Chapter Text
Obi-Wan wakes with a gasp of breath.
What he sees is not what he expects to see, though he is unable to define exactly what it is he expected in the first place. All he knows is that this is not it. Some part of him expected something more dreary — more desolate. He sighs. The fog of forgotten dreams so often leaves him with dark expectations that fail to pair with reality — a lingering symptom of a war that ended five years ago.
The war may be over, but it never truly ended. Not for those who fought in it.
And that is just it. In official terms, the war is over. The Jedi have returned to their rightful roles as peacekeepers rather than warriors. The Council has assigned representatives from the Jedi Order to various sectors throughout the galaxy all in need of a calming, neutral presence to bring about peaceful transitions and prevent power vacuums from taking hold on vulnerable planets.
Obi-Wan himself has been practicing what some say he does best: diplomacy. He has lost track of the number of politicians he has broken bread with, the dinner parties he’s attended, the treaties whose creation he has witnessed. He is unsure if that is such a good thing.
To say life without a war in it has not been an adjustment would be a lie. He had gotten used to the routine of battle. Strategize, fight, bury the dead, repeat. Now, all of his missions are unique and, quite frankly, tedious, but he is glad for it. It feels like a return to form.
He feels like a proper Jedi again.
Yes, the Jedi have made a glorious return. But not all of them stayed.
Obi-Wan’s former Padawan, upon murdering the Chancellor, had a realization. His wild emotions, his attachment to Padmé, his near fall to the dark side — it was all incompatible with life as a Jedi — at least, the life he wanted to lead as a Jedi.
His departure could be temporary, if he so chose, of course. The Council, and Obi-Wan himself, made it clear to Anakin that he would forever be welcome within the temple halls. They would always be there to help him work through whatever it was that was on his mind. Together. As a people. For now, however, Anakin is content to live outside the bounds of the order. He is enjoying a quiet life with his bride and his two perfect children.
And how perfect they are.
The twins are rich with the Force. Luke. Leia. They are pure as starlight and just as bright.
This is how Obi-Wan finds himself laying in an over-plush bed inside a guest room painted a light yellow. He is visiting the Skywalker-Amidala residence. Even with Obi-Wan’s tight schedule in the Order and with Anakin’s time dedicated to raising his children and supporting Padmé’s political efforts, the two cannot stand to be apart from each other for too long. Their old bond remains even if Anakin’s titles do not.
Soft wind billows white curtains through an open window. The air is warm, but comfortably so. A perfect way to wake up and yet an uneasiness still sits like a stone in the pit of Obi-Wan’s stomach. He yawns and stretches his arms over his head in an attempt to move past it.
The war is over. You’re safe. Everyone is safe.
Obi-Wan slides out from underneath the covers and lets the cool tile hit the bottom of his feet. His morning routine is a simple one, but one he had to make more efficient in the time of the war. Now, now, Obi-Wan is free to indulge himself in a longer, more luxurious routine. He takes longer showers and spends a longer time meditating. He does yoga every morning and revels in the simple pleasure of exercising his body just for him, not so that it can be used as a weapon in some far-off battle. Even after five years, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get sick of it.
With the taste of mint still fresh on his tongue, he slips down the stairs of the beautiful lake house and escapes to the terrace. His hands brush against the ivy wrapping itself around the protective railing — just another green detail on a green-covered planet.
He looks out over to the lakeshore and sees Padmé playing with her children. The twins run circles around her, squealing in delight and kicking up muddy sand all the while. Though Padmé is not Force-sensitive like her children or her husband, she is radiant in her own way — a soft, but determined glow that Obi-Wan can see even from here.
The morning sun warms Obi-Wan’s face and eases some of his unplaceable anxieties. How could anything be wrong when he is caught in this oasis?
A hard thump on his back startles him out of his thoughts.
“You come all the way out here. You sneak into my home. You sleep in my guest quarters and you don’t even come and say hello ?”
