Archive of Our Own ^beta

Date: February 11, 1812 (morning)

Location: Field Hospital, outskirts of Ciudad Rodrigo, Spain

Weather: Rainy and cold. 

It is the third day of misery piled upon misery, but at last, there is a break in the droves. The battle is, for the time being, over. Both sides have withdrawn to lick their wounds, and no clear victor has been decided, though I am certain both camps will claim triumph. Such is not my concern; as the regimental surgeon of His Majesty's 43rd Foot, my duty is to tend to the injured with whatever means are at my disposal.

Those means have been increasingly diminished as of late. I lost one of my assistants this month, whose mind snapped under the relentless pressure. It is a damned thing that our task is to save men only to have them sent out again to be cut to further pieces.

Grimness aside, there is one piece of news that I…

Anakin has arrived with his regiment. He is here, in the flesh, tall and sturdy, no longer that mischievous child I left behind. He is still full of youth, as his letters to me have implied, even though he, too, has now faced the brutality of this war.

God forgive me for being glad to see him when I should wish him to still be at home, married and settled, a babe on the way.

Dr. Obi-Wan Kenobi

Regimental Surgeon 

His Majesty's 43rd Foot

Obi-Wan is savoring a fine cheroot when the first cry pierces the air, causing his head to abruptly turn towards the open doorway and squint into the shadows that lay beyond it, tense as a hare.

A log in the ancient hearth pops. Obi-Wan is already extinguishing the cheroot when the second cry, soft as a kitten’s mewl, reaches his ears. 

His bones creak in protest, as do the floorboards beneath his bare feet as he slips into the cottage’s singular bedroom. It’s darker and cooler inside with no hearth to provide either light or heat, and maybe that’s why Anakin is having another nightmare after two weeks without one. Or maybe it was the way Obi-Wan held onto his wrist while helping him disrobe, indulging in the irrefutable proof of life that was Anakin’s heartbeat under the press of his thumb.

There is no way to know. Obi-Wan is merely a doctor—and at times like this, with pale moonlight spilling through the window onto Anakin’s anguished face, he’s both less and more than that, a wretched creature in love.

The floorboards don’t creak as much in the bedroom, so Obi-Wan hums a melody as he approaches the side of the bed that he vacated not that long ago. The warmth has already leached out of the sheets, leaving only the depression in the mattress to mark where he’d lain in a token pretense of slumber.

Obi-Wan has his own nightmares to contend with—but for him, they are visitors of the waking mind, of self-recrimination and guilt. Sins that heavy don’t need to lay in wait for an opportunity; they’ve already found the chinks in his armor.

Anakin groans. He turns onto his back, and Obi-Wan’s attention flicks to the stump of his arm, compressed by bandages still, for while the exterior wound has long since healed, the severed muscles underneath the skin have not. In his restless, haunted sleep, sweat shining on his brow, Anakin is not going to remember that.

The sporadic twitching underneath Anakin's eyelids matches his rapid, shallow breathing, which quietens as Obi-Wan kneels on the bed, still humming, and runs his fingers lightly through the curls splayed out against the pillow. They really should have cut Anakin's hair ages ago. It’s not practical for it to be long enough that Obi-Wan could fist both hands in it and it would still spill over.

For reasons, neither has spoken about a trim. Only in the last two months has Anakin allowed Obi-Wan to take a razor to his jaw and rid him of the spotty peach fuzz that never grew thicker.

He’d looked hypnotized, his stupidly brave boy, by the glint on the blade. Quivered like a doe frozen in fear as the hunter closed in. Obi-Wan had finally laid a palm over Anakin’s eyes, blinding him, unable to take that hurt, defiant gaze any longer. Anakin had protested, tensing, but Obi-Wan had shushed him.

Just as he shushes Anakin now.

“Shh, I’m here, Anakin.” The reassurance rolls off his tongue with a burr.

It’s not some instant panacea. A whimper creaks out from Anakin’s throat, scraping Obi-Wan’s nerves raw.

If prayer worked—if he still believed in God—Obi-Wan would kneel until his knees were mottled black from pleading for help, for guidance, for a miracle. To grant what science could not, a way to turn back time, to undo his great plethora of mistakes, each one sitting like a cannonball in the pit of his stomach.

He knows there is no God. So he doesn’t fall to his knees, only continues to comb his fingers through the bedraggled curls, working them loose when they snag on his rough, dry fingertips. The people of the village call upon his aid each and every day, his workload endless, and his hands reflect the busyness of his practice. Once upon a time he had intended to set up business in the city, somewhere metropolitan and exciting, somewhere far away from the temptations that waited at home, only to be swept up into the brocade of war, losing his taste for all things exciting and to be led right back to the temptation he’d seen seeking to avoid.

God better not exist, for if he does, he has a perversely wicked sense of humor and much to answer for, the bastard.

So his melody is no hymn learned at Qui-Gon’s side; it’s something older, wilder, from half-cast memories of another life when he still had a mum and da, and the heather grew rampant, and the voices all around him had a lyrical roll of the tongue. 

Anakin flinches awake. 

“Anakin.” Obi-Wan doesn't move. “Anakin, dear heart, you’re home. You’re safe. Listen to me, be a good boy,” he cajoles, he coos; he stays as still as a mouse listening for a cat. 

Eyes dark, Anakin blinks at Obi-Wan as if he’s a stranger and not the man who taught him how to tie a fishing line, how to carve a piece of wood into a horse, and do sums in his head. 

But as frightening as that blankness is, it’s even worse when bleak recognition seeps into them.

“I… damn and blast.” Anakin’s features twist with despair. “Again.” He says it like he’s tasting bitter failure. As if he has any control over the horrors that haunt him. Over the scars that still ache. 

“Lay back down,” urges Obi-Wan, and deliberately does not express his relief when Anakin does as bid, resting his head back on the pillow. His cheeks are rosy at the high points and pale below, skin gleaming with sweat. As soon as his body eases down, he’ll get cold. 

And he does. He turns and seeks Obi-Wan’s heat with an unintelligible mumble, amputated arm tucked between them. Sternly, Obi-Wan reminds himself that there’s no underlying meaning to the flutter of Anakin’s eyelashes on the base of Obi-Wan’s throat, to the tangle of their knees.

None whatsoever. 

But his hand has already committed treachery, cradling the base of Anakin’s skull with his palm, thumb resting on the tender skin behind his ear. In these brief twilights of somnolence when dawn isn’t there to cast a too-bright upon them is a lonely, fragile peace. Neither of them is happy, exactly, but in reaching for each other and meeting halfway, they arrive at a compromise, taking and giving what they need without the clumsiness of words. Too often English is a fence, a gate, a high wall to be climbed over. A misstep would be disastrous. So they rely instead on what goes unsaid, speaking their own language that no outsider can decipher.

This was something they had shared before Obi-Wan had left to study medicine, before he had been ordered to the wine-dark fields of Prussia, of Spain, of France, a Sisyphean torment of applying bandages to a wound too deep to ever stop bleeding, too wide to suture.

Now that they’ve learned that hell is on earth, and it’s the stench of necrotic flesh and cannon barrages of shrapnel, the unspoken is sometimes their last tether to sanity.

Obi-Wan painstakingly settles his full weight on his side and draws the good horsehair duvet over them, draping it over Anakin’s shoulders with his free hand. The other remains pinned under Anakin’s cheek.

It’s fine. That he’s permitted these little touches, that Anakin seeks them out because he finds comfort in them, is Obi-Wan’s saving grace.

He doesn’t sleep that night; he watches the sun creep over the horizon, appearing as a ribbon of carnation pink in the darkness, the pale stars ceding into darkness. By then, Anakin has burrowed closer, his even breathing the metronome by which Obi-Wan’s heart keeps time.

Because he stays awake, he sees the exact moment where the sky lightens into the blue of Anakin’s eyes. Only then does he fall asleep.

— 

The knock on the door comes an hour after Obi-Wan has left to do his rounds. Anakin is in the middle of scrubbing the pot in which they’d cooked a hearty breakfast of oatmeal and chestnuts, balancing the heavy round cast-iron pot with his thigh while he goes at it with a bristle brush with the same painstaking effort he now has to do everything.

He sighs and tips his head back, exhausted by the prospect of having to deal with someone, anyone. But he can’t in good conscience ignore it. Not when there’s a chance it might be an emergency.

