Chapter Text
The citizens of Noa’al will stand with the Republic against the threat of the Separatists.
Obi-Wan can board his ship, padawan firmly in tow, and report to the Council that another planet in the Mid-Rim has signed a treaty committing themselves to the Republic. He knows at this very moment, across the galaxy, other Jedi are less lucky. The Separatist cause is spreading like a disease amongst planets, traveling the hyperspace lanes and trade routes like the most dangerous sort of illness.
The war has barely begun, Geonosis only three standard months gone, and already Obi-Wan feels as if he can hardly keep his head above water.
It was a successful mission. That should be the refrain echoing in his mind. It was a successful mission.
He has the sinking feeling that those will start to become rare occurrences, though this is something he’s kept to himself. No one needs to know his fears or his doubts, not when he sometimes catches them already reflected in Master Windu’s eyes, loudly present in Master Yoda’s silences.
It was a successful mission. It was a successful mission. It was a successful mission and I am going to kriffing kill my padawan and then he’s never going to be a Knight, how would he like that? I for one would enjoy—
Obi-Wan pinches the bridge of his nose as his padawan storms away from him and takes the pilot’s chair with a furious look in askance, as if daring Obi-Wan to protest.
He never should have taught him how to fly that thing.
Or, he supposes, he didn’t. Anakin came into his possession already knowing how to work a spacecraft, which makes Shmi Skywalker some sort of saint, obviously, even if she forgot to teach Anakin how to fly within the galactically agreed upon speed limit.
“Remember to angle her a touch to the left during take-off to compensate for the weaker engine,” he calls into the cockpit.
“I know, Obi-Wan,” his padawan bites back, and Obi-Wan only thinks about throttling him for a few moments before he takes himself into the kitchenette and away from the temptation.
Anakin thinks he should have been Knighted in the wake of Geonosis.
The council thinks Anakin should have been Knighted in the wake of Geonosis; the events of that day could serve as his trials, he’d proven himself to be level-headed and competent, he’d suffered the loss of his arm with solemn aplomb and in doing so showed his commitment to the Jedi way.
What was left unsaid, of course, is that the Jedi Council is facing a war that they have little to no idea how to win—or manage. Jedi Masters and Knights are being given command of battalions of soldiers.
What was left unsaid is that the second Anakin’s braid is severed, he will be given command of a battalion of his own, one that will probably be stationed halfway across the galaxy from Obi-Wan’s, one that he will fight with and eat with and laugh with and bleed with.
And Obi-Wan had taken one look at Anakin in their quarters, fiddling with the sensors of his new mechno arm, screwdriver hovering in the air before him, tongue sticking slightly out of his mouth in concentration and gleaming padawan braid resting against his shoulder, and told the Council where to shove their gentle suggestion.
He’d pulled up a written exam Anakin had failed when he was eighteen as proof that he had more to learn, that he wasn’t ready.
It wasn’t his proudest moment.
But by some miracle of the Force, it worked. The Council tabled the matter and Obi-Wan got to keep Anakin in his sight and safe.
Safe from everything save, of course, Obi-Wan himself, because ever since he found out that Obi-Wan had argued against his Knighthood, Anakin has been making a strong case for death by strangulation at Obi-Wan’s hands.
He can feel when the ship enters hyperspace, the sudden jolt of movement as they gain speed comforting in its familiarity. They’ve gone on so many missions together through the years that they have a routine. Now that the ship is set on its course, Anakin can flick it onto auto-pilot or entrust the route to his droid. This ceding of control would allow him to join Obi-Wan in the kitchenette area for a cup of tea, an informal debrief of their most recent mission, perhaps some light meditation or even lighter teasing.
It shouldn’t be a surprise that this time, he is left alone.
Anakin’s anger has always burnt white hot and painfully bright, but it’s never lasted so long. Not towards Obi-Wan. Perhaps he’s gotten too used to the surety of his padawan’s forgiveness—that must be the reason for the ache in his chest as he shuffles around the empty kitchenette, heating the water and pouring it over a strainer filled with tea leaves. It has been months since Geonosis, months since Anakin realized that his old master had argued against his Knighting.
Anakin had never been so cold for so long towards him, and a part of Obi-Wan thinks the boy will continue like this until he finally breaks and tells the Council to Knight him.
Obi-Wan has thought about it, of course. He has thought of little else in fact. He has wondered how far they can continue down this path before Anakin’s sense of betrayal crystallized from anger to resentment. He’d wanted—selfishly, in a way completely divorced from the Jedi way—to keep his padawan with him, but could he truly survive for long if his padawan hated him for it?
Was he even worthy of being Anakin’s master anymore? He’s surprised the Council has held their tongues for so long on this matter, especially given his recent actions and the—the unignorable attachment behind them.
But if he can keep Anakin safe, perhaps it doesn’t matter if the boy grows to hate him. Surely losing Anakin’s trust and affection is worth keeping him safe. And being willing to lose such an integral part of his life—Anakin’s companionship—really could be seen as following the Jedi principles of letting go of one’s attachments.
Really, perhaps Obi-Wan is being an exemplary Jedi in this situation. He can’t wait to tell Anakin—if, of course, the boy decides to ever speak with him in anything longer than clipped sentences ever again.
He rubs a hand over his face as he begins to bundle the thorny emotions into neat boxes to give to the Force. The war has barely begun, and already Obi-Wan feels half-swept out to sea and—
The drop out of hyperspace is unexpected and jarring.
