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Chapter Text

“The intrusion does not trigger reflexive action. The organ remains largely functional. Hypothesis: removal of the liver’s caudate lobe will trigger reflexive action. Total reconstruction is unlikely.”

Anakin talks.

The Jedi listen.

Then, very quietly, they open two investigations.

The first, into the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic.

The second, into Senator Padme Amidala of Naboo.

Someone slides into the bench across from Anakin. 

Anakin looks up from where he’s been poking listlessly at his plate.

“Obi was by my side every step of the way, Skywalker,” says Quinlan Vos. “So I will do the same for his kid, whether you want my help or not.”

“And of course, I must ask, how is Knight Skywalker doing?” the Chancellor asks. “I simply can’t imagine the sort of grief he must be dealing with at the moment.”

“I regret to inform you, Chancellor,” Plo says heavily, “that the psychic backlash from the bond snapping has rendered Knight Skywalker unable to return to the field for the foreseeable future.”

The Chancellor looks startled. “Oh, dear. He’s a very good friend of mine. Is he able to receive visitors?”

“Regrettably not, Chancellor,” Plo says. “His current instability means anyone without the requisite training in Force shielding risks being dealt severe psychic damage.”

The Chancellor leans forward slightly. “Instability?”

“I apologize that I cannot give you any more information at this time, sir,” Mace says. “Patient privacy is of paramount importance to us. I know the two of you are close. Rest assured he is receiving the best possible care.”

Palpatine smiles. “Of course. I have full faith in your Healers. Do pass on my condolences.”

Mace bows his head. “Of course, Chancellor.”

The blue holo flickers out. The councilors look at each other.

“Trust him, I do not,” Yoda says solemnly. “Concerning, it is, that he knew, and said nothing.”

Instability, Sidious thinks gleefully. How wonderful.

When Padme hears the door chime, she feels a surge of hope. 

Anakin hasn’t responded to any of her messages, nor has she even caught a glimpse of him since the news broke of his Master’s death. She knows both the 501st and the 212th have been recalled to Coruscant, but she hasn’t heard a peep from the Temple.

She is a practiced politician, so she doesn’t let a single flicker of disappointment cross her face when she opens the door to find, instead of her husband, the Master of the Order and a Chalactian Jedi she hasn’t met before.

“Senator Amidala,” Master Windu says, his face as stoic as ever.

“Master Windu,” she says, smiling. “This is a pleasant surprise. I’m afraid I don’t know…?”

“Apologies. Let me introduce Master Depa Billaba, a member of the Council and my former Padawan.”

The Jedi nods at her, offering a smile. 

“Apologies for interrupting you in your personal quarters, Senator,” she says smoothly. “But I’m afraid we must discuss something with you that is best kept out of the Senate. May we come in?”

They settle in the living room. C3PO serves tea. 

The expressions of the two Jedi are perfectly serene. She hesitates for a moment. Would it be revealing too much if-?

But she has to know.

“How is Knight Skywalker coping?”

Their expressions reveal nothing at all. 

“He has been temporarily suspended from active duty, Senator,” Billaba says. “There were irregularities in his conduct immediately preceding Master Kenobi’s death that have proven cause for concern.”

What?

“Suspended? But he’s one of your best generals!”

Windu sets his cup of tea down with a clink.

“We do not measure the worth of our own by their military prowess, Senator.”

The way they’re both looking at her…

Padme takes a breath. “I apologize for my outburst, Masters. I simply- with the death of Master Kenobi, I find myself off-kilter. He is sorely missed by many.”

Master Billaba smiles at her.

“Understandable, Senator,” she says. “After all, to be angry is to be human, is it not?”

Silence.

Something cold trickles down her spine.

Pale skin, peeled back like an orange, is held in place with metal clips. Blood bubbles up from a methodical incision in the lung, a metal shunt sliding between flayed ribs-

Padme sets her cup down carefully.

“What is the purpose of your visit, Masters?” 

Master Windu’s gaze is sharp.

“I will speak plainly, Senator. Anakin Skywalker committed a crime three years ago on Tatooine. He murdered a camp of Tatooine's indigenous inhabitants, known colloquially as 'Sandpeople.' The dead numbered approximately seventy. He confessed to you after the act.”

Padme stares at him. 

“You did not encourage him to seek help. You did not report his actions to the relevant authorities. Instead, you sought to justify them. Why?”

The world turns stark and sharp around her.

Padme takes a deep breath and folds her hands on her lap.

“They killed his mother, Master Windu. I understand this may not be the Jedi way, but they earned his anger. They would have faced no justice for their crime on Tatooine.”

“‘They killed his mother,’” Master Billaba repeats, and then, her face still utterly calm- 

“Even the children, Senator?”

Padme swallows.

“They were animals-”

“Does one usually use the terms men, women and children when talking about animals?”

Her voice dies in her throat. 

“Then,” Master Windu says, “you chose to marry him.”

Padme draws herself up. Here, she is on more solid ground. Here, she knows she is right- after all, she loves him, and he loves her. She knows this. Regardless of what the Jedi may think of relationships-

“I am not here to dispute the tenets of our philosophy with you, Senator.” Windu says, cutting her off. “There was not a single one of us unaware that you and Skywalker were in a relationship. You were hardly subtle. I speak to you now as a politician. By marrying a Jedi- who was, notably, underage at the time- you compromised both your own neutrality and the neutrality of the Order, even more so by refusing to disclose the marriage in a timely manner. If this comes to light, every action the Jedi have taken in this war will be reevaluated to make sure Naboo was not unfairly favored. Every action you yourself have taken, every bill you have sponsored- doubt will be cast upon all of them. Were you against the war because you truly wanted peace, or simply because you wanted your husband off the front lines?

“You are one of the primary advocates for clone rights in the Senate. You are aware your position is an unpopular one. Do you truly think your opponents would not jump on any opportunity to prove you are compromised?”

She bites back the instinctive flash of irritation. “They can look all they want, Master Windu, but I am not compromised, and I do not appreciate such aspersions being cast on my integrity-”

He leans forward. “Then explain to me, Senator,” he says, no hint of mercy in his tone, “what exactly happened with Grievous.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about-”

“You made a unilateral decision to trade a leading Separatist general for Anakin Skywalker,” Master Billaba says, her gaze sharp. “Do you dispute that?”

“I-”

“Do you know how many troopers have died directly by his hand since his release?” she continues. “Eighteen, so far. Eight of the 501st. Ten from my own battalion, although we were only able to recover nine and a half bodies. The casualties, both civilian and military, that have occurred on his orders are uncountable.”

“So you would have left him there?” Padme snaps, her composure fraying. 

“Have you completely forgotten Geonosis?” Windu asks. His tone is scathing. “What have we done to make you think we leave our own behind?”

That stops her in her tracks. Of course she hadn’t forgotten- 

“We are not completely incapable, Senator,” Master Billaba says. “But you made your decision without alerting the Senate or us. You knowingly gave up an advantage that could have turned the tide of the war."

Protests spring to her lips. 

General Skywalker is more valuable to the Republic than Grievous is to the Separatists-

As a Senator, I had the authority to make that trade-

General Skywalker’s loss would have crippled the war effort-

But the Senate has been very busy since the news of Obi-Wan’s death broke.

She has to acknowledge- 

It was never the loss of Anakin that was going to cripple the war effort.

Thirty survivors out of two hundred and twelve.

No. The Jedi don’t leave their own behind. 

“Where is Anakin now?”

The two Jedi glance at each other, and Padme gets the distinct feeling she’s just failed some sort of test.

“Anakin Skywalker confessed,” Master Windu says slowly. “He is receiving the help that he badly needs. That you were instrumental in denying him. His movements are currently restricted to the Temple, both for his own safety and the safety of those around him.”

Sympathy flickers in Master Billaba’s steady gaze. “Love lives in the acknowledgement of flaws, Senator, not the ignorance of them.”

A pause.

“I think,” Padme says, her voice chilly, “that this meeting is over.”

The two Jedi stand. Master Windu reaches into his robe and pulls out a manila folder. 

“The casualty reports from Grievous’ most recent campaign,” he says coolly, and places it on the table between them. “I believe you may find it of interest.”

Master Billaba adjusts her robes. “I suggest that you take a closer look at the type of politician you wish to be going forward.”

“May the Force be with you, Senator,” Master Windu says. It sounds like a warning. 

The door slides open, and they’re gone.

Padme sits on the couch, staring at the manila folder, until her tea goes cold.

Eventually, she opens it.

White lightning flickers across bloody muscle as it shudders and jumps, trying to knit itself back together. 

The door slides open. The shadow on the bed doesn’t move.

When Quinlan flicks the light on, he sees the younger man lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. The Force is roiling with a nauseating mixture of grief and anger and ugly frustration.

Right.

“Skywalker, you’re gonna be late for breakfast. Come on, up you get-”

“Do you know,” Skywalker says, his voice dull, “what I said to him?”

“Captain Rex,” General Windu says. “I would like to offer a formal apology.”

Rex stares at him.

“Sir?”

He looks exhausted.

“It has recently come to our attention that Senator Amidala made a unilateral decision to trade General Grievous for General Skywalker. I want you to know that this action was undertaken without the knowledge or approval of the Order.”

He sighs.

“I saw the latest casualty reports, Captain. I’m sorry.”

And Rex- 

Rex doesn’t know quite what to say.

When Skywalker’s words run out, Quinlan takes a moment to breathe.

The fury that kindles behind his sternum burns like a supernova. He-

Old habits, Quin, he reminds himself. 

It’s not just fury there, is it?

He takes it in hand and examines it carefully.

There’s anger there, yes. Anger at the injustice- that Obi-Wan had constantly been held up against a dead man, and had been found wanting every time. Frustration, too- that Skywalker had refused to listen, that it had taken Obi-Wan’s death for the scales to fall from his eyes. 

And grief, too. Always the ache of grief.

He sighs, and lets it settle.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Skywalker doesn’t look at him. He just shrugs.

Oh, Quinlan knows this all too well.

“Get up,” he says, and keeps a careful eye on him as he says, “We’re going to spar.”

Standing in the shadows of the room, he sees tension leech from Skywalker’s shoulders.

Got you.

“Reflexive action is only initiated when organ function is irrevocably compromised. No corresponding rise in midichlorian levels in isolated blood samples.” 

“Sabers?”

“No. Hand to hand.”

Jab. Cross. Side-step. Block. Jab. Rear hook. Block. Cross. Block. Jab. Block. Block. Bl- 

Vos ducks, pivots, and Anakin staggers backward as a fist slams into his face. White-hot pain shatters in his jaw, and his balance gives way. He looks up at Vos from where he lands on his back, waiting- hoping- for another blow, but Vos doesn’t make another move. He just drops his hands and stands there.

He doesn’t even look- angry. Not really.

He just looks sad.

“Did that make you feel better, Skywalker?”

He brings one hand up to his cheek. Poking it sends a flurry of reddish-orange sparks across his field of vision. “Wh- you punched me!”

“Yeah,” Vos snaps, “and you’re the one who told me what you said. Why?”

Why?

Because he can’t sleep. Because every time he closes his eyes he sees Obi-Wan’s face, the way his expression had crumpled, the way his eyes had gone cold, how the bond had slammed shut- 

Because he hears his own voice, snapping, sneering, and it’s clawing at his insides, and he needs someone to know, someone has to-

Vos sighs, and sits down next to him. 

“This won’t be pleasant for you to hear, Skywalker. But someone’s gotta tell you, and Obi-Wan’s not here to do it.

“You didn’t tell me because you thought it was the right thing to do. You told me because you knew I’d kick your ass for it, and you would be able to tell yourself you’d been punished, and that would be that. Fair’s fair. But it’s an excuse. It’s easier. Externalizing it is always easier. It’s easier, when you feel guilty or ashamed, to have someone else do the punishing instead of looking at why. And it’s easier, when you’re hurting, to let it turn you cruel. 

“It’s easier, Skywalker, but here’s the rub- it doesn’t make anything better. That punch? What did that do? It fractured your jaw, by the looks of it. It hurt my hand. But it didn’t take the words back. It didn’t bring Obi-Wan back. There’s a difference between sharing pain and making others shoulder it. I took my grief and anger and forced you to bear the consequences, and it didn’t do anything except make more people hurt.

“You can’t keep making other people shoulder your pain for you. You have to face it yourself, and you have to keep facing it. That’s the way home. It’s a long path, and it’s not easy. But it’s there, and I won’t leave you to walk it alone.”

They sit in silence for a long moment. 

The tears streaking down Anakin’s face are only partially due to the punch. Vos graciously doesn’t mention them.

“It’s not a battle to be fought and won once, Anakin,” he says quietly. 

Anakin, the lump in his throat nearly choking him, says, “I wish it was.”

Quinlan hums. “Maybe. But look at it this way- it’s not a battle to be fought and lost once, either.”

He unfolds himself and stretches, cracking his back. “Come on. Let’s get Che to take a look at that jaw. You’ve got an appointment with the mindhealer in an hour. I’ll get you a smoothie while you get fixed up.”

He offers Anakin a hand up.

Anakin takes it.

After the events concerning Pong Krell, the Council tells Cody, Obi-Wan had taken pains to ensure the 212th would not be placed under the command of an unknown General in the event of his- extended absence.

Thanks to Obi-Wan’s aggressive promotions, they say, he is able to retain sole command of the battalion without the aid of any nat-born officers.

Cody’s first instinct is to refuse it, because-

Well-

That’s Obi-Wan’s spot.

He can’t possibly-

But.

Small spaces, perhaps, Obi-Wan had said, with a smile that promised a future.

He can’t be Obi-Wan Kenobi.

But he can be Cody.

And that will have to be enough.

“Hm. A pity. I assume conscious control would result in initiating repairs at an earlier stage of damage. It’s a shame there’s no way of checking that.”

A scoff. “I sense your disappointment, apprentice. Irrelevant. Try electrocution. I want to see if the internalization produces a countercurrent. Useful information can still be gleaned.”

Chapter Text

the small gods are born of blood and bones and blaster-fire, small defenders of small lives-

(small voices singing them to sleep, singing them back to the dust)

too small to save them too small to keep them safe-

(nothing but ride-alongs)

they eat the prayers from their small lives with their small names under their small guard-

(but their names are bigger than anything, as big as the the river)

they call it the river, as much as they can call it anything, as much as a fish knows water or a human knows air.

(too much and not at all)

they are small gods for small lives. 

(small spaces, perhaps)

they stand guard and their small lives think standing guard is enough-

(it is not it never will be)

but they cannot save them they are too small-

(gods. a tragedy in motion) 

travel tears them apart and away but the small gods are small enough to stay-

(they keep the watch)

they carry the names of the small lives who ask to be remembered and it is a heavy burden- 

(but they will carry it always and the river shares the weight.)

The day after the funeral, Fox calls him General in 79’s.

Cody puts his drink down and walks out the back door into the alleyway, where he vomits convulsively until nothing is coming up but bile.

He slumps back against the wall, panting, and wipes a hand across his mouth.

The door swings open. Footsteps move across the filthy pavement.

“Oh, kriffin’ hells, vod’ika,” Fox says, crouching beside him. 

“Don’t,” Cody mutters, and to his distant, drunken horror, he feels tears begin to burn at the back of his eyes. “Please don’t. ‘s not my name. I don’ want-”

“Cody, you deserve it-”

“I don’t want to deserve it!” Cody shouts, and then, half-sobbing- 

“I want him back!”

Fox sighs, then, long and slow. He sits down on the pavement and wraps one arm around Cody’s shoulders. 

“‘Sittin’ in puke,” Cody informs him, because he’s a good brother. 

“I’ve sat in worse,” Fox says, and then, heavily-

“I’m sorry, Cody. I thought it was just Bly.”

Finally, the tears spill over.

“Don’ wanna deserve it,” he slurs. “Just wanna be a Commander. His Commander.”

Then it all spills out.

He’s not sure how much of it comes out coherent, between the alcohol and the hiccuping sobs, but Fox listens regardless.

Finally, the torrent of words trickles to a stop.

“Fine, Cody,” Fox says, after a moment of silence. “But General or Commander, you’re still here. Kenobi’s not. So you’re gonna have to step up. You’re gonna protect our brothers, because that’s what you do.

“Come on. I’ll see you back to the ship.”

their small lives give them a new name to remember. 

a name offered by thousands, an addition to the end of a song, ill-fitting-

remember please  

they know this name. this name is star-bright. this name keeps their small lives safe when they cannot.

but this is not a name that belongs to them.

this name belongs to the river.

where is he

he is gone, rumbles the river, he is gone from me i cannot reach him

what do you mean you cannot reach him you are the river you reach all

he is beyond me they stole him from me

find him he is bright he is important to our small lives 

i cannot find him, the river grieves

we cannot keep them safe he can keep them safe

i am sorry he is lost to me

there is one river-voice that they hear always when they ask, weeping, reaching-

my boy my boy my boy

the small gods go hunting.

The next day:

“Generals,” Cody says. “You’re going to have to trust us.”

General Koon leans forward slightly, the blue holo flickering. “I hope we never implied that we didn’t-”

“No, sir. It’s not a matter of disregard. But at the beginning of the war, far too many Jedi with minimal military experience started turning to General Kenobi for advice when they could have been turning to their commanders instead. You know this as well as I do, sir- he was never going to turn them away. He was writing battle plans for divisions that weren’t even part of the Third Systems Army. He knew he was good, and he never would have turned them down just so he could get some sleep, because he knew my brothers would pay the price.”

The Council are very, very good at keeping their composure. But Cody knows what it looks like, when a realization brings on yet another unexpected wave of grief.

He’s been feeling that a lot, lately.

“And they got- complacent. But Obi-Wan- General Kenobi isn’t here to help them anymore. If they can’t handle it, they need to start relying on their commanders instead.”

He hesitates for a moment, and then lifts his chin. He’d shared the memory. It’s up to them if they make the connection or not. 

“If you give my brothers more space, they will step forward to fill it.”

He sees a flash of recognition in Windu’s eyes, at least. 

“Thank you for your advice, Commander,” Billaba says at last. “We’ll pass that down.”

“We didn’t know he was dealing with all of that,” says Koon quietly. “He never said-”

He trails off.

Of course he didn’t. 

Windu sighs. “We’ll need to keep a closer eye on those under our command. We can make sure no one ends up shouldering such an uneven burden again.”

Cody nods once, quick and sharp. “I’ll forward you the list of those who were requesting General Kenobi’s assistance. I’ll make sure their Commanders are aware their responsibilities will be increasing in the near future.”

So the Jedi don’t have any excuse not to ask them.

the small gods search. 

something is changing.

they tether themselves to their small lives and reach- 

farther than they’ve ever been able to before. farther than they’ve ever thought to before. 

they whip along desert sandstorms and swarm onto the backs of big-sharp-uglies in choking hot swamps. they drift on currents down to ocean depths and ride sharp rays of sunlight along barren plains of ice. they surf on stellar radiation and dive deep into sunspots,

seeking,

seeking, 

always on the hunt.

The 212th is redeployed three days after the funeral.

Their first campaign- a Separatist incursion on Arcogari. 

“You’re gonna protect our brothers,” Fox had said, “because that’s what you do.”

Cody breathes.

They go to war.

Three days after deployment, the messages start coming in. Attached to battle plans, from brothers he’s never even talked to-

From Sauro of the 584th- 

Solid entrenchment above the ridge. No air support. Suggestions?

From Card of the 122nd-

Trying to convince gen of pincer movement over frontal assault. Any advice on talking points?

From Fossil of the 491st-

Aerial assault risks compromising effectiveness of flanking maneuver. Projected CR too high. General Kio wants to run both. Urgent advice needed. 

Cody stares at his datapad, and thinks-

This is what it was like for you, wasn’t it?

It’s one thing to have your battalion depending on you. They are yours, you eat and sleep and live and die together. It’s another weight entirely to know that brothers you’ve never met will live or die on your words.

I don’t have to do this alone, he thinks, and then, the familiar grief sitting heavy behind his sternum-

Neither did you. Why didn’t you ask? We would have helped. Of course we would have helped.

Silly question. He knows why.

Obi-Wan would have rather walked out an airlock than add more weight to another’s burden. 

Once again, Ghost Company commandeers the General’s quarters.

Funny. No one had even thought to clean them out.

They trade datapads back and forth, quiet chatter filling the room. 

(His robe still hangs over the back of his chair.)

They make and break plans, offering criticism and commendations.

(Boxes of tea still fill the cupboards.)

They are surrounded by an enormous empty space.

(They do their best to fill it.)

They fight.

Helix presses down on a gaping wound to the abdomen, shrapnel gone all the way through, and Kenobi’s name is on his lips as he turns, searching for a flash of ginger hair, before he remembers-

There will be no stasis coming.

A bloody hand curls around his wrist.

“It’s okay, ‘lix,” Decker gasps out. When he grins, his teeth are bloody. “‘s’all gonna be okay.”

They fight.

Scuttlebutt travels fast among the units, especially with the 501st. They may be under Koon’s command now, but Rex is his batchmate. They make time.

Skywalker’s been stripped of his rank, Rex tells him over one of their holocalls. He’s confined to the Temple. 

“They don't even call him Knight anymore, Cody. Something else happened, I think,” Rex says, looking uneasy. “Tano won’t talk to me about it, but she calls General Koon Master, now. I don’t think this just has to do with what happened with Kenobi.”

As much as Cody wants to say it should, he knows Rex is right. 

Something else has happened. What did he do that was bad enough to strip him of his title?

What could he have possibly done that was worse than getting Obi-Wan killed?

They fight.

When it’s Cody’s turn in the mess line, Terror hands him two trays. One has a steaming cup of tea on it.

Cody takes them both, and makes it three steps away before realization nails his feet to the floor.

A ripple of quiet spreads out from where he stands.

Cody closes his eyes.

“Sorry, sir,” Terror mutters from behind him. “Forgot.”

They fight.

Reports keep coming in. Casualty rates, after an initial spike in certain units, have leveled out. The Commanders are stepping forward, stepping up, into the space that has opened up before them. 

Cody allows himself a brief moment of smugness. He has faith in his brothers, and the Jedi have faith in them.

Days pass. Then weeks. 

Then a month.

the small gods search. they have a new reach, a longer reach, and they put it to good use.

for the first time, they step outside the river.

it is very cold in the places where the river does not reach.

they find ruins carved with glyphs that turn the river from their doors. symbols that sing of a lack of honor and a lack of life, of a haunting. they search the ruins anyways, and come away with nothing but cold.

they find caverns full of dark and sharp-edged crystals that swallow the river whole if it approaches. but the hollow rocks do not notice the small gods. the small gods creep among them, shying away from the jagged edges that cut so cold, but they find nothing.

they find empty metal shells that drift through the dark void of space. creaking supports, fractures lining metal and glass. the hallways reek of death. they find nothing.

then.

the small gods find another place. 

in a valley nestled between mountains of ice, they find a sprawling spidery structure of metal. an echo of jagged-edged crystals ripples out from the foundations. they do not need to see the glyphs etched on the lodestones to know-

death is in the foundations.

death is in the walls.

death is in the air itself, death and despair and an ugly, choking darkness.

and it is here, in this place empty of love and light and life, that they find what is left of the river’s star-bright name.

we found him! they cry. we found him! 

but the river does not answer, when the small gods call out. the river cannot hear them, not here. it is blind to this soulless sprawl of metal that has made itself invisible. 

the river cannot find him, and it cannot bring him home.

there is a space here that the river cannot fill.

the small gods know their small lives are hunting too, with the riverfolk. not for the star-bright name- they think he is gone- but for the one who snuffed him out. he is here too. 

how to bring them here? how to bring him home?

the hunt is finished. but the job is not yet done.

a book, knocked off a shelf, falls open to a certain page.

a navigator glitches, producing a set of coordinates only a single digit off.

a holomap flickers slightly, drawing the eye to a particular sector.

the small gods leave small clues. 

it is enough.

Six weeks after the funeral, Ghost Company is gathered once again in the General’s rooms. Cody’s comm beeps with a message from General Windu.

Cody opens it- and stares. His focus narrows until there is nothing in front of him but the words:

Count Dooku has been located in a facility on Iwanaga. Requesting assistance from the 212th for a joint offensive.

“What’s going on, Commander?” Waxer asks. They’re all staring at him.

Cody looks up. A cool and controlled glee buzzes along his nerves.

“They’ve found Dooku,” he says, and watches their expressions shift. “We’re being called to assist.”

Unbidden, the memory flickers into his mind-

Obi-Wan, squeezing his shoulder, smiling at him- red light dancing over his face as he’s pinned to a wall, the saber of the man who was once his grandmaster sliding through his chest-

Cody snaps the comm shut.

They will capture him alive. He knows that will be key. Dooku has information that can end the war, that can save his brothers.

But they will also make sure it hurts. 

Chapter Text

A selection of the statements of Yan Dooku:

1. Tell me how you did it.
2. I saw the footage from Geonosis. You teleported.
3. Fascinating.
4. Your heart stopped. A stasis in a force suppression field? They think you’re dead.
5. They will not come.
6. Tell me what you did.
7. If you won’t give me answers, Sidious will take them. He will be here tomorrow. 
8. There will not be enough left of you to share anything. 
9. They will not come.
10. There’s no harm in taking precautions. 

A selection of the statements of Obi-Wan Kenobi:

1. They will come.
2. They will come.
3. They will come.
4. They will come.
5. They will come.
6. They will come.
7. They will come.
8. They will come.
9. They will come.
10. They will come.

(And, later, when his spinal cord is severed, as the skin on his hand is peeled away like a glove, as they cut behind his eyes and ears and neatly sever the optical and auditory nerves, there is screaming. A lot of screaming.)

The Force curls and crackles under his skin, standing in for a damaged lung, flowing through his veins when they hook him to an IV and bleed him dry -

(please. please. so tired.)

keeping him alive -

He is blind and deaf and hurting when Sidious comes. The Sith shreds what’s left of his shields like paper.

(so cold. distantly, faintly familiar -)

But.

Obi-Wan has had a lot of practice making himself small. 

He has tucked himself out of the way, letting the Force flood into him. He has dropped an anchor and drifted away, unspooling a thread behind him, so he knows where to pull himself back. He has lingered in the currents of the Force, holding on, until voices nudge at him, reaching for him, letting him know it’s safe to come home.

There is no river here to hide in. There are only remnants left, with no way to retreat into infinity.

Sidious cannot be allowed to find him. He is a general. If the Sith finds -

- battle plans, then his men will die by blaster-fire.

- medical reports, then his men will die by the needle.

- the chips, then his men will die strangled in their own minds.

The same thread that would lead him out will lead Sidious to him.

There’s no time.

He cannot keep them safe on the battlefield. 

But here and now -

Obi-Wan folds himself up, as small as he can, as the Sith comes looking for him. He flings himself back, away from the darkness, solid and real, that slips into his lungs and into his mouth and behind his eyes, and falls backwards into an emptiness rent with lightning. The void batters at him, dragging at him, pulling him apart, and as Obi-Wan tumbles further away he curls inwards and holds on to one thing and one thing only -

They will come. 

He cuts the tether.

And he’s gone.

Sidious blinks, scowling slightly. 

“My Lord?”

There is the briefest flicker of hesitation, and then - 

“He had nothing to contribute. Kenobi will no longer be a problem. Take him apart and find what you can. I would like some useful data for all the trouble he’s caused us.”

Dooku bows his head as the Sith Lord sweeps out of the room without a backwards glance. His gaze flickers to the limp body. Morbid curiosity pricks at him, and he extends a mental probe - 

The gaping emptiness that meets it sends him reeling. 

Oh.

The body is limp. There is no tension left in the muscles. 

Sidious snuffed him out.

His eyes are half-lidded, his gaze empty. 

Like a candle.

Qui-Gon has been relegated to the role of observer for over a decade now.

It does not lessen the pain of the helplessness he feels when the red blade slides between his Padawan’s ribs.

When he screams, the Force screams with him, but he can do nothing - they can do nothing, nothing but watch.

Qui-Gon waits to welcome him home. The transition is disorienting, the snapping of bonds, the fading - it is best when there is someone there to catch you.

He has so much to tell him.

A jagged wound gapes in the Force and does not heal.

Obi-Wan does not come home.

The Jedi hold a funeral. His Memory blossoms and burns like a sun.

Obi-Wan does not come home.

Grief suffuses the Force, thick and heavy and choking.

Obi-Wan does not come home.

Something is wrong.

When the small gods return, they come sparking with news.

They found him. They found Obi-Wan, they found his boy, but something is wrong, something is - 

Qui-Gon cannot quite understand.

star-bright name is a gutter-flame, they say, pared down, so small, unmatching, ill-fitting -

(In truth, he does understand. He just doesn’t want to acknowledge it, because if he does -)

Regardless. Obi-Wan remains out of his reach, and he weeps for it.

How can I get to him? he asks them. How can I help him?

we found the riverfolk, the small gods say, smug. we laid a trail. they are coming. they bring the river with them. you follow. you come. 

Who? Who is coming?

the guardian. the guardian, and star-bright’s small lives. they are coming. he knew they would.

The guardian?

Flickers of impressions flurry through the Force, and Qui-Gon would smile if he could. 

A fitting name for his old friend.

The small gods have a plan. In flashes of impressions and colors, in translations, they explain. 

Underground, about a hundred meters from the main complex, rests the lodestone for the force suppressor field hiding the compound from Qui-Gon’s view. Next to it is a secondary generator, the power source for the -

the -

oil-slick, the small gods try. cold metal. bites like a knife. he cannot reach out. you cannot reach in. 

they shiver. it makes alone. a cut-off. you know. down in the mines.

The small gods mean Kadavo.

Qui-Gon thinks of a skinny, filthy twelve-year-old, offering to blow himself up with the bomb around his neck, and shies away from the memory -

so many mistakes -

A collar? he offers. The Force shudders with disgust.

yes. collar.

Dooku collared his boy -

listen. we will get him out. you are needed. listen. 

The 212th is planning an aerial bombardment. This would be an excellent tactic in any other scenario. Destroy the infrastructure, remove the enemy’s ability to flee, then go in and do mop-up. Dooku has enough control over the Force to stop rubble from crushing him flat. They will trap him, then they will find him. They do not particularly care who else in the complex dies.

They should.

not their fault, the small gods say sadly. they do not know.

I know, Qui-Gon replies, aching. He has watched them fight alongside Obi-Wan for over two years now. He has seen the scale of their love and their grief. He knows - 

If they knew Obi-Wan was alive, there would have been nothing in the galaxy that would have stopped them from coming for him.

The 212th does not know the location of the secondary generator. They don’t even know it exists. The bombs will demolish the complex and the aerial infrastructure, forcing Dooku out into front-line combat - 

And Obi-Wan will die. Again.

No.

What do you need me to do?

The bombardment cannot hit the complex. It must be redirected. The payload can take out the secondary generator and destroy the lodestone in one blow. The collar will power off, and the suppression fields will go down.

then the river comes, the small gods say, sounding satisfied. the river will fix it. the river will fix him. 

What needs fixing?

A hesitation, and then - 

all of him.

Cody rounds the corner to the medbay just in time to see Helix walking out, his stride stiff and controlled in the way it is when he’s restraining himself from throwing something at the wall.

“Helix,” Cody says, coming to a stop. “How is -?”

“Awake,” Helix snaps out, brushing past him without stopping. “If you agitate him, I’m leaving you for dead next time we run into Grievous.”

Cody stares after him. That’s not a good sign. He’d only caught a glimpse of the General before Koon and the medics had descended on him, and he’d looked pale but conscious -

But he’s learned by now that “conscious” means very little.

And Rex had said - 

He enters the medbay.

The General’s bed is curtained off - a perk of rank, allowing him some measure of privacy. When Cody steps in, he takes a moment to make sense of what he’s seeing.

Obi-Wan is lying on his stomach, face turned away from the entrance, and his back -

His back -

Cody looks away before he has to acknowledge anything beyond the sheen of bacta. 

(were those ribbons of skin -?)

“Cody,” Obi-Wan says. He turns his head towards the entrance with visible effort, and Cody hurriedly sits down in his field of vision. His voice is thin and exhausted.

But warm. Always warm.

“General,” he replies. “How are you feeling?”

Obi-Wan smiles at him. “Been better. But, then again, I’ve also been worse. So I’ll count this as a win.”

“Helix looked as angry as I’ve ever seen him when I ran into him outside the medbay,” Cody says, testing.
Obi-Wan scoffs, and then winces immediately after. Cody’s concern ratchets up another notch. “He exaggerates.”

“He doesn’t,” Cody says drily.

Obi-Wan, with great dignity, chooses to ignore that. “What can I help you with? I’m afraid Helix has forbidden me from paperwork for the next three rotations - which is patently absurd, as I’ve told him, I’ll be fine to sit up tomorrow - but I’m happy to assist where I can.”

(is he feverish or just delusional -?)

Cody clears his mind with difficulty. “Nothing like that, sir. I just - I wanted to ask you about something Rex mentioned.”

He takes another look at Obi-Wan and reconsiders. He’s wounded, he’s clearly tired, and Cody doesn’t want to risk agitating him. There’s always tomorrow -

“By all means, Commander,” Obi-Wan says, and smiles at him. “I wouldn’t mind the company.”

Well. He’s already here, after all.

“Rex said you weren’t going to kill that slaver, sir. Why?”

(his back is shredded like paper)

Obi-Wan sighs.

“Please don’t think I am criticizing Rex’s actions when I say this, my dear, but - that was revenge. Not justice.”

“You don’t think he deserved it?”

“It’s not a question of whether I think he deserves it. An action can be both revenge and justice on its own, but there is a reason we distinguish between the two. Justice is done thoughtfully. Revenge is done in anger.”

He shifts slightly, and then hisses through his teeth. “People may think that they committed revenge out of a desire to see justice done, but that logic is applied retrospectively. If you let your anger rule you, you’ll find it’s much easier to justify actions retrospectively rather than to refrain from acting entirely. If I had killed him, it may have been justice, but I would have spent the rest of my life wondering if I had done it because it was just or because I was angry.”

The subject matter is hardly cheerful, yet Cody only barely manages to hide his smile. He had figured out fairly quickly that Obi-Wan, no matter how talented he was at war, was a teacher at heart. Something in his eyes always lights up when he’s explaining something, and it’s hearing him slip into that tone that finally convinces Cody that he really will be alright.

“It’s particularly dangerous for a Jedi. Anger leads to the Dark Side. This is why mindfulness is so important - and why revenge is so dangerous, especially for a Jedi. It’s much, much easier to not question and reflect upon your anger when you can tell yourself it’s justified. And if you don’t reflect on it, then you keep acting on it, because you think it’s justified and that makes it okay. And then, one day, you don’t stop to consider if it’s justified anymore. After all, does it really matter that much?

I certainly don’t blame Rex for his actions. But revenge is not the Jedi way. It can’t be.”

It’s this talk that floats to the surface of his memory as Cody makes his way to the bridge, the vast, icy landscape of Iwanaga growing visible underneath a ragged curtain of clouds.

Revenge is not the Jedi way, Obi-Wan had said -

But Cody is not a Jedi.

(He does not remember how Obi-Wan had extended his hand, afterwards, his eyes tightening around the edges, his gaze slightly blurry, and how he, without thinking, had caught it between both of his own. How Obi-Wan had dozed off gently, and Cody, heart in his throat, had inched forward slightly on his chair, to make sure Obi-Wan’s shoulder was not uncomfortably bent. How Helix had leaned around the corner, a lecture on the tip of his tongue, only to go quiet when Cody had put a finger to his lips and mouthed he’s sleeping . How Cody had fallen asleep, neck crooked at an uncomfortable angle. How he had never once thought about letting go.)

He has a job to do.

They get their first in-person glimpse of the complex in the very early hours of the morning.

The sky above is clear of clouds, and so many stars crowd the sky that Cody can almost forget it’s still technically night. The planet’s icy surface reflects the stars back with a dazzling accuracy, the horizon blurring into a fiction of geography.

The complex is a blot on an otherwise glittering landscape. A dark shadow against the clear ice, it sprawls out like a spider, eight legs - each segmented into ten sections, from what Cody can tell - extending from a central core. 

General Windu has joined them on the bridge. The 187th will be staying behind - for reinforcements, allegedly, but Cody had heard what Ponds hadn’t said. 

This one was for the 212th. 

Windu will stay with Ghost Company. They will be going after Dooku.

The missile system starts to churn to life.

Then, from Auks, who’s standing at the console -

“Sirs. Something’s wrong. It’s not - it’s not responding -”

Cody turns. Lightning stretches across the dashboard, flickering uncontrollably. “General, is this - is this Dooku -?”

Windu’s gone still, his brow furrowed. 

“No. Wait.”

Monitors start to scream. 

“Sir -!”

The flickers of lightning coalesce into a familiar figure. Shock shudders down Cody’s spine.

Qui-Gon doesn’t even realize he’s become visible until he feels Mace’s furious shock prodding at him.

What are you doing? You fucker, you absolute piece of banthashit, what the kriff do you think you’re -

Despite himself, Qui-Gon feels his lips twitch upwards. His friend always did let loose with language when no one else could hear him.

But he can’t spare any energy to answer. He has to focus. He must.

(Dooku collared him, the small gods had said -)

The Force lends him a mechanical aptitude he never had in life. The circuits of the missile system unfurl before him, and he toggles a switch here and sends a jolt of electricity there -

The launch mechanisms grind into motion as the turret starts to turn away from the complex, towards the secondary generator.

Qui-Gon remembers, then, that he is the only one who knows about it.

The presences of the other troopers have no memory of affection to temper the white-hot rage. 

“He killed your Padawan,” one of them croaks. There’s a sunburst on his armor, and Qui-Gon recalls that, yes, this is the Commander, this is the man that loves his Padawan. 

I’m sorry I’m sorry I promise this is for him -

“And you’re taking his side?”

No no I swear you’ll see you’ll see -

He cannot afford to lose focus. He pours everything that he is into the system that’s fighting him tooth and nail - he sees out of the corner of his eye another trooper hunched over a second console, trying to lock him out - 

He feels blurry around the edges, but he holds. The turret stops. The low whine of the charging system commences.

And then the Commander - Cody, Qui-Gon remembers, that’s right, his name is Cody - says, his voice cold and cracking with grief and fury - 

“Didn’t fail him enough in life, did you?”

That one hits. 

Qui-Gon nearly opens his mouth. Nearly responds. Nearly wastes some precious energy to defend himself - 

( all of him, the small gods had said -)

No.

He closes his eyes and pushes -

The propulsion system ignites with a whoosh. Out the window, the missile streaks down and away. 

Nearly a hundred meters away from the compound, a fiery explosion tears through the night.

Relief tears through him as the Force sweeps forward, picking him up and pulling him back in. He has done all he can. 

They’re coming, Padawan. Hold. They’re coming.

Mace staggers forward, catching himself on the console, as the Force surges forward like a tsunami.

GO!

“General -”

“Forget about the aerial assault,” he says sharply. The Force is churning around him, and his vision is blurry but he can sense -

There is something important in the compound. Something vital.

“Get us down there. Now.”

the collar clicks open.

the small gods curl around him as the river roars forward. they buffer him against the current as the river surges, seeking, drowning -

careful! they shout - careful! don’t sweep him away! 

and then, among the rushing deluge, the river-voice finds them. the one that had wept, when they had asked where the star-bright name was. the one that had brought the river out with him and that had let the river in here.

the one that had called the star-bright name my boy.

the river tears through them. they fold around the star-bright name reduced to gutter-flame, because he may belong to the river but he is one of theirs now too, star-bright of the riverfolk who knows small spaces so well, and the river-voice that loves him folds around them all.

far above them, the river rebuilds bones and cracks joints back into place. it regrows tissues and repairs torn muscles. severed nerves regenerate, electricity beginning to flicker along restored lines. since there is no one else in residence, the river can push limits - and it does.

the river will do the big work.

the small gods will keep their gutter-flame safe, for now.

Wooley’s ice cleats dig into the glacial terrain as they move forward.

The back of his neck prickles uncomfortably. 

Nothing about this has so far gone as he expected.

First - they’d been sabotaged by a kriffing ghost that had disappeared into lightning as soon as the missile had exploded.

Second - Windu had called off the aerial assault with a look on his face that Wooley recognized easily - the there’s-some-Force-osik-going-down-and-you’re-going-to-have-to-trust-me look.

Third - he hasn’t shot anyone yet. This has turned into more of a stealth mission than he’d thought, and he doesn’t like it. 

The outermost section of the northeast wing looms large and dark in front of them - 

Then it explodes.

distantly, the small gods feel the river ripple as it floods into arms and legs, bending, lifting -

one foot comes down. then the other. one hand, pink with newly grown skin, reaches down and picks up the collar.

hurry, sings the river, hurry hurry hurry

the gutter-flame flickers.

no, the small gods say, curling closer. no. you are star-bright. hold. they are coming.

Trapper swears under his breath as he blinks the fire from his eyes. Windu’s lightsaber blazes a brilliant purple, his night vision is all but lost -

Then the next section down the line goes up in a concussive blast.

Then the next.

“Move!” Windu shouts, and they break into a run, moving parallel down the line, keeping a safe distance -

Trapper nearly trips over his feet as he realizes something. 

The light in the ground isn’t just from the stars’ reflections. There’s lightning, now, webbing across the ice, up the walls of the complex, keeping pace with their mad dash.

His eyes flicker to the lightning on his vambraces, and as they run, he pants out -

“Are you here for him too? We’ll get him, we’ll get the bastard, I promise -”

The words are lost in the static of his vocoder.

(This does not mean they go unheard.)

The fourth section bursts into flames.

Then the fifth.

Something’s moving towards the center, and moving fast.

one foot in front of the other.

lightning branches along the hallway in front of him.

behind him, it conjures fire.

it’s the river’s turn to hunt.

hold. hold. did you hear? they are coming.

One after the other, the rest of the wing’s sections go down, moving towards the core. One collapses. One vaporizes entirely. Two more explode. 

When the last one crumbles, for a moment, there is silence.

They’re only about a hundred feet from the core. 

The whole world seems to be holding its breath. 

found you, gloats the river.

lightning arcs up the walls, illuminating in stark relief the shadow’s furious disbelief. 

don’t worry, soothes the river. don’t worry. he will not hurt you again.

no! howl the small gods. no! you’ve got it wrong! this is not it!

but the river sweeps over them, gleeful, singing out protect protect protect, and it pushes with a body that does not belong to it and an explosion tears through the wall and the shadow is lifted and thrown and the river walks out, bare feet treading carelessly on burning debris because the river is so big and this is a body that it’s inhabited before and sometimes it. forgets. that the body is not the river and the river is not the body.

the shadow ignites a red blade. the river lifts a hand.

the small gods scream don’t! but they go unheard, just like always, and the gutter-flame dims, sputtering -

then they hear voices shouting, shattering the night. a hail of blue bolts slam into the shadow and drop him like a stone.

the river ebbs back, only slightly, but it’s enough. the gutter-flame holds on.

safe, the small gods say, relief reverberating between them. safe. they are here.

finally, finally, their small lives have come.

Impossible. Impossible. This isn’t - he had seen -

Obi-Wan?

He was pinned to the wall of the shuttle, a red blade lodged in his chest - 

He is falling forward onto the ground, onto his knees, an open collar clattering to the ground.

Obi-Wan?

His face was hidden behind his hair and Cody was shamefully, awfully grateful because he didn’t want that to be his last sight of -

His face is wreathed in lightning, filling his eyes and curling down his neck to disappear under thin and flimsy medical scrubs.

“Obi-Wan?” 

Windu flies past him, crouching down, shucking his outer robe and wrapping it around Obi-Wan’s shoulders. His brothers are surging around him, wrenching Dooku’s arms behind his back, tightening Force-suppressing cuffs. 

Cody moves as if in a dream. His legs move entirely without his conscious permission, carrying him - somehow, impossibly - to Obi-Wan’s side. Windu’s saying something, eyes fixed on Obi-Wan, the same disbelief and desperation curling in Cody’s chest evident in his expression, and Cody croaks, finally, cutting through the ringing in his ears - 

“Look for a tether. He said he always left a way back.”

Windu nods, once, sharply, and closes his eyes, and Cody - 

Cody crouches there, the noise of his brothers washing over him, and stares.

He’s so thin. The light of the lightning spidering across his face throws the harsh lines of his cheekbones into sharp relief, and the scrubs hang loose on his frame. When Cody reaches out, his hand curls almost completely around Obi-Wan’s wrist.

Gods. He’s so cold.

Helplessly, Cody reaches up and tugs Windu’s robe a little tighter over Obi-Wan’s shoulders. His hands flit from the cloak to his face, cupping his cheeks, down to his shoulders, the lines of his bones distinct against the cloth, then to his hands -

Under his fingers, he sees lightning ripple down Obi-Wan’s arm and into his hand. Bones grind, shifting, crooked fingers cracking back into place.

he’s here he’s here he’s here 

His throat is clogged.

Windu jerks.

“The tether’s cut,” he says.

At first, Cody doesn’t understand. What does that mean - the tether’s cut? Don’t be ridiculous. Obi-Wan - Obi-Wan had said that was how he pulled himself back. Their voices were a call, he had told them, and the tether was how he answered.

If the tether’s cut -

If it’s broken - 

“There’s nothing at the other end,” Windu says. “I can’t find him.”

His eyes meet Cody’s, and he says, again, disbelieving, “I can’t find him.”

The words echo in the sudden, chilly quiet of Cody’s mind.

