Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s a good day.

It’s a good day for a lot of reasons--the sun is shining, the war is over, and the Council isn’t yelling at Anakin for once in their lives--but the most important part is that Snips is going to meet a friend of hers and he gets to meet them, too.

Anakin isn’t about to pretend their mentorship has been smooth sailing from the start, but after they got past the whole “got kidnapped by a Sith and went kind of nuts and got forced to go to therapy” thing, they got to know each other better, and he’s never been prouder to have Snips as his Padawan. Anakin’s not too proud to admit Ahsoka’s better at making friends than he is (he would have been a few months ago, but he’s working on it, okay?) so obviously if she wants him to meet one of her friends, that’s great! Snips is a great judge of character, and anyone she likes has to be pretty cool.

“Come on, Skyguy!” Snips says, dragging him along the sidewalk. “The park’s not too far, we’ll meet him there.”

“Oh, it’s a boy?” Anakin asks. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

Snips shoots him a borderline disgusted look. “First of all, no, gross. Second, I’m gay.”

“Oh,” Anakin says. Somehow he’d forgotten that. He’s not sure how--she mentions it all the time. “Uh...”

Anakin’s saved from putting his foot any further in his mouth when Ahsoka apparently sees her friend and runs off towards a guy standing by the fountains. “Obi-Wan!” she shouts, practically throwing herself into his arms.

Suddenly, Anakin’s good day feels slightly less good.

Obi-Wan Kenobi--Detective Kenobi--Kenobi, whatever, catches her and swings her around like she’s some kind of youngling. “Ahsoka, it’s good to see you,” he says when he sets her down. “You’re growing so fast--a year or two and you’ll be taller than me.”

Snips laughs and claps Kenobi on the shoulders--she really is getting taller at the speed of light. “No offense, but that’s not that hard.”

Kenobi sighs, though he’s still smiling. “Unbelievable. It hasn’t even been five minutes and you’re already bullying me.”

Anakin watches all of this with vague horror. It’s not like he didn’t know Snips was still friends with Kenobi--it would be pretty hard to miss him helping her with Galactic History homework over holocomm--but seeing them act like a...like a family makes him feel weird.

He’s got a lot of weird feelings about Kenobi to start with, from his seriousness to his weird eloquence to the way he feels unnaturally untouchable in the Force, like a shadow or a gust of wind. Seeing him now in what appears to be casual clothes with his hair braided back and tightly coiled to look like roses doesn’t help. It’s...way different from the guy he hired way back when about that blackmail thing, or the guy who sold him out to the Sith (except he didn’t?) and kicked his ass two days later in a shitty factory.

Kenobi looks like a normal dude. A very good looking dude, which Anakin is trying not to think too hard about.

“You’re not wearing your coat!” Ahsoka says, straightening out Kenobi’s jacket and still being way too friendly with Kenobi and all of his shady shadiness. “I thought you just got a new one. Did something happen to it?”

“No, it’s just my day off,” Kenobi says. “I don’t expect to get shot at in the course of a normal day, you know. I should be fine, so long as,”--he flicks his eyes up to Anakin-- “nobody decides to attack me with a lightsaber. Ahsoka, when you said ‘we’, you led me to believe it would be Rex accompanying you. Why did you bring Skywalker?”

Good question. Anakin’s not sure why he’s here, either, considering the last time he and Kenobi talked, multiple people almost got murdered.

“Skyguy wants to talk to you,” Snips says.

Anakin sputters. “What? No, no, that’s not true. I never said that.”

Kenobi’s gaze settles on Anakin in that way that feels like he's judging every single mistake he’d ever made, and wasn’t impressed by any of it. Despite Kenobi being some civilian, some random guy, that look makes Anakin feel about three inches tall. “This is a public location, Skywalker. If my company is so objectionable, there’s nothing stopping you from simply leaving.”

“He was talking about leaving the Order,” Snips tells Kenobi. “Or thinking about it, anyways. Since you left the Order and everything, I thought maybe you could give him some advice about it or something.”

And yes, that’s true, but Anakin never wanted to talk to Kenobi about that. There are better options--literally anyone would be better, other than probably Dooku.

Kenobi rolls his eyes. “While I’m sure Skywalker appreciates the thought, maybe you could have asked him about what he wanted, first. And me. Especially considering the last time Skywalker and I interacted, he tried to kill me.”

“Yeah, I’m really sorry about that, by the way?” Anakin says. “It, um. Seemed like a good idea at the time.” Which is, perhaps, not the best thing to say about the time he almost murdered someone. “I mean, I was kind of under the influence, and also, uh. Um.”

“Maybe you can start over and stick to just ‘I’m sorry’,” Kenobi replies, with that look again.

Anakin has to keep himself from shuffling his feet like a scolded youngling and says, “Sorry. Trying to kill you was bad. No hard feelings?”

Kenobi holds the look a couple seconds longer, then turns away with a shrug. “I don’t hold grudges. As long as you don’t try to kill me again, then we should be fine.”

“I won’t.”

“Good,” Kenobi says. “In that case, Ahsoka and I planned to get ice cream. You are free to accompany us, so long as you mind your manners.”

“Ice cream sounds good,” Anakin says.

“Then you can buy your own,” Kenobi replies, walking past Anakin. “And when we get there, we can discuss your leaving the Order, if you want. Ahsoka tells me you’re mechanically inclined, so you’ll have plenty of options in moving into some sort of trade, if you’re interested in that sort of thing. I think you’ll have a much easier time than I had, anyways.”

“He also wants a rematch,” Snips, the absolute traitor, adds. “He says he could beat you in a fair fight and it hurts his feelings that he got his ass kicked by someone who isn’t even a Jedi.”

Kenobi raises a brow and looks directly at Anakin. “Does he, now?”

“I told you that in confidence!” Anakin hisses at his traitor Padawan. “You can’t just tell him this stuff!”

“What, so you can complain about not getting to spar Obi-Wan again when we get back? No thanks, Skyguy.”

Kenobi laughs--he can laugh, what the hell--and says, “Well. If you want to spar so badly, we can stop by a gym sometime after ice cream. Bare hands, I think, would be fine--I don't want to get slashed again.”

Anakin’s heart jumps. He’s not excited or anything, he’s just happy to do something a bit different than at the Temple. Against someone who’s good at fighting. And kicked his ass that one time. “I’ll beat you this time,” he says.

“I assure you, you will not,” Kenobi replies. “But you are free to think so until we get there. In the meantime, how are you doing, Ahsoka? Last I heard, your classes were getting harder.”

Kenobi and Snips talk about coursework as they walk to the nearby ice cream parlor, and Anakin thinks that maybe this won’t be a complete disaster after all.

Maybe it is a good day.

Despite the war, despite the dangers Jedi Knights are constantly faced with, despite the terminal recklessness of some specific Masters, the Halls of Healing are not actually on constant red alert. Many of the issues that require Chief Healer Vokara Che’s attention are urgent, but not the kind of urgent where a few minutes in one direction or the other can mean the difference between someone’s life or death. After ten years of managing the Halls of Healing, the Masters who contact Vokara know what is serious and what is truly urgent.

This is to say that when Vokara is eating lunch just before afternoon rounds on an otherwise perfectly normal day and gets a high-alert emergency comm from Master Plo with the appended message, “The situation is critical. Immediate attention required,” citing a location within the Temple, she is ready to fear the worst.

It’s still not enough. There is nothing that is enough to prepare her when she opens the door and comes face to face with a boy who has been dead for over twenty years.

Faced with that, even Vokara is struck dumb.

“He collapsed suddenly--he seemed to have some sort of attack,” Master Plo says. “His pulse is slow and steady, but he’s...not breathing.”

That’s enough to shake Vokara out of her stupor. There will be time to think about all of that later--for now, she has a patient in critical condition and she will not have someone die on her watch today.

She drops to her knees beside him and places her hand over his heart, reaching out with the Force to discern the damage. True to Master Plo’s words, he is not breathing and his pulse is unnaturally slow, but despite that he is in no physical distress. If she didn’t know better, she would call it a trance state, though one that’s much, much deeper than any Master would typically dare to venture. Concerning, but not immediately dangerous in of itself.

That only means the problem is deeper.

Closing her eyes, Vokara dives deeper, past the flesh and into the spirit. She has moved from physical to psychic planes tens of thousands of times in her career as a Healer, but it’s never quite easy to shed herself and sink directly into the Force. The world around her turns bright with the Temple’s Light, each Jedi’s presence a burning flame to her senses, and with incorporeal hands, she reaches for the man beside her--

--and comes up empty-handed.

There’s nothing there. Not a fragile or damaged mind, not the shattered feeling of broken shields, not a single trace of the spirit. Where she should feel his presence--his soul--there is nothing but a yawning chasm, as dark and empty as the vacuum of space.

Vokara snaps back to herself, dread pooling in her stomach. It’s not the first time she’s encountered such a thing--after so many years as a Healer, there are very few things she hasn’t encountered before--and to say it is a bad thing when a Jedi’s body is completely vacant would be severely understating matters.

“He’s gone into the Force,” Vokara says, gesturing for her accompanying Healers to move the body onto a hoverstretcher.

“He’s dead?” Master Plo asks, an edge of distress in his voice.

“That depends greatly on how you define death,” Vokara replies. “But his soul is currently elsewhere, and depending on what has happened to it, it may no longer be whole. The Force is sustaining his body for now, which means we may still have a chance to rectify the situation.”

“What must we do?” Master Plo asks.

“I’m moving him to the Halls of Healing to make sure he stays stable, and then I will try to find his soul and bring it back,” Vokara says, ushering her Healers with the stretcher back down the hall. “And you will explain to me how Obi-Wan Kenobi is here in the Temple today and why, if he is still alive, we did not send a search party for him at any point in the last twenty years.”

“His survival is as much of a surprise to me as it is to you, Master Che,” Master Plo says, “I only heard of it yesterday, and he has not seen fit to explain much of what has happened since his departure from the Temple.”

“Really? I can’t imagine why,” Vokara replies. “If Master Jinn’s belated testimony was to be believed, Obi-Wan was left on a planet in the midst of a civil war with no outside support and had no contact with the Jedi Temple even in the year before he allegedly died. Now you are telling me that he endured what he endured for much longer than we realized--again, with no support from the Order that raised him--for over two decades. And now you appear to have arrested him. I cannot imagine why he would not want to explain his experiences to you. It is not as if we have shown any interest in it in the past twenty years.”

Master Plo looks away, clearly ashamed. “We have many things to answer for, for young Obi-Wan.”

Vokara looks down at Obi-Wan’s body, so unnaturally still on the hoverstretcher that he could very easily be mistaken for dead. He’s not a boy at all anymore, but a grown man, and it hurts to think of how many years of his life she has missed. Even after all this time, even with how much he’s grown, Vokara can still see the youngling he used to be, with his unruly red hair and freckles splashed across his pale cheeks and earnest expression.

She’d been there when he’d lost his milk teeth and gotten into fights and overworked himself into exhaustion and she’d been there when the news broke of his death and she had placed those baby teeth of his on his pyre--the only part of him they still had, when he had died on a cruel and faraway planet. She had been one of many at that funeral, mourning for a bright soul who had been snatched away too young.

She had not felt him die the same way Quinlan Vos or Bant Eerin had, but she had known, before the word had gotten out, that something had happened. She’d felt something, and seeing him again now is frightening not just for the precarious position he is now in, but also for the judgement he must pass for the ways the Order had failed him. She doesn’t understand why Obi-Wan would return here after so long a silence--why now of all times amidst a war and so much death and destruction. Perhaps it is the will of the Force or pure dumb luck. Both possibilities seem equally cruel.

Vokara brushes a stray lock of hair out of young Obi-Wan’s face. As much as she expects him to disappear before her eyes, he is too solid to be a ghost. Somehow, he is alive, and she will not let him become one with the Force here and now.

She prays that she does not have to break that promise. To have one of the Temple’s children returned after so many years only to lose him again would be unspeakable. She could withstand the heartbreak, but for Obi-Wan’s sake, she hopes it does not come to that.

He deserves better, and she will do her best to make things right.

Of all the places Obi-Wan could have chosen, Mace thinks to himself as he gazes dispassionately at an old and ugly diner, this one was probably not the most dignified.

“I think it’s charming,” Depa says, leaning against his shoulder. “Isn’t this that terrible diner Qui-Gon always visits?”

“Please don’t talk to me about Qui-Gon right now,” Mace says. “Until either he or Skywalker apologizes for that explosion in the upper hangar bay, he is dead to me.”

Depa rolls her eyes. “Then perhaps we should prepare the funeral arrangements, because I don’t think he’s ever going to come back to life in that case.”

Mace shrugs her off. “Impertinent. What terrible Master taught you to talk like that?”

“Oh, I come by my wit honestly. I learned from the best, after all,” Depa says. She tugs Mace’s sleeve towards the horrible greasy-smelling building. “Come on, Obi-Wan’s probably waiting for us.”

“We’re five minutes early.”

“Yeah, like I said. Obi-Wan’s probably already waiting for us.”

Resigned, Mace lets Depa pull him into the building. Obi-Wan had a medical condition that made it difficult for him to stay in the Temple (something Mace hadn’t even known was possible), so Mace and everyone else had agreed this would be an acceptable place to meet. He’s not about to back down just because he’ll be washing the grease smell out of his robes for weeks.

The diner looks slightly nicer on the inside than it did on the outside, not that Mace gets a chance to look too closely when a Besalisk--the diner’s owner, presumably--immediately hails the two of them and escorts them to a private room in the back.

“Take a look at these and let me know what you want to order. I ought to have something to suit everyone,” the Besalisk says, handing both of them a menu by the door.

Depa nods. “Thank you. We’ll be sure to do that.”

“Anything for a friend of Kenobi’s,” the Besalisk says with a laugh. “I’ll make sure everyone leaves happy and not hungry. If you don’t know what to order, just ask him. He knows just about everything on the menu at this point--and a few things off it, too!”

Mace decides to not read too much into that statement and thanks him, then enters the room.

The private room is, at the very least, cleaner than the main dining area. It smells a great deal nicer, too. Already, there’s three trays full of food on the table, with Obi-Wan and two yellow tattooed Zabraks sitting on one side and Adi Gallia and Plo Koon on the other.

Mace isn’t sure what to make of the tableau. The Zabraks feel distinctly Dark, and Obi-Wan has a trace of Dark himself, as much as Mace is able to sense his ghost-like presence at all, but Plo and Adi seem perfectly at ease. Maybe there are extenuating circumstances--there doesn’t seem to be anything else, where Obi-Wan is concerned--but it still makes him a bit uneasy.

“I told you we should have come earlier,” Depa murmurs to him. “We’re the last ones here.”

Obi-Wan looks up from his conversation with Adi and waves. “Hello, there,” he says with a smile. It doesn’t distract from how he looks slightly sick, or at least more sick than he did when he departed for Dathomir a month and a half ago. “It’s good to see you, Masters Windu and...”

“Depa Bilaba,” Depa says with a bow. “It’s a pleasure to see you, too, Obi-Wan. If you don’t mind me asking, are you well? You look...under the weather.”