One moment, he is upright and leaning against the counter, tea held loosely in his hands as he allows his mind to wander. The next, he is halfway across the kitchenette, drenched in scalding water and head ringing from sudden impact with a lower cabinet.
He sits up immediately, stumbling to his feet a second later, Anakin’s name already on his lips even as he blinks dark spots from his vision. A shaking hand pressed against his head comes away wet with blood, and he can feel his mental shields slip in surprise at the sight.
Master!
The cry comes from across their bond at the same moment it rings out physically across the ship. Obi-Wan is stumbling towards his padawan before he realizes his legs are moving.
Anakin finds him first.
There is something wild in his eyes, even as his movements are sure and steady. His hands grip Obi-Wan tightly, one hand cupping his shoulder as the other catches his chin and tilts his head up.
For a moment, Obi-Wan is struck speechless as Anakin’s eyes move back and forth between his.
He’s checking the dilation of his pupils. His fingers run the length of his arm to catch his wrist. Checking his pulse.
The hand on his chin forces his head sideways as Anakin examines the cut across his temple, before his fingers gently prod at its highest point. When Obi-Wan winces from the feeling, Anakin’s eyes darken as if he felt the pain himself.
Words elude him. Not because of the pain, the shock of it or the dull throb in his head.
Maybe it’s the head wound. Maybe he just needed something heavy and unmovable to knock some sense into him, because he blinks and looks at Anakin and is surprised to find that there is a Jedi Knight in front of him.
A Jedi Knight still wearing a padawan braid, yes, but a Jedi Knight nonetheless.
And—oh, a Jedi Knight of a man, with focused and piercing eyes as he examines Obi-Wan with firm and unwavering hands. Gentle hands and a proprietary Force signature blanketing Obi-Wan’s mind.
The tug in his gut at this realization is definitely because of the head injury. There is no other explanation for Obi-Wan looking at his padawan, at his boy, and feeling the low curl of arousal at the base of his spine.
It is a terrible time to be having such a—revelation—no, a delusion , so instead of thinking about it further, Obi-Wan bundles his erratic thoughts into one small corner of his mind and focuses on their current situation.
“What happened?”
“You were in the kitchenette, weren’t you?” Anakin asks as if Obi-Wan hadn’t spoken. The hold on his wrist tightens. “Standing, kark, Master—”
His tone is rather accusatory given that being in the kitchenette and standing are not technically crimes. But this is the first time in three months that Anakin has called him Master. The use of the title stills his tongue.
The use of the title so immediately after Obi-Wan’s momentary perversions stills his tongue and curtails any annoyance he could possibly muster.
This thought is tucked very quickly into the same corner as the other ones.
“What happened?” He asks again, more firmly. “We were in hyperspace—not nearly long enough to—”
“I don’t know,” Anakin admits with a heavy frown, fingers falling away from his head and wrist. He gives him one last look, eyes lingering on the side of his head, before he spins on his heel, marching back to the cockpit of their ship. “I didn’t touch anything. It’s like we were—pulled.”
Obi-Wan frowns at Anakin’s back and follows. Artoo beeps in recognition and hello as he enters the cockpit, spinning his head around as he slides away from the ship’s controls now that Anakin is back.
Anakin throws Obi-Wan a packet of bacta. “Should close quickly,” he says, gesturing loosely to his own head. “Let me know if you need any help.”
“I’m fine,” he replies automatically, even though his head has started to ache terribly and he’d need to go to the fresher to have any sort of hope of actually properly tending to the wound. “It’s a minor cut.”
He’d rather bleed out from a minor head wound and die in this co-pilot chair than ask Anakin to touch him again. Not when the boy seems to think proper medical care involves cradling his patient’s face.
And not when his patient is liable to enjoy it a tad too much to be…proper. To be forgivable.
Force, Obi-Wan wishes the blow had done him the mercy of knocking him unconscious, instead of whatever it did to his mind.
“Shields are down,” Anakin says heavily, eyes latched onto the ship’s navigation system.
They’re in comms-range of a planet.
Obi-Wan sits up, a current of unease zipping down his spine. “Our shields were affected by whatever took us out of hyperspace?”
“No,” his padawan looks at him, eyes unreadable but voice low. “Your shields are down, Obi-Wan. I can feel your…pain.”
Oh.
Kriff.
He jerks up to his feet, hand curling so tightly around the packet of bacta that he’s surprised it doesn’t burst open. “I’ll—tend to my. I’ll—”
It’s possibly the least graceful exit he’s ever made in his life, and at one point when he was a padawan, all three of the people he’d been sleeping with at the time ended up in the same diner, at the same table, unaware of what—and who—they had in common.
“Yes,” Anakin allows and looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “I think we should fly past this planet, it doesn’t feel right. In the Force.”
“Too much of a coincidence,” Obi-Wan agrees slowly, curiosity and a strange sense of foreboding knocking any other emotion from his mind as he steps closer to peer at the nav screen. “No, we shouldn’t land on a planet so conveniently close to where we dropped when we don’t know why we were torn from our flight path in the first place.”
“That’s what I meant,” Anakin bites out, turning fully to glare at him. “Master.”
It would be kinder if he’d taken his lightsaber to his chest honestly, but Anakin’s anger is like a bonfire: it spreads and it burns and it takes no prisoners.
Obi-Wan retreats to the fresher, tactful and temporary surrender. Once alone, he spends several moments reinforcing his shields, trying to not think of what Anakin had felt across the bond.
