, lonely expanse of desert and empty wind.

You don’t have much food to offer him, but you don’t bother apologizing. You know he’ll say that he doesn’t mind. You know he’ll bring up the fact that you’ve offered your home up to a stranger.

The truth is, it’s not really a home ― you throw around the term because it’s loosely accurate, but house is a better word for it. Or hut, if you were more precise. All it is is a clay and synstone hut with two rooms and a common area. You don’t know who built it, or who lived in it before you. But it’s yours, now.

Over a meager dinner ― ahrisa and haroun bread, nearly stale ― you sit in silence. A few words are exchanged, but his voice is soft and in the dim evening, when eye contact is softened and movements dampened, you don’t mind the quiet. You’re tired, and you suspect Ben is, too.

But he is the first to break the silence. “Why are you on Tatooine?”

The question is odd. You tilt your head to the side, unsure if he knows what he’s asking. There’s the easy answer, and then there’s the difficult one. You lean back in your seat, regarding him in the faint, diffused darkness. “Let’s make a deal.”

His eyebrows pull together in curiosity, but he humors you with the slightest of nods.

“I’ll tell you why I’m here if you tell me,” you say. You’ve been wondering for the past few hours, postulating about Luke, about the couple that took him in, about where Ben comes from and why his ship glints bright and clean in the sun.

There’s a beat of silence ― hesitation, you think, but it’s hard to tell ― and then Ben nods again, pulling forward to rest his arms on the surface of the dining table. “Well, then, you first.” Something in his voice sounds almost playful, and though it surprises you, it also seems strangely natural to him, some side of his that has had little chance to show itself.

Again, there’s that sense that Ben is changed, somehow, different from who he really is. You can’t say for sure because you’ve just met him, but on a few instances, you wonder what he’s actually like. Whether he smiles often or his voice has a lilt to it; if he laughs openly or softly; if his eyes can show as much joy as they can grief.

You shut away those thoughts. You first, he said, and you try to decide how much of yourself you’re willing to give away. The silence does not cease, so you speak.

“I don’t come from anywhere in particular,” you say, keenly aware of Ben’s eyes on you. “I ended up on Tatooine out of sheer dumb luck. Ran out of money.”

A beat of silence. “Ran out of money?” Ben repeats softly.

“I was scammed,” you say, and shrug, though it’s a weak shrug, born not of indifference but of wearied regret. There’s nothing you could’ve done, and Tatooine is not known for being kind to newcomers. But the sand and the desert here are tempered by some broken-in mix of resentment and acceptance.

Ben’s voice comes out of the silence again. “Is that why you helped me?”

He poses it as a question, but both of you know he’s right, at least to some degree. Still, to answer would be to cross a boundary. “That’s not part of the deal,” you say, and for some odd reason, the brief tug on the corners of your lips is not wholly unnatural. “It’s your turn.”

“I suppose it is,” Ben says, and you can’t read his tone. He hesitates ― this, you think you’re sure of. “I came to Tatooine to find Luke a home. His parents are dead, and I cannot be his guardian.”

You notice that he does not say why he can’t take care of Luke, so you don’t ask. Instead, you say, “Why stay on Tatooine?”

Ben is silent again, but before you can retract your words, he answers you. “I had a home before the war,” he says, eyes downcast, form still cast in darkness. “During the war, even. But it’s gone now.”

Gone? you want to ask, but your mind is reminded by your heart that the absence of loved things and places is painful to talk about. And you are reminded by your head that despite everything, Ben is still a stranger, an unknown, and though he sits in your house and eats your food and answers your questions, he is just another traveler torn from his home by the war.

It’s easier to think about when you’re reminded of how wide the galaxy is; when you think about it in terms of numbers and not faces. It’s better that way, isn’t it?

“Tatooine is fitting for the lost,” Ben says. You find his eyes in the dark, and his gaze is soft. His voice is quiet. “It’s fitting for who I am now.”

“And who are you?” you say, even though just a moment ago you were so sure that considering incomprehensible numbers and entire galaxies is preferable to faces and voices.

Still, Ben answers. “An exile,” he says, and though the word is inherently hopeless, he is not entirely grief-stricken. Not entirely. Not yet, perhaps.

An exile, you repeat to yourself, and you wonder what his home looked like before the war took it away from him. In the music of his voice alone, you decide that his home must have been complete. Or complete enough, for nobody misses what is already lacking.

You don’t ask him any more questions after that. It doesn’t matter that there’s some tentative bond in mutual loneliness, or that you’re both indebted to each other in different ways. You tell yourself that strangers are strangers and must remain that way; that even though Ben says he will stay on Tatooine, no one with a ship stays for long. Not when the rest of the galaxy can offer so much more than here.

The night is deep and long, and conversation is extinguished. You show Ben to the extra room, holding back an apology for the dust because you know all he wants is to rest. The house is still and quiet, and as you switch off the last lantern, true night descends. You close your door and lie in bed and try not to think about the stranger who does not seem like a stranger. The wanderer who does not wander; the exile who cannot be only that. You thought he was a puzzle to be solved; a riddle to be answered. But perhaps, you think, as you drift off, people are more complicated than messages to be decoded or secrets to be found.

In the dead of night, you’re woken up. You think it’s because you heard someone cry out. You’re not sure. The house is silent, the air unmoving, and for a few moments, you lie in bed, blinking exhaustion out of your eyes. You’re already on edge because there’s someone unfamiliar in your house, so you try to convince yourself that’s the only reason why you’re awake and unable to fall back asleep.

You still can’t sleep, so you slip out of bed, creaking the door of your room open and then padding past the dining table and finally, to the other closed door on the other side of the house. You stand in front of the door, in the darkness. Part of you is sure that you heard nothing and you should go to sleep instead of disturbing Ben. The other part of you is convinced that you’re just afraid to knock.

In the end, you step away from the door, quietly, and retreat away from the extra room and the stranger that resides within. Go to sleep, you tell yourself, and you’re sure that everything will make sense when the suns rise over the horizon and light fills your house again and darkness does not prompt your mind to invent what cannot exist.

But before you’ve gone a few paces away from the shut door, in the utter silence of night, there is the soft click of a door being cracked open. You turn at the sound. Ben stands in the opening of the door. It’s too dark to make out his face clearly, but what dim light exists reflects off his eyes, which peer at you.

“Did I wake you?” you say quietly, even though you’re certain that it’s the other way around.

Ben is silent for a few moments, and in the padded, inaudible night, you’re unsure of how much time lapses between your voice and his.

“No,” he says, finally. “I couldn’t sleep, anyway.” There’s something behind his voice that you can’t figure out, but you resist the urge to theorize about what kind of sadness has crept into the music of his words.

I’m sorry, you want to say, because you know that he’s lost a home and a friend, at least. But you merely nod, even though you’re not sure if he can make see much in the gloom. There is nothing more to say ― nothing that would not cross the boundaries of strangers ― so you murmur a goodnight for the second time and cross the distance back to your own room. You do not wake until morning.

And in the morning, he is gone. A few credits are lined up on the dining table, glinting softly in the early light. The blanket in the extra room is folded and set on the bed, the door wide open.

The air is still, the morning silent, and your only companion is the first of the suns as it climbs above the horizon. It’s quiet, and your house feels strangely empty.

taglist (i tagged users who reblogged or commented on the first part; let me know if you don’t want to be tagged): @coraxaviary @princessxkenobi @fortunately-golden @ravenoushela @damalseer

#star wars fanfic #obi wan kenobi #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi wan x reader #star wars fanfiction #star wars reader insert #avii writes #fic: enigma #userkarina

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galaxysedginess · 4 years

Text

Crossroads

Ao3 link

Obi-Wan Kenobi/Satine Kryze

3415 words

Sun glittered through the multicolored stained glass windows, creating long rainbow patterns that danced across the marble floor with heated consistency. There was no clock in the master bedroom, as strange as that may be, but Obi-Wan knew from the rising positioning of these reflections that mid-morning was approaching and as was the remainder of his life.

It sounded dramatic, but after months of denial following a few months of repressing that truth, but there were two diverging paths for Obi-Wan Kenobi. There was the path that was sculpted for him ever since he was recruited on the planet Stewjon at age 3. On it, he would become a Jedi knight and later a master, with time, patience, and training. He’d hope to train a padawan of his own someday and continue to serve and protect the galaxy. There was also the matter that he’d grown up a Jedi and knew nothing else but pushing towards that goal. He wanted to see the entire galaxy and do so along with his friends and family, who weren’t related to him by blood, but by purpose and destiny.

It was an honorable path and consisted of everything he ever knew and loved.

A soft snuffle startled him from his sleepless reverie. He glanced down to where Satine still lay with her head on his bare chest, fingers trailing aimlessly, caught somewhere between reality and dream. The bed beneath them was larger than he’d ever seen and significantly softer than anything they’d slept on over the past year, but still she curled against his side- even if the time to preserve warmth or ensure safety was over. However, Obi-Wan would never complain about being close to her.

The Jedi path contained almost everything he ever knew and loved.

The second path, at first, was not as clear as the other. He knew now with certainty that this was not because it was deemed less than in the grand scope of the force, but because it was one he had to open himself up to understanding. In his time with Satine, he’d discovered parts of himself that he never believed to exist. She evoked a range of emotions that he otherwise never would have experienced simply by her very existence. The primary facet of course being love, which he’d all but said to her the previous night.

He’d shown her rather than spoke of his love, as the final tennant of his code forbade it. That was not to say that the Jedi council would approve of the means at which he’d shown it, but he was resolute in his decision the moment they left her coronation banquet together. She’d been sure to ask him in between tangled silk sheets and seering kisses if what they were doing was okay.

They’d kissed in secret plenty of times during their year together. Most were chaste and quick, but others did drift well beyond the edges of propriety, but Obi-Wan (despite a panging sense of want that he’d never experienced before) never allowed them to go as far as he’d wanted because of the threat that always loomed around the corner. Even still, Satine never pushed. For as much as she questioned and debated the Jedi’s ideals and ethics, she always acknowledged their importance to Obi-Wan.

Something about her consideration and respect to his code only kindled the fire brighter within him and he’d answered with the only declaration he could give in clear conscience:

“Tonight, I’m yours.”

As someone who’d always been strongly encouraged against forming attachments and had been warned of the lustful temptations that could plague him in his youth, Obi-Wan expected to feel some level of guilt after his dalliance with the Duchess. Even after their glazed skin cooled from the embers of passion and Satine, herself, drifted into a peaceful sleep, he could only find contentment.

He feared this second path was one fully of self-fulfilled desire- that he would be ignoring a greater duty to the galaxy. Qui-Gon, while not privy to the more intimate details of his evolved relationship outside of the Jedi code, had still sensed his troubled thoughts.

“Meditate on your troubles, Obi-Wan. Only the force has the true answers of where and who we must be.” Qui-Gon sagely told him that morning.

So, before the coronation ball that required them for their final acts of service in regards to the Duchess, which was purely for show of gratitude more than anything, Obi-Wan spent several hours cross-legged and giving himself over to the serene flow of the force. During which, he felt as though he was in a spiritual tug of war. He could feel the weight of this crossroad and the effect it could have on the galaxy as a whole.

He was not so narcissistic to believe that the most fantastical events revolved around his choices, but he did understand that even the smallest of moments could hinder or transform a sequence of events. He sensed the potential of great purpose, of course, which was a Jedi’s truest call to action. While vague, it was obvious he would do much good in the galaxy as a Jedi, even if the overall emotion he sensed down that path was… Loss. However, there was also balance in that loss. Yes, the force sung with rightness when he leaned in this direction, promising a difficult life, but an influential and worthy one. It was a lot for one young padawan to take in all at once.

When he considered his second choice, he was surprised to find the same importance of duty as his Jedi path. He supposed this made sense, given should he be offered a stay on Mandalore, he would likely assist in rebuilding and strengthening their people. And yet, despite a localized sector, it seemed this good would be useful for more than just Mandalore and would outstretch to a galaxy of influence. Warmth flowed through him as he felt rather than saw, a montage of possibilities: peace, prosperity and… Children? He tried not to linger too long on them, but the image of Satine holding a baby in her arms flickered across his mind’s eye before he could even try and stop it.

He would forge a family should he stay. With Satine. Such possibilities held so much curiosity and wonder for him, for someone who never even blinked at the concept of parenthood before, that he briefly had to consider if he would be capable of such a task.

And yet, while overwhelming, he knew he would give his soul for them. They didn’t have names, faces, or heartbeats yet, but he understood in his bones that he would gladly give himself over entirely.

He’d exhaled deeply, determined not to let emotion guide his choice, and centered himself to align with what the force believed of such a path. To his shock, a wave of calm and peace flushed through him at once, giving off the belief that yes, this path was also correct. He would and could do good on Mandalore, beyond self-serving desires such as pursuing love.

Which meant, it was simply up to him.

At the time, Obi-Wan had scowled, resigned to the realization that this decision had not been made for him, before fluttering his eyes open to see none other than Satine staring down at him. He had been flustered, of course, having not heard her come in, and had instantly scrambled to his feet to meet her.

“I just came to inquire if you needed anything to wear for tonight,” She asked, even if they both knew she could have sent a servant to do so, “I managed to convince Qui-Gon to dress up, so if you choose not to, you will stick out.”

“What’s wrong with my robes?” He’d taken the bait as he always did.

“Would you like me to exclude mention of the blaster fire burns? I feel that might be too much of a low hanging fruit, if you ask me.”

This ignited a brief argument between the two of them that inevitably led to Obi-Wan giving in to whatever ensemble she’d surely already had picked out and Satine smiling broadly at his verbal defeat in a way that made his heart feel it might burst. She’d kissed him on the cheek then, swiftly but expertly, as she’d done so for the past couple of months, and then left him reeling on his own yet again with a terrifying thought for a Jedi.

I would leave for you.

Or, it should have been terrifying. The fact of the matter, was Obi-Wan only felt peace at the idea. He would say yes if she wanted him. It would be hard saying goodbye to his life as he knew it, but despite having only known her for a year, that same aching pull reflected in the thought of leaving her. And as the morning sun rose higher into the sky, dangerously approaching its peak, Obi-Wan felt that crossroad thrust upon him as he realized time was running out.

They were due to leave today. The council had commed Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon regarding an uprising in the mid rim that could benefit from Jedi mediation. When Qui-Gon announced their planned departure to Satine, she hadn’t so much as flinched, but did insist on seeing them off to part them with a proper Mandalorian farewell tribute.

As he regarded their discarded clothes on the floor, a small part of him resisted the idea of making a snarky comment on how other systems could truly start bidding goodbyes like Mandalorians. However, he was stopped at the thought that this might truly be goodbye.

He took in all of the details of her face for good measure- her smooth alabaster skin with pink undertones near her cheeks, the straight slope of her nose, thin pink lips drawn into a slight pout in sleep. Behind closed eyes he could picture visions of blue sea glass staring back at him with an intensity that would scare a weaker man back into space, but only strengthened Obi-Wan captivation with the Duchess.

As if she could sense she was being watched, Satine stirred slightly and peaked one eye open to test out the brightness of the room. Upon seeing him first, she nuzzled his chest and closed her eyes again, making a soft sound in the back of her throat.

“Good morning.” He said against her hair. He’d be a liar to say he didn’t relish in how sweetly she smelled like lilies.

“Why do I get the feeling you didn’t sleep?” She mused sleepily.

He didn’t, but even after falling into bed with her and having several hours afterwards to ruminate on his life going forward, Obi-Wan was not tired. If anything, he’d never been more alert.