Besides, the least he can do is hear them out and pass on the message to Obi-Wan. While Che is a capable healer in her own right, and has been taking care of the local animals and humans alike for decades, the people here still prefer to go to a man. To a doctor. This hasn’t pleased either Che or Obi-Wan, but it’s the way of the world, and none of them are fools to think that so easily challenged.

“Haud your wheesht!” he shouts back when the knock comes again. He pushes the pot to the side and rises to his feet. Adjusting to his new balance has been easier than adjusting to the lack of an arm; even when he was a child that shot up like kudzu overnight, taking his center of gravity along for a ride, he’d never lost his physical grace.

Since then, he’s lost plenty of other things, though. Like his ability to make small talk and tolerate the pitying stares of the people who saw him go off as an able-bodied young man and return a crippled wreck.

Anakin jerks the door open to greet the visitor with a curt, “Obi-Wan isn't here,” when the words tangle up and trip off his tongue at the sight of his mother's raised eyebrows.

“Are you certain about that?” she asks humorously, taking her measurement of him as if he were one of her intricately sewn quilts, missing nothing. “That was a rather convincing imitation of him. With a pinch of Qui-Gon, even, I dare say.”

Anakin gapes at her. When the flush comes it ignites with the devastation of a lit powder keg until he's a sullen, blotchy red. He hadn't meant to mimic Obi-Wan. Or Obi-Wan's father.

“M-mother. What are you doing here? Is it—did something happen?” Accidents on a farm are all too common for all that Cliegg and Owen have been modernizing the homestead.

“No. Nothing is the matter. A mother can’t wish to see her son’s handsome face?” Shmi lifts her hand like she intends to stroke his cheek.

Anakin's eyes flick to the side. He braces. It's not as if his mother will hurt him, that's absurd, but the sudden dip in his stomach insists otherwise. He trembles like a lost lamb, shying from the coming danger as if that would save him.

“Oh, Ani,” she laments. Her fingers drop.

And that does hurt.

(He’s so tired.)

He turns away. “Come inside.”

The humble cottage they call home is nothing but two rooms, with the larger housing a kitchen that always smells of herbs. There’s shards of willow bark, chunks of kudzu root, withered leaves of lemon balm and more, all waiting for their turn with the mortar and pestle, a constant part of Obi-Wan’s day-to-day that lends Obi-Wan’s arms a wiry sort of strength and causes the calluses that run thick down the center of his palms. 

Anakin might go to his grave first rather than admit how fascinating he finds those calluses.

His mother bustles around the oak table, neatening the piles and mounds. What most of them do might be a mystery to her, but she understands the value of keeping a tidy kitchen. 

Were it some other person encroaching in his space, demonstrating the ease with which they could perform tasks, Anakin would be seething with resentment. But it’s his mother, and she isn’t treating him any differently than before he left. She doesn’t offer to clean the pot for him, she leaves him to it like she trusts that he’ll ask for help if he needs it.

He won’t, but he appreciates her equanimity. Life hasn’t been kind to his mother—assaulted by the lord she worked for and discarded with a toddler and no family to shelter her—so while she might not have faced the rows of blue and red as La Grande Armée marched inexorably onwards, she understood violence intimately enough to read it in the new etched lines of stress around his mouth, in his unease of others being around him. 

With two people working together, Anakin’s inside morning chores—he's already fed the chickens and chopped wood for the day—are done within the hour, leaving him at a loss. 

Seeing his bewildered, slightly panicked expression, his mother shushes him into sitting down while she prepares tea, at home in the old cottage since she had been the one to prepare it for their arrival. They hadn’t seen a need to change how she had arranged things, so she’s well-versed in the lay of the land. 

“Mother, why are you here?”Anakin's question carries a hint of peevishness. He loves his mother, truly, he does—but he’s no fool. Even if she did come by because he hasn’t visited the house, there must be another reason.

His mother purses her lips. Anakin’s resultant triumph is tempered by wariness. 

“If this is about Obi-Wan, spare me,” he snaps with enough heat to vaporize snow. They get enough flak from the villagers that if his mother joins their numbers it will break his heart. He thought that she understood how much they need each other, that they’re both too brittle to stand on their own, regardless of how everyone views him as a charity case that Obi-Wan took on. As a burden. They see the missing limb and tut in sympathy, but it’s beyond them to grasp why he can’t simply put on a stiff upper lip after months of hiding.

And if they’re that blind when it comes to him, then never in this wretched century or the next will they realize that Obi-Wan is suffering just as much as he is. Nor will they ever understand the deep love that has put roots down to the sediment of his soul, a love that Obi-Wan, for all his half-lies and misdirections, for all his guilt, returns in equal measure.

Rather than chiding him, Shmi draws herself to her full height.

When he was small enough still that she could tuck him into her skirts, he childishly thought her a fearless warrior whenever she squared up like this; now, even though he is several hands taller than she is, with the crown of her head barely needing his sternum, he still thinks she looks like a giant out of a fairy tale.

But he's not used to her squaring up with him.

“I bear news and a message,” she says.

“What? From who?” Unease lifts him to his feet, tea forgotten. 

His mother’s sympathetic frown is not reassuring. “From Padmé.”

Date: February 15, 1812 (evening)

Location: Field Hospital, outskirts of Ciudad Rodrigo, Spain

Weather: Clearing skies after days of rain

This morning saw the dead carted off to be buried in mass burials—the best we can do for them under the circumstances. I bowed my head over each full cart and prayed for their souls to reach heaven, for God to be merciful and provide the succor that they were denied in life.

Dearest Anakin provides a welcome respite from despair. He sought me out and we spent long hours in his tent reminiscing with the aid of a French brandy that I will not question the provenance of. He expressed delight at my admittance—tongue loosened by liquor—that I have not cast off his letters as I received them, ferrying them with me from location to location.

(I did not confess how often I take them out to feel his words underneath my fingers, how I have sought solace in his idyllic recountings of the harvest, of the thousand petty grievances between neighbor and neighbor, a reminder of a life lived not mired in viscera and death.)

(I also did not tell him that I wept at the news that he had joined the army. He claims he was inspired by my actions, and that is horrifying enough, but to know he is here to escape from the pain of being rejected by a woman is a most bitter medicine to swallow.)

Dr. Obi-Wan Kenobi

Regimental Surgeon 

His Majesty's 43rd Foot

By noon, Obi-Wan is coated in a fine sheet of sweat despite the cool weather. He’s had to roll up his sleeves while convincing the local baker’s wife that a stuffy, overheated room is not in her son’s best interests in breaking a fever, pushing the heavy old bed up to a sorely needed open window, then helped carry a dozen buckets from the river so that the lad can bathe and bring his temperature down.

While the baker’s wife is dubious as to the veracity of his methods, she doesn’t dither for long once he reaches the end of his patience and informs her in no uncertain terms that her son is well on his way of cooking his brains if she insists of stoking the fire and adding heated bricks to his bed. Obi-Wan is a little weary of needing to pull out his degree in order to get people to stop hedging when his advice goes against their long-held beliefs — it doesn’t give him any great satisfaction. It isn’t their fault that they don’t know any better. If anything, country people are better equipped than the city folk he’d worked with during his studies. 

But that only speaks to the overall deplorable practices that are so common in England. He still can’t fathom how his colleagues resist washing their hands before treating patients or even taking scalpel to someone’s flesh. Is it any wonder that some consider them little more than butchers?

Well. Some of them are nothing more than butchers. Obi-Wan sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. Were there not such a great need both for medical treatment in the village and the little detail that they needed money to live off of, officer pensions aside, Obi-Wan isn’t sure that he would have continued being a doctor after what he’d witnessed in the army. After what had been done to Anakin.

There are some days he can’t stomach looking at his tools any more than Anakin can. It’s for that reason that he keeps his doctor’s satchel hidden out of sight and never brings it inside the cottage. 

“Dr. Kenobi?”

“Mistress Vokara,” he greets, relieved that it isn’t someone else seeking him out for yet another malady. He’s due at the harrier’s in a few minutes to check on the boil he’d lanced the other day, praying that infection hasn’t set in since then. He stands and takes off his hat as is appropriate for addressing a lady, but Che waves him back down, joining him. 

“How does the boy fare?” she asks bluntly. 