The blood on his face has dried, so he sets about cleaning himself up before he even touches the bacta packet, dabbing at the tender skin carefully as he studiously avoids eye contact with his reflection.
The truth of the matter—the very, very shameful truth—is that this is hardly the first time he’s felt that emotion around his padawan, though it is the first time he’s been stunned enough to allow himself to name it.
As much as a part of him may always think of his padawan as the child who came into his care ten years ago, he has not been able to remain blind to how much and how suddenly Anakin Skywalker has grown into a man. A man who cared fiercely for his friends, who was kind and good-hearted, who tapped his fingers on the nearest hard surface when he was bored or when h was nervous, who smirked before he even got to the punchline of his joke, who—who—
Who Obi-Wan saw more as a partner than a padawan these days.
Three years ago, Obi-Wan would never have left the cockpit to clean his wounds. He never would have trusted his young padawan to find a planet for them to land on, would never want to burden him with that decision. As the master, those are judgement calls Obi-Wan should make.
But he allowed Anakin to take the controls without a second’s pause, and the reason is because. The reason is because. The reason is—
His eyes catch and hold onto his reflection, bacta half-smeared over his cut, red staining his skin. It could have just as easily been Anakin in the kitchenette, standing alone. Anakin standing in the cockpit, only to be thrown sideways into a gearshift. Who would run to him? Who would care for his wounds the way Obi-Wan would, should they be separated?
He thinks longer. Anakin, dazed from a blow to the temple. Anakin, unmoving on the floor of his ship. Anakin, unmoving on the floor of the cave, breath so faint he could not feel it through the fabric of his trousers though they were close enough to be touching.
Anakin, without Obi-Wan beside him. Hurt for it. Hurt because of it.
No. There is no reason beyond light head trauma that Obi-Wan is here in the fresher and Anakin is in the cockpit, navigating the situation they’ve found themselves in.
Not even in the privacy of his own mind can he admit to anything else, and the reason is because admitting to himself that Anakin is ready to be Knighted would be the first step towards losing him, and he is not ready for a reality where more of his padawan’s blood is spilled without Obi-Wan there to toss him the bacta if he can’t take the blow himself.
Anakin is not ready to be Knighted.
Obi-Wan nods to himself once in the mirror as he places a bandage over the cut. There’ll be a bit of a bruise, but it should heal relatively fast.
Good.
He has a bad feeling that wherever they choose to land, they won’t want to stand out, and a bruised face is just asking for trouble. It's just proof that you've already been hurt once.
That you're capable of bleeding again.
“It’s a secondary moon of Veiol II,” Anakin tells him when he returns to the cockpit. His eyes are unreadable and his tone is blank. Obi-Wan isn’t sure this is better than the sullen anger he’s gotten used to over the past few months, the protective anger he’d seen in Anakin’s eyes when he first saw his injury, or the dark anger from before.
Your shields are down.
Obi-Wan cannot think of this right now.
“On the wrong side of the main planet, with their first moon in the way to block any sort of tracker or signal someone may have gotten on the ship.”
“But it would also make any transmission outward from us almost impossible,” Obi-Wan points out. “Between the moon on one side and that asteroid belt on the other.”
“I just need to get the ship stationary and powered down so I can check the outsides,” Anakin says. “The first thing I did when we were pulled out of hyperspace was try to put us back in, but the ship refused the calculations.”
Obi-Wan opens his mouth to ask if the calculations had been right and then snaps it shut. Then he furrows his eyebrows, opens his mouth again for a moment before shutting it. This time, he’d been about to say that there was no way Anakin would have been able to meet him in the ship’s corridor so soon after his injury if he’d done anything but get up and run towards him.
It’s probably not the wisest thing to point out right now.
“Alright,” he says instead. “Let’s land. But we need to proceed with caution here—who knows what sort of sentients are attracted to deadzone outposts like this one?”
The Force flexs between them, almost like it’s giggling.
It’s not the most auspicious beginning.
Something is off and it’s obvious as soon as they land. The shipyard Anakin guides them to is scarcely populated and borders a town that’s seen better years.
What’s off is how the Force feels in the air around them: heavy and dark, a blanket made of dense metal cloaking their shoulders so insistently that Obi-Wan feels himself start to droop forward before he forces his back straight.
What’s off is the man in scuffed up, but obviously uniformly provided white armor stalking between ships, strange and formidable blaster clutched in his hands. As Anakin sets the ship down, the soldier turns towards them with purpose.
What’s off is the painted advertisement taking up half the thrown-together boards of the shipyards’ west-facing wall. Compliance Is The Support The Empire Desires From You.
Someone has vandalized the sign, crossed out sires and written in red: MANDS.
To the left of the words, the same painter has drawn a symbol Obi-Wan isn’t quite sure he recognizes even though something about it looks unsettlingly familiar.
It’s not an advertisement.
“An empire,” he murmurs, and Anakin tears his eyes away from the shipyard to focus on the—the propaganda. “I haven’t heard anything…an empire? In the Mid-Rim?”
Anakin’s frown darkens. “That’s not the Separatist sigil,” he says. “And it’s definitely not the Republic’s. It—” he cuts himself off with a shrug. “If anything, looks a bit like a crude attempt at the Jedi Order’s insignia.”
Obi-Wan squints at it. He supposes it does. “It’s…wrong,” he swallows and tears his eyes away to glance at his padawan. The indents of the wings of the bird silhouette are more shallow, the saber in the middle gone completely and in its place a stout bird’s head.