Not wanting to put a damper on her day so early, he merely shrugged, “Need I remind you that I’m a Jedi and we don’t require the same amount of sleep?”

A half-truth.

“Last I checked, you were a padawan .” She still hadn’t opened her eyes fully, but tapped her fingers across his chest, “Much left to learn.”

“Hm,” He ran a hand up her spine, relishing in the shiver she tried to suppress, “I don’t recall you complaining much last night about my learning level.”

She snorted, but he could feel the flutter of her heart and she snuggled closer, “I didn’t say you weren’t a fast learner.”

He laughed, because she was never without a retort to one of his own rebukes, but couldn’t help noticing how painfully normal this warm scene felt. Satine felt it too, because he could sense her still beneath him, sudden melancholy and longing filling her heart.

She answered this growing sadness with a kiss- infused with as many feelings as she could express without words and he responded in kind and deepened the embrace. Despite the calm that had infused him with his careful consideration over the future, emotions bubbled and boiled to the surface- threatening to make their way to surface if not for the way Satine expertly kept his tongue quite busy.

It was only the hard knock at her large double doors that broke them apart accompanied by the announcement that the Jedi would be departing within the hour.

Reality could be delayed no longer.

It seemed it didn’t matter how many katas he practiced or how many walls he jumped, no exercise would prepare him properly for the act of kissing Satine. He wouldn’t admit it, but he quite liked that she exhausted him the way she did.

“Qui-Gon will come looking for me.” Obi-Wan breathed heavily.

“Yes, me as well.” She admitted without taking her eyes off of his. “Where will you go?”

“Haidoral Prime.” He said and leaned back on his forearms.

“And then?”

“I’m not sure.” He answered honestly, “Truthfully, Duchess, I’m having a difficult time processing any time lapsing beyond this moment.”

“Me neither,” She whispered and fondly tugged on his padawan braid. There was so much conflict in her eyes as she considered him in full, “You saved me, my heroic Jedi knight. Time and time again.”

His heart felt like it was plundering in his stomach. So, this would be their goodbye. He was confident they would have another one, under scrutinizing eyes and the masks they wore so well when they weren’t alone with each other. Obi-Wan wasn’t sure how it would fit after a night like the previous one.

He laced their fingers together and kissed them, “The pleasure was all mine, my dear.”

At the second knock on the door, which was truthfully quite kind for her guards, they forced themselves to crawl out of bed and slip on their clothes. Obi-Wan did the respectful thing and prepared to climb out the window to spare them the lingering stares down the hall from any passerbys. Before he could even step a leg out, Satine grabbed him from the front of his tunics and kissed him again, this time almost pleadingly, and he once again saw that crossroad splitting just before him saying it was now or never.

Just then, clearer than ever, he saw crystalline glimpses of his two futures. One, where he was alone and old staring at a horizon with twin suns, a worn frown on his face as he gazed at a small farm with promising hope.

The other, he was somehow older than the first, but not alone. He was dancing with a woman, who smelled of lilies and sounded like the sweetest tune he’d ever heard, even while mocking his dance steps.

There was peace and purpose in both, but he knew just then what he wanted and perhaps, that had been the lesson at the core, that so long as he wasn’t rejecting or ignoring the greater purpose for the galaxy, that his own accounts and wants were valid too. So long as he served the force as the higher power that it was, that he could have… Peace.

And with that, he realized she would never ask him to stay, not unprompted, but not because she didn't want him, but because she loved him too much to ever do such a thing. He realized then that he loved her too much to make her ask.

“You wouldn’t happen to be in the market for a long-term protector, would you?” He asked, trying to inflict his on-brand sense of levity, but could still hear the vulnerability in his voice.

She startled, “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” He breathed, “I love you and if you’ll have me,” And his heart sped up despite knowing with certainty where her feelings lay, “I would like to stay here with you.”

Her eyes widened in nearly comical shock as she stared back at him in disbelief. The longer she didn’t answer, the more he felt himself slowly crumbling apart. He would leave for her, without hesitation, but going back after a blatant rejection would be incredibly difficult for him, especially if he’d somehow misjudged this entire situation.

“But- the Jedi?” She spluttered and leaned back from him.

Her guards knocked a third time, “Duchess-”

“-Yes, one moment, please.” She answered firmly in a tone she’d practiced over the months to read, do not bother me again, thank you. And she turned back to Obi-Wan with doubt and confusion in her eyes, “You’re a Jedi.”

“Padawan.” He corrected, “You’ve certainly pointed that out enough.”

“But… Attachments.” She floundered.

“Jedi cannot have attachments.” He shifted in his feet, “And I respect that code, but should I stay, I would not be a Jedi any longer.”

She gaped, “I thought… You have dreams! And hopes! I can’t take you away from those. It would be selfish.”

“And it turns out,” He felt his cheeks reddening, “I can have many different dreams.”

“Obi-Wan, I need you to be logical. I mean, this is a huge decision.” She said adamantly, “One that if I have your order pegged correctly, you cannot go back on.”

“I assure you, it’s a choice that hasn’t been made lightly,” He swallowed, “And one that requires your sole agreement. I will not cross boundaries where I am unwanted. It’s not only against the Jedi way, but simply my way.”

“Of course I want you!” Her voice raised dramatically, echoing a bit off the walls and she paused, glancing back towards the doors where her guards and likely at this point, Qui-Gon, stood. Obi-Wan found he no longer cared for being judged. “I’ve been holding back because I know how much being a Jedi means to you and how much your code means to you. If this is solely about last night-”

“-It’s about last night and all the other nights before it.” He said, growing heated, “It’s about every night I’ve spent alongside you for the past year- whether it be huddling for warmth in the rain or sleeping back to back in the sweltering heat. Arguing in the middle of an onslaught or kissing wounds in secret. So, I assure you, Duchess, while last night was quite pleasant, it did not put me under a hypnotic spell that would knock me from my senses.”

“You sure know how to charm a girl,” She rolled her eyes, “Even in the midst of what is supposed to be a romantic moment, I’m guessing.”

“And what other way would you have it, Cyar’ika?” He sighed heavily, “If I could bestow you with a ring, I would.”

“Okay, if anyone is proposing marriage around here, it’s me!” She pointed at herself aggressively in a way that Obi-Wan found equal parts frustrating and extremely attractive.

“Then do it if you so please!” He said and then sagged a bit, “Or please notify me otherwise.”

“ Oh, Be’ni.” She said reverently, taking his face in her hands and fixing him with her most loving stare that he used to shy away from but only nuzzled closer to.

The one to whom I belong; the one who belongs to me.

He didn’t doubt for a minute that this was the derivation of her private nickname for him, though he’d never heard her formally admit it until now. He raised their joint hands and kissed her fingers again, never once breaking eye contact as he did his best to ebb away any of her doubts, to assure her that this was what he wanted, that she was enough for him to walk away from all of it, if she said so.

And that he’d be happy here.

“I want all of it.” He said resolutely, “And I am prepared to sacrifice what it is necessary to do so. I could never regret you.”

She gasped a little at that and leaned into his touch and in that moment, he didn’t see paths or visions or vague futures, but just her and the warm aura that surrounded her. The confidence, snarkiness, idealism that made up the person he loved dearly.

“I could never regret you either.” Tears were running down her cheeks when she nodded quickly and pressed her forehead to his: “ Stay with me, love me, Marry me.”

“Yes.” He brought his lips to hers, feeling quite emotional himself as the other path that he’d edged towards for so long faded away along with the future it held. He didn’t doubt there would be plenty of horizons to behold with Satine in his arms.

#obitine #Obi-Wan Kenobi #satine kryze #The Clone Wars #Star Wars #au canon divergence #myfics #excuse my shitty mando'a

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zargsnake · 3 years

Photo

Knightkiller: Anakin and Obi-Wan’s First Adventure

Chapter 6: Tila Juna

Word Count: 1659 Links: Chapter 1, Table of Contents

* * *

As he is meditating, several guards burst through the curtain into Obi-Wan's room.

“Alright, Jedi, what did you do?” asks a Rodian.

“Do?”

“Where is your boy?” asks an Ithorian in his steady, peculiar language, which the cosmopolitan scholar of course understands perfectly.

“Oh, dear. I thought he was with you!”

The Rodian smacks his insolent guts with her staff. “He's run off! What did you tell him? What did you give him?”

“Nothing. I know nothing about this station. And I haven't left this room.”

The Rodian whacks him on the head. “Sneaky Jedi rat.”

The Ithorian wearily halts his coworker’s attack. “Juna’s girl will work just as well for your death matches. Your boy was only ever extra bait. Now he has proven himself to be only trouble.” His gaze is imperious and bland. “When we find him, we shoot on sight. Then we’ll slice off his head before you can pull any of your magic tricks, and divide the spoils between the upper officers.”

“You underestimate him. He cannot be found if he doesn't want to be.”

“We shall see,” the third guard, a Zabrak, threatens.

Obi-Wan feels no fear at her appearance. She looks far more like his Zabrak friend Master Koth than the Sith. No one looks like the Sith.

But, for Anakin, he feels great fear. What did Anakin do? Where did he go? What is he thinking? Anakin amazed Obi-Wan with his knowledge of these low-lives. But on his own, in a place like this? With all the street smarts in the world, he won’t last an hour.

I have lost the Chosen One. Qui-Gon would kill me.

Nevertheless, the bold knight tuts and laughs. “You would love to hear our master plan, wouldn't you? Ah. I pity you all for what's about to happen to you and your little tournament.”

The Rodian hits him again.

“Alright, then,” says Obi-Wan, grimacing. “If you want answers, you'd better bring in your boss. I'll only talk to Knightkiller.”

“Not likely,” the Ithorian responds. “You'll only fight Knightkiller once you’ve defeated all the others. So many of our athletes are paying through their noses for the chance to kill you.”

“In that case, please do drop a line if my Padawan turns up.”

The guards leave, irritated.

A minute later, they return, now practically hysterical.

“Alright!” yells the Rodian. “Something IS up! Where's the girl, Jedi?!”

“What girl?”

“Juna's Padawan!”

“Goodness gracious. Can't you keep a better eye on us?”

The Rodian moves to hit him again, but stops since he doesn't seem affected. “We know you're behind this.”

“It's almost like the most highly-trained warriors in the galaxy can just slip through your nasty little fingers.”

She hits him again.

“The teachers will pay for their students' disobedience,” says the Zabrak, who pulls the other two guards out of the room and slams the door.

The warriors beside Obi-Wan have gone quiet, intimidated by his taunting, in awe of his unknown abilities and those of the other three Jedi. Obi-Wan wonders how long that awe will last, if he can't escape as the clearly more competent children did.

Suddenly, the door to the arena opens up. He hears the crowd chanting his name. When he steps out, his arm shielding the brightness from his eyes, they all cheer for him. He feels disgusted to be a source of admiration for people like this, for doing the worst thing in the world. The sand underfoot is congealed with spots of blood. An attendant hands him a clean sword.

As the announcer speaks, and Obi-Wan's eyes adjust to the light, he sees that his opponent is that boyfriend-killer Tiango. The Mandalorian flexes and poses for the audience, but they are not swayed in their support for Obi-Wan.

In the same chair on which they had bound Anakin, now they have bound Master Juna. Where Anakin was terrified, Juna is peaceful, even content. She is a tall, large, fuzzy alien, a Lollian. Centuries ago, so he’d been told, her fur was bright orange with brown stripes, but he has only ever known her to be gray and silver. One of the two horns curling around her head is broken, but that was not from this death game; it has been like that as long as Obi-Wan can remember. The woman seems entirely unfazed and unharmed by the experience. He knows this cannot be remotely true, and yet she hides her pain so well -- or else, the Force is so strong with her that she sits on a plane of existence above it all, unbothered. She nods at him and he feels as one blessed.

Obi-Wan instinctively reaches out for his own master. The years of physical peril and spiritual confusion in the life of a Padawan trained Obi-Wan to reach out to Qui-Gon as an immediate reaction, utterly replacing his natural fight-or-flight instinct, the ways of the Jedi overcoming evolution itself.

But of course he cannot reach him. Grief strikes him harder than any of these crooks could, harder than even any Sith could.

He's got to replace that instinct himself, this time; he's got to do it himself. There's someone else he has to reach for now, someone who feels entirely different, strange, and small, still smarting from a bad first impression. And -- more than that -- he, Obi-Wan, has got to be ready for Anakin whenever Anakin needs him, for whatever, just as his master was for him. The weight of this responsibility could crush the young man.

Anakin is here in the audience. Obi-Wan can sense his presence.

Obi-Wan glances over the crowd -- Tiango seems to be posturing still -- but he can’t locate his Padawan. Anakin seems panicked, urgent. He has seen Tiango kill before, kill someone he cared for. He must be worried Tiango will be too much for Obi-Wan to handle. But Obi-Wan took down several Yoroo Soldiers less than one year ago. Sure, they're not an easy fight, but he knows their tricks; he knows their evil cybernetic enhancements.

Chahlee sends a laser, suddenly, at Obi-Wan, from his blaster-arm. Obi-Wan deflects it deftly, causing the audience to gasp, but the impact bends his vibroblade. Obi-Wan stares at it. He forgot they did that.

* * *

Freed, with the help of Fenn Gallowk and his acid-blaster, on the upper floor of the space station, Anakin knows he needs to hide his Jedi robe and Padawan hair. These people might even know his face. He got lucky with Fenn -- the next person who recognizes him from the Boonta Eve race probably won't give Anakin a chance to talk it out.

Anakin wonders if anyone here bet ON him. He doubts it. But it's a big galaxy, and maybe someone out there took a chance on him.

He remembers Qui-Gon's confident face, and how the man had picked him up to put him into the podracer, and then picked him out of it in the end and carried him on his shoulders. If Anakin is honest with himself, he knows Qui-Gon was, really, the only person who believed in him. His mom, Padme, and Jar Jar had supported him, and hoped beyond hope he would make it out alive. But Qui-Gon was the only one, probably in the whole universe, who believed -- foresaw, even -- that Anakin would win.

No, that's not true. Anakin had believed that too. How could he fail, when they all needed him so badly? When there was absolutely no other way, no choice?

Anakin hurries down the prison hall. The cells are closed on all sides; it is impossible to see who is being kept in them. He hides behind the flap of a garbage chute as a security droid passes; he sits with his back and legs pressed against opposite sides of the chute, careful not to fall down into who-knows-where. It smells awful. He jumps back into the hallway and finds the door to the public area ajar. He pushes his way out and tries to blend in with the crowd, keeping his head down and arms crossed around his blaster and the front of his robe.

Recharging: 3%.

Of all the blasters he could have stolen...

Just around the corner, he sees a big green alien at a desk and, behind them, a coat-check. Anakin ducks under the desk and sneaks into the room full of these criminals’ coats and cloaks. It smells even worse than the garbage chute.

He holds his nose and searches for something bulky, obscuring, and somewhat in his size. He finds a fur cloak, the pelt of a pink monster with its horned face still attached. He puts it on and ties the lower part around his waist so it doesn't drag on the floor. With the hood up, he can hide his own face inside the monster's mouth. He hides the blaster in the copious folds of fur.

Maneuverable? No. Inconspicuous? No. Unrecognizable, and able to hide his weapon? Yes.

Exciting? Yes!

Now he's got to get to Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan will know what to do. Even if he doesn't, it's Anakin's duty to be at Obi-Wan's side.