He stands, his hands dropping away from Obi-Wan’s. He turns away from Windu, whose attention is already back on Obi-Wan, searching for someone who’s no longer there. His legs carry him forward until he’s standing over Dooku’s prone form, Waxer’s knee digging into his spine. He jabs one of the stim needles from the field med kit on his belt into the Sith’s neck and watches him stir, blinking blearily before his gaze sharpens with awareness. Waxer wrenches him up into a kneeling position.

“What,” he says, and his voice is a snarl, so sharp and cold he barely recognizes himself, “did you do?”

And Dooku - Dooku laughs.

“He was a stubborn fool,” he gasps out. “I told him - if he would tell me, it would go easier for him. But he refused. So Sidious went looking for answers. He got… over-enthusiastic. He snuffed him out. Wiped him completely. He’s gone.”

no. no. this is not supposed to happen.

the small gods hear the shadow talk, explaining, laughing, lying (although he doesn’t know it), and as he does, the river turns cold with fury. 

the gutter-flame curls inwards, flickering, hiding.

star-bright has made himself so small. so very small. now he tries even more, an instinctive, defensive response, and the small gods know this, they have seen it happen to their own -

if you make yourself too small, everything that matters disappears.

the long-necks were so pleased with those ones, at first. they thought their reconditioning successful. but those troopers didn’t eat . they didn’t speak. they didn’t do anything at all. when the long-necks went away, their brothers tried to pull them back, speaking of names long-erased and memories long-forgotten, but their lives were long-gone, too small to come home. 

(this is the duty of the small gods - to help them walk the tightrope. small enough to survive. large enough to live.)

No. 

They’d just found him. They’d found him. To lose him again - 

“You broke his fingers,” Cody says. In the back of his mind, something screams and screams and screams. “Was that you asking?”

Dooku grins at him, something fever-bright and fractured in his eyes, and something in Cody’s brain clicks over.

In one smooth move, he kicks one of Dooku’s legs out from under him, sending him sprawling sideways, and places one heavy boot on his knee.

“You killed him,” he says, his voice coming from a long way away. “You killed him, and you tortured him, and you snuffed him out.”

Finally, Dooku’s composure begins to crack in the shadows of the firelight. 

“That was Sidious,” he gasps out. “I only -”

“Only what?” Cody asks, terribly, terribly calm. “Only followed orders?”

He leans forward, pressing down, and a thin hiss of pain escapes. “Funny, isn’t it? That’s what they all say about us.”

darkness curls through the river, hating and raging and seeking to harm. there’s someone searching, too - a bright and steady warmth, flickers of purple, dry humor and affection and a fierce protection.

the small gods recognize the guardian.

the gutter-flame recognizes only a searcher in the dark.

the last time something came hunting, wreathed in shadows, with a cold and clinical intent to hurt -

no. no.

if he folds any smaller they will not be able to find him again.

the small gods have learned, over the past weeks, what it means to be big. they unfurl, unfolding, stretching out, reaching, because here and now they must make themselves heard, they must, and they scream - 

Don’t, says a small voice in the back of Cody’s mind.

He stills.

He feels like he’s just sprinted the length of a planet. His breath is coming in quick, shallow pants, a chilly, prickling sensation spreading across his shoulders and down the length of his spine - 

He lifts his foot off Dooku’s knee. A fog starts to clear from his mind.

“You’re a Sith,” Cody says slowly. “Why the hell would I believe you?”

“Ask him,” Dooku hisses, nodding in Windu’s direction. “Ask him. He’ll tell you - I’m telling the truth -”

“No,” says Cody, more firmly this time. “No. You only think you are.”

He turns away, back towards what’s important. Behind him, Dooku jerks upwards, but the cuffs hold, and four brothers are on him immediately.

They’re hardly needed. 

Without the darkness, he’s nothing. Just a sad, cruel old man.

So many people believe that they hold the truth. 

The Kaminoans believe that Cody and his brothers are nothing but meat droids. 

The Senators believe that they are expendable, replaceable, worth nothing but the cost of production. 

The Separatists believe that they are meant only to follow orders, functionally identical to their own metal armies.

Cody crouches down. Windu’s standing with one hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, talking very fast into his comm.

They believe a lot of things. But they’re wrong. All of them are wrong.

So, then, is Dooku.

He reaches out, folding Obi-Wan’s hands between both of his own. 

“I’m sorry,” he croaks. “I forgot. That can’t have been very nice, to feel that. I was so angry. But it’s okay. It’s okay.”

The Sith had forced his way into his head, looking for answers. 

What would Obi-Wan have done?

He wouldn’t have given up. No. Never. That’s not what Obi-Wan does.

But he might have made himself small. Cut himself down until he was small enough to hide. And he would have cut the tether, too, so the Sith couldn’t follow it to him.

“You made yourself small, didn’t you?” Cody breathes. “You know small things, more than any of them. We saw, on Melidaan, how you had to - to hide. Small survives. We knew that. We never expected you to.”

And then, echoing a conversation from a lifetime ago - 

“They didn’t give you very much room at all, did they?”

As the planet spins onward, the stars are disappearing, one by one.

the darkness begins to dissipate. the river settles into a gentler flow. 

a voice begins to trickle down - achingly familiar.

the gutter-flame steadies, flaring with shaky recognition. 

yes, the small gods encourage. remember? you spoke about us. we remember.

“But we’re here. We’re here. We found you. I promise. You have space.”

an echo of a memory - of tea and warmth and much-loved company.

the flame burns a little brighter. a little bigger.

(almost like starlight.)

Cody shifts, sitting down properly. “It’s okay,” he says quietly. “It’s okay. We won’t leave. I won’t leave. Take all the time you need. I’ll be here. I’ll be right here.”

small and quiet and distant, like a faint and muffled sigh -

cody.  

Something digs into Cody’s hip as he settles.

The lightsaber.

He fumbles one-handed at his belt, unwilling to let go of Obi-Wan even for a moment.

there is no seeking. no hunting. there doesn’t have to be. 

“Here,” Cody says, pressing the hilt into Obi-Wan’s hands, folding his fingers around it. “I kept it safe for you.”

Something clicks into place in his chest, a tightness easing.

sometimes, faith is enough.

Windu drops his comm.

“He’s there,” he says, sounding astonished. “He’s there, he’s faint, but he’s there, he’s got the tether -”

Obi-Wan’s hands spasm around Cody’s. Around his saber.

“I know,” Cody says. Tears begin to trickle down his face. He rocks forward, very briefly, pressing his forehead to Obi-Wan’s, feeling him breathe.

“It’s okay,” he says, once more. “We’ve got you.”

Above them, the sky splinters into pink and yellow and orange.

Dawn has come.

Chapter Text

“We’ve got Dooku. Send down enough gunships for a full retrieval. We’ll be returning to the Negotiator.”

He’s so small in the Force.

“Dispatch a few squads as well to clear the compound.”

His Commander still hasn’t let go of his hands. Mace would be surprised if he ever does.

“I want complete radio silence over long-range communications, and no sensitive information going over short-range comms until the line can be triple-checked. We’ve got a situation.”

Ponds responds in the affirmative, and the comm goes dead.

Mace takes a deep breath before tucking it back into his robe and kneeling down next to Obi-Wan. 

Cody doesn’t even spare him a glance. He’s talking, his voice low and quiet and gentle, and Mace catches -

“Wolffe took a bite out of his trainer’s arm when we were younger. She’d told us to win the spar however we could, the smug bastard, but I don’t think she expected teeth. That’s why he picked his name, actually. Then he changed the spelling, because the rest of us wouldn’t stop teasing him and Fox -”

Mace deliberately tunes out the rest of it. That’s not for him, and it would be rude to eavesdrop.

He takes a moment to settle himself into his own body. He grounds himself in the flex of his feet against the icy ground, the slight pinch in the toes of his boots. He curls his fingers deliberately against his palms, pressing down on the faded ridge of one scar he’d gotten on his first trip to Ilum and the calluses built up from decades of training. He feels the burn of the cold air in his lungs, how they contract and relax with every deliberate breath.

Then he sinks into the Force, following the tether, deeper than he’s ever gone before.

Obi-Wan is a faint and flickering light when he reaches him, so different from the warm and tempered nova that they’ve missed so much, and he acknowledges and releases the part of him that wants to weep and rage at the unfairness of it. He is here with a goal in mind.

Very gently, he pushes forward an offer of assistance. 

Shielding–shelter–buffer?

There’s no awareness of Mace himself from the dim flame. He doesn’t expect any. But after a moment, a recognition of friend–ally–safe filters through, and then, a quiet, ragged sigh of assent.

It’s hard to build someone else’s shields. Each Jedi has their own style, and trying to repair someone else’s shields with your own can do almost as much damage as the initial assault. External shield repair is a specialization of mind-healing that takes years to master. That’s why most assistance consists of offering energy and focus to allow the other Jedi to do their own work. Mace’s own shields take the form of a dark and thorny maze, leading intruders down dead ends and wrong turns until they find themselves wandering back into their own heads from the wrong direction.

Obi-Wan’s shields had always been like nothing he’d ever seen before. He had weaponized his own memories. Push too far without consent and you find yourself in a mine, knowing that there’s no way out, with an overseer shouting in your face as a vibrowhip curls around your arm. Fight your way out of that and you tumble into a warzone, knowing that those you love are dying around you as you are helpless to save them. Untangle those webs and suddenly the burn of a blaster bolt tears through your chest, and darkness creeps across your vision as you very quickly grow intimately familiar with the fragile nature of your own mortality.

No one, Obi-Wan had told Mace smugly, had ever made it past that one. 

Obi-Wan’s shields had been the best in the Order, a masterful work of mental cartography. Now, as he edges forward, slow and careful, projecting as much safety as he can manage, he finds only jagged remains of foundations. 

He feels uncomfortably like he’s walking through a graveyard.

He’s here, Mace reminds himself, tucking away the questions of why and how and the rage and grief at what his Padawan friend has endured for later meditation. He’s here, and he’s alive. 

The shields he throws up aren’t meant to defend against an external assault. They’re simple, rudimentary, meant only to provide a buffer against raw exposure to the Force.

They work.

He feels Obi-Wan shudder with a dull and pained relief. Mace folds his own warmth around him, providing an extra layer of protection.

It’s alright, he soothes. It’s alright. We’ve got you.

It’s quite peaceful down here, Mace considers. The currents of the Force swirl around the little bubble he’s created for them. Obi-Wan’s grip on the tether is white-knuckled, but there is a surety to it that wasn’t there before, a solid determination to not let go.

After a moment, Mace realizes why. 

Echoing above them, as if from a great distance, is Cody’s voice. 

The words fall around them like rain. Some of them are distinguishable, most of them only blurry sounds. Echoes of emotions filter through, remembered amusement and frustration and fond exasperation. 

He feels Obi-Wan shifting, ever so slowly, beginning to pull himself back together, Cody’s voice a point of orientation in these dizzying, fast-moving depths. 

Like a compass, Mace thinks fondly. Always pointing due Cody.

A wave of aching affection and profound relief sweeps through him, and he feels an answering flicker from Obi-Wan. Still not quite aware, but brighter. Always getting brighter.

Distantly, Lieutenant Waxer is saying something about an approaching gunship.

Cody looks up as the first gunship lands.

Ponds is the first one out, and he freezes at the sight of Cody and who he’s holding onto. 

“Cody–?”

“Commander,” says Windu, sparing him from having to answer. Cody doesn’t think he could.  “Take the men and clear the compound. Download any data you can find, and pass it on to me once Squid declares it clean.”

Ponds visibly refocuses. “Yessir. Still dead comms?”

Windu nods, and Ponds gathers himself and starts shouting orders to the rest of the maroon-clad troopers tumbling out of the gunships.

Cody’s mouth is still moving. He’s not even sure what he’s talking about anymore. 

“Commander,” Windu says gently.

If he stops talking Obi-Wan might disappear again, and he can’t–

“Cody.”

He’d been gone, he’d been dead, and now he was back and–

“Cody, it’s all right. I’ve got him. He’s holding on.”

His jaw snaps shut hard, and the sudden snap of pain jolts him back into his own body.

“Sir?” he asks. His voice is hoarse.

Windu’s gaze is warm and sympathetic. “Let’s get him back to the Negotiator. He’s got the tether. He will hold.”

Home. Yes. Get him home. Bring him home.

Cody nods, once, jerkily, and then, the words coming out in a croak–

“Helix is going to throw a fit, sir.”

Windu, to Cody’s distant astonishment, actually snorts.

“Oh, I’m sure.”

His hand spasms on Obi-Wan’s shoulder. Cody looks at him and remembers the Memory, and the funeral, and a Finding, and puff-cakes, and he’s nearing an appropriate selection age, isn’t he? and he thinks, again–

We are not the only ones who mourned him. 

“Come on,” Windu murmurs gently. “Up we get, here we go–”

He pulls Obi-Wan’s arm over his shoulder and wraps an arm around his waist, guiding him carefully to his feet. Cody stands with them, because– because Obi-Wan’s fingers are still curled around his own, his lightsaber clutched in his other hand but he still hasn’t let go and Cody certainly won’t, he never will again– 

Then they’re on the gunship.

Between him and Windu, they ease Obi-Wan down onto the metal bench. He goes without protest, his expression still blank, still consumed by lightning, but his grip is tight on Cody’s hand and Windu had said he’s got the tether and if Cody has faith in anything in this galaxy it’s Obi-Wan so he holds on and knows that wherever Obi-Wan is right now he’s doing the same.

He feels slightly untethered. As if he’s floating a few feet behind his own body. 

alive alive alive he’s alive

As the massive bulk of the Negotiator grows in the viewport, Cody squeezes Obi-Wan’s hand. 

“It’s okay,” he says. “We’re going home.”

Helix snaps his comm shut, cursing under his breath. 

“Any updates?” Needle calls from the back. 

“Ponds says they got Dooku,” Helix replies, “but they’ve got a casualty, too. He asked me to meet them at the landing bay. And gods forbid he give me any sort of specifics, oh, no, not like there’s a thousand different things that could have gone wrong, but no, you’re a medic, Helix, you can fix anything, Helix, just meet them at the bay and it’ll be fine, Helix–”

The door to the supply closet opens and a medkit flies at his head. He catches it without breaking stride, pulling another box of bacta patches off the tray, an IV kit, just in case, a folded stretcher– 

“- and yes, I know I’m good at my job, but what was Ponds doing down there, anyways? This was our kriffing mission! I thought they were staying back for reinforcements! And if everyone else is pulling back, things can’t have gone that wrong, right–?”

“Sorry, boss, do you need me to hold your hand on the way down?” Needle shouts, laughing.  “Or I can send Stitch with you, maybe? Get going!”

Hm. Needle's already getting uppity, honestly. This is his medbay. He knows it like the back of his hand. Specifically, he knows exactly where the rickety shelving in the supply closet is, and he knows that if he kicks the wall right there–

Needle shrieks as the shelves he’s spent the past hour organizing collapse, and a stream of cursing follows him out of the medbay.

Laughing, Helix shoulders the kit and breaks into a jog. Casualty can mean a lot of things, but if he’s needed then it means not dead, and anything other than death can be fixed.

He arrives in the landing bay just as the gunship’s ramp is descending.

“Alright,” he calls out. “Can one of you give me a sit-rep? Because Ponds didn’t want to tell me any–”

The ramp hits the ground at the same time the kit does, slipping from a slack hand.

Okay. Apparently, death can be fixed as well. 

The thing is– it’s not even a strange sight, at first. 

How many times have Cody and Kenobi fallen asleep on each other on the way back from an exhausting campaign? How many times have they come back injured, holding onto each other as if to assure themselves they’re still there? How many times has Kenobi come back laced with lightning, and they’ve hauled him down to the barracks and piled onto him and regaled him with stupid stories until he’d come back? 

It would be entirely normal.

If Kenobi wasn’t dead.

But Windu’s standing, wrapping one arm around the ghost’s waist, pulling his arm over his shoulder, taking his weight, and Cody’s rising with them, his hand tangled with Obi-Wan’s, and Obi-Wan’s head lolls against his chest but there’s lightning arcing up his neck and into his eyes and he’s wearing– he’s wearing medical scrubs, what in all hells, what happened, what happened– 

As Kenobi staggers down the ramp, he leaves a trail of bloody footprints behind him. 

It’s that, out of everything, that convinces him–

Because ghosts don’t leave footprints. Especially not bloody ones.

Bloody–

He’s hurt.

And it’s this that kicks Helix’s brain back into gear, because at his core he is a medic, a good one, because Ponds was right, he is damn good at his job, and he nearly shrieks–

“Did none of you think to check his feet?”

Mace jerks around and sees, to his horror, footprints of dripping crimson dotting the ramp. 

Of course. Of course. Idiot. He’d been barefoot this whole time. And they’d seen him, by the Force, they’d seen him walk out, over sharp-edged, smoldering debris, taking no care to avoid it. How had they not noticed? How had he not noticed?

Obi-Wan is beginning to sway against him. 

“It’s alright,” Mace soothes. “All is well. Let’s get you to the medbay, alright?”

In the Force, Obi-Wan’s presence flares bright with disoriented panic–

The lights are bright. The walls are white. A scalpel clinks against a metal tray.

(helix? is this– this isn’t– where’s helix?)

Ribs are peeled back, methodically broken, revealing a hammering heart and panting lungs. A metal shunt slides into the upper left lung.

“Test 4F results are inconclusive. Muscle, adipose tissue, and dermal layers heal around the intrusion.”

(it’s so cold. so cold. please. i want to go home.)

A scalpel cuts an equator around the wrist. The flesh peels away from the bones like a glove, muscle and tendon winding around the bare-bleached fingerbones like reddened ivy.

“Test 5A is a failure. No sign of dermal regeneration. I suggest removing antibiotics and painkillers from the IV. His reactions should be studied in as natural a state as possible under laboratory conditions. Pain may be a factor in triggering a reflexive response.”

(the same hand that holds his lightsaber the same hand that anakin had lost maybe they can be– anakin? anakin? please?)

A chunk of bloody liver is cut loose and lifted and placed on a metal tray. The body jerks against restraints. White lightning crackles across the gaping emptiness.

(please. please. i’m so tired.)

“No regeneration. The Force assumes the function of the organ to the point of maintaining life. Internalization means limited access. It appears to be conserving resources.”

“I believe continued function is technically possible without the caudal lobe, is it not? This suggests a threshold other than survival. Sever the spinal cord.”

The nerves are cut. Control is lost. Urine leaks down his legs.

Dooku makes a disgusted noise.

(grandmaster i don’t understand you made me tea after melidaan you said you would always–)

“Hm. Sidious is coming. Sever the auditory and optical nerves. If the spinal cord didn’t trigger regeneration, I doubt those will. No harm in taking precautions.”

(no. no. please. i want to see the sky again. please? the sky– i don’t want to be underground– again– please? the sun? i want to see the sun. please? the sun? cody?)

(i want to go home.)

Mace surfaces, gasping for air, his lightsaber flaring to life in his hand.

(When had he drawn it? Odd. But he has and because he has he’s lost his grip on Obi-Wan–)

Obi-Wan, who’s staggering backwards, listing sideways until he slams into the wall, slumping down, and Cody moves with him, panic written all over his face, curling his free arm over his shoulders, his voice cracking, saying, “Obi-Wan? Obi-Wan?” and Helix surges forward but freezes when Mace, reeling, snaps out–

“Don’t touch him.”

For a moment, the whole bay is silent. The rattling rasp of Obi-Wan’s breath sounds terribly loud against the low, rhythmic vibrations of the Negotiator’s engines.

Dooku had– he had–

“Okay,” Helix says, eyeing him. “Okay. But I need to see him. Okay? I need to get through.”

Get through?

Oh. He’s standing in front of Obi-Wan, with his saber in hand, defending him against an enemy that’s not there, against an enemy that had already gotten to him, that had taken him apart and experimented on him–

“Sir.”

Mace closes his eyes. Extinguishes his saber. Turns back towards Obi-Wan.

Gods. No wonder he’d cut himself loose. Having a body must have lost its appeal, Mace thinks, and bites down on a disbelieving laugh.

“Sir, I need you to tell me if there’s anything that can’t wait,” Helix says, his voice deliberately, carefully controlled. “Is there anything that, if not treated immediately, is going to kill him?”

He breathes, acknowledging, releasing, and wrestles himself back under control. 

“No. No. The Force– I think it’s holding him together. Putting him back together.”

He’d heard Cody’s voice, after all, when Mace had been with him. It’s safe to assume his hearing’s been restored–

(Because Dooku had severed his auditory nerves, gods –)

Breathe. Acknowledge. Release.

“It’s dealing with the most severe damage.”

Helix nods. “Okay. Okay. Good.”

“But we can still do some treatment here, can’t we–?”

“No,” Helix says, his voice turning sharp. “No. He’s got complex PTSD regarding medical treatment. I didn’t even make the connection until I found out about Melidaan. So we made a deal. I get to treat anything I deem life-threatening as long as I wait to do anything else until he’s conscious. Then I run through the supply tally with him. Make sure we have enough. Show him the math. Show him how much more effective he is when he’s healthy. Convince him that the treatment’s worth it.”

The medic shoots him a glance like sunlight, and his voice is pointed when he says–

“For him, just being hurt isn’t enough to merit treatment. It only becomes an issue he’ll address when he’s not able to fight. Warzone scarcity’s woven into his bones, sir. He was more willing to tolerate treatment for the important stuff when we made a deal that I wouldn’t “waste supplies'' on him. It’s not healthy. But it worked better than before. So I’m not gonna risk breaking that. We’ll wait. He’s coming back.”

It’s not a question, but Mace nods anyway. 

Helix settles cross-legged in front of Obi-Wan.

“Anyways,” he says. His voice is calm and gentle, but Mace sees his shoulders shake. Just once. “You should’ve seen Needle in the medbay, General. He’s getting uppity. You know the bad shelving in the supply closet? If you kick the wall just in the left corner on the other side, it causes a collapse. Pain in the ass most of the time, but this time it worked out for me. He threw a medkit at my head. I dropped the shelves on top of him. And you don’t get to scold me for that. You–”

His head drops forward slightly, and his whole body shudders before he regathers himself. 

“You’re going to be the death of me, General. I get to get away with whatever I want. I deserve that. And a vacation.”

“Somewhere tropical,” Trapper shouts. Mace moves back to Obi-Wan’s side, sinking down next to him. All across the landing bay, he realizes, troopers are settling down, removing their helmets, packing in as closely as they can. 

It has the feeling, he realizes, of a routine.

He remembers– the funeral–

This is not the first time they’ve pulled him back.

Meanwhile, Trapper’s still talking.

“We got redeployed to Murata, General, you’re gonna love this. Auks grew out his hair, you’ll see it, it’s a curly mess–”

“I think you mean stylish–”

“My hair is stylish,” Crys calls out, grinning. “Yours is an affront to fashion.”

“Shut up, this is my story. You can be the final judge, General, but just so you know–”

“Oh, don’t tell him about the bird–”

“I’m gonna tell him about the bird, he deserves all the relevant information! We were on a trek, right, and then suddenly Auks started screeching–”

“And of course,” Boil says, “we thought we were being attacked, because we’d been warned about ambushes–”

Waxer slips back into the dock, mouthing he’s secured in Mace’s direction before folding onto the ground next to Boil. 

“So I look over, and Auks is swatting at his hair, because this tiny little yellow bird saw the mess of curls and decided it looked just like his nest–”

“Auks, more like Squawks , right?”

“Shut up, Waxer,” Auks says primly. “The bird had a great sense of interior design. And his name was Robird, thank you.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s another thing,” says Trapper, rolling his eyes. “He named the bird, once he’d realized exactly what was going on. And not even anything cool! What kind of a name is Robert?”

“It’s Robird–”

“Gods, that’s even worse. All the rest of us are being sensible, actually wearing our buckets, and meanwhile this idiot is happy as a clam with a bird nesting in his hair–”

“We’ve got pictures,” Cody says quietly, a grin flickering over his face, squeezing Obi-Wan’s hand. “I’ll pin one to your datapad so you can see it when you come back.”

“We made it back to the ship fine, luckily, no thanks to Squawks over here–”

“I despise you–”

“You love me–”

“Lies and slander–”

“Anyways, it was a truly heart-wrenching goodbye,” Trapper says, talking over Auks’ next attempt to interrupt.

“Don’t you mean hair-wrenching?” Boil says, smirking.

“Listen, just because there was a little bit of entanglement–”

The room grows warm with chatter. Occasionally, the doors open, and more troopers trickle in, blooming with astonishment and delight and relief and determination.

In the Force, Mace feels Obi-Wan unfolding, unfurling, brightening in the light of the stories and voices and people that love him, coaxed out of white and sterile rooms where he had been coolly and efficiently taken apart.

There will be time to process that later. He knows Obi-Wan is not okay. He will likely not be okay for a while. 

But two hours ago he thought Obi-Wan was dead. 

He will take just about anything over that.

Chapter Text

First–

Engines vibrating, a low resonance, a great and steady mechanical heartbeat.

“- trembling, can someone get–?”

“On it.”

Second–

The Force, always and forever. And a familiar presence, too.

Almost a hug. 

Solid and present and gentle, and aching with relief.

“I kept it. Probably should have given it back a while ago.’”

“Perfect. Thanks, Wooley.”

Third–

Warmth. A weight around–

his–?

yes–

his shoulders. Rough-spun and scratchy along the back of his neck.

“Aw, kriff, why did Stats cut the engines–?”

“We’re still in orbit, relax. A school of purrgils just materialized next to us. The bridge is just playing it safe.”

“Purrgils? Really? This close to a planet?”

“We’re pretty far out. It’ll be nearly a week and a half back to Coruscant.”

“Hey, ask Stats to open the viewport, I want to see–”

“Ask him yourself–”

Resettling is… complicated.

Nerves flicker bright with electricity. Muscles twitch and shiver, reacting, reflexive. Lungs shudder to a rhythm, quick and shallow. A heart convulsing to irregular shocks of lightning.

Fire scorches his nerves, a protest against reoccupation. Knots of pain simmer against his hip. His knees. His sternum. His heart stutters and staggers before settling into a steadier beat. His lungs shudder to a stop for a brief moment before he settles in and grasps them and makes them move. 

It’s hard. It hurts.

(It was easier when the lightning–)

“You know, right after I found him, we ran into a group of purrgils. I think it was his first time off-planet. Stewjon is rather famously isolationist.”

A huff of laughter.

“I still remember the look on his face. He wanted to pet them. Seemed very grumpy when I told him we couldn’t leave the spaceship. I kept the engines off until they’d made their next jump. Apparently he would only fall asleep to purrgil songs for his first few weeks in the creche.”

Fourth–

A hand, held tight. A line of heat against his side.

“I’m surprised we haven’t seen you riding one yet, General. Do you remember the gutkurrs–?”

“Dare I ask?”

“Remember Ryloth? We got attacked by half a dozen of them, and Obi-Wan–”

Fifth–

Under his feet, something wet and hot, a burning ache overlaying cold metal.

Obi-Wan. Yes. That’s–

That’s his name. 

“Oh, no, don’t you dare tell Needle. I told him we’re all set.”

“Helix–”

“Bastard deserves this. I want to see his face.”

Helix–?

Helix. 

Safe. Safe. Safe.

He can hear them. He can hear them.

A low grumble– Boil. 

(safe)

Unrestrained laughter– Waxer. 

(safe)

Cracking high with indignation– Wooley.

(safe)

Bubbling with vindictive glee– Auks.

(safe)

Suffused with fond exasperation– Cody.

(safe)

So many others. All here. He can hear them.

It worked?

It worked. 

They’re safe.

And so, it seems, is he.

He focuses on one hand. The hand that still feels like his, with the calluses from years of training and fighting and living and a scar along the webbing between his thumb and index finger from the knife of an angry Trandoshan when he’d been sixteen and the microscopic fractures in his fingers from poorly landed punches. The hand that Cody’s holding. He concentrates, contracting a few muscles, relaxing others, and feels immensely satisfied when his body listens and his grip tightens.

It’s not much. But it’s enough.

Against his side, he feels Cody’s breath hitch.

“Obi-Wan?”

Cody. Cody. Cody.

He tries to answer. He wants to answer. He focuses, assessing, checking, and takes a breath, forcing air through vocal cords he’s giving me a headache shut him up but no he’s nothing without his voice don’t grandmaster please PLEASE NO–

All that comes out is a croak.

“Hey, General,” says a voice in front of him. Helix. Helix. Helix is– safe. Helix doesn’t– 

white walls and bright lights

Safe. Helix always asks. Always.

In the Force, his presence is bruised and sore with worry.

“We’ve got you,” Helix (HelixHelixHelix) says. 

Yes. Good. Safe.

“Cody’s to your left. Windu’s on your right. Wall’s at your back. You’re in the Negotiator’s landing bay.”

Windu–

Mace?

The warmth in the Force–

Obi-Wan reaches out, careful, cautious, and brushes up against a painfully familiar presence.

You’ve been sorely missed, my friend.

A worn smile, a solid resilience, safety and protection and affection. 

He tries to marshal his thoughts enough to respond, but suddenly he feels all of three years old again, when someone who sang friend-warm-safe in the Force had pulled him from the river and silenced the drumming and had held him and held him and held him and had told him he was safe and all he can muster is a half-sobbed jumble of safe and here and safe and safe and safe? and somewhere on the blurry edges of his body he feels a hand on his arm, grounding, always, and in the Force Mace who is still– who has never stopped being– friend-warm-safe says yes and safe and safe and curls around him and Obi-Wan–

Obi-Wan believes him.

There’s another hand on his leg, then, Helix who is also safe, who says, solid and gentle–

“Your feet are a bit of a mess. I can treat the wounds now with fewer supplies, or I can wait. If I wait, though, they’ll get infected, and I’ll have to use more supplies. I’ll apply bacta, then wrap them with bandages. That’s all. And if you want me to stop, you can– in the Force, you can tell Windu, right? And he can tell me, and I’ll stop. Right away. Is that okay?”

Mace echos the question in the Force, his worry palpable. 

Right. His feet– hurt. The– burning–

Okay, Obi-Wan manages. Okay. And he focuses, and tugs, and just about manages a nod.

He’s so tired.

“Okay,” Helix says. “Okay.” He glances at Windu and gets a nod in response, and files away–

Trouble talking. Trouble moving. Easier communication in the Force.

He’d known this wasn’t going to be a usual callback. But seeing the reality of it is–  

(What happened? What happened?)

Focus. Treatment. 

“Left foot first, okay? Bacta’s gonna be a bit cold, sorry about that–”

He keeps narrating as he works, and because he is good at his job, damnit, he doesn’t let a single shred of the horror he feels leak into his voice.

(The soles of his feet are almost completely shredded.)

His tone stays steady.

(The skin is almost entirely burnt away.)

His words stay even.

(He can see bone, kriffing hells, Kenobi–)

His hands stay gentle.

What has he gone through, that he was walking on that?

Helix works as quickly as he can, and tries not to think about the answer.

At a sharp glance from Cody, the chatter picks back up. Helix hears something about Boil’s latest exploits in the kitchen and tucks that away for future investigation.

He grins, then, and interrupts himself–

“I wonder if they know exactly how much they’re confessing,” he says quietly. “If Boil caused that– no, I won't go into detail, General, it was so bad I think it’d send you right back into the lightning– I’m getting the Commander to put him on latrine duty. Almost done, now, just need to wrap the right foot. Starting at the heel.”

“If you can find proof,” Cody says drily, “granted. For the rest of the war.”

Helix glances up, noting the slight tremble in his voice, the pallor to his skin, and thinks– 

You’re not escaping me either, sir.

But he knows how to prioritize.

He pins the last bandage in place, and then, finally, hears a quiet, croaking whisper.

“‘lix?”

His eyes are open. A familiar blue, slightly dazed, slightly distant, but here.

“The one and only,” Helix says, gently squeezing his ankle. “It’s good to see you back.”

Focus. Focus. Water. Hydration. He has a sinking feeling setting up a line won’t be an option, not with the reaction mentioning the medbay had triggered, but– well. He’s good at compromises.

He pulls a hydropack out of his kit and cracks it open, handing it to Cody. “Drink something, Commander. You look like you’re about to keel over.”

Cody opens his mouth to protest, but Helix jerks his head in Kenobi’s direction.

Kenobi, whose gaze is fixed on Cody and the water that he’s holding.

He subsides, and takes a few gulps.

Two porgs with one shot, Helix thinks smugly. I’m so good.

He watches Kenobi’s eyes flicker from Cody to the water, and suggests, deliberately casual–

“Think you can get some down?”

A moment passes, then Cody reaches down and folds Obi-Wan’s fingers around the pack. “It’s safe,” he says quietly. “You saw Helix open it. I drank some. I’m fine. It’s safe.”

What happened? What happened? What did Dooku do–

Later. Later. Later.

Kenobi’s staring at the hydropack. His grip tightens around it, but he’s not– 

His whole body is shaking.

“It’s okay,” Cody says, achingly gentle. “I’ve got you. Here.” 

He folds one hand around Obi-Wan’s, steadying his grip. Under his fingers, he feels Obi-Wan trembling, irregular spasms wracking through his frame, and thinks–

Oh.

Cody braces his forearm against Obi-Wan’s and helps him lift the hydropack to his lips. His eyes flutter closed as he drinks. When he’s done, he drops his head against Cody’s shoulder and sighs, long and ragged and quiet.

Carefully, Cody presses his cheek to the top of Obi-Wan’s head. His hair is filthy, stained with blood and soot.

He smells like smoke. 

Helix shifts into a crouch in front of them. 

“General? Obi-Wan? Don’t fall asleep yet. I’d like to get you out of here. To– your rooms. Okay? I’ve got a stretcher–”

Obi-Wan goes rigid against him at the same time Windu says, his voice turning sharp, “No.”

“-or not, that’s also fine, you don’t have to lie down. But I don’t want you walking. Can someone carry you? Is that okay?”

“I can,” Cody blurts out, and then his brain catches up with his mouth and he nearly buries his head in his hands but that would require letting go of Obi-Wan so instead he just lets the heat crawl up his face and determinedly doesn’t look at Windu. “If– if that’s okay.”

“Obi-Wan?” Helix says gently. “It’s your choice. We can figure something else out.”

But Cody can feel Obi-Wan slumping into his side, the tension leaching out of him, and then Windu says, relaxing–

“It’s okay.”

Cody dares a glance to his left. Windu’s looking at him, yes, but there’s none of the judgment in his gaze that he’d feared. 

Instead, there’s just… warmth. Assessment, approval, and… warmth.

Then he turns to Helix, and Cody stares at the wall, something prickling all over his shoulders.

“Should we move–?”

“Now, yes, while he’s still conscious.”

Helix rises to his feet, and Windu squeezes Obi-Wan’s arm before letting his hand drop away and unfolding himself. Helix bends his head towards Windu and starts talking in a low, fast voice, and Windu pulls him a few steps away before answering. Cody watches Helix’s face go still and stony before wrenching his focus away.

He doesn’t want to know. 

“Obi-Wan?” he asks, the prickling spreading up his neck and all the way down his arms. “I– is it okay if I lift you now? One arm under your knees, the other under your back? Okay?”

Obi-Wan’s hand tightens around his own, and then relaxes. His eyes crack open once more, looking at Cody, assessing, studying, and he croaks–

“Safe?”

“Yes,” Cody says hurriedly. “I promise. We’ve got you. We’ve got you–”

Obi-Wan makes a vaguely negative noise, and Cody opens his mouth, starting to shake all over, because how does he convince– how can he promise– he would rather die than let Dooku–

And then Obi-Wan, with visible effort, his whole body tensing, curling against Cody, slurs out–

“Not… me.”

One hand comes up, knocking gently against a chipped-paint sun.

“Safe?”

A blaster bolt to the chest would have probably hurt less.

“Yes,” he gasps out, his whole body bowing forward under the weight of the blow. “Yes. I’m safe. We’re all safe.”

Obi-Wan sighs, closing his eyes, slumping against him, and in his exhale Cody can just make out–

“Good.”

Something in his chest splinters.

He tucks one arm under Obi-Wan’s knees, the other under his back– just like he said he would– and stands.

He holds on tight, and does not let go.

Chapter Text

Helix holds the door open for Windu and Cody before stepping smoothly in front of Wooley as he tries to follow them in.

“Hey–”

“Do you really think he’s going to want you to see him like this?” Helix hisses. The indignation on Wooley’s face evaporates, and Helix sighs.

“Wait here,” he says, raising his voice slightly, looking past Wooley to the others in the hall. “I’ll let you know when we’re done.”

“But–”

“Shut it,” he snaps, and shuts the door in Wooley’s outraged face before turning back to the other inhabitants. Windu looks slightly amused. Cody–

Well. He probably wouldn’t notice anything short of a torpedo to the face at this point. 

Helix watches as Cody sets Obi-Wan on the bed, holding him upright for long enough that he can settle next to him, and then wraps one arm around his shoulders as Obi-Wan slumps against his side.

He turns away, opening his kit and says, his voice hoarse, “I think all of Ghost is setting up camp outside the door, General. They–” he clears his throat. “They missed you.”

A quiet whisper of a response–

“Missed… them… too.”

And then, a slight ripple of amusement–

“D’d you?”

Helix pulls an IV kit out of the bag and scoffs, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “What, miss you? I–”

He ducks his head for a moment, blinking rapidly, before turning back to meet Kenobi’s half-lidded gaze. 

“Don’t get too cocky,” he croaks.

Laughter flickers in his eyes, and Windu translates, his voice warm– 

“Me? I would never.”

Next to them, Cody’s grip tightens.

Helix crouches down next to the bed, his kit in one hand, hating the thought of changing the subject but knowing he has work to do. 

“Listen, General. I’m worried about your nutrient intake. You have other options– you did real good with the water– but the easiest one would be to start an IV line, at least just for the next twenty-four hours. I’ll show you the solution. Sealed packaging. Do you think we can try that?”

A beat passes, and then Obi-Wan nods, slow and deliberate.

“Okay,” Helix sighs. “Good. Thank you. You change your mind, you say so, and I’ll take it out and we’ll figure something else out. Still with me?”

“Yes,” Windu says, and when Helix glances at him, he says, quieter, “Don’t worry. I’m not assuming. The words come from him.”

Helix nods and snaps open his kit. Total parenteral nutrition, he thinks, looking at him, cataloging, assessing– too skinny, likely starved, did Dooku feed him at all, kriffing–

Bloodwork will reveal further deficiencies. The solution can be adjusted accordingly, but for now– yes. TPN. He grabs the bag and looks up. His eyes are open. Good. Okay.

“Right here, General,” he says gently. “The bag’s sealed, see? It’s a TPN, you know the standard solution. Glucose, amino acids, vitamins, electrolytes– nothing I wouldn’t give myself.” 

He sees both Cody and Windu examining the bag as well. Windu, at least, is less obvious about it. 

“...Safe?” 

“Safe. I promise. Okay to start a line? Right arm? I’ll walk you through it as I go.”

It takes a bit longer to get a nod, this time, and Helix feels something prickle along the back of his neck. “General. Obi-Wan. I meant it when I said there are other options. If you don’t want to–”

“‘s fine,” Obi-Wan says quietly, but there’s a tension in his form that makes Helix nervous.

But. His decision.

“I’ll stop as soon as you say,” he reminds him. “Either out loud or through Windu. Whichever’s faster. Your decision.”

A nod. Fine. Okay.

The skin on the back of his right hand is… odd. Pink and raw, but Obi-Wan’s in long sleeves and Helix has a feeling that getting him out of those will be another battle entirely.

“Right hand okay?”

A nod.

Helix glances at Windu, and the other man also nods, but his brow is furrowed. 

His decision, Helix reminds himself.

He tears open the wipe. He doesn’t even need to palpate for the vein. He connects the flush and primes the cap, setting them aside.

The prickling grows stronger.

He takes off the needle cap. 

Klaxons start blaring in the back of his mind.

He puts one hand on Obi-Wan’s, talking all the while, pulling the skin taut, smoothing it for insertion–

And then Obi-Wan’s hand jerks out of his grip as he spasms, scrabbling backwards, away from him and Cody both, and Helix drops the kit and steps away, spreading his hands, thinking I knew it, I kriffing knew it and then Obi-Wan’s back hits the wall and on a rattling inhale he brings one hand up and acting on pure instinct Helix drops to the floor as Windu jerks to his feet and he feels a wave of something brush so close to the top of his head that it ruffles his hair and then he hears a crunch and rolls over to see one of the steel kitchen cabinets crumple into a metal crater but fuck it, that’s not important–

Cody, his voice cracking–

“Obi-Wan? Obi-Wan, it’s okay, you’re okay, please–”

Then, silence, disturbed only by trembling, rapid breathing.

Helix pokes his head over the edge of the bed.

Cody’s pushed himself back towards the headboard, giving Obi-Wan room. After a moment, Windu sits down next to him. He places one hand on Obi-Wan’s arm, and as Helix watches, Obi-Wan’s breathing slows and steadies, matching Windu’s careful, deliberate movements.

Okay. Think.

Obi-Wan hadn’t recognized him. That blow was aimed at him. To incapacitate, if not kill. A defensive measure. 

Why?

He had said the IV was fine. Repeatedly. Every step of the way, every time Helix had asked. And he’d declined treatment before, when he wasn’t comfortable. So what had stopped him from–

But. 

Obi-Wan has a miserable habit of saying he’s fine when he’s not. Helix knows this. He will say he’s fine even as he’s completely unable to stand up on his own (gods, that one time the Dantari flu had swept the ship) because he thinks he should be. 

Because he thinks he doesn’t have any reason not to be. 

And he’d been real deep in the lightning, when he’d come back.

Helix unfolds himself from the floor, kicking the IV kit under the table, hiding it from view.

How long had he been gone?

“Obi-Wan,” Helix says gently. “You with us?”

He knows the answer. Whatever Windu is doing, it's working. Obi-Wan’s gaze refocuses, and the wild, all-consuming fear on his face is already peeling back to reveal several different layers of shame.

“S’ry,” he croaks.

Out of the corner of his eye, Helix sees Cody’s expression crumple.

“Don’t be,” Helix says firmly. “You’re fine. I’m fine. Everyone’s fine. No one got hurt.”

He sits down on the edge of the bed. It’s getting a bit crowded, but he sees some tension bleed from Obi-Wan’s shoulders and files that away as well. 

Yeah, he’s definitely calling Ghost in. As soon as he’s done. 

“I have a theory,” he says gently. “The body remembers what the mind forgets. Muscle memory. It’s why we train, right? So we can act without conscious thought. And you were pretty deep in the lightning for a while, I think. So it makes sense that maybe what you thought you were okay with and what your body is actually okay with might differ. Still with me?”

Obi-Wan’s eyes flicker away from him, but he nods.

“I–”

Helix ducks his head enough to catch his eyes. “Sir. Obi-Wan. I don’t need an apology. Don’t want one, either. What I do need is for you to work on listening to your own body, okay? I saw you were uncomfortable when I pushed the suggestion of an IV. I should have stopped, and I’m sorry I didn’t. I know this isn’t going to be easy, but you’re gonna need to listen to your body over your mind for a bit. It’ll be sending you signals you might not think are important because you can’t match them to a memory. But it’ll have its own reasons. We’ll figure it out. Okay?”

A long, shuddering sigh, and a ragged smile.

“Missed… you.”

Helix leans back for a second, blinking at the ceiling. 

You will be the greatest challenge of my medical career, he’d groaned one time. 

We are genetically engineered to process greater levels of stress and yet somehow you’re still giving me an ulcer, he’d shouted.

You are an absolute kriffing nightmare of a patient, he’d muttered.

You are going to be the death of me, he’d said, again and again and again–

(Dooku experimented on him, Windu had said, quick and quiet and stone-faced. The flashback, I saw– where he was kept, it looked like a medbay–)

And Dooku had put him in scrubs–

Telegraphing his movements carefully, he leans forward and knocks his forehead gently against Obi-Wan’s.

“Missed you too, you mad bastard,” he says, and feels more than hears the laugh he gets in response.

He has a lot he needs to do. Scans. Bloodwork. A proper assessment of wounds–

But he considers Obi-Wan’s reactions, relabels needs as wants, and reprioritizes them accordingly.

His comm beeps. A message from Waxer–

Ponds is here. Says he’s got something for Windu. You’ll want to see it too.

Obi-Wan is beginning to tilt sideways, his eyes cloudy with exhaustion. There’s only one thing he can do now.

“Hey,” he says gently. “Do you remember the last time you slept? Lightning doesn’t count, so don’t try pulling that one again.”

A slow shake of the head, and then, from Windu–

“No. Didn’t sleep. Bright lights. Too– bright. Too– loud. Tired.”

Sleep deprivation is a form of torture. Helix knows this. They’d been trained, on Kamino– 

“Okay,” Helix says. “Okay. Do you think you can get some sleep now? I need to talk to Windu, we’ll be just outside–.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes flutter open, and he says, panic in his voice, “C’dy–?”

“Will be staying right here,” Helix promises. At a pointed glance from him, Cody scrambles back next to Obi-Wan, settling against the wall.

“Right here,” he croaks, and a smile flashes over Obi-Wan’s face.

“Knew you’d come,” he sighs, and immediately goes boneless against Cody’s side.

Okay. That’s– that’s something–

Helix takes a breath. Tucks that away for later. 

(He doesn’t quite dare to look at Cody’s face.)

He ducks down and retrieves the IV kit from under the table, shoving it back into his bag with a sudden surge of viciousness. He jerks his head at Windu, who follows him without complaint. 

When the door slides open, Helix thinks, called it. 

The hallway is packed.

Wooley scrambles to his feet. “Can we–?”

“Go on,” Helix says, suddenly feeling very tired. “He’s asleep. Be careful.”

They tumble past him at speed, hissing at each other under their breath. He hears Trapper mutter d’you think he’ll like the vambraces–?