Anakin is already looking at him, face serious. “Master,” he says, “I don’t recognize any of the ships in this yard.”
That’s—that’s worse than off. That doesn’t make sense. Anakin is able to rattle off the specs of any given ship he gets within twenty feet of. He could tell Obi-Wan—and has told him many, many times—the precise layout of a cockpit just by catching a glimpse of a starship’s gleaming side paneling.
If Anakin Skywalker does not recognize a single ship in this yard, then their situation has just rocketed from worrisome to frightening.
Before Obi-Wan can question him further, ask if he’s sure, ask what Anakin thinks it may mean, there’s a loud banging on the front of the ship.
The soldier. The guard?
“Stay here,” Obi-Wan commands, standing from his seat at the same time that Anakin leaps from his own.
“Obi-Wan!”
“Do not argue with me on this, padawan,” he says, though he’s not quite sure why he’s even bothering. Anakin will argue with him if he wants to, regardless of what Obi-Wan demands of him.
Sure enough, the boy follows him out into the ship’s main corridor. “I’ll argue with you if your orders don’t make sense, Master,” he snarls, and Obi-Wan bites back the first seven things that spring to mind based on his padawan’s tone alone.
“That’s right, I’m your master, which means I am the one who decides to—”
“Unidentified vessel, drop this ramp for boarding and inspection,” the voice of the guard—the soldier?—calls from outside, followed by a series of bangs against the durasteel.
Obi-Wan levels Anakin with his fiercest glare, the one that has always gotten him the boy’s obedience in the past. Even now, Anakin scowls just as fiercely before dipping out of sight, Force presence unwinding from Obi-Wan’s in its anger and leaving him feeling strangely…bereft.
He pushes the feeling aside, back to its brothers and sisters, and focuses all his attention on the armed guard who jumps aboard their ship as soon as the ramp is halfway to opened. His blaster is already raised partially, hand in position around what must be the trigger though the whole machine looks…strange.
Obi-Wan is starting to think he may need to get used to that.
“Hello there,” he says politely, thankful that he had never quite managed to take off his traveling cloak and now its bulk covers the line of his weapon, also by some miracle still clipped to his belt.
“Identifications,” the man snaps, jutting his head out. “You are unauthorized to land on Galactic Imperial property. They should have shot you down on your way into airspace.” He sounds like he’s sneering.
He does not sound very polite.
Obi-Wan bites his tongue around the desire to point out that from the state of this outpost from the landing view, he’d be surprised if they had the capacity to shoot down a porg.
The most immediate question is what galactic empire does this soldier belong to?
He’s about to go as far as to say that this is their most pressing problem as well—the main tree trunk from which all other problems they will surely encounter will branch out from—before the soldier’s helmeted face focuses on something just behind Obi-Wan’s shoulder and to the right.
“Jedi!” The soldier yells, and that’s fear in his voice. Genuine fear, which freezes Obi-Wan where he stands. He cannot think of a single civilization in the galaxy that would have cause to fear the Jedi—he cannot think—
The soldier’s blaster raises, quick as a flash, and it isn’t pointed at him. It isn’t pointed at Obi-Wan—everyone knows fearful men do the most dangerous sort of things—and the blaster isn't pointed at Obi-Wan---
His hand is suddenly up, using the Force to grab hold of the blaster and keep it in place, to grab hold of the soldier’s finger itself and keep it frozen a milimeter away from the trigger. Then, his whole body when it doesn’t yet feel safe enough.
The soldier is caged. Obi-Wan’s hand trembles from the effort of it, his head pounding.
Heart somewhere between his chest and his mouth, he turns just slightly to look at his padawan. Anakin has stuck his head out from behind the corner of the corridor, padawan braid dangling into the air as he stares insolently at the scene before him.
Obi-Wan has half a mind to let the soldier shoot him, now that he can think without the fear shrouding his mind.
Blasters.
So uncivilized.
He calls upon the Force again, feels it well up into the fingertips of his lax hand as he waves it in front of the soldier’s face. “You will drop your weapon,” he murmurs, imbuing each of the words with command. “Without discharging it.”
“I will drop my weapon without discharging it.”
“You will leave our vessel thinking that we are—-” he hesitates.
Anakin coughs from behind him, much closer than he was only a few seconds ago. “Womprat traders.”
“Womprat trainers,” Obi-Wan says dubiously.
“Traders,” Anakin corrects, sounding long-suffering. “Like. Pelts and stuff.”
Obi-Wan agrees, though he’s not quite sure he knows what a womprat is and he has questions about how big the market for their pelts can possibly be. “We are womprat traders. We have shown you the papers, given you our due sum, and you do not see the need to bother us any longer.”
The soldier repeats the instructions back blandly before turning to go, blaster forgotten on the floor of their cargo hold.
“Wait!” Anakin says, pushing past Obi-Wan, own hand raising and catching the soldier’s attention before he can fully shake off the remnants of the mind trick. Obi-Wan can feel the Force rise up between them and rush across the distance to the soldier as Anakin demands, “Take off your helmet.”
Obi-Wan is surprised that the man doesn’t throw the helmet off his head trying to force himself to comply with his command. His stomach thrashes uneasily at the direct and rough application of a mind trick on a non-Force sensitive sentient. After all, Anakin didn’t so much as slip through the door into their mind as he did tear apart their defenses.