Obi-Wan’s smile turns sardonic. “I suppose I do. Dathomir is a very Dark planet and it...clings. Staying there was strenuous, and Maul’s family was not very happy about the circumstances of my bringing his body to them.” That he was the one who shot Maul dead remains unsaid, though nobody in this room is likely to forget it. “But I’m feeling much better now that I’ve been back in Coruscant for a few days. Cleaner, anyways. I’ll probably be better in a tenday.”

Mace is a bit skeptical--Coruscant isn’t exactly what he’d consider clean when it comes to the Force, but it’s clear enough that Obi-Wan’s relationship with the Force is something none of them are likely to understand any time soon.

“And who are your guests?” Mace asks.

“This is Feral and Savage,” Obi-Wan says, gesturing to the smaller of the Zabraks, then the larger. “They’re Nightbrothers. They’re also Maul’s brothers.”

That...probably explains why they feel so Dark. “You brought Maul’s brothers to Coruscant? For the love of the Force, why?”

“Nightbrothers aren’t treated well on Dathomir,” Obi-Wan says simply. “After the funeral arrangements, they asked if they could accompany me home and I said yes. It’s one of the reasons I asked to speak with all of you today, actually.”

Mace can already feel a headache coming on. “Obi-Wan. You killed their brother.”

Obi-Wan nods. “I did. There’s not really anything I can do to make up for that, but if they want to get away from Dathomir and live new lives here, it’s the least I can do to help them how I can. I’ve already filed immigration paperwork for them and they’re staying at my apartment until further notice, and I’ve talked to Bail about finding them a more permanent home on Alderaan if they want one, but there are things I can’t provide, like education or community.”

Mace isn’t sure if he should be exasperated or impressed. The least he can say is Obi-Wan moves fast. Somehow, he’d expected after twenty-two years of avoiding the Temple, Obi-Wan would be more hesitant to leverage his connection with it. Apparently not.

“Obi-Wan--”

“Sit down, dear,” Obi-Wan says. “You’re making me tired just looking at you. Have you ordered anything to eat yet? Dex will never let me hear the end of it if you all leave without trying some of his food.”

Mace purses his lips and sits down next to Plo. The seats are comfortable at least, and now that he’s actually got a chance to look at what’s on the table, the food does smell delicious. Depa takes his other side and helps herself to what appears to be a basket of candied nuts.

“Obi-Wan,” Mace starts again. “When I asked if there was any way to correct our past mistakes with regards to you, this isn’t what I meant.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not asking this as some kind of restitution,” Obi-Wan says. “Master Windu, I’m not asking you to take them on as Padawans or to give them lightsabers. I know that’s not how it works.“

“How about you explain what you are asking, then?”

“I want Feral and Savage to live happy lives,” Obi-Wan says, stirring his bowl of what looks like meaty stew. “And part of that, I think, is exposure to different ways people interact with the Force. On Dathomir, the Dark side is really all they know, but it doesn’t have to be that way.”

“Obi-Wan says using the Force doesn’t have to feel bad,” says the smaller Zabrak--Feral, if Mace recalls correctly.

”It doesn’t. The Force can be dangerous, but if you can learn how to use it safely, it won’t hurt you,” Obi-Wan says gently, and it’s kind of startling how easily he switches from his hard businesslike demeanor to something almost...fond. To Mace, he continues, “I’ve already taught them some of what I know, but there’s not a lot I can do beyond theory and theology. I’ve been cut off from the greater Force for over twenty years now. My relationship with it isn’t really something I can or should teach.”

Mace winces, as do some of the other Council members around the table. They’d all read the reports from Master Che after Obi-Wan’s soul left his body but hearing him speak so candidly about the torturous scenario he’s lived through for most of his life is horrifying in of itself.

Plo clears his throat. “As we were discussing when you arrived, I think it would be reasonable to teach them our philosophies and let them interact with others in the Temple. It’s not the first time we’ve taught older Force sensitives on a short-term basis. Young Feral has expressed an interest in learning a Healer’s arts, and I see no issue in giving him the opportunity.”

Feral nods. “Back home, only the Nightsisters learn that kind of thing. They would kill us if we tried. It seems like a...good thing to know, though.”

That does, Mace admits, paint a rather grim picture of what their life back at Dathomir was like. “And Savage? Do you have any such interests?”

Savage shrugs. “Wherever Feral goes, I go,” he says, more softly than Mace would expect from someone of his size and appearance.

So, okay. There are some clear attachments there, which is understandable given the circumstances.

“If they’re amenable, I was thinking they could stay with me for a while,” Plo continues. “With the war winding down, I would have the time to show them around the Temple.”

“Obi-Wan says there are gardens at the Temple,” Savage says.

“There are a great many gardens at the Temple,” Plo replies. “We have species from all over the galaxy, from the driest deserts to the wettest marshlands. If you want, you can visit all of them.”

Mace elbows Plo in the side. “Plo. You can’t adopt them.”

Plo sends him a look that roughly translates to Try and stop me, and says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Obi-Wan’s gaze flicks between Plo and Mace, considering. “Obviously, it’s your place to choose how to manage outsiders to the Temple, but I hope you give Feral and Savage a chance.”

Plo shoots him a look that says he will start a riot if Mace refuses, and frankly Mace cannot afford Plo starting a riot in the Temple right now, especially over something like this which is...reasonable, if unorthodox.

“Well,” Mace says, “if Plo insists on introducing Feral and Savage to the Temple, then I see no reason to interrupt. I don’t believe they’ll ever be able to become Jedi, but as you say, we have brought in older Force sensitives for academic purposes in the past, and if they find themselves well-suited to the Service Corps, we can help them find a place there, too.”

Obi-Wan smiles, and there’s something sharp to it, like he knew this was where this conversation would end. Sneaky son of a bitch. “Thank you, Master Windu. I’m sure you won’t regret it--Feral and Savage are both really very sweet once you get to know them, and they’ve been wonderful students.”

Feral ducks his head in embarrassment, murmuring some kind of thanks and leaning into Obi-Wan’s side. Mace strongly suspects he and his brother are not used to hearing any kind of praise. Even from the short time he’s been here, it’s obvious that the brothers are fond of Obi-Wan, which is pretty impressive, considering the circumstances under which Obi-Wan met them.

Obi-Wan is charming. There’s just no denying that. Whatever the hell he’s been through since he left the Temple, his trials have left him intelligent, considerate, and charismatic--traits any Jedi would be proud of. Once again, Mace feels loss for what they missed, leaving Obi-Wan on Melida/Daan the way they did.

Mace purses his lips. “Obi-Wan, have you ever considered a teaching position?”

“Me?” Obi-Wan says. “Maybe at some point in the past, but not recently. Why?”

“You seem to be good at it, and enjoy it. Would you like to teach at the Temple? After the war, we’re...shorter on Masters than we would like. There are several openings if you’re interested.”

Obi-Wan tilts his head to one side, propping his chin on his hands. “It’s not that I wouldn’t enjoy the opportunity, but I already have a job, Mace. Leaving aside that I haven’t the slightest clue what I could teach, with my connection to the Force being what it is, I can’t go into the Temple without having to detox afterwards.”

“You’re an investigator,” Mace says. “Your strength isn’t in knowing things, but in knowing how to find them. That’s a valuable skill for a Jedi--Force, you found Maul before any of us did, and found out who the Sith Lord was. If you wanted to teach, we would be honored to have you, and of course we would be willing to pay a reasonable wage. I know you can’t come to the Temple often, but those are logistic issues we can work through. Maybe there are parts of the Temple you’d be able to hold classes without having to compromise your health, or you could use holoconferencing, or we could find a location outside the Temple for your classes, but I guarantee you, if you want to teach, we can find a solution that works for everyone.”

“You needn’t go to such efforts for me,” Obi-Wan replies.

“Consider that we want to,” Mace says. “Not because of what you’ve done for us, or what we failed to do for you, but because I think you’d do well, and because we would love to have you in the Temple, even if on a temporary basis. We don’t want you to drop off the map again, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan regards him thoughtfully, then says, “Well, it’s tempting, I admit. I’ll think about it.”

“Please do,” Mace says. He opens Dex’s worn-out menu and sets it on the table. “In the meantime, I’m hungry. What’s good to eat here?”

I could admit, around the point where I was tripping over myself through the underbrush with one hand missing and a shoulder that felt like it was on fire, that perhaps things were not going well.

Things hadn’t started well, considering the situation started with getting shot down by what I’d thought were pirates, crash-landing on a planet I’d never heard of, and crushing my mechanical hand under the smoking wreckage. It was some cursed luck that had me on the run now, trying to stay out of reach of a very angry man with a red lightsaber.

He’d already stabbed me once before I managed to fire off a bolt and escape--a second strike would put me down for good.

I was in bad shape. When you grow up in the Jedi Temple, they never tell you what it’s like to get hit with a fully-powered ‘saber. It’s not clean pain. It’s worse than a blaster bolt, it’s worse than getting caught in an ion blast. I would know.

The blade doesn’t cut so much as vaporize the flesh and it bites through skin and fat and muscle and bone like it’s not even there. You smell it before you feel it--a flash of air like ozone and burning meat. You feel the heat on your face and on your skin, but you don’t feel it in the cut because the plasma is so hot it kills the sensation completely. It’s not until you’ve gotten away that heat spreads, slowly but surely burning you from the inside out until you feel it pulse in time with your heart, until one stab has your whole side on fire and you can’t think and can’t hardly breathe.

If there was ever anything merciful about a lightsaber, it’s that it kills fast enough to never reach that point. My pursuer wasn’t the merciful type.

I ran. It was all I could do, the only thing I was good at--it’s the only way to survive when things go to shit, and I was a survivor if nothing else, alive when everyone around me had died. Moving hurt, but I ran half-blind and desperate with my flesh hand--my only hand at that moment--pressed against the burn through my shoulder like it would really make any difference against the searing pain and wove through the trees and under branches without thinking where I could possibly go. My blaster was lost somewhere, my right arm was so much dead weight, and I was dirty and hurting and probably going to die at the tender age of 22, on a planet whose name I didn’t even know. Nobody would ever find my body or even know that I was gone.

I was scared. I’ll admit that freely. When death stares you in the face, you’re allowed to be, and I’m as human as anyone.

I can’t say how long or far I ran. When you’re on the edge of death, time stops existing and one overgrown tree looks the same as any other. I didn’t really have any illusions of getting out of this one alive, but it was the most important thing in the galaxy, then, to buy time, as much as I could. One more second. One more breath. It couldn’t make much of a difference, but I had to hold out for something--maybe he’d get tired of me or I’d find someplace to hide or he’d trip and fall and break his own leg. I had to hold out for the chance.

I didn’t want to die like this. I didn’t want to die at all.

I heard blaster shots and yelling and went for cover. Just as soon as it started, I felt the Force tremble--the telltale feeling of death--and it was over. That scared me more than anything. The man with the lightsaber had been a known threat. The blasters and whoever was behind them was not.

I held my breath there, not daring to even look. If the new arrival had taken out the man with the lightsaber, maybe I was saved, but maybe it was only delaying my anticlimactic and messy death. I didn’t want to try my luck--I didn’t feel very lucky at all at that moment, not that I ever do. Minutes passed in stillness, an eternity to wait.

Slowly, I felt that crawling sensation at the back of my neck of someone turning their attention to me, and I knew I’d been found. I had to run before it was too late, before I became the second dead body in this awful forest.

My legs locked up, and my heart jumped to my throat. I was cramped, I was hurt, I was scared and I couldn’t make myself move--

In that moment, I was fourteen again, alone in a ditch surrounded by blasterfire and terrified of the inevitable. I pulled myself closer, the most I could manage when everything hurt and I wanted to be anywhere else. I tried not to breathe too loudly, tried to still even the Force within me, as if making myself small would make me disappear completely.

I heard shouting in another language, then the rustling of leaves and branches and heavy boots and the scraping of...armor? That couldn’t be right.

Someone pulled away the branch covering me and I flinched back without meaning to. When nothing violent happened for the next few moments, I dared to look.

There was a person standing over me--a man, probably, if he’d been the one shouting earlier--and he was wearing what was unmistakably Mandalorian armor painted blue and silver, and was holding a blaster rifle whose muzzle was still smoking. Not an auspicious sight.

He tilted his head and said something I didn’t catch.

“I don’t speak Mando’a,” I said, maybe. Considering the circumstances, that was giving me a lot of credit.

He seemed to catch my meaning well enough, because he said, “Calm down. I’m not going to hurt you.”

I think I laughed. I won’t say it was smart, with a primed blaster rifle less than an arm’s span from my face, but it was the only thing I could think to do.

The man watched me through the slit visor of his helmet until I couldn’t laugh anymore and said, “Oh, you got it bad, didn’t you?”

“I got stabbed with a lightsaber,” I definitely did not manage to say.

The Force shifted around the man, though not in any way I could read at that moment, and he lowered his rifle and squat down so he was eye-level with me. “Pretty impressive you got this far,” he said. “The guy back there the one who did this to you? He’s dead now. I shot him. You’re safe now.”

Killers did not generally make me feel safe, and this one was not an exception.

"How'd you end up here? You just unlucky or what?" the man asked, along with a few other questions I didn't quite hear.

I answered the best I could, which was not at all. If I managed to speak, it wasn't anything useful or particularly coherent.

The man seemed annoyed, but not angry about it. He sighed. “You got a name?”

No matter how out of my mind I was, I knew that. I told him.

“Kenobi,” he said. “Good name. I’m Jango Fett. You look like you need help.”

I was injured and alone and stranded with no weapon, no ship, and no medical supplies. I could take a miracle when I saw one, even from a killer.

“Please,” I said.

Jango bowed his head. “All right,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The Senatorial Ball is a thing that happens in Coruscant about three times a year, around the main holiday seasons and depending on how much the collective Senate needs a drink. This season’s was originally cancelled due to the war, but with recent events and the end of the war now in sight, it seems like the Senate both has cause to celebrate and to drink.

As far as formal events go, the Ball is as flashy as they come, with the most expensive and prestigious musicians and dancers and food money can buy, and receiving an invitation in of itself is a mark of high influence and status within the Republic. If one enjoys politicians, fancy clothes, and international gossip, the Senatorial Ball is the place to be.

Qui-Gon Jinn does not like any of those three things, and therefore wishes he could be literally anywhere else.

He isn’t supposed to be here--Mace, as head of the Order, was generally the one to attend such events, but that infuriating man had called in a favor and he was likely still upset about that one explosion in the upper hangar bay a couple months back that was still not Anakin’s fault, and so here Qui-Gon was. At one of the loudest and certainly the most pretentious parties across the entire Galaxy.

Qui-Gon had thankfully, by virtue of being a Jedi, been able to dodge the dress code, though Anakin had bullied him into a crisp set of robes and tabards which were supposed to be “more presentable” than what he typically wore, as if there was anything wrong with his usual robes. Though, looking around the room now, perhaps he ought to be thankful for Anakin’s restraint, considering everyone else seemed to be competing on who could show off the most embellishments and jewels at once, and no doubt Anakin would find it hilarious to force his poor Master into some bright purple feathered monstrosity for everyone to see. Soliciting Senator Amidala’s help in acquiring such a thing sounds like exactly the sort of thing Anakin would do to get back for all of that meditation.