Then the door slides shut, and the hallway is empty except for him, Windu, and Ponds.

Who is, now that Helix is paying attention, looking very pale.

“Commander,” Windu says, apparently picking up on the same thing, “are you alright?”

“We found– footage, sir,” Ponds blurts out. “Dooku– recorded the–”

He stops. A muscle in his jaw jumps.

Footage, Helix thinks, and something in the back of his mind curls up and screams.

“Do you have it with you?”

Ponds nods, and holds out a data chip. “Squid checked it. It’s clean, but there’s a few days missing. We– we caught some of it, we didn't mean to, but we had to check it, to make sure it was–”

He swallows.

“Is he okay, sir?”

“He will be,” Windu says firmly, accepting the chip. “Thank you, Commander. Anything else?”

“Recovery is still ongoing, sir. We’re downloading everything we can find onto isolated systems to avoid any potential compromise of our own. Large portions of the compound are completely demolished– still smoking– but we’re excavating.”

“Good man, Ponds,” Windu says, running a hand down his face. “Anything you find–”

“Physical transfer, no hackable signals,” Ponds says, nodding. He quirks a smile. “Don’t worry, General. We’re professionals.”

Windu sighs, his lips twitching upwards. “Apologies, Commander. I have full faith in your abilities. I find myself somewhat rattled at the moment.”

His fingers curl around the data chip. 

Ponds sobers. “Of course, sir. I’ll supervise the ground operations and let you know when we’re clear.”

Helix wrenches his jaw open. “Ponds. If you find any–

(“Experimented on him–”)

“- biological samples, make sure they’re sent up to me.”

Ponds’ expression doesn’t change. There’s no hint of shock, no sign of surprise, and a part of Helix’s mind cringes at the confirmation of what he’s going to find in the footage.

“Will do, Helix,” he says gently. “And– comm Ace to check in if you need to, yeah?”

Helix recognizes the kindness for what it is. The 187th medical officer is a steady presence. Normally, he would lean on another 212th medic at a time like this, but–

It will probably be easier for Kenobi if his own men can look at him without seeing whatever’s on that chip. Helix will watch it, because he is Kenobi’s CMO and he has a duty and he needs to know what happened to help him, but he’s not about to put that on any of the others.

“Thanks, Ponds,” he croaks. 

Ponds reaches out and squeezes his shoulder, nods at Windu, and walks off. 

His footsteps fade away down the hallway. 

Helix clears his throat. “My office, please, General. We’ll have privacy.”

“By all means, Helix.” Windu says, gesturing forward. “Lead the way.”

Gods, he sounds almost as tired as Helix feels.

When they reach the medbay, Needle’s cheerful greeting is jarring enough that Helix nearly bursts out laughing. 

“...Helix? General Windu, sir, is everything okay? Boss, you said not to worry about Ponds’ report, and I fixed the shelving, did something–?”

“Kenobi’s alive,” Helix blurts out, squeezing his eyes shut, and chokes back another wildly inappropriate giggle. “The casualty was Kenobi, he’s alive, he’s in his room, Ghost is with him– don’t bring your karking kit–”

He hears the sound of the plastoid medkit hitting the floor, followed by Needle’s footsteps high-tailing it out of the medbay.

Kriff, Helix thinks, slightly hysterical. I didn’t even get to see his face. 

A warm hand lands on his back.

“Helix,” Windu says gently. “You don’t have to watch it. I can take notes.”

Helix takes one more gulp of air and pulls himself back together.

“All due respect, sir, but I’m his CMO. You won’t know what to look for. Of course I’m going to watch it.”

He opens his eyes and glances at Windu.

“Which begs the question, sir– why are you going to?”

Silence falls for a moment. Then Windu shrugs, and it’s such an uncharacteristic action Helix can only stare.

“To bear witness, I suppose,” he says quietly. “I can’t imagine not watching.”

Helix shudders, once, and then straightens. Windu’s hand falls from his back.

“No,” he croaks. “Me neither.”

They settle in his office. Helix shuts the door and dims the lights. Windu inserts the data chip into the holoprojector.

They sit down.

Helix breathes.

And breathes.

And breathes.

And breathes.

Minutes–

Hours–

An impossible amount of time later–

Helix picks up the mug on his desk, and in one smooth motion hurls it through the hologram.

It shatters against the wall.

The image flickers and fades into the air.

Silence falls like a suffocating ash.

He stands. 

Opens a cupboard under his desk.

Pulls out a blanket.

Shakes it out.

Drops it over Windu’s shoulders as the man stares unseeing at the opposite wall.

Says, “Excuse me for a moment.”

Walks out of the office.

Vomits into a trash bin.

Wipes his mouth.

Keeps walking.

Waxer, pressed up against Cody, is the one to first notice him trembling.

“Commander?” he yawns, blinking back to full awareness. “What’s wrong?”

He glances down to Obi-Wan, slumped against Cody, and Wooley, curled against him.

Sprawled across the floor, on the couch, in nests of blankets and pillows, the others are stirring.

“He said he knew we’d come,” Cody croaks.

Helix stops in the middle of the hallway.

He can’t go back. Not like this. Kenobi– stupid, bloody-minded, empathetic Kenobi– would pick up on it immediately.

He palms open the door to his left.

A conference room, dark and empty.

He walks in and shuts the door behind him.

“And we did,” Waxer says, soothing. “We got him. He’s here.”

The trembling increases. Obi-Wan makes a discontented noise.

“But we nearly didn’t, did we?” Cody says hoarsely. “Because that wasn’t the plan.”

Helix stands in the darkened room, the only illumination a faint blue light from a dormant holotable.

He slumps down against the wall and buries his head in his hands.

The Jedi have their own words. Words offering a path back, words giving their own back to the Force– old words, heavy words, ritual words.

So do the clones.

Words with weight. Words of a people who are allowed nothing else. Words that are a cry for help and an acknowledgement and an offering all at once, and Helix whispers them into the darkness because they all know the small gods listen for whispers the hardest–

“I can’t shoulder this alone.”

And then, a whisper, returned–

you will never have to.

No, Waxer thinks, something cold blossoming in his chest. It wasn’t.

The plan– the plan had been to flatten the building from orbit. To force Dooku out into the open. 

And Obi-Wan– Obi-Wan couldn’t reach the Force, then, otherwise he would have gotten himself out earlier–

It is a ritual enacted over and over again:

Helix talks, and the small gods bear witness.

“We would have killed him,” Cody says, speaking the terrible thoughts into reality.

“We would have killed him, and we never would have known.”

“- he spat in Dooku’s face, and– and the bastard, he turned up the voltage until he bit through his own tongue–”

“Cody,” Waxer says helplessly, and then nothing, because–

He’s right. What can he say? 

“-dislocated his knee and picked apart the tendons, I– fuck, that– I don’t even know what he was trying to test, I think– that was just to be cruel–”

And now that Cody’s said it, Waxer can’t help but imagine–

The bombardment. Capturing Dooku. And then they would have gone through the rubble, of course they would have, he was a major Separatist leader, they would have looked for information–

“And I can’t– the worst thing– the way he talked– he called him the subject– but I could– I could tell, he didn’t believe it, because so far he’s slipped up and said he three times instead of it, and that– that almost makes it worse, that he knew and did it anyways–”

Would they have found his body?

Would they have recognized it as his?

“And I knew something was wrong with his hand, it looked– raw, fuck, raw and fresh, it doesn’t even look like his anymore, gods, no wonder he reacted like that–”

Wooley’s voice breaks the strained silence.

“Shut up,” he says blearily. “He’s here. We got him. Why you gotta keep acting like we didn’t?”

One hand reaches across Obi-Wan’s chest and grabs on to the sleeve of Cody’s blacks, tugging to the right.

“Feel that? He’s breathing. He’s here. Now go to sleep.”

“-looked like a medbay, Dooku put him in scrubs, and– they were close, before, shit, of course Dooku would have known, I can’t believe he even let me near him–”

There’s a moment of silence. Then–

“I can’t believe we owe Jinn,” Boil grumbles from where he’s leaning against the bed.

“And there’s so much more to watch,” Helix croaks, the words coming out in a rush. “We– we doubled the speed, but– still–”

Six weeks. 

“I’m scared. I’m so scared.”

Waxer feels Cody shudder, once, all over, before finally going still.

“ Owe is a strong word,” he says finally, sounding more like himself. “If I ever see him again, I won’t shoot him, how’s that?”

Helix stays there for a moment longer, the echoes of the confession lingering in the dark, still air, and breathes.

A burden, shared and redistributed. No longer his alone to bear and remember.

He inhales. Straightens up. Inclines his head to the empty room.

Then he leaves.

“Would a blaster even work against a ghost?” Trapper yawns.

“No harm in trying,” Boil snorts. “Fine. No blaster. But punching’s still allowed.”

Cody grins suddenly, a flash of white teeth in the darkness. “I call the first shot.”

“Not a single one of us would challenge that,” Waxer says drily. 

A ripple of quiet laughter sweeps the room. Obi-Wan snuffles gently, curling further into Cody’s side. 

He stands outside Obi-Wan’s quarters for a moment, staring at nothing. 

Then he palms the door open.

There’s a stirring of movement across the floor, a lightning-quick assessment, and something in Helix’s chest unwinds at the knowledge that if he had not, in fact, been Helix, then the reaction would have been swift and deadly.

His gaze finds Obi-Wan, sandwiched between Cody and Wooley, a pale spot of white and red in the darkness.

“Helix?” Cody says quietly. “You all right?”

He nods. His voice has abandoned him.

In the light spilling in from the hallway, he sees Cody’s eyes narrow slightly before softening.

“Come on,” he says gently, shifting forward slightly. “There’s room.”

“Close the door,” Waxer mutters, squeezing his eyes shut. “We’re sleeping.”

He does.

Helix picks his way across the crowded floor and crawls onto the bed, wedging himself between Obi-Wan and the wall.

He presses his back to Obi-Wan’s and matches his breathing, inhale to inhale, exhale to exhale, steady and present and alive.

We’ve got you, he thinks, something enormous twisting in his chest.

We’ve got you. Don’t you dare let go.

Chapter Text

Mace sits in the dark, staring at the wall, unseeing, retreating. 

The ghosts of white light and red blood hang in the air.

(He had been so small, once, a tiny, red-haired toddler, wriggling out of the robes Mace had bundled him into to dry him off, infinitely curious and utterly unwilling to sit still until Mace had picked him up so he could see out of the viewport–)

A prickling sensation spreads along his shoulder blades and down his arms.

He folds his fingers around the edge of the blanket.

(“I miss him,” Obi-Wan had confessed, when Mace had followed the Force’s prodding to the training salle at three in the morning, only a week after the debacle on Naboo– “I could use his help, I– Qui-Gon’s dead, and he left, and he– he promised he’d stay–”)

In the Force, Obi-Wan’s ragged presence is quiet and warm in sleep. 

Mace checks in on him one more time, soothing, reassuring, and then carefully disentangles himself.

His hand folds neatly around the hilt of his lightsaber.

(He’d been so pleased, when he’d come back from Illum, and he’d told Mace all about what he’d seen, so similar to the dreams-that-were-not-dreams that had driven him out of the creche and to the door of Mace’s quarters when he’d been younger, but in the caves he had seen himself protecting and defending and that was what made a good Jedi, right, Master Mace–?)

He stands. The blanket drops to the floor.

Something bleak and frigid coils through his veins.

(“I offered him a path back,” Obi-Wan had said, his quiet voice echoing in the Council chamber. “I did, and he– hesitated, for a moment, I saw him, and I know we cannot afford to keep giving him more chances, but I can’t help but hope–”)

This– this is not rage, what curls through him now.

This is what grief becomes, when it grows too big.

He walks. One steady step after another, and with every stride he thinks of Obi-Wan, growing up, growing older, planting sunflowers, making mud-pies–

(lashed to a metal table, cut open from the inside)

–rebuilding himself, remaking himself, in the wreckage of a warzone–

(pinned down and disassembled, dissected, taken apart)

–laughing and loving and living, a light so bright and brilliant–

(the subject, Dooku had called him, as if he were nothing, nothing at all)

“General Windu, sir!”

He stops. 

He’s reached the brig. Two troopers stand in front of him– Jackrum and Burr, if he remembers correctly. 

In the Force, the presence behind the door is scarcely recognizable– snared and entangled in a deep and choking Dark.

Distantly, he realizes he’s shaking.

“Are you here to speak to the prisoner, sir?” Jackrum asks, glancing down. A vicious delight spikes in the Force, and Mace realizes his lightsaber is ignited, humming against the palm of his hand.

It would be so easy.

The comms blackout means the news of Dooku’s capture has not left Iwanaga’s orbit.

Maybe he had died in the battle. Maybe they had overestimated his ability to stop the collapse. Maybe they had simply failed to take him in alive.

Disappointing, certainly. A lack of actionable intel. But, well– it’s war. Accidents happen.

And he knows, with a bone-deep certainty, that not a single person aboard this ship would stop him. 

(So very easy.)

And then–

A stirring, in the Force.

Mace?

Questioning, dazed, half-asleep, and yet–

Safe?

Mace closes his eyes. Takes the first full breath he’s taken in– since he’d inserted that damn chip.

All’s well, he says, pushing forward warmth and calm and safesafesafe, and he feels Obi-Wan subside, soothed, curling back into sleep.

No. No one would stop him. 

So he will have to stop himself.

“Do me a favor,” he hears himself say, his voice coming from a long way away, “and do not let me in to see Dooku until we reach Coruscant. Use a stunner if you must. But do not let me in that room, understand?”

The Force ripples with resigned disappointment, and the troopers in front of him slump almost imperceptibly.

“...Yes, sir,” says Burr finally. 

Inhale. Exhale.

“Thank you,” he says shortly, and inclines his head before turning on his heel. 

He needs– to talk to someone. His mind immediately jumps to Plo, but he’s too– unsteady, right now, to facilitate that sort of communication. He needs to find his balance again first.

He should meditate. He wants to meditate.

But first–

Mace makes his way to Obi-Wan’s rooms, drawing his shields tight, radiating only a soft and gentle warmth.

He draws to a stop outside the door and reaches out.

Obi-Wan is resting, finally, sleep dulling the sharp edges of his ragged signature. His presence fairly hums with a quiet, complete contentment.

The others, though–

Exhaustion, that’s a big one.

Grief, that’s another. Mace catches a whisper of what could have been through the Force and nearly staggers as the realization shudders through him–

Inhale. Exhale. 

That will help no one.

Exhaustion and grief and worry and relief and–

Love. Entangled through all of it, inextricable, irrefutable– an aching, undeniable love.

Mace closes his eyes. 

It was one thing to witness it through the Memory, shadowed as it was by raw grief and a bruising sense of loss.

But here and now–

He sinks cross-legged onto the floor, leaning against the wall next to the door, and carefully unravels the cocoon of warmth-here-safe he’d wrapped Obi-Wan in just enough to stretch it over the maelstrom of heartache that fills the rest of the room like a thunderstorm.

Slowly, the storm begins to settle. 

Mace knows, logically, that Obi-Wan is safe. That Ponds and the rest of his men are clearing the compound, that he would be notified if something so much as twitched funny, that Dooku is secure in the brig, that Obi-Wan is in the room behind him, surrounded by those who love him, that he is out and here and safe–

But. 

He draws his lightsaber and rests it on one knee, thumb on the ignition switch, before sinking into the Force.

Just in case.

Plo finds himself feeling… off-kilter.

He’d last heard from Mace nearly a full cycle ago, when he’d commed to inform Plo that they were descending into Iwanaga’s atmosphere. Since then, though, something has been itching at the back of his mind. He’s tried to meditate, but whatever is causing his discomfort is not isolated to him. The Force is twisting itself into knots. Ahsoka, when he’d asked her, had said much the same 

Then she’d asked if they could spar, to clear both their heads.

He is impressed every day by her resilience. 

He remembers, when she’d first seen the footage– 

The disbelief had come first. A dawning sense of he couldn’t be so– 

Then, following on its heels, an ugly sense of realization, and when Plo had asked, well–

Apparently, it had not been the first time Anakin had brought up Qui-Gon Jinn.

Anakin had always compared Obi-Wan to him and found Obi-Wan wanting, Ahsoka had explained. He had complained to her, sometimes– had said that Obi-Wan was holding him back, that Qui-Gon would have knighted him earlier or wouldn’t have been so stodgy or would have given him his own battalion, and he’d never been so cruel about it before but maybe if she’d said something earlier– but she had never known Jinn and Anakin was her Master and he and Obi-Wan had always seemed to have a good relationship otherwise and Master Obi-Wan had never seemed bothered, not really, but then again he was very good at not seeming bothered by a lot of things, and his face in that recording–

Plo had guided her through the rush of renewed grief that followed, breathing through his own.

After the funeral, after the Memory, when Mace had told them what Anakin had–

Had–

Plo had volunteered to tell Ahsoka. Not the details, perhaps, she didn’t need to know those, but that Anakin had fallen to the Dark, that he had been stripped of his title, that he was climbing his way out but it would be a long road home.

Ahsoka had looked at him, something crumbling behind her eyes, and had said–

This isn’t going to be temporary, is it?

And Plo had been honest, completely and totally.

He had offered, then, to ask about getting the Master-Padawan bond with Skywalker severed in its entirety.

Ahsoka had fallen quiet for a moment, and then said that she needed to meditate on it, and had come back the next morning and said no, the block was in place, and it might not ever be removed, and they might not ever know each other again as Master and Padawan, but if he could find his way home then they might know each other as equals, and severing the bond completely would feel too much like giving up, and she didn’t want to give up on him.

She had looked nervous, telling him, nervous and resolute, but Plo had gently pushed the warm flush of pride down their fledgling bond, and said–

You have so much of your grandmaster in you, little ‘Soka.

And then a few nights later, Ahsoka had found him in his office, a chilly insecurity curling through the bond, and blurted out a request to meditate, and Plo had discovered an ugly fear blooming in her mind–

If Skyguy had been so cruel– had I? Had I said something– had I gone along with it– had I hurt him? Did he think I thought– that I didn’t–?

If Skyguy had fallen– if he had touched the Dark and I didn’t realize– did I not see it because it was in me, because I had touched it too, because–?

You came to me, Plo had said gently, when Ahsoka surfaced from the meditation with tear tracks on her face. That is the most important thing– to know when to ask for help. You did very well, and I am very proud of you– and I know Master Kenobi would be as well.

They fall into a routine easily.

The assimilation of the 501st occurs with as much ease as Plo could have hoped for. At Wolffe’s recommendation, they largely continue to operate as two separate units rather than a larger single one during engagements. Rex is an exceedingly capable and adaptable strategist on his own. 

Plo manages to pull him aside for a talk three weeks in. He’d asked how Rex himself was, how the transition was going, how the others were settling in, and then he’d asked if he could do anything to help and the captain had fixed him with a dark, assessing gaze and said–

You remind me of General Kenobi, sir.

And Plo had recognized a test, even if Rex himself hadn’t quite meant it that way, and he’d replied–

High praise indeed, Captain.

Rex’s shoulders had relaxed, slightly, and that was that.

Life moves on.

They are in between engagements at the moment, and Plo has nothing but paperwork to distract him from the nagging worry in the back of his mind.

There’s a lot of paperwork. 

There has been since–

Well.

Finally, finally, his comm beeps, signaling an incoming call, and Plo spares a moment to recenter himself before picking up.

Before he can get a word out–

“Master Koon,” and oh, no, his friend’s voice is so tightly strung Plo could pluck a tune on it, and Mace never calls him Master Koon when it’s just the two of them, it’s hard to manage that when he’d caught Mace very solemnly teaching the fish in the Temple pond how to maximize the efficiency of their movements as a way to study for a physics exam when they were thirteen–

Something’s gone wrong.

“The 501st and the 104th are being recalled to Coruscant, effective immediately,” Mace says, still in that stilted, controlled voice. He looks like he’s sitting against a wall. “Would you do me the favor of meditating with me?”

Plo stares at the flickering projection for a moment. To any non-Jedi, that might seem a perfectly innocuous request, but he knows what Mace is really asking, and it’s a long shot. 

Joint meditations over such a long distance are so difficult to pull off as to be functionally impossible for most Jedi. The process is akin to a star radiating a neutron stream out into space with the goal of hitting a satellite dish light-years away. It requires a close-knit bond with a foundation of decades behind it, which in of itself is certainly not so rare, but the structural complexity necessary is. Both parties need to be perfectly centered in the Force, both equally ready to receive and broadcast, completely immune to external distractions–

But if it’s pulled off successfully, it can facilitate long-distance communication without the use of any external assistance.

Unhackable. Untraceable.

He’s found something he doesn’t want getting out.

They’ve never actually tried this before. But they’ve had a bond since the creche, now supplemented by the Council network–

And, Plo thinks, slightly smug, they are both very good.

“Of course, Master Windu,” he says, his tone betraying nothing. “It would be my pleasure.”

Mace nods at him and ends the call without another word.

Plo takes a moment. He is not in an ideal state of mind to attempt this for the first time. 

He breathes.

He breathes.

And

he

breathes.

He is not quite sure how long it is until he feels Mace’s familiar warmth bloom into life in the back of his mind. 

Fascinating. The usual bond between them, muted by distance, is oddly… crinkled. It feels like punching through a folded piece of flimsi– manipulating a shortcut into existence.

Plo? 

Oh, that’s better. But he still sounds–

Mace, what happened?

Oh, my friend, Mace says, and Plo feels an echo of enormous, earth-shattering grief leaking from behind his shields. You are not going to believe this.

Plo surfaces from the meditation to a world that has tilted on its axis. 

Alive.

Dooku has been captured–

Alive.

And Obi-Wan is–

Alive.

And then– the memories, oh, Force, the memories that Mace had shared– because Plo loves Obi-Wan, of course he does, but he knows that he had been Mace’s foundling, that they had been close, that Mace, over several glasses of Corellian whiskey, had once confessed to him that he regretted letting Qui-Gon take him, that Mace had worried over him even as Obi-Wan grew into one of the finest Masters in the Order– 

Obi-Wan is alive.

And that is a different type of grief altogether. 

Grief for what he has endured.

Grief for what they could have done.

Grief for the work that is yet to come.

Alive.

Somehow, impossibly, he is alive.

Plo had told him, after the memories had been shared, after they had guided each other through the grief and the guilt, because they both knew– know– that he will ask–

You will have to tell him about Anakin.

A wave of reluctant acknowledgement, and then–

And you will have to tell Ahsoka. 

Then Plo had gotten the distinct impression of a sudden, snorting laugh. The grief had parted for a moment, revealing, like sunlight through clouds, an impossible, brilliant joy.

Gods, Plo. We’re going to have to tell everyone.

They had leaned against each other, then, dizzy with nerves and relief and laughter, light-years apart but by the grace of the Force able to reach each other still.

He reaches for his comm. The bond would… likely give too much away, at the moment.

“Ahsoka? Could you come to my office once you’re finished? And– Wolffe and Rex are with you too, at the moment, aren’t they? Please ask them to accompany you. I’ve just received some interesting news.”

We’re going to have to tell everyone, Mace had said.

But Plo, just for a moment, thinks–

We’re going to get to tell everyone.

That Obi-Wan has returned, that he is alive, that he is coming home.

He has never felt quite so grateful for life.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan sleeps for nearly thirty-three hours.

Thirty-two hours and forty-six minutes, if you asked Cody.

Or Crys.

Or Trapper. 

Or–

Well.

But outside of their little bubble, dark and warm and safe, the world spins onwards.

Hour 6:

Helix blinks awake, aware in an instant. 

The room is warm and dim and quiet, apart from occasional bursts of rancor-like snoring from Boil.

His back is pressed against Obi-Wan’s. His left hand is curled around Obi-Wan’s right wrist, fingers resting on his pulse point.

His breath hitches. 

He drops Obi-Wan’s hand fast– too fast. The other man shifts, snuffling quietly, and Helix holds his breath and goes absolutely still.

He doesn’t want Obi-Wan to panic, if he wakes up and realizes Helix is here. He never should have gotten so close. Not without asking, not with how Obi-Wan had panicked, last time, and he’d seen–

But Obi-Wan doesn’t wake up. Just curls further into Cody’s side. Cody is also fast asleep, but that doesn’t stop his arm from tightening around Obi-Wan’s shoulders.

Good. Cody is…safe. That’s what Obi-Wan had said.

Carefully, he unfolds himself and slides out of the tangle of bodies on the bed. Waxer’s eyes flicker open, but upon realizing who’s moving, he offers a small wave and passes out again almost immediately. 

Everyone else still seems to be asleep. 

It’s good. Peaceful.

His gaze flickers to Obi-Wan.

Safe.

He picks his way across the crowded floor and slips out.

The door slides shut behind him. 

He glances down and just barely manages to stop himself from jumping.

Windu blinks at him from his seated position by the left of the door. 

“Have you been out here the whole time?” Helix blurts out.

Windu hums. “Yes, just about.”

He hooks his lightsaber hilt back onto his belt and unfolds himself. By silent, mutual agreement, they fall into step together, heading back towards the medbay.

“You all right, General?” he asks eventually.

“No,” Windu says, blunt enough that it shocks a snorting laugh out of Helix. “Not at all. Are you?”

Helix shudders involuntarily. “No.”

They walk for a few more minutes in silence.

“I managed to reach Master Koon,” Windu says eventually. “He’ll pass on the news to Captain Rex and Commander Wolffe.”

“I thought we were on dead comms–? Oh. Wait. Force osik?”

The words leave his mouth before he can catch himself, and he cringes, but Windu only huffs a laugh.

“Yes, I suppose you could call it that. A long-distance meditation. Plo was just about the only one I could have managed that with. They’re being recalled to Coruscant. They’re only four days out, so Plo will be able to break the news to the rest of the Order in person before we make planet-fall.”

“That’s good,” Helix says absentmindedly. “He’ll need the support. And Cody’ll need Rex and Wolffe.”

“Support is important,” Windu agrees, something pointed in his tone. Helix studiously ignores him.

Hour 7:

They witness.

Hour 8:

They witness.

Hour 9:

They witness.

Hour 10:

Cody blinks as the door opens, letting in a flood of bright light.

On the floor, directly in its path, Crys hisses.

“Helix?” he croaks. Small gods, his throat is dry.

The medic is carrying a glass containing something thick and rather sludgy. Cody recognizes a protein shake when he sees one. He makes his way across the floor to the small kitchen, passing out hydropacks as he goes. 

“If I have to treat any of you for dehydration, I will–”

The typically creative insult Cody is accustomed to doesn’t come. Helix opens the fridge, puts the shake in, and then just… stands there, for a moment. 

“Helix?” Crys prompts. “You will… throw us at Grievous?”

“Or out an airlock?” Needle suggests, grinning.

“Or tie us to a medbay bed–?” Waxer starts.

“No,” Helix snaps immediately. “I– I wouldn’t–”

The brief moment of levity dissolves. 

“I would… do something else,” Helix mutters into the stunned silence. “Just… drink the damn water. And– try and get him to drink some of the shake, if– when. When he wakes up.”

He departs the room almost at a run, but not before tossing another hydropack at Cody’s head.

Cody catches it automatically, staring after him, something cold creeping up his spine.

Hour 11:

They witness.

Hour 12:

They witness.

Hour 13:

They witness.

Hour 14:

Mace finds himself wandering down to the mess hall. 

The stark white lighting lends an air of unreality to the entire ship.

Or maybe that’s just him.

He feels slightly nauseous.

The mess hall is empty when he walks in. 

So is the kitchen.

He stops and stares. 

Obi-Wan will– he’ll need to eat.

And Mace needs something to do with his hands.

(When he’d come back from his first war, far too skinny, he’d been reluctant to eat unless he could see the food being prepared, he’d needed to taste the recipe every step of the way, and when Mace had asked, as they were punching dough into shape, Obi-Wan had quietly explained about the scavenging, and the mold, and the– even the poison, one time, before he’d learned to recognize it, the Daan had set a trap and it had worked and so many had gotten sick and only most of them had gotten better–)

But Mace can share his memories, and he focuses hard as he pulls out the different ingredients, making sure to get new, unopened packages, internalizing the clean smell of unspoiled butter and the dry texture of the flour, imbuing every memory as it’s made with as much safesafesafe as he can manage.

Obi-Wan will want to check.

And Mace will, as always, do what he can.

Hour 15:

They witness.

Hour 16:

They witness.

Hour 17: 

They witness.

Hour 18:

Helix returns with two more smoothies.

None of them say a word, this time, as he makes his way to the kitchenette and places them in the fridge. 

On his way out, he carefully avoids looking at Obi-Wan.

Hour 19:

They witness.

Hour 20:

They witness.

Hour 21:

They witness.

Hour 22:

Mace returns to the kitchen. Pulls on an apron, pulls down the next tray, every movement made with deliberate intent. 

He hears a cough from behind him.

He turns. Another trooper is looking at him assessingly, leaning against the kitchen door.

“Can I help?” the trooper asks finally. “I know what you’re doing. The General taught me. Puff-cakes, right?”

And Mace remembers, in the Memory– 

“I could help, if you wanted to teach me the recipe.”

“Yes,” he says, his throat suddenly dry. “Of course you can. Would you remind me of your name? I remember you from the funeral.”

“Terror, sir,” he says, moving further in to the kitchen, pulling down another apron with an ease born of regular use. 

They fall into an easy pattern.

But Mace is painfully aware that he is standing in someone else’s spot.

Hour 23:

They witness.

Hour 24:

They witness.

Hour 25:

They witness. 

Hour 26:

When Helix next returns, his arms are empty, but his face is pale.

He opens the fridge, removes every shake he’d made, and empties each one into the sink.

Then he drops each cup into the trash bin under the counter.

Then he turns the water on, washing every last trace of the protein slurry down the drain.

Then he leans over the sink, just for a moment, gripping the edge of the counter so tightly his knuckles turn white.

They watch him in puzzled, nervous silence.

“...Helix?” Needle ventures. “You all right?”

The medic straightens up. Runs a hand over his face. 

When he turns back to the rest of them, his expression is perfectly calm.

“Of course,” he says easily. “Just worried.”

He still doesn’t look at Obi-Wan on his way out.

Needle, after a brief moment of silence, scrambles to his feet and hurries after him.

He catches him a few hallways away.

He only manages to do so because Helix has paused to vomit into a potted plant.

“Hey– hey, Helix– what’s wrong? What can I do?”

It feels wrong to see Helix like this. Helix is their CMO, the unstoppable one, the acidic, caustic asshole who picks up the pieces the rest of them leave behind. They all have their breakdowns, of course they do, but Helix’s always consisted of getting impressively drunk and then kicking Needle’s ass in the gym, and then the hangover the next day would just make him even more of a miserable bastard.

He’s never seen his older brother so close to fracturing, and it scares him.

Helix surfaces, wiping his mouth, and gasps out–

“Needle, there’s footage.”

Oh.

Oh.

“Have you been watching it?”

Nod.

“Alone?”

“No,” Helix says, closing his eyes, resting his forehead against the cool hallway wall. “Windu’s been watching with me.”

Needle doesn’t ask why Helix hadn’t come to him or Stitch. It’s standard practice. Someone always has to be functional enough to man the medbay. 

And if Helix is like this–

Needle nearly asks why he’d chucked the smoothies.

Then he thinks about all the answers he might get, and decides he’s better off not knowing.

He fumbles for words. He’s not good at this. Not when it’s Helix.

But he has to try.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “So what can we do now?”

“Hm?”

“Right now, boss. Come on. What can I do to help?”

He watches with relief as Helix visibly pulls himself back together.

“The lights,” he says finally. “We need to do something about the lighting. It’s– too bright. Too stark. Too much like where Dooku–”

He stops.

“Okay,” Needle says, thinking furiously. “Okay. Stay right here, okay? I’ve got a plan.”

Helix simply nods, sinking down against the wall, and Needle hesitates before patting him gently on the shoulder and taking off at a run.

The lighting. Right. 

The first thing that comes to mind is colored fabric, like the harvest festival they’d witnessed on Gratiot. The inhabitants had draped glass lanterns with thin strips of red and yellow cloth, turning the light into something as warm and golden as a sunset as similar patterns bloomed across their own bodies to mark the end of the growing season. 

They don’t have colored fabric.

But they do have paint.

Needle makes his way down to the barracks. 

Gold paint. And lots and lots of blankets.

He stares at the buckets for a moment, scowling slightly. It’ll be a bit of a trek–

“Needle?”

A gleeful grin spreads slowly across his face. He turns.

“Trigger!” he exclaims cheerfully. “Just the man I was looking for!”

Hour 27:

It doesn’t take long at all to explain the plan. Trigger pulls in Kamei, and Kamei pulls in Comet, and in the end the party that tromps back up towards the medbay with their arms full of blankets and buckets of paint numbers nearly two dozen. They make a quick diversion towards the hallway where Needle had left Helix, and the look of dawning realization on his brother's face when he sees them has Needle only barely managing to restrain himself from cackling. 

In the medbay, the buckets are pried open and stuffed full of blankets before being resealed and kicked around for a bit to ensure an equal spread. They repurpose unused cording for washing lines and string the paint-soaked blankets up across the room. Stitch nearly shrieks at the sight of paint dripping over his nice clean floors when he checks in on them, and he ropes Comet and Kamei into pulling sheets out of the supply closet to spread over the floors in an effort to mitigate the damage. 

(This, of course, leads to a five-minute break in the proceedings so Needle can lead the others in cooing over their ickle baby medic growing up, gleefully ignoring Stitch’s loud protests.)

Eventually, Windu rejoins their little group, and the blankets begin to dry with astonishing speed.

Needle looks at him suspiciously.

Windu meets his gaze with a calm equanimity.

Well. If there’s help to be offered…

The blankets are torn neatly into pieces just large enough to fit over a light fixture. They turn off the medbay lights for a few minutes to let them cool down before pinning the strips of fabric over them.

When the lights are reignited, the whole room is suffused with a soft and golden glow. Bright enough that operations won’t be compromised, but different enough from the usual stark lighting that, when Needle glances at Helix, he can see some of the tension easing from his shoulders.

The group stands in silence for a moment, admiring the results.

“We should have done this ages ago,” Comet says, awed. “This is much nicer.”

Needle hums in agreement before clapping his hands together. “Alright, folks, new mission– let’s get the rest of the ship, okay?”

“Right,” Trigger says. “I can fix the lights in the General’s rooms–”

“Good try,” Kamei interrupts. “I can take care of that. I’m tall enough to reach the lights–”

“We’re the same height,” Comet hisses. 

“I’m more flexible, you fell off the table the last time you needed to reach something–”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Needle says magnanimously. “I’ll be taking care of that–”

“Excuse you,” Stitch cuts him off, his hair still slightly ruffled, “you’ve been with him for hours! I can–”

Needle casts a beseeching look at Helix.

The corners of his lips quirk upwards, and Helix steps forward, raising his voice slightly. “This was Needle’s idea, so I’m delegating distribution of duties to him. No protests. Be smarter next time.”

There is a slight ripple of mutinous muttering, but it dies away quickly at a quelling glance from Helix.

Needle clears his throat.

“I am a benevolent ruler,” he says smugly. “I’ll–”

Helix coughs.

“A benevolent viceroy, I mean,” Needle amends hastily. “I’ll fix the lights in the General’s rooms, but the rest of you can sort out the different sections among yourselves. Let it never be said I can’t delegate.”

Sulkily, the rest of the group disperses, carrying bags of newly painted coverings with them. Needle sticks out his tongue at Stitch’s back as the other medic departs at last. 

“Be nice,” Helix warns from behind him, and Needle subsides.

“Feeling a bit better, boss?” he asks quietly.

There’s a pause.

“Steadier,” Helix says finally. “Now go away. You have lights to fix.”

“Yessir,” says Needle, grinning. He snaps off a half-serious salute and snags another bag of fabric. He’s got one foot out the door when he hears Helix say–

“And– Needle?”

“Yeah, boss?”

“That was a good idea,” Helix says, his voice warming slightly. “Well done.”

Needle all but floats all the way back to the General’s rooms. 

“Eager, isn’t he?” Windu says, smiling slightly.

Helix snorts. “He tries his best.”

He gestures towards the door to his office, and Windu sobers.

He’ll have to fix the lights in there too, Helix thinks. After–

After.

Hour 28:

They witness.

Hour 29:

They witness.

Hour 30:

They witness.

(Around them, bit by bit, sunlight blossoms in the halls of the ship.)

Hour 31:

Helix receives a comm from Dystro when he’s in the gym.

He’ll be accompanying three refrigeration units up to the Negotiator’s medbay, it reads. They contain the requested samples.

The last of the steadiness he’d managed to retain from solving the lighting issue slips through his fingers like mist. He sits on his hands to stop them from trembling.

He sits there for a long time.

Dystro is already in the medbay when Helix finally makes his way back up.

He hands over a clipboard. Says something about signing for custody.

Helix signs. 

“Helix?” Dystro asks carefully. “Are you… all right?”

“Fine,” he says shortly. “Get out.”

He doesn’t know what expression is on his face right now, but apparently it’s enough to make Dystro flee without asking any more stupid questions.

Helix picks up the piece of paper on top of one of the refrigeration units.

It’s an inventory list.

It’s double-sided.

He stares at it for a bit.

Flips it over.

Stares some more.

Then he opens the first cooler.

Six IV fluid bags of blood are stacked neatly on the top shelf.

A standard IV bag contains one liter of fluid.

The human body contains five liters of blood.

On the bottom shelf–

He sits down on the floor.

Pulls out his comm.

“Ace?”

He marvels at how calm he sounds.

“I’ll be right over.”

What does he sound so worried for? He’s fine. 

“Hey. Hey. Helix? Stay on the line, okay?”

“Why?” he asks. Something flickers in the back of his brain. “Do you– do you need help?”

“Ah– yes. Yes, actually. Route’s a damn fool and tried to do a flip off a shelving unit. Slammed his head pretty hard. What are the concussion symptoms I need to look for?”

Oh, he knows this. Easy.

“Headache. Or– he might not think he has a headache. He might say it feels like pressure. Same thing. Nausea. Balance problems. Blurry vision. Short-term memory loss.”

He pauses. “You should know this.”

He can hear footsteps running on the other end of the comm. “Yeah, I know, I’m an idiot. What else?”

Then, slightly muffled– “Snapper, I need a lift to the Negotiator–”

Sounds irrelevant. He dismisses it. 

“Ears ringing. Clumsy movements. Light or noise sensitivity. Uh– did he lose consciousness at all?”

The rumble of engines comes through, and then– “No.”

“Okay,” Helix says. That’s good.

“Hey– Helix? Archie needs an IV for dehydration. Can’t remember how to get one started.”

“Hm?”

“Helix! How do I get an IV started?” Ace snaps. “Come on. You know this.”

“I– right. Yes. 20 gauge. Tie a tourniquet just above the elbow. Wipe the area clean. Antiseptic wipe.”

He stops. 

“Helix?”

“Ace, he wouldn’t let me start an IV.”

Nothing but static for a moment, and then– 

“Helix–”

His hands are shaking.

“Dooku set up an IV for exsanguination but it was going too slowly so he ordered the med-droid to cut open the radial artery and drain him from there until there was only lightning left, I saw it, I watched it, and he still collected all the blood and bagged it and labeled it and I’m looking at it right now and the most recent sample’s from two days ago and he wouldn’t let me get anything from him now because of course he wouldn’t why would he but I need to know what his bloodwork looks like but they drained him, Ace–”

Footsteps, running. Not over the comm, this time.

Ace skids around the corner into the medbay, then stops and stares at him. The call cuts out.

“Oh,” Helix says faintly. “That was fast.”

“Dystro warned me,” Ace says, the spiderweb scar on the left side of his face twisting as he speaks. 

Helix buries his face in his hands, and Ace pulls him up and into a hug, kicking the cooler door shut.

“Come on,” he grumbles, shuffling them both over to the nearest bed and hauling Helix down with him. “You’re okay.” 

“I don’t know what to do,” Helix says, his voice muffled from where he’s tucked his face into the crook of Ace’s neck. “I don’t want to hurt him– I don’t– I can’t get blood from him now, I can’t ask, but I– can I draw from this? Dooku took it by force, and I don’t want– I don’t want to be like–”

“Hey,” Ace says, shaking him slightly. “Listen to me. Don’t start with that banthashit. You are not Dooku. He trusts you, doesn’t he? Still let you near him, even after all that. Cut it out.”

He takes a breath.

“And as for the rest of it… take a harm reduction approach, right? The exsanguination was brutal, but it’s done, now, isn’t it? And trying to get blood from him now might cost him more than he has to give. So I’d say draw from this. Do a full panel, then get rid of it and anything else in those coolers. Chuck it all in the incinerator. I’ll bring moonshine.”

“Will you stay?” Helix croaks after a moment. “While I– do the tests? Just to– to make sure I’m only doing what’s– what’s– what’s absolutely necessary–”

“Sure,” Ace says gently. “If you want me to. But I don’t think I need to, you hear me? You are trying to be kind. You are trying to figure out how to help him. And he loves you, you big sap. Wouldn’t have let you near him otherwise, right?”

Helix sniffs wetly. “He loves everyone.”

Ace hums in agreement. “Damn Jedi. Pain in the shebs, all of them. But we love them anyways, right?”

Helix grumbles slightly. 

“...Yeah.”

“See?” says Ace triumphantly. “That’s why you could never be Dooku.”

A tiny, aching noise tears out of Helix’s throat, and Ace tightens his grip as his shoulders start to shake.

He hums nonsense for a bit and then switches to a quiet recounting of the latest episode of what he calls SFS, or Stupid Fucking Shenanigans: how Dystro had smuggled a live crab on board for the sole purpose of dropping it in Rollback’s soup and the shrieking chase through the ship that had ensued, how Squid, being a soft-hearted fool, had rescued the crab from the chaos and kept it in his bucket until Windu had found out and managed to wrangle a tank for it, so now they had a new mascot, and they’d voted on the name and Herbert had won but Ace was almost certain that Squid had rigged the voting process because Herbert was an objectively terrible name, but he did have rescuer’s privilege so Herbert it was, how Ponds had very sternly vetoed Squid’s enthusiastic suggestion that they start calling themselves the Crabs, how Dystro and Rollback had added a note to Squid’s file that he has crabs until Ace had found out and given them a furious lecture about not messing with medical files, how Squid had overheard, edited together pictures of the two of them in compromising positions, and pasted them up all over the barracks–

Eventually, the shudders start to dissipate. 

“Your medics are a mess,” Helix grumbles into his shoulder.

“Oh, like yours are any better?”

“Stitch is anal-retentive and Needle just wants validation. Could be worse. Yours are chaos incarnate.”

“Ah, they keep things interesting.” 

“Right,” Helix deadpans. “Because the life of a medic is known for being boring.”

Ace grins to himself. He’s back. He hesitates for a moment, and then decides to go for it. 

“I thought of another reason, by the way,” he says, deliberately cheerful. “You don’t have a cape.”

Helix snorts a laugh. “I could totally get a cape.”

“Couldn’t pull it off, though.”

“Could too.”

“You lack the swagger.”

“I have more swagger in my pinky finger than you could begin to dream of.”

“I have damning evidence that says otherwise.”

“Slander. Altered footage. I’ll press charges.”

“I never mentioned footage.”

“Asshole.”

“Bastard.”

But Helix does not pull away, and Ace does not let go.

Later, on his way out, Ace goes looking for General Windu.

Hour 32:

Helix feels the bed dip when Windu settles next to him.

He doesn’t bother to look up. 

“Helix,” Windu says gently. “Ace said that you were worried about hurting Obi-Wan.”

Gods. He’s so tired. He feels unmoored, almost, but Windu should know– he should know that it’s okay, he figured it out–

“Don’t worry, General. I won’t have to go near him anymore,” Helix says muzzily. He pats Windu gently on the knee. “I got all the information I needed. Dystro brought up the biological samples. I ran the tests I needed to on those. And I did need to. I promise. I asked Ace to double-check. Triple-check. And he did. You can check with him. Only did what I had to–”

A bucket materializes between his legs just in time.

He feels a warm hand settle between his shoulder blades.

“He’s one of us, sir,” Helix croaks, wiping at his mouth. “He’s one of us. I would never– I wouldn’t–”

His voice fails him. 

The way he’d flinched– 

Windu presses an opened hydropack into his hands.

“Helix, he wanted you.”

Helix blinks at him. His vision is blurry with exhaustion, but in Windu’s voice he hears a deep, deep sadness.

“You remember I told you he shared something with me? Fragments?”

Yes. He remembers. In that quick and quiet conversation, while Cody had shattered into pieces behind him–

“He was looking for you. He was disoriented and scared and he didn’t know where he was, and the first thing he looked for was you. Not me. Not his Commander. But you.”

That takes a moment to settle in.

Obi-Wan had wanted him. Obi-Wan had needed him. And where had he been, while Dooku had–?

“We weren’t looking for him,” Helix says bleakly. “We should have been looking for him.”

He hears Windu sigh.

“That is a burden I think we will all carry for a long time,” he says heavily. “But for now– rest. Do not underestimate your own importance in what’s to come, Helix. Obi-Wan is not afraid of you because he does not need to be. You will not hurt him.

“And besides,” he adds, the barest hint of a smile in his voice, “do you think I would let you near him if I thought you were a threat?”

Hm. No. Good point.

It’s that, oddly enough, that reassures him enough that he doesn’t protest when he’s pushed gently sideways into a vaguely horizontal position. Someone lifts his legs onto the bed. He feels something heavy and warm and slightly scratchy settle over him.

It’s not a blanket. They’d used all the blankets. For the lights. So what–?