But then the helmet has fallen to the ground and the man is standing before them, eyes dull and knees shaking with the attempt at keeping himself upright.
He’s a clone.
“I knew it,” Anakin murmurs, and Obi-Wan turns his shocked gaze to him. “The accent,” he says when their eyes catch.
There are so many thoughts racing through his head—fragments of sentences and emotions that he cannot fully translate into coherence: galactic empire clone troopers fearing Jedi shooting Jedi shooting Anakin desires your compliance demands your compliance Jedi empire enemy
Anakin is standing quite close.
Anakin smells quite…good.
Anakin drops his hand, eyes heavy and unmoving as they hold onto Obi-Wan’s.
The clone drops to his knees, and the sound of the thump startles Obi-Wan back into his body.
Kriffing damn head injury.
“You will stay here,” Obi-Wan commands.
Unlike the clone soldier, who they’d fixed up and sent on his way half an hour ago, Anakin does not go slack and obedient at the words. In fact, he tenses further, rearing up as if trying to use every inch of his recent growth spurt to his advantage.
“We don’t know what’s out there!” his padawan argues, gesturing out of the kitchenette down the corridor to the door’s now-closed ramp. “Two pairs of eyes are better than one, Obi-Wan!”
Logically, Obi-Wan understands this. He knows that his padawan has a point and that he will be an asset on this reconnaissance mission, observant as he’s proven to be.
But Anakin gestured with the wrong arm just now, and the flash of gold and black—the scream of pain and the smell of burning meat—has Obi-Wan shaking his head so that his hands can remain relatively still.
“I will go into the outpost’s towns by myself for information—”
“M—”
“You will stay here and focus on the ship! I do not need another pair of eyes. I do not need your company on this mi—”
“Then why am I still here?” Anakin yells, and the Force around him twists wildly and surges forward. The tea kettle on the small burner stove goes flying into the durasteel wall hard enough to dent them both. “If you do not want me to stand at your side, why do you insist on keeping me—bound and tethered to you, Master?”
“Padawan, calm yourself!” Obi-Wan shouts just as loudly, frantic energy forcing his voice into volumes he’s tried to never take with his padawan.
“No! No, I won’t! You cannot expect me to stay behind in a situation that would be a thousand times more effective and more productive if I were by your side! I am a senior padawan— your senior padawan, so use me as I have been trained by you to be used!” Anakin’s chest rises and falls with his every breath. His eyes are wet and dark and they pin Obi-Wan where he stands.
“Padawan—”
“Do not tell me to prioritize the ship! The ship is fine. We can’t enter hyperspace currently, but it is not as if she cannot carry us to another part of this moon or the planet should anything go wrong! The second we learned of the clone, the empire, our priorities shifted! You cannot attempt to tell me that they did not!”
Obi-wan works his jaw in silence.
Perhaps Shmi Skywalker taught Anakin how to fly, but it was Obi-Wan who taught him how to argue so effectively, thus laying a trap of his own creation.
The truth, of course, is that Anakin is not wrong, and it rankles.
If it were anyone else, if it were Anakin at the age of seventeen even, Obi-Wan would not hesitate to agree that it makes sense for both of them to go into the outpost and look around, separate or together. If it were Quinlan as his partner, it wouldn’t even be up for question. One would go to the cantina, the other linger around whatever passed for a town square or city market. Two pairs of eyes are better than one, and four ears to the ground are better than two.
Anakin isn’t wrong.
But he—he doesn’t seem to understand—Obi-Wan himself doesn’t truly understand his reluctance, except that it comes from some primal part of him that aches to tuck Anakin into someplace tight and small and warm and keep him there instead of allowing him to venture out and away and into danger.
But they’re both currently in danger, or at least, a situation that could become so at any second. And Obi-Wan is confident in Anakin’s skills, in his training, in his competence. He would be Obi-Wan’s chosen partner any day. Except he can't—except he must--
Attuned to the face he makes when he’s giving into Anakin’s demands, his padawan turns sweet instead of spiteful and moves across the kitchenette to grasp at his shoulders. “Master,” he murmurs, so very saccharine and respectful now. “You told me once that you needed me, you needed me with you when we faced Dooku.”
And how did that turn out? Obi-Wan wants to point out, but Anakin’s hand catches his jaw and stills his tongue.
“You still need me,” Anakin says this confidently, like he’s reading the holo news or a passage from one of the oldest records in the Archives: a conclusion already reached that he’s only giving voice to. “So I’m still going to be with you. Kriff the ship.”
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan casts his gaze aside, unable to hold eye contact. He is being a terrible excuse for a Jedi master. He is a terrible Jedi full-stop. “The soldier recognized you by your padawan braid alone, it’s not—”
“I’ll hide it,” Anakin replies, standing back so he can fiddle with the end of the braid. “I mean, it’s easy to pin up, yeah? Done it before for, uh—for races.”
“Of course,” Obi-Wan says, fighting to make the word as dry as possible.
“And when we go to the lower levels,” Anakin adds, eyes catching Obi-Wan’s and demanding their attention. “It’s a padawan thing. For…nights out.”
Obi-Wan remembers. There are quite a few people on Coruscant that love fucking a Jedi because of their title. But there are others who are…less than enthused to see a padawan’s learner braid resting on their shoulder. Either way, most padawans tuck their braids away when they sneak off to go dancing, prowling, fucking. No one wants to sleep with a–what did Chun call them once? A saber slut? And no one wants to endure angry conversations about the Order after only a few drinks.