There’s so many different brightly colored silks and garments and jewels and ornaments that it would be considered disruptive camouflage at a paint fight. It’s not as if Qui-Gon is incapable of appreciating the finer things in life--he was Dooku’s Padawan, after all, and it’s not like he learned nothing in all that time, but this is...excessive. He dodges out of the way of a senator’s very large headdress and grimaces to himself. Apparently, money can buy many things, but good taste is not one of them.

Qui-Gon helps himself to another glass of some violently green drink from a server's tray, and just then, another guest hails him for a conversation. It's a Bothan woman with golden beads and scales braided into her fur and a gown that's so intensely colored and patterned it's difficult to look at directly. "Master Jedi!" she says. "How are you this fine evening?"

Qui-Gon bows politely. "I am enjoying the festivities," he lies through his teeth. "And you?"

The Bothan laughs, a deep hearty sound. “It is magnificent, isn’t it? With things the way they were, I was scared I wouldn’t be able to attend, but of course, thanks to you Jedi, things seem to be wrapping up nicely. A toast to your services, Master Jedi.” She raises a glass of something pale and bubbly and smiles widely.

Qui-Gon raises his own glass, mostly out of politeness, and tactfully does not say that he had very little to do with the end of the war or the forceful removal of the late Chancellor from office or the extensive restructuring of the Senate that is now underway. “A toast to your health,” he says.

They clink glasses and drink. His tastes expensive, and not much else--the illicit moonshine the 501st used to churn out between deployments tasted like rocket fuel but it had infinitely more character than this swill. At least the fancy expensive alcohol is strong. Thank the Force for small mercies, because he needs it.

The Bothan introduces him to a few other officials in attendance and there’s some small talk that Qui-Gon participates in just enough to seem engaged and interesting. There’s a few more attempts to get more information about exactly how the Jedi managed to bring the war to an end, but unfortunately for them, even if Qui-Gon knew the details, he wouldn’t be inclined to tell them. He didn’t get as far as he did with diplomacy without learning to keep his mouth shut.

Eventually, he manages to steer the discussion away from the war and towards gossip, which there is always an abundance of.

“Tell me, Master Jedi,” says a Pantoran man wearing a suit that looks like it’s trying to eat him, “do you know who Senator Organa’s consort is?”

Qui-Gon blinks. “Senator Organa’s consort? I wouldn’t call the Queen of Alderaan a ‘consort’.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen them, have you?” the Bothan asks. “It’s the talk of the night--Senator Organa almost never brings a plus-one to these events. Queen Organa’s constitution just isn’t up to it, most of the time.”

Qui-Gon can imagine--he’s perfectly healthy and he already feels like he’s endured enough.

“Except there was one ball, oh, eight or so years ago,” the Bothan continues. “He brought someone as his plus-one. I wasn’t there, but I hear they were very handsome, even with the mask.”

“There was an assassination attempt on Senator Organa at that ball,” the Pantoran adds. “Everyone assumed Senator Organa’s guest was some kind of bodyguard, a one-off thing, but it seems like they’ve returned today. With the end of the war and Senator Organa’s position in putting forth recent legislation, well. The reappearance of his mysterious guest has many of us...interested.”

Qui-Gon vaguely remembers hearing about an assassination attempt of Senator Organa around that time, but can’t recall any of the details--Senator Organa had to deal with more assassination attempts than most, and after a while they all seem to blur together.

Still, if there’s a chance of someone trying to assassinate the Senator at this party, he should probably be there to keep it from happening.

He sips his drink. “I think I would be interested in meeting this consort. What do they look like?”

The Bothan smiles toothily and points across the polished marble floor. Clear through the crowds of overdressed senators and other officials, is Senator Organa standing beside a human with a silver-edged night-black half-mask over their eyes and nose, a stark contrast against their long auburn hair, which is braided back with woven gold cords and deep red ornaments. Their long gown is several shades of purple to blue to black, intricately embellished with jewels that glitter like starlight under the ballroom lights, the fabric expertly layered to emphasize elegance while also hiding the wearer’s gender. From afar, it seems to be cut from the fabric of space itself.

It’s...a bold look amidst a sea of bright colors. Especially beside Senator Organa, dressed in an elaborately embroidered crimson-and-gold coat that looks like flames, it stands out too much to be anything but purposeful.

The two of them appear deep in conversation, and the masked person has their arm slung around Organa’s back in a way that looks unmistakably intimate.

As if somehow sensing his scrutiny, Organa’s mysterious guest breaks off mid-sentence to look directly at Qui-Gon. Their gaze locks from across the room, and Qui-Gon feels a chill down his spine, though from what, he can’t tell. Even the Force offers no answers.

Qui-Gon looks away first. “That’s a bodyguard?” he asks.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” the Pantoran says. “I hear open marriages aren’t uncommon on Alderaan, but I didn’t think Senator Organa was the type.”

Qui-Gon isn’t generally interested in the relationships of politicians (outside of when it yields interesting blackmail material) but he admits even he is intrigued by this mystery guest. It’s certainly more exciting than anything else that has occurred so far tonight. “Perhaps I should ask this mysterious guest myself.”

“Let us know if you learn anything,” the Bothan says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Everyone is dying to know.”

With that, Qui-Gon excuses himself and makes his way across the floor. The stranger turns to see him approach, then murmurs something to Senator Organa and shoos him away. Senator Organa obligingly leaves, but not before casting a peculiarly concerned look at Qui-Gon.

“You didn’t have to send him away,” Qui-Gon says, sliding his hands into his sleeves as he stops next to the stranger.

Now that he’s up close, he can see he’s taller than them by a full head, though to be fair he’s taller than most humans by at least that much. The dark gown has loose sleeves and seems to shimmer, making it difficult to make out the contours of the body--perfect for concealing one’s movements or weapons within its folds, Qui-Gon thinks.

Too little of the face is visible to recognize anyone by--the stylized mask covers the nose and cheeks entirely, and the eye holes have a reflective film over them, blocking them from view completely. The only identifiable traits are the smooth jawline, the cleft chin, and the lips painted dusk blue.

“Consider that I wanted to, Master Jinn,” the stranger says softly. Their accent is high Coruscanti, a scholar’s accent. “If you keep staring at my mouth, I’ll to have to draw certain conclusions about your intentions.”

Qui-Gon forcefully moves his gaze up to the stranger’s eyes, or where they would be. “I didn’t realize we’d been introduced.”

“Your reputation precedes you,” the stranger says, smiling slightly. “I didn’t think you were the type to attend this kind of event, or that the organizers would be so happy to let you in, given your number of diplomatic incidents.”

“All of my diplomatic incidents are deliberate and yield positive results,” Qui-Gon says. “But what of you? You don’t seem like the type to attend balls, either. The last time you appeared was about eight years ago, and Senator Organa was nearly assassinated.”

The stranger shrugs. “Well, I wouldn’t call it ‘nearly’ assassinated. That assumes he was ever in any danger, which he wasn’t.”

“The point still stands. Do you expect a similar event to occur tonight?”

“No, but it’s good policy to prepare for the worst,” the stranger replies. Something about their intonation seems weirdly familiar, but Qui-Gon can’t quite place it.

He reaches out through the Force, and finds the stranger oddly inscrutable. They feel like static and noise, more like a sample of the overwhelming mix of emotion and life in Coruscant than the clear light of a single soul. It’s not shielding so much as psychic camouflage, and not a form he’s ever encountered before.

“Did you need something, Master Jedi?” the stranger asks when the silence stretches on a little too long. “Not to rush you, but the night is short and there are many people I must speak to tonight.”

That’s interesting. Qui-Gon files that tidbit away. “I was curious, as everyone else seems to be, about your identity. A mask draws a lot of attention at an event like this.”

“I don’t see why. The mask is comfortable and fashionable, and it’s doing its job very well if it can fool even you, Master Jedi.”

Qui-Gon blinks. “Have we...met before?”

“Mm, perhaps,” the stranger says. “Something to think about.” They lean over to look at someone behind Qui-Gon. “Bail, darling, you’re back already? Were you able to talk to Senator Chuchi?”

Senator Organa takes his place again at his guest’s side, holding a flute of pale blue wine. “Yes, she was very enthusiastic about the new proposals. I think I can count on her support.”

“Lovely,” the stranger says. They reach over and pluck the flute of wine from Senator Organa’s fingers and takes a drink. “Oh, that’s exquisite. Is that spiced benuberry? Where did they get that? Someone here has expensive taste.”

Senator Organa takes the flute back and sips it himself. “If you wanted a drink, you could have just asked. I would have gotten one for you.”

“It tastes better when I steal it from you, though,” the stranger says with a fond smile.

“Is that why I always have to bring the wine when we have dinner?”

“I think that’s only fair if I’m cooking for you, dear. I certainly don’t have the space for a wine collection. Your mantle is crooked again.” They straighten Senator Organa’s mantle and coat with practiced ease. “There you are. Magnificent as always.”

Senator Organa’s cheeks turn red. “Thank you, Obi-Wan.”

Qui-Gon’s mind stutters for a moment. “Obi-Wan?”

The stranger--Obi-Wan, apparently--sighs. “Thank you, Bail. Just say my name louder, why don’t you?” he says, dropping down to his normal Mid-Rim accent.

Senator Organa shoots him an incredulous look. “You didn’t tell him? I thought that was the whole point of sending me away, so you could discuss personal matters.”

“No, we already did that a few months ago. There’s nothing else to say on that front and I’m not fond of repeating myself,” Obi-Wan says, which is an interesting way to summarize their disastrous reunion in the Halls of Healing.

Qui-Gon’s brow furrows. “You...Obi-Wan, why are you here?”

“I’m working, Master Jinn,” Obi-Wan says. “And to accompany Bail, because he asked me nicely.”

“Senator Organa is married.”

“Yes, we are both quite aware of that,” Obi-Wan says. “Who do you think designed this outfit for me? It certainly wasn’t Bail. He’s extraordinarily talented, but costume design isn’t one of his strong suits.”

“You’re going to hurt my feelings, Obi-Wan,” Senator Organa says. “I’m not bad at clothing design--Breha is just much better.”

Obi-Wan sets a hand on Senator Organa’s arm. “Yes, and you’re both more skilled than I am, so rest assured, your honor is still intact. Wouldn’t you agree, Master Jinn?”

Qui-Gon stares at the gown again, and Obi-Wan in it. It’s not that it’s anything short of beautiful--it’s breathtaking in just about every way--but he’d never thought he’d see Obi-Wan wearing this kind of thing, much less as naturally as he does. “It’s a bold outfit,” he says. “You shaved your beard.”

“Sometimes we must make sacrifices for love and duty,” Obi-Wan says. “It’s nothing that won’t grow back.” He looks back up at Qui-Gon. “I would appreciate it if you don’t tell anyone here who I am, Master Jinn. I don’t want the attention and these people get very tight-lipped when they know a detective is asking questions.”

“Oh, yes,” Qui-Gon says. “Of course. What are you investigating, if I may ask?”

“You may not,” Obi-Wan says. “Now that you have learned my identity, I believe that’s all you wanted to say. I’ll take my leave now.” He loops his arm around Senator Organa’s and turns to leave.

“Wait,” Qui-Gon says.

Obi-Wan pauses. “Yes?”

“I know we didn’t part on the best of terms--”

“That’s putting it lightly, but yes, continue.”

“--would you like to come to the Temple sometime for tea? And to talk?” Qui-Gon asks.

“Not particularly,” Obi-Wan says. “Like I said, I’m very busy these days, and our past is past. Maybe when things have cooled down, or if we meet by chance, we can speak again, but frankly I don’t really wish to reconnect with you.”

The words pierce Qui-Gon straight through the heart, but he can’t blame Obi-Wan for it, really. Not after what he’d been through.

“I see,” Qui-Gon says softly. “Then may the Force be with you, Obi-Wan.”

“And with you, Master Jinn,” Obi-Wan says.

With that, the two of them go out into the crowd of guests without so much as a backwards glance.

“Rex, your detective boyfriend is on the comm line!” Fives shouts as he bursts into Rex’s room apropos of nothing.

Rex, who is in the middle of doing even more paperwork to work out a more permanent place to live in Coruscant than the repurposed barracks, puts down his datapad and closes his eyes and counts to ten.

“Okay,” he says after taking a deep breath. “First of all, we’ve been over this, please knock. Second, he’s not my boyfriend.”

“He calls you sweetheart a lot for a guy who isn’t your boyfriend,” Fives says, leaning on the door frame.

“Obi-Wan just talks like that,” Rex says. Also, he’s pretty sure that Obi-Wan and Senator Organa are some kind of thing. “If you met him, he’d probably call you sweetheart and dear and all that, too.”

Fives looks a little too interested at the sound of that. “You think so? Maybe you should introduce me, vod.”

Rex does not want Obi-Wan to meet Fives. That’s a disaster waiting to happen. “Fives. Just give me the commlink.”

Fives tosses it to him, and Rex activates the holodisk. Obi-Wan flickers into view, wearing his new coat and with his hair pinned back, which means he’s probably at his office right now. He’s smiling pleasantly, but it’s kind of in the scary way that means he might murder someone.

Probably. Rex knows Obi-Wan definitely could murder someone, it’s just that he chooses not to.

“Detective,” Rex says. “How do you do?”

“How do you do,” Obi-Wan says, his voice perfectly mild. “Rex, darling, how long have we known each other?”

“Uh,” Rex says, suddenly feeling an incredible amount of dread. “Three months, if you count that month and a half you were off planet.”

“Yes, that sounds about right. And how many conversations have we had in that time?”

“A...a lot?” Rex asks. They’d discussed a lot of things after the war ended, especially about possible career paths moving forward. Rex is still getting used to civilian life, but Obi-Wan had made the transition much easier.

“Right,” Obi-Wan says. “And you have, of course, known about my relationship with Jango since we met.”

“Um, yeah, kind of?” Rex says, still not sure where this is going. “You two lived together for a while, and he taught you Mando’a and how to fight, and--” A realization dawns on him. “You...did you sleep with buir?”

Obi-Wan waves his hand dismissively. “That’s not relevant right now. My point is, he was, in many ways, my family. Which is why I have to ask: When were you going to tell me Jango had a son?”

At this moment, Rex realizes he is in trouble. “How...how did you hear about Boba?”

“Cad Bane commed me about half an hour ago, telling me that Jango’s son has been causing trouble with bounty hunters and trying to incite an assassination or two and, knowing my relationship with Jango, contacted me to tell me to pick up my child. Now, you can see why I may be a little upset to find out that I have left Jango’s ten-year-old son orphaned for almost six months because nobody told me he existed.”

“Cad Bane the bounty hunter?”

“Yes, Cad Bane the bounty hunter. I’m not aware of any other Cad Banes.”

“Cad Bane has your comm code?”

Obi-Wan sighs. “Rex, I worked with bounty hunters for a little over two years. They have networks, and Jango was part of, or at least peripheral to, most of them. Of course I have their contact information and they have mine.”