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, a warm feeling crashing over him at the sight of his friend — his brother. Anakin, ever the impatient one, cannot keep the angry facade up for long and a wide grin cracks his face. He pulls Obi-Wan into a rough hug, enveloping him completely in his arms.
“You got in so late last night, I didn’t even get to see you,” Anakin says, pulling away from Obi-Wan. They look each other up and down — a habit from long ago when they were in constant peril and usually hiding one injury or another.
“I know, I’m sorry. I got caught up with some paperwork back on Coruscant and lost track of the time. But I’m here now.”
“You and your paperwork. You’re still so uptight even after all these years. Sometimes paperwork can wait, you know?”
“And you still have that cavalier attitude I see.”
“I guess some things never change, do they Master?”
“I suppose not.” Obi-Wan smiles at Anakin and the warmth of it is returned to him in kind.
“I’m glad you are here though. I’ve missed you, old man. So have the kids. They talk about their Uncle Obi all the time.”
Obi-Wan’s chest swells with love for the son and daughter of his former Padawan. “Believe me, they are in my thoughts more than I am in theirs.”
“I doubt it. You are all they’ve talked about since I told them you were coming. I was starting to feel rather jealous of you.”
Obi-Wan laughs. “Well, it would be rude of me to leave my adoring fans waiting now, wouldn’t it?”
Obi-Wan and Anakin walk side by side over the terrace and down the tile stairs to the lakeshore. Their footsteps synchronize and, for a moment, it feels like a time long past — a time where it was only them against the galaxy. A sad sort of nostalgia pangs through Obi-Wan.
His mind reels back to a time when they stood back-to-back, sabers ablaze, fighting off hundreds of droids. Over and over, Obi-Wan saved Anakin’s life, and over and over, Anakin returned the favor. So in sync were they, that they could change plans with a quirk of an eyebrow or the flick of a wrist. They knew the other as well as they knew themselves, or so it often felt within the warm crucible of a mission.
Obi-Wan, of course, is happy for Anakin and the life he leads — he is ecstatic for him — but it is the crux of humanity to be content with one life and long for another one just out of reach.
Their footsteps fall out of sync and they continue walking in silence.
It is not until his boots are sinking into sandy mud that Obi-Wan is pulled from his more nostalgic thoughts. He looks up and sees Luke and Leia playing around and splashing each other, too lost in their own kind of synchronicity to notice Obi-Wan’s arrival right away. Padmé, however, is sharp and quick and she beams at him with bright, honey-colored eyes.
“Obi-Wan!” Padmé exclaims, climbing to her feet and rushing to him. The loamy soil gets kicked up by her bare feet, flinging everywhere in her rush to greet him.
He kisses her cheek before pulling her into his arms. “Senator Amidala. How good it is to see you.”
“How good it is to see you!” she fires back. “It has been so long. It seems you have been kept busy by the Jedi Order.”
“No busier than you have been kept by Chancellor Organa.”
“Ever the contrarian,” Padmé smirks. “Tell me, did you have a good trip?”
“Yes, I—” Obi-Wan pauses. Did he have a good trip? He thinks about it. He really thinks about it. He remembers a ship, white walls, cold tile, and then… and then…
“Obi-Wan?”
“Yes, I must have…”
He has to have gotten here somehow. The Force comes with many gifts, but teleportation is not one of them. A ship, there must be a ship… his starfighter. That sounds right. He must have taken a starfighter here.
“Are you alright, Master?” Anakin asks with growing concern.
“Yes, I’m…” Obi-Wan trails off, his earlier unease returning in full force. “I can’t remember…”
“You can’t remember if your trip was good?” Anakin asks in confusion.
“I can’t remember how I got here,” Obi-Wan says.
Anakin and Padmé look at him with concerned eyes, but then Anakin breaks into a soft grin and claps Obi-Wan on the shoulder.
“You must be getting old, old man.”
Obi-Wan laughs, albeit with a hesitancy that prevents authenticity. “Yes, I must be.”
“Uncle Obi!”