His eyes are stinging with exhaustion. Maybe with something else, too.

“Rest,” Windu repeats, his voice warm. “He will be here when you wake up.”

Yes. He will be, won’t he?

Helix sleeps.

Crys is sprawled upside-down on the bed, legs propped up along the wall, sandwiched between Trapper and Obi-Wan.

“- just saying, have you thought about adding color to it? Stripes, maybe?”

“Stripes,” Auks repeats, unimpressed.

“Doesn’t have to be stripes,” Crys amends, undeterred. “Just something to scare the birds away, maybe?”

“Will you let it go–?”

“Spikes,” Trapper suggests, grinning. “You can add them to your bucket.”

“If I was wearing my bucket, I wouldn’t have to worry about birds, now, would I?”

“So you admit you’re worried about–”

Auks throws a pillow at him. 

“We can get you a fancy hat,” Gearshift offers. “Barbed wire netting, the whole shebang–”

Auks buries his face in Wooley’s shoulder. “Help me,” he groans. “You know they’re gonna come after you next.”

Wooley pats him on the back sympathetically. “Nah. I’m Waxer’s favorite. That means I’m safe.”

“Commander?” Auks asks, beseeching. 

Cody smirks at him. “It’s strategically important to consider all defensive options available to you.”

Auks flops over backwards, landing squarely on Longshot’s stomach.

“I would rather be facing clankers,” he moans. He feels Longshot’s fingers scratch through his hair, and the sniper hums–

“At least they can’t fly, right?”

“Oh, you’ve jinxed us now,” Boil groans.

“Can’t trust anyone,” Auks grumbles. “Enemies everywhere.”

He doesn’t move, though. The petting is nice.

And then, almost a croak, hoarse and scratchy and quiet–

“Stop bullying Auks, all of you.”

Auks jerks upwards, yelping when Longshot’s fingers tighten briefly but that doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, because when he looks over at the bed the General is looking back at him, blue eyes warm with recognition and humor, and he says, dry and ragged and alive–

“I quite like the new hairstyle.”

Chapter Text

So warm. 

Mmm. 

‘s nice.

Used to be cold. 

So cold. 

Couldn’t feel anything. Only cold.

Not anymore.

All warmth. Quiet. Dark.

Good. Safe.

He sleeps.

Movement. 

Safe?

Safe.

Leaving–?

Why–?

Mmm. Warm.

Fine. 

He sleeps.

(You thought you got out? You thought you got out?)

A shudder wracks through him, sudden and uncontrollable–

A heavy weight falls across his shoulders. Familiar and rough-spun.

Arms around him. A warm body sprawled across his lap. Shifting. Steady breathing.

The arms around him tighten.

“You’re okay,” a voice hums, coming from a long way away. “You’re okay. We’ve got you.”

Cody. Safe. Safe.

He’s out. He’s out. He just– has to remember that.

“Rest, Obi-Wan. We’ve got the watch. You’re okay.”

Rest. Yes.

(Cody.)

He sleeps.

A beacon: voices, talking.

Quiet, easy chatter. Grumbling and muffled laughter.

He can hear a heartbeat. His head is pressed against a warm chest. One arm wraps securely around his shoulders.

Someone is holding his hand. 

He can feel the ridge of one long scar across the palm. A slight crook to an index finger that never healed properly after a break.

Cody. Cody.

He sleeps.

(You think you’ve made it out? You keep thinking that, don’t you?)

In the end, it is the gentlest return Obi-Wan has known in a long time.

Warmth cocoons him. The Force ebbs and flows gently against the shores of his mind. There is no rush. No hurry. 

He is so very warm.

Quiet voices bloom around him.

He doesn’t need the words. Not right now. The sound is enough.

They’re here.

He floats for a bit, listening, letting the warmth fill him from the inside out.

After a time– how long, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t need to keep track, not here– he unfurls slightly, fanning out.

Lights. So many familiar lights. All safe. All well.

One particular nova is achingly familiar, glittering with a warm and controlled awareness unique to Jedi. 

He pokes it.

The Force ripples, and then–

Obi-Wan?

Mace. Mace.

Obi-Wan leans against him for a moment, the sheer relief that sweeps through him wiping away every coherent thought, and he feels Mace’s presence unfold further and wrap around him completely, humming with a low vibration of safesafesafe.

He rests.

Eventually, Mace pokes back.

Obi-Wan grumbles, swatting at him, shoving an incoherent jumble of warmtiredsleeping in his general direction, and Mace’s laughter rumbles around him like distant thunder. 

How are you feeling?

Hm. Good question.

He supposes he should find out.

Obi-Wan takes a moment to assess. 

He hasn’t been concentrating on his breathing. That’s a good sign. Automatic habits are picking back up.

His feet hurt. But he recognizes the cool slime of bacta, and when he tries to flex them, he can feel the soft fabric of bandages.

The burning in his nerves that had greeted him earlier has died down to a low, simmering ache, easy enough to acknowledge and process. The signals he’s receiving are no longer just a litany of agony. There is warmth, now, a sorely-missed kindness. Weight. Also good. Softness. That’s nice. 

It takes him a moment to locate his right hand. On his lap, under several layers of blankets. The sensations feel muffled, like someone shouting into a pillow, likely because–

Because–

(This can’t be real. It can’t be. It can’t be.)

Steady, Mace says gently, and Obi-Wan shudders, once, before pulling himself together, out of the white and the bright and the cold.

Tired, he hums. Warm. But tired.

I’m not surprised. You’ve been asleep for over thirty hours.

Thirty hours?

You’re okay, Mace says, pushing reassurance into the Force. All’s well. We’re in a stationary orbit above Iwanaga. Ponds is finishing up on the ground. We’ll be on our way in a few hours.

Iwanaga?

A distant memory surfaces. 

A tiny, glacial planet in Wild Space. No sentient life. The onset of a new ice age several thousand years ago had driven the only inhabitants off-planet. No records existed as to who they had been or where they had scattered to– the only evidence that they had existed at all were scorch marks frozen under the ice that were consistent with takeoff patterns of small starships.

He’d always liked that mystery. He’d imagined, one day, after the war, getting to go explore, to see if he could find–

Is that where he’d been? Is that why he’d always been so cold, in the–?

Obi-Wan.

He catches himself curling inwards. Foolish. He’s out.

(Are you sure?)

Shut up.

Is that where I was?

Yes. It’s where we found you.

The emphasis is noticeable. Another reminder. He’s out. He’s here.

But–

A tug. A tethering. An offered hand, and Obi-Wan grabs on and holds.

We found you, Obi-Wan. We got you out. You’re okay. What can you feel right now?

Obi-Wan sinks into the proffered warmth, trembling, and thinks.

Mace waits, steady and patient.

Blankets. 

Good, Mace says, approving. What else?

A– robe. My robe? I think?

A ripple of assent. Yes. You were cold, in the landing bay. Wooley went running for it. Good, Obi-Wan. One more thing.

Cody, Obi-Wan says, unthinking, and then the Force flushes pink with embarrassment.

A flicker of laughter. I’m sure. 

Don’t be mean, Obi-Wan grumbles. You are no longer my favorite.

In the Force, Mace is a blur of warmth and fondness and dry amusement, and Obi-Wan curls against him unabashedly. 

Are you hungry?

He considers.

Is he? 

What does hungry consist of?

He knows, technically, that hungry means in need of nutrients. And by that definition, he probably is. But it’s…supposed to feel like something, isn’t it? Something–

I don’t know.

Mace hums. That’s alright. Can you tell me more?

I don’t– remember– what it feels like, Obi-Wan admits. Signals are– confused. I don’t know–

Easy, Mace says gently. It’s alright. I expected something like this. You’re resettling. It’ll take some time. If I share a map with you, do you think you might be able to tell?

Sharing maps. That’s something the Healers do, Obi-Wan remembers, usually with younger patients. If a patient is struggling to describe their pain, to distinguish between a stabbing sensation or a dull ache, to pinpoint the location of a headache, then a Healer can share what amounts to suggestions of sensations. Like viewing pain through a window. 

This is how a stabbing pain feels. 

This is what I mean when I say ache. 

This is how the beginning of a migraine feels; does it match up? 

It’s an easier way for the patient to define something they may be struggling to put into words.

What Mace is offering, then, is to share a map of hunger. All the different sensations, every activated nerve, the aches, the pangs, so Obi-Wan can use it as a comparison point– but kept distant enough that it won’t hurt him if he isn’t.

Please, he says finally, and pushes a wave of gratefulness in Mace’s direction.

Of course. Here.

Gently, the map is projected into the Force, giving Obi-Wan the space to consider it at his own pace.

It doesn’t take him long at all.

Oh. Yes. Very.

Mace’s presence ripples with laughter.

I suspected. I’m glad. It would be a pity for all these puff-cakes to go to waste.

Well. That’s certainly one way of getting his attention.

Puff-cakes?

Mhm. Here. Take a look.

Oh. He’s saved the memories.

A part of Obi-Wan wants to decline. To say no thank you, that he’ll be fine, that he trusts Mace, because he does, he does–

But this is not the first time they’ve walked this road. Mace will not take offense. 

And Obi-Wan is too tired to pretend.

They watch the memories together. He sees Terror come in, and watches him too. 

Sealed packages.

Safe.

Dry flour.

Safe.

Fresh butter.

Safe. 

There is no rot or mold or ergot to be found. No sign of pests. No sign of tampering. 

Safe.

Safe, Mace echoes gently. I promise.

You make the best puff-cakes. 

I know, says Mace, radiating smugness. So what do you think?

I think such smugness is unbecoming of a Jedi Master.

The Force sparks bright with startled laughter.

Yes, yes, thank you, Master Kenobi. And about the food?

I suppose it would be a shame to waste them, Obi-Wan says, plastering on a facade of reluctance.

Mmm. Puff-cakes. He’s missed those.

He’s missed a lot of things.

Like–

I can bring up some tea for you as well, Mace suggests placidly.

Okay. Mace has reclaimed his title of favorite.

You brought tea?

It was already here, he says, and through his eyes Obi-Wan sees an open cabinet stocked high with boxes of sapir tea.

But. That makes no sense. Dooku had said–

I thought I was dead?

Obi-Wan, Mace says gently, they missed you.

Oh. 

I–

He stops.

They’re here. And he’d been dead–

But they’d kept his tea.

(It’s not real, you know this, you thought so many times that they were here–)

I missed them too, he manages, and feels the warmth of Mace’s smile in response.

They’ve been very worried, he says pointedly. If I promise to have tea in your hands in ten minutes, do you think you can wake up properly? I would hate to let it go cold.

You hardly have to bribe me, Obi-Wan sniffs. Especially not with the threat of such heresy. Cold tea? You wouldn’t do that to me. 

As long as you’re up, I won’t have to, says Mace, his signature glittering with humor. 

Fine. Fine. See if he says goodbye after that. Bullying. Outrageous. 

Obi-Wan?

Hmm?

There’s a pause, and then the Force blooms with an aching blend of love and worry and dizzying relief. 

It is a gift to have you back.

The lingering pretense of annoyance Obi-Wan had been trying to maintain dissolves like mist.

(This can’t be real it can’t be gods he’s missed him so much)

Mace, radiating warmth, nudges him gently back towards the surface, and he goes without protest. 

Obi-Wan cracks his eyes open.

Ugh. Horrendously crusty.

He wants a sh–

He blinks.

Sunlight.

He blinks again.

No. It’s not a mistake.

It’s sunlight. Bright and warm and golden. In the ship.

They came.

They came, and they brought– they brought sunlight, and tea, and– he’s– 

Safe, whispers the Force, but– but– he’d thought, before, that he’d gotten out, because he’d thought that they were– there, except it– it hadn’t been them, like–but–not, too small for what he knows them to be because they’re his like stars like sunlight always they bring sunlight–

And– and Mace is here. He’d never imagined Mace before, so that– that’s a point in favor of this being real, right?

(There’s a first time for everything.)

He’s slipping. No. No. He’s here. And Mace is– Mace is bringing puff-cakes, and tea, and he’s here, and he’s alive.

(And if he isn’t, well, here and now, Padawan, he can enjoy it for a bit before– before– because here he’s warm and there’s Cody and he’s warm and he’s warm and he’s warm.)

Voices sharpen, growing distinct. 

Point two. He’d never imagined conversations before.

Obi-Wan closes his eyes to listen, misses the sunlight almost immediately, and opens them again. 

No one is looking at him at the moment. He sees Auks (here) flop backwards onto Longshot (here), sees Longshot smile wryly, hears Auks grumble with no real wrath, and memories start to bob sporadically to the surface, something about– a bird? Nesting? 

Ah. That’s right.

Auks has grown out his hair quite a bit, apparently. He’s pulled it back into a ponytail, but the curls protest even this half-hearted attempt at constraint, floating like a cloud on the back of his head.

Hm.

Cody thinks, at first, that he’s imagined it.

Then Crys shrieks, overbalances, and falls backwards off the bed, and he knows he hasn’t.

There’s a moment of stunned silence, and then–

Auks whoops, lunges forward, and slams a pillow into Crys’ face.

“Eat shit, Crys!” he shouts, scrambling into the recently vacated spot on the bed, and Cody feels Obi-Wan shudder with the beginnings of laughter. “I told you! I told you!”

Crys pops back up like a meerkat, spluttering dramatically. 

“Us, bullying him, sir? Really? Did you see that? That was assault, right there, against my poor helpless self–”

Auks raises his voice slightly, grinning at Obi-Wan. “This is why you’re my favorite general, sir, you have excellent taste–”

“It looks like a cloud–”

Obi-Wan twists slightly, looking up at Cody, and his eyes are blue, blue, blue when he smiles and says–

“You said something about a picture?”

It’s not real. It’s not real. This is too–

Then I will enjoy it as best I can.

A picture. Yes. He’d mentioned, back in the landing bay, with Obi-Wan shaking against him, blood pooling under his feet and lightning striking across his face, that he had– pictures, of something normal, something warm, something that could be, maybe, a reminder that he had people to come back to–

And Obi-Wan had heard him.

Cody swallows around the lump in his throat.

“Yeah,” he croaks, and Obi-Wan’s hand tightens around his own, and he still hasn’t moved away, and he’s smiling at him–

Cody fumbles for his datapad, carelessly tossed onto the small table by the side of the bed, because if he doesn’t he might do something stupid, like kiss him, or cry, and Obi-Wan doesn’t need that right now, he’s just come back–

(by all the small gods, he was dead, he’d been dead )

He finds the photo easily. It had been pinned in the group chat, along with many, many others, because his brothers were trolls to a man, every one of them, and because Cody is feeling merciful he picks one of the more flattering ones. 

In it, Auks is beaming, his eyes bright with delighted surprise. One hand reaches up towards his hair, where an explosive burst of yellow plumage is securely nestled in a puff of curls. Its reddish-brown wings are frozen mid-stretch, showing off a disproportionately large wingspan.

Obi-Wan’s eyes soften as soon as he sees the photo. “Oh, that’s a gorgeous one, there,” he says quietly.

Trapper leans over Auks’ shoulder and clicks his tongue. “Aw, come on, Commander. You’re being too nice. Here, General, if you want to see the best bits–”

“No, no,” Auks says hastily. “No need for that–”

“I seem to remember something about entanglement?” Obi-Wan says, humor dancing in his voice.

“General, please–”

“Oh, yes,” Wooley says, radiating glee. “Here, I’ve got footage–”

“No you don’t–”

“Yes I do, what are you–”

The words cut off with a yell as Auks throws himself off the bed.

“Avenge me!” Wooley shrieks, and he hurls his datapad over Auks’ head towards the bed just before his brother squashes him into the sofa cushions. Trapper snags it neatly out of the air, and before Auks can say a word of protest, the air fills with tinny screeching from both human and bird.

It can’t be real. It can’t be. 

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Obi-Wan starts to laugh, dry and dusty and alive, and Cody–

Cody feels the whole world click back into place under him. He’s here, he’s here, back with them, laughing and joking and–

“Do you know what type of bird that is?” Obi-Wan says, brightening. “Look at that green under the chin. That’s a greater bird of paradise, Auks, you should be very proud. They’re very rare, and very picky.”

–teaching. 

Cody squeezes his eyes shut.

Always teaching.

Auks looks smug. Crys scowls at him.

“Very… picky?” 

“Oh, yes,” Obi-Wan says, and his voice lightens with a distinct sense of mischief. “The males are very careful about the plumage of the females they choose to mate with. This one must have thought your hair was just the right style. Look. He’s not tangled. He’s refusing to let go.”

He would have gotten less of a reaction with a frag grenade.

Shouting erupts, and Obi-Wan leans back against Cody, radiating satisfaction.

“You did that on purpose,” Cody mutters, not even trying to hide the laughter in his voice.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, my dear,” Obi-Wan sniffs. “I simply live to educate.”

Gods. Cody. Cody. It’s so normal. 

What a gift this is, to have this before–

Cody opens his mouth to say– something, what, he doesn’t know, but he’s sure it would have been highly intelligent and witty enough to make Obi-Wan laugh–

(because he’s alive he’s alive he was dead but he’s alive )

Then the door slides open, and a dry voice says, “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

General Windu stands in the doorway, and despite having seen everything he’d had to offer at the funeral, how gentle he’d been with Obi-Wan since they’d found him, it is still somewhat of a shock to see one of the most respected generals in the army carrying a platter piled high with puff-cakes in one hand and a mug of tea in the other.

Well. A general that’s not Obi-Wan, at least.

“Not at all,” Obi-Wan says, grinning at him. “Just a discussion about the reproductive habits of greater birds of paradise.”

Windu’s lips quirk upwards. “Just a discussion?”

Wooley peels his face off the sofa. Auks tucks the pillow he’d been wielding like a vibroblade behind his back. Crys coughs, running a hand through his hair in a discreet attempt to neaten it.

“Perfectly intellectual, sir,” Boil says, utterly deadpan.

Windu hums, and graciously chooses not to call them out. 

The dish is passed around in a pattern that, to any outside observer, would look entirely random. But they have a plan, a routine built from experience. Even before they’d known about Melidaan, because they’d realized exactly how many of their General’s so-called diplomatic missions involved people trying to poison him, and Terror, of all people, had made the connection between that and his irregular eating habits–

1. Whittle down the selection. It can’t be a trap, see how many people have taken one already?
   
2. Leave enough for a reasonable element of random selection to be involved in the choice. There was no plan to make you take a particular one, how could we have guessed which one you’d choose?
   
3. Make sure everything else gets eaten. Everything was safe, nothing was tainted.

Easy.

But apparently, there’s one more step.

Windu waits until Obi-Wan has picked one, until everyone else is already eating, and then wordlessly offers his to Obi-Wan. 

Obi-Wan considers it, and then nods.

They trade. 

Windu takes a bite first, and only then does Obi-Wan finally eat. 

Another layer, Cody thinks, something in his chest splintering. Another check.

Well. They can adapt.

Obi-Wan swallows the last of his puff-cake and turns a pleading expression on Windu.

“I ate, right? Can I please have the tea now?”

Cody watches in fascination as Windu folds immediately. 

He helps Obi-Wan prop up the mug on his knee, guiding his right hand through the handle– the skin looks odd, Cody notices, pink and raw.

(What happened? What happened–?)

He forcefully wrenches his train of thought away from that path. Later. Later.

As he rises to his feet, Windu presses the back of his hand to Obi-Wan’s forehead. Obi-Wan closes his eyes, leaning into the touch, and the ragged edges of Windu’s expression soften into something that hurts to look at.

“I’m going to see if I can raise Plo again,” he says finally, his voice gentle as he drops his hand. “We managed a long-distance connection. I said I’d keep him updated.”

Obi-Wan hums something that sounds vaguely congratulatory, curling over his mug, and Windu huffs a laugh.

“You and your tea,” he says fondly, and Cody–

Cody can’t quite manage to think of him as a general. Not right now. 

He squeezes Obi-Wan’s shoulder before making his way out.

An easy quiet descends in the wake of his departure. A hushed scuffle briefly erupts for the last of the puff-cakes, ending with Gearshift stuffing the whole thing in his mouth and flipping a scowling Longshot the bird. 

“Hey,” Cody says, nudging Obi-Wan gently. “You okay?”

He still hasn’t taken a sip. 

When he looks up, all the air in Cody’s lungs flees at once.

His eyes are wide, his expression one of astonished, frightened disbelief.

“You’re here,” he breathes. “You’re here.”

Silence falls.

Something’s changed.

Cody squeezes Obi-Wan’s hand. “Yeah. Of course we are.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head. His breathing picks up. “No– you don’t– I kept– I kept thinking you were there, all the time, all of you. There was– they were– something– like you, but not– not you, I could never–”

He stops.

A ragged laugh wracks through him. “But my imagination never deigned to conjure tea.”

His hand spasms, and Cody, unthinking, curls his own around the mug, over Obi-Wan’s, keeping anything from spilling.

That would be a shame.

“You’re here,” he says, his voice cracking. “You’re here, and it’s warm, and– I was so cold–”

Wooley makes a tiny, ragged sound, and clambers onto the bed, wriggling between the wall and Obi-Wan, turning himself into a long line of warmth along his spine. Auks is right behind him, sprawling over Obi-Wan’s lap, stretching his legs over Cody’s. Waxer squeezes into Crys’ spot, kicking him when he grumbles, and Boil shifts over to lean against Cody’s legs, one hand coming up to rest against Obi-Wan’s knee.

And Cody–

Cody tightens his grip, holding on and holding on and holding on, because Obi-Wan is not the only one struggling to believe he’s here.

Obi-Wan leans sideways, achingly tentative, and rests his head on Cody’s shoulder.

“You’re here,” he croaks, one more time, and the half-hysterical laugh that tears out of his chest turns into a dry sob halfway through.

“We’re not leaving, either,” Waxer says suddenly, and Cody casts him a grateful look, because the lump in his throat right now is threatening to choke him. “We’ve set up a rota and everything. You’re not getting rid of us that easily.”

Obi-Wan folds forward, his whole body shuddering.

“I think,” he says hoarsely, “I’m okay with that.”

It’s real.

They’re here.

He drinks his tea.

Chapter Text

“I trust you,” Kenobi says, smiling, and his–

shredded back bleeds and bleeds and bleeds and Helix reaches for the disinfectant spray and grabs a scalpel and carves between the vertebrae into the spinal cord and Kenobi’s legs go limp under him.

“I trust you,” Kenobi says, lightning flickering behind his eyes, and he–

holds his hands out with a wry smile and Helix wraps the blistered skin with bacta-infused bandages but he tugs too tightly and the flesh sloughs off the bone in an avalanche.

“I trust you,” Kenobi says, blood leaking between his teeth, and he’s–

unconscious on the bed and Helix needs to start an IV, he flushes the extension tubing and inserts the needle and realizes too late the bag is empty as blood begins to flow backwards up the tubing.

“I trust you,” Obi-Wan says, and then he starts coughing and something bubbles up in his throat and Helix pours out a protein shake and hears himself say, “You shouldn’t–”

Helix blinks awake, staring at the ceiling.

He gives himself two minutes.

At one minute and thirty-six seconds, he swipes roughly at his eyes and swings his legs over the side of the cot.

The light on his comm is flashing. He picks it up and glances at the time.

An hour and a half. Okay. Not the worst sleep he’s ever had.

There are… twelve messages from Needle.

medicneedle212: gen’s awake!!!!!!

medicneedle212: oooh windu brought puffcakes

medicneedle212: HE ATE

medicneedle212: and drank!! windu brought tea!!

medicneedle212: i saved u a puffcake <3

medicneedle212: don't tell gearshift

medicneedle212: he thinks he got the last one

medicneedle212: so smug >:3

medicneedle212: oop sorry windu said ur sleeping

medicneedle212: hope those didn’t wake u

medicneedle212: or that one

medicneedle212: shit 

Helix stares, then rocks forward slightly, pressing his palms against his eyes. A ragged laugh tears out of him before he manages to bite it off. 

The comm beeps again.

medicneedle212: heliiiiiiiiiix

medicneedle212: my favorite brother

medicneedle212: my favorite boss

medicneedle212: are u coming

medicneedle212: he’s asking about u

He runs a hand through his hair and pulls up the message window.

pHzero-helix212: what happened to letting me sleep?

medicneedle212: HE LIVES

pHzero-helix212: you’re a menace

pHzero-helix212: and I’m your only boss

medicneedle212: still my favorite brother though <3

medicneedle212: good try at distracting me btw

medicneedle212: can’t get shit past me

medicneedle212: hurry up or im gonna eat ur puffcake

A brisk knock on the wall makes him look up.

Stitch peers around the corner, lighting up when he catches sight of Helix. He waves his comm. “Needle’s sent me twenty-two messages in the past thirty minutes, sir, all of them consisting of variations upon a theme of ‘is he up yet?’ so I am begging you to give him the answer he wants so he’ll stop bothering me.”

Stitch’s comm beeps. He glances down, and then gives Helix one of the most long-suffering looks he’s ever witnessed.

“Twenty-three messages, sir.”

Helix waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah, I’m going.”

He levers himself to his feet and briefly considers using the emergency eyewash station to splash some water on his face.

Ah, Stitch’s sad eyes at the improper use of medbay facilities aren’t worth it. They’ll follow him around for days.

pHzero-helix212: eat it and perish

pHzero-helix212: I’m on my way

Stitch grins at him before disappearing back around the corner.

Helix rocks back on the balls of his feet, considering.

What can he do? What can he do? Here and now, what can he do?

The– his hand. Skin’s clearly regrown. Fresh nerve regeneration. Okay. He knows this. Sensation will be dull for a bit, while the nerves recalibrate. And he’s seen, sometimes, when pain receptors are off-line, a worse injury is sustained and unrecognized because signals aren’t registering.

His hand–

A glove, Helix decides. That’ll help. Stop him from potentially picking at the skin. Help buffer temperature regulation.

And there was nothing in the footage that would indicate an aversion to gloves–

Yet, whispers a nasty little voice in the back of his mind, and Helix closes his eyes. 

He didn’t have gloves on when he came out. And besides, Helix will only be offering it. If he chooses not to– then that’s fine. It’s fine.

It’s fine.

He flicks the lights on in the supply closet. Gods, they even got the lights in here. The small room glows golden, and Helix takes a deep breath. Then another. There’s a bin of gloves next to the spare blacks on the shelves Needle had been repairing two days ago, before–

Before–

It’s fine. He’s fine.

Helix peels a pair apart, folding the right one into his pocket and setting the left one down on top of the bin. Stitch will find another home for it. Kid’s got a nose for that stuff.

Easy.

When he walks in, Obi-Wan is barely visible under a pile of blankets and brothers. 

Helix studies him stares at him, a deeply rooted instinct already beginning to catalog injuries. Obi-Wan’s eyes are slightly red, but they’re open, and he’s sitting up, and his right hand is folded around a cup of tea there were fingernails in the jar , and there’s no tension to him, and then he smiles, slow and bright and blood spills from between his teeth–

Helix clears his throat. “Needle said there were puff-cakes?”

Gearshift, without hesitation, points at Longshot. “He took the last one, Helix. I told him we should save something for you, but–”

Longshot jabs him hard in the side, and Gearshift goes down with a wheeze. “He ate three, Helix, and then he stole the last one from me, and yes, I was planning on eating it, but three–”

Something in him settles. This, Helix knows how to handle. The role of older brother is a comfortable one.

“I don’t care,” he interrupts, fixing them both with the most unimpressed look he can muster. “Unlike the two of you, my team knows what they’re doing.”

Needle may be a pain in the ass, but he does have an excellent sense of dramatic timing. He rolls over the back of the couch, landing neatly on his feet, and sweeps into a low bow, producing a perfectly intact puff-cake alongside a winning smile.

Gearshift’s expression is rapidly shifting from I-have-never-done-anything-wrong-in-my-life to I-have-been-cheated-out-of-my-rightful-victory. Helix, staring at him, plucks the puff-cake from Needle’s palm. 

“Thank you, Needle,” he sniffs, and flashes the younger medic a grin. “You are also my favorite brother.”

Needle beams at him, then he hears a loud, offended noise from behind him.

He turns.

Oh, for kriff’s sake. There are the sad eyes. Stitch has followed him.

“Except for Stitch,” he amends.

Needle makes a louder, more offended noise.

“All right, both of you have dropped back down to ‘barely tolerated,’” Helix says, sighing. “Neither of you are my favorite. What are you doing here, Stitch?”

“Wanted to make sure you made it, sir,” Stitch replies absentmindedly, but he’s craning his neck to see over Helix’s shoulder.

Obi-Wan smiles at him, wiggling his fingers, and Stitch beams.

“Good to see you awake, sir!”

“You as well, Stitch,” Obi-Wan says, and his voice chokes off into a gurgle as the med-droid cuts into his throat is hoarse but steady. 

“Proof of life, Stitch, now get going,” Helix grumbles, feeling light-headed. “Unless you want Needle to take over?”

“No, sir,” Stitch says hastily, but he’s still smiling– clearly Helix needs to work harder– and with one last wave he goes haring off down the hall.

“Needle, if you’re still sticking your tongue out at him when I turn around, it’s latrine duty for you,” Helix warns, and Wooley sniggers.

“I feel like there’s a story behind that one,” Obi-Wan says. Helix grins at him, determinedly ignoring the feeling of something shuddering down his spine.

“I’m being unjustly prosecuted, sir,” Needle proclaims, sprawling dramatically across the floor. “I have never done anything wrong in my life, Stitch is just–”

“Last time Needle was left alone in the medbay during transit, he shifted every piece of furniture two inches to the right because he was, and I quote, ‘trying to improve the team’s spatial awareness,’” Helix deadpans. “Stitch kept banging into everything until he realized.”

“Not you?” Obi-Wan says, laughing slightly.

Helix sniffs. “Of course not, sir. I’m too–”

He stops.

It’s so normal. He’s so normal. How can he act like this? How can he act like he hasn’t–?

Stop it. If it helps him, great, never mind that Helix feels like he’s holding himself together by the ragged edges of his fingernails.

Obi-Wan’s looking at him. His eyes narrow.

Empath, Helix remembers suddenly, and then thinks, unbidden-

Wonder what he was picking up from Dooku, during–?

Enough. Enough.

“Helix?” Obi-Wan asks slowly. “Are you– feeling alright?”

Laughing is not helpful. Laughing is not acceptable. Laughing will not convince him that yes, Helix is fine, he’s not the one who was–

“Of course,” Helix says, and the smile he pastes on feels skeletal. “Just tired.”

The glove. He should– he can give Obi-Wan the glove, and then leave, and Needle can– Needle can send him updates, from a safe distance.

He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s here and alive and smiling and metal scaffolding holds his chest open as the ribs are pried apart he’s fine, damnit.

“I thought–”

He stops. Clears his throat.

Now Needle’s looking at him funny too, shit, and Cody’s eyes are starting to narrow, okay, he needs to leave–

Helix reaches into his pocket. Pulls out the glove. 

“Nerve regeneration can take some time,” he manages, his voice steady. “The gloves we wear help with temperature regulation. I thought you could use one. It’ll stop you picking at your skin as it heals as well.”

Obi-Wan stares at him. Helix bites viciously into the puff-cake, and then–

“Helix?” 

His voice is a barely audible croak.

“How did you know?”

The pastry turns to ash in his mouth.

He could lie, Helix thinks, over the panic blaring in his mind. He could lie, say he noticed the raw skin, that he made an educated guess, because Obi-Wan might not believe him but anything, anything would be better than him realizing that every second of it had been recorded–

And then it doesn’t matter anymore.

“He was narrating,” Obi-Wan says distantly, every word dropping like a stone into the silence. “I heard him. I remember. He wouldn’t have–”

He stops.

Helix squeezes his eyes shut. Falls into parade rest. He’s hurtling towards a cliff, they all are, and there is absolutely nothing he can do except brace for the impact.

“He recorded it.”

It’s not a question. Helix answers anyway.

“Yes, sir.”

“All of it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you’re watching it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Obi-Wan inhales, thin and ragged.

“Alone?”

“No, sir. With General Windu, sir.”

His pulse is hammering in his ears.

“How far have you–”

A pause, and then, strained–

“How far have you gotten?”

A shudder tears through him, all the way down his back.

“The– blinding. Sir.”

A two-milliliter vial of vitreous humor in the cooler–

Cody, his whole body gone cold and still with distant, freezing horror, watches Obi-Wan reach up with one shaking hand and press hard against the side of his head. 

‘I remember.”

His voice sounds like it’s coming from light-years away.

“He severed the auditory nerves right after that.”

Dead silence.

Helix can’t look at him. He can’t. Because all he’s going to see is–

But he’s seeing it behind his eyelids too, now, isn’t he? 

“Helix, can you look at me, please?”

He tries to speak. Gives up. Shakes his head.

His feet are frozen to the floor.

Fabric shifting. Muffled grumbling. 

Footsteps, approaching him.

“Helix, I’m okay.”

The sheer absurdity of that statement unsticks his jaw.

“You’re not,” he croaks.

Obi-Wan huffs a ragged laugh. “Maybe so,” he amends, “but I’m here. Which is a definite improvement.”

His face feels wet.

“I’m sorry.”

One warm hand comes up and cups his cheek.

“For what?” Obi-Wan says quietly. “For– watching?” 

His voice wavers, just for a moment, before steadying. 

“You said we would figure it out. And I know– if I didn’t– remember, then– someone has to. And I– couldn’t. Can’t. I’m not brave enough for that, I’m afraid.”

Helix pries his eyes open.

Obi-Wan’s standing in front of him. Looking at him. His expression is so terribly, achingly gentle, but Helix can see the fault lines behind his eyes.

He’s gonna break, Helix thinks. He’ll have to.

Not now. Maybe not for a while. But he will.

Helix ducks his head. Swipes roughly at his eyes.

“You shouldn’t be putting pressure on your feet,” he croaks.

(I keep forgetting you’re alive.)

Obi-Wan quirks a smile. 

“Then come and sit down, will you?” he says gently. “There’s room.”

(We can remind each other.)

Later:

The pile has reassembled. Helix has somehow ended up in the center, leaning against Obi-Wan, one hand wrapped loosely around his wrist.

He’s not quite sure how that happened.

His mind is fogged with exhaustion, but there’s something– 

There’s something he has to ask.

“You know I wouldn’t–”

He stops. Tries again.

“You know I would never–”

His voice cracks horrifically.

Obi-Wan sighs, long and slow.

“Helix, I am not afraid of you.”

His pulse beats a steady rhythm against Helix’s fingers.

He means it.

Later:

Sleep has swallowed most of the room. 

Cody can feel Obi-Wan’s breath against his shoulder.

He stares at the ceiling.

Footage. 

He breathes.

He breathes.

He breathes, and stares at the ceiling, and tries to ignore the ugly, simmering churning in his chest.

Chapter Text

Things happen in fragments. 

Helix feels Obi-Wan shift slightly as he starts to wriggle out of the tangle of bodies.

Blue eyes blink open, focusing on him.

“Sorry, Helix whispers, cringing slightly. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Obi-Wan studies him, then sighs. “Come back when you need to, okay?”

Helix swallows around the lump in his throat and nods. 

Obi-Wan squeezes his hand before letting go, closing his eyes.

Windu meets him at the office door.

They look at each other.

“He’s alive,” the Jedi says quietly, his steady voice a bridge.

Beyond the door, the white room beckons.

Helix turns off the projection. His whole body is shaking.

The silence descends like a shroud.

In the darkness, Helix sees Windu slowly fold forward, resting his forehead on his knees.

The footage had cut out. 

When it had come back–

It would be easier, Helix thinks hollowly, if his eyes had been closed.

Windu cracks his eyes open, glancing sideways.

“He knows you’re coming. Go.”

Helix doesn’t bother to argue. He is not a Jedi, he can’t feel Obi-Wan in the Force, here and safe and alive, and after that, he–

Well. He needs the reminder.

He walks. Out of the office, out of the medbay, down the hallway, turning one corner after another, until he loses count, his footsteps carrying him along a path he could walk in his sleep, he walks and he walks until he reaches the door and when it slides open Obi-Wan holds out a hand and Helix sinks into the spot next to him and tries his best to overwrite the memory of that dead and empty gaze.

Mace feels a poke in the Force from a familiar signature. 

Ragged and raw and achingly sad:

Thank you for not letting him watch it alone.

Alone in the room, Mace takes a moment to bury his head in his hands. He wishes– he wishes that Obi-Wan hadn’t found out, at least not like this, whatever had caused this bruised–blue feeling in the Force. He wishes that he had been there for that conversation. He wishes that they didn’t have to watch. He wishes that there had been nothing to record.

But he is a Jedi.

He breathes, and faces the future for what it is.

You do not need to thank me for that.

No matter how much he may want to sometimes, Helix can’t turn himself off.

He notices, when Obi-Wan shifts slightly and winces as his shoulder twists, when Obi-Wan rubs absentmindedly at his knee, when his breath hitches as a spasm wracks his right arm–

Eventually, he has to ask. 

“Obi-Wan?”

His gaze flickers to him immediately, focused and clear-eyed, and Helix allows himself to hope.

“Is it okay with you if I take a quick scan? I’d use the portable scanner, so you don’t have to move, and I don’t have to touch you. You’re clearly still in pain, and I just want to get a sense of where your body’s at. I’d like to check your feet as well.”

He feels Obi-Wan tense against him, and continues hastily–

“Of course, if you’re not comfortable, that’s fine, I just figured I’d ask–”

“Instinct,” Obi-Wan interrupts quietly. “Not logic. Give me a second.”

Helix shuts his mouth with a click. Obi-Wan squeezes his hand apologetically. 

“I think,” he says, slow and measured, “that I would be okay with that. As long as– please don’t take this the wrong way– Mace is here. During it. In case–”

His gaze flickers to the crumpled kitchen cabinet.

“Alright, all of you. Get out. Medic’s orders. Get some food, go stretch. I’ll comm Waxer when we’re done here.”

Waxer opens his mouth, looking indignant, but Helix jerks his head in Obi-Wan’s direction and his expression softens with understanding. He nods, clapping his hands together. 

“Right, come on then, let’s go harass Terror. He can’t keep us all out.”

Boil makes a disbelieving noise. “I’ve still got the bruises. If you want to challenge him–”

“Stealth-based approach, maybe?” Wooley suggests, but Auks shakes his head.

“He’s booby-trapped at least four of the drawers and I don’t know which ones. Have we considered just asking him –?”

Trapper drapes an arm over Auks’ shoulders. “Oh, vod’ika, that takes all the fun out of it. Come on. We can brainstorm.”

Cody doesn’t follow them out.

Helix glances at Obi-Wan’s white-knuckled grip on his hand and decides not to ask.

Cody pulls out his comm.

Obi-Wan leans over as he types, his eyes narrowing, and a slow smile spreads across his face.

“You’re giving him a heads-up?”

“Trust me,” Cody says drily. “I’m doing this for all of us. You don’t need to suffer through Boil’s cooking.”

mccody: be warned, ghost is coming your way and they’re plotting a takeover

trial-and-terror: already aware, thanks

trial-and-terror: got a man on the inside

trial-and-terror: they’re not gonna know what hit them

“Oooh,” Obi-Wan says, leaning against him. “The plot thickens. There’s a double agent.”

“Ten credits says it’s Auks,” Helix says absentmindedly, snapping open his kit. “I know he helps Terror sometimes.”

Cody hums agreeably. “And if anyone has a reason to hold a grudge…”

mccody: don’t kill anyone

mccody: or you’ll make the general sad

trial-and-terror: is maiming allowed

Cody glances at Obi-Wan and raises an eyebrow.

“Mild maiming,” he decides, laughing. “And only if they do anything particularly stupid.”

mccody: mild to moderate maiming is strongly encouraged

“Cody.”

“Fine, fine.”

[message deleted]

mccody: mild maiming is permitted

trial-and-terror: i saw that

trial-and-terror: fine

trial-and-terror: oop i hear voices

trial-and-terror: here we go >:)

Cody closes his comm. 

“You know,” he says conversationally, “it’s going to be a bloodbath.”

“Going up against Terror?” Obi-Wan says, yawning. He drops his head onto Cody’s shoulder. “They’ll deserve it.”

The wave of helpless affection is nearly enough to drown out the buzzing under his skin.

Helix keeps up a quiet, running narration, his movements steady and carefully telegraphed, but Cody can see Obi-Wan's posture growing ever more rigid, and he’s down to one- or two-word answers when any of them prompt him.

Distraction. He needs a distraction.

But luckily enough, Windu is on the same page.

“You know,” he says quietly, “your commander well and truly chewed us out.”

Cody coughs, flushing. “Offered constructive criticism. Sir.”

Obi-Wan blinks at them. “What?”

Windu huffs a laugh. “He was kind enough to tell us exactly how much work you’d been taking on that was very much outside your scope of responsibilities.”

Cody bumps Obi-Wan’s shoulder gently. “We went through your correspondence. We hadn’t realized how much you were doing.”

Despite his best efforts, he can’t quite hide the hurt in his voice.

“Why didn’t you tell us? We would have helped. Of course we would have helped.”

Obi-Wan ducks his head.

“Sorry,” he mutters, and Windu shakes his head, glancing at Cody.

“Don’t be. You were doing the best you could. The apology is mine to make. I should have guessed that others would turn to you, and I’m sorry that you felt you had to shoulder it on your own.”

Cody nudges him. “My brothers stepped up, Obi-Wan, and they, at least, knew they couldn’t keep coming to me with questions. They had to adjust, and they did. Bigger spaces, right?”

Obi-Wan blinks at him, and a slow smile spreads across his face, easing some of the tension around his eyes. “Bigger spaces,” he echoes. “Yes. Good.”

He squeezes Cody’s hand. “Proud of you.”

Helix clears his throat, saving Cody from trying to come up with a response. When he looks over, the medic is grinning at him, eyes dancing, and it’s enough of a relief to see something other than hollow, helpless panic that Cody can’t even pretend to scowl in return.

“I’m all done here. I’ll drop these off in my office, give you some time to collect yourself, then we’ll work from there, all right?”

The smile Obi-Wan offers him is ragged but sincere. Helix squeezes his shoulder and mutters something Cody doesn’t catch that makes Obi-Wan snort before vanishing out the door.

Silence settles like a blanket in the wake of Helix’s departure. Quiet enough that Cody notices when Windu’s steady breathing grows just the slightest bit more exaggerated. Quiet enough to hear every hitch in Obi-Wan’s breathing as he tries to match Windu’s.

Two months after being first deployed, a still-shy Auks had mustered up the courage to ask Obi-Wan exactly what he meant when he said he was going to meditate. Twenty minutes into an impromptu lecture, Obi-Wan had stopped himself halfway through a sentence. Rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, he’d glanced at the crowd that had gathered around him and had offered to host a class, perhaps, for anyone who was interested, because he certainly didn’t want to take up their free time now, and if anyone didn’t feel comfortable in a group setting but still had questions, they could of course come and find him—

Obi-Wan had confessed later to Cody that he’d estimated one lesson, maybe two, for a few curious troopers.

Instead, it became a weekly event whenever they were in transit. The lessons had grown in scope to encompass all aspects of Jedi culture, from Force philosophy to the history of the Temple itself.

But Cody’s favorite part was meditation. He’d only ever known that level of self-awareness in the thick of battle— the hammering of his heart against his ribs, the curl of his finger around a trigger, the slip of his boots in a sludge equal parts mud and blood, every beat and breath signaling alive-alive-alive as all around him those same signals cut out for brother after brother after brother.

To sit and breathe and know that around him, each of his brothers are matching their breaths to his, to be entirely aware of his body outside of the act-or-die heat of combat —

Well.

It was nice.

And then, after one brutal campaign, when Obi-Wan had disappeared into his quarters after seeing to the others, neatly evading concerned questions and invitations to join them, Cody had swallowed his nerves and knocked on his door. Obi-Wan had opened it, looking pale and haggard but still mustering a smile, and before he could say anything Cody had blurted out a request to meditate, and the startled astonishment gave way to a smile like sunlight and Cody had decided that he would very much like to see that again.

It became a regular thing, after that, and it had only taken three weeks to get Waxer and Boil off his back.

Cody hasn’t meditated in nearly two months.

He tries, now, to steady his breathing. His lungs flex and burn with every deeper inhale, and he can taste the stale air cycled through the ship’s HVAC system. Obi-Wan’s hand is warm in his, and Cody, feeling a flash of courage, peers cautiously at the tangled mess of emotions sitting in a lump behind his sternum–

Nope. Nope. Later.

Just– breathing. Breathing is fine. Breathing is good. He can do that.

He feels Obi-Wan shift against him, turning towards Windu, feels him inhale, and then he opens his mouth and asks–

“How’s Anakin?”

Cody can’t quite fight back the instinctive flash of fury that stabs through him.

Not that he wants to.

“Anakin is safe. He’s back at the Temple.”

Mace had known this was coming. He’d walked it through several times over with Plo during their last meditation. They’d decided on a piecemeal approach– let Obi-Wan decide how much he wanted to know. 

“Good. That’s good.”

For a moment, Mace allows himself to hope that he won’t ask anything else.

Then–

“So the 501st is on shore leave?”

“No. The 501st was placed under Master Plo’s command. They’ve been operating in conjunction with the 104th.”

In the Force, the weight of Obi-Wan’s focus is almost unbearable, sharp and heavy and stinging with worry. Mace can feel the swarm of thoughts fizzing behind fractured shields, making connections Mace would much rather remain unmade, and when Obi-Wan opens his mouth next he is as ready as he thinks he will ever be.

“Mace, what happened?”

Inhale. Exhale.

“Anakin confessed to touching the Dark.”

The words enter Cody’s ears and fail to compute entirely.

Against him, Obi-Wan has gone very still.