“God willing,” Obi-Wan pauses, the words familiar, though they taste strange in his mouth, “he’ll see the morning sun.” He reads the implicit in her nod, the likely scenario unfolding in his mind’s eye that the baker’s wife probably sought the healer out first, then dismissed her practical suggestions, much as she’d resisted his. 

They sit in silence. In the distance the church bells ring to signal the hour, which means that Qui-Gon is probably calling in the children to study. Once upon a time, Obi-Wan stood by his father’s side, Bible in one hand, welcoming their pupils back in. 

Once upon a time was a lifetime ago.

Vokara clears her throat delicately. “And how is your boy?”

“Hardly a boy,” he argues automatically, refusing to flush at how his heart leaps at Anakin being referred to as his anything. “He is… determined.” 

“Good. Always stubborn, that one. But sweet in his own way.” 

Unbearably so at times, he doesn’t say. That’s for him alone to know, a concealed tenderness in his ribcage. Selfish as that makes him, he’s the only one allowed to partake in Anakin’s soft moments, in the rays of sunshine between the storm clouds. To relish in the knowledge that Anakin’s head fits perfectly in the crook of his neck while slumbering. 

She eventually gathers up her skirts and they part ways. Obi-Wan rolls his shoulders. While he’d love to go home, maybe pass by the tavern and pick up a treat for them to eat, to take glee in winning a quick grin from Anakin, the farrier’s boil will not wait. 

Duty calls.

The boil is not infected, thankfully, but he still recommends the farrier apply garlic extract to the site for a few more days. Yes, he tells the farrier, even if the smell is intolerable. 

By the time he walks up the path and passes the low-stone wall that marks their property, the world is cast in a fiery red and the air has grown chill enough that his breath crystalizes. Seeing the cottage lit up from the inside, smoke twining from the chimney, is a balm to his sore soul. 

Before entering he drums his fingers on the door sill as notice that he’s arrived so as not to spook Anakin in case the other’s nerves took a turn for the worse since that morning. It happens, sometimes. Nothing for it other than to find workarounds to lessen the fallout.

Though from the smell of something hearty cooking, it seems he needn’t have bothered. He lowers his satchel into the box beside the door, locking it up. They might live in near isolation, but the tools of Obi-Wan’s trade are too dear to not protect.

“Anakin?” He calls out upon not seeing the other man in the main room.

There’s a commotion in the bedroom. Anakin appears in the doorway, hair wet and clumsily slicked back. Shirtless, his skin is still shiny, though Obi-Wan doubts that Anakin went through all the trouble of setting up the bathtub. “Welcome back.”

“Thank you, dearest. May I?” He gestures at Anakin’s dripping hair.

“Wash up yourself, first.” Anakin busies himself by pulling out the hook from the low fire, giving the pot’s contents a stir. The air is perfumed with the gentle aroma of home, of warmth and a good meal nearly done, of his drying herbs and the mint and lavender that wafts from Anakin's clean skin. 

Obi-Wan slips into the bedroom and tests the washbasin’s temperature. Hot enough, he judges. 

By the time he’s washed away all the sweat with the aid of a rag and applied a generous lather of the soap they share, Obi-Wan feels human. He folds his work clothes beside Anakin’s already laid-out clothes for the next day, a simple, pleasing sight. They have a routine by now, well-established like clockwork, and so be it if it makes him a greedy man to enjoy it,

He redresses in homespun trousers and a shirt, bringing an ivory brush and a spare shirt out in the main room. Taking a seat on one of the two matching chairs before the hearth, Obi-Wan doesn’t have to do anything other than make space between his legs for Anakin to settle between them so that he may brush out Anakin’s long hair, untangling the knots that form so easily. 

Anakin watches the flames as Obi-Wan brushes his hair in measured strokes. It’s not to be a talkative night, Obi-Wan surmises, but Anakin surprises him. 

“Padmé has had a son.”

Obi-Wan’s motions grind to a halt. Padmé. That is not a name that’s been spoken out loud between them in months. “Is that so?” 

“Mmn.”

“And… did your mother pay us a visit, by any chance?” Obi-Wan rolls his shoulders, excising the sudden tension, and resumes his work. 

“Who else would come?” Anakin’s tone is matter-of-fact. No matter how Obi-Wan turns the question over in his mind, he doesn’t detect any bitterness. 

“Mn.” There. That’s… neutral enough, isn’t it? Obi-Wan chews on the inside of his cheek and ventures, “Does that not cause you grief?” 

Anakin tips his head back. Obi-Wan automatically supports his neck, his other hand daring to settle over the younger man’s jaw. Even upside down, Anakin’s stare blows through Obi-Wan’s walls like a cannonade blast, exposing that horrid seed of jealousy that he’s struggled so hard to keep from germinating. 

“Is your fear that I shall do something foolish yet again in the name of so-called love? The army will not take me back, you know, so my options are quite limited.”

That earns Anakin a pinch on the scruff like a naughty pup. Obi-Wan’s insides snake up to his throat; the notion makes him ill. “You are an inventive soul. I underestimate your propensity for chaos at my own peril.”

Anakin straightens. The ends of his hair, dark with water, have begun to curl, and if Obi-Wan dares, he can shape them with a twist of his fingers, a small nod to Pygmalion’s devotion, to the yearning to stamp an indelible mark upon perfection.

The silence that falls is weighty, and does not land lightly. Obi-Wan finishes brushing out Anakin’s hair, tying it off at the base of his neck with a simple leather tie. That he then digs his fingers into his palms to keep them from mischief is his little secret to add to the overflowing casket of them.

Pensiveness and stillness is a new facet of Anakin that he does not yet know how to maneuver other than to match it in the way of a lake reflecting the sky. 

Anakin rises to his feet and picks up the shirt. Wordlessly he holds it out for Obi-Wan to help him pull it over his head, arm through the sleeve, then the delicate task of repeating the same with his amputated limb, rolling up the excess material and pinning it in place. In a rare moment of vulnerability, Anakin had long ago admitted that he doesn’t like seeing the stump, even bandaged as they keep it. 

As it’s not his body that had been needlessly mutilated, Obi-Wan cannot even hope to understand how Anakin feels. He can only quell the burning instinct to press his lips against the fresh scars in apology over and over again. 

Dinner is somber. Already Obi-Wan is bracing for the night to end with matters left unclear when Anakin puts his spoon down and speaks up.

“I loved Padmé in the way a boy loves an angel in a stained glass window. She was… something other, something good and dear to me.”

Obi-Wan swallows dryly. He’s about to offer some token reply along the lines of is that so when Anakin goes on, a reckless glint in his eye that Obi-Wan hasn’t seen since the last time Anakin rode off with his cavalry unit. 

“Even if I hadn’t been a farmer’s son, we would not have suited. I… require a different kind of love. One not so fine and pure.” Anakin’s bowed head can’t hide the note of helplessness, of embarrassment interwoven throughout his explanation. 

Obi-Wan finds himself overheating. A love not so fine and pure is camphene to the banked fires in the darkest corners of his soul. They flare up like great beasts of flame, dragon fire and phoenix wrath. Lust and longing and the endless avarice to hold Anakin’s heart in his hands, to kiss his pink lips and lick the tender skin between his thighs, to devour his sex until Anakin has nothing to give him, wrung dry and sated.

Though not Obi-Wan. Should he ever be invited to feast, he will never be sated.

“Anakin…” he chokes out. “You—no such thing is impossible for you, my dearest friend. You’re young and handsome—”

“And crippled.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes narrow. To this, Anakin smiles humorlessly. “You alone see that when you look at me. The rest of the world only sees the parts of me that are gone. That are ugly.”

“Then they’re blind.”

“You’re biased.”

Overburdened with nervous energy, Obi-Wan collects their bowls and dumps them into a waiting water bucket. His skin prickles with that peculiar sensation he gets when he’s too furious for rationality. If he opens his mouth now he’ll either spit sparks or he’ll clutch Anakin by the shoulders and shake him until all those hideous notions fall out of his head. How can he express how beautiful Anakin is, body and soul, without overstepping the shallow boundaries of friendship? That this is truth, not bias?

The answer is simple. He cannot.

Mercifully, Anakin does not protest when Obi-Wan announces he is turning in for the night. He flees from the petulant twist of Anakin’s mouth, from the barrage of things still unspoken.