“Cad Bane knows you were sleeping with Jango?”

“Again, whether or not I slept with Jango is irrelevant. You probably don’t know this, but we were quite well-known within bounty hunter circles at the time. Just because I never personally brought in a bounty doesn’t mean I was idle for those two years--before we chose to part ways, Jango and I became fairly notorious for our speed and efficiency in tracking down and bringing in difficult targets. It was really not difficult to deduce the nature of our relationship, and it’s not like we were trying to hide it, but I digress.

“My point is, I would have much preferred to find out about Jango’s son from a friend and not from a bounty hunter halfway across the galaxy who doesn’t like me.”

Rex grimaces. “It slipped my mind, I swear. I didn’t really know Boba that well, we just kind of saw him sometimes around Kamino and he didn’t like any of us anyways--”

“I’m not angry, dear. I’m just upset that this happened,” Obi-Wan says. “I’m not comming to make you feel guilty, I’m comming because if you or any of your brothers know anything about Boba, I would like to learn what I can before he gets to Coruscant.”

“What?” Rex says. “He’s coming to Coruscant?”

“As I said, Cad Bane wanted me to take Boba off his hands, but since I only recently fully recovered from my trip to Dathomir, we agreed that one of my colleagues could bring him here instead. He should be here in about two days, and I would like to have things prepared for him.”

“Prepared like how?”

“Like having a place for him to stay,” Obi-Wan says. “I’ll have to talk to Feral and Savage to see if we can shuffle some living arrangements around to make space for him until I can manage something more permanent.”

Rex frowns. Obi-Wan’s new apartment was larger than the old one to better accommodate his new roommates, but it wasn’t big. There was probably not a lot of space to accommodate a ten-year-old youngling, much less one as...contrary as Boba.

“Are you planning to adopt him?” Rex asks. “You only found out he existed half an hour ago.”

“My not knowing he existed doesn’t change that he’s a youngling who deserves love and support,” Obi-Wan says. “I’ll have to talk to him first, but if things go well, then yes, I suppose I’ll adopt him. Jango would have done the same for any child of mine, and I’m not about to let Boba grow up in the company of bounty hunters and who knows what else if I can help it. I’ll have to talk to Bail about the necessary paperwork.”

“I see. Well, um, I don’t know if I know that much about Boba,” Rex replies. “I mean, he’s a clone like the rest of us, but without the accelerated aging, and he wasn’t trained with the rest of us. Jango paid him a lot more attention, as you might guess.”

“Yes, well, it’s clear Jango did not value you and your brothers like he should have,” Obi-Wan says. “And I’m sorry, though not surprised by it. He’s always been a rather goal-oriented man, and you, unfortunately, were not his goal.”

It’s true--very true--but Obi-Wan really could have said it any other way. Some of his discomfort must show on his face, because Obi-Wan says, “I apologize. That was perhaps a bit too frank. It’s not really an easy thing to confront, that you were not your guardian’s first priority.”

Rex bites his lip, because Obi-Wan of all people knows about that one. At least when Rex had been thrown into a war, he’d known it was coming and had time to prepare. It’s not like he ever thought Jango loved him the way he loved Boba, and that’s as comforting as it is sad.

“Are you sure you’re ready for fatherhood?” Rex asks. “That’s a big commitment.”

“Well, it’s not as if I haven’t made larger choices in the past,” Obi-Wan says. “Do you think you can help me, Rex?”

Rex pauses. He’s not sure how he feels about Obi-Wan stepping in and adopting Boba. It feels kind of like preferential treatment, the way Boba always had been treated, but Obi-Wan is right, too--Boba’s a youngling in ways that he and his brothers are not. And, when he thinks about it, Boba must have been raised very lonely, without the support of thousands of brothers or all the teachers or really...anyone, except Jango. And Jango was not the most social man in the galaxy.

If there’s anyone who can take the rough edges off Boba and get him what he needs, it would be Obi-Wan. It’s not that Obi-Wan has any sort of extraordinary power or ability, but he’s so deliberately kind despite his bluntness, and he makes plans and he makes them work. If he wants to adopt Boba, he’ll do the best he can to raise Boba right. Rex can trust that much.

Rex nods. “Yeah. I don’t know how much I can help, but I can ask around. See if anyone else knows more about Boba.”

“Lovely,” Obi-Wan says. “Thank you, dear. Perhaps we could discuss it over dinner tomorrow? There’s a new restaurant a few levels up from here I’ve been meaning to try. I hear the atmosphere is very nice.”

Rex feels some heat rising in his cheeks at the thought of dinner with Obi-Wan alone. He knows Obi-Wan flirts like this with pretty much all of his friends, and the idea of actually being in love is one that he’s still not sure of how to approach, much less whether he would actually like it--with Obi-Wan or otherwise--but he still feels special when Obi-Wan turns up the charm. “Will I have to dress up?”

“You don’t have to,” Obi-Wan replies. “I don’t make so much money that I go to restaurants with a dress code, but if you were to dress up, I wouldn’t be upset.”

“Will you be dressed up?” Rex asks.

“Only if you’d like me to be,” Obi-Wan says with a teasing smile. “I aim to please.”

Rex, who suddenly feels like he might spontaneously combust, coughs into his fist and looks away. “In that case, maybe I’ll dust my dress uniform off,” he says. “Tomorrow night, you said?”

“Correct. It’ll be my treat, of course. I’ll send you the address,” Obi-Wan says. “Thank you, Rex. I look forward to seeing you then.”

Obi-Wan cuts the transmission then, the blue hologram cutting out to nothing. Rex has to take a moment to regain his composure and realize Fives is trying and failing not to laugh behind him.

“So,” Fives says gleefully. “Not your boyfriend, huh?”

Rex throws his stylus at him. “Shut up!”

“Darling, this is really unnecessary,” Obi-Wan says as Bail loads new tableware into his new cabinets in his new apartment.

“It’s a housewarming gift,” Bail says. “And you know it’s very rude to refuse a gift, especially one which is so practical. With two roommates, you’ll need a better-stocked kitchen.”

“A housewarming gift is a new knife block,” Obi-Wan protests as Bail finishes with the dishes and moves on to cookware. “It is not four hundred credits’ worth of pots, pans, dishes, silverware, spices, and a bottle of vintage wine. I can’t accept this!”

Really, Bail thinks to himself, Obi-Wan should be impressed by his restraint in only stocking the kitchen. Now that Obi-Wan has moved out of that horribly cramped shoe box and into something with actual space to move around, it took quite a lot of resolve to not furnish the entire thing, including a proper bed frame instead of that horrible wall bed in the old place.

“But think of how pleased Feral and Savage will be when they return from the Temple,” Bail says. “Didn’t you want to teach them how to cook?”

“I don’t need all of this to teach them how to cook, dear! I’m a bachelor, not a professional chef--I could cook over a bonfire! I don’t need all this...equipment!”

Sometimes, it’s things like this that remind Bail that a significant portion of Obi-Wan’s early life was in the Jedi Temple, which is a world away from civilian lifestyle, and the other portion was borderline feral. Even after living self-sufficiently for ten years in Coruscant, Obi-Wan still doesn’t entirely understand everything about how the typical person lives in the civilized world--things like typical childhood education or normal skills for a person to learn or how reasonable it is to risk his life or how many pans a kitchen should have.

“Obi-Wan,” Bail says. “It’s very impressive that you’ve gotten this far in life with only one pot, one wok, three plates, and two bowls, but I assure you, what I have gifted you is barely more than the minimum required equipment for a typical household.”

Obi-Wan crosses his arms. “That wine is not ‘minimum required equipment’.”

“That wine is for us to drink tonight and you know it,” Bail replies. He puts Obi-Wan’s very well-used wok on the stove and closes the cabinet. “I know you had a very unusual upbringing, so having a stocked kitchen has not been your priority for most of the last thirty-five years, but surely you must have been in a properly stocked kitchen at some point? Besides mine?”

“My kitchen was already properly stocked, Bail!”

Bail sighs. “You lived with Jango Fett for a while, didn’t you? Surely, he had more than two pans and three plates.”

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes. “Most Mandalorian dishes only need one pan. You just take everything and stir fry it together--it’s fast and easy and you can do it over an open fire if you need to. Dinner was ready in half an hour and it tasted great. I don’t see why you need all of this.” He gestures broadly to the newly stocked kitchen. “Just because I have the cabinets now doesn’t mean they have to be filled.”

“But did Jango have more than two pans and three plates?”

Obi-Wan sighs. “Yes, he did, but it’s not like we ever used them.”

“You can use them now, and if you don’t, I’m sure Feral and Savage can. Or I can, when I visit you. Not everyone survives on braised vegetables and undercity takeaway. Maybe you can finally learn how to use an oven.”

“I know how to use an oven! You just turn it on and put stuff in there for however long the book tells you to, it’s not rocket science.”

Bail pats him on the shoulder. “Well, now you have the pans to actually do something with it. You can finally learn how to bake cookies--I have some recipes you could try, if you’re interested.”

“My life is not any less fulfilled just because I can’t bake cookies!”

“You’re only saying that because you haven’t tried the Antilles Chocolate Chunk Special,” Bail says as he moves past Obi-Wan into the living room. “Next time I come over, I’ll bring some ingredients and I’ll change your life.”

Obi-Wan follows after him. “That's not a real thing. You made that up. You just made that up right now.”

“Obi-Wan, I would never lie to you about my grandmother's cookies. She had some of the best desserts in Alderaan. She won competitions for them.” Bail taps Obi-Wan on the cheek. “She would have loved you--you and your sweet tooth.”

“It’s not a sweet tooth, it’s a perfectly reasonable enjoyment of sweet foods.”

“They call that a sweet tooth, dear,” Bail says. “Arguing the semantics won’t change the fact that you would have loved my grandmother’s treats.”

Obi-Wan sighs dramatically but doesn’t argue the point. Bail takes it as a victory.

The two of them settle on the couch--it’s the same one from the old apartment, the one that Obi-Wan had to assemble himself and has somehow managed to keep intact for the last ten years. Despite its age, it’s still very comfortable. Bail can see why Obi-Wan kept it, though considering how thrifty Obi-Wan is, he probably would have kept it even if it was ratty and falling apart.

Bail loops an arm around Obi-Wan’s shoulder and pulls him in closer. Obi-Wan’s head on his shoulder is a comfortable weight, and Bail lets himself bask in the moment.

It’s been hard to find time to himself recently between all the work in the Senate and that absolute nightmare situation of Palpatine’s escape from custody, subsequent recapture, and execution by the Jedi about a month ago. Since then, he’s been fighting tooth and nail to posthumously prove Palpatine’s treason against the Republic and transition out of the war and restructure the very broken Senate system. He’s not successful on all fronts, not by a long shot, but there is a lot more progress than he was hoping for, in no small part helped by the investigations Obi-Wan had conducted for him.

It’ll be years before things really improve, but he’s accomplishing enough that he lets himself hope.

Bail glances down at Obi-Wan and runs a hand through his long hair, let down even though Obi-Wan hates to have people see him that way--Bail never really understood that until recently, when Obi-Wan finally told him about his old Master from his brief time as a Padawan. If Bail had had a Master Jinn who had done the things Master Jinn had done, he would probably not enjoy having long hair worn loose, either.

He wonders, sometimes, about Obi-Wan’s past. He’s heard bits and pieces of it over the past eight years, but there’s still so much he doesn’t know and probably never will. They’re not important--they’re very important to Obi-Wan of course, but Bail doesn’t need to know them if Obi-Wan doesn’t wish to share it. He knows who Obi-Wan is now. That’s all he needs.

Obi-Wan curls more into his side. “You’re thinking about me, dear. Did I do something interesting?”

“How do you always know when I’m thinking about you?” Bail asks.

“I can feel it,” Obi-Wan murmurs. “I can tell when people are looking at me, or paying attention to me. It’s like...” He pauses for a moment, thinking about it. “It feels kind of like a vibration through the Force, like I’m holding onto a thousand strings and someone plucks one, or ten, or a hundred of them.”

“Really? Doesn’t that get irritating?”

“It’s terrible sometimes,” Obi-Wan admits. “It’s the worst to feel eyes on you all around, but it’s saved my life before--getting hunted, or knowing my cover’s been blown or I’ve been recognized. If I concentrate, I can use it to tell if there are cameras or listening devices around--Jango found that especially useful. Most days it’s just low-level irritation. Sometimes it’s more obvious and it makes it hard to think.”

“Oh,” Bail says. He can admit that the way Jedi observe the world is something beyond him. Even Obi-Wan’s view of the world, which is according to him less substantial than a ‘proper’ Jedi’s should be, is practically unfathomable. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was unpleasant for you.”

“I don’t mind when you do it, dear. It’s comfortable, to feel you’re thinking of me.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Well, when you do it, it feels like this.” Obi-Wan gestures vaguely to the two of them. “Like love.”

Bail feels his cheeks warm. “You’re a flatterer, Obi-Wan.”

“I do love you,” Obi-Wan continues. “Not the way Breha loves you, obviously, but I love you very much. I love the short times we’re able to spend together, I love your friendship and your strength and your commitment to your work to make things better for your people. Every time I’m with you I’m so glad I know you, and if that isn’t love then I’m not sure what is.”

“Even though I keep trying to buy you clothes and stock your kitchen?” Bail asks.

“Even with that,” Obi-Wan says with a lazy smile. “Your tastes are too expensive, darling. If I let you buy all the things you want to buy for me, you’ll spoil me and I’m not cut out to be a kept man. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.”

Bail squeezes Obi-Wan gently. “I don’t think there’s anything I could do to keep you from your work. If it wasn’t investigation, it would be archive work or teaching or coming up with new and exciting ways to take down and rebuild a government. I couldn’t stop you from that and I would never want to.”

“I know.”

“But you should consider taking a break from time to time,” Bail said. “I might be trying to keep the Republic from falling apart, but your work behind the scenes is keeping me together. And you’ve got Feral and Savage and arrangements with the Temple and your usual work on top of that? When do you even sleep?”

“Good question,” Obi-Wan says. “Now, maybe?”

“Now? Do you want me to bring you to your room?”

Obi-Wan shakes his head and closes his eyes. “Here is fine. Comfortable. Is that okay?”

Bail shifts his position so Obi-Wan’s head is on his lap and says, “Yes, that’s okay. Sleep well, dear.”

Obi-Wan must be more exhausted than he lets on, because less than two minutes later, he’s already deeply asleep, with his face more peaceful than Bail ever sees him.

Bail sets a hand on Obi-Wan’s back and thinks that perhaps this, too, is love.

The thing about being made for war is that having the end in sight suddenly becomes the scariest thing in the world.

Cody finds himself restless, pacing his temporary room in the Coruscant barracks like he’s trying to wear a hole through the floor. The 91st is on extended leave, due to General Windu having to return to the Jedi Temple for yet another thing relating to the late Chancellor. Three weeks in, the idleness is making him sick to his stomach.