The excited squeals of children break the tension of the moment as quickly as it arose.
“Obi!”
Obi-Wan’s knees buckle as the two children launch themselves at his legs like missiles. One look at them and his worries melt away.
“Careful Leia,” Anakin says. “Your Uncle Obi is pushing forty.”
Leia scrunches up her face. “That’s like, a gazillion years old.”
“Not you too,” Obi-Wan sighs. “No matter. I’m still young enough to do this!” Obi-Wan scoops her up and spins her around. She shrieks in delight, laughing all the while.
“My turn next, Uncle Obi!” Luke shouts from his place in the loam.
“I suppose,” Obi-Wan says, feigning reluctance. “Come here.”
Obi-Wan swings Luke around as he did with Leia. The world blurs and the only thing Obi-Wan can see clearly is Luke. Something like protectiveness swells inside of him — for both children of course — but especially for Luke. There’s just something about him…
Obi-Wan dismisses the thought before setting Luke back on the ground.
“Again!” both children shriek at him. “Again!”
And so the day is spent in sun-soaked squeals and chest-rumbling laughter. Padmé dances with her children and Anakin looks on with pride. Obi-Wan immerses himself in it all, allowing himself to get in the dirt with the kids.
It is a day well spent, but by the time the sun hangs low and heavy, Obi-Wan is grateful to return to his room for a much-needed shower and rest.
Obi-Wan closes the door behind him with a soft click and sighs in relief. He loves those kids, but he does not have the energy for them.
Reveling in the silence and the solitude of his bedroom, he takes a deep, calming breath before fully entering his temporary quarters. He cannot wait to get out of these dirty clothes and into a warm shower.
Out of muscle memory, Obi-Wan absentmindedly undoes his obi, humming to himself all the while. He sheds the outer layer of his tunics and throws it in a hamper in the corner. As he strips himself of his layers, he walks across the room to fetch a change of clothes for after his shower. The clean tunics and robe are soft and warm in his hands and his longing to rid the grime from his body only grows. Naked, he walks to the adjoining fresher and glances at himself in the mirror.
The fresh clothes fall from his hands and to the floor as a strangled cry tears itself from his throat.
That… that being in the mirror is not him. Can’t be him. The being in the mirror looks to be on the brink of death, not a strong, healthy man. Obi-Wan looks closer and the being mirrors him. Its eyes are blue and its hair is red, though it is longer and speckled with far more gray.
It’s him.
It’s him, it’s him, it’s him , but it’s wrong it’s so, so wrong.
The Obi-Wan in the mirror is emaciated and mottled with bruises. Every rib protrudes from his chest, so visible, they would be easy to count if Obi-Wan were not focused on everything else wrong with the visage before him.
Skin pale as death is made a sickly purple and green all over his chest, his stomach, his face. Anywhere where there is room for a bruise, there is one. Hollow cheeks give a sharpness to his cheekbones that he is unaccustomed to.
He looks like he is dying.
Obi-Wan feels lightheaded and weak — the way the man in the mirror would probably feel. His bones ache and his stomach suddenly pangs with a deep and gnawing hunger — like he hasn’t eaten in days or possibly weeks. He wraps his arms tightly around his middle and doubles over from the sharp pain.
Breathe. Remember your training.
His training is lost to him now. Obi-Wan’s heart beats rapidly and all he hears is the rush of blood in his ears and the ragged breaths expanding and contracting his lungs. He dares a peek back at the mirror and blinks in surprise.
He squeezes his eyes shut before opening them again.
Once more, he repeats the action, unable to believe what he is seeing — or not seeing.
His body is normal once more. The bruises are gone. His ribs are covered by a thin but healthy layer of fat. His abdominal muscles are toned and tight and his arms and legs have returned to their lean, muscular state. His cheeks are filled out, but the skin lacks its normal rosiness in favor of a blanched color.