—

They both attend Sunday services regularly with the excuse to break bread with Qui-Gon afterward. Neither care to disappoint the man who is the closest thing to a father both have had. 

Not that Anakin has an issue with Cliegg, but theirs was not much more than a cordial understanding. Cliegg was his mother’s husband above all else, not the man who had encouraged Anakin’s unusually deft propensity for figures and sums, for putting charcoal to paper and designing fantastical machines that would never see the light of day. Too impractical, too expensive, too fanciful.  

It’s Qui-Gon who had gifted him segments of the Codex Atlanticus a handful of pages at a time, demonstrating that his drawings were not a worthless pastime. They too, had called da Vinci mad, and his impossible machines had fueled much of Anakin’s imagination, encouraging him to be an attentive student when he could have easily been swallowed up by the labor of the farm, in his love for horses. 

Qui-Gon is also the reason that Obi-Wan, already a man grown when Anakin met him, even spared him a second thought. 

For that, he will forever be grateful to the vicar. 

At the moment, however, he could do without Qui-Gon’s perceptive gaze scrapping away his defenses with the sharpness of a knife peeling an apple. 

It’s been three days since Obi-Wan ran from him, and hasn’t stopped. He wakes up so early that the sky is still dark and Anakin is fuzzy with sleep when the other is already shrugging on his clothing and creeping out of the bedroom. The first morning it happened, Anakin had turned over, fully expecting to come up against the comforting weight and warmth of Obi-Wan’s chest, landing instead on the cooling sheets. 

Once wasn’t too out of the norm. Even Obi-Wan returning so late that Anakin had lit a candle and been drifting off when he returned still wasn’t much to go on. But now it’s Sunday, Obi-Wan was gone yet again when he woke up, and Anakin is seething. 

Qui-Gon serves lunch after the last of the parishioners have drifted off, satisfied that they’ve safeguarded their souls for yet another week. It’s humble fare, much like what Anakin prepares at home, and not for the first time Anakin wonders if Qui-Gon has always worn a clerical collar, or if he’s familiar with the bone-rattling jolt of a flintlock rifle and meal rations. 

Some might quake that a vicar, of all people, might read them like an open book. Not Anakin. He has no shame in his love for Obi-Wan. It’s been a part of him for so long that he can’t be made to feel guilty for it any more than he can be chastened for needing to eat. 

Throwing a tantrum on the other hand because Obi-Wan is scurrying like a frightened doe, on the other hand, has Anakin mortified. He has no skill when it comes to hiding his anger, and even less ability letting it go despite all the admonishments that it’s neither right nor appropriate to let his humors affect him so. 

So rather than wait for the Sword of Damocles to fall upon his head, Anakin says, “How do I get him to listen to me?” 

“You ask me this?” Qui-Gon lifts the tea pot and tips a generous pouring of tea into his cup. “You vastly overestimate how much influence I wield. Or, perhaps, it’s the other way around, my dear student.”

Anakin makes a face. At twenty-one, he’s long been out of the classroom. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“It means what it means,” is Qui-Gon’s mild rebuke.

Sighing, Anakin dumps several spoonfuls of sugar into his tea. “You know I can’t stand it when you decide to be esoteric. What’s the matter with a straightforward answer?”

“That was a straightforward answer.” 

“It most certainly wasn’t, any more than a riddle is a statement.” Anakin aggressively stirs his tea, sloshing the liquid down the sides. 

“Anakin, there is no one on this earth that my son listens to more than you.” Qui-Gon takes a cloth and wipes away the disaster in the making and then sets it aside, eyebrows lifting when Anakin scoffs. “Or perchance there is someone else that my son mothers more than a brooding hen? Some mysterious unknown individual that Obi-Wan devotes all of his attention and care to? If so, they’ve somehow eluded my notice.” 

“I… well.” Left flustered, Anakin swallows too-hot tea in a scalding gulp just so that he doesn’t have to reply to that. Or give evidence of the warmth blossoming in his core like an unfurling sun, spreading outwards until even his fingertips tingle. He likes being special to Obi-Wan. To be the sole focus of Obi-Wan’s attention and regard, the recipient of his witticisms and his gentle hands.

That’s why the current state of matters is so intolerable to Anakin. No, he doesn’t need Obi-Wan to perform basic tasks anymore, he’s learned how to navigate the world with only one hand, and they both know it, but it’s a fiction that suits them both.

Not that they don’t still need each other for other reasons. Anakin misses their conversations, their jokes, the lulls where they can be in a room together, both off in their own worlds, and still know that they’re not alone.

They eat in relative quiet, with Anakin staring off into the distance, brow furrowing. He’s so distracted that the instinct to flinch doesn’t trigger when Qui-Gon lays a hand on his shoulder while seeing him off. 

“I hope to see you both next Sunday.” Qui-Gon squeezes his shoulder and lets him go. “You may even skip the sermon if you wish,” he adds wryly.

Anakin’s small smile in reply is genuine.

—

Books are one of the few indulgences they do not forswear spending coin on, and they have gathered a neat library of sorts, their number upon the mantle growing at a pace that augurs a proper bookshelf will be necessary before long. 

For his part, Anakin is fickle. What might bring him peace one hour could very well spell melancholy the next, but that night he selects something that will keep him awake.

The tale is dreadfully melodramatic and full of irrational twists and turns, and he’s just made it to the vengeful ghosts when the door opens and Obi-Wan enters with the furtive air of a husband caught overspending at the tavern. 

“Anakin.” Obi-Wan has a propensity for rolling the vowels of his name in a musical way, though never more so when he’s gearing up for a diatribe. “Why the late hour? Could you not sleep?” He scans Anakin as if suspecting he’s been up to something more nefarious than sitting by the fire, reading a tawdry novel. “Or… did you have trouble sleeping?” 

“Neither.” Anakin closes the book, letting it slide shut with the aid of gravity. He’ll have to find out if the love affair with the nun will go anywhere later.

For now, he has an errant doctor to bring to heel. 

Obi-Wan opens his mouth and then clearly rethinks whatever remark or protest he was about to make. He glances behind him at the already-shut door as if weighing his odds of escape. 

Not good, he judges, and rubs a hand across his face. “I’m tired, Anakin.” The hitch in his voice tugs at Anakin’s heartstrings, and Obi-Wan isn’t lying; exhaustion is evident in the dark bruises underneath his eyes, in his pallor. His hair is greasy and limp, his beard shaggy around the edges. He’s spent so little time at home that his respectable facade is slipping.

Anakin digs his fingers into his knee, not getting up. He doesn’t trust himself not to stride across the room and grip Obi-Wan’s collar. “Why are you avoiding me?”

“I am not avoiding you. Don’t be ridiculous.” 

“Ridiculous! Codswallop.” Pride stung, Anakin gawks at Obi-Wan. “If I hadn’t devised a plan to ambush you, for how long did you intend to run yourself ragged? What was your strategy?” 

“As I said, I'm not avoiding you; I've been inundated with patients to attend to. Not everything can adhere strictly to a timetable, Anakin.” Obi-Wan treats unfastening his paletot as if it requires a great deal of focus to unhook each button, his tone laced with winter rime. 

What are they even arguing about, Anakin wonders, reeling in hurt despite his scowl. Is this all stemming from a mention of Padmé? Christ on his throne, it’s been years since she rejected Anakin, and she’d been right to do so. What could he offer a noble lady such as her, other than a hurried run for Gretna Green? What then? 

No, theirs would not have been a happy ending. Hindsight and time grant him the understanding that a great romance did not mean a great love, the sort that he hungers for. The kind that Obi-Wan has been selflessly providing from a distance.

A distance Anakin is done with. Let others disdain their closeness, criticize him as a parasite bleeding a good man—what do they know of the way they fit, smoothing each other’s jagged edges? Better they be viewed as dysfunctional than as criminals. 

Obi-Wan startles at Anakin’s touch. He glances at the vacant chair as if somehow expecting Anakin to still be seated, not cradling the side of his face, palm rubbing the bristles of his beard. 

His back hits the door, arms caught in his half-removed jacket, so he can’t stop Anakin from rubbing his thumb on the corner of his lips, from crowding him. There’s an exhilarating fear surging through Anakin’s veins, long-forgotten adrenaline that came from excitement, from taking a leap of faith.