“He’s been removed from active duty for the foreseeable future for his own wellbeing.”

Silence.

“Okay.”

A deep, shuddering breath.

“Okay. Tell me.”

“Obi-Wan–”

“Mace, I need to know. I can’t help him if I don’t know, right?”

Cody nearly chokes on the words crawling up his throat.

He wants to scream:

“Obi-Wan, Quinlan already volunteered,” Mace says gently.

He doesn’t deserve you! He never has!

“You need to focus on healing.”

Let him suffer the consequences of his own actions!

“I still need to know. Please.”

A ragged laugh.

“My brain will just run wild with possibilities. Please. It’s not like– not like he murdered children, or–”

He killed you!

Mace isn’t quite fast enough to hide the instinctive flinch in the Force.

Obi-Wan stops short.

Silence.

Mace closes his eyes.

“Mace?”

Please don’t, Mace thinks. Please. I will not lie to you. Please don’t make me tell you the–

“Tell me.”

Inhale. Exhale.

He does.

As Mace talks, a cold cloud of fury begins to gather like a hurricane in the Force.

The howling red haze suffuses the room, thick and choking, clawing against Mace’s shields. Obi-Wan flinches, curling forward, and Mace wraps one arm around his shoulders, shoring up what remains of his shields as best he can, but it’s not enough, and he can feel Obi-Wan shaking–

“Commander, if you can’t compartmentalize, then you need to leave.”

Cody’s head jerks up, staring at him. His expression is utterly blank, his lips pressed into a thin line, and if Mace were not a Jedi he would think only that perhaps the Commander was mildly frustrated.

His shields can bear this assault with minimal effort.

But Obi-Wan’s…

Mace watches his gaze flicker, realizing–

That Obi-Wan is leaning away from him, curling towards Mace–

That Mace has wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in, putting himself between–

That Obi-Wan–

Is shaking.

Cody falters.

Am I– 

Am I hurting you?

In the Force, the hurricane shudders and stills for an instant as Cody tries to wrestle himself under control, but the storm slips from his grasp and lashes across Mace’s shields and Obi-Wan folds forward, a tiny little punched-out noise tearing out from his throat–

“Commander.”

Cody lurches to his feet. Obi-Wan’s hand spasms tighter before going slack, dropping away.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps. “I’m– Obi-Wan?”

He folds onto his knees, crouching in front of him, reaching out–

Then he drops his hand.

“Obi-Wan? I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m– I’m going to go. Just– for a bit. I don’t– I don’t want to hurt you. Okay?”

In the Force, Mace can feel Obi-Wan retreating, throwing up hastily-built shields one after another.

He doesn’t respond.

Cody’s expression crumples.

“I’m not– I’m not angry at you,” he says haltingly. “You know that, right? Please. I need– I need you to know that. Please. Obi-Wan?”

Obi-Wan’s eyes flicker open. His lips twitch up into a smile with nothing behind it.

“Of course.”

His voice is utterly flat.

“I know. Thank you.”

Cody’s chest corkscrews in on itself, and he stumbles as he rises to his feet.

“I’ll come back,” he says helplessly, rising to his feet, every cell in his body raging, because he has to stay, he promised, he promised that he’d stay and keep him safe and not let anyone hurt him– 

But Cody– Cody’s hurting him now, isn’t he? 

“I will. I promise.”

But Obi-Wan’s not looking at him anymore. He’s folded in on himself, curling towards Windu, his whole body shuddering, every breath thin and ragged, and the fury flares again, sudden and red-hot, and Obi-Wan recoils– away from him–

I’m hurting him I’m hurting him I’m hurting him– I have to– I have to–

“I’m sorry,” Cody breathes, “I’m sorry,” and he turns, fleeing at a run, off-balance and dizzy, his vision going spotty, and when the door slides shut behind him he leans against the wall–

I hurt him– I promised that I– but I hurt him–

How far? How far? 

He’d flinched–

He keeps moving. He keeps moving. He keeps moving, and the rage blazes under his skin, fire prickling down his legs, his feet going numb, but he keeps moving, he has to get away, he’d hurt him –

Skywalker. 

“He knew the value of moving fast, didn’t he?” Skywalker says, and his face twists into something cruel and cold–

The expression had sat far too comfortably on his face.

“–sent me flying off a cliff with no warning,” Rex says, half laughing, but his grip on Cody’s hand is tight–

It’s not that funny anymore.

Was it ever?

“He’s my Padawan,” Obi-Wan says–

And then he’d died, because Skywalker hadn’t listened. 

Obi-Wan had loved him, loved him enough to leave the rest of them behind. And Skywalker had–

Had–

Cody blinks.

He’s standing in front of the medbay door.

The hallway around him is quiet and empty.

Obi-Wan had died for him. For Skywalker. 

He’d been dead.

Oh, he hadn’t stayed that way, sure. But he hadn’t come back whole. He’s done a good job of pretending, so far, but Cody remembers how his voice had gone quiet and flat, how he’d pressed a shaking hand to the side of his head, how his eyes had gone empty and distant, mirroring Helix almost exactly, Helix–

Who had watched footage.

Who had seen– 

What?

What, exactly, had he seen?

Cody palms the door open.

The fury flattens into something terribly, terribly cold.

The blinding, Helix had said, echoes of something unspeakably awful in his gaze.

Helix’s office door is cracked open. 

Cody’s footsteps echo in the empty medbay.

You gave him everything, and he decided it wasn’t enough. 

He pushes the door open all the way, and steps inside. 

It shuts with a click behind him.

What did you endure? What did you endure for him ?

The room is dark. The blank blue screen of the holoprojector illuminates the table. 

Cody sits down, and picks up the remote.

Then–

The lights flicker on. The remote is plucked from his hand.

“Sir,” Stitch says. “What are you doing here?”

Cody stares at the wall. 

At that bright blue screen.

“Give me the remote, Stitch.”

“No, sir.”

Cody wrenches his gaze away.

“That was an order, Stitch.”

“Helix has locked that footage down, sir.”

A red-hot burning under his skin–

“I am the Marshal Commander.”

When Stitch speaks, his voice is steady, and for one brief moment, Cody hates him for it.

“All due respect, sir, but I answer to Helix before I answer to you.”

“That,” Cody says, in a voice like ice, “is not in the regs.”

“It is when the commanding officer is not capable of sound decision-making.”

“Excuse me?”

Impaired decision making? Ridiculous. He’s fine. 

In fact, he may be thinking more clearly than he ever has before.

“As the on-duty medic, I have the authority to declare a superior officer temporarily unfit for command. That commanding officer must then pass a psychiatric evaluation administered by the Chief Medical Officer of the unit. In– in this case, that would be Helix. So, if you would like, you can continue to argue, and I’ll file the designation, and you can explain to Helix what you were doing in here.”

Through the ringing in his ears, Cody hears the youngest medic swallow.

“Or you can leave. Now.”

“That’s an abuse of your rank.”

“Maybe so. But you’re not getting the remote back.”

A beat passes.

“Sir.”

Cody stands, the chair screeching across the floor. Stitch takes one smooth step backwards, his gaze flickering back and forth, assessing, staying out of reach, and the rage bubbles over and Cody doesn’t even think, he just snaps–

“I liked you better when you were shiny.”

That was cruel. He knows it, he sees Stitch’s eyes drop, but he still doesn’t surrender the remote and Cody can’t quite bring himself to force an apology through the acidic burn crawling up his throat.

He turns on his heel and walks out, and still that scorching, bloody fury tears through him, his vision is fuzzed and starry and there’s a high-pitched buzzing in his head and he keeps walking and walking and walking because if he stops–

If he stops, it will eat him alive.

Stitch waits until the Commander’s footsteps have faded away before sinking onto a bed. 

He taps his pen against his vambrace, quick and steady and reassuring.

He’d lied. 

He shouldn’t have. That was bad. But–

But he likes the general. 

The general had helped him, when he’d found Stitch in a supply closet after everything got too loud and too bright. Stitch had expected decommissioning, because his whole batch had been made wrong and Stitch had faked it and faked it and faked it and gotten out, but then he’d relaxed too much and gotten caught. But the general had done something that felt like draping a blanket over his eyes and ears, and had asked if he was okay. He’d said he understood why Stitch could handle himself as well as anyone in a warzone but a crowded mess hall made him feel like he was getting squeezed out of his skin, that it was adrenaline and necessity and that there was nothing wrong with him. He’d said he didn’t mind if Stitch repeated things occasionally, or tapped too loudly on his vambraces, and in the next requisitions order there had been an extra pair of the industrial-grade headphones the engineers wore when they were working on active turbines.

Then he’d died.

And then he’d come back.

And Helix and General Windu had disappeared into the office, and then they came out of the office, and Stitch had quietly swapped out the dirty trash bin for a bucket and tucked it by the desk in the office because the bucket was easier to clean, and he’d cleaned it again and again and again as the pieces came together.

He hasn’t seen the footage. But Stitch knows Helix, and he knows that Helix doesn’t get rattled easily, and he knows how Helix had barely been able to look at the general, and he thinks that the general doesn’t need more people not being able to look at him.

So he– he’d lied.

“I liked you better when you were shiny.”

Stitch shudders, once, all over.

The pen goes taptaptap in a rapid-fire beat.

After Cody leaves, the storm slowly starts to dissipate.

Mace tucks Obi-Wan against his side and holds on as he trembles, his breathing rattling through his chest, the tremors tearing through him like an earthquake.

“He was my Padawan,” Obi-Wan croaks. “Mace, he was my Padawan.”

“I know,” Mace says heavily. “I’m sorry.”

Because he does know. He knows everything that entails, everything Obi-Wan isn’t saying, the love and the burden and the pride and the worry and the love and the joy and the grief and the love and the love and the love.

Mace holds onto him as he shakes and shakes and shakes until he very suddenly goes still, but Mace can feel the tension in every bone in his body and he knows it’s taking everything Obi-Wan has and then some to hold himself still.

“How’s Ashoka?”

“Plo took her on as his Padawan,” Mace says gently. “By all accounts, she’s settled in well. She’s seeing a mind-healer every two weeks. Over holocall, if they’re not at the Temple.”

Obi-Wan squeezes his eyes shut. Mace tries to reach him in the Force, but Obi-Wan’s tucked himself away behind hastily-constructed shields. He skims gently over them and realizes that– they’re not designed for defense. Not really. There’s none of the sophistication or strength that he’s come to associate with Obi-Wan’s shielding. 

They would give way in a second, if Mace tried to–

He swallows back bile and doesn’t finish the thought.

They’re an instinctive reaction. Obi-Wan might not even be aware of what he’s doing. If they help him, well– good.

“Rex? And the 501st?”

“The switch in command has gone as smoothly as it possibly could,” Mace says. He hesitates for a moment, and then adds, “Captain Rex said Plo reminded him of you.”

He feels the hitch in Obi-Wan’s breathing. 

A ragged inhale.

“And Padme?” he says hoarsely. “I– this– this can’t have been easy for her.”

Mace’s heart sinks. He should have expected this. Of course Obi-Wan would ask. He’d known, they’d all known, that she and Skywalker had been close. Once, it had been something to laugh about. 

Once.

And she’d been his friend first.

There’s no way to gentle it. 

“Obi-Wan, Padme knew.”

A pause.

Then, very quietly–

“What?”

Mace tells him. The confession. Undeserved absolution.

The marriage.

The hiding, and the hiding, and the hiding.

When he finishes, there’s a moment of silence. 

Then Obi-Wan says, his voice cracking:

“Oh.”

Mace feels him go quiet in the Force. Dim and quiet and still.

Then, his voice going flat and hollow:

“I will, of course, accept whatever disciplinary measures the Council chooses to impose.”

The cold-snap shock robs Mace of his voice, and Obi-Wan seems to take that as tacit permission to continue.

“He was my Padawan. He was my Padawan, and he murdered innocents– children– and I didn’t see it.”

“Obi-Wan–”

“In fact, I knighted him for it. Such blindness is a clear failure on my part as a Master–”

“Obi-Wan–”

“–and I accept full responsibility for the consequences of my ignorance–”

“Obi-Wan.”

The shaking has started up again, shivers wracking his frame so violently that the blanket slips off his shoulders, and Obi-Wan looks up at him with dry and empty eyes and says dully, “Yes, Master Windu?”

That–

That hurts more than he was anticipating.

Mace retrieves the blanket and tucks it back around him, aching at the chill radiating from his skin.

“I wish,” he says heavily, “that you would give yourself half the grace you extend to others.”

Silence. 

One hand curls around the edge of the blanket.

“He was my Padawan.”

“As Xanatos was Qui-Gon’s,” Mace replies immediately. “Did you ever blame him for what Xanatos did to you?”

Something flickers in the hollow eyes.

“Of course not. That’s different.”

“How?”

“Qui-Gon never knighted him.”

“Qui-Gon wasn’t running a war at the same time.”

“No,” Obi-Wan says distantly, and Mace watches helplessly as deeply-rooted muscle memory brings a shaking hand up to press hard against a decades-old wound.

“No. Of course he wasn’t. He would have hated that.”

Oh. Oh, no.

“Obi-Wan–”

“I’m very tired, Master Windu,” Obi-Wan interrupts, cutting him off, and his voice is hoarse and ragged and thin. “I would like you to leave.”

A chill sweeps through him.

Mace’s first instinct is to refuse. Unequivocally. He knows that this is a terrible idea. Leaving Obi-Wan alone right now sounds like the worst thing he could possibly do, except–

Except.

The footage.

Mace closes his eyes.

He’d argued, at first. The Negotiator in action. He’d tried to plead his case. 

There’d still been hope in his voice. He’d still been trying.

But even with everything he’d said–

Dooku had never once even looked him in the eyes, had he?

Don’t–

Dooku had ignored him–

Stop–  

– and ignored him–

Please–

– and ignored him. 

Whatever he said, however he tried to plead– it didn’t matter.

Ever.

Obi-Wan’s voice now holds a heavy, terrible resignation.

“Please,” he croaks out. “Please leave.”

He doesn’t think that Mace will listen.

Because, after all– no one had.

This is a test.

A test that Obi-Wan might not even realize he’s giving. A test that’s going to hurt to pass.

But if he fails–

The Force nudges at him.

“Okay,” Mace says finally. “Okay. I’m going.”

He knows he doesn’t imagine the shoulders slumping with relief.

At the door, he pauses, turning around. 

“I’ll come back in a bit to check on you,” he says quietly. 

Obi-Wan has buried his head in his hands. Mace barely makes out a nod.

What can he possibly say?

Obi-Wan had asked him to leave.

So, something in his chest splintering, Mace does.

The door slides shut behind him, and Mace takes a moment to steady his breathing.

Reaching out, he realizes–

There’s a storm approaching.

Mace shores up his shields, expanding them as best he can around Obi-Wan, and starts walking to meet it.

He barely makes it to the end of the corridor before–

Cody rounds the corner and nearly crashes directly into Windu.

He mutters an apology and goes to sidestep him– he wants to see Obi-Wan, he has to– has to make sure he’s okay– 

Windu steps smoothly into his path, and Cody stops cold.

“Excuse me, sir.”

“No,” Windu says flatly.

“I want to see him.”

“Listen to me,” Windu says sharply. “If you go in now, you will hurt him. His shields are shredded, and you’re radiating the psychic equivalent of a nuclear bomb. You need to calm down.”

Cody stares at him. He realizes, suddenly, that he’s shaking.

The conflagration in his chest flares.

It’s all too easy to give in to it.

“You offered Skywalker a path back,” Cody snarls, and in the back of his mind a little voice screams shutupshutshutup but the raging fire swallows it whole. “He– he did this, he didn’t listen, he never listened– and you think he deserves it?”

Dark eyes study him, assessing, and Cody wants–  he wants to–

(He wants to keep Obi-Wan safe. He wants him to know he’s safe. But how could he have defended against a blow like this?)

“It’s not a matter of deserving,” Windu says quietly. “What else would you have had us do? Tatooine has no standardized legal system. Who would we have handed him over to? Who would have meted out justice?”

“I–”

“Do you think they could have contained him? A Fallen Jedi? And what would have happened had he escaped, full of rage and power and wanting revenge? How many innocents do you think would have died then?”

“You–”

“Should we have killed him, perhaps? After his confession? Should I have drawn my saber and slaughtered an unarmed opponent on sacred ground? Or would it have been better, more proper, if we had given him a trial first? And what would have come afterwards? What would it have fixed?”

“That’s not–”

“And if it were to come down to a fight,” Windu continues relentlessly, “you know full well it would be Obi-Wan who would draw his saber.” 

“I wouldn’t let–”

“You wouldn’t have a choice,” Windu snaps. “Do you truly think Obi-Wan would let anyone else take him on? That he would risk anyone else getting hurt? That he would risk you? No. It would break him, but he would fight him, and he would win, because for better or worse he was Skywalker’s Master and he knows him–”

The rage roars through him like a tsunami.

He knows him? Obi-Wan knows him? 

No. No, he doesn’t, because Cody had seen the look on his face as Windu had spoken, the sheer scale of the disbelief, of the dawning grief, because if he had known him, maybe he wouldn’t have looked like the ground had dropped out from under him, like the world had tilted on its axis, like everything around him was crumbling into ash, and a sour bitterness builds and builds and builds until it tears out in a shout–

“Not as well as he thought he did!”

The words echo down the empty hallway.

Windu stops short. 

Cody stands there, his shoulders heaving.

Something cold spreads through him, prickling all the way down his back, turning his fingers numb.

His eyes are burning.

Windu exhales, long and slow and steady.

“I believe we should move this conversation somewhere else,” he says. His tone brooks no argument.

Cody swallows. A heavy lump of shame coalesces behind his sternum, burning with a dull and aching heat.

Yeah. That’s– that’s probably best.

The psychic equivalent of a nuclear bomb. 

He wants Rex.

If Rex were here, then Cody– Cody could make sure that at least one of the people he cares about is okay.

If Rex were here, then he would make some stupid joke and pull Cody into a hug and things would maybe be a little less painful.

(If Rex were here, maybe he would have reminded him about the cheap and terrible soundproofing on Venator-class starships.)

Windu gestures down the hallway.

But Rex isn't here.

Cody turns and walks away.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan stares at the wall.

The scar is gone.

(Anakin. Anakin.)

His fingers clutch at the scrubs, pressing, searching–

It’s gone.

(Padawan.)

He knew the lines of the starburst, every one of them–

It’s gone.

(Anakin, what did you do?)

Obi-Wan stares at the wall.

Mace had said– had said that Master Kal’an Dreas had been dispatched to Tatooine. To confirm–

To confirm–

The report.

Cody had left his datapad behind.

(Cody. I’m sorry. I tried.)

Obi-Wan reaches for the pad.

It’s the work of a moment to unlock it. To log Cody out. To input his own credentials.

[Credentials Unrecognized]

He pauses. Stares. Tries again.

[Credentials Unrecognized]

Why–?

Oh. Of course.

He’d been dead.

Of course they would have deactivated–

(It hurt–)

His body lurches forward without his permission.

Remnants of the puff-cake, first, the only thing he’d eaten in– 

(how long how long has it been)

Then bile. Nothing but bile, until even that runs out and his body heaves and comes up dry.

Obi-Wan stares at the wall.

It smells like acid.

He should–

He should clean it up.

He can sense– down the hallway–

Cody. Cody’s coming.

He shouldn’t have to sit with this.

(I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I tried.)

He unfolds one leg. Then the other.

Places his feet on the floor.

Pushes himself up.

(So angry. Please don’t be angry. I tried.)

He stands for a moment, swaying.

The cleaning supplies are under the sink.

One foot forward. Then another.

(Master, I tried. You asked me to train him and I tried, I tried.)

He stops.

There must have been a mistake. There must have been.

Anakin’s his Padawan. He would never.

He knows Anakin–

The shout drives through his brain like an ice pick.

(Innocents.)

Obi-Wan sinks to his knees.

His whole body convulses, spasming with pain, but there’s nothing left to bring up.

(Children.)

No. Denial will serve no one. 

Mace had spoken truth.

The Force sings truth.

Anakin had–

(Pockmarked concrete under his feet, shifting to sand–)

He had killed–

(And the faces aren’t his friends anymore but they’re still–)

Children.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps out. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry–”

Then his voice gives out, and when he tries to open his mouth again his body doesn’t obey him.

(No.)

His vision is blurry with more than just tears.

(No.)

He’s slipping. 

(No–)

He scrabbles against his own shields but he can’t take them down because what if– what if– 

No, they have to stay, but he can’t reach–

He wrenches his jaw open–

Tries to shout, but there’s no air left in his lungs–

It comes out in a wheeze, a jagged-edged sob–

“Help–”

He’s alone.

Too little, too late.

Cody’s gone.

Mace is gone.

No one hears him.

(but someone is listening. someone is always listening.)

in the river, the small gods stir.

In the communal fresher, leaning over the sink, Helix goes still.

Something prickles along the back of his neck.

He reaches out. Turns the tap off. Wipes his face.

Turning around, he scans the empty room.

“Hello?”

The words bounce off the walls, the echo fading away without a response.

Funny. He could have sworn–

He’d been so sure he’d heard his name.

Helix tosses the towel into the laundry bin and pulls on a clean shirt.

The itch grows stronger.

Stupid decision, leaving Obi-Wan alone, he thinks, apropos of nothing.

Then he stops himself.

What brought that on?

He’s not alone. Windu’s with him. And Cody. Helix would probably have to use a crowbar to pry him away.

He’s fine.

The prickling crawls down his spine.

But then again, he did tell him he’d be back.

Helix shoulders his bag and heads out.

(He hasn’t survived this long by not trusting his instincts.)

He’s fine. Helix is just– the footage has just gotten to him. Of course he wouldn’t feel too comfortable with Obi-Wan out of his line of sight, not after–

Well. 

Helix picks up speed.

So he’ll just– he’ll just pop his head in. Make sure he’s okay. See if he feels like eating something else. 

He’s fine.

(But what if–)

He breaks into a run.

Stupid, he tells himself, his kit banging against his back with every stride. Idiot. He’s got people with him. He’s fine. Someone would have commed you if that changed. Relax.

But he doesn’t slow down.

The hallways are empty. He tears around the last corner and skids to a stop in front of the door.

Breathe. He’s fine–

Helix knocks, louder than he meant to.

“Obi-Wan?”

No response. From anyone.

He palms the door open.

The acrid smell of vomit hits him before anything else. 

Obi-Wan’s out of bed. 

(Why is he out of bed?)

He’s on his knees, in the– oh, right, okay, that’s where the smell’s coming from– 

(Why is he alone–)

And the lightning–

Helix is very good at compartmentalizing.

In three long strides he’s by Obi-Wan’s side, hands on his arms, pulling him gently to his feet, settling him on the bed, one hand finds Obi-Wan’s, holds on–

(Physical contact is good, touch is good–)

With his other hand, he snaps open the kit and without even looking pulls out a bacta wrap, tears it open with his teeth, unfolds it, tosses it over the puddle of vomit, it’s not ideal but it’ll neutralize the odor, he can clean it later, a stop-gap measure–

(Talking is good, talking is needed, some sort of auditory stimulus–)

The words spill out without conscious thought. A story, a stupid story, repeating what Ace had told him earlier, something about crabs and medics and annoying brothers, and in his head a timer clicks on–

(He’d only left half an hour ago, Obi-Wan can’t have been gone for too long–)

Every question is tucked away. Every wisp of rage he’d been left alone and frustration why did you leave him alone gets sidelined, boxed up to unpack later.

Helix settles next to Obi-Wan, presses in close, folds his hands between his own, and talks.

Two minutes tick by. Five minutes. Eight minutes.

At eight minutes and forty-five seconds, Obi-Wan’s hands spasm around his.

“...Helix?”

“Right here,” Helix says, relief swamping him in a wave. Aware and talking, less than ten minutes. Much closer to normal. “Right here. You’re good.”

“Helix,” Obi-Wan repeats, and his hands begin to shake. Helix, without thinking, wraps one arm around his shoulders and pulls him into a hug. 

“You’re okay,” he says, deliberately keeping his voice calm even as thorny worry tangles in his chest. “You’re okay. You were gone for less than ten minutes. You’re okay.”

Obi-Wan sucks in a thin, ragged breath.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, and his whole body shudders. When Helix pulls back to look at him, his expression is one of hollow helplessness. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to. I don’t know what–”

Deep breaths.

Helix squeezes his hand. “Hey. You’re back now. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “I was slipping. I tried to– I tried to hold on– I did– but then I was–”

His breathing picks up, and Helix takes the growing knot of dismay and shoves it into a box to be dealt with later. Panicking empath. Priorities. 

“Okay,” he says steadily. “Okay. I’m not leaving. You’re okay. We’ll figure it out.”

He was okay when I left. Steady. I would have noticed if something–

Something happened in the meantime.

Dissociation. Treat it like any other dissociative episode. He was unaware and unresponsive. Okay.

“Do you know what triggered it?” Helix asks gently. “Did someone say something?”

WHY DID THEY LEAVE HIM ALONE

Obi-Wan sucks in a deep breath, his free hand coming up to curl around his torso. 

Then, quiet and cracking:

“Anakin did something terrible.”

Fucking Skywalker–

Pack it up. Tuck it away. Later.

“Mace told me. I asked. He told me. And Cody– Cody was– he was very angry.”

Oh, hell. Of course he was. 

“It– it hurt.” 

Empath. Empath. Empath with shredded shields.

“Is that why he left?”

A nod.

Right. Okay. Pieces are falling into place. But it still doesn’t answer–

“What about Windu?”

A shuddering inhale. 

“I asked him to leave.”

Of course. Of course. 

He shouldn’t have been left alone.

But he’d asked, and–

Well. Helix gets it. They’d both seen the same footage.

“Why did you ask him to leave?”

Obi-Wan sways forward slightly, and when Helix catches a glimpse of his face, his gaze is light-years away.

“Helix, Anakin did something terrible.”

Steady. Gentle. Tuck it away.

“You told me. But Windu doesn’t blame you.”

It’s not a question.

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “No,” he says slowly, something horribly resigned creeping into his voice. “But Cody does.”

Helix doesn’t even need to think about it.

“He does not.”

“He does,” Obi-Wan says, his voice flat. “He does. He said he didn’t, but– I heard him.”

Cody does not. Would not. Helix doesn’t care what Skywalker has done. Cody would not hold Obi-Wan responsible for Skywalker’s actions. Cody would be horrified if he heard him now– 

But.

If he was angry–

If he was angry enough–

“What, exactly, did he say?”

“I heard them,” Obi-Wan says dully. “Mace said– said that I knew Anakin, that if– if it came down to it, I would– I would– and Cody said that I– I clearly didn’t know him as well as I thought I had.”

A pause.

“Helix, he was very angry.”

Here’s the thing.

Helix knows Skywalker mostly second-hand. Through comms from a hollow-eyed Kix. Through high casualty reports. Through bits and pieces revealed in overheard chatter and paperwork and the exhaustion in his own General’s eyes. 

But Cody– Cody is the Marshal Commander. He’s had more direct contact with Skywalker. More proximity to the consequences of his easy, casual cruelty, of an arrogance and selfishness that in the end had cost them everything– 

“He’s angry,” Helix says, and as he says it he knows the words to be true, “because if Skywalker was who you believed he could be, he would have commed to check on you when you were in the medbay.”

He remembers getting comms from Kix whenever Obi-Wan’s name showed up on a casualty report. Checking up on Helix and the other medics, asking after Kenobi, and Helix had– he’d just assumed he was asking for Skywalker and Tano. 

And then he’d realized that Obi-Wan had always commed Kix himself to ask after the two of them, and the next time he’d gotten the call from the CMO of the 501st he’d actually sought clarification, and Kix had rubbed at the back of his neck and confessed that Skywalker had just– never asked.

So when Helix had asked who he was calling for–

The answer varies each time. Sometimes it’s all of Torrent. Sometimes it’s Rex, when Cody’s buried himself in paperwork and isn’t picking up his comm. Sometimes– a lot of times, once she joins them– it’s Tano. Sometimes it’s Kix himself.

But Skywalker never had. So comfortable and confident in his old Master, so convinced of the stability of his own little world, so sure that Kenobi would recover that he never bothered to support him in the process.

No. Helix doesn’t like Skywalker at all.

“He’s angry for you,” Helix says finally. “Not at you.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “You don’t know that.”

“I do, because you haven’t seen him over the past two months,” Helix counters. “Obi-Wan–”

“No, I haven’t, because I was busy being vivisected,” Obi-Wan snaps, and Helix’s next words die in his throat.

Then Obi-Wan leans forward and throws up all over his boots.

It’s not much. Just a bit of bile. But Obi-Wan doesn’t come up once the heaving stops, instead resting his head on his knees. 

His shoulders start to shake.

Helix hesitates, and then carefully rests a hand between his shoulder blades.

Obi-Wan doesn’t shake him off.

Eventually, slightly muffled–

“Sorry about your boots.”

“They’ve seen worse,” Helix replies instinctively, and receives an exhale that vaguely resembles a chuckle in response. 

He hesitates for a moment, and then decides to take the plunge.

“It’s not your fault for believing the best in him.”

Then, in a flash of inspiration–

“That brought you peace before, right?”

Obi-Wan goes still, and Helix knows he’s hit the mark.

“You don’t even know what he did,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“Do you want to tell me?” Helix asks.

A pause.

“No,” Obi-Wan croaks. “No. You’ll be angry too. And I can’t– I can’t–”

“Then don’t tell me,” Helix says. “Don’t. I don’t need to know. I don’t want to know. If you want to tell me, I’ll listen, but it’s not relevant to what I need to do now, so I don’t care. If that changes, we’ll go from there. Okay?”

His head ducks forward slightly in a pale imitation of a nod.

Good enough.

They sit in silence for a long moment.

“How are they?” Obi-Wan asks eventually, and Helix knows exactly who he’s talking about.

“Doing well,” he says gently. “They came to the funeral. Last time we talked, I–”

He stops short.

“Helix?”

“I’m a genius,” he breathes, feeling a bubble of enthusiasm swell in his chest. “Obi-Wan, do you want to talk to them?”

Finally, Obi-Wan forces himself up. His face is pale and his eyes are red-rimmed, but they hold a spark of interest that Helix has sorely missed.

“I thought we were on a comms blackout?”

“Because of worries that the hardware’s compromised,” Helix says, scrambling for his bag.

Even the unofficial channels of the medics are built on military hardware. The comms themselves are provided by Republic manufacturers under contract with the Senate. But–

But as they’d been preparing to leave Melidaan, Jess had pressed a communicator into his hand. 

A closed line, she’d said, an improved version of the shabbier short-distance units they’d used in the war. The comms operated in pairs. It was a tradeoff– an unhackable line, but only one reachable partner. They were built from the ground up with only one corresponding comm code. When they ran missions, each member of the raiding party had a comm that paired to someone who remained in the pipes. If their comm got disabled, well, even if they managed to scavenge another one, they were on their own until they could make their way back.

If they ever did.

(He’d wondered, briefly, why every member of the Young carried two units with them.)

And best of all, the hardware was entirely sourced from Melidaan. 

Jess had patted one of the units on her belt. 

Make sure you always have another comm on you, she’d said, because this one goes to me and no one else. Good luck trying to rewire it.

(Crys had taken that as a challenge, and he and Anders had disappeared for a few hours with another pair. When they came back, Crys looked slightly star-struck. Anders had just looked smug.)

Helix finds what he’s looking for in the bag.

“Jess gave me a comm,” he says, waving it, and by the look on Obi-Wan’s face he knows exactly what that means.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “Please. I would– I would like to know they’re okay.”

Helix, grinning, activates it.

The comm beeps steadily, seeking the line. Obi-Wan swipes once across his eyes.

Then–

“Helix?” Jess’s voice comes through, slightly staticky, and Obi-Wan lurches forward like he’s been struck.

“If you’re looking for the latest numbers, I don’t have them on me. I just left. Bretta’s taking the night shift, I’m heading to dinner. But if you give me what you’re looking for, I can send you the notes tomorrow as soon as I get in.”

“Hey, Jess,” he says, squeezing Obi-Wan’s hand. “No questions, actually. I’ve got some news. Are the others joining you?”

A pause.

“Yeah,” she says, sounding slightly wary, “everyone except for Anders, he’s off-planet at some tech conference. What type of news is this? News that should wait until after we eat?”

“Don’t worry,” Helix says, and the bubble of delight in his chest grows ever bigger. How often does he get to say that?

Better question– how often does he get to say that, and mean it?

“It’s good news. Great news, in fact.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

A door opens. Footsteps thump hurriedly across a wooden floor. Voices. The sound of plates, clattering on a table.

“Jess, you’re on a call? Is it urgent? I’m hungry!”

Nield. 

Obi-Wan makes a tiny noise, half-sobbing, and presses a hand over his mouth.

“It’s Helix,” Jess says, and someone swears in the background. 

"Is everything okay?”

Clasby. 

“Come on, sit down. All right with everyone, Helix?”

Cerasi. 

Good, Helix thinks gleefully, and he just about manages to keep his voice steady when he says–

“Of course.”

He switches on the video, angling it carefully so Obi-Wan stays out of sight.

The image on the other end fizzes into static for a moment as someone adjusts the comm before coming back into full focus. 

Nield, Cerasi and Clasby are crowded around the table, and as Helix watches, Jess squeezes in between them. 

“All right, Helix, what’s going on?”

Helix can’t quite contain his grin.

“Guess who we found?” he says, and at Obi-Wan’s nod, he shifts the projector.

He thinks, for a moment, that the image has frozen.

Then Cerasi says, very quietly, her voice cracking–

“Ben?”

“Hi,” Obi-Wan says, and his smile cracks around the edges. “I missed you.”

Silence. 

The image rocks slightly as Clasby picks up the communicator.

“Ben,” he says, very seriously, “I am going to bite you when you get back here, you absolute fucker–”

The image turns to static as Nield makes a grab for the comm. Shouting erupts over the line, sounds of a scuffle breaking through, a jumbled mess of voices turned tinny and incoherent by the long distance, and Obi-Wan begins to laugh.

“You were–”

“Ben, oh my god–”

“How did you–”

“I told you not to do this shit again–”

“Clasby, for fuck’s sake–”

“Shut up, Nield, he can’t keep DYING on us, my heart can’t take it–”

When the image returns, Nield is standing on a chair, holding the comm unit out of reach. Behind him, Jess is scowling, and Clasby, all but frothing at the mouth, is pinned to the floor by Cerasi, who’s planted herself solidly on his chest.

“Clasby has lost comm privileges,” Nield informs them both, his eyes suspiciously shiny. “It’s bad manners to threaten a dead man.”

“I would like to note that you are using my comm,” Jess says sourly, but Nield waves her off.

“Ben,” Cerasi says, and oh, now the tears are welling up– “You were dead. ”

Obi-Wan is staring at the comm like it’s a lighthouse in a stormy sea. When he reaches out, Helix helps him fold his hands around the unit, something in his chest aching.

“I got better,” he croaks, and Helix nearly chokes on a slightly hysterical laugh of his own.

Jess shakes her head. It’s hard to tell over the blurry picture, but Helix thinks she’s trembling.

“Ben, what happened?”

And Obi-Wan–

Helix had known this was coming.

But he has never seen his General break before. Not like this. And it hurts like hell to watch.

It’s like watching a glacier collapse. Huge, heaving, ragged sobs, the force of them folding him nearly in half, and Nield, panic seeping into his voice, says, “Oh– no, Ben – it’s okay, it’s okay, please don’t – please don’t cry – ”

Obi-Wan shakes his head.

“It hurt,” he gasps out. “It doesn’t seem real, but it hurt.”

And then, as Nield scrambles off the chair, as Cerasi clambers to her feet, as Clasby’s half-affected fury dissolves into worry, as Jess reaches out towards the screen before remembering herself–

Obi-Wan begins to talk.

And Helix thinks:

Oh.

“It felt– it felt like being boiled alive. It hurt. It hurt.”

Of course he never would have told anyone else. Not on the ship. Not in person.

“And he said– he said afterwards, that it had been a guess, because all he’d had was guesswork, guesswork that I’d internalized the Force, guesswork that it would keep me alive until he could put me into a stasis, and then– then the bacta tank–”

They were too close. And for an empath with no functional shields to speak of, for whom anger took the form of a physical blow–

“–and I asked him what he would have done if it hadn’t worked, and he– he said– then you would still be dead, and I–”

No. He never could have told them. The shock and the horror and the fury, even if not directed at him– he never would have been able to stand it.

“He wanted to know how I– how I did it, and he kept asking, and I told him– I told him he had to trust in the Force, but he wanted more, and I couldn’t give it to him, because there is nothing more to it, so he–”

But over comm, when the weight of the reactions is light-years away–

Of course that would be easier.

“He stopped asking me things. He stopped talking to me. He just started– just started–“

And Helix has had the time to witness and absorb and mourn from a safe distance away. Obi-Wan hadn’t needed to tell him.

Which is probably the only reason Obi-Wan hasn’t asked him to leave.

As Obi-Wan talks, the grief ebbs and flows and swells, but Helix matches descriptions to flashes of footage and doesn’t let it swallow him whole.

After all– it’s nothing new.

“– and my hand doesn’t even feel like my hand anymore, it feels like I can’t reach it, and–”

As if on cue, he loses his grip on the comm. Helix’s hand shoots out, grabbing it before it falls more than a couple of inches, and Obi-Wan makes a noise like he's been shot.

Helix doesn’t dare to look at his face.

“– narrating, the whole time, and I couldn’t– he was recording it, and I kept– but he just–”

Nield, slightly strangled:

“He recorded it?”

Obi-Wan buries his head in his hands. Nield looks at Helix, something in his eyes fracturing, and Helix nods.

“So I cut myself loose. I had to. I had to. I couldn’t– I couldn’t stop him, I couldn’t keep him out– I don’t even know how long I was gone for–”

“Nearly a month, I think,” Helix says quietly, and Obi-Wan jerks to look at him. “The footage has some cuts, but you were conscious for at least three weeks. ”

Obi-Wan’s looking at him wide-eyed, why is he–

“You said two months, earlier,” he says slowly. “Is that how long I was–”

He stops.

In the privacy of his own head, Helix lets out a stream of curses.

No one had told him. And Helix hadn’t thought– but of course–

“It took us three days to get back to Coruscant,” Helix says carefully. “Then the funeral. Then six weeks to discover he was on Iwanaga. And about a week and a half to get here. We met up with Windu and the 187th first.” 

Obi-Wan rocks forward slightly.

“Oh,” he says weakly. “That makes sense.”

This time, Helix is ready with the trash can.

“– and they pulled me back,” Obi-Wan says, and his grip on Helix’s hand tightens. “I came back, but–”

He stops. Closes his eyes. Inhales.

“Ben–”

“I have to fight to stay in my own head,” he breathes, the words tumbling out in a rush. “It feels so much easier to just drift, and I have to hold on so tight to stay, and if I relax my grip for even a second I slip and I’m so scared that it’ll happen again, that I’ll go away and forget how to come back on my own–”

His voice chokes on a ragged sob, and the ground drops out from under Helix’s feet.

Pack it up. Tuck it away. Later. Later. Later.

He talks and talks and talks, the words spilling out, and Helix holds on for both of them.

Then, eventually:

“– and Anakin–”

He stops. 

“Anakin?” Cerasi prompts, her voice hoarse, and in her face Helix sees a reflection of his own tempered hostility before she tucks it away. “Is he okay?”

Obi-Wan opens his mouth. Closes it. Shakes his head.

His eyes flicker to Helix. 

Right.

“I’m gonna go check on the medbay,” he says, squeezing Obi-Wan’s hand. “Make sure Needle hasn’t started any fires. I’ll be back in– twenty minutes? How does that sound?”

Obi-Wan hesitates. 

“Fifteen minutes?” Helix amends, and finally, he nods.

“Please,” he croaks. “I don’t want–”

His voice trails off.

“Of course,” Helix says quietly.

He stands. Makes his way to the door. 

Then he stops, and turns around.

Obi-Wan is curled over the comm. The blue light illuminates his face, throwing the harsh lines of starvation and exhaustion into sharp relief–

(I have to fight to stay in my own head–)

–and Helix feels something warm and furious unfurl in the back of his mind, and before he knows what he’s doing he’s walking back and crouching down and putting both hands on Obi-Wan’s shoulders–

“Obi-Wan, you don’t have to deal with this alone,” he says, low and urgent and breaking, because he knows he’s used to carrying things on his own but this– this, he can’t, and he doesn’t have to– “It doesn’t matter if you forget how to come back on your own, because we’ll pull you back. Okay? Do you understand?”

Desperation cracks his voice open, but Helix can’t bring himself to care.

Obi-Wan is staring at him, eyes wide. Helix’s grip tightens on his shoulders. 

“Obi-Wan, I need you to understand. Please.”

He takes all the determination and the love and the relief and the worry and shoves it forward, hoping, hoping, and Obi-Wan’s expression crumples.

“I’ll try,” he says, and Helix feels something in his chest slowly buckle and give way.

“That’s all I ask,” he says, and presses his forehead to Obi-Wan’s. “We’ve got your back. I promise, I promise, we’ve got your back.”

As he walks back to the medbay, Helix turns his attention to the boxes. 

Okay. One by one. 

First:

They had left him alone. 

He considers this. 

Cody had been angry. That had been hurting Obi-Wan. So he’d left. The best choice. Removing the most immediate threat.

Obi-Wan had asked Windu to leave. He could have said no, and Obi-Wan would have learned that what he said didn’t matter. Again. That no one would listen. Again.

The best choice out of shitty options. Fine.

Second:

Skywalker. 

Helix considers. Prioritizes.

Skywalker is a danger. But he’s not on the ship, so he’s not an immediate concern. He’ll need to talk to the others. To Windu. Figure out if he’s an active threat or not. Until then, he’ll run interference. Bring the others in on it. Keep them separate until Obi-Wan says he wants to talk to him.

Fine.

Third:

The way he’d talked.

The disbelief. The desperation. The realization. The repetition.

(It hurt–)

Almost a shout, at times. 

A reclaiming. A declaration of ownership that had been stripped from him. Over what happened, over his own body–

Helix knows about that well enough. He’s a clone. None of them belonged to themselves. As long as they were in the hands of the Kaminoans, their bodies weren’t their own. 

A lot of brothers got tattoos for exactly that reason, once they got out. A few hurt themselves, carved their own scars, a desperate attempt to retain some level of self that was evident to others, daring the Kaminoans to see them-

And as for Obi-Wan–

He’d been dissected. He’d lost all control over every bit of his body. And then he’d cut himself loose completely. Given up ownership.

Right. No wonder he’d said–

Convincing others. Convincing himself. 

It happened. It happened. It happened.

Fourth:

Obi-Wan had gone drifting, disappeared into the lightning. Again. But there hadn’t been any need. He hadn’t been in danger. None of them had been. 

He’d said– he'd said that he hadn’t meant to. That he had slipped.

Helix stops walking.

The default’s changed.

The body to the lightning. The lightning to the body. 

He closes his eyes. Leans against the wall. Runs a hand down his face.

“Fuck,” he says, and then again, with more emphasis:

“Fuck.”

It doesn’t help.

His eyes begin to burn. 

Of course there would be long-term consequences. Of course. He’d been through– Helix had seen–

But he’d hoped–

Deep breath.

He’d meant it, though. If it was easier for Obi-Wan to drift, fine. Fine. They would pull him back. Every time. He’s theirs. The lightning doesn’t get to keep him.

Fine.

He settles back into himself. Finds his footing.

Back to the medbay. There’s work to do.

There’s always work to do.

Chapter Text

Helix hears Stitch before he sees him. 

The familiar rapid-fire tapping is disproportionately loud in the empty medbay.

Their youngest medic is perched on the edge of a far bed, his back to the door. Deeply-rooted instincts stop Helix from calling out, and instead, he edges carefully into Stitch’s field of vision.

No reaction.

“Stitch?” Helix says cautiously.

Taptaptap. Taptaptap.

“Do you need something from me?”

The tapping stops. Starts again, with an erratic rhythm. 

“Okay,” Helix says gently. “That’s fine. You’re okay. I’ll just– be here. Two taps if you want me to go away, okay?”

He sits down on the other end of the bed and extends an arm.

Taptaptap. Tap. Taptap. Taptaptap.

Stitch hesitates.

Then, slowly, he tucks the pen back behind his ear, and shuffles along the bed until he can tuck himself against Helix’s side.

“There you are,” Helix says, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “You did good.”

They sit in silence for a bit as Stitch regains his balance. Helix makes sure to keep his own breathing steady, and a warm curl of pride unfurls in his chest when he realizes Stitch is matching him.

Eventually, quietly, he asks–

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Silence. 

Then, cracking–

“I don’t want to go back to Kamino, Helix.”

Well. He wasn’t expecting that. 

“You will not be going back to Kamino,” he says. That’s easy. With everything going on right now, it’s nice to be able to give an answer with any degree of confidence.

Stitch has never told him outright what had happened on Kamino. But he’s never mentioned any batchmates in other battalions, and–

Well.

Helix had a brother named Mimic, once, who was Stitch’s type of crooked. Mimic made mimics, took others’ words and made them his own, and sometimes Helix had to talk a lot to give Mimic his own words but he’d never minded, not really. 

Mimic liked draping himself over Helix like a tooka. Mimic kept sneaking out onto the rooftop pathways to watch the lightning storms. Mimic loved making maps, always the first to finish in navigation exams. Mimic had been utterly convinced that he was going to be a pilot.

Mimic would have been a good soldier–

But faulty products were faulty products.

Helix had tried to keep him safe. His whole batch had. But it hadn’t been enough. They'd slipped up, somehow they'd slipped up, and Ki Prulmo and his needles had come for Mimic in the middle of a navigation class.