He looks down at himself and runs his hands over his body — his body. It feels real. It feels healthy. Well, it feels mostly healthy. Nausea roils deep in his stomach and bile climbs up his throat. He rushes over to the toilet and heaves into it.
Something is wrong with him. Something has to be wrong with him.
I’m going mad.
He retches at the thought of his impending insanity. His shaking arm clings desperately to the tub, searching for support wherever he can find it.
“Master?”
It’s Anakin. Of course, it’s Anakin. Anakin always seems to show up when Obi-Wan does not want to be seen. It has always been this way, it only makes sense that he is here now.
“Master?” Anakin calls out again.
Obi-Wan can’t even answer Anakin as he tries to catch his breath.
“Alright, I’m coming in and I don’t care if— Woah there, you are naked Master, Force, here take this,” Anakin says, throwing the discarded robe at Obi-Wan and keeping his gaze averted.
Still panting, Obi-Wan pulls the robe over his shoulders and covers himself to the best of his abilities in his current state.
Anakin grabs hold of Obi-Wan’s shoulders and wrangles him so that they face each other.
“What’s going on Master? You didn’t tell me you weren’t feeling well.”
“I’m… I’m fine, I—” Obi-Wan cuts himself off with a gag and he leans over the toilet once more, pulling away from Anakin’s grasp.
“Easy now,” Anakin murmurs, kneeling beside Obi-Wan and rubbing his back. “You’re alright, just let it out.”
Obi-Wan coughs and gags into the toilet, his throat burning and his stomach and mouth both equally sour.
Anakin stands up and Obi-Wan can vaguely hear the sound of water running. The water shuts off and Anakin is back at his side, shoving a glass towards his face.
“Drink.”
Obi-Wan takes small sips of the cool water. It hardly eases the burning in his throat, but it does start to settle his now empty stomach a little.
“What’s going on, Master?”
“I… I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Anakin asks quizzically. “How long have you been feeling sick? Maybe the kids picked something up and gave it to you.”
“I’m not sick, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says.
“You are very obviously sick, Master,” Anakin says. He reaches a hand for Obi-Wan’s face. “I mean look at you, you wouldn’t just…” Anakin’s hand is cool against his forehead but not ice-cold as it would be if Obi-Wan were enshrouded in fever.
“You feel normal,” Anakin says, tilting his head. “Why are you…?”
Obi-Wan needs to diffuse this. He cannot have Anakin worrying over him — not when he has the children to worry about.
“I’m fine,” Obi-Wan says again. “I think I ate something bad on my trip here. I’m sure you remember how those meal packs are, right?”
Anakin groans. “Don’t remind me. Honestly, if there was ever a deterrent to going back to the Order, it was those Force-forsaken meal packs.”
The joke does not land the way Anakin seemingly intends it to.
“Yes, well, there are other things that are worth staying for,” Obi-Wan says.
Obi-Wan expects an argument, or maybe a snide comment, but all he is offered is a sad sort of look.
“I know,” Anakin says. “But some things are worth leaving for.”
Obi-Wan thinks of Luke and Leia. They are why Anakin will never return to the Order.
If ever there was a reason, this, at least, is a good one.
“I know, Anakin.”
A subtle but familiar tension hangs between them before Anakin extends a hand. Obi-Wan accepts it and allows Anakin to help him to his feet.
“Hopefully you got it all out of your system,” Anakin says, squeezing Obi-Wan’s shoulder. The tension falls away at the touch. “I’ll make some Ghoba rice soup. Maybe that will settle your stomach?”
Obi-Wan nods. “Yes, I would like that.”
“Good,” Anakin says, brightening somewhat. “Now get cleaned up and maybe rest for a little bit. We’ll be waiting for you downstairs.”
Obi-Wan’s heart warms and he almost forgets about the man he saw in the mirror.
The door closes softly behind Anakin and Obi-Wan shudders.
A fresh set of tunics clings to Obi-Wan’s freshly scrubbed body. His hair is damp and pushed back, but it falls loose into his face as it dries. Bare feet meet cool wooden stairs before landing on even cooler tile floors. He pads through the living room and turns the corner into the kitchen.