He feels like he’s rotting from the inside out. It’s not that he wants to be out in the battlefield with his brothers dying all around him. It’s just that he doesn’t want to be here doing nothing at all. It doesn’t feel right to have everything so silent, without the hiss of pneumatics and creaking of clanker joints and barrage of constant blaster fire. He’s getting twitchy enough that even Ponds is giving him some side-eye, and as horrible as all the battles are, the thought of having it be over and going on like this indefinitely is just about the worst thing he can imagine.

After just isn’t something he thinks about. It’s not something he wants to think about. He needs to do something or he’ll drive himself nuts, and he can’t afford that. That’s just not a good look for a Captain.

With a frustrated sigh, he sits on his cot and scrolls through his contacts. He’s not really looking for anyone in particular, just someone who he can talk to and take the edge off the static that’s filling up his head. He ends up sending messages to about twelve different random brothers that he can stand seeing him like this, then lies face-down like that will somehow give him answers.

Some time passes--maybe a lot or maybe just a little--and his commlink beeps with a response.

Groggily, Cody checks it. It’s Rex.

Cody blinks. He hadn’t even known Rex was planetside. The 91st and the 501st don’t, as a rule, get leave together--Generals Windu and Skywalker were just too important to keep off the field at the same time--but with whatever the hell happened to Skywalker two months back to knock him out of commission and the disaster going on in the Senate, there’s a first for everything.

He types out a response.

Rex goes offline after that. Cody stares at his commlink for a few moments longer than strictly necessary, slightly baffled by the whole situation. Chances are, Rex is just making shit up to lure him into the gym, but ‘getting his ass kicked by a civilian in the barracks’ is an impressively bad cover story, even for him.

Well, if Rex wants his ass kicked, who is Cody to deny him? A round or two on the sparring mats is probably what he needs to work off his nervous energy. Decision made, he goes to the fresher to wash his face, then heads down to the north gym.

It’s...busy in the main barracks. There’s more brothers planetside than ever before in the war--enough that practically all of the barrack dormitories are occupied, though not quite at capacity yet. By the looks of it, almost everyone’s chosen to stay in the barracks or on their flagships instead of going out into the city, probably because there's not really anything to do out there--it's not like they've got money to spend or people to see.

When he gets to the north gym, there's a loose ring of brothers, some in 501st blue, some in colors from other units, around what sounds like a fight. Cody shoulders his way through just in time to see Rex in his blacks, getting thrown to the ground face-first and pinned in a painful-looking hold.

Rex struggles futilely against it for a few seconds, then gives it up. "I yield," he says.

A cheer goes up around the gym as Rex's opponent rolls back up to his feet and helps Rex up. Even from the back, it's obvious that Rex's opponent isn’t one of them--he's slightly taller and more wiry, with long reddish hair tied back in a simple plait that reaches his mid-back. He's wearing a civilian workman's plain canvas tunic and trousers, both of which are damp with sweat, and long black gloves that go up halfway to the elbow.

Suddenly, the man turns directly towards him and locks eyes without hesitation like he knew Cody was there, even though that makes no sense at all.

The man (short beard and mustache, gray eyes, square jaw, birthmark above the right brow) glances back towards Rex. "Is this the brother you were talking about, dear?"

Rex nods and waves to Cody. "Hey, you said you wanted your ass kicked?"

Cody goes up and punches Rex in the shoulder. "Speak for yourself. Who's this guy?"

The man smiles. "Obi-Wan Kenobi, at your service." His accent is mild, but distinctly Mid-Rim. He claps Rex on the shoulder, a weirdly...friendly gesture from some random civilian towards a clone. "Rex was showing me around the barracks and I asked for a demonstration of the type of combat training you and your brothers have received."

Well. At least this guy talks to them like they’re people. That’s a good start.

"It doesn't look like he's doing a great job," Cody says. "How many times have you beaten him?"

"I think this is the... fifth time?" Obi-Wan replies, stretching out his right arm. It seems to be a little stiff. "The first one doesn't really count, though--he was holding back. For some reason he didn't believe me when I said I could put him on the mat in ten seconds or less."

Cody looks at Rex, who's got a couple of bruises forming on his face. "And did he?"

"He did. Twice," Rex says. "I kind of regret telling him not to go easy. I haven’t won once."

"You wouldn't be having nearly as much fun if I was going easy on you, darling," Obi-Wan says, patting Rex’s shoulder. "And you, soldier. What's your name?"

"Captain Cody, sir," Cody says. "I serve under General Windu with the 91st."

"No need to call me sir. I'm no soldier, and certainly not one with any authority. It’s good to meet you." Obi-Wan accepts a water bottle from one of Rex's men and takes a long drink from it. "Since Rex's demonstration hasn't met your standards, would you like to do one of your own, Captain?"

"You should," Rex says. "He'll slam you to the mat hard enough to dislodge that stick up your--"

"Hey, now. Maybe you forgot because it's been too long since Kamino, but I'm a better fighter than you and always have been," Cody cuts in.

"Yeah, but are you better than Jango?" Rex asks.

"What? What does Jango have to do with anything?"

Rex shakes his head. "Never mind. If you're not interested in sparring Obi-Wan, there's plenty of others who want to. You just get first pick because you deserve to get thrown on the mat the most."

Cody crosses his arms and sizes up Obi-Wan. He looks like he can take a few hits and he's clearly got experience fighting--real experience, not just hitting bags and sparring--but he's not as built as any of the vode and he doesn't seem more exceptional than any other nat-born should be. He can't see how Obi-Wan possibly could have taken Rex down five times in a row.

Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow. “If you’re so skeptical, then allow me the opportunity to change your mind, Captain. I dare say I can surprise you.”

Cody blinks and glances at Rex. “Did I say that out loud?”

Rex shakes his head. “Obi-Wan’s just...like that.”

Cody looks back at Obi-Wan, who meets his gaze evenly. The longer he looks, the more a feeling builds in the back of Cody’s mind, that there’s something off about Obi-Wan--behind the man’s easy confidence and soft-spoken words, there’s something in his steady gaze and his presence that seems simultaneously untouchable and yet too present. Everything about him is as human as it gets, but if he were to get cut, Cody isn’t convinced he would bleed red. Like some kind of ghost, standing immovable in the heart of a storm, like some eerie shadow seen out of the corner of the eye under the churning waves of Kamino’s endless oceans.

It reminds him, for some reason, of the Jedi...or perhaps the Sith.

“You think you could beat me? I’m a lot better than Rex,” Cody says.

Obi-Wan grins. “I’m fairly certain I could. But I suppose there’s only one way to find out.”

Cody licks his lip. His heart’s racing and he’s not sure if it’s excitement or something else entirely. “That’s a lot of confidence,” he says. “I think I can give you a little more of a challenge.”

“I would like that,” Obi-Wan replies, still smiling faintly like he knows something Cody doesn’t. He steps back out to the sparring mat. “Let’s make it a good one, dear.”

Rex claps him on the shoulder. “I’m taking a holovid of the whole thing. Just so you know. Best of luck!”

“Luck doesn’t have anything to do with it,” Cody says as he steps up after Obi-Wan.

“I know,” Rex says. “I said that so you don’t feel bad when you lose.”

Cody rolls his eyes. That vote of confidence is really what brothers are for.

He takes a few minutes to stretch and warm up, then settles into a ready stance. Obi-Wan bows, then does the same, moving into a stance Cody doesn’t recognize.

Obi-Wan makes no motion to attack, so Cody strikes first. He jabs fast and hard, aiming for the face--

Obi-Wan slips just out of his line of attack and Cody over-balances, stumbling as his fist sails straight through empty air. He raises his arms to deflect the inevitable counterattack but there is none. Obi-Wan simply returns to his ready stance with nothing more than a raised brow.

Cody looks at him, trying to suss out what game Obi-Wan is playing. The man seems utterly uninterested in making a move. Maybe he's still underestimating Cody's abilities.

Cody launches another attack, striking open-handed at Obi-Wan's chest. Obi-Wan leans just out of reach, and Cody follows straight into a high kick.

That doesn't land either.

Cody presses onwards, raining blows down from every side, every which way, but none of them land--Obi-Wan dodges and weaves between each and every attack, barely moving in the process. It's like trying to hit a ghost.

He's starting to get an inkling of why Rex lost.

Well, Cody didn't get this far in life by giving up when things got a little tough, he thinks as he slowly circles Obi-Wan, who still looks placid and unruffled. Nobody's really untouchable--even Jango couldn't dodge everything, and fighting him had been like fighting air sometimes.

He swings at Obi-Wan again, looking for an opening. It seems for a few moments there isn't one, until he kicks at Obi-Wan's right side and sees it--he's weaker there. That stiff arm of his just can't move as fast as the rest of him, and Cody gets his first glancing blow against Obi-Wan's bicep.

He pounces on the opportunity, grabbing for Obi-Wan's arm--

In a flash, Obi-Wan grabs Cody's wrist, pivots back, and throws Cody over his hip straight into the mat, knocking Cody's breath right out of his lungs.

Cody twists his arm out of Obi-Wan's grip and rolls away just fast enough to avoid a kick in the stomach.

"So you do fight back," Cody says as he gets back to his feet, still short of breath.

"It's not polite to go after someone's weak side," Obi-Wan chastises.

Cody wipes his mouth. “We’re fighting. Anything’s fair game if it works.”

"I didn’t say it was unfair, just impolite,” Obi-Wan says. “Do you yield, Captain?"

Cody grins. "You know I don't."

He launches into another attack. Obi-Wan still stays infuriatingly out of reach, swaying this way and that just enough to not get hit by anything--except if it's coming on the upper right side. Only then does he move to deflect Cody's attacks directly.

"Stop moving!" Cody yells.

"If I do that, you'll hit me," Obi-Wan says, ducking another kick. "And you seem like a man who hits very hard."

Cody swings at Obi-Wan's face, and misses. "I'm faster than you. How are you dodging everything?"

Obi-Wan grins and sidesteps yet another attack. "Your hands might be faster than mine, but they're not faster than my eyes." Lightning-fast, he sinks a short punch directly in Cody's stomach. "You telegraph, darling."

Cody stumbles back, gagging--any one of his brothers can and do hit harder, but a solid punch to the gut is a solid punch to the gut. He coughs and tries to regain his composure. "I don't telegraph." Of that, he’s dead certain--Jango had spent several grueling weeks training it out of him.

"Maybe not physically," Obi-Wan replies. "But the Force moves through you as it does through anyone. If you know how to read it, you can read movements before they happen."

Cody's brows draw together. "The Force? You're no Jedi." He can't be. Obi-Wan moves too heavily, too deliberately to ever achieve that strange Jedi grace and fluidity. And last he checked, it’s not as if Jedi have the ability to dodge around every attack like this, either.

"No, I'm not a Jedi," Obi-Wan says. "But Jedi don't have a monopoly on the Force, you know."

"Then what are you? Sith?"

Obi-Wan frowns. "Those aren't the only two options, dear. Force religion isn't common across the galaxy, but there are hundreds or thousands of sects out there. Even among Force-sensitives, there are many practices outside of Jedi--some of them by choice, a lot of them because they can’t use the Force that way."

"So you're, what, a Temple reject?" Cody asks.

Obi-Wan's eyes go strangely unreadable, and Cody feels a chill down his spine. "Hm," Obi-Wan says. "That's not quite right, but it's not quite wrong, either." He brings his hands up again. “I only hit you once, Captain. Is that all you can take?”

Cody stands up straight with a groan. His stomach hurts, but it's nothing he hasn’t had before. He raises his fists. "You wish.”

He focuses himself and launches at Obi-Wan, forcing himself to move faster, strike after strike without pause. It’s obvious after the first few misses that Obi-Wan, even if he can see the hits coming, can’t quite keep up with the onslaught as he shifts from exclusively dodging to properly blocking and deflecting Cody’s hits.

Cody scores a glancing blow on the side of Obi-Wan’s face, and Obi-Wan snaps out a kick directly into Cody’s side, forcing him back.

Obi-Wan wipes his mouth and smiles. “That’s more like it.”

Cody isn’t sure what to do with that, except to roll his neck and ready for a last assault. “Do you still think you can beat me?”

Obi-Wan nods. “Oh, absolutely.”

Cody bristles. “You’re not going to win by dodging around. You’ll have to attack at some point.”

“Yes, I suppose I will,” Obi-Wan says, and strikes.

His fist slams into Cody’s palm, and Cody grabs for Obi-Wan’s collar.

Obi-Wan slips Cody’s grip and grips him by the wrist. He twists Cody down, directly into a knee to the jaw that makes him see stars.

Cody swings back and grabs hold of Obi-Wan’s tunic, then pivots and yanks him into the strongest throw he knows--

It pulls Obi-Wan over his back and down to the ground, but Obi-Wan twists and grabs Cody’s shoulder, dragging them both down. They hit the ground hard and they roll, one over the other until Obi-Wan pushes down, forcing Cody pinned flat on his back with Obi-Wan’s knee against his diaphragm and his arm against his throat.

Cody tries to push Obi-Wan off of him. Obi-Wan punches him in the face. It hurts enough that Cody decides it’s better to stay down.

He sighs. “I yield.”

Some spectators shout and holler at his defeat, but it’s not too bad. He did agree to get his ass kicked, he supposes. Might as well be to this guy, whoever the hell he is.

Obi-Wan gets off of him and offers a hand up. “Well fought, Captain. That’s a throw I haven’t seen in over a decade.”

Cody takes his hand and gets to his feet. “You’re not supposed to be able to counter that throw. You’re not even supposed to know it.”

“Do you think Jango came up with it on his own? I’m the one who taught it to him,” Obi-Wan says.

Cody stares at him. Obi-Wan must be, what, about thirty? He’s definitely younger than Jango. “You what? You taught Jango?”

“I taught him some things. We knew each other for two years--you don’t know someone that long without learning a few things from them.” He smiles. “You fight much more like Jango than Rex did.”

Vaguely, Cody remembers Jango mentioning someone from his past who he’d been very close to, but Cody had been under the impression that Jango’s friend was dead.

“You’re Jango’s riddur?” Cody sputters.

“That’s kind of a strong word,” Obi-Wan says, wiping off his face with the hem of his tunic. “It’s not like we ever exchanged vows or armor. Strictly speaking, we were business partners.” He claps Cody on the shoulder. “Are you feeling better now, Captain?”

“What?”

“When you came in, you seemed a bit off-balance,” Obi-Wan replies. “Emotionally, I mean. Did sparring help?”

Cody blinks. He didn’t realize he was quite so transparent--or perhaps it’s just another one of those Force things. Even after all his time fighting alongside the Jedi, he won’t pretend he understands them.

He thinks for a few moments on how he feels, and decides that he does feel better, his dignity notwithstanding. Thinking about the future and the end of the war still fills him with dread, but at least he doesn’t feel too twitchy anymore. Eating mat twice in ten minutes can do that, if nothing else.

“I think so,” Cody says. "Were you going easy on me?”

“Maybe a little. Not so much towards the end, when you were more serious about it. It was quite close, I think.”

Rex tosses Cody a bottle of water, and Cody drinks half of it down in one go. He doesn’t think he’s had a spar that intense in months. “Sure didn’t feel like it,” he says. “I barely even hit you.”

“When I go down, I go down hard,” Obi-Wan says. “Too much of a glass jaw, I’m afraid. I had some very close calls there.”