The loudspeakers announce the fight between Obi-Wan and Chahlee Tiango. Anakin feels afraid, and tells himself Jedi do not feel afraid, but it doesn’t help.

He sneaks back out from under the desk and finds two large furry aliens on the way into the arena, arguing with each other and paying no attention to anyone. He sticks close to them and pretends they are his parents. Once the hairy family has entered the arena through this upper-floor entrance, Anakin separates from them and waddles through the balcony seats, trying to get as close to the arena as he can. He sees Obi-Wan and the Mando have already begun to fight. He takes a seat on the floor at the very front of the balcony and holds onto the bars with his shivering hands.

“Come on, Master.”

Chapter 7: Jane

#my story #my art #star wars #knightkiller: anakin and obi-wan's first adventure #obi-wan kenobi #tila juna #anakin skywalker #scifi #adventure

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alabasterswriting · 4 years

Text

@jasontoddiefor How dare you write something so wonderful and then leave me to stew in my ideas. Shared custody works for me, but let it be known that Kath’resi Ahrarak belongs to you. Playing in the sandbox from this work.

Master Feemor did not blow the dinner, which is good because otherwise Kath’resi would have had to resort to stealing his new little cousin and that would be very un-Jedi-like behavior. Usually, that wouldn’t bother him, but he has to be especially Jedi-like now because Anakin doesn’t know very much and it would be very bad manners to teach him the wrong things.

But the dinner goes off without a hitch. Master Obi-Wan (the Sith Slayer!) even manages to relax enough that the bags under his eyes are little less dark and he smiles enough to show off his teeth. It’s a nice smile and it’s funny to see the way Anakin lights up whenever it’s directed at him. Not that Kath’resi is going to say anything against it. He likes when Master Feemor smiles at him too. But Anakin soaks up the attention like a sponge and he listens to their stories of the Temple and Master Qui-Gon (Qui-Gon! Gui-Gon Jinn is in his lineage!) with a sparkle in his eyes that is honestly adorable.

They say goodnight early because Anakin is still very young, and make plans for Kath’resi to show Anakin around the next day. Personally, Kath’resi thinks Anakin could have stayed up for another hour or so for him to show off his newest lightsaber move, but Master Yoda always says patience is important for a Jedi, and Kath’resi wants to be the best Jedi he can be in order to be a good role model for his new little cousin.

If only patience wasn’t so hard.

He goes to bed a little later than usual just because it’s so hard to fall asleep when there are so many things to look forward to. There’s the art room, of course, but how is he supposed to fit that in with the music room and the obstacle course and the planetarium and all the secret passageways? He doubts anyone’s show the boy the Clubhouse because Knights and Masters all pretend it doesn’t exist. There’s so much to show his new cousin and the thoughts swirl in Kath’resi’s head until eventually his eyes slide shut and the sounds of Master Feemor puttering about in the living room lull him to sleep. He dreams of gardens and laughter and a new bond forming in the back of his head, bright and fresh and vulnerable, and he wraps it up in a hug for no other reason than he thinks they need it.

It’s raining when he wakes. Coruscant has a very regulated weather system and rain has been on the forecast all month, but it still makes the day feel dreary and sluggish. The young Kiffar much prefers sunlight because it makes little rainbows along the hallways for he and his friends to hop on, but Master Feemor always says to make the most of everyday and Kath’resi is determined to do just that.

He races through his morning routine, brushing his teeth and fixing his braid in half the time it usually takes. Master Feemor only raises a brow and smiles behind his morning caf.

“You know Anakin’s still going to be there if you take the time to chew your food, right?” He asks, eyes twinkling as he looks up from the morning news scrolling across his data pad.

“Not if he tries to come to us first,” Kath’resi says around a mouthful of flatcakes. “He doesn’t even know where the art room is. If he tries to make the trek here from C-Block, he’ll get lost for sure.”

“I don’t think Obi-Wan would let him do that,” Master chuckles. “He said he’d have Anakin ready for you so no need to rush. We can’t have you choking and showing Anakin the Halls of Healing before you get to the fun stuff.”

Kath’resi isn’t going to choke, he’s sure of it, but better not to tempt Fate. He stuffs his face with more flatcakes, but leaves room to chew this time. Master shakes his head ruefully, but Kath’resi can tell it’s all in good humor. His master is nice like that.

A few moments later and Kath’resi is dumping his plate in the sink to deal with later. He’s done it before and Master Feemor knows he’ll absolutely clean it up when he comes back.

“Tell Padawan Skywalker I said hello, and remember to thank Master Obi-Wan,” Feemor states as Kath’resi laces up his boots. He stands, hip leaned against the couch, with a second mug of caf in one hand and his padawan’s outer robe in the other. Kath’resi isn’t sure he’ll need the outer robe, but better to present a respectable front when showing his new little cousin around.

Kath’resi stands and grabs the robe. “I will.”

“And be back before fifth hour. You still have to study for your exam.” Oh, right, the exam. The exam he’d already failed twice. That exam.

He screws up his face. “Do I have to?”

Unimpressed, Master Feemor says, “Yes. You do have to pass, padawan mine.”

“Yes, master.” Even though it’ll be a snow day on Tatooine when he passes.

Not wanting to spend any more time thinking about it, Kath’resi slips the robe on and scurries out the door. It closes with a soft click and then he’s hurrying as quickly as is acceptable to the C-Block apartments. It’s only a floor down, but there are enough turns involved that someone as new as Anakin would surely get lost. He’ll have to make sure his cousin memorizes the route in case he ever needs him.

The walk is uneventful, it being right in between the time most nocturnal Jedi are going to sleep and the diurnal ones are still waking up. And even Jedi are not immune to the sluggishness of dreary days. Fifteen minutes later, he’s standing in front of room C-0054-02, marked Kenobi and Skywalker. He knocks just loud enough for them to notice, but not disturb the other people in the hall and waits somewhat impatiently for them to let him in.

He doesn’t have to wait long. Master Obi-Wan (the Sith Slayer! And how wizard is that?) opens the door with a small smile and lets him in. Their room is the same as everyone else’s, but is littered with strange mix of droid parts and foliage. Anakin had said he liked the greenhouses, but it was one thing to like the greenhouse and another to make your own.

“Anakin,” Master Kenobi calls into the meditation room. “Padawan Ahrarak is here.”

There’s a distracted “‘Kay,” from the next room that leaves Kath’resi somewhat confused because he knows Anakin was excited to go exploring (was he excited or was he just faking it for their masters? Does he not like him? Did Kath do something wrong?), but when he looks up at Master Obi-Wan there’s no admonishment. Instead, Master Obi-Wan appears almost amused, in a sad, exasperated sort of way. Kath’resi’s forehead creases.

Master Obi-Wan places his hand on his back. “Why don’t you go see if you can draw him out while I grab his breakfast. Then you both can head out.”

Kath’resi’s confusion only grows because what would he need to draw Anakin away from? Meditation? Weird, but he supposes someone’s gotta like it.

The young padawan nods and with a shrug creeps across the room to the open arch that leads to the mediation pod. It’s the same as the one in his quarters; and open space with two cushions and white walls facing a large window that looks out onto Coruscant, but where he expects to see the nine-year-old meditating is just empty space.

Instead, the boy is sat cross-legged on the floor, arms wrapped tightly around a little potted plant as he presses himself as close to the window as he can get. His eyes are round and unblinking as he stares mesmerized at the falling rain, his little mouth open with a sort of awe Kath’resi only ever sees on the training salles.

He’s not sure what it is about the scene that makes him keep his silence, but as he tiptoes over to his new cousin, he uses every inch of Force control he possesses to keep his steps light. Anakin barely acknowledges him as he lowers himself along the carpet beside him. They sit there for a moment, the sound of rain pounding against the window the only sound to be heard. It’s nice, if strange. Kath’resi isn’t one for silence, but something about the utter awe on Anakin’s face makes it enjoyable.

A rumble of thunder echoes in the distance, and Anakin doesn’t so much jump as he lets out a little gasp of surprise. He leans forward, his nose pressing against the cold transparasteel and hugs the plant tighter.

Not wanting to ruin the mood, but too curious now to let up, Kath’resi whispers, “Have you never seen a thunderstorm before?” It seems mind-boggling to him, but why else would Anakin look like this?

Absently, the younger boy shakes his head. “No.”

“Really? Never?”

Anakin doesn’t even look away as he says, “No. There were simooms and sometimes we’d have thunder, but there was never rain. I didn’t...” he trails off, his little hand tightening around the plant as the other raises to place itself against the window as if he might be able to touch the droplets.

Kath’resi’s brow furrows. “You didn’t what?”

A pause and then, “I didn’t know there could be so much water in the galaxy. It just...falls. Right from the sky. Like a gift.”

A gift? Kath’resi’s never thought of the rain like that, but he remembers Anakin mentioning something about the desert last night, so maybe it makes sense. His gold eyes highlight on his little cousin’s hand as it presses against the window and he’s inexplicably struck by just how much of a big job he’s set himself up for. Anakin is enthralled with rain. He’s never seen a thunderstorm and he holds that little plant like a lifeline. He can’t make the fifteen minute walk between their rooms without getting lost and every single instance of the Force makes his eyes shine with wonder.

Mundane things, little things that Kath’resi has known his whole life, are suddenly new to this boy. He’s going to have to teach Anakin everything, not just some things like his friends teach their new lineage siblings. Can he do that? Can he really teach Anakin everything he needs to know?

Kath’resi isn’t sure. This isn’t just showing him the art room and the music room and the secret passageways. This is rain and grass and foods and whole languages. But Anakin’s eyes are shining. His awe fills the Force with a warmth that tingles Kath’resi’s spine. His breath mists against the window and his shoulder rests comfortably against his own.

No, Kath’resi isn’t sure, but as he sits there in the silence of the morning with Anakin’s glowing presence beside him and the soft patter of rain before them, he thinks he wants to find out. Exploring can wait; right now he’s content to sit with his friend and enjoy the rain.

#star wars #feemor #obi-wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #let anakin have a friend #anakin is a desert baby and the rain is so precious to him #he also adores plants #and kath'resi is 100% on board with this whole big brother thing #jasontoddiefor #your OC is precious

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yabakuboi · 3 years

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A pinch hit written for the @kkirzine! Leftover sales are almost over! Check it out here!

Sakumo’s face lights up, his lips turning up into a wide, excited smile. Kakashi’s hand is so small cupped between his father’s, one of his thumbs rubbing along the line of kanji on Kakashi’s skin. It doesn’t smear like ink but shines brightly as if it had just been brushed on. “The gods have blessed you,” he says, looking at Kakashi as if he couldn’t have been prouder. “Your soulmate was born today.”

“Oh,” is all Kakashi has to say about that, because he’s four and he’s really not sure what a soulmate even is.

Read it here on Ao3!

Kakashi’s four when he finds it. He’s pulling on his shirt by himself—because Kakashi’s not a baby anymore and only babies have to be dressed by their fathers—when he notices it. The black lines are stark against the creamy white of his wrist, and for a long moment Kakashi stares at it, confused.

“Otou,” he calls when he hears Sakumo walk by his door. “Did you write on me again?”

Sticking his head in the door, Sakumo raises his brow, his face open and indulgent. “What was that?”

“Did you write on me again?” Kakashi repeats, holding out his arm as his father crouches in front of him.

“Oh,” is all Kakashi has to say about that, because he’s four and he’s really not sure what a soulmate even is.

“It’s traditional to send a gift,” Sakumo adds, chuckling at his disinterest. “What would you like to give them?”

Kakashi thinks about it a moment, nose wrinkling under his mask. “Maybe a new kunai?” he says and pouts when Sakumo snorts.

“Well, they’re a baby right now,” Sakumo says, rolling Kakashi’s sleeve back down and fussing with Kakashi’s flyaway hair. “They won’t need kunai just yet.”

“It’s never too early for kunai,” Kakashi says, matter-of-fact. “Maybe a sword would be better, anyways.”

Sakumo actually tilts his head back and laughs with his full body.

Kakashi’s formal kimono is stiff and itchy and heavy, and he’s never worn it before today. But his father told him that they were having very special guests tonight and even paid the woman down the road to cook for them. Sakumo gently swats Kakashi’s hands away from his obi and fusses with Kakashi’s hair when it refuses to lay flat.

“Hatake-san,” Yua, their neighbor, says as she peeks around into the room. “Your guests are here.”

“Thank you, Yua-chan,” Sakumo says, pulling Kakashi into a more formal position on the floor. “Please show them in.”

“Who’s even here?” Kakashi grumbles as she turns away. “Why do I have to wear this?”

Sakumo presses his hand to Kakashi’s back, straightening his spine. “A good shinobi sits quiet and observes until the answers come to them,” he says, his voice chiding but gentle, and he smiles at Kakashi when he immediately falls silent and attentive.

Yua slides open the doors, presenting a man and a woman, both kneeling at the threshold. Together, they bow low, and it’s then that Kakashi notices the baby in the woman’s arms.

“Hatake-san,” the man says, his voice almost too soft to carry. “Thank you for your invitation.”

His hand still at Kakashi’s back, Sakumo bows just as deeply, Kakashi mirroring him. “Umino-san, welcome to our home.”

Umino-san smiles nervously at them when they rise, hands twisting in his kimono, but his wife is smiling. “If it’s fine with you Hatake-san, let’s skip all this formality,” she says. “Hatake-kun, come meet Iruka!”

“Kohari!” Umino-san hisses, embarrassed, but the woman just grins, beckoning Kakashi over.

Kakashi, stunned, looks at his father, but Sakumo nudges him forward. “Go on,” he says, and Kakashi goes.

Sitting up, Kohari adjusts the bundle in her arms as Kakashi approaches. In the folds of the blankets is a round little face, smooth in sleep, with a thick tuft of hair on his head. “This is Iruka,” Kohari says as Kakashi bends closer to see. “Please be good friends with him and take care of him in the future.”

Looking from her to the baby in her arms, Kakashi nods hesitantly, saying nothing. Kohari isn’t put off at all, gently shifting her baby until she can show Kakashi his arm, chubby and round with baby fat. Kakashi’s whole focus narrows down, the world fading away. At this moment, the only people that exist are this strange woman and the baby in her arms, because there, on Iruka’s delicate skin, is Kakashi’s name in the same bold letters, almost too big for the tiny wrist cradled in Kohari’s hand.

“He’ll grow big and strong,” Kohari says. “One day he’ll be a formidable shinobi, just like his mom and dad, and he’ll make you an excellent partner, Hatake-kun.”

Iruka wakes as she talks, blinking too-big eyes sleepily. His eyes are a deep, warm brown, and they focus on Kakashi, unblinking. Kakashi can see Kohari smile out of the corner of his eye.

“Iruka-chan,” she coos. “This is your soulmate. Say hello!”

Iruka gurgles back, a high, childish pitch, and he waves his arm at Kakashi, fingers grasping. Kakashi reaches up without a thought, and Iruka’s hand wraps around one finger, already calloused and scarred from regular throwing practice.

Sakumo leans in close over Kakashi’s shoulder, a steadying hand at his son’s back. “Always remember him, Kakashi,” he says softly. “Always remember how blessed you are.”

It’s only a few months later that Sakumo is dead.

Umino-san and Kohari still knock on his door to see him, or to leave him groceries and gifts. But Kakashi is a soldier. Things like family, like love are useless to someone like Kakashi.

They never stop coming by for nearly ten years. And when they stop, Kakashi barely notices—the loss of his sensei, his Hokage and commander, leaving him numb. By the time Iruka even crosses his mind, he’s graduated from the academy, an independent kid with his own life. And Kakashi feels he has no right to invade it.