The sight that greets him is a pleasant one in its sheer domesticity. Luke and Leia play together at their spots at the table, albeit a little more subdued than earlier in the day. Anakin stands over a pot, stirring it gently while Padmé stands beside him, chopping vegetables.
“Feeling better?” Anakin asks, looking up from the pot.
“Much,” Obi-Wan affirms, flinging false confidence and assuredness into the Force. Anakin reflects the intended sentiment by sending a wave of contentment back at him. Obi-Wan almost falters.
Anakin never falls for that.
Obi-Wan’s forced emotions are easy for Anakin to pick up on and he always picks up on them. He always comments on it too — his own devotion to the people he cares about making it nigh impossible for him to let something as dramatic as a fraudulent emotion go.
Maybe he’s tired from the long day in the sun. Maybe he’s distracted by the meal he’s preparing. Maybe he doesn’t feel like bringing it up in front of Padmé and the kids.
Or maybe they grew farther apart than Obi-Wan had initially thought.
Time and distance do have a diluting effect on relationships — it is no fault of theirs that Obi-Wan believed his relationship with Anakin impervious to their toxic pull.
“Have a seat, Obi-Wan,” Padmé says, breaking the chain of his thoughts. “We’re nearly done here.”
Obi-Wan’s chair shrieks across the tile floor before he settles himself into it.
“Are you okay, Uncle Obi?” Luke asks quietly. “Dad said you felt bad.”
“I was feeling bad, but I’m all better now. Promise.”
Big blue eyes, clear with innocence, stare at him as though he is searching for the trace of the lie that his father could not pick up on. But then he blinks and he returns his attention to the thumb wrestling contest he has going on with Leia. Obi-Wan’s lips quirk up into the beginnings of a smile. The unconcerned nonchalance of youth is infectious in its own right.
Obi-Wan turns back to watch Padmé and Anakin finishing off the soup. Anakin pokes her side and she pulls away from him, all while giggling and swatting at him playfully.
He turns back to look at the kids and almost falls back in his chair.
They’re gone .
He whips around, searching for them, but they’re nowhere to be found.
“Anakin?” Obi-Wan asks nervously. “The children… they were right here weren’t they?”
Anakin and Padmé turn around and give him questioning looks.
“Master? Are you sure you’re feeling better?” Anakin asks.
“Yes, of course I am, but the kids—” Obi-Wan looks back to their chairs. They are sitting there like they never left. Maybe they didn’t. “But… wait—”
“Maybe you just need to eat something,” Anakin says nervously. “Here.” A dull thud accompanies each bowl as they are sat down upon the table. Two slightly smaller bowls are placed in front of Luke and Leia and they gaze at the soup hungrily. They each reach for their spoons before Padmé’s gentle corrections stop them.
“Wait until everyone has their meals before you start your own, kids,” Padmé says.
“Yes, Mom,” they say in perfect unison.
Anakin places a steaming bowl of soup in front of Obi-Wan. He tries to slow the rapid beating of his heart.
Normal. This is normal. Be normal.
Obi-Wan lifts his spoon towards his mouth. He hesitates.
“What is it?” Anakin asks. “Do you not feel up to eating?”
Backpedal.
“I do, it’s just…” He fumbles for words, trying to think of anything that will get the negative attention off of him. “Anakin, the last time you made anything for me I was sicker than I was this afternoon.”
“I resent that. You were only in the Halls of Healing for two days.”
“Two awful, miserable days.”
“Shall I take a sip to prove it is not poisoned?” Padmé asks, mirth dancing in her eyes.
“That’s quite all right, Senator, I will take the risk on my own.”
Anakin scoffs even as Obi-Wan raises the spoon to his lips, bracing himself for an inedible experience.
He raises his eyebrows in surprise. The soup Anakin prepared is not only edible, it is delicious.
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says in disbelief. “You were a terrible cook. What happened?”