When Prulmo had called his number, Mimic had screamed Helix’s name, just his name, over and over again, and Helix–

Helix did not look up from his datapad. His hands didn’t shake, not at all. Under Mimic’s cracking screams he heard Prulmo’s exasperated sigh and the rustle of a bag being opened and the snick of a needle cap being removed, and then Mimic stopped screaming and there was only an enormous, resounding silence.

What could he have done? Truly, when it came down to it, what could he have done?

Logically, he knows the answer is nothing. 

Logically, he knows that if he had tried to put up a fight, they would have killed him too, that the only reason they didn’t then and there is because Mimic knew his name and not his number. 

Logically, he knows that they probably would have exterminated his whole batch. Too high of a risk of producing another troublemaker.

He knows all of this.

Logically.

But Mimic had died alone and screaming and afraid and everyone else knew not to scream if Prulmo called their number, everyone else knew to just go quietly but Mimic had screamed for him and he had done nothing.

The Kaminoans had watched the rest of his batch very carefully for a long time, after that. 

So Helix has–

Suspicions. About what happened to the rest of Stitch’s batch. About exactly how much it had cost him to make it out.

He had not been able to help Mimic. 

But here and now–

“You will not,” he repeats, tightening his grip, “be going back to Kamino. What made you think otherwise?”

A hesitation.

“I lied, Helix.”

“I don’t care.”

“I lied, Helix.”

Okay. Different tack.

“What about?”

“I said that I could declare a superior officer temporarily unfit for command, Helix.”

Helix pauses.

“Can you not?”

Stitch shakes his head, curling inwards like he’s bracing for a blow.

“Only the Chief Medical Officer can do that, Helix. It’s in the rules.”

Hm. He’s going to have to talk to Needle.

But. Later.

“I’m not angry,” Helix says soothingly. “I promise, I’m not.”

“But the Commander is, Helix,” Stitch says helplessly. “The Commander is, because he wanted to watch the footage but you locked it down and I told him so but he wasn’t listening and I lied and he said he liked me better when I was shiny and he’s going to send me back for reconditioning so I can be shiny again and I don’t want to go back Helix I don’t want to go back–”

Helix, his heart hammering in his chest, shifts and pulls Stitch into a proper hug. Stitch goes without protest, tucking his face into the crook of Helix’s neck, his breathing jackrabbit-fast, and Helix–

Helix could say a hundred different things right now. 

He could remind Stitch that Shaak Ti was on Kamino, now, and that troopers didn’t get reconditioned anymore.

He could reassure him that Cody had spoken out of anger, that he hadn’t meant it.

He could tell Stitch that he would space Cody without hesitation if he tried, Commander or not.

But.

Helix knows him, and he knows that promises of violence on his behalf are not what Stitch needs right now.

What he does need–

Well. There’s only one person on this ship who outranks the Commander.

Or, well– two people. But only one Stitch trusts, and that’s the important bit.

“You know the General wouldn’t let you get sent back,” Helix says, infusing his voice with all the easy, casual confidence he can muster. It’s not hard. He knows he’s right. “You did good, Stitch.”

“I lied, Helix.”

“To correct an oversight in the regulations,” Helix says. “After all, it should be in the rules, honestly. I’ve got enough work on my plate, and I trust your judgment. And–” he sighs, dramatically, and catches a grin flicker across Stitch’s face– “I suppose I trust Needle, too. You did exactly the right thing, Stitch, and I know that if we tell him, he’s going to agree. And he can change the rules. Easy.”

He feels Stitch uncurl slightly.

“Easy,” he echos uncertainly, and then, his voice growing stronger– 

“I don’t want to go back to Kamino. He won’t let me go back to Kamino.”

“Right,” Helix says, squeezing his shoulders. “He didn’t let Kamei go back. He sure as hell won’t let you.”

He stands, stretching, and then winces at the sound his back makes. 

“Want to come see him with me?”

Stitch hesitates.

“Someone has to be manning the medbay, Helix.”

“You’re right,” Helix says after a pause, grinning at him. “Good catch. I’d forgotten.”

Stitch’s smile is there and gone in an instant, but Helix sees his back straighten slightly and grins to himself.

“I’ll comm Needle. He’s had it too easy lately. Can you–”

He pauses. Thinks.

The vomit. The scrubs.

“Can you grab a spare pair of blacks? And some cleaning supplies?”

Stitch hums an assent and disappears into the supply closet. Good. That’ll give him a few minutes and the space to pull himself back together if he needs it.

Helix types out a quick message and receives an acknowledging ping back within a few seconds.

He pauses. Stares at the comm.

That was fast. 

Too fast, for Needle.

He starts to type out another one, hesitates, then deletes it. Needle will be up here in a few minutes anyways. Helix can interrogate him then.

He rocks back on his heels.

Cody. Cody. What the hell is going on?

Talk about an impressive trail of collateral damage. 

Helix spares a thought to be grateful that Windu’s likely corralling him. Obi-Wan had overheard both of them, after all, and Helix doubts that Windu would have let him wander around on his own after that outburst.

Well. Good. Cody’s clearly hurting, and there’s no one better than a Jedi to talk him through it.

As long as he’s not hurting more of my brothers, Helix thinks bitterly, he’s not my problem. 

That’s unfair. He recognizes it as soon as the thought crosses his mind. 

(And yet.)

Stitch emerges from the closet with a bag that’s bursting at the seams just before running footsteps make themselves heard outside.

Needle tumbles through the medbay doors, and Helix stares at him.

His breastplate is splattered in reds and yellows and browns. Some sort of fruit pulp is splattered on his left pauldron; Helix can see the seeds. 

He sniffs.

Is he– is he charred–?

Needle grins at him. 

Helix sighs, long and loud.

“Is any of that blood?”

“No, boss.”

“What am I looking at, then?”

“Largely condiments, boss.”

Unbelievable. Helix pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Is any of what’s going on in the mess going to become my problem?”

“No, boss,” Needle says cheerfully, “especially because you’re not going to be the on-duty medic for, what, the next three hours?”

Helix’s gaze is as dry as the deserts of Tatooine. Needle’s smile doesn’t falter.

“Well, I certainly won’t be now. You can take care of whatever happens in the meantime.”

“Aw, Helix,” Needle croons, “you do trust me–”

His gaze flickers to Stitch, and he stops short. The glee slides right off his face, to be replaced with worry.

“Stitch? You okay?”

Helix feels a slight pang of shame. Needle plays the cheerful fool well– too well, sometimes– and it can be easy to forget that he was fast-tracked for medic training. He is very good at picking up on the unspoken.

Stitch shifts from foot to foot. 

“You can’t come in here like that,” he says quietly. “Too messy. Bringing in contaminants. It’s against the–”

He stops. Swallows.

Needle’s gaze flickers to the bag under one arm, straining at the seams, to the unmade bed, to the way Stitch’s hand twitches towards the pen tucked behind his ear–

“You’re right,” he says easily. “Sorry, Stitch. Can you pass me a bag so I can strip my armor off? I’ll clean it later.”

Stitch’s shoulders relax, and as he turns to find a trash bag, Helix mouths thanks in Needle’s direction.

Needle raises an eyebrow.

(What happened?)

Helix shakes his head.

(Later.)

Needle scowls slightly before nodding reluctantly.

Stitch returns, holding out the bag, and Needle begins to strip down to his blacks without hesitation. 

“Go on,” he says, waving them off. “I can still do my job in my blacks, I promise. Tell the General I said hi!”

Smartass.

He’s right, though.

Helix is halfway down the hallway before he realizes Stitch isn’t following him.

When he turns around, he sees Needle muttering something under his breath, one hand on Stitch’s arm to balance as he wrestles with his left greave. The youngest medic relaxes, and Needle grins, pats him on the shoulder and shoos him towards Helix.

“All right?” Helix asks quietly, and Stitch nods, quick and jerky.

“He promised he wouldn’t mess with the furniture again.”

Yeah. Needle is very, very good.

Helix knocks twice. 

“Obi-Wan? It’s me and Stitch, can we come in?”

A moment of silence passes, and Helix is just about to start panicking all over again when, hoarse–

“Of course.”

He palms the door open. 

“–talk to him, when we get there?”

Obi-Wan nods. When Helix leans over next to him, he sees the other four sitting in a semi-circle, cross-legged on the floor. Each of them look equal parts haggard and hurting, but Cerasi still musters up the energy to give him a wave.

“We can come back later, if you have more to talk about,” Helix suggests quietly. Stitch, by the door, shifts uncomfortably.

“No,” Obi-Wan says slowly. “I think– no. They’re going to come to the Temple.”

Gods. He looks exhausted.

Cerasi apparently picks up on the same thing.

“Leave him to us, Ben,” she says gently. “Just get back safe, okay?”

“If something happens to you in transit,” Clasby adds, “I will not be held responsible for my actions.”

Jess elbows him. 

“We’ll see you when you get back,” she says, with a determined finality. “Give you a few days to settle in and all, but we’ll see you soon. And be nice to your medic.”

“I don’t need this from you,” Obi-Wan grumbles, but his voice is warm. “You’re the worst.”

Nield snorts. “Yeah, but we love her anyway,” he says. “And we love you, Ben. You know that, right? We missed you, idiot, so don’t do anything stupid until we’re with you. Alright?”

Obi-Wan huffs a laugh. “Okay,” he says. “Love you too.”

Silence falls after the connection cuts out. Obi-Wan puts the comm carefully to the side and scrubs roughly at his eyes. 

“How are you feeling?” Helix asks quietly.

Obi-Wan blinks at him, hesitating.

“Better,” he says eventually. “I think so. Yes.”

He looks it, too. His cheeks are wet and his eyes are red, but he looks steadier than he had when Helix had left.

Wrung out, exhausted, and hurting–

But better. 

A knot of tension in his chest unravels slightly.

“Needle says hi,” Stitch pipes up dutifully, and Obi-Wan smiles. 

“Thank you for telling me,” he says, and then his gaze sharpens, and because he can never give himself half a second’s break –

“And how are you doing, Stitch?”

Stitch hesitates.

“We actually wanted to run something by you,” Helix says casually, dropping onto the bed next to him. “Turns out only the CMO has the authority to declare a superior officer temporarily unfit for duty, if we’re going strictly by the rulebook. But I’ve been shunting that duty off onto Needle and Stitch, and I don’t want to get in trouble for it, so…”

Obi-Wan’s gaze flickers from him to Stitch, who’s trying his best not to rock back and forth too obviously, and back to Helix. 

Helix can almost hear the connections click into place.

“Honestly, I’d thought you could all do that,” Obi-Wan says offhandedly. “It does make much more sense for every medic to have that authority, doesn’t it? You’ve got enough on your plate.”

Called it, Helix thinks gleefully. 

“So,” he drawls, “Just to make sure, you wouldn’t, you know, send me back to Kamino or anything? For giving Stitch and Needle too much authority?”

Stitch opens his mouth, frightened desperation flickering across his face, but Helix catches his eye and gives a tiny shake of his head.

Obi-Wan scoffs. “Never. Unfortunately, I’ve grown far too fond of you.”

Glancing back at Stitch, worry in his eyes, nothing but deliberate nonchalance in his voice–

“All three of you, in fact. And since I do have the final say, none of you are going back to Kamino unless you want to.”

Stitch shuts his mouth, going nearly boneless with relief.

Best kriffin’ General in the GAR, Helix thinks. Suck it, Ace.

Out loud–

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Just figured I’d double-check.” 

He gives Stitch a pointed look.

Stitch ducks his head, grinning. 

Much better.

Helix claps his hands together. “Anyways, sir, I was wondering if you wanted to get out of those scrubs. We brought a spare set of blacks. If you’re up for it, you could use the sonic, get cleaned up a bit.”

Obi-Wan stills.

“Only if you’re up for it,” Helix repeats, flinching internally. Maybe this was too soon. He does look exhausted, after all, he wouldn’t want to–

Obi-Wan plucks thoughtfully at the edge of his sleeve. 

“Yes,” he says finally. “Yes. Thank you. I’d like to–”

He stops. Inhales.

“Please,” he says. “Although– I think– help. Might be– needed. If– if you wouldn’t mind–”

Helix doesn’t dignify that with an answer, and Obi-Wan’s lips twitch upwards.

“I’m just glad you’re asking,” Helix grumbles, but he makes sure to be gentle as he helps him up, wrapping one arm around his waist to ease the weight on his feet.

“You know,” he says quietly, as they make their way slowly towards the fresher, “we do have painkillers, if you want some.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head almost immediately. Helix doesn’t push it.

“Stitch, can you–”

Blacks in hand, Stitch materializes in front of them, sliding open the fresher door. 

“I’ll clean up out here. I’ve got some clean sheets, and some deodorizers for the vomit, and some clippers for your hair too, sir, if you want–”

“And here I was thinking this new style could be all the rage on Coruscant,” Obi-Wan murmurs, a smile flickering across his face. “Unkempt is the new dashing, no?”

Stitch’s brow furrows. He studies Obi-Wan for a moment, looking him up and down, and then:

“I don’t think so, sir.”

Helix chokes on a snort. Obi-Wan laughs out loud. 

“Never change, Stitch.”

“I can do that, sir,” Stitch says, grinning at him, and Helix sighs.

“I’m surrounded by idiots,” he mutters, herding Obi-Wan into the fresher.

Obi-Wan hums. “My magnetic personality makes up for it.”

“You keep telling yourself that, sir.”

Obi-Wan’s laughing at him. He can tell.

Ah. Worth it.

He drops the blacks on the toilet lid and turns back to Obi-Wan, who’s beginning to list against the wall.

“We can do this later, if you’re too tired,” he offers, but Obi-Wan shakes his head. 

“No. Thank you. I want– out. Of these. Too long.”

Clipped words. Not a great sign.

But– fine. They can make it quick. 

He helps Obi-Wan out of the scrubs, quick and efficient, and doesn’t allow himself to falter upon seeing the scarring.

(Small gods, the lightning’s carved echoes of an autopsy–)

“How bad?”

Helix blinks, glancing up at him. Obi-Wan meets his gaze steadily.

“I– I know the scar is gone. The– from Melidaan. The blaster wound. I couldn’t feel it anymore. How much is– left?”

Helix is in charge of Obi-Wan’s medical care. Has been for over two years, now. He knows what was there–

And what’s not, anymore.

“The old ones are gone,” Helix says bluntly, and Obi-Wan closes his eyes. “From what I can see, at least. The new ones are all– like lightning–”

“Sewn back together,” Obi-Wan murmurs, and Helix gets the distinct feeling he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“Did you want to–?”

“No. Sorry. Forget I asked.”

“Okay,” Helix says, aching, and lets Obi-Wan brace himself against his arm as he steps into the sonic. “Okay.”

He viciously shoves the scrubs into the trash chute, and makes a note to run the incinerator later.

It’s easy enough to help him into the blacks afterwards, and Obi-Wan waves him off as he slumps down onto the toilet lid. Helix slides down against the opposite wall into a crouch, watching him.

That took a lot out of him, that’s obvious enough. Stiffly regulated breathing. Tension in every line of his–

Oh, hell.

That was the most he’d moved under his own power in nearly two months, wasn’t it? 

Helix weighs the merit of offering painkillers again, and decides against it.

A minute passes in silence, broken only by Stitch’s muffled humming.

“Best judgment about the clippers?” Obi-Wan asks eventually. 

Helix hesitates. Thinks. 

(Remembers–)

“If you want to, we can do it,” he says cautiously. “But– I think having something sharp too close to the back of your neck risks provoking a reaction. At least for right now.”

Obi-Wan hums.

“What the mind forgets, the body remembers,” he echos. “Yes. Good idea.”

He offers Helix a wry smile. 

“Thank you.”

Helix ducks his head.

“Yeah,” he croaks. “Of course.”

He unfolds himself. Clears his throat. 

“Ready?”

Obi-Wan nods, reaching up, and together, they limp their way out of the fresher.

Stitch is waiting for them, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Hello, sirs,” he says, beaming at them. “I changed the sheets, and ran those down to the laundry, and the cloak and the blankets as well, but it’s okay because I remembered to pack new ones, and I disinfected the rug– I saw the puff-cake, by the way, General, you do need to eat something– and then got rid of the disinfectant smell with the deodorizer, and–”

“Hang on,” Helix says. “Where’d you get a new cloak?”

“Found it in the medbay, sir,” Stitch says, looking puzzled. “I think it’s Windu’s. I washed it earlier, while you were gone. You were using it as a blanket, remember?”

A dull flush of embarrassment crawls up the back of his neck. Obi-Wan’s shoulders shudder with barely-restrained laughter, and Helix scowls at him.

“Right,” he grumbles. “Thank you, Stitch.”

“You’re welcome,” Stitch chirps, and okay, fine, maybe it’s hard to be mad at him, because Obi-Wan’s grinning, looking more self-possessed than he has in days, and the damned scrubs are gone, and when he helps Obi-Wan settle back onto the bed Stitch wraps the cloak around his shoulders, and–

It’s good. Better.

“Did Jocasta ever send you the information on the terrasaurs?”

Helix blinks. 

The terra–?

Oh. That was directed at Stitch. 

Right. The museum trip. Stitch’s eyes had lit up upon seeing the gigantic models of the ancient, colorful leviathans, and he’d bounced from label to label like a pinball, bombarding Obi-Wan with questions, all concerns of rank and propriety apparently chased from his mind by the terrasaurs. Helix had nearly pulled him aside and reminded him to slow down before he’d realized that Obi-Wan’s replies were equally enthusiastic.

(A warm ache had blossomed in his chest, then, and he’d tried very hard not to think about Mimic and his maps.)

Helix had walked in on him in the supply closet that evening, chewing on the edge of a paintbrush and arguing with Needle, his armor half-painted with the broad patterns of one of the smaller prehistoric creatures they’d seen– big-eyed, furry and four-armed. 

Helix hadn’t seen the appeal, but he’d accepted the proffered paintbrush anyway, and had shown Stitch how to get the eyes just right on his helmet.

“Oh, yes,” Stitch says, brightening. “Do you want to see?”

Of course he’d gotten ahold of some more material for Stitch.

In the middle of a war, and he’d still–

“Very much,” Obi-Wan says, smiling.

Stitch pulls out his datapad, folding onto the floor next to the bed, and starts typing rapidly. 

Obi-Wan’s gaze flickers to Helix. 

“All right?” he asks quietly.

Helix sits down next to him, clearing his throat.

“Yeah,” he manages. “I–”

Stitch makes a satisfied noise, and a vaguely familiar holo springs into existence in front of them. Bratosaurus. Beakosaurus? Something like that.

“I’m really glad you’re back,” Helix croaks.

A pause. Obi-Wan squeezes his hand.

“Me too,” he says quietly. “As it turns out, being dead is tremendously overrated.”

Tremendously overrated. 

Unbelievable.

Helix shakes his head, laughing helplessly. Obi-Wan grins at him, and Helix gives in and drops his head onto his shoulder.

“You’re such an ass, sir.”

“Magnetic personality,” Obi-Wan singsongs, and, well, that just sets him off again. This time, Obi-Wan joins in.

“I thought,” Stitch says plaintively, “that I was going to get to talk about terrasaurs.”

“Sorry,” Helix gasps out, grinning, and Obi-Wan presses a hand over his mouth, stifling another burst of giggles. “What’d you find out about the terrasaurs, Stitch?”

Stitch sniffs, turning back to his datapad, and Helix bites down hard on his tongue.

“General Nu sent me a lot, sir, and I read it all, but the sauropods are definitely my favorite. Did you know they had these enormous air sacs between their vertebrae? Because they were so heavy, and the air sacs helped make their bones light enough to move, and–”

He reaches into the holo, spreads his fingers wide, and the image twists and zooms in–

“See? The air sacs left indents on the bones, and that’s how we know they existed– and she sent me a new paper that theorized that they allowed sauropods to dump heat by evaporative cooling–”

“Like birds?” Obi-Wan asks, intrigued, and Stitch beams at him.

Helix leans back, watching the two of them.

Stitch, eyes bright, voice fast and cheerful, spinning the holo in front of him with an ease borne of familiarity. Obi-Wan, leaning forward, one hand on his shoulder, pointing at some oddity in the image, his voice raised in a question–

Both safe. Both better.

And Helix– Helix helped them.

Thank you, he thinks. 

(Small gods, and a gift so big as to be a miracle.)

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Chapter Text

Windu herds Cody into an empty conference room, flicking the lights on and shutting the door behind him in one smooth movement. Cody pivots to face him, falling into parade rest, a cataclysmic conflagration in his chest burning with rage and shame and fear and–

And–

Why are you grieving? Why are you grieving?

(He feels like he’s being flayed alive.)

He opens his mouth, unsure of what he’s going to say–

Then Windu sits down, folds his hands together, and says, calm and cool and collected:

“We’ve been working on building a more complete picture of Skywalker’s military temperament, Commander. I would appreciate your feedback.”

–and Cody snaps back into focus like a cartridge in a blaster. 

This. This, this he can do.

(Skywalker.)

He can’t quite remember when he’d started filing away evidence, but it takes less than a second to call the list to the forefront of his mind.

Cody stares at the wall.

A more complete picture?

Okay. Fine.

He talks.

Every instance of disrespect.

“–no understanding of operational security–” 

Every too-casual dismissal. 

“–a complete disregard for mission plans–”

Skewed priorities, orders that went ignored, deviations from plans that cost his brothers their lives. 

“–a lack of care for the safety of the men under his command–”

Cody talks and talks and talks, and all the while, Windu does not look away, his gaze steady and assessing, and Cody keeps talking even as the words burn his tongue like acid because Skywalker had–

He had–

“–and his reckless behavior led to the death of–”

He stops. The words lodge in his throat.

Skywalker disobeyed orders, he wants to say.

He went after Dooku.

His overconfidence resulted in the death of General Kenobi.

He killed him.

He killed him.

He–

But he didn’t, did he?

Obi-Wan is alive. 

He’s alive.

(It doesn’t matter that every time he closes his eyes he sees–)

Cody clears his throat. Opens his mouth. Tries again.

The fury splinters into something dark and rushing and dangerous, and something else entirely forces its way out of his throat.

“Why weren’t you looking for him?”

Shutupshutupshutup–

“You’re Jedi.”

A dam cracking open, ground giving way underneath him– 

“How did you not know?”

The rage is dissolving, crumbling into ash, peeling away to reveal a chasm so terrifyingly deep and dark–

(But he’s alive. He’s alive. He’s–)

Then Windu leans forward, and when Cody pries his gaze up, he says, quiet and steady and so terribly, achingly gentle:

“Cody, you are allowed to grieve him.”

Cody reaches for the anger on instinct. 

(You are allowed to grieve him–)

It slips through his fingers like mist.

He shakes his head.

“But he’s alive,” he croaks helplessly.

“Is death the only thing that deserves your grief?” 

What kind of a question is that?

Of course it is. Of course it is, when the bodies pile up, corpses laid out in columns of paperwork and a mind stuffed full of names that no one else will remember–

(But Obi-Wan had. Obi-Wan had remembered them, had brought them into his home, shared them with a memory so vast and alive that they would never be forgotten–)

It’s not fair, he nearly says, but that’s– that’s not it either, is it?

He’s alive.

But it still– it still won’t–

The words threaten to choke him. But he tries. He tries. He must.

“It– it’s wasteful,” Cody says, sore and halting. “He’s– he’s alive. He’s alive. We can’t– we don’t–”

His voice fails him. 

How can he explain it? How can he explain that it feels like cheating– the weight of this grief, the impossibility of it, that he carries it even though Obi-Wan is still alive when so many of his brothers are not?

“Grief is only a finite resource if you decide it is, entangled as it is with care,” Windu says quietly. “And you do yourself and your brothers a disservice if you believe your capacity for both is anything other than limitless.”

No. No. That’s not– that’s not right. It has to be rationed, they have to be careful, there’s only so much of it to–

His thoughts screech to a halt.

Small capacity.

Small grief.

That’s a long-neck thought, right there.

Breathe. Breathe.

(In for four.)

Cody inhales, slow and hitching and ragged.

He has lost so many brothers.

It never hurts any less.

If– if they’d been right– then surely– surely, it would have stopped hurting by now?

If they’d been right–

Why can’t he see the bottom of the chasm?

(Hold for seven.)

“You are worth more grief than just what your death would merit,” Windu says gently. “Cody, you are allowed to grieve the injured as well as the dead. You are allowed to grieve the nightmares, the near misses, the injustices suffered by you and your brothers at the hands of people you were supposed to be able to trust.”

His eyes are warm, when Cody looks up.

Warm, and terribly, painfully sad.

“You are allowed to grieve what he has been through, Cody, even though he came back alive.” 

(Out for eight.)

Distantly, Cody realizes he’s shaking.

He buries his head in his hands as his eyes begin to burn. 

A confession and a plea and an apology:

“I don’t know how to help them.”

Windu sighs, then, long and slow and–

Grieving, Cody realizes, the shock of it electrifying.

Oh. Oh.

He’s mourning too.

“You are allowed to grieve helplessness, Cody. And I am sorry that you felt you could not.”

And Cody–

Cody thinks, then, of every gods-damned casualty report from the 501st.

Of every new comm from Rex, heavy worry carving bags under his eyes.

Of Obi-Wan, poring over their after-action reports, brow furrowed, trying to figure out where things went wrong, because it looked like they’d followed the plans but it never should have– the numbers shouldn’t have been this high–

Trying to figure out how to help. Not being able to.

Because, as it turned out, Skywalker had been lying to them. All of them. All along.

You can’t help if you don’t know.

Cody hiccups.

Then he slaps a hand over his mouth.

“Cody, there’s no way around it,” Windu says, achingly gentle. “It will turn you cruel if you try to ignore it. The only way out is through.”

He can’t– he can’t–

The pit is so deep and dark he can’t even see the bottom of it.

“I promise you,” Windu adds, with a kindness Cody can’t help but feel he doesn’t deserve, “you will find it to be gentler than you think.”

Cody doesn’t want to hurt anyone else.

He’d hurt Obi-Wan. Not on purpose, but still–

He’d hurt Stitch. And that– that had been very much on purpose.

Shame curdles painfully in his chest. 

So. If he has to–

“Do you want me to comm someone?”

No. No. If he hurts anyone else–

No.

“Do you want me to leave?”

(Later, Cody will think: He phrased it like that on purpose.) 

It’s easier to just shake his head again.

As it turns out, Windu is right on both counts.

His capacity for grief is much, much bigger than he had given himself credit for.

(In Obi-Wan’s rooms, late into the night, paperwork turning into tea turning into a drowsy warmth, waking up in a bed he had not fallen asleep in, soft and warm and comfortable, looking over to see Obi-Wan with his head pillowed on his desk, snoring gently, unfolding himself, filling the kettle, and in this bubble of warmth and safety letting himself think dangerous thoughts like I could have this, maybe we could have this–)

But the chasm is not the endless fall he’d been afraid of, either.

(Waking up in the medbay, bleary-eyed and panicking, his last memory a blurry haze of fire and shouting, then there’s a hand on his arm and a voice in his ears that he would know anywhere saying easy, Cody, easy, you’re all right, they’re all right–)

There is a path through that can only be discovered by walking it.

(They call it the aurora borealis, Obi-Wan says, the Northern Lights, as the sky splinters above them into iridescent shades of green and blue and violet, and when Cody glances back Obi-Wan is looking at him, his smile bright with something Cody doesn’t dare to name–)

It’s a gentler reckoning than what he’d feared, in the end.

Eventually:

“Tell me,” Cody croaks finally, “that there’s a way to help him.”

Wordlessly, Windu passes him a hydropack. 

Cody cracks it open with shaking hands and chugs half of it in three gulps.

He feels raw. Like an exposed nerve. He can’t quite bring himself to meet Windu’s eyes.

One of the High Generals, and Cody had just–

(But Cody had seen the look on his face when they’d found Obi-Wan. The cloak, and the purrgils, and the puff-cakes–)

No. This is not normal. This is the furthest thing from normal. And maybe– maybe that makes it okay.

“Cody, listen to what I am about to tell you,” Windu says steadily. “He doesn’t need more people knowing what he went through. He needs reminders that he is here, that he is alive. I don't say this to placate you, Cody, but you are helping him already. Obi-Wan has been orienting himself to you since we found him. Your voice, your signature in the Force– he’s been using you as an anchor. Were you not aware of this?”

Cody’s grip on the hydropack spasms. He clears his throat.

“No. No, I– I knew. But– you’re not–?”

Windu folds his hands together. 

“You left, when you realized you were hurting him,” he says gently. “Cody, I have a very long list of concerns, but you are not one of them.”

Cody closes his eyes. Something in his chest buckles and gives way, and the tightness in his lungs begins to unravel.

He breathes. 

He opens his eyes, and looks at Windu properly, searching for– something–

But.

There’s no judgment in his gaze. No censure. Only a careful, gentle warmth.

Cody coughs.

“I owe you an apology, sir,” he says steadily. “My words earlier were uncalled for. I know you were doing everything you could. It’s not your fault that you didn’t know.”

“Apology accepted and appreciated, Commander,” Windu says gently. “But neither is it yours.” 

Cody swallows around the lump in his throat and rises to his feet.

“If you’ll excuse me, sir,” he says, “I have– another apology to make.”

Windu inclines his head in a nod. He stands, and the door slides open.

Cody is halfway out the door when something occurs to him.

“Have you– have you spoken to Captain Rex, sir?”

He hears Windu shift behind him.

“I have.”

Cody nods.

“Was anything I told you new information?”

Windu hums.

“No,” he says eventually, a flicker of a smile in his voice, “but you needed an outlet.”

Right. 

Kriffing Jedi, Cody thinks, but he can’t quite bite back a grin.

Good to know where Obi-Wan gets it from.

Cody makes his way back to the medbay, refusing to allow himself to drag his feet.

Stitch. Stitch.

Kriff. 

A knot of guilt lies hot and heavy behind his sternum.

He knows he’d been cruel, earlier. But now, without the handy fog of fury to obscure and twist and deceive, he can’t deny that Stitch had been right.

He hadn’t been thinking clearly at all.

And what Windu had said– that Obi-Wan doesn’t need anyone else knowing what– what had happened–

And how Helix had simply– fractured, in front of them–

And how Obi-Wan had gone to him– comforted him–

Cody breathes.

No. Windu was right. Stitch was right. Watching the footage would not have made him any more capable of helping. 

If it had been enough to make Helix crumble– Helix–

Cody is aware enough of his own abilities to know that he would have become part of the burden he’d been trying to relieve, if he’d watched it.

Stitch had been right. He’d been right, and he’d known it, and he’d been damn brave because Cody knows exactly how terrifying he can be when he wants to– 

And Cody had told him he’d liked him better when he’d been shiny.

Gods. And it had taken him so long to stop being afraid, too, when he’d first arrived.

Cody realizes, then, that he’s stopped walking. The doors are in sight.

Enough, he tells himself sternly. You owe him an apology. You know this.

He walks into the medbay.

Stitch isn’t there. 

But Needle is.

Helix’s second is settled on the floor next to one of the beds, pieces of his armor laid out carefully on a sheet. He’s wiping at a pauldron with an old rag, humming an unfamiliar tune under his breath.

Cody clears his throat. 

“What happened?”

“Terror is a lying liar who lies,” Needle says cheerfully, “and I am not liable for any damage the kitchen may or may not have sustained over the past couple of hours. There’s gotta be a contract somewhere. Pretty sure we’ve got a warranty.”

He grins. “Anyways, sir. What can I help you with?”

Cody raises an eyebrow. “I am choosing not to engage with the first part of that sentence–”

“–probably a good choice, sir–”

“–I just came in here looking for Stitch.”

He remembers too late that Helix is not the only one who’s fiercely protective of the younger medic. 

And if Needle had been in here with him–

Needle puts the rag down carefully. 

“Any particular reason, sir?”

Cody winces.

Well. There’s that question answered. 

Steady. Careful. He can’t quite meet Needle’s eyes.

“I– owe him an apology. I said something I regret.”

Needle unfolds himself, rising to his feet.

“Just out of curiosity, what’d you tell him?”

Cody hesitates.

“That’s not–”

“Because he looked like a fair bit of a mess when I walked in,” Needle interrupts blithely, his grin turning sharp. “Sir.”

(It sounds like an insult.)

“I think it would be best if I spoke to Stitch first,” Cody says steadily. “I’m not trying to defend myself, Needle, but I don’t know if Stitch would want me telling other people either.”

Needle hums.

“Alright,” he says finally. “Fair enough. Besides, I’m not the one you’re gonna have to get past.”

Cody cringes internally. Not a great sign.

“Helix was here before I walked in. He took him to see the General. As far as I know, they’re still there.”

Right. Well. Okay.

Helix won’t kill him.

Probably.

“Thank you, Needle,” he says hurriedly, and flees.

Needle stares after him as the door slides shut.

So. It had been the Commander. 

Stitch had seemed–

Hm.

He deliberates for a moment, then reaches for his comm.

When the door to the turbolift opens, Cody steps back on instinct.

Helix is staring at him with a face like thunder.

“Commander,” he says coolly. “Going to see the General?”

Oh, he is– he is so very fucked–

“I can wait for the next lift–”

“Good try,” Helix says flatly. “Get in.”

Cody gets in.

The first three seconds are dead silent.

Then Helix says, his voice saccharine sweet–

“Reconditioning seems a bit harsh for a first offense, doesn’t it?”

The words don’t compute, at first.

Then, hoarse and scratchy–

“What?”

Helix’s hand shoots out, slamming the emergency brake. Cody lurches forward when the turbolift screeches to a halt. 

“Tell me,” Helix says, frighteningly calm, “what exactly did you say to Stitch?”

“Not reconditioning–”

“Oh, I’m sorry, you’ve forgotten already?”

“I–”

“I liked you better when you were shiny, wasn’t it?”

“Helix–”

“How exactly was he supposed to take that, Cody?” Helix snaps. “In case you’ve forgotten, you’re the Marshal Commander. You have full authority to order a reconditioning–”

Cody’s ears are ringing.

A reconditioning. 

No. No, he– he would never–

“I had to take him to the General to get him to calm down–”

Never–

“–promised that he wouldn’t get sent back–”

Stitch is his brother, he wouldn’t–

“–and he did good, too, followed orders exactly–”

Wiped clean and away into nothing–

“–and I– Cody?”

Not Stitch, not any of them, he’s not– he wouldn’t–

“Oh, kriffing hell–”

Hands are on his shoulders, then, forcing him down into a sitting position against the wall and pushing his head between his knees.

Probably best, considering how his stomach is roiling and–

“No,” Helix says sternly, but his hand is gentle on the back of Cody’s neck. “No. You are not allowed to throw up. Enclosed space. Don’t do that to me. Breathe, idiot.”

In for– for four–

“Good. Come on.”

Hold for– for seven–

He only makes it for five.

“You’re okay. Out for eight. Come on. We’ll try again.”

“I didn’t mean–” Cody gasps out, his lungs constricting.

“Shut up. Follow my breathing–”

“Helix, I didn’t– I wouldn’t–”

“Little fucking gods, Cody, I know. If I thought you did, we’d be having a very different conversation.” 

That conversation would be very one-sided, Cody thinks. Probably involving an airlock. 

“Now follow my breathing. I can’t yell at you while you’re having a panic attack.”

And he’d deserve it, too, ordering a–

“Breathe,” Helix snaps, and Cody inhales again, shuddering all over.

He feels Helix settle onto the floor next to him, hears his exaggerated inhale.

“Come on. Deep breaths. You’ve got this.”

They breathe. 

An indeterminate amount of time later, Helix’s hand drops away.

“You with me?”

From between his knees, Cody nods. Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes.

Reconditioning. 

He hadn’t–

(Stitch had been so afraid, when he’d first arrived.)

“Cody. Vod. Talk to me.”

First things first.

“I’m sorry,” Cody croaks, and Helix sighs. “I never– I was angry. And I said– yes. I said that. But I never thought–”

He breathes.

“I know,” Helix says finally. “But I’m not the one who needs to hear it. So. Why’d you say it in the first place?”

“I didn’t mean it–”

“That. Is not. What I asked.”

“He would have let me watch the footage when he was shiny,” Cody blurts out. Then he cringes. 

He feels Helix shift.

“Okay,” he says. “Better question. Why were you trying to watch the footage?”

Inhale. Exhale.

Cody needs to get this right. He organizes his thoughts carefully. 

He doesn’t like what he sees.

But he owes Helix the truth. 

(He is allowed to grieve. He is allowed to grieve. He is allowed to grieve.)

“I– was angry,” Cody says haltingly. “I was– grieving. And I– I thought that if I– watched it, then– then I would have– something to grieve. Then I would know– why.”

Silence.

“Does this have something to do with Skywalker?”

Cody unfolds slightly.

“You know–?”

“I know that Skywalker did something terrible,” Helix says, holding up a hand. “I don’t want to know anything else. Obi-Wan said–”

For a brief moment, the anger flares once more.

“What do you mean, you don’t want to know anything else–?”

The look Helix levels at him could cut through steel.

“Do you really think,” he says quietly, “that I need another reason to be angry at him?”

The flare is extinguished as quickly as it had ignited.

“No,” Cody croaks. “Of course not. I’m sorry.”

Helix shifts, knocking his knee against Cody’s.

For a moment, there’s silence.

“Do you blame Obi-Wan for what Skywalker did, then?”

“What– no, of course not!”

“You think he’s responsible for Skywalker’s choices?”

“No,” Cody snaps. “I’m angry because– because he has never tried to take our choices away from us, because our choices are our own! But Skywalker– Skywalker’s choices are his own too, and Obi-Wan won’t– he keeps acting like they’re his, but they’re not, they’re not his burden to carry, and I don’t know why he keeps trying to!”

For a moment, there’s silence.

(I am allowed to grieve. I am allowed to grieve him. I am allowed to grieve this.)

He recognizes the anger for what it is, this time, when it leaps in his chest, and that lets him breathe through it.

Helix’s shoulders relax slightly.

“Then you need to tell him that,” he says gently. “Not that it’s his fault because he didn’t know Skywalker well enough.”

“I– what? Why would he–?”

Cody stops. Something cold creeps into his chest.

“Thin walls, Cody,” Helix says tiredly. “How did you think he was gonna take it?”

Cody presses a hand over his mouth.

It will turn you cruel if you try to ignore it.

It already had, hadn’t it?

Stitch. Obi-Wan. Gods.

His eyes are burning. Exhaustion is heavy in every bone.

“Apologize. Tell them both the truth. Tell them what you told me.”

“I will,” Cody croaks. “I’m sorry.”

Helix sighs, shifts, and tugs him into a sideways hug.

“I know, Cody. You’re not the only one who loves him, idiot. Don’t act like you have to be.”

Cody, staring at the ceiling, confesses:

“I thought we had to ration it.”

I thought I had to have a reason. I thought the footage would give me a reason. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

(Helix has always been the very best of them.)

“Cody, I’m a medic,” he says heavily. “I figured out they lied two weeks in.”

He reaches up and releases the emergency brake. 

“Hey, Obi-Wan? I’ve got Cody with me, can we come in?”

The muffled conversation stops.

Obi-Wan’s voice, quiet, raised in a question–

Stitch’s voice, small and clipped in response–

Then:

“Of course.”

Helix nudges Cody in first. His feet feel like they’ve turned to stone. 

Before he can say a word–

“You can’t send me back,” Stitch blurts out. Cody sees Obi-Wan’s eyes widen and feels smaller than he ever has in his life. “You can’t. The General said I wouldn’t go back. And he outranks you. So–”

Cody folds himself onto the floor. He feels Helix’s gaze burning a hole in the back of his head and knows the airlock is still an option if he doesn’t do this right.

“Stitch, I’m sorry,” he says, and Stitch’s mouth snaps shut.

Breathe. Piece by piece. Come on.

“I know how it sounded,” Cody says slowly. “But I want you to know that sending you back– that was never, ever on my mind. What I said– was cruel. And I wasn’t thinking. And because I wasn’t thinking, I hurt you, and I’m sorry.”

A tiny bit of tension eases from Stitch’s shoulders.

“If I ever have a problem with you,” Cody continues, feeling slightly encouraged, “we’ll work it out in the gym. Or just– talk about it. Like I would with anyone else, right? But I will never send you back to the long-necks. I would never send anyone back to them, not for anything. They’re–”

Sociopathic. Utterly amoral. 

(What had happened to the rest of his batch–?)

“–on a different level. I’d no sooner send someone back to them than I would send someone gift-wrapped to the Seppies. Still with me?”

“Still with you,” Stitch says quietly.

“Shiny you would have let me make a terrible mistake,” Cody says, offering him a weak smile. “Stitch, I’m– I wouldn’t trade you now for anything.”

Stitch meets his eyes for the first time, and whatever he sees in Cody’s expression is enough to make him relax fully.

“So you’re not going to try and watch the footage again?”

Cody ducks his head. In the ensuing silence, he hears Obi-Wan’s breath hitch. He feels Helix move past him, hears the bed creak with the weight of another person settling onto it–

He doesn’t look up. One thing at a time.

“No,” he says. “No. You were right, Stitch, and I’m sorry.”

Helix’s voice, then, breaking the softening silence, startlingly sharp–

“Hey– Obi-Wan– stay with us–”

The words send a shot of ice down his spine. When Cody looks up, Obi-Wan is staring at him, and–

“Please don’t–”

His voice is strangled–

“Cody, please–”

And there’s– there’s lightning in his eyes, dancing behind the blue, and in front of Cody’s horrified gaze sparks crackle between his fingers–

“I don’t want– anyone else to–”

Both Cody and Stitch move at once. Helix is already pressed up against his right side, and Stitch rolls to his feet and squeezes behind him, tucking himself into a lump of warmth along his back. 

And Cody lurches upwards, and then– stops.

Because he knows what he would normally do. 

Normally, he would fold as close to Obi-Wan as he could get, pulling him into a hug, because physical contact is good and grounding and they have rules for this sort of thing, and then he would start talking about something stupid and irrelevant that would make him laugh when he came back because bits and pieces always cracked through, and he would–

But this isn’t normal. This is Cody’s fault, and he doesn’t know if he’s welcome, this time, because he had–

Then Obi-Wan reaches out, and it stops mattering.

“Please don’t,” he says again, and it’s almost a gasp as he folds forward. Something in Cody’s chest splinters as he takes the extended hand and lets himself be tugged down, and the words spill out just as easily as they’ve always done in times not like these:

“I won’t,” he says, and means it properly this time, because as he pulls Obi-Wan into a hug he can feel him shaking apart under his hands. “I won’t, Obi-Wan, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I thought I could help, I thought knowing would let me help, but it wouldn’t have, it would have hurt you. I’m sorry. I won’t. I promise, I won’t.”

Cody means it, means it with every part of him, and he thinks– hopes– that Obi-Wan can tell, because the humming sensation of the lightning under his skin begins to retreat.

He feels a sudden renewed surge of gratefulness for Stitch.

Because– 

Watching it would have been a betrayal. Just one more on top of everything, one more instance of Obi-Wan’s trust and privacy being disregarded, and just like Obi-Wan had looked at Helix and known, he would have seen it in Cody the second he’d returned, and something–

Something would have broken.

And Cody had been so angry. Angry enough, in that moment, that he hadn’t cared. 

Apparently, Obi-Wan’s thoughts are running along a similar track.

“Thank you,” he croaks. “Stitch, thank you.”

A hand emerges from the impossibly small space Stitch has tucked himself into and pats Obi-Wan gently on the back in response.

Cody opens his mouth again, and stops.

His words had– unforeseen implications, last time.

Steady. Careful. Think. He has to get this right.

“I don’t blame you for Skywalker, either,” Cody says at last, because that– that’s the important bit. 

(Obi-Wan had thought he– that he blamed–)

He gathers up the truth of it and tries his best to shove it forward, and feels Obi-Wan go rigid. 

“You only knew what he told you. That– that’s not a reflection on you. That’s on him. He lied. And you– you can’t blame yourself for that. You were supposed to be able to trust him. You should have been able to trust him. You– you have never tried to take responsibility for our choices. You have never tried to strip us of our agency.”

He breathes.

“Give Skywalker the same dignity you afford the rest of us,” he says quietly, and feels Obi-Wan’s grip spasm. “Please.”

For a moment, there’s only silence.

Then, hoarse and wet and slightly muffled:

“You sound like Cerasi.”

Cody glances at Helix on instinct, who, looking slightly approving, jabs a finger towards his kit. 

A distant memory surfaces:

I don’t think we’ll ever need it, Commander, I know they’ve got your number, but it’s good for backup–

Right. 

“Well, both of us can’t be wrong,” he says, and feels the shuddering laugh he gets in response.

Slowly– terribly, achingly slowly– Obi-Wan relaxes against him.

“No,” he croaks finally. “No, I suppose not.”

Then:

“I’m sorry.”

“Shut up,” Helix mutters, leaning against him. “You can start by not apologizing for him anymore.”

“Fair. I’m–”

He stops.

“I’ll try.”

Helix smirks.

“Much better.”

Obi-Wan snorts, but doesn’t move to disentangle himself, and Cody feels the knot behind his sternum finally begin to unravel.

“You do feel better,” Obi-Wan hums. “Less– tangled, in the Force.”

“I had a good talk with Windu,” Cody admits. 

There’s a pause, and then:

“Good,” Obi-Wan sighs, a smile in his voice. “Good.”

Then:

Helix’s comm beeps.

He glances at it and groans out loud. 

“Helix?” Cody asks, concern flaring, but Helix waves him off.

“Nothing important,” he says tiredly. 