But if he leaves a few vegetables on Iruka’s windowsill, then that’s just for Kakashi to know.

When ANBU get hurt, there are no emergency contacts made for them. But for a regular shinobi, soulmates are the first notified in the event of a hospitalization. Kakashi’s soulmate is an academy teacher though, and he’s glad for it, that the most danger Iruka faces is a few badly thrown shuriken.

So when he appears in Iruka’s hospital room in the dead of night, he already feels wrong-footed and Iruka is already glaring at him from where he’s face down on the mattress.

“Visiting hours are over,” he hisses.

“Maa, I just thought you could use some company,” Kakashi says, probably the first real thing he’s said to his soulmate since the day he was born.

Iruka’s eyes soften a fraction, because Kakashi’s voice is a little weak, shaken, and he sighs. “I guess that’s fine then.”

Kakashi can separate his life in chapters of a book: the prologue he’s forgotten and many chapters of death that make up his history. But now, Kakashi thinks he might like this new chapter dedicated to his students, and to Iruka’s smile that grows more familiar as the months pass.

“How do you get him to stop?” Kakashi whines from where he’s buried his face in his arms.

Sipping from his coffee, Iruka gives Kakashi a thousand-yard stare of a man who has twenty-three kids to teach as opposed to Kakashi’s three. “You don’t. You distract him.”

“I’m running out of cool jutsu though!”

“Don’t you have like a thousand?”

“That number is highly exaggerated, it’s more like high seven-hundreds.”

“That’s still a lot!”

“And yet I’m still running out!”

Iruka has a snorting, ugly laugh. Kakashi thinks he loves it. “Wanna go on a date Saturday night?”

“God no,” Iruka says, wrinkling his nose. “That’s my only chance to get a decent night’s sleep. I plan on passing out for a solid twelve hours.”

“Lucky,” Kakashi sighs, finally lifting his head from the table. “We have a mission Sunday morning.”

“Sucks for you.” Iruka’s smile is the exact opposite of sympathetic as he stands, shouldering his bag and draining his coffee. “Well, I need to get to the missions room. See you next week.”

“Maa, I don’t even get a kiss good-bye?”

Iruka slaps his back hard as he walks past, sending Kakashi sprawling across the table. “Nope!”

Kakashi lands in Iruka’s windowsill with a heavy thump and rattling of glass.

“I don’t have time,” Iruka says, not even looking up from the papers. “I have exams and homework to grade and I’m behind because the Hokage—”

“Iruka.”

Iruka takes one look at him and immediately shepherds Kakashi to the couch. Kakashi strips off his vest and gloves with a sound of disgust, burying his face in his hands when Iruka disappears into his kitchen to put the kettle on.

“Do you have something stronger than tea?” Kakashi calls.

The soft thump of the sake bottle set on the table rouses him, and Kakashi gives Iruka a grateful stare before he pulls down his mask and takes a long draw, straight from the bottle. The alcohol burns its way down his throat, tasteless and cheap and exactly what Kakashi needs right now.

“Buy me something nicer to replace it,” Iruka says.

“As long as I get to drink it with you.”

Smiling, Iruka sits down beside him with two cups of ramen, which Kakashi really doesn’t want, but it is the spicy kind that he likes best.

“Marry me.”

“Not on your life.”

“Iruka-sensei,” Kakashi whines. Inwardly, he’s surprised he’s gotten close enough without getting stabbed. Iruka ignores him and continues stomping home. “Please, just hear me out.”

“I’m sorry, Jounin-sama, but I really need to get home.”

Kakashi tightens his arms around Iruka’s shoulders until he can haul himself up enough to wrap his legs around the man’s waist. Iruka doesn’t even stumble, carrying Kakashi’s full weight easily. It’s incredibly hot. “At least let me apologize!”

Iruka pauses. “You’re going to apologize?”

“Yes, please.”

Huffing, Iruka elbows Kakashi off his back and faces him. “Alright, let’s hear it.”

Dropping into a perfect ninety-degree bow, Kakashi says formally, “I am very sorry for not taking your concerns seriously and for not speaking to you as an equal.” Iruka splutters in front of him. “Furthermore, I apologize for embarrassing you in front of our colleagues and the Hokage. It was wrong of me to—”

“Okay, okay!” Iruka says hastily, grabbing Kakashi by the shoulders and righting him forcefully. “I didn’t need all that.”

Smiling, Kakashi shrugs. “I figured I should be serious.”

“It’s awkward,” Iruka says, flustered, his arms crossed in front of him. “I apologize as well, for not trusting your judgment.”

Kakashi dares to take a step closer. “Call it a truce?”

Iruka eyes him from the side for a moment, before sighing. “Fine. But don’t come crying to me when it all blows up in your face.”

“Are you an idiot?”

Kakashi looks up from his book, completely unphased by the shouting or the nurse’s surprised squeak. “Why, if it isn’t the love of my life,” Kakashi coos as Iruka stomps towards him.

“Shut up,” Iruka snaps, coming to a stop right in front of Kakashi. “Really? Ebisu?!”

“Maa, I just,” Kakashi starts, and knows he has to be careful here, “Naruto struggles with the basics, and he really needs to master them to catch up to Sasuke and Sakura. Not that I’m making a comment on your teaching methods, Iruka-sensei—”

“I know that!” Kakashi takes the knock to the head with dignity. Iruka pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Naruto’s always struggled, but he works hard and has really come a long way.”

Rubbing the lump on his head, Kakashi glares at him. “Then, why are you so upset?”

“He won’t take Naruto’s training seriously!”

“Really?” Kakashi hums, tilting his head back to gaze at the ceiling. “He seemed honored by my request and has already run his training schedule by me.”

Iruka stops grinding his teeth long enough to consider Kakashi balefully. “You actually reviewed it?”

Kakashi pouts. “Of course I did, Iruka-sensei. Naruto-chan is my precious student after all.”

That earns him a kick to the shin, but the line of Iruka’s shoulders relax. “You should still pay him more attention, you know?” Iruka says with a huff. “He looks up to you.”

“He’s not my problem child at the moment,” Kakashi admits, tilting his head to acknowledge Iruka’s curious gaze. “Maa, I may be out of town for a bit, sensei. Do I get a good-bye kiss?”

Iruka kicks him again. “No way.”

“So violent,” Kakashi says. “You sure you won’t marry me?”

Iruka doesn’t even bother to respond.

Kakashi doesn't startle when Iruka flips the light on while he's haphazardly laying across Iruka's couch. Iruka is still in his funeral clothes, looking worse for wear. Kakashi shifts just a bit, and Iruka flips the lights back off before he sprawls across Kakashi, tangling their legs together. Kakashi wraps him up and rolls him to the side until Iruka’s pressed between the back of the sofa and Kakashi’s front. They don’t say a word, even as the night passes between them, silent and dark.

Naruto’s been gone for nearly five months when Iruka falls into the booth beside Kakashi, making the table rattle. He easily joins the conversation that Kakashi was ignoring, like water flowing into the ocean, laughing along with everyone else. But he’s a warm line along Kakashi’s side, pressed thigh to thigh, their elbows bumping comfortably together.

When the bartender yells for the last call, Iruka hooks his arm with Kakashi’s and drags him outside.

“Sensei,” Kakashi starts as they leave the bustle of nightlife behind them. They walk with their steps synced, their arms around each other. He thinks they would look like a couple if he could see them outside himself, so in love they can’t be separated even to walk home together. “Isn’t it a school night?”

“Actually, I have tomorrow off,” Iruka says. Kakashi turns his head enough to glance the smile on his face. “Are you free?”

“For you,” Kakashi says. “Always.”

Iruka snorts inelegantly. Kakashi loves that about him. “Then, would you like to go on a date?”

Kakashi straightens his spine from his slouch, jostling Iruka beside him. “I thought this was a date!” He shouts, indignant, to cover his shock and Iruka’s laughter.

“Dates end in kisses,” Iruka chuckles. By now, they’ve made it to Kakashi’s front door and he finally realizes that Iruka’s walked him home. “Though I guess, since you’re my soulmate,” he says, like an afterthought as he turns to stand in front of him. “I’ll make an exception.”

He pulls Kakashi’s mask down and kisses Kakashi. For years and years, Kakashi has felt on edge, teetering on his toes, but kissing Iruka is like finding solid ground again. He chases that warmth when Iruka shies away, and whimpers when Iruka meets him again, open-mouthed and wanting. Kakashi wonders if this is what being whole feels like.

“There,” Iruka says, a little breathless, his lips cherry red and shining. He’s looking at Kakashi with smiling eyes, and it feels like standing in the summer sun.

“Marry me,” Kakashi croaks, and it’s worth the embarrassment to watch Iruka laugh.

“Maybe later,” Iruka says against his lips, smiling.

#naruto #naruto fanfic #kakairu #kkir #kakairu fanfic #kkir zine #my fic #shush mal #uwu

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lo-55 · 3 years

Text

Tilt The Hourglass Ch. 8

Maul eyed the water on the planet they had found themselves stranded on with no small amount of distaste.

There was no Kilindi here to make the ocean enjoyable, only encroaching danger. Maul could already see where the tide lifted towards the caves high above them. It left a thin line of a sediment where what little vegetation that existed here did not grow.

They would have to abandon the ship and take everything they could carry up to shelter. The water was drinkable, with only small amounts of saline. The Arconan’s would have to rely on water from the ship.

No one else seemed to have noticed the lines that marked the ocean tide, but then again most of them were busy repairing the hull or didn’t have the same kind of low-light vision and Nightbrother and darksider were afforded. He needed no light to see by at all, though it helped with finer details.

Maul kept a careful eye on the draigon’s that circled overhead.

He was still mad that he’d slept through a Force-damned pirate attack.

Slept! Him!

Perhaps he had poured too much of himself into crafting his crystals, but whatever the case was this was one past event he could not change. He’d only woken up hours after everything was over, to discover that they had crash landed on this no-name planet.

Jango kept shooting him worried looks that Maul studiously ignored.

If he was truly pressed, Maul would say that he had pushed himself too hard after being so badly injured, no matter the wound it would leave on his pride. It was better than the truth.

‘Yes, by the way the master I was escaping is a sith apprentice and I’m a time travelling assassin sorta-sith-lord hellbent on vengeance for a literal lifetime of torture he inflicted on me. I was hiding in the vents to make super rare crystals with my mind undisturbed and that's why I slept through a pirate attack. By the way Kenobi is going to become one of the best jedi ever if Jinn will just get his head out of his ass. Do you know why he’s not taking apprentices?’

Yeah, that would go well.

Maul left the crewmen to keep trying to patch up the hull before the water could rise so he could help Jango get their supplies from their rooms, but something in the force lead him to the medical bay.

He stopped in the doorway, the automatic doors cracked open and broken. They made sad, pathetic hissing sounds when they tried to open or close but had no luck with either. He arrived just as the medical droid and Clat’Ha were leaving.

Maul passed them by. While he was here he might as well get a wrap for the wrist he’d twisted when he’d been thrown from his bed onto the floor during the landing. It was the pain that finally woke him.

Qui Gon spared him a glance when he slunk in, a small shadow, and opened drawers until he found what he was looking for. While Maul found long strips of compression fabric Qui Gon studied him and Kenobi intermittently.

Finally, he spoke.

“Obi-Wan, when you accelerated the ship, what thoughts did you have?”

Maul paused. Kenobi had crashed the ship? Why had he even been flying it? Maul would have bet money he’d never flown anything larger than a land speeder.

“Thoughts?” Kenobi asked doubtfully. “I wasn‘t thinking about much of anything. I was afraid of the pirates, and I just knew I had to get away fast.

“So you didn‘t think about the fact that you would tear the ships from the docking bays and kill hundreds of pirates in the process?” Jinn asked in a neutral tone. Neutral, but Maul had been tested enough by Sidious, whose sabacc face was far better than Jinns. There was a trap in his words. A test in his mind. Maul turned to study the Jedi Master. What was he up to?

“I didn‘t think about what I was doing,” Obi-Wan replied. “The Force led me.”

“Were you frightened? Angry?”

There it was. Two strikes against the jedi tenant. Didn’t they understand that anger could be used to make them stronger? Didn’t they understand that fear kept one alive?

“Both,” Kenobi admitted, startling Maul. “I . . . fired on the pirates. I killed, but I didn‘t do it in anger. I did it to save lives.”

How very righteous. How very like Kenobi.

Qui-Gon nodded, just the smallest of movements. “I see.”

Maul could feel it in the Force. Something settling. The prickling on the back of his neck lessened. The test was over and passed, Kenobi had answered correctly. And not been punished for it. Still, Maul felt, Jinn found Kenobi wanting of something.

He was missing pieces here, and the only ones who had those pieces were the two jedi in front of him. Kenobi clearly knew some of it, but he was nearly swaying in his boots and that last time Maul had asked him directly the boy had nearly started crying. Maul did not want a repeat of that.

The Force told him before Si Treemba rushed in. The Arconan was out of breath, panting, and utterly off color.

“What‘s wrong?” Qui-Gon asked. He stood and tenderly stretched his shoulder. He’d been wounded in the fighting, and his arm had nearly been severed.

“Please come quickly!” Si Treemba panted. “Jemba the Hutt has stolen our dactyl!”

Maul rolled his eyes. Of course he did. There wasn’t a dull moment of this Force forsaken vessel, was there?

The three Force wielders followed Si Treemba out of medical and into the dawning light of the planet. The draigons were still sleeping, some floating on harsh drafts of wing above their heads and some nesting in the cliffs near the caves they would no doubt have to shelter in come true day break.

Maul and Kenobi stood between Jango and Jinn facing the massive hutts. They were outnumbered by their whiphid’s, but Maul knew that they could win in a fight if it was down to just the four of them. But it wasn’t.

The Arconan’s weren’t fighters. Si Treemba was the only one among them with any guts at all. They would get caught in the cross fires and die, and Jango was here to protect them. It was meant that they were playing a stupid game of space chicken, and no one was willing to flinch first.

Maul contemplated shooting both hutts in the head and then claiming control over the whiphids.

“You won‘t get away with this,” Jinn warned Jemba the Hutt. He spoke calmly, for all this was a life or death situation for the Arconans who stood silent behind him. It would have been more effective if Jinn didn’t look ready to collapse. His skin was pale and his hand, folded into his long jedi robes, shook faintly.

Jemba shook in amusement like a giant grey worm.

“What can you do, puny Jedi?” he boomed gleefully. “No one can stop the great Jemba! You Arconans were too frightened to face the pirates. They hid, while my men fought and died. Soon these cowards will be my slaves!”

Maul sneered at him. He didn’t disagree. They were cowards, and the whiphids had died for it, but he wasn’t interested in the hutts little corporate games. If anything the arconans owed the whiphids for their help, not the hutts who kept them just as enslaved as anyone else. Maul could see the thin line of collars under their long fur from where he stood.

Jemba and his men had taken over the Arconans‘ lounge. A wall of Offworld miners backed Jemba. The Offworlders stood ready for battle. Maul’s group stared down the barrels of at least thirty blasters. Some of the Offworld thugs also held shields and wore armor. Jemba‘s men obviously held more than just the Arconans‘ dactyl.

They held most of the ship‘s weapons.

Maul would feel Kenobi’s outrage at the injustice and the threat to his little friends. Beside him, Clat‘Ha pulsed with lividity. She held her hands down loosely, ready to draw her weapon. But she and the Arconans were greatly outgunned.