“You must stop,” Obi-Wan entreats weakly. If he attempts to get away again, Anakin knows that he’ll release him, and that he’ll then have to go outside to gnash his teeth and howl at the moon like a chained dog. So he holds his breath, not moving an inch, as a red flush spreads down Obi-Wan’s face and disappears into his beard.

“Please, don’t…” It’s Anakin's turn to beg, throat closing. He isn’t sure what he’s asking for. Please stop avoiding me? Maybe. Don’t hate me for this? Also probable. 

If Obi-Wan wants them to return to coexisting, to living under the guise of doctor and patient, Anakin will… Anakin will try to put his heart back inside Pandora’s Box and shut the lid. So what if it means having to discard the key? He’s not going to fall in love with someone else. He doesn’t want to; Obi-Wan is it for him: his mentor, his friend, his brother. 

His other half.

Anakin sucks in a breath when he realizes what the burn in the back of his eyes mean. He’s weeping again like a bereft child, God, no wonder Obi-Wan won’t trust in what lies between them, treating it as lake ice too thin to be stepped on. 

He draws away to rub the back of his hand across his wet eyes resentfully, cheeks heating with misery, and listens to Obi-Wan shake out of his jacket, cloth rustling. Fine, so they’ll resume the status quo where they’re neither one thing or the other.

They have to. He can’t have screwed this up so badly that they can’t even do that. 

A part of his brain that isn’t preoccupied with curling up in agony notes that Obi-Wan isn’t hanging up the coat or brushing past him, but Anakin still jumps like a stepped-on cat when Obi-Wan frames his face with both hands, fingers sinking into the curls behind his ears. 

“Dear heart, I cannot stand it when you cry.” Obi-Wan’s breath fans his jaw. His broad palms are warm on Anakin’s tacky, tear-streak cheeks. “What can I do? What do you need?”

Ridiculous man, thinks Anakin wildly, crying even harder without making a sound, hiccuping a ragged gasp past his clogged throat. He drops his hand to find his field of view taken up by Obi-Wan’s beautiful gray eyes.

“You,” slithers out of his throat, his heart pounding. “You.”  

Hesitation flashes across Obi-Wan’s eyes. “I…”

Anakin shakes his head, frustrated, and above all else scared, but he’s never been a coward. 

He dips his head the last needed for their lips to brush, less a kiss and more of a… meeting, their foreheads resting together. Obi-Wan tastes like the mint herbs he likes to chew. “Please, Obi-Wan. You’re all I need.” 

A pained noise burbles out of Obi-Wan’s chest. His fingertips tighten, round nails scratching Anakin’s scalp, bordering on uncomfortable but Anakin welcomes it, welcomes the unsteady exhale against his mouth, the bristly sensation of Obi-Wan’s beard on his smooth skin, all of his awareness narrowed to this precious moment of suspended time. 

He whispers, “Please.” 

Obi-Wan answers by tightening his grip even further and crashing their mouths together. 

Date: March 5, 1813 (evening) 

Location: Field Hospital, outskirts of Leipzig, Germany 

Weather: Chilly, with a hint of early spring in the air

Leipzig is a city of ruins now, its once grand buildings reduced to rubble by the ceaseless barrage of cannon fire. We were party to this destruction, I am most sorry to say. I do not think the locals will forgive us, whatever our intent.

There were few casualties, relatively speaking, to deal with today. A blessing, to be sure, but for a brief instant I thought the worst had happened when one of my assistants came to fetch me with the message that a cavalry officer was requesting treatment from me by name. I knew who it was even before I reached the surgery room and found Anakin cradling his arm, smiling up at me nervously, a stray curl sticking to his pale face. 

A horse had stepped on him, he admitted, looking quite put-out by it, sulking like a small boy. I took his arm into my care, dread crawling down my spine, but to my great relief it was nothing but a minor radial fracture. Not a wound, not a break, not something that would put him at risk.

I let him know as such and the fear drained out of his expression. We shared smiles before I sternly pinched his cheek and ordered him not to let any of those terrible beasts mangle him further. He complained goodnaturedly and was the very picture of a stoic soldier when I set the fracture and wrote out permission for him to sleep in the hospital and be given the good rations in the meanwhile, so that he will heal quicker. 

Lured by his presence, I stayed longer with him, and was there for the moment his shoulders shook, releasing the tension that had wound them up tight, the innate terror that such an insignificant injury would carry grave repercussions. Anakin as a child would often weep at finding the broken egg shells on a fallen nest, at the cruelty of the other boys taunting an animal. As he grew older, his tears grew rarer, for he had learned to hide his soft heart. 

Sitting by his side, the line of his shoulders slumped, I was reminded of this crucial fact, somehow forgotten in the face of the confident, mutinous young man who had erupted back into my life in the middle of all this ghastly horror. 

God help me, I took his uninjured hand between both of mine and though I longed to brush my lips over the callused knuckles, I instead vowed to him that once I returned from my visit to the southern hospital, I would visit him every chance that I had. That I would not leave him alone.

Anakin did his best to pretend to be carefree, contrasting the hard clutch of his fingers, the suspiciously wet gleam in his eyes. His laughter was gay and gently mocking, but he did not tell me not to bother. 

I bid him good night.

Then I came to my tent and sat with my head between my legs, breathing through the dread that clung to me like cobwebs. My dearest, darling Anakin is always at risk, I know this—at any time he might go under the stab of a bayonet, or be shattered by a cannonball. He is on the frontlines and to be on the frontlines is to defy death.

He is clever and wonderful. But he is not immune to harm. Like many of the boys and men I send off to their graves, he is mortal, composed of flesh and bones.

My love.

Tomorrow I shall visit our sister hospital to verify the state of their supplies. Then I will return, and upon that return I will have collected myself enough to not act the fool. 

Dr. Obi-Wan Kenobi 

Regimental Surgeon 

His Majesty's 43rd Foot

It isn’t as if it all changes from then on. Their lives were already intertwined to the point that becoming lovers does not significantly alter the rhythm of their days.

What does change, however, is so magnificent that Obi-Wan stays awake long hours at night just to study Anakin’s relaxed features, thrilled that the charade is over, that he knows how soft those lips are, how Anakin sounds when overcome by pleasure, hoarse and sweet. He can scarcely believe his luck.

On one night, roughly a fortnight after their kiss, Anakin stirs and then huffs in exasperation to still find him awake. “Is staring at me that fascinating?” he asks, amused, and Obi-Wan’s eyes trail down to the red bruises dotting Anakin’s chest, proof of their lovemaking the day before.

“Endlessly,” he answers honestly, rubbing his fingers over the marks. It’s such a primitive desire that he should be aghast at himself, a learned man driven to bruising his lover’s flesh and then toying with the bruises, but Anakin is no different. He matches Obi-Wan’s savagery with enthusiasm to spare.

He’s far less self-conscious about his wants than Obi-Wan, a natural creature of hedonistic pursuits, and an enthusiastic student of the delights that can be shared by two men. His appetites are begrudgingly tempered by Obi-Wan’s firm insistence that he can’t simply vanish without warning from his rounds, the villagers will come seeking him if he doesn’t go to them, which admittedly is also the sharp rebuke he gives himself so as not to surrender to Anakin’s fetching pout. 

They are in their honeymoon phase where all is rapturous, he’s sure that soon enough they’ll argue again, that the newness will wear off—it must, for surely no human can be this fanatically obsessed with another person their entire life, can they?

“It’s still early,” Anakin breathes. His eyes are guileless, expectant. 

Hungry.

Something in Obi-Wan stirs in reply. He deliberates on how true that statement is by his internal clock and deems it true—there’s still long, long hours before the sun will rise. 

And for men like them, well. They thrive under the cover of the night.

“It is,” he says, a rasp in his voice. His touch grows more forceful, stroking Anakin’s bare chest, hand splaying over his heart. 

Not breaking eye contact he pushes, and Anakin falls onto his back obediently, petal-pink mouth parting around a quiet sigh. Obi-Wan steals a kiss, then another, backing off when Anakin attempts to kiss him back until the other whines needily. Only then does he acquiesce, slipping his tongue to spar with Anakin’s languidly, settling on top of him. 

With thumb and forefinger he grasps Anakin’s chin and holds him still with that featherlight touch when he finally pulls away. In the gloom of their bedroom Anakin paints a pretty picture for all that the moonlight washes out his color. 