It’s easier to simply hide the braid, and against his permission, his lips twist up into a smirk. “Trust me, padawan. I remember.”
Anakin, to his surprise, lets out a scoff. “Really, master? Only, I’m talking about hiding my braid so the girl I picked up outside The Outlander doesn’t yank on it when I’m–you know.” The boy blushes scarlet, but continues valiantly. “In her.”
Perhaps he thinks crude language and detailed accounts of his sexual exploits will make Obi-Wan understand just how ready he is for his Knighting.
Instead of offering to sever his padawan learner’s braid right then and there, Obi-Wan pastes on a demur smile. “You seek to avoid the sensation? I recall it being one of my favorites during my own padawan years.”
This admission causes Anakin to flush and stumble back slightly, eyes boring into his own as if he cannot understand what he’s seeing. “That’s—I’ve never seen you ever—” he frowns, like the very thought of Obi-Wan in a sexual situation is deeply unpleasant. “You never told me.”
The boy sounds accusing, and Obi-Wan cannot help the incredulous, uncomfortable laughter that bubbles up inside of him. How in the galaxy they got onto this topic, when Obi-Wan’s thoughts are still proving to be treacherous and Anakin’s shoulders are still broad and firm under the lines of his cloak and his hands are still wide and rough—-
Obi-Wan shakes his head once to dispel those observations and again to collect himself and focus on the task at hand.
“Anakin, you are my padawan learner, it would be incredibly inappropriate to confide in you about my…sexual history, given our rela—”
“But you just did. And I’m still your padawan,” Anakin points out.
Yes, Obi-Wan wants to bite out, but unfortunately sometimes I look at you and forget that we are not peers.
This is not the thing to say right now, nor is it the time to think of such things.
Instead, he pinches the bridge of his nose and takes several deep breaths. “Would you rather stand and talk through an alphabetical list of my sexual history or come with me into the outpost’s walls?”
Anakin opens his mouth and then closes it, consideringly.
Obi-Wan understands the hesitation quite well. If it were his choice, he’s not sure which he’d rather Anakin pick either.
Obi-Wan signals to the bartender as soon as he sits down, a little to the left of perfectly in the middle of the bartop. He feels exhausted down to his bones.
Not only that, but Anakin had left him at the doors to the cantina, touching his shoulder once more before setting off on a meandering route towards the market.
It had been a joint decision in the end: Anakin had pointed out that it would be best if they scoured for information in different locations so as to not raise suspicions, and Obi-Wan had taken one look at the man’s hair, intricately curled and tied to hide both the tail and braid of the traditional padawan cut, accidentally thought So this is what he looks like when he goes looking for someone to bed, and decided quite immediately that some time apart would be most prudent.
And so he’s alone as he enters the cantina, alone as he sits down at the bar, alone as he signals to the bartender, and alone when the Zeltron approaches him.
“Credits first,” the bartender says gruffly, palm spread open and waiting.
Blast.
Obi-Wan has credits, of course, but what if they’re the wrong kind? Who knows what sort of credits this empire demands?
The place is too quiet for a mind trick to work, though he can’t just sit in a cantina empty-handed.
“Come now,” he cajoles. “A drink first, a tab open…then the credits. This is the way, surely.”
“Hah,” says the Zeltron. “No.”
“Please,” he says, changing strategies and ducking his head and widening his eyes. A lock of hair falls into his face and he tucks it behind his ear impatiently. “My ship’s unloading now, partner’s in the market to sell the goods. He’ll meet me here with credits enough for a gungan’s tab. Just starting a little early, that’s all.”
The Zeltron doesn’t look amused or swayed. “I said—”
“Give the man a drink, Brinn,” a newcomer says, arm sliding onto the bartop a little too close to Obi-Wan’s. “He’s good for it, look at that face.”
The stranger’s voice is deep and slow. It sounds as if he’s smirking through the words.
“No credits, no drink,” the bartender Brinn remains unmoved. “Take your pretty face elsewhere if you’re not good for your credits here.”
Obi-Wan inhales sharply. He could try the credits he has in his pocket, but after this little scene, they’d be scrutinized for fakes.
Or he could collect his losses and follow their Force bond back to Anakin’s side. Perhaps this is the universe telling him that he’s no good on his own, that he works best with Anakin beside him.
Maybe he’s just an idiot who walked into a cantina without remembering he may not carry the proper currency for…wherever they ended up.
He tilts his chin up defiantly even as he turns to leave. His old master had always said his pride was his biggest failing.
The stranger’s hand moves quickly, falling onto his arm and holding it fast. “Drink’s on me,” he tells Brinn. “Because I have a soul.”
Brinn grunts out a snort of disbelief. “You have a type," he corrects, but pours out a half cup of eerily blue liquid and passes it to Obi-Wan. Credits are exchanged from the stranger to the Zeltron, the motion practiced and easy, and suddenly Brinn is on the other end of the bar, and Obi-Wan is left alone again. Bar this stranger.
This stranger, who has not yet removed his hand from his arm. In fact, his fingers are running over the material of his cloak with feathery-like touches, before he begins to tap at him in a rather rapid-fire way, fingers falling against him in a steady drumbeat of pinkie, ring, middle, fore, pinkie, ring, middle, fore.
So it’ll be that sort of information gathering mission. The kind that relies heavily upon Obi-Wan’s negotiation skills and even more heavily upon how often he can lick his lips and run his hands over his conversation partner’s thigh before they either demand he take them to bed or tell him what he wants to know.