“Be ready,” Maul told Kenobi quietly, taking careful stock of the situation. Space in the room, number of combattants, number of blasters, and who wielded them.

Maul glanced at Jango. The mandalorian seemed oddly calm, but he could feel his anger through the Force and see the tension under his pauldrons.

“It is not justice you seek, Jemba,” Jinn tried to reason, his voice echoing faintly with the Force “You hope only to satisfy your greed. Nothing will be solved this way. Put down your weapons.”

Jemba waved a hand, as if testing the air. “Ooh, is that your powerful Force I feel? Ha!” he spat. “Your Jedi tricks are so puny, they make me laugh. They cannot work on the great Jemba. And look at you, Jedi. You‘d don‘t have the sense to stay out of the way of a vibro-ax. Anyone can see you are too frail to fight. There is nothing you can do to stop me.”

Fury pulsed off Kenobi at the Hutt‘s taunting, startling Maul. Had he ever felt Kenobi’s anger so clearly before? He leaped past Jinn, directly in front of Jemba. Maul quietly vanished among the arconans and made his way around back, slipping past the whiphids, droids, and humans that made up the Offworld company.

“I can stop you!” Kenobi shouted. He brought up his lightsaber. What foolish, excellent distraction.

Jemba‘s huge eyes narrowed in anger. The thugs who surrounded him stood their ground. They weren‘t afraid of a mere boy.

“What, Jedi?” Jemba said contemptuously to Jinn. “You send a child to fight me? Is this some insult?” Jemba looked to his right and left, and raised a huge fist high enough Maul could see it over the crowd. He made eye contact with Jango and raised his blaster where the Mandalorian could see.

Jango inclined his head, just barely.

Maul grinned and levelled the weapon at the back of Jemba’s head.

Jinn saw Maul too. He reached out and touched Obi-Wan‘s elbow. “Put your weapons away,” he said calmly, his voice carrying easily to Maul as well. “You can‘t win like this. If he opens fire, people will die needlessly. A Jedi must know his true enemies.”

Kenobi was shaking with confusion. Maul scowled. He was not taking orders from a jedi!

He tilted his blaster to make sure he hit Jemba directly in the head.

“What do you mean?” Kenobi asked. Sweat streamed down his pale, freckled face. “Which one of them is our enemy?” His eyes darted briefly to Maul.

“Anger is our enemy,” Qui-Gon said reasonably. He shot a glare across the room to Jemba, and at Maul as well. “Greed and fear are also our enemies. The Arconans can live without dactyl for awhile. You do not need to fight now. Haste is another enemy.”

“A wise move, little one,” Jemba said with a deep laugh. At his prompting the rest of the Offworlders lowered their weapons.

There.

Maul pulled the trigger twice.

Jemba and Grelb, the hutt who had attacked Kenobi at the start of the voyage, fell dead to the ground. Holes smoked out the back of their great, slimy heads.

In the time it took the whiphids, strong but slow, to turn around and raise their blasters Maul had already blasted the heads off of all the droids. Jango drew his own blasters, as did Clat’Ha, and a very irritated looking Jinn ignited his lightsaber.

Jango lifted his blasters but didn’t fire. Maul stood in front of the ensembled Offworld crowd, still but unafraid. He pulled their aggression towards himself, stealing it straight from them. The whiphids looked confused, and the humans shook their heads as their anger started to fade, but no one fired at him. They were at least that smart

“Now that that’s settled,” Jango said, his voice cutting through the crowd, “we’ll be taking the dactyl back. Anyone have a problem with that?”

“He just killed the boss,” one of the humans spun to face Jango, and got a blaster pointed at his face.

“Yeah, he did. Do you really have a problem with that?” Jango asked steadily.

The human eyed the blaster before he looked down at the bodies of the hutts. Finally, he holstered his own blaster and spat on their corpses.

“They died in the crash,” the human said at last, and squared his shoulders. He looked back over the other Offworlders. “Guess that puts me in charge until we get to Bandoneer. Give ‘em the dactyl. I’d like to live long enough to at least see Bandomeer. “

The others grumbled, but no one put up a fight. Someone turned over one of the big crates of dactyl over to Clat’Ha.

Maul strode through the whiphids until he was standing in front of Jango. The Mandalorians head tilted. Maul got the impression of irritation, but he couldn't tell what it was aimed at.

Slowly, the group dispersed.

Maul put his blaster away while Clat’Ha watched him. He couldn't quite read what was in her eyes, but the concern was unmistakable. Concern, and fear perhaps? So be it.

Clat’Ha turned to Jango, a question unspoken, and he just shrugged.

“Kid nearly broke my neck the first time I found him. And he didn’t even have a blaster then.”

Maul scowled at him. “I should have finished what I started, old man.”

Nevermind that Maul had lived longer than Jango ever would. Ever had? Fuck it.

“Now you’re just being rude, ad’ika.”

“I am not a child!”

“You shot them.”

The trio broke out of their ‘discussion’ to find the two jedi were watching them still. Kenobi kept his eyes on Maul. They were bright.

“Well your master wasn’t doing kriff all,” Maul said pointedly, eying Jinn.

Jinn’s mouth thinned into a line. “It was dangerous to engage in combat. What you did was reckless and foolish. You could have gotten yourself and others killed. The arconan’s could survive without dactyl for a while. As I said.”

Maul looked him up and down. Jinn was nearly twice as tall as Maul was now, and the grey in his long hair and bear was gone. Younger and stronger.

“So you would have asked them to suffer while you puttered around and tried to find a ‘diplomatic’ solution?” Maul sneered before his expression morphed into an epiphany. “Or was the jedi going to steal the dactyl back?”

“Master Jinn would never!” Kenobi argued, looking horrified.

Jinn’s cheek twitched. Maul grinned viciously.

“What you did-”

“Worked,” Maul cut in. “And last I checked, no jedi ever came to take me to your sparkly little temple. You have no place to lecture me, Qui Gon Jinn. You are not my master, nor my father, and I owe you less than nothing.”

Jango’s hand landed on Maul’s shoulder, bringing him up short.

“What’s done is done. Maul’s strategy worked. The dactyl will be returned, and only the hutts and a few droids died.”

“Perhaps it was the Will of the Force,” Maul offered, relishing the way Jinn’s hand folded into his robe to hide how tightly his fists had clenched.

Needling Jedi was almost better than killing them, Maul decided.

“What’s done is done,” Jinn repeated, his jaw working under his beard. “I must retire, then, and see my wounds.”

Kenobi looked hesitantly between Maul and Jinn before he finally made to help Jinn to his room. Clat’Ha followed after them.

Once they were alone, Jango tilted his visored face towards Maul.

“As much as I hate to admit it, the jetii wasn’t wrong. That was very dangerous. You made a target of yourself there.”

“I was fine,” Maul shook his head. “I have been in much worse situations.”

Jango was sad, again, and angry. Maul was becoming much more attuned with his emotions.

“That’s not- Maul’ika, that’s not a good thing. You shouldn’t have had to be in those situation. Someone should have protected you.”

Maul bristled, anger flashing in his eyes. He wanted to snarl at Jango that he didn’t need such things but-

But Jango was right.

Sidious’ rearing had made him powerful, it was true, but he would always begrudge the jedi for never coming for him. He would always taste bile when he remembered that time and again he had had to save himself.

“... Some did. Some tried.” Savage had guarded his back. Rook Kast and Gar Saxxon had come for him. Kilindi would have tried even if it killed her, and Daleen too. DeeNine had protected him as best as he could, and in the end saved him from Sidious.

Wasn’t that a strange thought? Almost as bizarre as the idea that he had three whole friends.

Jango’s anger eased.

“That’s something, at least. Come, there’s still much to be done. You did good work today. We’ll need to get you some armor, if you’re going to take risks like that.”

Jango touched his shoulder and guided Maul away. He tried not to be pleased. He didn’t need praise to know he had done well.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Obi Wan carefully helped Master Jinn lower himself onto his sleeping couch in his small quarters. The two jedi had been afforded their own rooms on the ship, unlike most of the workers. Maul, too, shared a bunk with Jango Fett.

Master Jinn’s quarters were scant and bare, as a proper Jedi’s should have been. There was nothing sentimental in it. Master Jin rubbed his wounded shoulder gingerly.

Obi Wan fiddled with his sleeve cuffs and shuffled his feet. Master Jinn finally looked up at him.

“Yes, young one?” he asked, sounding faintly amused. Obi Wan felt his neck heat up. He’d been caught.

“What you were saying to Maul. Was it really wrong, to kill Jemba?”

It had made perfect sense to Obi Wan. With Jemba and Grelb gone, the dactyl had been returned to Si Treemba and the other’s, and tension with Offworld had lessened enough for the entire ship to work on repairs at the same time. Was it really wrong to kill them? Maul hadn’t seemed to do it because he hated them, even though he always felt at least a little angry. It was such a foreign sensation to Obi Wan, who had been raised in the serenity of the Jedi Temple.

“Nothing has changed,” he said at last. “Obi-Wan, can‘t you see? Killing Jemba was not the answer. Jemba was but one Hutt, as was Grelb. There are always more, just as evil and greedy as he. Even if he is dead, it won‘t stop his plan from going forward. Another like him, perhaps someone worse, will take his place. What we must do is try to teach these people that -”

“But he is evil, isn‘t he?” Obi-Wan asked. He didn’t understand. Yes, there could be others worse than Jemba, but the arconan’s had been saved. Wasn’t one small act of good better than none? Or was the simple act of killing alone evil? Obi Wan had killed the pirates, and Master Jinn and Clat’Ha had fought them too.

“What Jemba was trying to do was wrong,” Master Jinn answered carefully.

“I‘ve never seen anyone who was so evil,” Obi-Wan burst out. He couldn’t keep it to himself any more. He had felt Jemba’s greed, slimy and viscous against his skin every time the hutt spoke.

A sad smile touched Qui-Gon‘s lips.

“And have you been so many places, young Obi Wan?”

Obi Wan fell silent. He had much to learn. His heart cried out that Jemba was evil, and that evil had spread to enslave innocent victims. If anyone deserved to meet a bitter fate, it was the Hutt. But he would listen to Master Jinn. He was not even a Padawan. It was not his place to question a Master.

“I‘ve seen far worse. If you think of killing in anger, you must know such thoughts come from the dark side.”

“Then how could we make him give the dactyl back? He wouldn’t have done it willingly, not unless they agreed to be his slaves!” Obi Wan didn’t understand. How could Master Jinn not act upon the injustice? How much could he see that was beyond Obi Wan’s reach?

“You can‘t,” Master Jinn said gravely. Obi Wan’s heart sunk. “You can‘t force people to be just and decent. Such qualities arise from within. They cannot be forced from without. For

now, I had chosen to wait. Perhaps Jemba would have a change of heart. Or perhaps some darker fate awaited him. In either case, killing was not the solution. It is not our place to pass these judgements.”

“But . . . you‘ve killed before,” Obi Wan said hesitantly. The pirates. Their bodies were being laid outside as people came across them. Several had light saber burns across their corpses.

“I have,” Master Jinn admitted, “when there was no other choice. But when I kill, I only win a fight. It‘s a small, small victory. There are greater battles to be won. Battles of the heart. Sometimes, with

patience and reason and by setting a good example, I have won more than a fight. I have turned my adversary into a friend.”

Obi Wan considered this. Despite his pain and weakness Master Jinn was taking the time to explain his thoughts to Obi Wan. Only yesterday, the Jedi most likely would have issued a stern order, then dismissed him. Something had changed between them.

“You‘re testing me, aren‘t you,” Obi Wan guessed, hope rising in his chest. “You‘ve changed

your mind! You are considering me for your Padawan.”

He tried to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

Master Jinn shook his head.

“No,” he said firmly. “I‘m not testing you, Obi Wan.nLife tests you! Every day it brings you new chances for triumph or defeat. And if you pass the test, it doesn‘t make you a Jedi. It makes you human.”

Obi Wan stepped back, as if he’d slapped him. With a rush of sorrow and hurt, he saw into his own heart. He had been fooling himself. He had told himself that he had accepted Qui-Gon‘s decision, that all he wanted was his respect. But somewhere deep inside, he had hoped that if he acted bravely and well on this mission, Master Jinn would change his mind.

Now he saw the truth.

There was no hope for his future. Master Jinn had truly made his decision and he could not be swayed. Obi Wan was too full of anger, and too impulsive.

He would have killed Jemba if he could have. Did he really think it was right, or was that just the lure of the Darkside?

Obi Wan felt like he was choking. His eyes stung and he turned quickly to hide himself from Master Jinn. He would not let the Master see his deep shame. He’d been such a fool.

No wonder no one wanted him. He didn’t even know himself. How could he know the Will of the Force?

He could never be a jedi.

All his anger flowed out of him, but not into the Force like it should have if he was a real Jedi. It left him like air in his lungs, and he felt light and shaky with its disappearance, for all that came back was hollow grief and guilt.

Grief for the life he would never live. Guilt for wasting the time of so many Masters in his desperate quest to be allowed to stay with the Jedi. How could he?

Obi Wan swallowed twice to clear his dry throat and wiped the tears and sweat from his face before he faced Master Jinn and bowed swiftly.

“I’ll let you rest, then,” he said quietly. His voice didn’t shake. He wouldn't let it.

He left the cabin in a daze. He needed rest, but he could not seem to find it anywhere. He tried his cabin, then the lounge. At last he wandered the hall aimlessly. He ended up near the engine rooms, staring out at the wasteland of the unnamed planet. It felt strange there. Hot and bitter and dry. Like a desert, or what Obi Wan assumed they felt like. He had never been to one.

Here there was the remnants of a great anger. Had their been a battle in the engine room?

Whatever there was, he found solace in the quiet. The engines had been turned off while the teams worked to repair the ship, the lights were left off, and through the hatch they’d opened to have access he could see the sky. Five moons, in shades of red and blue, hung like ripe fruits out over a silent ocean. A flight of draigons hovered high in the air, asleep on the wing. The island shore was nothing more than a treacherous bit of wave carved rock, with smatterings of sand.

Farther inland, dark volcanic peaks vented steam, and there draigons perched by the hundreds. A door hissed open behind him.

A moment later, Maul appeared by his side. The smaller boy had most of his head covered by his hood, as was his norm, but from Obi Wan’s vantage point on the floor he could see the dark red and black patterns on his skin.

“What are you doing here, little Jedi? It’s too dark in here for you.” Maul’s voice was gruff. Obi Wan wondered where he had been during the fight. Had he killed, with the deadly aim he used on the hutts? He hadn’t hesitated at all, and he talked back to Master Jinn without hesitation.

Of course, it was as Maul said. He wasn’t a Jedi, and Master Jinn had no say in his actions.

Master Jinn didn’t seem fond of Maul or his caretaker, Jango. Obi Wan couldn’t tell if the Mandalorian was his father, or relative, or just his caretaker.

“I needed to think,” Obi Wan answered. He was glad to see his friend. Maul didn’t mince words, and he was abrasive in some ways. Anger always radiated off of him faintly, but Obi Wan had gotten used to that. Maul wasn’t a Jedi, so he was allowed his emotions.

“And what has your thinking done, besides turn your face red?”

Obi Wan startled. Maul could see him that well in the dark?

His eyes did glow, faint gold in the shadow of his hood. It reminded Obi Wan of the lightsabers that the Temple Guard wielded.