It doesn't matter. Anakin is beautiful whether brazenly exulting under the sunshine or like this, draped in shadows and silvery light. Heat brews in Obi-Wan’s groin, an ache to take and be taken, and he makes a snap decision on how the rest of the night will go.

He shucks off his sleeping shirt, resurfacing with tousled hair that falls into his eyes. Obi-Wan rakes it back, aware of how Anakin’s gaze darkens at the gesture. 

“My greedy boy,” Obi-Wan says fondly. Anakin has the grace to flush, young enough and new enough to this that he’s still easily shocked and titillated. “Arms up.” 

Pouting, Anakin obliges, stretching his arms, curling his good one over his head to encircle his fingers around the stub of the other, shackling himself for Obi-Wan’s perusal. 

“Happy?” He tips his chin up, not too meek, just right.

Immensely. Obi-Wan is hypnotized by the feast spread out before him, magnificent in all those lean muscles and tan skin awaiting his touch, the drag of his fingernails, the edge of his teeth. He settles lightly on Anakin’s lap, now both naked since Anakin has stopped wearing anything to bed. His knees tuck into Anakin’s side as his fingers down the rung of Anakin’s ribs, thumbing the dip of his belly button. 

There’s a jerky spasm beneath the skin, Anakin’s abdomen flexing and something halfway between a gasp and a laugh fluttering free. The corner of Obi-Wan’s mouth tilts upwards. 

“What do you want?” Obi-Wan asks in a low, warm tenor. The sheets have pooled around them and the air has a bite to it, though it’s nothing compared to the heat radiating off their bodies. 

Anakin stares up at him. The lean curve of his throat works. “You.” 

Obi-Wan understands what Anakin means. What Anakin wants. It’s Obi-Wan who calls the shots in this, a duty he regards as close to sacred, as it’s a sign of trust on Anakin’s part to guide him, to take care of him, a natural extension of their dynamic from the beginning.

Not that Obi-Wan could have ever foreseen that the overly inquisitive boy he’d met in his father’s church would one day be the other half of his soul. 

“Thank you, darling.” Obi-Wan combs his fingers through Anakin’s hair, tugging lightly at the curls. Anakin turns his head, rubbing his cheek against the inside of Obi-Wan’s wrist. “Aren’t you perfect.” 

At that Anakin whines again, tilting his hips. He’s hard already, silky and firm against Obi-Wan’s hip, and Obi-Wan entertains the passing thought that youth is wasted on the young, except that’s not quite true; he’s getting plenty of enjoyment from this. 

“Stay.” Obi-Wan climbs off the bed to fetch the vial of oil from the nightstand. They’ve had a few too many incidents of it spilling on the bed when they’ve gotten too wrapped up in each other. He drizzles the slick mixture over his hand, keenly aware of Anakin’s mounting impatience.

He should make him wait. Teach Anakin the beauty of delayed gratification—though in a sense, what have the last few years been for them both, if not that? Piling on more would be adding on to the time they’ve already wasted.

The bed frame creaks as Obi-Wan swings a leg over Anakin again, this time positioned much higher, his knees sinking into the mattress, keeping his weight off Anakin’s chest. His half-hard shaft falls neatly between Anakin’s collarbones, and the poor boy almost goes cross-eyed glancing at it, tongue peeking out. Obi-Wan tuts but doesn’t comment, cupping Anakin’s chin with his clean hand to adjust the angle, reducing the strain on Anakin’s neck. 

Then he admires the picture Anakin makes. His, somehow, against all odds. His to cherish and protect and ruin. 

Obi-Wan takes himself in hand and feeds the head of his cock into Anakin’s mouth. “Get me ready here, mo leannan,” he coaxes, shaping his palm to Anakin’s throat when the other surges forward to take more than Obi-Wan wants him to, more than Anakin is ready to take, still an amateur despite his enthusiasm. 

Anakin complains, his muffled protest vibrating against Obi-Wan’s palm. 

Slightly breathless, an itch at the base of his spine to push into that silky wetness, Obi-Wan shakes his head. “I will not hurt you.” 

Another unhappy grumble and Anakin acquiesces, suckling on the head of his cock, tongue swirling around it sweetly. 

Trusting that Anakin will behave, Obi-Wan rolls his head back and basks in the sensation, his nerves lighting up one by one until he’s nearly drifting off in bliss, thumbing the corner of Anakin’s mouth, the slant of his cheekbone. 

It's Anakin shifting restlessly and the drip of oil that remind him that he has business of his own to attend to. Obi-Wan sets to it, slipping a finger in smoothly—they've been doing this often enough that he no longer hisses in discomfort at the stretch and hardly has to work to loosen himself up before a second finger is added, then a third. He can't get real depth in this position, shoulder already straining, though that isn't the end goal. He's only seeking to relax the muscle, not to stimulate himself.

Anakin’s hand flutters onto his hip to provide support, fingertips digging into the flesh there as if afraid that Obi-Wan will slip through the gaps of his fingers like sand in an hourglass, dissolving to nothing more than the lingering ache of a dream. Silly boy.  

"That’s good, Anakin, you’re doing so well,” Obi-Wan opens his eyes in time to see Anakin flush with pride, his lashes long and sooty against his cheeks. There’s spit dribbling from the corners of his mouth, and his lips must be numb by now, though his tongue continues to wiggle and lick, his throat no doubt coated in a steady drip of salty-bitter precome.

Obi-Wan continues to dole out praise and endearments as he withdraws and scoots back until he’s poised above Anakin’s stiff manhood, stroking it firmly with his oiled hand, slicking it down—though he might not have needed to; it’s already so wet, the sound of skin on skin wicked.

“Do not move until I grant you permission,” Obi-Wan commands, centering himself as he steadily sinks down on Anakin’s cock. Both of them exhale sharply, in sync. He can feel the effort it takes for Anakin to restrain himself, the death grip on his hip, but Anakin obeys despite the sweat that beads up on his skin, gleaming in the moonlight like pearls.

When he's finally seated, Obi-Wan sucks in a long breath, relishing the slight burn and the fullness. He feels like he could sit on Anakin's cock like that for an hour, clenching and releasing until Anakin wept, but he's not that cruel.

Obi-Wan reaches down and threads their fingers together, fitting like a key slotting into a lock. He smiles at Anakin's intense focus, strung tight like a bow, and rises, despite his hips and thighs already protesting from all the activity when he should have been resting. Yet, he's too caught up in the pleasure and sense of completeness that the meeting of their bodies brings him.

He's too much of a scientist to believe in something as trite as soulmates, but if they did exist, he has every confidence that this is it. Being with Anakin is like coming home, like falling, like a breeze on a hot day, like rain after a drought.

Perfect. Whole.

“Can I—” Anakin bites his lip. 

A shiver runs across Obi-Wan’s shoulders. He circles his hips, grinding down in a filthy move that has them both groaning. “Yes.”

“Thank you,” says Anakin with feeling, thrusting upward. He doesn’t try to flip Obi-Wan over or seize control. He follows the unspoken rhythm that Obi-Wan sets, their hands squeezing in tandem. Ignoring the ache of his body and the folly of striving to keep up with someone who was nearly two decades younger, Obi-Wan rises and falls, taking as much as giving, rocking back and forth to earn the most delicious noises from Anakin. 

“That’s it, mo leannan. Like that. Steady.” Obi-Wan forgets about how the world would tear them to pieces if their love were discovered. He forgets about the ugly names they’d be called. He forgets about the stench of the battlefield after the sun has blazed down on the carnage for days, forgets the memories of his trembling, blood-soaked hands.

“Obi-Wan, please. I can’t…” Anakin's amputated limb lifts, frustration evident in the furrow of his brows. A few seconds pass as Obi-Wan's pleasure-drunk brain struggles to parse his meaning amidst the quickening pace, then a soft "ah" accompanies the dawning comprehension.

More endearments, a bit slurred, follow as Obi-Wan grips his cock with his oiled hand. Most of it is gone by now, but the slight friction adds to the enjoyment as he strokes himself from root to tip, bucking up into his hold grip and grinding back into Anakin’s upending, slick thrusts that erratically score his prostate, setting off white fireworks behind Obi-Wan’s eyelids. 