“I think there’s something happening in the kitchen,” Stitch pipes up. “Needle had condiments and what looked like fruit pulp on his armor, and he smelled like he’d been… lightly toasted.”

“More like charred,” Helix mutters. “But Needle’s on-duty, so I don’t know why someone would be messaging me.”

“Wait,” Cody says slowly. “Wait. Did they actually–”

“Oh, yes,” Helix says exasperatedly, picking up his comm. Cody and Obi-Wan both lean over, and Stitch peers under his arm.

waxed: unmute the group chat, coward

pHzero-helix212: not on your life

pHzero-helix212: what do you want?

waxed: are you with the general right now?

waxed: open the group chat and give him your comm

waxed: please?

Helix looks at Obi-Wan and raises an eyebrow.

“I think,” Obi-Wan says, grinning at him, “that I could do with a distraction.”

Helix sighs, but obligingly pulls up another chat window. Cody squints at it, indignation curling in his chest.

“Hang on,” he says slowly. “Which one is this?”

“This is the one we use to coordinate switching everything to decaf when you’ve passed sixty hours awake,” Helix says, not missing a beat. “And hiding the stims, too. We’ve been worried about the two of you for the past few days.”

“Mutiny,” Cody mutters, burying his face in Obi-Wan’s hair before he can think better of it. “Treachery from all corners.”

Obi-Wan huffs a laugh, patting him gently on the back. “Now you know how it feels.”

The number of unread messages is in the hundreds. 

“Helix,” Stitch says, sounding faintly disapproving.

“Stitch, I swear I checked it last night,” Helix groans. “I’ve been busy.”

Stitch stares at him.

Helix stares back.

“My bet’s on Helix to break first,” Obi-Wan whispers, and Cody feels the corners of his lips twitch upwards involuntarily. 

“I’m not fool enough to take that bet,” he murmurs back, and Obi-Wan grins at him.

“Fine,” Helix says finally. “I’m still leaving it muted, but I’ll keep it below a hundred unread.”

“Acceptable,” Stitch says, sounding smug.

Helix shakes his head, amused affection flickering in his expression, and types out one more message before passing the comm to Obi-Wan.

pHzero-helix212: fine. he’s all yours.

helix: I’ve heard rumors of chaos?

[waxer has changed helix’s username to best general]

waxer: no idea what you’re talking about, sir

waxer: on a completely unrelated note

waxer: i am requesting permission to demote auks

boil: demote him all the way out the airlock

trapper: SIR WE WERE BETRAYED

squawks: general i have never done anything wrong in my life

squawks: wait

squawks: who the f u c k

crys: waxer

waxer: crys

trapper: crys

boil: crys

gearshift: crys

longshot: crys

wooley: crys

crys: TRAITORS, ALL OF YOUIYJKHFJGKHGJH

[crys has left the chat]

trapper: in other news, sir, crys has fled the mess hall

trapper: you may be getting company soon

squawks: general can i please commit just a tiny bit of murder

When Obi-Wan starts shaking, Cody’s instinctive thought is tears. 

Then Obi-Wan makes– a small noise, and then another, and Cody realizes–

He’s laughing.

Really, properly laughing, nearly doubled-over with the force of it, and he claps a hand over his mouth but his shoulders are shaking and he’s– he’s laughing, and Cody–

Cody stares at him, something warm and enormous blooming in his chest.

He’s laughing.

best general: helix here

best general: congratulations, you broke him

best general: he’s laughing too hard to speak

wooley: GENERAL

trapper: NO

longshot: in crys’ defense sir auks did absolutely 100% betray us

best general: oh dear

best general: what exactly did auks do?

terror: hi general!

terror: i can answer this question

terror: he had a choice and he made the right one

terror: namely

terror: go up against me

terror: or join me

terror: he’s the only one of the rest of these miserable bastards worth anything

terror: elite fighting company my ass

gearshift: excuse us for not expecting a karking flamethrower in the kitchen

“Knew it,” Helix says smugly. “He did smell charred.”

Obi-Wan hiccups, grinning.

best general: hm.

best general: all things considered

best general: a very small amount of murder.

squawks: y e s

[squawks has left the chat]

terror: he deserves it

best general: terror, I must ask

best general: why did you have a flamethrower in the kitchen?

terror: *kssssch* sorry general can’t hear you bad connection

longshot: you bastard this is a text chat

Cody picks up the sound of running footsteps. 

He watches as Obi-Wan straightens, his brow furrowing with intense concentration, his hand twitching:

The door slides open neatly, and Cody has only a moment to wonder at the aching relief that suffuses his expression before Crys tumbles in.

“You didn’t see anything, I was never here,” he says, pointing at the four of them, and promptly hurls himself over the back of the sofa and drags a blanket over his head.

Obi-Wan’s eyes are glittering with amusement. “Crys, did you really change his username?”

“Listen,” says a muffled voice, “Waxer was the one who first made the pun, I just took it to its logical conclusion. So who’s really at fault, here?”

Cody hums. “Still you, I think.”

“Rude. Listen, it’s not that bad. He hasn’t even tried to change his username back yet!”

“Will he be able to?” Helix asks drily.

“...Well, no, but that’s not the point, the point is that he hasn’t even tried so I don’t think he should be that upset–”

terror: anyways

terror: once they were fully defeated

“Sir, he is a filthy liar, it was a well-negotiated compromise–”

terror: i did manage to wrangle them into making stew

waxer: and we didn’t let boil near it or anything

boil: this is character assassination

waxer: your food is character assassination

terror: so if you’re hungry?

Cody smiles to himself when he catches Obi-Wan’s considering expression. Stew is probably the safest possible option at this point. Impossible to tamper with without affecting everyone else too.

“You really do need to eat, sir,” Stitch says quietly.

Obi-Wan sighs, nodding.

best general: that would be wonderful.

best general: thank you, terror.

Someone knocks on the wall, and Auks peers around the open door.

“Hello, sirs,” he says cheerfully, scanning the room. “Just checking– Crys didn’t come by here, did he?”

“Hello, Auks,” Obi-Wan says, grinning. “Not to my knowledge, no.”

From behind him, an arm unfolds and points at the sofa.

A predatory grin spreads over Auks’ face.

“Thank you, Stitch,” he says gleefully, and leaps.

The subsequent brief but violent scuffle ends with Auks squashing Crys into the sofa and sitting on him.

“Traitor,” Crys croaks– or something close to it, if Cody had to guess. His voice is– rather muffled.

“Should’ve updated the medical database software when I asked,” Stitch sniffs, and Helix laughs out loud. 

Auks ignores them both in favor of giving Obi-Wan the saddest look he can muster. “Sir. Sir. Why would you lie to me like that?”

Obi-Wan smirks at him. “Lie? Auks, my dear, I answered the question you asked. You asked if he came by. You never asked if he came in.”

Auks flops backwards to an audible oof. 

“I can’t believe,” he says dramatically, putting a hand to his forehead, “that I actually missed the semantic traps.”

“ Traps is a harsh way of putting it, no?”

“We can’t all be diplomats,” Cody says. A warm glow kindles in his chest, chasing away the last of the dull and freezing fog.

And we don’t need to be, he thinks. We’ve got our Negotiator back, now.

The warmth hasn’t faded by the time the rest of Ghost Company tromp back in, accompanied this time by a very smug-looking Terror. It doesn’t fade as the stew is dished out, nor as his brothers take turns sharing wildly conflicting accounts of what happened in the mess, complete with enthusiastic reenactments of dubious accuracy. It doesn’t fade even as Obi-Wan’s grasp on the spoon falters, and Cody quietly braces his forearm under Obi-Wan’s to steady his grip. 

It doesn’t fade even when Obi-Wan sets his empty bowl aside and says, bleary-eyed with exhaustion:

“I don’t want to talk to Anakin when we get back.”

For a moment, there’s utter silence.

“Done,” Trapper says cheerfully. “Easy.”

“As pie,” Wooley adds, his smile sharp-edged.

“That saying needs to die, pie is actually very difficult–”

“You tried to toast a meringue with a flamethrower, Terror, you’ve lost all right to–”

“And I’ll toast you with it too, you–”

A slow, tired smile makes its way across Obi-Wan’s face as he watches them fall back to bickering.

Cody curls one arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer, and Obi-Wan folds against him easily.

No. He’s not the only one who loves him. Of course he’s not. How could he ever have thought–?

“We’ve got your back,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry. I promise, we’ve got your back.”

“I know,” Obi-Wan murmurs, his voice thick with weariness and a bone-deep heartache all his own. “I know. Thank you.”

The warmth burns steadily, equal parts grief and love and wonder and relief, and Cody lets it lull him to sleep.

Chapter Text

First, a conversation:

Ahsoka almost bounces all the way to Master Plo’s office. 

She’s only half-aware of the conversation between Wolffe and Rex behind her. The Force is sparking like a firework, and every time she reaches out she finds it dancing around her like an excited dog.

When the door slides open, the warmth in Master Plo’s voice is unmistakable.

“Good spar?”

She feels an affectionate tug on the bond, and beams at him– both for the question and the quiet reassurance.

“Very.”

Behind her, Rex muffles a snort, and Wolffe sighs.

“I do hope the two of you aren’t ganging up on my Commander,” Plo says mildly.

“Practicing multi-pronged attacks,” Rex says cheerfully.

Wolffe, behind him, shakes his head, scowling.

“If that’s what we’re calling it nowadays,” he mutters, but his amusement sparks bright in the Force, and his frown has no force to it. “You said you had interesting news, sir?”

Plo sets aside his datapad. “Yes. I apologize, I should have been more clear. It’s good news. Great news, in fact. Please, take a seat.”

Ahsoka prods at him in the Force as they settle.

Master?

Patience, Padawan, Master Plo says, but in the Force he extends a steadying arm, shoring up her shields, and Ahsoka leans into the offered help gratefully.

“The good news,” he says slowly, “is that the 212th was successful. Count Dooku has been apprehended on Iwanaga with zero casualties.”

The flare of fierce glee is hers-and-not-hers all at once.

(She can’t get it out of her head, sometimes. The rescue. The flash of red.)

A ripple. A gentle nudge.

‘Soka. 

(This is what they learn, as Jedi: that grief is entangled with love from its inception, that the work is not to lose it but to grow with it and around it, that they are whole and alive and the gift of that life is grief, that it will always be a part of them but they cannot let it consume them.)

She breathes, taking it in hand and releasing it gently.

“The better news,” Master Plo says slowly, “is-”

Then he stops.

He folds his claws together, straightening up. 

Ahsoka does too, almost unconsciously, and out of the corner of her eyes she sees Rex and Wolffe follow.

“Sir?” Wolffe asks.

Something shudders through the Force. A bittersweet echo of disbelief, relief and grief.

“The better news,” he repeats, “is that Master Kenobi was recovered as well. Alive.”

For a moment, the words hang in the air unquestioned.

Ahsoka doesn’t dare look at them too closely. If she does– if she even breathes– they will pop like bubbles and the truth will be revealed, because she can’t have heard what she thought she did–

Rex’s hand drops onto her shoulder, and Ahsoka reaches up and folds her hand over his. 

“Alive?” someone croaks.

She thinks it’s Rex. Something in her head is ringing, sending prickles of numbness all up and down her montrals.

She reaches out, feeling light-headed, something faltering, flaring, so large it will–

A familiar presence reaches back. Master Plo, thinning his shields, steadfast and solid and resolute, and Ahsoka braces herself against him, reeling, as the words click into place.

“Yes,” Master Plo says, his certainty echoing in the Force along with the sunburst of his own joy, and– and–

It shines like a star.

“Is he okay?” she blurts out.

“He’s talking,” Master Plo says gently, “and aware of the people around him.”

“He’s conscious?” Wolffe says hoarsely. “He got stabbed through the– how did he–”

Everything in her freezes over at once. Right. How could she have– of course he’s not–

“A discussion for later,” Master Plo says, his tone brooking no argument, and Wolffe subsides. 

Alive. Alive. Alive. But she had– she had seen–

Ahsoka.

The bond ripples between them as an echo of a memory is pushed forward. A faint voice– Master Windu–

Plo, he’s alive

we found him, Obi-Wan is alive

we're bringing him home

“He’s alive,” she says, disbelieving, and then she says again, slightly louder, as if saying the words will reinforce their reality, because they still seem too flimsy, too likely to give way under the weight of her wonder– 

“Master Obi-Wan’s alive.”

“Yes,” Master Plo says again, always so steady, but she can feel the reverberation of her own shock in his and heavy weights aren’t the only ones best shouldered together so she takes her own blossoming elation and unfurls it further, sharing–

And she feels its mirror, too.

“We’re returning to Coruscant,” he continues. “We’ll arrive… four days before the 212th does, I believe. So–”

Apple-sweet concern flares from Rex’s direction.

“The 212th, I–” he interrupts, and then stops, swallowing. “Sorry, sir.”

“No need,” Master Plo says easily. “What is it, Captain?”

“How is– Cody, sir?”

Oh. Oh. Ahsoka acknowledges and releases the flash of caustic shame. Of course– Cody had been– and the rest of his men–

She hasn’t been on the Negotiator since Master Obi-Wan’s death. But she’d seen them in the Memory, everything they’d shared, and Rex has told her, occasionally, after comm calls with Cody–

Master Plo shifts slightly 

“From what Master Windu tells me,” he says gently, “Cody has not left his side.”

Rex rocks back in his seat, running his free hand over his face.

“Right,” he croaks. “Right.”

Ahsoka squeezes his hand, and Rex flashes her a shell-shocked smile.

“You said we’re returning to Coruscant?” Wolffe ventures.

“Yes,” Master Plo says, his smile audible. “We will be the ones who get to break the news. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that this stays off comms. Any conversations concerning this must be had in person. The news cannot go public until the Negotiator is secure, and we can’t afford a leak.”

“Of course, sir,” Rex says quickly. 

Ahsoka nods, clearing her throat. “Can we– can we still tell the others, though? On board? In person?”

“I think it would be rather cruel of me to expect you to keep this to yourself,” Master Plo says wryly. “As long as you make it very clear that this needs to stay internal.”

Can we–? Now–?

A curl of dry amusement is her permission.

“You’re dismissed, all of you,” Master Plo says. “Padawan, I will see you this evening for meditation.”

Ahsoka is halfway out the door when something occurs to her that freezes her feet to the floor. Rex, a few steps ahead of her, pauses.

“Master?”

“Yes, Ahsoka?”

“Is he–?”

She stops. 

They have had many conversations over the past few months. 

About Anakin.

“Is he gonna–?”

About silence.

Her voice cracks. She wraps her arms around herself.

About misconceptions and misplaced responsibility and hurt hidden a bit too well.

“Is he gonna want to see me?”

A sharp bite of indignation flares in the Force– Rex, she thinks, and she wants to tell him–

Then Master Plo’s own warmth unfurls. It folds around her, steadying her, and she curls against him in the Force.

“He will not hold any of Anakin’s actions against you, Ahsoka,” he says gently. “But– do you remember Master Aihara’s class?”

Oh. Yes. Trauma Recovery. 

The three C’s. An echo of the Twi’lek master’s voice–

“I know this is a lot of material. But the most important thing to keep in mind is this: choice, control, consent. You may find yourself in difficult situations where opportunities to offer all three are limited. But there will always be a way to offer something, and this is the only way to start.” 

It burns something fierce to imagine Master Obi-Wan as a–

Her mind shies away from the shape of the words.

Master Obi-Wan. Who she has never seen as anything less than utterly composed. Who taught her Shien and Jar’Kai and helped her steady herself in the Force when she felt like she might tumble into a supernova–

Who has been in Sith custody for two months.

Not a victim. But– maybe– 

Someone who needs– help. Yes. That’s easier.

“He cares for you very much,” Master Plo says, “but he’s used to looking after you. He may not want you to see him when he can’t.”

Ahsoka shudders, once, all over. It’s difficult to imagine an Obi-Wan who can’t. 

But.

Her mind leaps ahead. 

“Can I write him a letter?” she asks. “I think– so if he doesn’t want to– he can read it? When he’s ready? So he knows–?”

The bloom of his approval suffuses her with warmth. 

“I think that is an excellent idea, Ahsoka,” he says.

“And–”

She hesitates.

Master Plo has been nothing but kind, and she doesn’t want to hurt him, but–

“Can he still be my grandmaster?”

A pause.

“Lineages are less linear than the name suggests,” Master Plo says, a gentle reminder. “A forest, not a grid. Ahsoka, I don’t think there’s anything in the galaxy that would stop him from being your grandmaster.”

Ahsoka nods, ducking her head. Her eyes are burning.

She’s gonna get him back. They’re gonna get him back.

“Go on,” Master Plo says gently, nudging her in the Force. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

She does, darting after Rex, both of them running in unspoken agreement, and when they skid to a stop in front of the door to the barracks they look at each other and Rex snorts a disbelieving laugh and pulls her into a hug.

“Kriffin’ Kenobi, huh?” he says, and Ahsoka squeezes him tightly, feeling like if she tries hard enough she can squeeze all the sadness out of them both because Master Obi-Wan is alive and coming home and things aren’t perfect but all of a sudden they’re so much better, and Rex pulls her through the door and shouts–

“Hey, Fives! Echo! Come here, you are not gonna believe this–”

Wolffe lingers after Rex and Ahsoka execute their mad dash out of the office, twin trails of sunlit joy lingering in the Force behind them.

“Are you all right, sir?” he asks quietly.

Plo lets himself relax slightly into his chair. Ahsoka is his charge. Wolffe is his commander. They have seen very different things together.

“I am very glad that he is alive,” he replies. “But… I mourn what he has been through. And what will have to come next.”

Wolffe hums thoughtfully. “Recovery is its own type of grief, isn’t it?”

(The hesitancy in his movements after his surgery has long since faded, Plo knows, but the consequences have not and never will.)

He sighs. “Yes. Quite right.”

Wolffe shifts slightly, and then leans forward.

“But then again,” he says, a smile flashing across his face, cybernetic eye gleaming, “it has its own type of joy, too."

The warmth of the Temple is, as always, a profound and aching comfort.

Ahsoka vanishes as soon as they make it inside, running to find Barriss, and Plo, steadying himself, makes his way to the Council chamber. 

Not all of them are on-planet right now, so the news will spread slowly. 

But still. It will spread.

He rounds the corner and spots Quinlan Vos making his way out of the Halls of Healing, running a hand down his face.

The Force prods at him.

“Master Vos!”

“Master Koon,” Vos says, sounding slightly surprised. “I didn’t realize you were due back on Coruscant so soon.”

“There’s been a change in plans,” Plo says. “Would you accompany me to the Council chamber, please? I have some–”

He hesitates, remembers Wolffe’s face at interesting, and shifts tack.

“–good news that you should hear.”

Vos offers him a tired smile. “We all need some of that.”

They fall into step together.

“How is Anakin doing?” Plo ventures.

Vos sighs. “Baby steps, right? I just dropped him off at his appointment. He’s– working on it. Right now, it’s just– working on recognizing the anger. He’s been keeping track. It’s progress. But–”

A quiet exhaustion leaks out from behind his shields– so painfully familiar it nearly knocks the breath from Plo’s lungs. 

“He’s been lying for a very long time,” Vos says. “And not just about Tatooine, either. Master Yaddle’s working on it, and I know you’ve been speaking with the 501st, but his post-mission reports don’t match up with eyewitness reports and recordings. He’s admitted to altering some of the reports, although I don’t know if he…”

He trails off.

There is a difference, Plo knows, between admitting your mistakes and coming to terms with the reality of the consequences. The latter is the harder by far.

“He’s got a long way to go,” he says finally. 

Plo hums in quiet agreement. “You’re seeing someone yourself, right now, yes?”

Vos nods. “Yes. Master Ze’at’s been very helpful.”

“It’s tiring work, being a guide,” Plo says gently, and Vos tosses him a sideways grin.

“Worth it, though.”

Depa meets them outside the Council chamber, and with a warm nod to Vos, they step inside.

Not all of the Council is on-planet– the usual state of things, since the war began. There are only six present, one of whom Plo hadn’t expected to see– 

“Shaak?” he says, surprised. “I hadn’t realized you were back on Coruscant.”

“Not for long,” she says, smiling. “But I hesitate to derail things. You have some news?”

Plo takes a steadying breath.

“Yes. I do. First, I received an update from Master Windu. Their mission was successful. Dooku was captured alive.”

A quiet hum of satisfaction suffuses the network.

“Any casualties?” Ki-Adi asks.

“No,” Plo says. “Except–”

Well. Does Obi-Wan count as a casualty, technically? 

Injured, yes. But injured is a distinct step up from dead.

“Except?” Depa says, leaning forward.

He breathes.

“Obi-Wan is alive,” he says simply. “It was a trick. A trap. They found him, and they’re bringing him home.”

The words drop into Quinlan’s brain with all the delicate subtlety of a grenade. 

Distantly, he feels the shock reverberate through the room, but he feels oddly separate from it.

Because, well– he isn’t really that surprised, is he?

(Never mind that he can’t feel his hands anymore–)

Because really, when it comes down to it, how much has Obi-Wan bounced back from?

Jabiim. Kadavo. Naboo.

(Melidaan.)

After Jabiim, three nights after he’d been released to his own rooms, a screaming panic in the Force had brought half the Temple to his door only to find that his sheets had gotten tangled over his face as he’d slept–

“Master Vos?”

The way Obi-Wan had reached for him after Melidaan, how Quinlan had simply sat down on his bed and hauled him into a hug, how Obi-Wan had kept himself between him and every single adult around them for months, wary and prickly in the Force–

“Quinlan?”

And Quinlan had heard from Bant, apprenticed in the Halls, how his chest had been pulverized, had heard whispers about a sniper rifle, an assassination, how he should have died, he should have been dead but he’d survived again and again and again and would you look at that he’s pulled it off again–

“Quinlan.”

A wash of warmth in the Force makes him blink.

Master Billaba has a hand on his shoulder. 

“Apologies, Councilors,” he manages. “I–”

He stops, and in the quiet comfort of sunlit steadiness, takes a moment to assess.

Not that surprised?

Ha. Right.

Depa guides him to one of the empty chairs, and he sits down only after realizing that she’d steered him away from Obi-Wan’s. Obi-Wan’s, which had still been left empty for the requisite three months of mourning, and gods, if he’d stayed dead for another month he might have been able to escape the paperwork, but there’s no getting around that now, and suddenly the thought of hearing him gripe about reports seems so absurdly normal that it nearly brings him to tears.

(Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan.)

“How?”

“We all saw, in the Memory, how he made use of the Force,” Master Plo says carefully. “From what Mace told me, it appears that Dooku–”

Quinlan realizes what he’s going to say a split second before he says it.

“–decided such skills were worthy of experimentation.”

He tries not to think about what that means, fails, and lets the horror flicker through him and out.

Because they found him, they found him, and he’s coming home.

(Two months.)

“From what I understand, his internalization of the Force was enough to keep him alive until he could be placed in a stasis. The fact that his heart stopped while in the range of a Force suppression field would have been enough to snap the bonds.”

(Obi-Wan.)

Kit laughs, then, disbelieving, and rubs a hand over his mouth.

“When are they due home?”

“Four days,” Master Koon says. “We’ve kept it off comms. The news needs to stay within the Order until they dock.”

Right. Of course. Operational security, and Obi-Wan’s always been a hell of a target–

A bubble of slightly hysterical laughter swells in his chest, and he barely manages to catch it behind his teeth.

Then something occurs to him that nearly freezes him solid.

“Masters,” he says, and then stops.

He barely recognizes the sound of his own voice.

As the others turn to look at him, he straightens in his seat. Flexes his hands against his knees. Curls his toes inside his boots. Feels the push of his lungs against his ribs as he inhales.

He knows what needs doing.

(Obi-Wan. Oh, Obi-Wan.)

“What are we going to do about Skywalker?”

Anakin’s days have settled into somewhat of a routine. 

He wakes up. Eats breakfast in the mess. Sometimes alone, often with Vos. Sometimes one of the Councilors will join him.

He keeps expecting a fight that doesn’t happen. 

After breakfast, he usually goes to the landing docks. He’s not on the battlefield, but they’re still at war, and there’s no shortage of ships that need repairing. He grabs a wrench and a blowtorch and for a few hours his mind goes blissfully quiet.

Vos fetches him for lunch.

After that, there’s Master Cas.

They’re working, right now, on being mindful. Master Cas tells him that he may have gotten so used to anger that he doesn’t realize when he’s feeling it. Master Cas tells him that the first step is to become aware of when he’s angry and why. Master Cas tells him that he wants Anakin to note down every time he’s angry, so they can talk about it together.

Anakin’s first reaction, gut-deep and instinctive, is a blaze of frustration.

This is childish, he says. Everyone knows this. I want to know how to stop. 

You can’t stop unless you know how it starts, Master Cas says.

And then he asks why Anakin responded like that.

Master Cas does that a lot. Asks why.

He doesn’t ask him about Tatooine. About Dooku. About Padmé. 

(About Obi-Wan.)

When Anakin asks, prickly all over at the lack of accusation, Master Cas tells him that he has a long way to go before he’s ready to talk about that.

And Anakin–

Can’t quite bring himself to argue. 

If he’s being perfectly honest with himself, it’s a relief. 

He doesn’t want to.

The appointments take hours, even though they never seem that long. After that, latemeal. After latemeal, meditation with Vos.

Then he sleeps.

He misses people.

He misses Ahsoka. He misses Rex. He misses Padmé. 

(Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan. He misses Obi-Wan.)

Sometimes he imagines what Obi-Wan would say. 

He imagines Obi-Wan coaxing him through meditation. He imagines Obi-Wan waiting for him outside the Halls. He imagines Obi-Wan standing at the kitchen counter, drizzling syrup over basbousa, cutting a slice for each of them, settling down on the sofa, because Anakin had been given his own apartment when he’d been knighted but he’d always preferred Obi-Wan’s, the warmth of it– of him–

He spends a lot of time in his own quarters, now.

(He’d never been able to get the recipe right, no matter how many times Obi-Wan had walked him through it.)

Sometimes, when he’s digging into the belly of a ship, and there’s no one else around, Anakin talks to him. 

It’s easier, somehow, when there’s no one to reply.

So when Master Cas’ comm starts beeping insistently, and he excuses himself briefly, Anakin rocks back in his seat and stares at the ceiling. 

“I got angry at my oatmeal today,” he says quietly. “It was too hot, and it burned my tongue, and I nearly threw it across the room. It was so– I didn’t even think about being angry. It was just there. I told Master Cas. He said it was good that I recognized it. He said that recognition is the first step. Vos says that too.”

He breathes.

“I’m trying, Master,” he says. “I am. I promise.”

Then Master Cas comes back, tucking his comm into his pocket.

Then he sits down.

“Anakin,” he says, “there is something you need to know.”

And everything changes, all at once.

“The 212th and the 187th were sent to capture Dooku,” he says. 

“They succeeded,” he says.

“They found Obi-Wan,” he says. 

“Alive,” he says.

Alive. Alive. Obi-Wan’s alive.

I didn’t kill him.

Obi-Wan’s alive.

“Anakin,” Master Cas says.

Anakin blinks at him. He feels like he’s shaking apart in an earthquake, the dizzying elation cracking him apart and pulling him together all at once because dead people don’t come back–

But Obi-Wan’s always done the impossible, hasn’t he? 

And he’d promised he’d always be there for Anakin, and he– he kept it, he kept his promise, not even dying could– because he’s alive–

“Anakin, listen to me.”

The Zabrak master looks like he’s going blurry around the edges. 

“I– he’s alive?” he croaks.

“Yes,” Master Cas says kindly. “I was just informed. It appears that he was in Dooku’s custody over the past two months.”

When Anakin reaches up, pressing against his eyes, he feels the warm burn of tears.

“Is he okay?”

“He’s not in need of any immediate medical attention.”

“When are they gonna be back?”

“Four days,” Master Cas says. “But, Anakin– do you remember Master Aihara’s class?”

The name is– vaguely familiar. Aihara. A Twi’lek?

“They teach trauma recovery,” Master Cas says. “Anakin, you have to prepare yourself for the fact that he may not want to see you.”

Anakin stares at him.

“What?”

“The guiding principles of helping someone who has undergone a traumatic experience are choice, control, and consent,” he says gently. “The ability to choose what happens to them next. Having control over their circumstances. Being able to consent– or not– to something or someone.”

“Okay,” Anakin says slowly, “but I don’t–”

“That means that he gets to choose who he wants to talk to, Anakin.”

“But why wouldn’t he want to see me?” Anakin bursts out. “I’m his Padawan!”

Master Cas is looking at him assessingly.

“I think the motive behind his choices is less important than his choices themselves,” he says. “Anakin, if you didn’t want to see me, I would not force my way into your apartment. You may have to talk to someone to make sure that you’re doing okay, but you wouldn’t have to talk to me if you didn’t want to. It sounds like he has had very little opportunity to control his circumstances over the past two months. As long as his choices aren’t causing active harm, then they are to be adhered to– even if they’re not ones you agree with.”

Okay. Okay. Fine. That– that makes sense. 

They talk for another half hour. Anakin answers on auto-pilot until Master Cas dismisses him. He tells him to take some time to process, that they’ll talk more tomorrow.

Anakin bows, only half-listening, and breaks into a jog. The humming under his skin feels electric. 

The training salle. Yeah. That’s a good idea.

He’s not allowed to handle a saber. But the staffs– the staffs are good. He needs to work out. Needs to get his thoughts in order. Master Cas had said that it was a good idea. Katas are considered moving meditation for a reason.

So. He does.

Master Cas had said that he would need to respect Obi-Wan’s choices. Which– yeah. Okay. It makes sense. He knows this. 

But he wouldn’t choose not to speak to Anakin. He wouldn’t. Won’t. Not if– not if he had all the information. Because they’re– they’re the Team. And Obi-Wan had– he’d promised. 

And Obi-Wan always keeps his promises. Always. 

And Anakin’s not foolish enough to think he doesn’t have anything to apologize for. Force. He knows– 

But they’ll do it together. Just like they always have. Because–

He drops his staff. Sinks to the floor. Buries his head in his hands.

Because Obi-Wan is coming home. 

In the empty salle, a sob tears out of him.

“Obi-Wan,” he says, and then again, folding in on himself, curling his arms around his chest–

“Obi-Wan.”

Master and brother and father and friend–

He’s coming home.

Chapter Text

It is a fascinating thing, Mace thinks, watching the 212th close ranks around their General.

There’s more footage. There’s always more footage. 

Helix watches and writes and watches and writes until his hands start to cramp, and then he writes some more, because there’s so much and he can’t risk missing anything–

The recording flickers off.

For a long moment, Helix stares at the dark wall, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

“The timer didn’t go off.”

“There’s no shame in taking a break sooner.”

Silence.

He opens his mouth, then shuts it again. It’s a stupid concern. He knows– they’re on the ship, in the middle of hyperspace, and he’s– but what if–

“Helix, he’s all right,” Windu says gently. “I can feel him. He’s safe.”

“I keep thinking it’s an autopsy,” Helix croaks. “And then you see the lungs move, and–”

He stops.

“Yes,” Windu says, his voice heavy. “I know.”

Helix bows his head forward, over the sheaf of notes on the table, and takes a long, shuddering breath.

“Thank you, sir,” he says finally.

“Please don’t,” Windu says, after a moment, and when Helix glances at him, he realizes–

This ugly, hollow helplessness is not just his.

He stands suddenly, the screech of the metal chair against the floor making him wince.

“Come on,” he says, sounding steadier than he feels. “I’ve got caff.”

Mace follows him out.

There is caff. There is quiet conversation. And there is Helix, telling him–

You need to talk to Obi-Wan.

Once Mace has seen Helix safely into Obi-Wan’s custody, he returns to the office.

He doesn’t start the footage again. No. That would be a betrayal of them both.

Instead, he picks up the notes. 

He flips through the pages, reading over a month of trauma distilled into straightforward, blocky shorthand–

And then he stops, staring.

make sure he stays, reads the unsteady handwriting, jagged corners betraying the author’s shaking hands. 

tell the others. 

have to talk about callbacks.

Something cold trickles down his spine, and he shuts the folder with a snap. 

That was not for his eyes.

(But what Helix had said–)

The 212th are very good at adapting to unexpected circumstances.

They watch, and they listen, and they learn:

1. He will sleep leaning against someone. 
2. He will sleep against the wall. 
3. He will sleep curled up on his side like an isopod. 
4. He will not fall asleep on his back anymore. 
5. He sleeps a lot.

Helix, folding himself onto the bed, rifling through a folder–

“– my best guess right now is that the blurry bits indicate Force interference,” he says, gesturing at the scan. “It can mess with electronics, right? Right knee, right hip joint– it lines up with what I saw in the– well. I think it’s still working on patching you up, and the scanner doesn’t know how to interpret it. It’s slower, of course, now that you’re back in your own head, but still working.”

He sighs, flipping the folder closed, and offers Obi-Wan a wry grin.

“Can’t even get a good read on you, sir.”

Obi-Wan, flashing him a smile–

“I keep life interesting.”

“Oh, yeah,” Helix grumbles, bumping his shoulder, “because that’s what I need, more excitement in my life–”

(He can do this. He can do this. He can do this.)

He lifts the razor towards his face.

(He can do this.)

He presses it against his skin.

(He can do this.)

He pulls it down.

(He can do this.)

And again.

(He can do this.)

And again.

(He can do this.)

His hands shake and shake and shake and–

(He can do this.)

When the fresher door slides open, Cody straightens from where he’s been leaning against the  wall just in time for Obi-Wan to faceplant into his chest, curling his fingers into his blacks. 

“Hey,” he says carefully, wrapping his arms around him. “Success?”

A faint grumble, and then, slightly muffled–

“Mostly.”

Cody snorts, relief curling through him.

“Come on,” he says, looping an arm around Obi-Wan’s waist. “I’ve got bandages.”

Auks, nimble fingers coaxing a braid forward from a mess of knots–

“–honestly, at this point, I just think they’re beating a dead horse, Amara deserves better–”

“Hang on,” Obi-Wan says, wincing slightly as a knot catches and Auks makes a quiet noise of apology. “I was dead for four episodes– she’s still with the Duke? Really?”

“The Duke,” Waxer sniffs, pointing at Auks accusingly, “has also apologized. Don’t give him a false impression of the current dynamics, the new episode’s coming out in two days–”

“The Duke is supposed to be a tragic figure,” Boil interrupts, sounding bored. “Just because you’ve got the hots for the actor–”

“Slander–”

Helix, unwrapping the bandages, checking the soles of his feet, humming with satisfaction–

“Okay, sir,” he says, pulling out a new roll, “I am officially clearing you for walking.”

Obi-Wan brightens. “Really? Can I–”

“If I see you doing katas, I will set Mace on you,” he says flatly, carefully rewrapping the healing wounds.

“‘Mace?’” Obi-Wan says, sounding delighted, and Helix grumbles something uncomplimentary under his breath as he pins the last wrap into place.

“We’ve bonded,” he says drily. “You can walk, but I still don’t want you putting too much weight on your right side, okay?”

“Can we go down to the mess, at least?” Obi-Wan says plaintively. “I want to see the others.”

“You might actually cause a riot,” Helix mutters, but Cody’s already standing, curling one arm around his waist, and glee ripples around the rest of the room.

“Completely unrelated,” Wooley says cheerfully, “any scorch marks that may or may not still be visible? Completely unprovoked.”

Gearshift waves a hand. “Ah, we can always blame the Seppies.”

“Right,” Longshot says wryly, “because the Seppies always know to target the kitchens. If they ever manage to board, they won’t go for the bridge or the engine room, no, they’ve got their priorities straight, they’ll head right for the kitchens– ”

“Not helping my case, asshole–”

They learn:

1. Physical contact is good. Grounding.
2. He is constantly reaching for someone.
3. They reach back, easy as breathing.
4. (Helix knows more than he’s saying.)
5. (None of them are brave enough to ask.)

Trigger, hefting a crate full of rations, a step and a half ahead of Kamei–

“No, no, listen. The DM51 has a more targeted range. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were doing this on purpose.”

“If these were armed,” Kamei mutters, “I’d throw one at you, and then we’d see how targeted the range is.”

“You,” Trigger says, nudging him as they round the corner, “are so mean to me. My own brother, nay, my own batchmate, threatening me with a– General!”

And Obi-Wan, very suddenly, finds himself with an armful of bubbling munitions expert, the dizzying delight nearly sweeping him off his feet.

“–heard you were alive, bit hard to believe, won’t lie, but we should’ve known, honestly–”

“I do hope,” Cody interrupts, dry as dust, and Obi-Wan grins at him over Trigger’s shoulder, “that nothing in that crate is explosive.”

“No, sir,” says Kamei, smirking. He tilts his chin at the box in his arms. “That’s why I always insist on taking the armaments. Trig just had rations.”

Trigger scoffs wetly, but doesn’t move, and Obi-Wan, warmth washing through him like an ocean, pats him gently on the back.

“We were just heading down to the mess, if you would like to join us when you’re done?”

“We’ll be there, General,” Kamei says, beaming at him as Trigger finally disentangles himself. “It’s really good to have you back.”

“I think,” Cody says, grinning, “that you’re going to get a lot of that.”

(He’s right.)

Obi-Wan, stopping halfway down the hallway–

“The vambraces,” he says slowly, his gaze flickering back and forth between them. “You– you painted them?”

Cody feels a slow smile stretch across his face. Behind him, Trapper lets out a little squeak of excitement and disappears back the way they came.

“I wondered how long it would take you to notice,” he says. “Credit where credit is due, it was Trapper’s idea. No idea where he’s gone running off to now, though.”

“I do,” Wooley sing-songs, grinning, and Auks elbows him.

Obi-Wan shakes his head slightly, his brow furrowed.

“But– why?”

Cody stares at him, but Auks beats him to it.

“Because we missed you,” he says, sounding slightly baffled. “Obviously. Hey, Helix, did you check him for a concussion–?”

Wooley seizes the opportunity to return the favor and elbows him back.

Obi-Wan, laughing, squeezes Cody’s shoulder.

“Well,” he says, his smile audible, “they are simply stunning.”

In the mess, squished between Cody and Waxer, feeling almost lightheaded at the fizzing glee that suffuses the entire hall, the warmth of the bodies on either side of him keeping him grounded, the table around him packed nearly to overflowing–

Someone taps him on the shoulder, and he twists around to see Trapper, who has both hands behind his back.

“Oh, hello,” he says, smiling at him. “Where did you run off to?”

“To get these,” Trapper says, grinning, and offers up–

Obi-Wan stares.

Generally, troopers tend to avoid too much detail work on their armor. In the heat and haze of battle, larger patterns are easier to spot, and most prefer the sturdiness of the thicker brush-strokes. 

But this–

The thin, careful lines branch out from a single point on the lower edge of each vambrace– precisely the spot, Obi-Wan realizes, that would cover his pulse point. The lines seem to nearly leap off the plastoid, and when he looks closer, he realizes that Trapper had included shadows. A dizzying fractal of golden lightning, and all of them had–

“Do you like them?” Trapper asks, sounding slightly nervous.

Obi-Wan blinks, clearing his throat, and curls his fingers around the vambraces.

“Very much,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Thank you, Trapper.”

Trapper beams at him and squeezes in next to Waxer, ignoring the squawk of protest. “I used a grid to get the pattern, right, see? The spacing was a bit tricky to get right, but you should see Stats’, he’s always had a head for math–”

They learn:

1. The lightning hums closer to the surface than it ever has before.
2. His words trail off, sometimes, his gaze going vacant.
3. He drifts once, twice, without any provocation.
4. They pull him back. They are good at this.
5. They are also not the only ones around to help.

Mace finally manages to pull Obi-Wan aside for a conversation on the observation deck three days before they land on Coruscant. Cody and most of Ghost have huddled around a table across the room, the Force around them fizzing with a determination that looms like an iceberg.

Obi-Wan does not seem particularly concerned, so Mace tucks that topic away for later. There are more important things on his mind right now.

Such as–

“Helix mentioned you were struggling with the Force,” he says gently, “and I’ve noticed you feel… distant, sometimes. How can I help?”

He does not ask if he can help. He has known better than to ask that for over a decade.

Even now, the hesitation, the uncharacteristic shrug– he feels like he’s looking at a wary, fleet-footed fourteen-year-old, skittish and frightened and folded around the unspoken conviction that to speak weakness into existence is to invite abandonment once more.

But then Obi-Wan takes a deep, shuddering breath, steadying himself, and he remembers–

Two months of torture or not, this Obi-Wan is still a Master.

“I– am finding it,” he says, every word carefully considered, “...difficult. To. Stay. In my own head.”

Oh. 

Well.

That’s–

“And I– I am. Wary. Of using the Force. Because it feels like I would– might– slip. Again. And I don’t want– I don’t want to go away. Again.”

He’s not meeting Mace’s eyes.

“And I think,” he continues carefully, “that I may need some. Help. I’m sure I’ll regain my balance soon enough, but– until I– until I do, I think– yes.”

Mace breathes. So this is what Helix had been referring to. 

(make sure he stays)

What must it have been like, the terror of that willing dissociation? Tearing yourself out and away, trusting and trusting and trusting–

Well. Small steps. And it’s certainly progress that he’s asking for help now.

“Of course I’ll help,” he says gently. “What do you think you need? Anchors?”

Obi-Wan glances sideways at him.

In the Force, he resembles nothing more than a hunted animal, small and scared and paralyzed into stillness, and Mace–

He doesn’t know how to help him out of it.

His shoulders rise, hold, fall–

Mace can nearly hear him counting.

“Yes,” he says haltingly. “I think– the bonds, like the– the Council– I can– use them. To stay. If you could– I just need– someone to reach back. I think.”

“Of course,” Mace says reassuringly. “That’s a good plan. That’s easy enough. But then– do you need anything else? From me? From the rest of us?”

Obi-Wan shakes his head, and Mace would think this is a good thing, a good outcome, except–

(There is something in his eyes.)

Maybe this is the right time for this conversation, after all.

“Obi-Wan, why did you not ask for help before?” he says finally.

Obi-Wan’s gaze flickers down and away.

“We saw, at your funeral– you did this on Melidaan. You’ve done it in this war. It’s clearly not easy for you. Why didn’t you tell us? Did you think we wouldn’t help?”

He flares his presence gently in the Force, an aching, easy sympathy, and sees Obi-Wan’s shoulders relax the smallest bit.

“I–” he says, then stops.

He inhales. Straightens his back. Meets Mace’s eyes.

He looks like he’s testifying in front of the Senate.

It is not particularly reassuring.

Slowly, haltingly, he explains.

“I didn’t do it again after Melidaan. It was– terrifying. And coming back was– painful. It burned. So I built my shields and– and I didn’t do it again, and it was– fine. I thought it was. I didn’t need to do it again. And I didn’t. We– we survived. We were okay.”

A wry, hollow grin.

“And then– then Naboo happened.”

Mace feels his stomach drop.

“Master Qui-Gon, he was– and I was– trapped. Behind the ray shields. And I couldn’t get to him. And he–”

A breath. His right hand spasms on his knee.

“But you– in the Memory, I’m assuming– you saw. I can– I got them out. Of the ship. I jumped. And they survived. So after– when I didn’t– couldn’t–”

Obi-Wan, Mace thinks helplessly, tell me you don’t–

“I practiced. Afterwards. I didn’t want to let anything happen to–”

He stops. Closes his eyes. 

“I didn’t go too far. Didn’t let go all the way. But I practiced. Slipping just enough that– if I knew I– if I had to, I could. Quickly. And I– I didn’t have to. Not until the war started. And then I did. A lot. And I could. And I’ve saved– not enough. But– more than I would have. If I didn’t.”

He practiced. Like hanging from a high window by the edges of his fingertips. He practiced, over and over again, and he did it alone.

Another shaking breath. 

“I didn’t want you to know that I could have saved him and didn’t,” he says finally, the words tumbling out in a rush. “It was my fault– my failure– and– and I was afraid of you finding out. I– apologize. For the deception. But–”

He pastes on a smile.

It looks skeletal.

“Anakin was– he was right about that, at least. I wasn’t– fast enough.”

Mace closes his eyes as several missing puzzle pieces fall into place at once.

“You think his death was your fault,” he says slowly. “You think it was your fault, because you couldn’t–”

Obi-Wan ducks his head.

“If I had practiced–”

“If you had gotten lost,” Mace interrupts, “he never would have forgiven himself. Obi-Wan–”

Gods. How long had he been carrying this for?

“Obi-Wan, he would not blame you,” he says finally.

Obi-Wan’s expression twists slightly into something bitter, there and gone in an instant.

“Maybe not,” he says, the words heavy with placation instead of true belief, “but I do.”

And so does Anakin, Mace realizes suddenly. The footage, firstly, but– in the Memory, a quiet conversation between Dex and a freshly-knighted Obi-Wan–

“He wishes Qui-Gon were his master instead. I don’t think he realizes he’s projecting, but…” 

Had that ever stopped? At all?

Or had Obi-Wan lived for over a decade with a bond in his head that was cracked at the very foundations?

And if he had–

What had it done to him?

(But I do.)

“He– does not,” Mace says with finality, feeling a sudden rush of determination. “And I can prove it.”

He nudges a memory forward in the Force, but Obi-Wan shakes his head.

“Mace–”

“We nearly killed you,” he says bluntly. “Obi-Wan, the plan was to launch an aerial assault. Flatten the compound. Force Dooku out into the open. Capture him there. The only reason we didn’t is because Qui-Gon intervened.”

Obi-Wan blinks at him.

“What?”

“Please,” he says, and he tugs at the memory, unfurling it slightly like a topsail. “Look. I promise you.”