“I thought that my time in the Temple was hard in many ways,” Obi Wan said slowly, picking his words. It felt odd to say his thoughts out loud. “The days were filled with study and effort. The very best was expected of us. I respected my teachers so much, and I thought I knew what I needed not only to survive, but to excel.”

Obi Wan took a breath. His hands were shaking.

“Now I see that I had no idea what kind of evil the universe could show me. I‘ve never seen real greed before, not like the greed of the pirates or Jemba. It sickens me.”

Maul grunted at him, so Obi Wan continued.

“Now I am wondering . . . do I have the seeds of the same greed?” Master Jinn must have seen some in him. It had to have been greed that drove him to try, over and over, to find a Master to take him even when he knew he was being assigned to the Agri-Corps. Greed, for status and knowledge. And fear. Obi Wan didn’t want to be sent away. He didn’t want to say goodbye to all his friends!

Maul stared at him in the dark. Obi Wan got the distinct impression that he was unimpressed. Of course he would be. Obi wan had seen the scars on his hands, when they’d eaten together and he’d taken his gloves off. He knew that he’d been injured recently when pangs of pain came through the Force if he moved certain ways. Maul had had a hard life, and here Obi Wan was, crying because he did not get what he wanted.

He couldn’t seem to stop talking.

“All my life, I‘ve wanted to be a Jedi. I craved it so much. I was willing to fight for the honor, and I became angry when others stood in my way.”

“And this is a bad thing,” Maul said slowly.

Obi-Wan nodded, still looking out at the dark sea.

He felt a deep longing to be home, back at the Temple, where things had clarity and purpose. Here, he felt lost.

“It will be light in a few hours. You have done so much for me already. You helped us with the thermocom. You fought for us with Jemba. But will you help me one last time?”

Maul eyed him wearily.

“That would depend on what you require of me.”

“Help me overcome my anger,” Obi Wan said. His fingers were curled into fists. He looked down at them and uncurled them. Maul always seemed so angry, but when he acted it was not impulsive or brash. Obi Wan had seem him watch the room where the brief fight with the hutts went down. He’d been perfectly calm the entire time.

Maul choked beside him, and wide yellow eyes snapped to Obi Wan. He struggled to explain himself quickly.

“I feel such rage toward Jemba, even now that he is dead. He wanted to use other people for his own game, and I wanted to kill him for that. But I don‘t like the way I feel right now,” Obi Wan’s voice cracked. “Master Jinn was right. If I had tried to stop Jemba, I would be doing so only to satisfy my own rage.”

“... What brought this on?” Maul asked at last. His voice sounded tight.

“Something has just happened,” Obi wan told him quietly. “I just realized something. Master Jinn will never take me as a Padawan. He feels I am unworthy, and perhaps he is right. Maybe I wouldn‘t be good at it.”

“This is not what you’re angry about. You are not angry with Qui Gon Jinn,” Maul observed. He must truly have good night vision, to see that on Obi Wan’s face. Maul was preceptive.

Obi Wan shook his head.

“I feel… light. And lost, too. It‘s as if a burden has been lifted from me, and someone has thrown me into that ocean. Perhaps I could be a good farmer. And to be good . . . to be a good person is more important than being a Jedi.”

“I don’t see why you can’t be both,” Maul said slowly, “There is nothing wrong with anger.”

“Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to the Darkside.” Obi Wan paused. Maul was no Jedi. “The Darkside is a different part of the Force, what we- what Jedi use for our powers,” he clarified. “Jedi use the Lightside. To use the Darkside is a grave offense. So we must let go of our anger, lest it control us and lead us down that path.”

For some reason, Maul laughed. It was a starling, grating sound, like it wasn’t used often.

“Little Jedi,” Maul said with a shake of his head. “You could never use the Darkside, no matter how angry you got. Trust me on this.”

Obi Wan opened his mouth to ask what he meant, but Maul held up a hand, shadowy and vague in the darkness.

“I cannot help you let go of your anger. That is a Jedi trick. I always have anger inside of me, but I do not let it control me. My anger, my rage, my hate. It does not use me to do its bidding. I use it to sharpen my senses and make me stronger, faster, and more durable if I must. On sheer spite I have fought with shattered ribs and a dislocated hip, and still come out on top.”

“But, you’re so young!” Obi Wan was horrified. He knew Maul had had a difficult life, but that-

“I’m not as young as I look,” Maul scowled at him. “And you are the one who asked. I can’t help you over come anything. Do you want to learn to use it? To make yourself stronger? That I can teach you.”

Obi Wan bowed his head.

Maul had looked perfectly at ease in the brief battle. He’d seemed utterly unafraid with a dozen blasters trained on him. In some ways, Obi Wan did want that. He wanted to be able to do what was right, and he still thought that Maul had done that, even if Master Jinn disagreed.

Still.

To hold onto anger, and use it to make yourself stronger… Obi Wan didn’t know that he could do that. His temper had already gotten the best of him so many times. It was what had landed him on this ship in the first place.

So lightly Obi Wan thought he was imagining it, Maul’s hand touched his shoulder.

“Think on it. I’ll be with Jango.”

Something brushed against Obi Wan’s shields. A phantom touch, barely there and gone so fast Obi Wan thought he’d imagined it.

His head snapped around to watch Maul disappear through the doors again, no more than a shadow in the dark.

#Darth Maul #Maul #darth maul time travel #time travel #star wars time travel #jango fett #obi wan kenobi #qui gon jinn #clat'ha

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padme-parker · 4 years

Text

Collide / Chapter 2

[a Star Wars x Avengers crossover]

summary: You get interrogated by the Jedi Council and some calls home are made.

word count: 3,700+

warnings: my shitty writing, a few curse words, plot holes

A/N: I might’ve forgotten to edit some things out lol my bad, also this chapter is really messy but I will come back to fix it once I get the hang of writing for a series

Song(s) of the chapter: Creep by Radiohead, Home with you by FKA Twigs, and Softly by Clairo.

read chapter one here

“Is it alright to feel this way so early? And in my blood, all the sweet nothings fallin' in love overnight” -Softly by Clairo

Anakin was walking amongst the halls with Master Obi-wan and Master Yoda when he felt it, a disturbance in the force. Obi-wan turned to him, “Do you feel it too?” Anakin had merely nodded before taking out his holo device, bringing up a map of the Jedi Temple. His eyes quickly scanned it before finding something out of place, “Look, it’s an unrecognized heat signature in the lower levels of the temple.” Of all the years he’d been living in the temple, he had never visited the lower levels. He knew of its existence and that only certain Jedi, like Master Yoda, could enter. However, he never understood why it was forbidden to enter.

“Master Yoda, what should we do?”

“Go down, you must. Alert the others, I will.” He gave Master Yoda a nod before taking off with Obi-wan. Using the holo map to guide him, he found himself in front of a large steel door. He placed his hand on the door, seeing if it’d budge, but it didn’t move an inch. Beckoning forth the force within him, he imagined the door opening. A warmth that spread from his heart to the tips of his finger, encompassing his entire being until he felt the door shift. Pushing the door open, he put away his holo device, his lightsaber now in his grasp.

“They’re close Master, I can feel it.” Obi-wan took the lead, using the force to guide him to the person they were looking for. It didn’t take the two very long to find them, well more like her. Anakin took notice as to how she was gripping onto the wall for dear life. With her back to them, he couldn’t see her face. Only the outline of her figure, clad in all black. Who are you?

Obi-wan ignited his saber, Anakin following. “Stop right there! Turn around and face us sith!” Oh, so apparently I’m a sith now. Anakin furrowed his eyebrows, why could he hear her thoughts? His ears picked up on the approaching footsteps, as he felt the other Jedi enter the room, his shoulders slightly tensing.

The girl raised her arms slowly, showing defeat. Turning around, his eyes immediately found hers. He watched as her eyes moved across the room until they landed on his. He let his eyes widen for a fraction of a second, before composing himself. He realizes that he’s seen her before, in his dreams. The ones where her beauty overtook him, and they’d spend their time together in the meadows. When he dreamt about her, he felt at peace. He felt whole. Even after waking up, only to find Padme at his side, he could still feel her lingering touch. He had always wondered why the force was showing him visions of her, of their future together. Now, he knew why. He felt a tug in his chest, the force insisting that he move closer. To take you in his embrace and never let go.

He watched as you blinked, licking your lips before uttering his name. He watched as your knees buckled, sending you to the floor. He watched as your eyes shut, your body going limp.

It’s you.

He was angry at the force. Why would they send him to you, after he had gotten married to the love of his life. The force had also shown him visions of Padme and him, their life together. He knew it was one full of joy and happiness, the force assured him of that.

“Anakin? Anakin, I asked you a question,” He was broken out of his reverie by Obi-wan, “Do you know that girl?”

“No, I don’t know her.”

Anakin found himself in your room, the steady beeping of the machine was beginning to frustrate him. He needed you to wake, he needed to know why you were here, in this exact moment. Why not earlier? Before he had fallen in love with Padme? He wasn’t sure, all he knew was that he couldn’t leave Padme, especially now that she was carrying his child.

He walked closer to your bed, before sitting on the edge of it. He observed your face, she looks the same. She even smelt the same, like a meadow of flowers with a hint of something fruity. He took his time to observe you, not knowing if he’d ever see you again. What was the Jedi Counsel going to do to you? He gently brushed a lock of hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. Brushing his knuckles softly over your cheeks, he was interrupted by his holo device pinging. Signaling that he was needed elsewhere. He didn’t want to leave your side, but he has a life to get back to. He looked at you one last time before swiftly turning away, leaving you alone once more.

A few hours later, you regained consciousness. Sound was the first sense that came back to you, and all you could hear was the stupid beeping of the machine. The next sense that came was sight. Your eyes scanned around the room, noticing the IV that was hooked onto you, along with the heart rate monitor attached to your index finger. Using your free hand, you ripped off the monitor and IV, the beeping of the machine stopped, only to be replaced by a flatline sound. Oh my stars, does this thing ever shut up. Before you could make it to the door, it flew open. Obi-wan, Anakin, and Master Yoda walked in.

“Where do you think you’re going, sith.” Obi-wan asked.

You titled you head to the side, “What makes you think I’m a sith?”

“What other force user would be able to cunningly sneak into the temple unnoticed?” Although his face was completely serious, his voice held a sarcastic tone. “Besides, who wears all black in a Jedi temple?” You gave him a pointed look.

“Uh, Anakin. Duh.” Turning to face Anakin, you also gave him a pointed look. Both brows furrowed as you called him out.

“And exactly how do you know Anakin?” Right, you forgot that they were going to question you. Luckily for you, Fury had gone over the plan with you a couple of times, so you knew what to do.

“I’ll tell you, only if you bring me to the Jedi council.”

Standing in front of the council was more intimidating than you thought. Especially when your eyes landed on Master Windu’s. You couldn’t tell who was scarier, Fury or Windu. As intimidated as you were, you were also amazed. Gazing through the windows, you could see the flying shuttles and speeders, something Earth certainly didn’t have.

“Right Miss…” There was a pause, they waited for you to say your name.

Remember, no real names. Why? ‘Cause Fury said so, “Alyra.”

“Just Alyra? No last name?” Obi-wan questioned

“Yep,” the pop of your ‘p’ echoed throughout the silent room, “Just Alyra. No middle or last name. Mysterious right?” You said, wiggling your eyebrows, trying to lighten the mood. When no one laughed or cracked a slight smile, you gave them a tight smile. Right, the Jedi don’t like having fun.

“So Miss Alyra, please do tell us why you’re here.” Fu- Master Windu’s voice booms, showing that he isn’t in the mood for jokes.

“It’s extremely vital that you explain to the Jedi Council the reasoning for your arrival. And I don’t care how much you admire that Anakin Skywalker, don’t do anything that will forever alter their timeline. We need him to turn, because we need the Death Star.”

“So, you want me to watch and do nothing as Anakin suffers? Absolutely nothing. Also, how the hell am I supposed to acquire the Death Star?”

“Correct, I trust that you can do that. Right, agent L/N? As for the Death Star, just make sure you get close to Skywalker, close enough that he won’t kill you when he turns, but not too close.” You assumed Fury hadn’t watched any of the prequels because Anakin killed and pushed away literally everyone who was close to him.

You swallowed before swiftly nodding, “right.” you replied. Your mouth had gotten dry all of a sudden. You’d be damned if Fury thought you weren’t going to do anything to help Anakin. You couldn’t imagine yourself holding the knowledge of their future, Anakin’s future, and not doing anything to help. You didn’t know what you were going to do, but you sure as hell knew that you weren’t going to sit around idly. Something had to change.

How were you supposed to explain to the Council that billions of lives were being threatened, and that the only way to save them was through a weapon that doesn’t exist yet. On top of that, it was a weapon created by the empire. There was no way Fury’s plan was going to work without questions arising, so you created a plan of your own. Of course one that Fury would approve of.

“I’m here because not only is my planet being threatened, but so is yours, and every other planet in this universe. The only way to stop it from happening is if you train me.”

“Before we can even decide on if we should train you or not, please do tell us, how did you find out about our existence.” Taking a deep breath, you composed yourself before telling them the story.

“Long ago, there was a Jedi named George Lucas.” You glanced at Master Yoda, noticing his eyes light up as he remembered him. “He was a powerful Jedi, gifted with foresight. Almost always, his visions came true. One night, he dreamt of the destruction of Coruscant and it’s people. At the time, he didn’t know that it didn’t only affect Coruscant, but the whole universe. Scared of being caught in the destruction, he warned his friends, Jedi or not. Together they fled using the bridge, coming to my home planet. There, they started their new lives. George Lucas then created comics and movies to serve as a reminder to himself and his friends of their home. He did his best to replicate Coruscant, but I must say, it’s more beautiful in person.” I can’t wait to see Naboo though. You smiled, a frown soon emerging. This means that I can never tell Anakin of his future, not even a little. They wouldn’t believe me.

You cleared your throat before speaking again, “If that’s all, I’d like to go for a walk.” You waited for one of the Jedi to reply.

“Alright, you have 30 minutes. We expect you to be back once those 30 minutes are over. In the meantime, we will be discussing your stay here.” Master Windu said, waving his hand to dismiss you.

Quickly walking out of the room, you began to wander around aimlessly. You took in your surroundings, admiring the new environment. Who knows, you were probably going to hate it as time passed. The vibration coming from your chest startled you, picking up the necklace you pressed the button. A hologram of Director Fury and Mr. Stark came up.

“Hey kid, how are you holding up in there?”

“Well, I think I’ve got everything under control. I’ve told them about the mission,” well not really, “So far, everything is going as planned.”

“Alright agent L/N, if that is all, I’ll be ending the call no-”

“Wait, wait, wait! Can I speak to Peter, pretty puhhhleasee! Come on Fury, you owe me this.” You watched as Fury rolled his eyes and huffed out a fine, soon after Peter came into frame. “O. M. G. Peter you’ll never guess where I am.” You panned the device around the hall, showing off the Jedi Temple.

“Holy crap! You're in the freaking Jedi Temple. That’s so cool!” You heard feet shuffling behind you, “Hey, I’ve gotta go, but I’ll call you later Peter. See ya!” You shut off the device before a voice was heard behind you.

“Were you talking to someone?” Anakin’s voice rang out from behind you, turning around you found him resting against a pillar, looking casual as ever.

“Yes I was, Mr. Skywalker. However, that information doesn’t concern your prying ears.” you smirked.