Anakin jerks and gasps beneath him, his grip painful. He’s no longer heeding the rhythm, uncoordinated and sloppy, but so is Obi-Wan, unraveling at the seams. It takes only three more strokes for him to reach the peak, painting streaks of come over Anakin’s stomach, the first stripe almost landing on his chest among the sparse hair there.

There’s almost no sound from Anakin as he follows suit, spilling deep inside of Obi-Wan, his head thrown back against the pillow. Obi-Wan forces his eyelids to wrench open in order to watch, refusing to be denied the sight of his boy in that excruciating moment of ecstasy. 

They collect themselves eventually, but not without first cuddling, sticky and filthy as they are, running hands across each other’s bodies, nuzzling, and dotting kisses along exposed shoulders. 

Washing off with cold water is almost enough to make Obi-Wan not want to do this again.

Almost.

—

Life is so wonderful that Obi-Wan should have known that the other shoe was bound to drop. 

He just hadn’t expected it to be Padmé again.

“Pardon me?” he says blankly, as if he hadn’t heard perfectly well. The baker’s wife is in a gossipy mood now that her son has fully recuperated. She’s hailed him down right in front of her house, which means he’ll be late for his next appointment, but right then it’s the last concern on his mind. “A… barn gathering? For Lady Padmé?” 

“Aye, she’s had a son! Isn’t that wonderful? She’s returning ‘fore it snows too heavy and the roads get blocked. Her folks are deeming it a cause to celebrate, you know how wealthy that lord she married is.” 

“... Yes. Wonderful. Pray forgive me for my rudeness, but I’m due at the millers.” With a curt bow he turns and walks away, faster than the sedate pace he’d been walking at before, mind splintering in something bordering on panic. 

It tastes like gunpowder on his tongue.

Padmé Naberrie. Anakin’s first love. Returning to the village to show off her newborn son. What is he going to do? What can he do? Obi-Wan strides forward blindly, not recognizing his surroundings, not noticing when the villagers call out greetings to him. 

He operates for the rest of the day with mechanical indifference, writing down instructions for care of a sprained ankle, for an infected throat, without remembering any exchange made. All he knows is that he returns to the cottage with his pockets heavy with coin that he doesn’t recall accepting for services rendered that he could not under pain of death describe with any detail. 

Anakin greets him with a kiss, nuzzling his jaw, then quirks his eyebrows in silent query. When Obi-Wan shakes his head and averts his face, Anakin is left confused but doesn’t pester him. There have been other times—when he’s lost a patient—that Obi-Wan has acted similarly, and he feels like a proper heel for leading Anakin to believe a lie by not being forthcoming.

Guilt follows him throughout their meal, past their reading time, and into bed. It curdles in his stomach like milk left out to spoil when Anakin strokes his cheek and then turns over in bed, letting him be in his apparent wish for solitude.

That’s the way things go for another two days, the Sword of Damocles hanging over Obi-Wan’s head, Anakin’s increasing concern twisting the screw until Obi-Wan’s self-loathing is a burning coal where his heart used to be.

A liar by trade or habit he is not. Obi-Wan faces each day with the despair of a man marching to meet the noose until the inevitable snap comes.

Two days later, they’re breaking fast in their newfound silence. Obi-Wan has made it his new habit to stare at his hands rather than watch Anakin move around the kitchen, confident despite his disability, when Anakin says, offhand, “Padmé asked to dance at the celebration, but, really, I’d rather… Obi-Wan?”

“Celebration?” His blood turns sluggish in his veins and his heart pounds. 

“The barn dance?” Anakin closes a cupboard, tucking a cup under his severed forearm. “Surely they’re discussing it in the village? I can’t imagine that they aren’t, there’s not much else to gossip about this late in the year. That her parents will pay for the mead and the entertainment will make it the grandest party they’ve seen in years, I’m certain.”

“When…” Obi-Wan wets his mouth. “When did Padmé ask this of you?” 

Anakin’s perplexed glance cuts Obi-Wan to the quick. “What? Did I not—oh, bloody hell, I didn’t tell you, did I? You took a queer turn that night and then I, er, had other matters on my mind once we resolved our… misunderstanding,” he mutters, cheeks blazing red. 

Obi-Wan can only sit there at the kitchen table, fingernails biting into his palms.

“Is that the reason why you’ve been so troubled lately?” Anakin sets the cups down. Over the fire the kettle whistles. “Were you jealous?”

“No!” Obi-Wan denies swiftly.

Anakin seems unconvinced. “Jealous over Padmé. Did we not go over this? How many times must I tell you that I love you before you’ll believe me?” Hurt bleeds into his voice, matching the mounting stress at the corners of his eyes. The kettle is spitting now, nearly screeching over the fire. “Were you even going to tell me? Or were you going to wait and see if no one mentioned it to me so as not to upset me?”

Obi-Wan wants to defend himself but cannot. His tongue lies numb against the roof of his mouth. He hadn’t thought that far, paralyzed by indecision. Burdened with an excess of nervous energy and dread, he abruptly stands up, knocking the stool to the floor.

“The kettle is burning,” he announces, taking up a thick cloth to pull the hook from the hearth, shoulders pulled tightly inwards as if doing so would turn him into a smaller target or allow him to hide from Anakin’s disappointment.

“That’s all you have to say?” 

The question digs into Obi-Wan’s ribs. “What do you want me to say?” he snaps like a wounded, cornered beast. The metal sears his palm through the cloth.

Anakin slams his hand down on the table. “That you trust me! That you have faith in us. I’m not demanding the impossible from you, Obi-Wan, for God’s sake.”

Obi-Wan's chest heaves with each ragged breath as the weight of his own doubts bear down on him like a suffocating blanket. Anakin's attempts to reason with him feel like feeble echoes in the vast chasm of his mind.

"Trust you? Trust us?" Obi-Wan's voice trembles with a mixture of fear and frustration, his hands fists at his sides. "How can I trust anything when all I can see is the specter of Padmé looming over us? When you are still so young, when you have had no other choice than to rely on me? After what I did to you?”

“What?” Anakin pauses. The tenseness in his face morphs into confusion. “What in heaven’s name are you talking about? You have done nothing but care for me. I am not some easily-led boy without thoughts of his own. I had a choice, and I chose you. I will always choose you.”

Obi-Wan winces, his doubts now given shape by being spoken out loud, twisting what feels like a dagger in his heart. "I'm sorry, Anakin. I'm so sorry."

Before Anakin can respond, Obi-Wan is already heading for the door, leaving his mess behind. 

—

Owen is startled to find Anakin brushing down Artoo in the stables but collects himself after a few seconds. “Mother did not mention you were coming today,” he offers as parlay. 

“She doesn’t know I’m here.” Though that might be a lie. Shmi has her way of discovering things. Though if she does know he’s out there, she also knows that he’s not inclined to discuss his mood, or what brought him out to the farm for the first time in months. 

He shouldn’t have stayed away for so long, as proven by his reaction to go to the one place where he felt he could calm down—with the horses. The familiar smells of clean hay and manure are part of his identity, of the person who calls themselves Anakin Skywalker, who hasn’t ridden a horse for too, too long. 

It’s past time to remedy that.

“Are you sure…” Owen trails off delicately.

“Did I ever need my hands before to ride?” Anakin lifts an eyebrow. His stepbrother ducks his head with a little wry smile, both of them recalling the many showy stunts that Anakin would pull while atop a horse.

“Nay, you did not,” grants Owen, and turns away to go ahead with his chores. He’ll find that Anakin has already mucked the stalls, refilled the troughs, and made sure the buckets of water had not frozen.

“Wait,” Anakin calls out to him. He fidgets, scratching the back of his neck, resisting the urge to kick at the ground like the child he’d insisted to Obi-Wan that he wasn’t. Artoo snickers into his hair. “Might not need two hands to ride or brush Artoo, but I could… use your aid with saddling up.” 

Owen turns around immediately, surprised again. It’s not often that Anakin has ever asked him for help; rarer still since he returned from the war, ornery and defiant about his missing hand. 

They saddle up Artoo, and Owen hangs back, hands clasped behind him, tensely watching as Anakin swings a leg over and up, settling on Artoo’s back. Though he lacks some of the smoothness that he once possessed, he’s unquestionably at home within seconds of bracing for something to go awry. 