Cody’s not sure if Obi-Wan’s just saying it to make him feel better, but it is a little reassuring that it wasn’t completely one-sided. Just mostly one-sided. He’ll take what he can get.

There’s some shouting behind them of others who want a round, and Obi-Wan says, “I think some of your brothers would also like a chance to hit the mat, so I’ll leave you here with Rex. Have a good day, Captain.”

Obi-Wan goes to speak with the others, and Rex loops an arm around Cody’s shoulders to give him a good shake. “How’s that for getting your ass kicked?” he asks. “I think you impressed him--he seems to like you.”

“How can you tell?” Cody asks, slowly rotating his jaw. He’s really going to feel it in the morning. “Does he usually punch people he likes?”

“He punched you with his left hand,” Rex says. “His right hand is metal.”

Internally, Cody swears himself out. He should have known--that must be why Obi-Wan was slower on the right side. Suddenly, he is very happy that his jaw is only bruised. Behind them, he hears a thud and cheers as yet another brother gets thrown to the ground.

“That’s quite a civilian you’ve gotten acquainted with,” Cody says.

Rex’s face goes unmistakably fond. “Yeah. He’s really something.”

It takes Cody an entire two seconds to connect the dots. “Rex, do you have a crush on him?”

“What?” Rex says, way too fast. “No, I--No! How could you say that? That’s--” He sniffs and schools his face to seriousness. “I can’t believe you’d be so unprofessional, Cody.”

“You do!” Cody crows. He shoves Rex, saying, “Come on, tell ori’vod all about it!”

“I don’t!” Rex protests, going completely red in the face. “And even if I did, I don’t think Obi-Wan’s into that kind of thing.”

“What, clones?” Cody asks. The guy did know Jango, after all.

Rex shakes his head. “Dating.”

“Have you asked him?” Cody asks. “No? Come on, I’ll do it for you right now.”

“Wh--No! Don’t you dare!”

“It’s easy, just--” He turns towards where Obi-Wan is and shouts, “Hey, Obi-W--!”

That’s as far as he gets before Rex tackles him to the ground. Cody laughs, blocking Rex’s wild punches.

He’s going to have the time of his life giving Rex hell over this.

He just has to give Obi-Wan the shovel talk first.

Rex tries not to think about it too much, but sometimes his life feels like a really bad joke. His creation gets commissioned for a war that doesn’t exist, he trains for ten years straight to become part of the strongest military force the galaxy’s seen in centuries, and then what? The war they were built for finally happens, they finally serve the Jedi the way they were always supposed to, and then it turns out the Supreme Chancellor is behind both sides of the war and the clone army was actually commissioned by the Sith to kill the Jedi. The Jedi find things out through what is basically dumb luck, the Chancellor gets executed before anything horrible can happen, and less than six months after Geonosis, it’s all over.

Five months ago, when Obi-Wan (back then, just a stranger, just some random detective with eyes that were too sharp and knowing) told him there might be something sinister behind his and his brothers’ creation, he hadn’t really believed it--or maybe he just hadn’t wanted to. He was supposed to be built for combat and command and loyalty, not betrayal of the worst kind. Even the thought of aiming his blaster at his General makes him feel sick (and yet, he’d done just that out of his own free will, hadn’t he? He had fired on his General to protect his Commander, for all the good that did) and he can’t imagine what it would be like, to have a thing in his head twist him so out of shape that he could slaughter everyone who had cared for him and think it was the right thing to do.

Sometimes Rex wonders how things might be different if his idiot General hadn’t gotten blackmailed and kidnapped by a Darksider hell-bent on revenge, accidentally revealing the Sith Lord in the process. It’s not something he likes to think about too hard.

(He still has nightmares of Ventress getting into his head and pulling his strings. Before, she’d spoken words through his mouth and lured his men into a trap. Now, she leans into his ear and tells him that good soldiers follow orders.)

...but he’s not a soldier anymore. That’s all over. There’s no war to fight in and no army to fight for. He’s a civilian now, with a Republic citizenship and a civilian home and, with luck and time, a civilian job. He’s spent his entire existence learning a thousand and one ways to end a life in the most efficient ways possible and suddenly he has nothing to use it for, and though the plans that had been laid out for him are the worst thing he can possibly imagine, he’s not too proud to admit that he’s lost now and that not knowing where his path leads anymore is very, very scary.

“The floor’s already clean, Rex’ika,” Kix drawls, shaking him loose of his thoughts. “If you keep scrubbing it, you’re going to strip off the varnish.”

Rex pauses and looks up to where Kix is leaning in the hallway entrance, looking extremely unimpressed. “Just because I can’t pull rank on you anymore doesn’t mean you can call me Rex’ika. I’m older than you.”

“This is my apartment. I can call you whatever I want.”

“This is my apartment, too!”

“Yeah? Then stop trying to scrub the floors so hard that we won’t get our deposit back,” Kix replies. “Your boyfriend isn’t going to break up with you because there’s a tiny speck of dirt on the floor.”

Rex feels his cheeks go hot. “Obi-Wan is not my boyfriend!”

Kix rolls his eyes. “Yeah. I’ll believe that when you can say it with a straight face. Doesn’t he take you clothes shopping and treat you to dinner?”

From experience, Rex knows he won’t win this argument, so he sets his scrub brush aside and says, “Didn’t you and Jesse say you were leaving an hour ago?”

“Jesse already left,” Kix says. “Which you would know if you weren’t trying to start a friction fire on our floor.”

“If he left, then why are you still here? I don’t need a chaperone for when Obi-Wan gets here, and I definitely do not need you.”

“I’m just making sure you have some moral support before your boyfriend gets here, Rex’ika,” Kix says. “You know, like a good older brother should.”

“I’m older than you!” Rex shouts, flinging a wet rag at Kix’s face.

Kix leans out of the way and it hits the floor with a soft splat. “See, this is what I mean, Rex’ika,” he tuts. “Why do you have to be so aggressive? I just want you to be happy, verd’ika.”

“I,” Rex hisses, “am going to strangle you, Kix. I know where you sleep. One day, when you’re not expecting it, I’m going to smother you with a pillow and that day, I will finally know peace.”

“That’s suffocation, not strangling, and also you’re the one who agreed to live with me.”

“And that was a horrible mistake,” Rex retorts.

“No, it wasn’t, because the other option was Fives, and I think we all know that if you actually had to room with Fives and Echo, not only would you not get your deposit back, but someone would probably actually die.”

Rex scrubs a hand over his face and sighs. Not living with Fives was, in fact, a major benefit of living with Kix and Jesse. “I should have asked Tup to be my roommate,” he says. “He respects me.”

“I respect you plenty, Captain,” Kix says, his voice serious, “but you’re an absolute idiot sometimes. If you like your detective so much, just ask him out. How hard could it be?”

In that moment, Rex vindictively wishes that Kix falls head-over-heels over some charming stranger soon, because he is going to die if he never gets any kind of payback for all of this. “You just want to win whatever bet’s being run on us. Don’t think I don’t know about that.”

Kix waves him off. “That’s incidental. What’s wrong, you’re scared you’re a bad kisser?”

Rex is thankfully saved from having to commit fratricide by the doorbell going off.

“I’ll get that,” Kix says. “Put your cleaning stuff away, Rex’ika. You want to give a good first impression for your boyfriend.”

Rex gathers up his things, muttering, “Not my boyfriend.”

He hears a little bit of Kix and Obi-Wan’s conversation, but tunes it out as he stows his cleaning supplies in the closet, including the rag he’d thrown at Kix. It’s not like he’s nervous about meeting Obi-Wan--they’ve talked plenty of times since the end of the war--but he might be a little nervous about Obi-Wan seeing the new apartment for the first time.

Not the apartment. His apartment. As in specifically his, not Republic property. One that he picked out along with Kix and Jesse, with his name on the lease and everything. That’s still hard to get used to, along with having his own room and citizenship and the ability to do basically whatever he wants, whenever he wants.

The war might have been over for almost four months now, but having his own space makes it so much more real.

Rex hears the door close and footsteps from the entryway.

“Rex?” Obi-Wan says.

“Just a second,” Rex says, going over to meet him.

When he gets there, Obi-Wan is hanging up his cloak. He’s wearing a red tunic and black trousers and his hair’s pinned up in a bun the way he usually does it when he does it himself. That’s something else Rex tries not to think too hard about--that he can recognize the last person who’s had their hands on Obi-Wan’s hair based on how it’s styled. One day, he’s probably going to have his own favorite way of doing Obi-Wan’s hair, instead of just the simple 3-plait Obi-Wan taught him. It’s an idea that makes him feel a little fluttery in the chest, not that he’d ever say so out loud.

“See something interesting?” Obi-Wan asks.

“Um,” Rex says. “Your hair looks nice. Where did Kix go?”

“Your brother? He said he had to meet up with someone and left.” Obi-Wan’s brow draws together in the way that means he’s doing some kind of Force thing. “Are you the only one here? I thought you had more than one roommate.”

“Jesse left a while ago. I think he and Kix don’t want to make things awkward while you’re here.”

“What? Why would it be awkward? It’s their apartment too, isn’t it?” Obi-Wan asks. “Should I take my boots off?”

“If you want,” Rex says. “The floors are clean.”

Obi-Wan hands him a decorated flimsiboard box, then ducks down to take his boots off. “That’s a housewarming gift. Tea and caf. The good kind.”

Rex laughs. The box is pretty weighty--Obi-Wan must have filled it with as much as he could fit. “Not impressed by the barracks’ caf?”

“I have tasted swamp water that’s more palatable than what I sampled in your barracks. I can understand wanting caffeine, but it doesn’t have to taste like sludge,” Obi-Wan says. “Maybe you can introduce your brothers to drinks that taste good.”

“Are you kidding? If they find out I’ve got this, they’re going to steal all of it.” Rex hugs the box to his chest. “This is mine.”

“And your roommates’,” Obi-Wan says. “It’s a housewarming gift, and they do help pay the rent, presumably.”

“Fine, they can have some if they’re nice to me,” Rex says, leading Obi-Wan back to the living room. He tips back the lid of the box and peeks inside. “Did you put that red mint stuff in here?”

“Luseth Mint tea, yes. I thought I’d include a tin since you liked it so much the last time we went to dinner.”

Something flutters in Rex’s chest. “I thought you said it was expensive?”

“As far as expensive tea blends go, Luseth isn’t too extravagant at all,” Obi-Wan says, waving his hand dismissively. “I may not be rich, but I have enough money to buy gifts for people I like from time to time, Rex, and in case there was any confusion, you are a person I like. Would you like me to brew some now? We can talk while I do that.”

“Oh. Thank you. I think I would like that. The kitchen is just over here, and the kettle’s in the cabinet by the cooling unit.” He hands Obi-Wan one of the canisters of tea. “And, uh, how are you? How’s Boba?”

Obi-Wan smiles fondly as he gets the kettle out and fills it with water. “Boba’s good. He’s very bright, but he needs a lot of attention. Between me and Feral and Savage, I think we’re doing well.”

“Where is he now?” Rex asks.

“Savage is taking him to the planetarium,” Obi-Wan says, setting the temperature for the kettle. “Or at least, that’s what he told me. They might be going to the Temple instead--if I recall correctly, it’s festival season now, and I know Boba’s been excited about that.”

“Oh,” Rex says. “And you can’t go to the Temple.”

“I can go to the Temple, it’s just inconvenient,” Obi-Wan replies. “I think they didn’t want me to feel like I was missing out. I’d be happy to accompany them to a festival if they asked, but I think it scares them when the Force takes me afterwards.”

That was the understatement of the century. Rex’s own experience seeing the Force ‘take’ Obi-Wan after that encounter with Maul so many months ago was traumatic enough. The second the factory’s Force shielding had gone down, he had practically seen Obi-Wan’s soul leave his body with nothing more than a shuddering breath. ‘Take’ was probably the right word for it--whatever he was after that, it wasn’t him. His eyes were glassy and blank and he seemed to hear people’s intentions over their voices, and moved not quite like he normally should, just a bit too fluid like he wasn’t quite made of flesh. The blood all over his shirt at the time had not helped.

And then there was the way he felt--somehow, looking at him had given Rex the feeling of an all-consuming black hole, like crushing gravitational strength that even stars couldn’t escape. It had scared him, somewhere in his deep hindbrain, like an undercurrent of pure and primordial, instinctive fear. Whatever happened to Obi-Wan when he got ‘taken’ by the Force, it wasn’t human.

(He’s still glad Ahsoka hadn’t been awake to see that--she’d been spooked enough by the first time it happened earlier that day, and that had been mild by comparison.)

If an hour of that had shaken him so much, he can’t imagine what it would have been like for Feral and Savage, who had stayed with Obi-Wan after his return from Dathomir and must have seen the entire course of his...possession. No wonder they’re trying not to repeat the experience.

“So you’re here instead?” Rex says.

“Well, you don’t have to say it like it’s a chore,” Obi-Wan replies. “I’m here because I want to be. I wanted to see how you were settling in, and I enjoy spending time with you.” He gestures to the apartment. “This is quite nice. It must be, what, three thousand credits a month for the three of you?”

Obi-Wan is, as he often is, dead on. “That’s the list price, yeah. It’s a lot less for us because of the Senate’s subsidies and financial assistance from the Jedi, but we still need to put up about four hundred credits a month each.”

“That would be a large portion of your military stipend, wouldn’t it?” Obi-Wan says. “Do you have enough for food and everything else?”

“We’re doing all right,” Rex says. “I’ve got a few months’ money saved up, Kix started a residency at the University hospital, Jesse’s doing some security-related stuff. By the end of this year, we won’t need the Jedi Temple’s money anymore.”

“Really? Give them my congratulations. I’m glad you’re doing well, then. I admit I was surprised that you chose to get your own apartment out in the city. Last I heard, most of your brothers who have chosen to stay on Coruscant have accepted lodging at the Jedi Temple.” The kettle beeps, and Obi-Wan shuts it off. Rex hands him a teapot (which he did not buy just because of Obi-Wan, Kix) and Obi-Wan measures out a few pinches of the red leaves. He reaches up to the cabinets and pulls them open. “Do you have cups, darling? I can’t seem to find them.”

Rex pulls the mugs out of the correct cabinet and hands them over. “You’re right. There’s only, what, maybe twenty or thirty of us on Coruscant getting a place outside the Temple or the barracks? I think a lot of us want to stay close to their Generals, but, uh, that’s not really a factor for the 501st.”

“Because Skywalker has left the Order, correct?” Obi-Wan says.

“Right. It turns out he was, um, married. To Senator Amidala.” That had been a pretty big shock when the Anakin had finally announced it about a month ago. He wasn’t entirely surprised, because anyone with eyes could tell there was something going on between Anakin and Senator Amidala, but it was kind of a leap to go from secret crush to secretly dating to secretly married.

Obi-Wan, however, looks completely unsurprised by this revelation, only confirming he must have known this whole time. He’d said something to Senator Amidala about her husband way back at the start of all this--Rex had thought Obi-Wan had simply misspoken, but he’s come to learn that Obi-Wan rarely says things he doesn’t mean. “Is he living with her, then?”