He sees Obi-Wan’s gaze turn inwards–

And then he shudders once, all over, like an earthquake.

Mace reaches out, puts a hand on his shoulder, and they watch it together.

The echoes of what he had gotten from his old friend in the Force–

Quiet desperation. Solid determination. And underneath it all–

An aching, fierce love.

The missile system hijacked, redirecting, refiring. The look on Qui-Gon’s face when it hits. The way his head rises, like an animal pricking up its ears at the sound of home. 

The way he smiles before disappearing into a curl of blue lightning, the sorely familiar presence melting back into the vast cosmic melody of the Force.

When Mace opens his eyes, Obi-Wan has a hand over his mouth, his eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking down his face.

“Obi-Wan, you were his pride and joy,” he says quietly. 

Finally, that terrible, tight stillness begins to melt away. 

"He-" Obi-Wan says, and it's almost a gasp- "he-" 

"He loved you dearly," Mace says gently, "and I'm more sorry than I can say that you have gone so long thinking he did not."

Things are not quiet at the Temple, either.

Barriss, striding into their quarters, the bond between them fizzing with astonishment–

“Master,” she says, and Luminara turns to look at her, concern blossoming, because she sounds more rattled than she has in years, “have you heard–?”

A rapid-fire knocking on the door interrupts her, and Luminara flashes her an apologetic look as she moves to open it. 

“I’m sorry, Barriss, let me just– Quinlan?”

Her friend’s eyes are shining.

“Lumi,” he says, and in the Force the warmth of him is like a rainfall–

“Lumi, you’re not going to believe this.”

Quinlan, marching into the Council chambers–

“Alright, who do I have to duel to be the first one on the landing dock?”

Ahsoka, on her way out of her xenobiology class, feels a poke in the Force and turns to see Master Vos waving at her.

“Hey, Tano,” he says cheerfully. “I’m poaching you for the afternoon, if you’re agreeable– I’ve already cleared it with your Master. Want to help me get greenery into Obi’s room?”

(There are conversations with Anakin.)

“Bant’s been recalled, she’ll be here in a week–”

Depa, wandering into her old Master’s quarters–

Ah. Yes.

She’d teased Obi-Wan many times over the years about how he kept snagging the fuzzy purple monstrosity of a blanket every time they would gather in Mace’s rooms.

She had intended it, originally, as a gift for her Master.

Now, perhaps, it needs a new owner.

She knows Mace won’t mind.

(There are more conversations with Anakin.)

Ahsoka pulls the geographic profile of Iwanaga from the archives.

Updates make their way from Mace to Plo to Quinlan.

Fragments of information coalesce into a whole that no one likes the look of very much.

They do what they can.

The dusty darkness is flushed out of his quarters, replaced with colors and soft socks and a variety of tropical plants that changes by the day as the debate between Ahsoka, Barriss and Caleb gets ever more heated. 

There are Master Cas and Quinlan both, talking to each other, exchanging data–

Then they go to the Council.

To Plo.

News ricochets its way into another conversation.

“Obi-Wan,” Mace says, settling next to him on the floor. 

He sees a sabacc counter go flying through Boil’s fingers as he makes a grab for it. Obi-Wan smiles innocently when Boil turns a wounded expression on him, and Mace bites back a grin.

Small steps forward.

“Hello, Mace,” Obi-Wan says, grinning at him. “Any news?”

“Yes,” he says, then hesitates.

Normally, he would keep discussions about Jedi internal affairs private.

But he’s been hearing whispers around the ship that contain Anakin’s name, and thinks that perhaps it would be best to get everyone on the same page.

“It’s about Anakin,” he says, and the whole room goes silent. Obi-Wan stills. 

Does this need to be private?

It’s up to you.

Obi-Wan turns towards him with deliberate care.

“What’s going on?”

He takes that for the assent it is and forges onwards.

“Masters Cas and Vos have both expressed concern that Anakin is refusing to acknowledge the stated boundaries,” he says carefully. “Every inch of progress made in one session is undone by the time he sits down for the next one.” 

Obi-Wan puts his cards down.

“I see.”

“Does this mean we get to shoot him?” Gearshift mutters. Longshot shushes him, but his eager gaze is fixed on the two of them.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Mace says, deciding to move past that. “I just wanted to keep you updated. We will make sure to keep you separate–”

But Obi-Wan’s shaking his head.

“Obi-Wan, we can take care of him,” Cody says quietly. “You don’t have to see him–”

“No,” he says suddenly, and Cody shuts his mouth with a snap. Obi-Wan squeezes his hand apologetically.

“No,” he repeats. “He–”

He stops. 

“He has been told I don’t want to see him,” he says quietly. “Is it so terrible that I want that to be enough?”

“No,” Mace says gently. “Of course not. But–”

He hesitates for the briefest moment.

“I don’t think it will be.”

Obi-Wan closes his eyes.

“I want that to be enough,” he says quietly. “I want– maybe it will be enough.”

When he opens his eyes, his expression is one of ragged, cautious hope.

“No guards, please. And no shooting. I want–”

He takes a deep breath. One hand curls around Cody’s.

“I want to know if what I want will be enough for him,” he says slowly. “If he pushes–”

“Then shooting?” Longshot asks hopefully.

A smile flickers over Obi-Wan’s face.

“I’ll handle him,” he says firmly, and Longshot subsides.

“That’s not a no,” someone hisses, and Obi-Wan graciously pretends not to hear.

Quinlan is on the dock an hour before the Negotiator is scheduled to touch down.

Venator-class starships don’t usually dock at the Temple. The manufacturing district has designated berthing docks, easier for loading and unloading supplies– but sometimes, during a prisoner transfer, or when the medics calls ahead, haste is important enough to make space.

This is a prisoner transfer, yes. But the more important part–

Today, the dusty sunlight has turned the city smog golden, illuminating the towering skyline in a kiltered mirror of the Temple’s own foundations. He tilts his face towards the distant sun, the warmth of the autumn day soaking into his skin, and closes his eyes.

He could have waited inside, sure. It wasn’t like he was going to miss a Venator–class starship docking at the Temple– 

But. Well. Just in case. 

He rolls back his shoulders and inhales all the way up his spine, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet, and settles into a light meditation.

A slow smile blooms across his face when the warmth of the sun is obscured by an enormous shadow. He opens his eyes to see the descending form of the Negotiator, and, eyeballing the landing bay entrance, breaks into a run.

The flagship settles into its berth with a startling grace for its size, and Quinlan arrives at the ramp just as it hits the ground. His gaze flickers, searching, landing on a flash of red hair–

“Obi-Wan!”

The man turns, his expression cracking open, and Force, it’s him, it’s really him, skinny and ragged and feeling flayed in the Force but he’s here–

“Quin?”

He takes one staggering step forward, then another, and Quinlan reaches him just as he starts to list to the right and finally, finally hauls him into a hug.

Obi-Wan’s hands clutch at the back of his tunic, and Quinlan wraps his arms around him and holds on tight, rocking back and forth slightly, old instincts surging to the front, someone thought lost coming home again, and he presses a kiss into the messy hair as a looping litany of thankyouthankyouthankyou unfurls in his mind .

Then he hears, so quietly he thinks at first it’s just an echo of his own thoughts–

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan croaks, slightly muffled from where he’s tucked his face into the crook of Quinlan’s neck. “Quin, thank you.”

It’s the best sound he’s ever heard. 

He curls one gloved hand around the back of Obi-Wan’s head, carding through his hair.

“Just returning the favor,” he says quietly, and Obi-Wan shudders all over in a not-quite-sob.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the two of them. 

Then, finally, Quinlan says–

“You look like banthashit.”

A moment of silence, and then Obi-Wan snorts. 

“Oh, thank you very much–”

“No, I meant it,” Quinlan says, almost light-headed with sparkling relief. “Skinny little twig, and, tch–” 

He pulls back slightly, reaching up and cupping his cheek, and Obi-Wan leans into his hand with shining eyes.

“–who did your shave? Because, honestly, I’ve seen better–”

“My hands aren’t as steady as they used to be, you ass–”

Quinlan tsks. “Ah, that just sounds like an excuse to me–”

“You know,” Obi-Wan says, grinning properly now, “I’ve been getting a lot of this– Clasby threatened to bite me next time he saw me– and I feel like I deserve better. A congratulations on not being dead, maybe? A nice card?”

Quinlan laughs, then, a curl of warmth coalescing in his chest, tears burning at the back of his eyes, and pulls him back into a proper hug. “I’ll bake you a cake, asshole. Homemade frosting and everything.”

“Better ask Tholme for help, everyone knows you can’t be–”

“We don’t talk about that,” Quinlan hums, and feels Obi-Wan’s strangled laugh vibrate in his bones. “I challenged the Council to a duel to be the first one here, and this is what I get? Blackmail?”

“Ah, you didn’t actually duel them, did you?”

“Nah, they knew I’d kick all their asses.”

“Or maybe,” Obi-Wan suggests, curling a little further into him, “they knew that you’re my best friend in the galaxy, and I would really, desperately want to see you first?”

Quinlan’s throat closes up. He squeezes his eyes shut, burying his face in Obi-Wan’s hair, and tightens his grip. Just a bit.

“Couldn’t be that,” he croaks finally. “Everyone knows I’m an annoying twat.”

“Oh, of course, my apologies,” Obi-Wan mutters.

But he doesn’t let go, and Quinlan, the warmth in his chest blossoming into a sun, tugs him impossibly closer, resting his chin on the top of Obi-Wan’s head.

When he looks up, he meets Windu’s warm gaze, and feels something in his chest click over and into place.

“Are you okay to see Ahsoka?” he asks finally. “It’s fine if not–”

“No,” Obi-Wan interrupts, shaking his head, his eyes shining. “No– I mean– yes, I would. Like to see her. I– she’s okay?”

Quinlan reaches down and taps twice on his comm. She’ll get the signal– he’d already primed the message.

“Plo’s really good for her,” he says gently. “Come on. You’ll see her.”

Slowly, carefully, with one arm wrapped around Obi-Wan’s waist, taking his weight, he leads the group off the ship. 

Obi-Wan staggers to a stop when they step out of the shadow.

“Obi?”

“It’s warm,” he whispers. He tilts his head back, closing his eyes, and as the golden sunlight sets his auburn hair aflame tears start to trickle down his face. “It’s so warm.”

Quinlan feels something splinter in his chest.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice hoarse. “It is, isn’t it?”

Obi-Wan glances sideways at him, looking, perhaps, for a hint of sarcasm, but Quinlan just reaches up and folds his hand over Obi-Wan’s.

“Congrats on not being dead,” he says finally, grinning, and Obi-Wan’s laughter sets off fireworks in the Force. 

Then–

“Master Obi-Wan!”

When Ahsoka catches her first glimpse of him, she nearly doesn’t recognize him. 

She’s never seen him with long hair before, with his beard shaved down to stubble. She’s never seen him looking quite so unsteady before, leaning on Master Vos, flanked by Commander Cody on his other side, not quite touching him but oriented towards him like a planet to a star. She’s never seen him looking so small, nearly drowning in the robe wrapped around him, in an ill-fitting pair of blacks–

But he looks up at her shout, and the smile that breaks across his face–

That’s all Master Obi-Wan.

She flings herself forward, forgetting, in the moment–

And he never would have staggered backwards, before– before, he had always caught her easily, sweeping up all her aching energy that she didn’t know what to do with, helping her settle, but this time he’s not as sure-footed as he used to be, and in a split second she lets go of him, dancing backwards as Quinlan catches him, steadying him, and the apologies tumble out of her mouth without thought–

Then Obi-Wan shakes his head.

“Ahsoka,” he breathes. “Oh, Ahsoka.”

He reaches out, and she steps forward this time with more care, Master Plo’s words echoing in her head, and when he pulls her into a hug she wraps her arms around him in return and tries and fails not to soak his robe with tears.

“You’re alright?” he asks after a moment, one hand running down her lekku in an achingly familiar pattern, and, sniffling, she nods into his robe.

“I am,” she says, the words slightly muffled. “I promise, I’m okay.”

She feels him relax, all the tension leaving his frame at once.

“Good,” he sighs, and his warmth curls around her in the Force, a quiet reassurance. “That’s good.”

Then she feels him shift, looking behind her–

The relief that surges through Cody upon spotting his little brother, whole and alive and here, nearly breaks him in two.

“Gods, Commander,” Rex says, arriving at a jog, “you couldn’t have waited up for me, could you?”

“You should’ve been faster,” Tano mutters, her words slightly muffled, and Obi-Wan clicks his tongue. 

“Ahsoka.”

She peels herself away, flushing slightly. 

“Sorry, Rex,” she says, but Rex waves off the apology, snapping off a salute.

“Should’ve known death couldn’t keep you down, sir,” he says, grinning. “Torrent’s still trying to work out the betting logistics.”

Obi-Wan snorts a laugh, letting go of Tano and squeezing his shoulder. “Good to see you too, Rex. And thank you for keeping an eye on her.”

“Ah,” Rex says, flushing slightly, “she hasn’t been too much trouble.”

“Excuse you,” Tano says indignantly. “I’m a karking delight.”

“Oh, I’ll have to ask Plo about that,” Obi-Wan hums, and she scoffs, burrowing back into his robe.

He leans forward, muttering something Cody doesn’t quite catch, but Rex’s smile softens around the edges.

“Yes, sir,” he says. Obi-Wan grins at him before turning back to Vos, Windu walking up to join them both.

Cody takes a step back, out of the way, something slightly uncomfortable curling in his chest, but then Rex turns toward him and– 

Normally, they wouldn’t do this in public. These sorts of desperate hugs are reserved for the barracks, for the camera-blind corners in hallways, a leftover instinct of desperate secrecy.

But the echoes of what could have been have been dogging his every step for the past week, missions taking on an ugly new significance now that he knows what Skywalker is capable of, what he had done, and despite knowing that the 501st were on their way back to Coruscant, he had found himself checking his comm every other day for an incoming casualty report with CT-7567 appended to the bottom of the list, just another brother snuffed out–

So when Rex yanks him into a hug, Cody wraps his arms around him, digging his fingers into the cracks between his pauldrons, and holds on.

He feels a hand settle on the back of his neck.

“You’ve been busy, huh?” Rex says, and a ragged laugh tears out from Cody’s throat.

“You could say that,” he manages, but judging by the way his brother’s grip tightens he thinks he may not have been as successful at keeping his voice steady as he’d hoped.

“What did Obi-Wan tell you?”

Rex pulls back slightly, studying him with narrowed eyes, and whatever he sees in Cody’s expression is apparently enough to make him relax slightly.

“Said that you’d done a good job looking after him,” he says, grinning, “and that if I could look after you, make sure you’re okay, he would be–” he pauses, coughs, affects a Coruscanti accent– “‘ much obliged.’”

“I’m–”

“Liar,” Rex sing-songs, and Cody snorts, leaning forward and gently knocking their foreheads together.

“I was going to say I’m glad to see you,” he hums, “but if you’re going to be like that–”

“Oh, sure you were, you definitely weren’t going to say I’m fine for the eight hundredth time, you two are are a hell of a match–”

Cody is– not quite sure what happens, then. Only that he makes– a little noise, something unobtrusive, surely, but Rex stops short before tugging him back into a hug.

“Sorry, vod,” he mutters, curling a hand into his hair, and Cody, forgoing all attempts at retaining any leftover dignity, tucks his face into the crook of his brother’s neck.

He hiccups.

“You’re okay?” he says, slightly strangled.

“I’m fine,” Rex says quickly. “Koon’s one of the good ones, I promise, he looks out for us. I’m fine, you’re fine, Kenobi’s fine–”

Instinctively, Cody’s gaze flickers to where Obi-Wan’s standing. Only a few feet away, but even that feels a bit too–

Obi-Wan glances up, meeting his eyes, and the warmth in his gaze dissolves the twist of awkward discomfort in his chest almost immediately.

“Yeah,” he breathes, closing his eyes. Just for a moment. “We are, aren’t we?”

Then, very suddenly, Obi-Wan’s gaze shutters, and all four Jedi turn at once in eerie synchronicity towards the entrance to the Temple hangar.

Vos mutters something uncomplimentary under his breath.

“I told him to stay away,” he says, his voice gone cold and utterly uncompromising. “I’m sorry, Obi. I’ll get him out of–”

Obi-Wan curls a hand around his wrist, halting him in his tracks.

“No,” he says, very quietly. “No. You told him I didn’t want to talk to him.”

“Yes,” Vos says, and Cody goes cold all over at the realization–

“You told him I didn’t want to see him.”

“Yes.”

“He still came,” Obi-Wan says, and it’s not a question, but his voice cracks regardless, and Cody remembers what he’d said to Windu, that quiet, threadbare hope–

“Yes,” Vos says, his expression bleak. Obi-Wan sways slightly, and in two long strides Cody is back at his side, curling a hand around his elbow.

“Obi-Wan–”

“Captain,” Obi-Wan says, cutting him off, “would you please escort Padawan Tano back inside? To Master Plo, if you can find him?”

When Cody glances down, he realizes that she’s gone pale.

“Yes, sir,” Rex says, once more every inch the consummate professional, but his voice gentles when he turns to her. “Come on, Commander.”

She opens her mouth, turning to Obi-Wan, but he shakes his head, his expression softening.

“It’s alright, Ahsoka,” he says quietly. “Go on. I’ll be fine. Cody–”

He stops, and Cody takes a step closer.

“If you want me to go, I will,” he says, recognizing the painful twist in his chest the thought causes and moving past it at speed. “But– I’d prefer to stay. If you’re okay with it.”

A moment of silence, then he feels a hand curl around his own.

“I would like you to stay,” Obi-Wan says quietly, and Cody feels something relax in the back of his mind.

He squeezes his hand.

“We’ve got your back,” he says. A reminder, an echo–

“I know,” Obi-Wan says, and– he doesn’t smile, not exactly, but Cody sees a there-and-gone easing of tension in the sharp lines of his face.

The sound of footsteps sends a shot of adrenaline down his spine.

A quiet, hopeful delight–

“Master?”

Cody does not look at the speaker. 

Instead, he looks at Obi-Wan. Watches how his expression shutters, how his spine straightens, how he shifts his weight–

“Anakin,” General Kenobi says. “What do you want?”

Chapter Text

Anakin starts with basbousa. 

In the kitchen, he moves as if Obi-Wan is at his side.

(Obi-Wan helps him pour one, two cups of sesame seeds into a pan that’s bigger than his head, sets out a stool, hands him a wooden spoon and asks him to stir until they just begin to brown. Anakin keeps one eye on the seeds and one eye on Obi-Wan to make sure he’s doing it right.)

“Anakin,” Master Cas says, “Obi-Wan asked about you.”

When the seeds turn popcorn-golden, Anakin lifts the pan off the stovetop and pulls a mortar and pestle out of the cupboard.

(Obi-Wan teaches him how to get the push-and-flick motion of the pestle just right for an even grind. Anakin thinks that it’s like turning a wrench, and when he voices this Obi-Wan beams at him and he feels like he’s just unlocked a secret.)

“Master Windu told him of what has transpired over the past two months.”

He carefully measures out a quarter-cup of oil into the bowl of freshly ground seeds and settles into the easy rhythm of mixing until it comes together into a paste the color of peanut butter.

(You could use a food processor for this, Obi-Wan tells him, but I think it tastes better when you put work into it.)

“Anakin, he has asked for time.”

Into a bowl goes the farina, sugar, and shredded coconut. Anakin swears when some of the baking powder gets into the gears of his hand, and the ghee and honey are hurriedly tossed into a small saucepan to melt while he pries open the edge of the panel with a knife.

(Obi-Wan puts all the ingredients on the top shelf and asks him if he can get them down alone. The shredded coconut and the sugar come down easily, but Anakin loses his grip on the flour and half of it lands on their heads. Obi-Wan blinks at him through a haze of white, and they both start laughing at once.)

“Anakin, do you understand?”

Anakin picks up the saucepan with his right hand, feeling a familiar flash of satisfaction when the temperature regulators kick into gear and the blistering heat of the metal pot dulls into a pleasantly warm tingling. He tips the molten gold into the bowl and begins to stir.

(You want a sandy texture, Obi-Wan says, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and waves the spoon threateningly in Anakin’s direction when he makes a face. Yes, I know you hate sand. Everyone in the Temple knows you hate sand. But this is the good type. You’ll see.)

“Anakin,” Master Vos says, “Obi-Wan needs time to recover.”

He spoons the yogurt into the mix and pulls on a glove, folding the crumbly dough in over itself, squeezing it between his fingers.

(Be careful not to overmix it, Obi-Wan tells him, nudging over a stool for Anakin to stand on as he peers over the counter. See? Just until it blends. If you go too far, it’ll get all dense and chewy. Good for other recipes? Sometimes. For basbousa? He raises an eyebrow at Anakin, who, giggling, shakes his head.)

“You’re counting on him to help you, but you need to figure out how to do this without him.”

He reaches for the fresh tahini paste and carefully brushes some across the pan, adding a drizzle of melted ghee to prevent the dough from sticking.

(Obi-Wan tells him to be careful not to use too much paste, that it’ll keep in the fridge, that too much will make it taste like halva. Anakin asks what halva is. Obi-Wan grins at him, and three days later they’re in Knight Unduli’s apartments, the Miralan Jedi taking inordinate delight in sharing embarrassing stories of his own Master in the creche as Obi-Wan swats at her with one hand and steadies the thermometer in the syrup with the other.)

“He’s capable of coming to find you when he’s ready.”

Anakin presses the dough into the pan with his fingers, eyeing the slightly uneven spread with some trepidation.

(As they wait for the cake to finish baking, seated in front of the oven door, Obi-Wan tells him stories. So many stories, about so very many things. About Master Tahl, who double-dosed her stew with Mandalorian spices, and when Master Qui-Gon snuck another spoonful from her bowl he had to stick his head under the kitchen tap as she, grinning, lectured him on releasing his pain to the Force. About the great underwater cities of Nooral, glass tunnels snaking along the seabed to provide safe transport for non-amphibious visitors. About sneaking four tooka kits, so small their eyes had not yet opened, into his room, soaked to the bone from spending nearly three hours huddled next to them waiting to see if the mother would return, only to find that Master Qui-Gon had set the mother up in their living room after he’d found her with both back legs broken next to a speeder lane.)

“Anakin, do you understand?”

Anakin pulls out the pitcher of syrup he’d borrowed from the dining hall and drizzles it generously over the golden cake.

(Obi-Wan always makes him turn around when he’s making the syrup. He tells him that this is a secret recipe, and that it will be his knighting present. Anakin tries to peek every time regardless, and Obi-Wan, laughing, catches him every time as well.)

“Yes,” Anakin says.

“I understand,” he says.

And he says this again and again and again–

But.

Obi-Wan has always wanted to see him before. Always. He’d go and lock himself in his rooms, sure, or sometimes he’d disappear for a bit, and Anakin couldn’t find him, but then once he did, Obi-Wan would make tea, and they would talk, and things would be– better. 

But.

Windu’s never really liked him, has he? And Obi-Wan’s a Councilor, so it– it would make sense, wouldn’t it, for maybe– for Windu to maybe say things that– to make it sound– so Obi-Wan wouldn’t want to talk to him. Right? It makes sense. 

But.

He’s Obi-Wan. And they’re the Team. And Obi-Wan promised.

He covers the finished cake carefully.

The door slides shut behind him.

The first sign that things may not go as he expects occurs as he approaches from the hangar.

He reaches out in the Force, the emptiness in his head where there was once a steady, stabilizing warmth aching like a phantom limb, only to be met with a sharp shock of warning from an unexpected set of shields.

Anakin knows Obi-Wan’s presence better than he knows himself. Golden like sunlight filtering through the garden greenery, a steadying hand on his shoulder and the easy curl of an exasperated sigh, a blue blade at his side, dying and undead after all–

And that wasn’t Obi-Wan.

That was Windu.

He knew it. He knew it. 

He presses forward.

Anakin catches a glimpse of ginger hair and nearly sobs with relief.

He’s here. He’s home.

“Master?”

The second sign is when Obi-Wan doesn’t turn around.

“Anakin. What do you want?”

The third sign is everything else.

Anakin falters, hesitates, shakes himself–

“I just–”

(Obi-Wan is not looking at him.)

“I just wanted to see if you were okay.”

The response bristles with unheard warning.

“I’m fine.”

The ice creaks.

Anakin takes a step forward, a well–trodden path unfurling in front of him, so comfortably familiar he nearly laughs out loud.

Obi-Wan always says that. Hazy-eyed with fever, blood soaking the shoulder of his robes, leaning on his commander when he can’t stand up straight himself–

He’s been in Dooku’s clutches for two months.

He can’t expect Anakin to fall for that now, can he? 

““Come on, Obi-Wan,” he says easily, “we both know that’s not true.”

Obi-Wan inhales, slow and deliberate.

Once upon a time, blurry with lack of sleep, after a tangled dance of diplomacy they had tumbled into immediately after breaking a weeks-long siege, Cody had been reminded of the weight of a whetstone. When he’d said so, Obi-Wan had huffed a laugh, exhaustion wearing his smile softer around the edges, and had asked him what he meant.

Cody had gestured, half-thoughtlessly, searching–

Words like a weapon, he’d muttered eventually, like a knife. Sounds like you’re sharpening them.

“Okay,” Obi-Wan says. “I’m not.”

Anakin waits, abruptly uncertain.

He is suddenly, painfully aware of the heavy silence.

For all of his confidence that Obi-Wan is not fine, he finds himself utterly wrong-footed when the words are spoken into existence.

(Obi-Wan is still not looking at him.)

Master Cas had told him–

Admitting you need help is the first step to getting it, right? You need to recognize you’re not okay before you can get better. So this– this is good, that Obi-Wan’s telling him he’s not okay. This is how they can help.

“Master Cas says admitting you need help is the first step to getting better,” he says carefully. “So I– thank you. For telling me. I– how can I help?”

He sees Obi-Wan shudder, once, before stilling.

Cody feels Obi-Wan’s hand spasm, sees a bleakly amused expression flicker across his face, there and gone in an instant.

“I said I didn’t want to talk to you,” Obi-Wan says, and finally, finally turns around to face him. Anakin feels himself relax upon actually seeing him, here and whole and alive–

And empty.

He can’t feel him in the Force. He can’t feel anything from him at all. 

Windu’s shields are drawn tight, and Anakin just barely stops himself from glaring at the Jedi standing behind Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

Obi-Wan had always wanted them to get along. He’s trying. He is.

“Why are you here, Anakin?”

(There’s something in his eyes–)

“I thought,” he says haltingly, “that–”

Then he stops as the words sink in.

Obi-Wan had– he’d–

No. He couldn’t have. He wouldn’t have. Not if he knew the–

He glances at Windu instinctively.

“That maybe– you didn’t know–”

Obi-Wan’s eyes narrow before widening with a bitter understanding.

“Go on, then,” he says. “What don’t I know?”

Anakin glances at the people surrounding them. 

A frozen tableau of white and gold, flanking him on both sides, his commander standing stone-still to his right. Vos to his left, Windu at his shoulder–

“Could we– could we talk?”

“We’re talking now, aren’t we?”

Anakin bites back the curl of frustration in his chest. 

“Somewhere– more private, I mean?” he asks. Then he tries a smile. “I made basbousa.”

Something flickers in Obi-Wan’s expression.

Anakin, encouraged, presses on. 

“I just– I’m sorry you– found out. The way you did. I wish– I wish I could have told you myself–”

“You had three years to tell me yourself.”

Something stirs, curling, under the surface of the ice.

Anakin feels something shift under his feet.

He swallows, once, twice, scowling slightly.

His throat is dry.

He wishes he’d brought water.

“I– could I tell you the full story?”

“You think I don’t know the full story?”

This is not a conversation.

This is a duel, but only one of them knows it.

“You said there was always a path back,” Anakin says, the words lodging crooked and cutting in his throat. “You said– and I chose to walk it. I did. I chose.”

He meets Obi-Wan’s gaze and wishes he hadn’t.

He’d been wrong. There hadn’t been something in his eyes.

That was the problem.

There was nothing in them at all. 

Obi-Wan shakes his head, glancing down and away.

“Anakin, I am tired. And, as you so succinctly pointed out, I am… not fine. I’m glad you did, I’m glad you are– but I cannot help you. You are going to have to do it without me.”

Pride flares to life in Quinlan’s chest, and he squeezes Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

(The Force is humming with something he can’t quite identify, drawing taut–)

Anakin stares at him.

This isn’t Obi-Wan. This isn’t his Obi-Wan. It can’t be. He would never–

You are going to have to do it without me.

The ground under his feet is crumbling. None of this had gone to plan, nothing is going like he’d expected, and Obi-Wan is– Obi-Wan is turning away, and Anakin can’t lose him, he can’t, if he does then it’s all– it’s all just ashes–

(He can’t leave.)

Anakin swallows around the lump in his throat, a shrill ringing rising in his ears, tremors wracking all the way down into his fingers, stunned into paralysis–

(He can’t leave.)

Obi-Wan is his, he has a duty, and he’d promised, over and over again–

(He can’t leave–)

The words are small, quiet, shrunken:

“You promised.”

When Obi-Wan laughs, Anakin flinches.

“You broke your knighthood vows in the same breath you spoke them, and you accuse me of breaking promises?”

That stuns him into stillness. 

He watches, mute, trembling, as Obi-Wan–

Turns away.

Back towards his commander, Vos falling in behind him, covering his back, like he needs protection– protection from Anakin– and the fear knots itself into a heavy tangle in his chest, clawing at his insides, and finally a bitter, seizing desperation loosens his tongue and unlocks his jaw.

Frantic, furious, reaching–

“If you would just–”

Obi-Wan goes still. Anakin slams his hand over his mouth. 

“If I would just what?”

The words are very quiet.

Obi-Wan has never raised his voice to Anakin in his life.

This is not a comfort.

Obi-Wan turns back to him, his eyes glittering.

“Go on. If I would just what? Listen to you? Because let me tell you, I listened for years, and, well– you only decided to talk when I was dead, right? Maybe– maybe– I don’t know why you came now, considering you thought I was a better Master dead than I ever was alive–”

“That’s not–”

“If I would just ignore everything else, perhaps? Everything that I’ve learned over the past week? Everything that you never thought to tell me? If I would just pretend that none of it– that none of it had ever happened? Is that what you meant?”

“No, I–”

“If I would just pretend everything’s okay, then? Pretend that I can–”

His hand spasms.

“That I can walk on my own? Without assistance? That I can stay in my own head for more than a day at a time? Pretend that I am fine, after all–?”

Then Obi-Wan stops, staring at him.

Anakin doesn’t know what he sees. Doesn’t even know what he can see, considering that he himself doesn’t know– can’t even begin to–

“Oh,” he says, the words ringing clear as a bell. “That is what you would prefer, isn’t it?”

Anakin shakes his head. His throat is clogged.

“Don’t lie to me, Anakin.”

Finally, he manages– a ragged, strangled croak–

“That’s not what I meant–”

“Then tell me what you meant.”

“I–”

He stops.

If there is one thing he has always been able to count on, it’s that Obi-Wan will be there. For him. He’d promised.

(I will stay as long as you will have me.)

Obi-Wan has always called him Padawan like a blessing.

“You’re my Master.”

The emphasis, Mace thinks bleakly, is on exactly the wrong thing.

Obi-Wan shudders, once, all over.

“Well,” he says, very quietly, “we can change that, can’t we?”

Only now, as the ice gives way, does Anakin realize the ground underneath him was never solid after all.

He says, weakly–

“What?”

Quinlan and Mace look at each other.

Disbelief is a heavy, paralyzing thing.

Neither of them react as Obi-Wan’s hand slips from Cody’s. As he shakes Quinlan’s grip off his shoulder.

As he takes a step forward.

“You say I’m your Master, but we both know you never wanted me, don’t we?” 

And another.

“Anakin, do you think he would have given you half the patience I did?”

And another.

“Half the tolerance? Half the chances?”

Anakin stumbles backwards, matching Obi-Wan step for step.

“I gave you everything I had, Anakin, everything I could–”

Then Obi-Wan stops short, something snagging in his hollow gaze.

A slow, dawning realization–

“It was never going to be enough, was it?”

The silence blossoms like a bomb.

“I gave you everything I could,” he repeats wonderingly, “but it– it was never going to be enough, because I– I wasn’t who you wanted. I wasn’t him.”

He’s staring at Anakin like he’s never seen him before.

“There was nothing I could have done, was there?”

Anakin shakes his head. He feels numb, struck silent, his feet frozen to the floor–

(He has never known when to call for a retreat.)

“You want to know what it was like to be Qui-Gon Jinn’s padawan, Anakin?”

And Anakin remembers, then– nine years old, standing in the starlit Council chambers, the golden Coruscanti skyline stretching beyond him into a dizzying horizon of possibility, because he’d been chosen, he was going to be a Padawan–

The sharp shock of hurt from behind him had only barely registered on the edge of his awareness, forgotten in an instant amidst the tidal wave of elation.

Forgotten until now.

Qui-Gon had already had a Padawan.

He’d had Obi-Wan.

And he had–

He had–

“Fine.”

Anakin feels like he’s standing in open air and gravity hasn’t quite kicked in yet.

And then it does.

“As the Force is my witness, Anakin Skywalker, I–”

Obi-Wan takes one more step forward, cold and furious and wounded–

And Anakin watches, uncomprehending, as all the color in his face disappears at once.

At first, the white-hot snap of fire that sears up his right leg doesn’t even register as painful. 

When it does, Obi-Wan folds like flimsi.

He’s gone before he hits the ground.

Three seconds:

One.

The scalpel cuts into his hip, through one, two, three ligaments.

The leg is extended, pulled straight, too straight, something pops–

(His toes don’t match up.)

Snick snick goes the knife, and the knee peels open.

Tendons cut and fluttering loose–

(Like a flag, he thinks, gutted laugh dying halfway up his throat.)

Metal claws pull and stretch and cut–

hand blazing warm on the back of his neck

Fingers spasm-scrape against the table–

fingers thread through his, curling, folding

The spine shudders, arching, straining, bound–

Obi-Wan!

(He has not heard that name in a long time.)

Two.

Piece by piece:

Cool air floods his lungs. Coughing. Once, twice. Ragged.

A hand on the back of his neck. Warm. Pushing forward.

Forehead resting against a rough-spun tunic, a firefly-warm voice, murmuring nonsense, quiet, easy, like a crecheling–

The shout–

Quinlan.

Fingers threading through his own. A thumb rubbing circles into the back of his hand.

You’re alright. You’re alright. You’re alright.

But Obi-Wan shakes his head. Blurry with an unfettered fury, all his words snatched up and scrambled, spasming agony ricocheting up his right side, his vision all smeared with red and he wants–

He wants–

Quinlan reaches for him in the Force and meets a hurricane of shattering fury and exhausted grief.

Oh, he thinks, aching. Oh, I know this.

He folds around him, feels Obi-Wan’s hand curl into a fist against his chest, hears the choked off, half-furious, agonized sob–

Quinlan closes his eyes. Presses his lips into his hair.

“Not like this, Obi,” he says, very quietly, just for the two of them. “Don’t do it like this.”

Three.

Quinlan tugs loose a thread of the turbulent maelstrom and offers it up.

We’ve done this before, right?

Obi-Wan inhales. A limping, staggering breath.

Then he exhales.

Then he does it again.

(They are brothers and pathwalkers and masters, the two of them.)

He accepts the thread.

They work at it together, carding out tangles, loosening the knot, until it no longer threatens to strangle him.

Until they can see the sun.

Finally, the pressure in the air eases enough for Cody to take a full breath.

This time, when he tries to take a step forward, his feet obey him.

“Don’t,” says a very small voice.

A pause so utterly silent that even the dust motes seem to hang frozen in the autumn sunlight.

A jagged, quiet breath–

“Please.”

Quinlan and Obi-Wan look at each other.

“Quin,” Obi-Wan says, very carefully, “can you help me stand up?”

Two spots of color burn high in the pale face.

“Obi-Wan–” 

“I have nothing left to give you,” he says.

Anakin’s mouth snaps shut. 

“I can’t–”

He stops. Lets the reality of it settle into his bones. Tries again.

“I can’t walk this path with you.”

The flash of blinding fury is gone, pulled apart and released, and when he looks at Anakin he feels nothing but a soul-deep, aching weariness. 

But he can’t quite see a stranger.

Not yet.

“Make it out,” he says finally. “Make it out, and then we’ll talk.”

Anakin’s eyes flash with a brilliant, dawning hope. He opens his mouth–

Obi-Wan holds up a hand.

“Try something like this again,” he says quietly, “and I will finish what I started. Do not test me, Anakin. My patience is at an end. Listen to Quinlan. Listen to Master Cas. They are not your enemies. Walk the path and make it out.”

He breathes. 

“Now leave.”

And finally, finally, Anakin turns on his heel and flees. 

Obi-Wan closes his eyes as the sound of Anakin’s footsteps fades into nothing. 

“Quin,” he says, without looking. “Can you–?”

Quinlan squeezes his hand and is gone in an instant. 

He stands alone for a moment, swaying slightly. 

“Thank you for the shielding,” he says finally. “I think– I think I would have gone a lot further, if I’d–”

He stops. His thoughts are moving like syrup.

A steadying hand lands on his shoulder, and Obi-Wan leans into it.

“You handled that with all the grace you could have,” Mace says gently, and Obi-Wan’s snort turns into a sob halfway through. He feels utterly wrung-out.

He lets himself uncurl slightly and feels sunlight at his back.

He reaches out purely instinctively, and when Cody’s fingers thread through his own, the last bit of tension in his chest dissolves into mist. 

“You have good timing,” Cody says quietly. “Gearshift was just about to give Longshot his blaster back.”

Obi-Wan’s lips twitch upwards. He intends to say something reassuring. Something– something calm, and composed, because he’s– well, he’s not fine, but–

What comes out of his mouth instead is this:

“He didn’t even apologize.”

His voice cracks. Cody makes a tiny, ragged sound and pulls him into a hug. 

“You know,” he mutters, “it’s not too late for a couple of stunners.”

Obi-Wan laughs, then, short and tired, and finally pries his eyes open. “And here I thought Helix would be the bigger problem.”

“Needle confiscated my blaster before he let me out of the medbay,” a grumpy voice announces from behind him. “He’ll regret that later.”

The worry in Helix’s eyes as he looks him up and down belies his scowl. Obi-Wan offers him a wry smile.

“You did tell me.”

“I did,” he says pointedly, and then sighs. “Can’t blame you, though. And I will continue not to blame you as long as you sit down within the next ten minutes.”

Obi-Wan hums, rocking forward slightly. Exhaustion drags at his heels. In front of him, Cody’s gone– all blurry.

Hm. It doesn’t suit him.

There’s a hand on the side of his face. A voice. Someone’s– talking. 

“-hear me? Obi-Wan?”

His ears are ringing. 

“Can we go home, please?” he asks plaintively. “I want to go home.”

An arm wraps around his waist, and Obi-Wan slumps sideways into a line of warmth.

Gods. He’s so tired.

“Come on,” someone hums. “Let’s get you inside.”

Inside. Home.

Yes.

Anakin crashes through the door to his quarters and skids to a stop.

He stands frozen in the middle of the room for a long moment.

Obi-Wan had–

(“I said I didn’t want to talk to you.”)

He’d nearly–

(“You had three years to tell me the full story.”)

He’d–

When Anakin blinks, he’s in the kitchen. 

He gulps in a breath and inhales, quite on accident, the syrupy sweet smell of fresh basbousa.

It’s still warm. 

How long had that taken? How long had it been since he’d left his quarters, brimming with resounding, dizzying hope–?

It doesn’t seem fair that it would only take twenty minutes for his entire world to be upended.

And yet.

It had.

A flash of sudden, blinding rage sears through him, and with a choked-off sob he twists, swinging, furious–

His hand freezes half an inch from the carefully-wrapped cake.

(When had they stopped making it together? He’d been knighted, but then there’d been Padmé, and the war, and the Chancellor, and he’d just been so busy–)

He stares at the counter, unseeing, tasting salt.

Behind him, the door slides open.

Someone sighs.

Footsteps.

Hands are on his shoulders, then, pushing him down into a crouch against the cabinets.

The fridge door opens and shuts.

Someone sits down next to him.

“Would it have made any difference,” Vos asks heavily, “if I’d told you he was asking for your sake more than his?”

Anakin’s jaw is locked in place.

Tremors start to wrack through him, all the way down his arms. His legs give out from under him, and he sits down suddenly on the floor.

(Gods. The way he’d just dropped–)

“Anakin.”

He pries his mouth open.

“I’m sorry.”

A slow, steady exhale.

“I’m sure you are.”

The silence is heavy with the weight of everything unspoken.

Vos is the first to break it. 

“You can’t walk the path for anyone else, Anakin,” he says quietly. “You can’t walk it for forgiveness. For absolution. You have to walk it because you want to. Because you think it’s worth it.”

Anakin closes his eyes.

“What if I can’t?”

There. He’s spoken it into existence now.

Everything he has done so far, he has done for Obi-Wan.

The confession, the acceptance of the offer– for his memory. 

The talking, the meditation, the walking– for his legacy.

For his love.

And now–

(“You are going to have to do it without me.”)

Next to him, Quinlan sighs.

“I’ve seen a lot of people who didn’t want to,” he says slowly. “But I’ve never met anyone who couldn’t.”

He rises to his feet. Brushes nonexistent dust from his hands.

“You have an appointment with Master Cas in an hour,” he says. “Make your choice. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Footsteps. The door opens and shuts.

Anakin stares at the floor.

His vision grows blurry.

Cas walks down the hallway, frowning at his datapad. 

The briefing from Master Vos is… concerning. On multiple levels. But he supposes–

He rounds the corner to the Halls and slows to a stop.

Inside, a familiar signature blazes.

He sighs. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips, and he taps out a missive to Vos before stepping into his office.

Anakin Skywalker turns to face him. Red-eyed, ragged, unsteady on his feet–

But here.

“Anakin,” Cas says. “I’m very glad you’re here.”

He means it.

Chapter Text

the small gods love the temple.

if they are minnows in the river, then the temple is a whale– vast and old and terrifying in its enormity. they carry their wariness like a shield, at first– darting small and quick and silver through the currents, fearing the weight of the wake, this colossal, ancient entity built from stone and bone and love of home.

then, as their small lives learn, so do they. 

the temple is no terror. no threat. silent, buoyant, bizarrely benign– the small gods stop fighting the current and swim with it instead, and their fear of drowning dissolves. they tumble through the wake, laughter trailing like streamers, and they learn–

the small gods know the stripped-bare searchlight. the peeling glare of the deep-drowned.

the temple is their first lighthouse.

(later, as the galaxy unfolds to them in a spray of stars, they see lighthouses for the first time and call them temples.)

beacon, bonfire, lantern and guide, a port in the storm that calls the riverfolk home. the temple is a body to the riverfolk’s blood, protector of and protected by, unfurling light into the vast and holy dark and bearing witness to each sacred reflection that returns. 

the small gods flit ever closer, flaring bright, singing out greetings, tugging like children at a mother’s skirt, until finally, a slow and heavy gaze turns on them.

and in a roll of thunder, the temple says–

HELLO.

By the time they finally reach Obi-Wan’s rooms, Cody is taking more than half his weight.

He thinks about offering something more, then looks at the determined set of Obi-Wan’s jaw and the tightness around his eyes and decides against it.

The door slides open, and they walk into a jungle.

Cody stares.

Every free inch of the room is covered in plants. Hanging vines brush the top of his head as they pass through the doorway, and when he looks up, he sees them crawling across the ceiling to some unidentifiable pot. A pitcher plant with flowers big enough to hold a cadet has taken up residence in the corner closest to the kitchenette, reed-like flowers with purple petals fanning out behind it, and tooka-tail blossoms line the left wall. 

When Cody glances towards Obi-Wan, he sees a slow smile unfurl across his face, open and unguarded, tired eyes shining–

But he’s not looking at the plants.

He’s looking, instead, at the sofa.

Bleary-eyed, he moves forward, half-tugging, half-leaning, until he folds onto the sofa and pulls Cody down next to him. He tugs the purple monstrosity of a blanket that Cody had thought was another plant off the back of the sofa, wraps it around himself, and tucks the other corner around Cody’s shoulder before going boneless against him.

“You know,” Windu says, his smile audible, “I believe that blanket’s mine.”

Obi-Wan grumbles something, and one of the pillows to Cody’s left floats up to eye level and flings itself at Windu’s face. 

The other Jedi catches it, his eyes dancing.

“The audacity,” he says drily. “The indignity.”

“‘Gotta let go of your attachments, Mace,” Obi-Wan mutters, his voice slightly muffled by Cody’s shoulder, and Windu– Mace– laughs out loud. 

“Indeed, Master Kenobi,” he says, grinning, and Cody feels a smile twitch across Obi-Wan’s face. “Get some rest, all right? I’ll tell the others.” 

One hand fights through the all-consuming violet to offer a tired thumbs up.

Mace straightens up, glancing at Cody.

“You’ll be staying, I presume?”

“Yes, sir,” Cody says promptly, feeling slightly offended that he asked–

Then he feels Obi-Wan relax just a little bit more, and he amends his thought process even as something cracks and splinters in his chest.

“Of course we are,” he says, quieter.

Mace nods at them, his expression softening, and leaves them be.

As the door slides shut behind him, the last remnants of adrenaline gutter out. 

The other end of the sofa dips as Helix collapses onto it. Waxer flops down next to the door in a deceptively relaxed sprawl.

“Take a nap, vod,” he says, grinning. “I’ve got the watch, yeah?” 

Cody hums. The blanket is– shockingly comfortable.

And Obi–Wan is– very warm.