“And that is where you are wrong Miss Alyra. You see it does in fact concern me, do you think the Jedi Council knows of this device.” He strided up to you, gently grasping your necklace. You were able to get a good whiff of his scent, he smelt like strawberries and cinnamon. It was a peculiar combination but it worked together. Honestly, that was probably the most attractive thing about him, besides his face. You could stare at it all day. There was just something so mesmerizing about his face, it demanded your attention.

“Why are you staring at my face?” He asked

“Hmm, oh nothing. I just thought I’d never see you in real life.”

“Real life? What do you mean in real life?” His brows furrowed, making the scar on his face more prominent. Shit, not even a day in Coruscant and you had already blown your cover, “Have you,” He inhales deeply before continuing, “Have you seen me in your dreams too?”

Wait, what? Sure, maybe you had a sexual dream about him every once in a while, but you didn’t expect him to dream about you too. “Umm, yes…?” It’s too late to stick to the original plan now.

“So, you’ve seen it then? Visions of us, in the meadow?”

“Yes, I was… unaware that you were having these dreams too. I thought I was going crazy.” Maybe you are.

“Well, we’ve only known each other for a short period of time, so it wouldn’t be plausible for you to know. However, I do suggest we talk about this tomorrow. I’m afraid we have to get back to the council now.” He motioned for you to go first, following closely behind you. The two of you walked in a comfortable silence until the doors of the Council came into view.

“Well, here goes nothing.”

“The Jedi Council has come to the decision that we will train you,” You let out a breath, “But you need to tell us of the threat first.”

“In my system, there is a moon filled with powerful beings. Their greediness and selfishness will ultimately lead to their demise. There was a famine, the poor and weak struggled the most, while the strong thrived for a short amount of time. However, once the food was all gone, everyone perished. Except for one. His name is Thanos. Struck with grief, he sought after power. Enough power to eliminate half of the universe. He…. He wants to spare us the grief of losing our loved ones to selfishness, but fails to realize how much anguish we will be in if half of the universe just disappears. That’s why we need your help. Without your knowledge and technology, we wouldn’t be able to save the universe. But once my training is over, I will need others to help me.” There was a pause, you let the words sink in before speaking again, “Like I said, they are powerful beings. But even they cannot survive a famine. The only reason Thanos survived was because he was exiled. An acquaintance of mine saw this, through a vision. So it hasn’t happened yet, but it will soon. So the sooner I can get trained, the better. But I will need others to train with me too. I cannot take down a titan alone.”

“It’s settled then, Kenobi and Skywalker, you will train alongside Alyra to help her. We will send more Jedi if needed.” After Master Windu dismissed the council, Obi-wan came up to you to formally introduce himself. Of course, he didn’t need to, you had already known who everyone was. But for the sake of the plan, you had to act like you didn’t.

“Hello there! I am Obi-wan Kenobi. I’d like to apologize for my behaviour earlier.”

“Oh, there’s no need to apologize. But thanks I guess.”

“I assume no one has shown you to your quarters yet?” You nod, “Let me show you the way then.”

Anakin watched as the two of you left, a gentle laugh escaping your lips. Although Obi-wan’s hands were clasped behind his back, Anakin didn’t like the way he was so close to you. The furrow of his brows were noticeable as he felt the jealousy grow in him. Snap out of it, you just met her. He took big strides in order to catch up to the two of you.

“Hey! Wait up.” Hearing Anakin's voice made the two of you stop in your tracks. “Where are you two heading?”

“I was just going to take Miss Alyra to her quarters. Anyhow, since your quarters seem to be closer to hers, I think you should take her instead.” Obi-wan stated, giving Anakin the information he needed before leaving.

“Well, it looks like your room is right across from mine.” He began to lead the way, taking smaller steps to make sure you kept up.

“Tell me Anakin, what’s it like living on Coruscant?” You’d been curious, life as an avenger was grueling, although you did travel many places for missions, it was never for leisure. Living in New York for most of your life, you lacked knowledge about culture and life in general outside of America. So being in a new environment like Coruscant was quite exciting to you, but it was also scary. Give or take a few Jedi, some senators, and siths; you barely knew anyone.

“Well, I’m not gonna say I love it, because I don’t. But Coruscant does have its perks. There are many different cultures here, you’ll never get tired of it. Plus there’s no sand here, I fucking hate sand. It just-”

“-gets everywhere. Yeah I don’t like sand either. There’s a lot of branches and broken shells in it, making it hard to walk on.” You finished his sentence for him. Not realizing what you said before it was already out of your mouth, you gave him a sheepish smile. Anakin gave you a smile in return.

As your quarters came into view, Anakin grew nervous. He didn’t want the conversation to end, “About tomorrow, how about I pick you up for some breakfast, then we can explore the lower levels of Coruscant while you tell me about your home?”

You looked to the floor, biting your lip to keep you from smiling like an idiot, “Yeah, I’d really like that.” you continued to stare at the floor as you felt your cheeks heat up. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight, Anakin.” Finally meeting his gaze, you gave him a small smile.

“Sweet dreams, Alyra.” You watched as Anakin disappeared into his room before entering yours. Truth be told, you weren’t expecting much from the Jedi. The room was moderately decorated, only containing necessities. The bed itself looked like a bag of rocks, but was surprisingly comfortable. Going into the refresher, you were delighted to find that it wasn’t some outdated 90’s looking bathroom, but a more modern one. There was a single sink, along with some counter space where you could put your toiletries. A circular mirror was hanging above the sink, giving the bathroom some style. Everything in the bathroom had been so monotone, the same shade of white. Except the shower curtain, which was a very light gray.

Walking out of the bathroom, you noticed a door which presumably led to your closet. In it you found Jedi robes already hanging, there was also some sleep wear too. The robe itself was black, just like Anakins. However your clothing had been variations of white and gray. What a weird combination for a Jedi. It felt weird to be calling yourself a Jedi, it just didn’t feel right.

You decided to take a quick shower before calling Peter again. Turning on the shower, you watched as the water fell from the shower head attached to the ceiling. To your disbelief, the water was already hot when you jumped in. You thought it would’ve taken a while for it to warm up or that the Jedi absolutely loved taking cold showers. They hadn’t given you any shampoo or body wash, so you just let the hot water do its magic. I should probably tell Ani that I need some tomorrow while we're in the lower levels. Stepping out, you hastily dried yourself before putting on your night clothes.

Sitting on the bed, you took off your necklace. Pressing the button to turn on the device, you scrolled through the hologram screen until Peter’s name came up. Clicking on his name, you waited for it to connect. After a couple of seconds waiting, the video connected.

“Y/N!” He said eagerly

“Hi Peter! How are you? It feels like ages since I last saw you.” It had been only mere hours since you had left, while for you it’d been almost two days.

“Honestly things have been...okay. It’s just not the same without you around y’know?” You could hear the hesitation in his voice, as if he was hiding something.

“What do you mean okay? What happened?”

“I meant to tell you this before you left, but everything happened so quickly, and then you were gone before I knew it.” He pauses, taking a deep breath, “Umm…. MJ and I broke up.”

“What, why? Peter what happened?” Before he could answer, the hologram disappeared and the call ended. You tried to call him back but the call wouldn’t go through. Giving up, you let out a sigh. It’s probably for the best, I need to get some sleep.

Crawling into the covers, you situated yourself before finding a comfortable position. Thoughts of Peter and Mj lingered throughout your mind as you tried to fall asleep. You decided not to think about them for the rest of the night, and instead think of your day tomorrow with Anakin. Soon your breathing slowed down, a smile could be seen on your lips as you fell asleep.

somewhere in the Star Wars galaxy

Darth Sidious sits on his throne, hood pulled up to hide his face. He too, felt the disturbance in the force. Reaching into the force, he sought to find the person responsible for the disturbance. Quickly finding his answer, he lets out a vicious cackle.

so, the last of the Andarae bloodline has returned.

read ch 3 here

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legobiwan · 4 years

Note

could you do 18 and 100 for the trope mash up thing? (And if you want two characters, Obi-wan and Hondo?- I got a little confused with your added instructions to the trope mashup)

Circus AU / Accidentally Saving the Day (Hondo & Obi-wan)

Anon, I had to WORK for this one and even did a little research into circus history since I am woefully undereducated about the topic. I think I’ve found an interesting way of weaving these all together and giving a little bonus at the end. Stick with me here, I need to do a bit of an introduction to get this whole idea going.

For the purposes of this AU, please assume that the Clone War and all the events surrounding it happened directly after Naboo, meaning everyone is about 10 years younger than they are in canon. Also assume that Qui-gon was not killed on Naboo, although that has little bearing on this particular story.

THIS GOT OUT OF CONTROL. I was expecting to write a fun little 1,000 word thing, not a whole AU concept. But here we are, so….uh…

We’ll see what everyone thinks? Enjoy. And good luck :D

—-

“How are they doing?” Szimon Tesdak asked, thin, long mustache bobbing up and down at the ends.

The other man patted the Pamaradian prancer’s neck, running his fingers through the thick mane of her hair. The prancer shivered, eyes darting back and forth, hooves tapping nervously on the durasteel floor. The man known as Whisp spoke softly in the creature’s ear, the words foreign to even Szimon’s cosmopolitan ears. A few moments later, the prancer settled, nuzzling her snout into Whisp’s shoulder.

Whisp turned to face Szimon. “They’re restless,” he said. “Fourteen hours in a cruiser is a bit much for anyone to take.”

Szimon waved the veiled criticism away with a flick of his wrist. Yes, it had been a long journey, but the payoff would - hopefully - be worth it. And they needed the credits - or whatever these people were going to pay.

“An hour more and we’ll be there,” Szimon said with false confidence.

Whisp stood, crossing his arms tight against his chest, the black-and-crimson fabric of his worn travel tunic wrinkling with the gesture. There was a hint of beard on the young man’s chin, something that, when it grew in, would likely age him a good ten years. The man peered at Szimon with grey-blue eyes like he was trying to ace one of those vision tests at a local spaceport agency. Always looking for hidden meaning, he is.

And sometimes he finds it.

At least with the creatures, that had been the case. Two years Whisp had been working for Szimon and never had the older circus master figured out the man’s trick. Szimon had spent his life in the circus, from his childhood on Thybaar right up the grand days of the bright Coruscant lights to his now-ramshackle operation held together by thread, petty theft, and the occasional cashing in on favors owed.

Szimon had seen it all - and more, but nothing like Whisp and his ability to communicate with the creatures, like he was reading their minds. “The Whisperer,” the other members had taken to calling him. The moniker had stuck, albeit in shortened form, Whisp’s real name - whatever it had been - long forgotten.

“Remind me again why we’re flying out to the Outer Rim for a show? Seems a bit of an expense when we could just as easily round up a few smaller venues for far less hassle,” Whisp said.

“Ah, Whisp, ever the cynic,” Szimon clapped a meaty hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Don’t think of it as a hassle,” he waved a dramatic hand, as if unveiling something from a behind a curtain. “But as an expansion of our operations.”

Whisp cocked an eyebrow. “Hardly difficult seeing as our operations comprised of three planets the past month, two of which we never actually got to land on.”

Szimon snorted. Well, yes, business had been down because of the war. Szimon himself cared little for the politics of the Republic or the Separatists. A government was a government, with all its little games and corruptions, mazes of betrayal, and endless mountains of datawork. No, Szimon Tesdak would never be chained behind one of those desks.

But many others were, shackled to unfulfilling jobs and lives, stuck in a desert of mediocrity and boredom. That was where Szimon came in. Unhappy citizens tended to breed unhappy revolts. But give them a nice circus, something to laugh at, a little magic that was absent from their day-to-day existence?

It didn’t really matter who was in power. The problems, the outcomes -they were always the same in the end.

Still, the war had been disruptive to his business and over the past few months, the “Great Thybaarian Traveling Show” had been forced into semi-refugee status as planet after planet was devastated by the conflict between a mechanical and clone army. Circuses were part of avoiding war, not conducting it.

Szimon shook off the dark thoughts with a wide smile. “Come on now, Whisp. We’re going to make great friends on the Outer Rim. My benefactor has promised a large sum, maybe even a sponsorship if we play our cards right.”

“I thought they were pirates,” Whisp retorted, half-smile playing on his face.

Szimon made an airy gesture, chuckling. “Pirates, embezzlers, Hutts. As long as we get paid, I’ll work for the Sith themselves.”

Whisp tightened under Szimon’s arm, which was wrapped around the thin man’s shoulders. Some unreadable emotion passed over his face, a premonition of a storm. After a moment, he spoke, hesitant.

“I suppose.”

“That’s the spirit!” Szimon exclaimed, shaking Whisp. “Come on, we have to make preparations for landing and I’m not letting Battlebuzz near those controls again.“

—–

“That was a very impressive show, my friend,” the pirate known as Hondo Ohnaka sidled up to Whisp, unceremoniously dropping into the seat next to him, tankard full of green ale.

Whisp looked up from his own mug, half-consumed, eyeing the pirate warily. “Thank you,” he replied, adding, “I think,” after a moment’s hesitation. It never hurt to be too cautious around pirates.

“All those acrobats, all the flips and whooshes.” Hondo made an extravagant gesture with his arm, nearly taking Whisp’s head off. “And the beautiful women dancing to such music, it shouldn’t be allowed!” he grinned, giving Whisp a knowing look. ”My men, they enjoy that - some of my women, too!” Hondo cackled, downing the entirety of his pint in one go, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

“But you, my friend - with the creatures.” The pirate’s voice turned a shade serious and several parsecs more calculating. Whisp bit his lip, steeling himself to steer another drunken conversation away from this dangerous territory. “Yes, the creatures,” Hondo continued, nearly singing. “Now that was something I’ve never seen before. Most beast tamers use weapons.” The pirate made a few motions mimicking a whip. “They use fear and intimidation but you!” He pointed a finger that almost went up Whisp’s nose. “Ah, it was almost like you talked to them with your mind.”

Whisp gave a forced shrug, his pulse starting to race. He needed to stay calm. Needed to focus on the present, not his anxieties. He laughed to himself, bitter, wholly aware of the gross irony of that statement. “Just an ability I’ve had since my youth,” he said, voice flat. “Better me in the circus than those brutish weapons-wielding tamers you mentioned.” Whisp scowled. That much was the truth. Whisp couldn’t abide by their methods, couldn’t stand the way the pain and fear radiated from the abused creatures. He knew he couldn’t save them all, but if he could give a second chance to even a single Borcatu, if he could find a home for those who had been cast out -

Anger trilled at the back Whisp’s brain, a sensuous, lush melody more tempting than any of the ribald pirate ballads in the background.

Hondo beckoned at another Weequay, grabbing two pints from a serving tray, setting one in front of Whisp in an unspoken command. “Yes, your youth. Tell me about that. Your accent is polished, very posh, very Core World.” Very monied. If only, Whisp rued.

It had been too much effort to try and tame his accent, which stood out amongst Szimon’s motley crew of performers like a neon bell weed in the desert.

Whisp took a long sip of his beverage, smacking his lips together. The new alcohol was a step higher in quality than the dredge he had been drinking before. He peered to Ohnaka on his right, wondering if he was about to be drugged, kidnapped, or worse. Oh well, he thought, drinking some more of the beverage. Might as well enjoy while I can.

“I was brought up in the Core,” Whisp recited, setting his glass down, not even needing to think about the words he had said them so many times. “My family, unfortunately, abandoned me, so I took to farming in the Mid-Rim as a means of sustaining myself. It was there I discovered I had an affinity for creatures and then did some work in healing clinics before the war broke out. The Republic Army took over all the planetary clinics so I was forced into finding…” Whisp bobbed his head, “more creative ways to apply my talents.”