“Yeah. 500 Republica. I’ve visited once or twice--it’s really nice. Expensive.”

“I see. Are they doing well?”

Rex shrugs. He hasn’t really kept up contact with Anakin since he left the Order. At the time, he’d chalked it up to Anakin being busy with transitioning out and moving in with his wife, but after the continued radio silence, Rex isn’t so sure anymore. It’s not like Anakin’s lost all contact with his previous life--Ahsoka’s seen him twice in the last tenday alone, and he seems to still have contact with his Master. It’s just him who’s been left by the wayside.

Obi-Wan glances up at him with piercing eyes. “You haven’t spoken to him?”

“I have,” Rex says. “I visited about three weeks ago to let him know about the 501st properly disbanding. Moving out and stuff. It was a pretty good conversation, but...” He trails off. He had learned a lot about Anakin’s life in that half-hour, and Anakin had offered to help him and his brothers in any way he could, but he doesn’t think Anakin actually asked how things were with him or the other members of the 501st.

Maybe that’s just the way things are. They were good together as a General and a Captain, but not so much as people and friends. He can deal with that--it just hurts, is all. He’d been there to help Anakin deal with the revelations surrounding Palpatine and make his decisions about the Order and it really doesn’t seem like asking for that much to get some consideration in return.

“I think he’s happy,” Rex says. “He’s got his wife, his Master, his Padawan--or former Padawan, since she got reassigned to General Koon. He’s left the Order so he doesn’t have to listen to the Council anymore. He’s doing some sort of freelance mechanical work with droids and ships and he’s very good at it. That’s everything he wanted, right?”

“Only Skywalker could answer that for you,” Obi-Wan says, carefully pouring tea into two mugs. It smells slightly like mint and spice. “I’m disappointed but not surprised to hear that you haven’t really been in contact. I was under the impression the two of you were closer than that.”

“So was I,” Rex says. “I don’t think I...made him angry or anything.”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” Obi-Wan replies. He sets the teapot back down. “Chances are, he’s simply taking you for granted. One day, when he needs you for something, he may contact you and ask for help and expect you to give it to him because you have in the past. I hope he knows better than that, but Master Jinn does not, and Skywalker has proven to be very similar to his Master in many other ways.”

“So what, I should tell him to kriff off?”

Obi-Wan shrugs. “Only if you want to. Some friendships last well even without frequent contact--Bail and I often go months without seeing each other--but where Skywalker and you are concerned, I’m not sure that’s the case.”

Rex purses his lips. “I mean...he wasn’t there for my surgery--you were. I told him about it, and I’m sure he had something important going on, but...it would have been nice if he’d been there, or done a little more than text an apology afterwards. Maybe the Jedi Temple has the best health technology in the galaxy, but brain surgery is brain surgery and high-risk is high-risk. It just feels like...after the war ended and Anakin left the Order, I don’t exist anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan says softly. “You don’t deserve to be hurt like that, dear.”

Six months ago, Rex would have protested, that he was a clone and not as important as his General and that his needs always came second, but after the end of the war, and after seeing how Obi-Wan treats him like...like a friend, he believes it. He’s a person and he doesn’t deserve that.

Still, he says, “I don’t think he means it.”

“You can hurt someone a lot without meaning to. Sometimes it hurts worse when it’s not intentional,” Obi-Wan replies. He sips his tea, nods, then carries both mugs out into the living room. Rex lets him--Obi-Wan’s the one wearing gloves, after all--and brings the teapot. “The important question is, dear, do you want to stay friends with Skywalker?”

Rex sets out coasters on the breakfast table and puts the teapot on one of them. “I don’t know. I feel like I should, you know? I mean, I put my life on the line for him who knows how many times, he’s risked his life for me. It seems wrong if we’re not...something after that.”

“You don’t have to be anything. You have nothing to prove and you owe him nothing. Now that the war is over, you no longer have anything tying you together--no power structures, no common employment--if you want to cut ties with him completely, you have the power to do so.”

“I’m friends with Ahsoka,” Rex points out.

“Yes, so am I,” Obi-Wan says. “And you will notice that I am still not friends with Skywalker, because I am generally not friends with people I dislike.” He sips his tea. “Skywalker undoubtedly has many positive traits, but for me, they do not outweigh his many negative ones. If you think differently, that’s fine. I won’t judge you for that. But if you want to figure out what to do with your relationship with Skywalker, you really need to first determine whether you want a relationship to begin with.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“No, I dare say it is not,” Obi-Wan replies. “You’re allowed to have complicated feelings about people, Rex. It’s not a bad thing if you can’t answer that question right this second, but if it’s important to you, you’ll have to work through it eventually, and if you decide you do want to reconnect, you’ll have to talk to Skywalker about it.”

Rex sighs. His life was a lot simpler when he always had someone telling him what to do.

Whatever is going on with Skywalker is a later problem. He doesn’t know when later is, but the important thing is it’s not now.

Obi-Wan, probably sensing the mood, gestures to Rex’s mug. “‘Cody’s Second Favorite’. Did he get that custom-printed?”

Rex shakes his head. “Ponds gave this to me. I think he was giving Cody shit over something, so he sent a bunch of gag gifts out to people. It’s a good mug, and it makes Cody mad, so I kept it.”

“And who is Cody’s first favorite, if I may ask?” Obi-Wan asks.

“Um, according to Cody, none of my karking business,” Rex says, taking a sip of his own tea. It’s light but spicy and very fragrant, a very weird mix of flavors that he enjoys just as much as he did the last time he had it. “He threatened to murder me in my sleep and he sounded slightly more serious about it than usual so I dropped it.”

“A wise decision. Cody seems like the sort to follow through on his threats.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Rex says. “Back when we were cadets, Cody was an absolute terror. He was ready to throttle anyone who so much as looked at me funny. In secret, anyways. Not where the kaminiise could see him.”

Obi-Wan hums thoughtfully to himself. “Your brothers care very much about you, don’t they?”

“What? I mean, yeah, of course they do. We all do.”

“But you more than others,” Obi-Wan says. “I’ve been to the barracks. I don’t think there are many other brothers of yours who have as many people ready to get up in arms over their protection, or maybe that’s just what I’ve seen.”

Rex blinks. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I’ve had six separate brothers corner me and tell me that if I ever hurt you, they will hunt me down and make it so my body is never found. Seven, if you include the one from Kix at the doorway just now. He threatened to launch my body directly into a sun. He spoke about it in enough detail to imply he’s been thinking about the logistics of it for a while.”

Rex puts his head in his hands and groans. He should have expected this, but somehow he hadn’t. The bigger question is how he hadn’t noticed. “I’m so sorry. I keep telling them to knock it off, but you know how brothers are. They never listen to me.”

“It’s very charming that your family cares so much about you,” Obi-Wan says, smiling as he sips his tea again. “They’re very violent in showing it, but considering your upbringing and your progenitor, I would be surprised if they weren’t. I think one of your brothers--Wolffe?--he threatened to eat me after I accepted Fives’ invitation to dinner a couple months ago.”

That rat bastard. Rex wishes he could disappear through the floor. “He didn’t.”

“He did. His description was rather graphic, too, which makes me a little concerned as to how many dismembered humans he’s seen. He bares his teeth at me every time I visit Ahsoka. It’s very cute.”

Thank goodness Obi-Wan thinks threats of bodily harm are charming. “I’m...so sorry,” Rex says. “I know I’m going to regret asking this, but who was the first one?”

“This will probably not surprise you, but it was Cody that day I met him,” Obi-Wan says. “He caught me on the way out of the barracks and told me if I broke your heart he’d break a lot of bones. It was very straightforward.”

Rex lets his head thump on the table. That was over three months ago, before the world’s most annoying rumor started going around--if Cody was the one who started spreading around that Obi-Wan is his boyfriend, he is going to catch hell for it.

“It’s very impressive, honestly,” Obi-Wan continues. “Especially since we are not, last I checked, dating.”

“That’s what I keep telling them.”

“Not to much success, I assume.”

Rex shakes his head. “Absolutely none.”

“If it bothers you, I can tell them we aren’t dating,” Obi-Wan says.

“No, that’ll just make it worse--they’ll start hounding you to date me and I do not want to know what they’ll say about me.” If there’s anything more embarrassing than having every single brother threatening his friend over a relationship that doesn’t exist, it’s having those brothers trying to wingman for him.

“Would it help if you told them we were dating?”

“You think they’d believe that?”

Obi-Wan takes a drink from his tea. “Darling, from what you’re saying, they already do. It’s not as if many of our activities can’t already be construed as dating. I take you to places and treat you to dinner. Out of context, that is a date.”

Rex looks up. “But in context, it’s...not a date?”

“Not unless you want it to be,” Obi-Wan replies. “I’ll be honest, I’m not entirely sure what the distinction between a date and not is, except that the people on it agree it’s a date, and sometimes there’s kissing or other activities involved towards the end. The facts are that I enjoy your company and make room in my schedule to spend time with you because of it. I consider that spending time with a friend--a good friend, I would hope--but some people might consider that alone a date.”

“So...what?”

“So nothing. Spending time with you makes me happy. Everything else is just semantics.”

Sometimes Rex wonders what it would be like to be Obi-Wan, with his straightforward approach to the world. It seems like it would be so nice, to just let things be the way they are and not worry about how everyone else sees it.

“What about you and Senator Organa?” Rex asks.

“What about him?”

“Aren’t you and him a thing?”

“I love him, if that’s what you’re asking,” Obi-Wan says. “But we’re not in any sort of official relationship.”

“But he invited you to that big Senator Ball thing. You...touch and hug and stuff. You’re constantly flirting with him.”

“We do that because it’s fun and we both understand it’s not a proposition.”

“You look at him like he’s the best thing that ever happened to you,” Rex protests. “He buys you clothes and treats you to dinner!”

“I admire Bail very much, and his trying to buy me things is because he is quite wealthy and I am not, and he has some very peculiar opinions about my standards of living,” Obi-Wan says. “Darling, I’m not any sort of thing with Bail. We love each other and I spend time with him because I enjoy it, just like I do with you.”

It takes Rex a couple of seconds to register the implication. “Are you saying you...love me?”

“Hm. That’s a good question.” Obi-Wan rubs his chin slowly. “Yes, I suppose that is what I’m saying. I wouldn’t say I love you the same way I love Bail, but being with you makes me happy and I want you to be happy, too. That’s love, isn’t it?”

Something warm blooms in Rex’s chest that he’s not sure he’s ready to examine right now. “Isn’t that just friendship?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s just friendship. Friendship is monumentally important--simply caring for someone and enjoying their company independent of all other connections and obligations is a beautiful thing. It’s the foundation all love is based on, I think,” Obi-Wan says.

“That’s not very...dramatic.”

“I’ve been accused of being unromantic before,” Obi-Wan admits with a wry smile, “but I don’t think love has to be dramatic. Your love is your own, dear. There’s no right or wrong way to feel it--you can do terrible things because of it, but that’s a separate issue entirely. Feelings are feelings.”

“Oh,” Rex says. He cradles his hot mug of tea between his hands, rotating it idly just to have something to do with his hands. “What does it...feel like, to love someone?”

Obi-Wan sighs. “Rex, darling, I think you already know the answer to that. What are you actually asking?”

Rex has to think about it for a second. He knows about love in the abstract, about holodramas and stories of love and grand gestures. It seems like such a big thing, too big for someone like him, who’s so lost in a world that’s so big. There’s too much he doesn’t understand, and love seems so out of reach.

He had asked Anakin about it, in that last conversation before Anakin had effectively fallen out of his life, because Anakin was the only person he knew who was in love.

Anakin had said love was like a supernova, something so overwhelming and powerful that no matter how strong you think it is, it’s always so much stronger. It fills the soul and colors it so you always feel it--it sets fire alight in you and makes you alive. It’s what makes you want to protect things at any cost. It’s what makes you hurt to be away from them, and like losing them would be the end of the world. It makes you want to hurt people who threaten it.

Rex had believed it, and decided that if that was love, he didn’t think he’d ever be capable of it. Not just because it seemed so big, so untenable, but it seemed like if he ever felt that way about someone, he wouldn’t be himself anymore, and maybe it’s cowardly of him, but he doesn’t want to become a different person to love someone. Being himself is more important to him.

But what Obi-Wan talks about, with being happy around people and wanting them to be happy, that...seems a lot more possible for him. The way Obi-Wan says it still feels too simple for him, but maybe it’s a better place for him to start with, to examine the warm fluttering feeling in his chest.

“I...” Rex starts, then tries again. “Do I love you, Obi-Wan?”

Obi-Wan laughs. “I know a lot of things, but I don’t know that. You have to answer that yourself, Rex. What do you think?”

Rex licks his lip and drinks some of his rapidly cooling tea. “I don’t know. I might, because it makes me happy every time you show that you care about me, or that you remembered me without me having to say anything. I’m happy when you comm me, even if it’s just about business or a job or something else. I’m happy you’re here, now, even though it means you can’t be with Savage and Boba, wherever they are right now. I’m happy that you’re...here, with me. Just me. Is that love?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Obi-Wan pours a fresh cup of tea from the pot, then says, “Love itself might be a feeling, but the practice of it is a process. It’s not just the feelings or just the actions--it’s not even the feelings and the actions side by side--it’s the proper interaction between the two, like mixing inks together. Inseparable. Feelings can and often do change. Actions are how we show our affections. Love is something you cultivate, dear. Maybe you think you don’t love now, but that’s okay. If I, or anyone else, is someone you want to love, that’s something you can build over time. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Neither am I.” Rex swallows nervously. “So it’s...okay if I don’t love you back?”

“If you enjoy our time together, then that’s all I need. Everything else, you can take at your own pace,” Obi-Wan says. “Love is a personal thing. You’re the only person who needs to understand how you feel it and where your lines are drawn.”

“I...see,” Rex says, not really seeing at all.

“It’s something to think about,” Obi-Wan replies. “Maybe you can talk to some of your brothers about it--additional perspective usually helps.”

“I’ll think about it.” He can’t talk to any of his brothers about it without them teasing him mercilessly about it, but maybe he can talk to Ahsoka or one of the other Jedi. There are options.

“See that you do. In the meantime--” Obi-Wan finishes his second mug of tea, “--I believe we were meant to head out at some point. I was thinking of going to the park--the fountains are beautiful at this time of night, and there’s a fried fish stand nearby that’s to die for. Unless you had other plans?”

Rex shakes his head and finishes his own tea. “No. The fountains sounds great.”

Obi-Wan offers a hand up and Rex takes it. If it gives him a warm feeling inside to have Obi-Wan’s hand in his, then maybe that’s the start of something beautiful.

Fives slams open Rex’s door. “Rex. Rex. Rex.”

Rex glances up from his datapad, looking about as generally irritated as he always does when he sees Fives--which is unfair, honestly. “Fives, we’ve been over this, you need to knock before coming in. What do you--what the hell are you wearing?”

Fives glances down at himself. It’s a perfectly reasonable outfit--a white-and-blue striped blazer with spring green slacks. “What? I’m going on a date. Looks good, doesn’t it?”