“I practiced!” Anakin says in defense.
“For how long ?” Obi-Wan asks incredulously. “Because this seems like it took a lot of practice.”
“Just shut up and eat. Your soup is getting cold.”
Obi-Wan shoots him a glare which Anakin returns with a mischievous grin and, for a moment, things feel as they should.
They feel as they once did.
After their meal, the children are promptly put to bed. Now, Obi-Wan sits across from Anakin and beside Padmé at the dinner table, a set of sabacc cards in each of their hands.
Obi-Wan’s particular hand is so good, he doesn’t even have to cheat to win — a fact further proven by the cards Anakin lays down.
In his free hand, Obi-Wan swirls his glass of wine before bringing it to his lips. The slight burn is a pleasant one and he feels its heat manifest upon his skin. A crimson flush splashes itself across Obi-Wan’s cheeks and the base of his neck — his skin made rosy. A slight buzz warms his body in a comfortable numbness — one he hopes will shake the disquiet in his mind.
This is good. This is normal.
Everything is fine.
The sun, long ago set, leaves the windows darkened, but the overhead light emits a warm yellow glow. The evening is intimate and warm. Soft laughter spills from wine drunk lips and everything is fine.
Looking at Padmé and Anakin in their shared happiness fills him with longing. Not necessarily for love — at least, not the romantic sort — but for connection. A connection he let slip away when Anakin left.
The cold ache of loneliness has settled so deep within his bones he has not even noticed its presence until he finds himself face-to-face with everything absent.
“ Obi-Wan ,” Anakin says, waving a palm in his face. “Naboo to Obi-Wan!”
Obi-Wan snaps to attention. “Um, yes, sorry, what is it?”
Anakin raises an eyebrow. “Your turn. Are you okay, old man?”
“Yes, of course. My thoughts just drifted away from me for a moment. Here,” Obi-Wan says, laying a card down on the board.
Anakin looks down at the card and then back up at Obi-Wan. “Why would you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Let me win.”
Obi-Wan looks down at the card he placed. “Ah. Seems I have let you win. Apologies Anakin, Padmé. I must be tired from the day.”
“Are you feeling alright?” Padmé asks. Her chair scrapes against the tile as she stands and places a hand on Obi-Wan’s forehead. Even he is surprised when he doesn’t pull away, instead choosing to embrace her gentle touch.
He forces down the melancholy with the curve of a smile.“Yes, I’m perfectly fine, Padmé. As I said, it was a long day.”
“That it was,” Padmé says, pulling away and sitting back in her chair. “The kids have a lot of energy.”
“I do wonder where they get it from,” Obi-Wan says, delivering a pointed look at Anakin.
“Are you implying that this is some sort of penance for my Padawanhood?”
“I imply nothing,” Obi-Wan says. “I’m stating it outright.”
“Well, it’s a penance I’m willing to pay,” Anakin says. He quiets. “Luke and Leia had a lot of fun today.”
“I’m glad. I enjoy spending time with them.”
“How long do you plan to stay with us, Obi-Wan?” Padmé asks.
“Only a few days more. Then, I’ll get out of your hair.”
Obi-Wan doesn’t miss the way Anakin’s face falls.
“That’s a shame,” Padmé says. “I wish you could stay for longer.”
“I wish it to,” Obi-Wan says with another swirl of his wine glass.
“You… you could stay for longer, you know?” Anakin says, an uncharacteristic shyness lilting his voice.
Obi-Wan blinks.
“I can’t stay. You know that Anakin.”
“Why not?” Anakin argues.
“What do you mean, why not? I have my responsibilities to the Order. My next mission, for starters.”
“Oh yeah? And what is that next mission?”
“It’s—”
Obi-Wan falters. His lips move to form words that never come.
“Well? What is it?”
He can’t remember what it is he has to go back to. He can’t remember if there is anything to go back to. Perhaps a few days more will shed clarity on his troubled mind.
Perhaps staying here longer is not such a bad idea.