The kind that almost always end with an empty promise of a night together.
Mentally, he prepares himself for that sort of mission, letting his head fall forward slightly and his legs fall open. He turns to appraise him, words already leaving his lips as he looks up at him from beneath his eyelashes. “Thank you, stranger.”
“It’s Set, actually,” the man replies. “Set Starkiller.”
The roguish grin following the declaration makes a good attempt at stealing Obi-Wan’s breath away.
“Ah—” he says. “Ben.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Ben,” Set says, curling his tongue around each letter of the word as if prodding it for holes. His eyes are dancing with some sort of mirth, as if he’s taking undue pleasure from the fact that they are sitting together at this bar both lying to the other about who they are.
The man’s face is strong and square, eyebrows heavy and prominent, skin marked with tiny scars and the occasional freckle. His eyes are crinkled up from the force of his amusement, and wrinkles burst out from their corners. Lines grace the edges of his full lips as well, framing them and drawing Obi-Wan’s attention to his open mouth, the hint of pink tongue.
His hair is rough and close to his scalp on one side of his head, exposing a line of piercings up the skin of his left ear, but it’s long enough to carry a hint of curl on the top and hang over his right ear on the other.
Set Starkiller is immensely beautiful, and he moves with all the confidence of an apex predator who knows exactly what he wants and exactly how to get it.
Obi-Wan’s chest tightens with the strangest sense of familiarity as the man in front of him gives him a crooked smile and presses down on his arm, inclining his head towards the drink in Obi-Wan’s hand.
“What’s the occasion, Ben?”
Obi-Wan allows his own lips to curl up into an answering smile, taking a sip of the drink. “Oh,” he says, “another happy landing, I suppose.”
Set arches an eyebrow. There’s a slice of his left that’s missing, due most probably to the scar that cuts through it all the way down to the crest of his cheekbone.
Obi-Wan has the sudden and rather inappropriate yet unignorable desire to trace that mark with his tongue.
He takes a larger sip instead. “What is your type, then?” He asks after he swallows, letting his tongue lick at his wet lip to collect all of the drink’s citrus-like taste.
Set follows the motion with dark, heavy eyes. It reminds him suddenly of the way Anakin looks at him sometimes, like all of his attention is focused entirely on Obi-Wan, so intense that it makes his lungs feel tighter as if his focus were a physical weight pressing against his chest.
Obi-Wan barely resists the urge to shake his head, as if that would help him clear it of those thoughts. He cannot look at Set and think of Anakin—it feels ruinous to do so. Despicable and shameful to lay memories of his padawan over the face of a man who wants so obviously to bed him.
No, Anakin does not belong anywhere near this conversation. This…transaction.
Not when the air feels electric between Set and Obi-Wan, every inch of space between their bodies crackling with pure energy. The Force seems to twist around them, pulsing with intent and promise: the air before a desert storm.
Perhaps this is exactly what Obi-Wan needs in order to permanently banish those troublesome thoughts of his padawan completely from his mind.
He needs release from his own head, his own sticky emotions.
What better way than to slip into the skin of Ben? What better way than to slip between the sheets of Set’s bed?
It’s practically scientifically proven that men are more willing to talk after the act of sex. Fucking Set would create an artificial sense of closeness between them. Obi-Wan could ask as many questions as he wants if he’s been on his knees for the man.
“My type?” Set repeats, stealing Obi-Wan’s drink from his lax hands as if he has any sort of claim to it. “My type is pretty liars. What’s yours?”
Obi-Wan doesn’t even try to stop himself from watching the bob of Set’s throat as he takes half of the remaining liquid in one long swallow.
“Loose-lipped scoundrels,” Obi-Wan offers, more breathlessly than he’d meant to.
Set sets the glass onto the bartop and gives him another charming, crooked smirk. “Then why don’t you finish this drink here, Ben, and I’ll take you back to my ship and show you just how loose-lipped I can be?”
When he slides the glass back into Obi-Wan’s space, he takes it without a thought. Before Set can pull away, Obi-Wan captures his hand and, biting his lip as if his own daring is making him nervous, brings it to rest on his inner thigh.
Set’s roguish grin becomes downright predatory.
It feels good if Obi-Wan is being honest.
It feels good to be desired so obviously, so carnally.
It feels good to be slammed up against the durasteel wall of Set’s ship, right next to his unmade cot.
It feels good to press into the man’s hands, attack his lips with the same amount of ferocity he’s found himself on the receiving end of.
In fact, it feels more than good.
Set’s hands running over him, shucking his cloak from his shoulders, and tearing at the clasp of his belt makes his spine feel as though it’s melting. When he tips his head back and moans at the sensation of Set’s teeth on his collarbone, he can feel the grin the man presses into his skin.
“Knew you’d sound so pretty and desperate,” Set mutters, forcing his hands through the part of his robes to run over the lines of his chest. “You aching for me yet, sweetheart?” His hand cups the bulge in the front of Obi-Wan’s trousers and massages over it slowly.
He’s a bit of an asshole, actually, but Obi-Wan isn’t surprised nor is he necessarily put-out.
Instead, he pushes the line of his cock further into Starkiller’s palm, spreading his legs slightly so he can get more friction–more pressure–more–
“Someone’s not taking care of you, Ben,” Set murmurs, dragging his mouth up the side of his neck and nipping at his ear. “Doesn’t your partner know you’re a needy thing?”