“Interesting,” Hondo noted, his gaze greedy as he looked Whisp up and down. Whisp’s other hand moved to his waist. So much for enjoying. He fingered the blaster he had hidden under his red and silver vest, neatly tucked away in a shoulder holster.

Hondo held out a hand. “I don’t mean to cause you alarm, my young friend,” he said with a laugh, sitting back in his chair, kicking both feet up on the table. “You can put your blaster away, I only want to talk business.”

Whisp’s hand tightened for a moment before he raised an open palm in a universal gesture of surrender, his brow furrowed.

“What type of business?”

“What type indeed?” Hondo hummed, rocking his feet back and forth in time to the bawdy, clangorous music. Somewhere on the other side of the room, Tergallian and Lopisa had gotten into a knife-throwing contest with some of the pirates. Whisp had a feeling the Weequay had bet on it and that the pirates were about to lose their shirts, pants, shoes, and who knew what else in the deal. Might have to make a quick getaway if there’s enough of a ruckus, Whisp thought, eyeing the locations of the exits and the best strategies to get there without being shot.

Again, he winced.

“Oh, you won’t make it out, I promise” Hondo commented, his expression still jovial. “All the exits are under full guard and I guarantee there’s no other way out unless it’s by my command.” He pressed a finger into the table, all traces of humor gone from his voice. “Unless,” he began after a moment, “you are a Jedi.”

Whisp was off his stool in an instant, blaster in hand. Not wanting a direct confrontation, he pointed it towards the ground, the table hiding the weapon from the view of most of the other pirates and circus members. Off in the corner, Szimon’s eyes grew wide as he made a series of furious movements in Whisp’s driection.

“I’m fine,” Whisp signed back in the strange language of gestures known only to those in this particular circus, an easy way to communicate on stage while looking artistic and also a not bad method of either avoiding trouble or sometimes finding it - if their pockets and stomachs were empty enough.

Hondo clasped his hands behind his head, looking unconcerned. “I did not mean to upset you,” he said, lips quirking upwards as if he had just figured out some baffling puzzle. “Only warn you about my security system. But let us not talk of such things, as they disturb you and as my dear mother always said - “ Hondo raised a finger. “Son! You catch more apidactyls with honey. And if that doesn’t work, you can still catch them with a blaster.”

Not worth the fight. Not even sure I’d win this fight, Whisp sighed inwardly. Knowing when he was outmatched, or at least when to choose his battles, Whisp retook his seat with a muttered curse.

“Fine, then. What do you want from me?”

Hondo smiled. “Ah, now we talk business,” he shrugged. “Nothing much, my friend. And nothing - mostly - to do with your little traveling show. But the circus isn’t going to pay you forever and a man of your many talents - ” Hondo leaned forward, putting both forearms on the table. “Could fetch a pretty hefty payday if he found himself aligned with the right people.”

Whisp’s eyebrows rose. “Are you offering me a job?”

Hondo raised both arms. “Maybe, if you are willing to - “

“Hondo!” A large, burly man came barreling into the room. At once, the music stopped with a zippered rip of a holodisc jarred from its needle, pirates and circus members alike turning to the wide-eyed, heaving pirate.

“We got trouble out there!”

Immediately, Hondo came to his feet, blaster in hand. “What kind of trouble?”

“I think it’s the Republic! Looks like them, at least. They’re tryin’ a fall back to our compound!”

“We’ll see about that,” Hondo growled, raising his weapon. “No one takes over Hondo Ohnaka’s compound without my permission!”

—-

Blaster fire rang out from all sides, a multicolored lattice of deadly energy. To Whisp’s surprise, Hondo was near the vanguard of the pirates, shooting at the incoming wave of bright, white uniforms with terrifying precision. The pirates were good, Whisp had to give them that, the transition from unruly drunkards to semi-disciplined guerrilla fighters more seamless than Whisp thought possible.

“Any ideas?” Szimon asked next to him, the pair huddled behind a large boulder, just out of range of the real fighting. Whisp knew Szimon didn’t care one way or another about who won this particular battle - one of thousands Szimon had witnessed over the years. But their ship - their livelihood and home, not to mention only asset - lay just beyond the front line of what Whisp was pretty sure were the infamous clones. If their ship was damaged, or, even worse, destroyed - they were all done for.

Whisp took in the scene, applying his natural affinity for tactics that had been first discovered early in his tenure with Szimon, an awkward encounter with the Ruuthian mafia, a highly successful performance, and a jar of…requisitioned heeble eggs belonging to Ruuthian mob boss. It had been his quick thinking that had gotten them out of that mess, a plan so crazy it couldn’t do anything but work. From that point on, Whisp had earned the nickname, “The General,” much to his dismay.

Carefully, Whisp extended his senses, not only his eyes and ears but his other senses, the ones he kept locked away from everyone else - everyone else except his creatures. The creatures didn’t care what his status or title was, if he had succeeded or not, if he occasionally broke some moral law that had been branded into his mind as a child. The creatures didn’t judge - they had never judged and found him wanting.

It wasn’t good. For all of Hondo’s firepower, they were still in the bottom of a cereal bowl in the sandy crevasse, the clone troopers above holding higher ground as they advanced on the compound. It didn’t escape Whisp’s notice that the troopers’ blaster bolts were consistently going wide, aimed to injure or impede, but not kill. Some strange long-buried instinct rose in Whisp’s chest as he watched the men, sensing their similarities, down to a genetic level. Was he was supposed to be on their side? Supposed to be fighting with them, supposed to -

An explosion rocked the compound, bringing down metal, stone, and all kinds of debris on the pirates. Hondo barked out more orders, a line of men running to set up what looked like a short-range missile while the rest of the pirates resumed their firefight.

I’m supposed to be getting us out alive, Whisp fumed at himself. No more distractions. Szimon’s face was covered in dust and sand and for a moment Whisp almost laughed. The circus master looked the spitting image of the Great Lady Devonna in her full makeup.

“Are you alright, Szimon?” Whisp asked, helping the other man to a seat.

“I’ve seen worse,” he growled, swiping debris from tassled gold epaulettes perched on bright red shoulders like two Felucian retrine sparrows. “Just do something, Whisp, I’m not getting any younger here.”

Right. Whisp looked again at the fight, the positioning of the men, their ship. The pirates weren’t going to win an all-out firefight, not like this and Whisp had to assume there would be reinforcements coming sooner than later. It was now or…

Whisp frowned. They could wait for the clones to take over the compound and beg for lenience. But knowing the Republic, they’d probably confiscate the ship. And send them to prison. Besides, Whisp’s own presence might raise too many uncomfortable questions, ones he had no desire whatsoever to revisit.

So much for that idea, he rued, while surveying the scene. The clones were all faced towards the fighting, Hondo’s forces feisty enough to keep them fully engaged. There weren’t that many of them, not a full battalion, for certain, which meant it was likely Szimon’s ship was wholly unguarded and not even considered a threat, as it had no visible weaponry. If he could just…

Whisp closed his eyes, feeling for the familiar energies, the outlines of the creatures he cared for, from the smallest snitmouse to the largest morak. Yes, he thought, connecting his mind with the stampede creatures. They would never see it coming.

A moment later the earth rumbled, the fighting slowing to a small drizzle of blaster fire as the line of clones turned to the oncoming dust storm that hid the three moraks, now prodded on by Whisp, feeding off of his repressed frustration and anger with the representatives of the institution that had driven him to this life in the first place. Of the people who were trying, again, to deprive him of a home, of a place where he belonged.

Unaware the opaque cloud hid anything living, no less animals whose shells repelled most blaster fire - a well-kept secret known not even in the fancy universities on Coruscant - the clones fired to no avail as the moraks descended, sending bodies flying in every direction with desperate shrieks, the remainder of the forces too startled to return fire efficiently. Three bloody minutes later, the remaining clones ran, retreating, leaving the bodies of their fallen comrades as the only evidence of the failed ambush.

Cheers rose the pirates as they lifted their weapons in glee, somehow manifesting mugs of ale in their hands only a scant minute after they had been involved in a full-bore battle. Whisp slowly climbed from behind the rock, pulling Szimon up with him. The Thybaarian looked at Whisp as if it was the first time he had ever seen him.

“Was that you?” he asked, eyes trying to pierce through years of layers, of hidden secrets that were the only true skin of the man known as Whisp.

Whisp laughed, uncomfortable. “What? No, I mean - “

Szimon shook his head, still dazed. “I always had my suspicions, you know. Not just the creatures, although I’ll grant you that’s one hell of a trick.” He paused, his expression unreadable. “I figured there was some reason you weren’t up with them in that fancy tower, figured it was none of my business, but now - “ Szimon’s eyes turned calculating. “This isn’t just some parlor trick, is it, it’s - “

Whisp backed away, palms splayed in front of him, as if trying to stop the words from entering his space. “No, I’m not. I - “ he looked around, wild, feeling just like one of his creatures, feral and trapped. He was going to lose his home again, once they found out, it was all going to be over. “I never - “ Something snapped, then crackled with inside of Whisp, like the breaking of an invisible, electric bone, sparking flying everywhere.

“I never was one, okay!” he yelled, stomping his foot. “Never was, never will be! That man - that child - died over ten years ago. This -” Whisp gestured angrily at himself. “Is what I am. Nothing. More.”

They had been certain leave Whisp with that message. Nothing more. Just nothing.

“A fascinating story, my young friend,” a low, baritone voice intoned from behind them. “I would be curious to hear more of it.”

Whisp spun around. The man was - there was no other word for it - regal, imperious, commanding the attention of every being in the valley, as he moved towards Whisp and Szimon, long brown cape billowing in the wind, deep violet outfit a perfect fit on his broad chest. Hondo’s troops paused mid-swig, ale running down their necks, and even Hondo himself craned his head forward to get a better look at the newcomer.

Fifty blaster rifles rose at once.

The man stopped, surveying the ends of the weapons pointed at him with a disaffected gaze. The compound held its breath, sinews tightening around triggers as an unworldly clarity came over the canyon, as if each atom, each sound wave could be made manifest as a physical, tangible reality. And then the man smirked, wholly unconcerned with his vast disadvantage in the situation as the world returned to its customary blur. Whisp and the others exhaled, noisy phlegm crackling up their lungs, dust tingling in their throats.

The stranger took an unhurried step forward raising one hand.

“You may lower your weapons,” he addressed the pirates, voice betraying nothing but absolute confidence. It occurred to Whisp then that the man had never been at any disadvantage at all. “I intend no harm,” he added in his deep, patrician voice.

Hondo took an equal, ambling step forward, hands clasped behind his back. He circled the newcomer, a hound sniffing for possible quarry, gazing him up and down, as if he were a incoming shipment of contraband. Then, after a moment, Hondo gave a nod, and the blasters summarily disappeared.

“My, my we are popular today,” the pirate began amiably. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Mister…” Hondo gestured at the other man in question.

“I am here for three reasons,” the stranger announced, ignoring Hondo’s unspoken inquiry. “The first was unwelcome, but unsurprising. My ships were caught unaware, en route from a trade post in the Outer Rim to Jybosti. I carry the identification cards and manifest if you desire proof of my claim. The Republic forced our hand, causing us to land here and engage in an unwanted ground battle which regrettably involved your forces.” The man turned to Hondo, giving an apologetic gesture. Hondo answered with cool regard, his skepticism echoing through the enclosure. Whisp had to agree. No one just happened to go by a place like Florrum without reason. Especially someone like this.

Still, it wasn’t the stranger that had been one shooting at them. Maybe he was telling the truth. Or at least a part of it.

“Secondly,” the man continued, opening his arms, “I would like to thank you all for, how shall I say - “ He paused for dramatic effect, lifting his chin slightly. Whoever this man was, he knew how to hold a crowd, perhaps even better than Szimon. “Saving the day, however unexpected your heroics may have been.”

“Yeah, heroes!” One of the pirates bellowed, raising both his blaster and ale mug, several others echoing his enthusiasm with chants of “Heroes!” which quickly devolved into far less elevated rhetoric.

“And thirdly?” Hondo asked, after the raucous had died down.

“Thirdly,” the man drawled, turning his full attention on Whisp. “I would like to know further details regarding this young man’s story.”

Whisp’s eyes went wide as he took an involuntary step back. “There’s not much more to tell, I’m afraid,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. The words were automatic, a defense mechanism so perfectly tuned, it was nearly instinct. But the strange pressure that had been growing at the back of Whisp’s brain spiked with the lie, leaving a dark, velvet shadow in its wake, something immensely powerful yet a balm to his frayed emotions. It was something…

Whisp gasped, eyes locking with the other man.

It was something familiar.

The stranger smiled, all edges as he clasped his hands behind his back, addressing Szimon. “This young man is in your employ?” he asked, brusque, nodding towards Whisp.

Szimon straightened his jacket and his posture, already sensing a deal in the making as he slipped into tell-tale ringmaster persona. “Yes, sir, best creature tamer I’ve ever seen.”

“Interesting,” the man commented, drawing out the word. “And if he were to leave your employ, how would that affect your operations?”

“Well, I daresay it would be quite the inconvenience,” Szimon began, his confidence building as he fell into the familiar patter of a sales pitch. Whisp barely heard the words, disbelief rising like an angry, red ocean. Would Szimon really do this to him? Now? After everything?

“…so you see, unless I would be suitably compensated for my losses…”

The grey-haired man leaned forward and whispered something in Szimon’s ear. Szimon’s eyes went moon-wide, his mouth dropping open, words tripping from his mouth.

“I trust that would be satisfactory?” the man asked.

“I - ah - “ Szimon sent a half-apologetic glance over to Whisp, eyes gleaming with barely-contained avarice. “I think that would be more than fair.”

“Excellent,” the man articulated, ignoring Szimon’s half-gasped ‘thank yous,’ now directing his full attention back to Whisp, drawing himself up to full height. “And you, who are about to enter my employ. What is your name?”

So that was it. No offer, not even a perfunctory question, Whisp’s future once again dictated by the whims of others. Whisp clenched his teeth agains the injustice of his very existence. “Whisp,” he answered, barely keeping the venom from his voice, fists tightening into balls, nails digging into his palms.

“Your real name,” the man growled. Behind him, Szimon gaped, now looking on with unabashed curiosity, a faint patina of guilt oozing from his sweat-beaded forehead.

Long-buried memories, banished ghosts relegated to an afterlife he had not yet experienced rose in Whisp. He squeezed his eyes shut against the assault of emotions, of the sharp knives of betrayal, the deep pools of loss that threatened to overwhelm him. Had it been so long since he had uttered his own name?

Forcing a noisy breath between his teeth, he steeled himself, meeting the icy gaze of the other man, who considered him with keen, intense interest.

“My name is Obi-wan Kenobi.”

For a brief second, the Force surged in a strange, dark elation as the stranger’s eyes glimmered with satisfaction.

“And I am Yan Dooku of Serenno. Come, Obi-wan,” he said, putting an arm around Whisp’s shoulders, leading him away from the confused and quiet scene of pirates, of the doe-eyed stares of what had - for a brief, happy moment - been his family.

From one family to the next, always a visitor. First the Jedi and Qui-gon Jinn, then Bandomeer. Then clinics, then circuses, and now this.

With Dooku.

Something settled in Obi-wan’s gut, not unpleasant. For the first time in years, he allowed himself to open to the Force, wholly and without constraint. This felt right, more right than anything else had in Obi-wan’s life.

“Come,” Dooku repeated, voice warming ever so slightly. “We have much to do.”

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