Artoo is uncharacteristically patient, pawing at the ground instead of attempting to dislodge him. The old horse used to belong to the Naberrie family until they decided he was too ill-tempered to maintain, and Padmé had subtly suggested that they sell Artoo to the Lars farm. She’d known that Anakin had a soft spot for him. 

Anakin’s smile drops off his face. 

“You want me to join you?” Owen doesn’t try to pet Artoo’s neck. He’s learned that lesson at the cost of nipped fingers. 

“No, I won’t go far.” Anakin tightens his thighs, guiding the horse with his body. Artoo had stayed behind, too old and too well-loved to be taken into war, and the moment they step out of the barn and into the light layer of snow, he takes off at a gallop that feels like a chastisement. Why were you gone so long? Where have you been?

Anakin keeps his seat, ducking low. Artoo knows the paths as well as Anakin does, perhaps even better by this point, so Anakin can close his eyes and let the wind tear through his hair, whisking away the tears squeezing out of the corners of his eyes.

Obi-Wan. There’s a horrible, lurching weight in Anakin’s gut. He may sometimes be accused of not being the most intelligent or perceptive man, but he isn’t a fool. This might have been triggered by Padmé, but she’s merely a friend. She’s married, and has her own family, at peace with her life. Anakin doesn’t stay awake nights haunted by thoughts of what could have been. 

Apparently the same can’t be said for Obi-Wan. 

Artoo’s hooves pound the grass and earth, tearing up clods with the force of his strides. The beat of his gallop matches the nervous pitter-patter of Anakin’s pulse. Does Obi-Wan regret this? Us? 

And, most gallingly, bringing bile up his throat; is he only with me because he feels guilty?

Anakin immediately thrusts that thought into the darkest oubliette of his mind, slamming as many doors shut behind it as he can muster, and yet it refuses to be banished. It follows him back to the stable, where he rubs Artoo down, teeth grinding together, eyes suspiciously dry. Like a ghost, it haunts him into the house as he walks past his mother and upstairs into his room, which is still the same as he left it. 

He hates every inch of it. 

It resurfaces with acidic sharpness as the sun sets, and he doesn’t go home. It coils around his bones like a parasitic ivy and climbs into his lungs, choking him as he stares at the ceiling that’s so different from the one he’s grown used to. And even though there’s a fireplace in his room, he’s cold.

The next day he gets up as if he’d slept and performs his chores as if he’d never left the farm. Beru and Owen want to ask what’s happening, but whatever they read on his face is enough to keep them quiet. 

Or maybe it’s his mother, who squeezes his shoulder and thrusts warm slices of bread slathered with his favorite jam until, suddenly, it’s three days later, the night of the barn party, and he’s standing outside, hesitant to go in.

Padmé’s message via his mother had requested that he come and dance at least once. He knows it’s her way of trying to beckon him back into the fold, her gentle nudge that he’s isolated himself for long enough. Even off in her new life, her heart is big enough to still include him. 

Anakin pinches the bridge of his nose, cloaked in shadows. The inside of the barn is lit up with lanterns. Music and laughter spill out into the cold night air. His family has gone on ahead without him to join the festivities. It’s only reticence and heartsickness that bind his feet to the ground, unable to either go in or leave. 

Where would he go? He doesn’t feel like he belongs anywhere. Not if Obi-Wan is martyring himself for something that wasn’t his damned fault in the first place. That’s not the love that Anakin wants, no matter how his heart cries out for him to return to Obi-Wan and greedily take anything and everything.

Anakin rubs his face, feeling far older than his years, fingers grinding down on his eyelid until blue and black blooms behind them. Footsteps crunch the snow near him, and he turns away to merge deeper into the shadows, refusing to partake in awkward chit chat with anyone. 

But the footsteps follow him.

I have failed him. 

There are no words to convey the depths of my rage and grief. No curse vile enough. 

Anakin is… he is not speaking to me. To anyone. But he at least allows me to touch him, to wipe away the tears that streak down his face. I don’t think he notices he’s even crying. If I am maddened by this anger, then he is incandescent with it. 

I was not there to protect him as I should have been. He knows it. I know it. His fracture was not serious. He was not in danger of infection. Now, because of the goddamned judgment of a butcher masquerading as a doctor, Anakin has not only lost his hand and a great deal of his arm, but he is now vulnerable to the very thing that wretched creature assumed was inevitable. 

Many are those we lose to infection over the most minor of cuts. Preventive measures are sometimes necessary. I have learned to understand the grim mathematics behind practicing medicine in a war. 

I have also learned enough to know that Anakin was in no danger of that. I know he fought them. That they called many men to hold him down as he screamed and called for me while they took a bone saw and tore into him like beasts. 

Screamed for me while I was elsewhere, occupied with mindless tasks, arguing with a captain over the correct usage of medicinal whiskey. Nearly bled to death as he bucked and bit at the hands that forced him down to the table, into the straps. 

My darling. My beautiful mo leannan. 

This is my fault and I will spend the rest of my life if need be to fix this.

OWK

Anakin is slow to face him. Someone has helped him tame his hair, tying it back into a neatly fashionable queue, his clothes of good material but fitting him oddly, as if borrowed. Since he hasn’t been to the cottage in days, Obi-Wan assumes that they are borrowed.

Since Anakin doesn’t immediately punch him in the jaw, Obi-Wan tentatively takes this as a good sign. He spreads his hands in front of him as if to show that he’s carrying no weapons and means no harm. 

Still, Anakin says nothing. Just stares at him as if it were Obi-Wan who had vanished. As if unsure if Obi-Wan isn’t an apparition. 

Whatever the circumstances, it’s a great relief to see Anakin, though, he doesn’t miss the telltale signs of insomnia ringing his eyes. In that aspect, they match; Obi-Wan isn’t sure if he’s slept more than a handful of hours in days.

“I’m sorry.” The words fall from his lips and land softly on the snow like a feather, too weightless for all that they should convey. Close by, there’s a band playing a merry tune and he’s envious. Envious of all those people inside who can take their beloveds into their arms and spin them around the dance floor. 

Anakin’s eyes narrow. “What are you sorry for?” he asks dangerously. 

“For being afraid.” Obi-Wan’s arms fall limp at his sides. He wants to hang his head but forces himself to keep his spine straight, facing Anakin head on. “For not believing you could love me.”

“Because I blamed you?” Anakin lifts his arm, the sleeve pinned tight against the stump. “Funny, I don’t remember seeing you among the men that held me down and took my arm.”

Obi-Wan flinches. 

“You’re absurd.” Anakin bridges the distance between them. His eyes look more black than blue, like the night sky. “What if our places had been switched? What if it had been you hurt in that hospital instead of me? Would you have blamed me for what those bastards did?” 

“I wish I had been!” Obi-Wan blurts out. His hands come up and he’s helpless to stop them from cupping Anakin’s dear face. Just as he’s helpless himself from drifting forward to pepper kisses across Anakin’s brow, the slope of his nose, the line of his jaw, nosing his cheek, the act of a desperate man who has been starved of sustenance for too long. 

Anakin gasps, a tiny, wet sound, and Obi-Wan has to devour it with his mouth, swallow it down. “I love you, I love you,” he finds himself whispering over and over again, letting the contents of his heart spill out like a dam bursting. “I love you so much, mo leannan, my beautiful boy, Anakin. I shouldn't—”

Anakin grips his nape with a vice-like hold. “You should,” he answers raggedly against Obi-Wan’s mouth. “You should love me forever, even when we argue and fight.”

“I do, I will,” Obi-Wan swears, wrapping his arms around Anakin. They push against each other and also pull, almost losing their balance and tumbling into the snow. Their noses bump, and Anakin laughs.

They aren’t done talking; there’s still much they need to discuss. But who can be expected to keep that in mind when their ears are filled with Anakin’s mirth? Obi-Wan nuzzles his lover’s face, relieved and grateful and awed, the panic that had been his constant companion as of late unhooking its claws from his flesh.

They’ve unintentionally started moving to the music drifting out of the barn, neither leading or following, swaying together. Anakin rests his head on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, his eyelashes leaving butterfly kisses on Obi-Wan’s neck. 

“Should we go inside?” Obi-Wan feels prompted to ask at length, even though his grip on Anakin tightens, loath to let go. “You promised Padmé that you would dance.”

“I am dancing,” Anakin murmurs. “It counts.” 

It doesn’t, probably, but Obi-Wan smiles and doesn’t argue.