Talking about Anakin, even in vague terms, is perhaps the last thing in the whole galaxy that Obi-Wan wants to do right now.
He directs them blindly to the bed instead, using Set’s momentary surprise to push him down onto the cot and straddle his waist. His arms cross behind the man’s neck, and he can’t resist the urge to tug at the longer parts of Set’s hair experimentally. It’s incredibly gratifying to see Set’s pupils expand until his eyes are barely blue at all. “Then give me what you think I need,” he mutters into his mouth, grinding down on the man’s lap and relishing in the groan he gets in return. Set’s hands fly to his hips and grip him so hard through his clothes that he may just have bruises there in the morning.
“Yeah, baby,” Set mutters, fighting once more with Obi-Wan’s clothes even as Obi-Wan successfully gets his loose blue shirt over his head, leaving him deliciously bare-chested. “I’ll give you—”
“Obi-Wan!” Anakin’s voice bursts through the silence of the ship, and Obi-Wan flies up and off of Set instinctively, moving towards the door without another thought. It's a completely instinctual response to the panic in his padawan's voice, even as furious and fearful and confused questions run through his head.
Anakin? What in all twelve layers of Sith’s hell is Anakin doing here? Here, on Set’s starship?
“Obi-Wan, we have to go!” Anakin yells again, and his voice is getting further away, like he's torn through the corridor closest to Set's room and is moving inward. Or, upward. To the cockpit.
“Obi-Wan, huh?” Set murmurs and it’s only then that Obi-Wan realizes the man has left the bed and encircled his waist in one strong arm. It's not an affectionate touch.
The ship lurches into movement beneath their feet, and Obi-Wan can feel the way Starkiller’s emotions go from probing, wary curiosity to burning rage within the blink of an eye.
“That your partner, baby?” The man asks, but it isn’t a question. “You hijacking my ship?”
“Seems a bit stupid to do so when you’re onboard as well,” Obi-Wan points out, holding incredibly still. He’d taken off his lightsaber and dropped it by the door next to his boots so that Set would not see it.
And now he’s weaponless.
And Set is not, if the sudden cool press of a blaster tip under his chin is any indication.
“Well, I never said I thought you were smart, sweetheart,” Set says. “Just pretty.”
The ship jolts again.
Anakin has switched to using their mental bond, which means his attention must be split equally between flying and his story. Obi-Wan’s mind is bombarded with sentence fragments and hazy pictures as his padawan pushes the ship into full-flight, the floor beneath him lurching him forward as the ship enters hyperspace with a whine of its engines. Unprepared for the sudden movement, Obi-Wan flies out of Set's hold and into the durasteel edge of the doorway, head connecting against it in a bright starbust of pain.
Set is quick to catch him back against his naked chest, though he feels dazedly confident that this isn't out of the goodness of his heart.
And truthfully, through the ringing in his ears and the starburst pain in his head, he finds it frankly annoying that Set did not stumble once.
Anakin must not have felt his pain. His mind is practically enveloping their bond, but he's too swept up in the adrenaline of his own time in the outpost to realize that Obi-Wan is wounded. Held hostage.
At least fully dressed though.
He’d been in the market, Anakin had. And then—he’d been made as a Jedi, though the memories rush and feel fuzzy here, as if even Anakin does not care to think of how this discovery had been made. He’d been chased and lost his pursuers, but saw too many soldiers surrounding their ship to head back. The blaster they'd left in the cargo bay. Tracker inside? Anakin thinks it had a tracker. Should have made the clone take it. Should have hidden it far away. Anyway. Anyway. He’d followed their bond to this ship, though he’d only gotten halfway there before he’d felt the sensation of eyes on him again. He’d run the rest of the way, stopped to check that Obi-Wan’s Force presence was well and truly inside the ship, and taken it.
He felt bad for the thievery, Anakin did. But he could not risk his life because of guilt. He could not risk his mas—
The walls around Anakin’s mind slam shut once more, storytime effectively over. Obi-Wan feels dizzy from the speed of the images, the words, the emotions, the access into Anakin’s mind, but it is nothing compared to how nauseous he feels when all of it is once more taken away.
Thankfully, he can blame this on the newest head injury.
“For someone who has just been on the wrong end of a ship-jacking,” Obi-Wan says, though his words come out slurred and slow, “you’re quite put together.”
Set tightens his hold on him, blaster digging more insistently into his skin. “Never had a partner before,” he says, voice sounding too rough and too loud in the ear he had been nibbling just a second ago, “not my thing. But I know how they’re supposed to operate, partners. I figure he’s got my ship, sure, but I’ve got you, yeah? And you make a lovely little bargaining chip, my pretty liar.”
Obi-Wan makes a weak noise of disagreement, a huff swallowed by a scoff. His vision is fading. He must have hit his head harder than he realized. It had been in the same spot. He can feel the trickle of moisture down his temple. Blood. He’s bleeding again.
At least it’s not Anakin’s blood.
“He’s not going to give up a ship for me,” he mutters, closing his eyes when his field of vision rushes forward and then back out suddenly. “Obviously, you don’t know Anakin Sk’walker. 's mad at me.”
The hold on his waist tightens, pressure of the blaster increasing enough that Obi-Wan lets out the smallest of gasps from the sensation.
“How do you know that name?” Set demands, but if he wants an answer then he should have caught Obi-Wan before he fell against the doorway.
It’s really all Set’s fault, if one thinks about it.
He’s sure Anakin will agree. It will be the first thing he asks him once he's awake.