Rex’s face scrunches up. “Fives, is this a cry for help? You’re not colorblind, are you?”

Fives frowns. There’s no reason for Rex to be rude. “You don’t like it? Echo helped me pick it out.”

“Oh, I see,” Rex says. He purses his lips. “Well, Echo is very...good at that kind of thing. I notice the 501st blue. Goes well with the, um. The mesh shirt.”

“That’s what he said, too. Doesn’t it look good?” Fives replies. He’s really proud of the jacket, actually--he had a really hard time finding one in the right color. “I was a little iffy about the pants, but Echo says it brings out my eye color.”

“Fives, your eyes are brown.”

Fives nods. “Right, right. But it’s complimentary, see? Brown and green. So it makes them both stand out more, right? He wasn’t just fucking with me?”

Rex opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again. “Fives, who are you going on a date with?”

“Right! Actually, that’s what I need your help with,” Fives says. “So you know how a couple of weeks ago your boyfriend commed--”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“--your detective friend commed and I asked you to introduce me--”

“You did not ask me that, and if you had, I would have told you no.”

“--but I asked around and found out he runs a weekly seminar at the University about investigation-y stuff. It’s meant for Jedi to attend, but it’s technically open for anyone who wants to go. A lot of students and some of the vod’e go.”

“Okay,” Rex says slowly. “So you went to one of Obi-Wan’s seminars and met someone? Congratulations, I guess. What does that have to do with me?”

“Uh,” Fives says. “You have to promise not to get mad first.”

“What? Why would I get mad at you for meeting someone?”

“Because, um, I asked Kenobi out for dinner and he said yes!”

Rex blinks. “You what? Why would you do that?”

“You promised not to get mad!”

“I’m not--” Rex sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m not mad, Fives. I’m just...why did you ask Obi-Wan out to dinner?”

“I don’t know!” Fives says. “I was, you know, listening to his seminar, sort of. I don’t really remember anything he said because of all his...him. Like, I know I made fun of you for crushing on him, but like, I get it now. He’s so confident, he’s got a really nice voice, and when he’s got his glasses on, he’s got the hot professor look and at the end of the seminar, you know, he takes his glasses off and smiles and asks if anyone has questions.”

“You asked him out to dinner.”

Fives slumps. “I asked him out to dinner.”

“That was...really inappropriate of you,” Rex says.

“Yeah, I know. I took it back and I apologized to him for it after the seminar got out, but then he said if I was serious about it, he wouldn’t mind going out to dinner with me. And I know! I should have backed out! But then like, he smiled at me, and I swear I blacked out--I was kriffing enthralled by that smile, you have no idea how bad I’ve got it--and when I woke up again, he was saying he was looking forward to seeing me in a few days for dinner!” Fives buries his face in his hands. “I didn't think I'd get this far. Rex, what do I do?”

“Uh, if you don’t want to go out to dinner with him, you can just tell him. He won’t get mad at you or anything,” Rex replies.

“You don’t understand, Rex!” Fives presses. “An entire room of people heard me ask him out to dinner! Including some of the 501st! Hevy threatened to throw me down one of the ventilation shafts for trying to steal your boyfriend! Tup almost cried and I didn’t back out!”

“You know Tup can cry on command, right? Like, he does that on purpose.”

Fives waves his hands frantically. “That’s not the point! He did the crying thing and I still didn’t back down! I can’t back down now, my honor depends on it!”

“It...really doesn’t.”

“It does!” Fives grabs Rex by the shoulders. “Rex. Rex, you’re my favorite brother--”

“We both know that’s a massive lie.”

“--and I love you so much and you love me so much. I have to go to dinner with him, and I have to not kriff it up.”

Rex pries Fives’ hands off. “Fives, come on. Calm down. Take a deep breath.”

Fives takes a deep breath. He’s feeling light-headed just thinking about dinner, and he can’t stop thinking about it.

“Okay,” Rex says. “First of all, Obi-Wan doesn’t really do things he doesn’t want to. So if he said he wanted to go out to dinner with you, he meant it.”

“Right, okay. That’s good. That means he doesn’t hate me. What if I make him hate me, though?”

“He’s not going to hate you,” Rex says. “I mean, he doesn’t like a lot of people, but he already agreed to go to dinner, so he probably likes something about you. The main person he doesn’t like is Master Jinn, who kind of ruined his life, and Anakin, who’s, well, you know.”

Fives nods seriously. “Don’t ruin his life and don’t crash any ships. Got it. What else?”

“Um, listen to him when he talks? He likes to tell stories, and he likes to hear stories.”

Five’s eyes go wide. “I don’t know any stories.”

“You can tell him about stuff that happened on Kamino,” Rex says. “Or just talk about things you’re interested in. He likes that, too. Honestly, he’ll talk about anything.” He grimaces. “I mean, maybe be a little careful about that because sometimes he’ll talk about stuff that hits really hard. Like, he really doesn’t pull punches when he talks, and if you’re uncomfortable about it, just tell him and he’ll stop, but also maybe don’t tell him about all of the really terrible stuff that happened on Kamino because he’ll make his sad face and tell you about how you didn’t deserve that and while that’s really nice, it’ll probably bring down the mood.”

“Don’t talk about basic training. Got it. Is that everything I need to know?”

“Try not to stare at him too much, I guess? Even if he’s not looking--he can feel it. Other than that, just try to act like a reasonable person? Don’t be rude?” Rex shrugs. “Just calm down. Chances are, even if you kriff something up, he’ll think it’s cute. You’re not gonna do yourself any favors if you give yourself a heart attack or pass out.”

Fives nods and forces himself to take another few deep breaths. It’s a lot harder than it should be--all his training in Kamino never prepared him for this. “Okay. Okay. I’ve got this. Do I look okay? Do you think he’ll like this?” he says, gesturing to his new clothes.

Rex gives him a very obvious once-over and says, “You know what, yeah. I think Echo’s right. Obi-Wan will, um. It’ll make him smile.”

Fives’ stomach flips over at the thought of Kenobi’s smile. “You really think so?” A sudden thought strikes him. “Do you think...will he be dressed up?”

“I mean, if you agreed to go somewhere nice, then yeah, probably.”

Fives puts a hand on his forehead. He thinks he might be getting feverish. “Oh, kriff. I’m screwed.”

Rex claps him on the shoulder. “That’s one thing you don’t have to worry about. I’m pretty sure Obi-Wan doesn’t do that. Which is good, because if you really did screw Obi-Wan, Cody would probably actually dismember you.”

Fives has a sudden vivid image of getting his ass kicked by Cody and every other person who’s trying to get Rex to properly hook up with Obi-Wan and shudders--he has made several mistakes, but it’s too late to back down. He’s going to dinner. He’s going to do it.

His commlink goes off. With shaky hands, he opens the transmission. “Fives here.”

“Fives, darling, I’ve arrived at the barracks,” says Kenobi’s smooth voice, making Fives’ heartbeat spike. Rex really had not been kidding when he said Kenobi called everyone dear and darling. “Should I come in, or will you meet me outside?”

Fives swallows. “I’ll meet you outside. Just give me a minute or two, okay?”

“Of course. I’m right outside the west entrance. I look forward to seeing you, dear.”

Obi-Wan closes the transmission and Fives has to take a second to catch his breath. He’s not going to survive the night. There’s no way.

“Well,” Rex says. “That’s your cue. Good luck, loverboy.”

Fives stares at him. “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you.”

Rex grins. “Absolutely not.”

It starts about halfway across the galaxy, with a message from Bant directly to Quinlan’s urgent comm line.

Quinlan, currently undercover in a cantina investigating bounty hunter activity, reads the message and frowns. There’s not a lot of reasons Bant would use his emergency line, especially when he’s out on an assignment like this.

He messages her back:

Quinlan scowls.

Quinlan obligingly closes out of his messages, but he doesn’t stop thinking about it. Not then, and not an hour and a half later when he’s getting punched in the face by a very angry Rodian. Quinlan isn’t the kind of person to get anxious easily, but big news in the middle of a war is rarely good.

It’s four hours later, well after midnight when he finally gets back to his current safe house and can message Bant back.

It must be much earlier in the day for Bant, because she responds almost immediately.

Quinlan nearly drops his drink.

Quinlan stares at his commlink.  It’s not possible for Obi-Wan to be alive--he’d felt Obi-Wan die. Obi-Wan had been ripped out of his soul, out of life and into nothing at all. There’s no way he’s alive.

Quinlan takes a deep breath. Bant was right to not tell him about this until he was somewhere safe, because this is way too much at once.

The image takes a hot second to load--communications get pretty dodgy this far from the Core--but soon enough, Quinlan gets to see a selfie of Bant next to an adult human man.

He...doesn’t look like Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan was runty and skinny with big eyes and unruly hair. This guy has reddish-brown hair that’s not red enough and is too long and tied back into a tight updo, he’s pale and tired and his gray eyes are sad with the starts of crows’ feet at the corners. He’s smiling, but not the way Obi-Wan used to, so unguarded and free. It’s something soft and small that conceals more than it shows. It’s the smile of someone who doesn’t do it a whole lot.

This isn’t Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan was young. He was full of energy and constantly cared too much about anyone and everyone. He was fucking happy.

This man, this adult looks like someone who’s stared death in the face and hated every second of it.

It takes an entire six minutes for the next message to arrive. Quinlan gets a bottle of whiskey in the meantime--not to drink right now, but the way this night’s gone, he’ll need it soon enough.

Well, that’s one thing in favor of this guy maybe being Obi-Wan. One thing’s for sure, though--he’s slow as hell at typing.

All right, that’s fair. Now he kind of feels like an asshole for ragging on the amputee.

Quinlan stares. He lost the Force. That’s not a thing. Everyone knows that’s not a thing that happens.

Quinlan takes a deep breath. What the hell is he supposed to say to that?

Fake Obi-Wan doesn’t respond after that. That’s fine. Quinlan doesn’t want to talk to him anyways.

He closes out the connection, and when that’s not satisfying enough, he flings the commlink at his bed and seethes. How low does someone have to go to desecrate Obi-Wan’s memory? A kriffing kid? Let the dead fucking rest.

He uncaps his whiskey and takes a long swig of it, straight from the bottle. It burns on the way down and it doesn’t taste great, either. He sets it down heavily and closes his eyes. Back on his bed, his commlink beeps with a new message. He ignores it. He’s had enough for one day.

Slowly, he reaches for the second lightsaber clipped to his belt. The kyber crystal feels the same as it always does--mournfully quiet like it’s always been since Obi-Wan died. He brushes the metal casing and old memories reach back to him--always getting older, these days--of the last time anyone had seen him, returning his lightsaber to his Master and leaving the Jedi Order.

Obi-Wan had been so damn earnest, so damn sure that he had to do the right thing, and it had gotten him killed. Obi-Wan had fought hard, wherever he was, until he was scared and hurting, and then he died. Just another corpse among hundreds of other kids killed on a planet that couldn’t stop fighting.

Quinlan slumps over with his head against the table. He wants Obi-Wan to be alive. He wants to be able to have his friend back, but that’s just not how the world works.

He’s not letting himself get his hopes up again.

It’s difficult to articulate exactly how much my world changed after I lost the Force. I used to feel the Cosmic Force within my veins, like my hands were on the pulse of the universe--no matter where I was or what happened, it was always steady and there, beating in my chest. I’ve been told I was closer to it than most, though I was a Jedi for such a short time that I have very little basis for comparison. All I know is I was highly susceptible to visions and I could feel ripples through time and space like a vibration in my bones.

The layman’s view of the Cosmic Force--as much as you can have a layman’s view on such an esoteric thing--is that those who are strongly attuned to it experience visions more frequently. That’s true enough, I suppose, especially for those whose affinity with the Cosmic Force comes and goes, but for those who have it all the time, it doesn’t even approach how all-encompassing it really is.

When you live your whole life feeling future events play out out from the actions around you, you don’t even register them as the future--they’re simply a direct extension of how you experience the present, the same way a whip cracks at its tip when the stock is flicked. It’s not even correct to say you experience things simultaneously because that implies experiencing discrete events when in reality it’s like collapsing time to a single point. Time gets tangled in your mind and causality ceases to exist when you live the present into past into the future with no distinction between the three. A lot of Masters worried about my constant absent-mindedness when I was young, but it’s very difficult to keep your mind in the here and now when you don’t even know where now is. I was better about it by the time I was accepted as a Padawan, but for Master Jinn, I suppose I was never quite good enough.

I don’t mean to say that my experience was exceptionally difficult for a Jedi-to-be. I understand it’s just as strenuous to feel the Living Force very closely--feeling emotions of those around you too strongly, or becoming easily overwhelmed by its highs and lows, or not being able to adapt to the changing nature of it. Those who are strong with the Living Force often have as many issues knowing which emotions are theirs as I did knowing what time is when. In that, I’ll admit Master Jinn was quite admirable. He knew how to ride out the surges of the Living Force and direct them without losing his sense of self. I’d speculate it’s why he ended up so stubborn, but that’s none of my business.

That said, it's not really correct to say that the Cosmic Force and Living Force are distinct entities. It's easier to teach it that way, and to think of it that way, but they're only different the way you can't see stars with a microscope and you can't see cells with a telescope--it's a different depth of field, and they both twine into each other in ways that can't be examined simultaneously. All Force-sensitives have access to both in some capacity, though most are more attuned to one over the other, much in the same way that some people are nearsighted while others are farsighted.

I guess it’s ironic that I never really understood the boundaries between the Living Force and the Cosmic Force for the entirety of my apprenticeship, however brief, but understood it almost immediately once I lost my connection to the Force completely. Maybe it's not a surprise. It's hard to distinguish the feeling between two different streams when you experience them both at the same time--much easier when you no longer feel one at all.

I mean this to say that when I lost my connection to the Cosmic Force and was left with only the lightest touch of the Living Force--even more here and now than even Master Jinn ever was--it was...difficult to adjust. Not only did I lose the feeling of the Cosmic Force within myself as if it had been torn directly out of my chest, but I lost an entire dimension, with all of time and space flattened down to a linear forward progression of time. These days, I let the Living Force into myself because it’s the only thing that can fill the space where the Cosmic Force used to be, but that doesn’t change the fact that they don’t feel the same, nor that my soul was never built to weather such a changeable Force. Even after all I’ve learned, even after twenty years of trial and error it's still too easy for me to get swept under by its currents. I’ll never say it’s a pleasant experience to be taken by the Force like I do, but it’s better than the alternative--when the Living Force simply isn’t there.

I think I’ve always been a little antsy when off planet, but back when I still had the Force, it was fine. Bearable, if annoying.

After Melida/Daan, it was...not.

Interstellar travel is always bad--space is too empty wherever you go, and there's no number of people on a ship that can ever match the Living Force of a planet. Hyperspace is the worst. It's worse than Force suppression--it's isolation of the highest form, cut off from the entire galaxy and any other living thing. Company and connection can help to soothe the ache in my soul where the Cosmic Force used to be, but even then it was a difficult few years flying around the galaxy at Jango's side, not that I had really understood then why.

My point in saying all of this is that by the second day out of Coruscant's orbit, accompanying a supply ship with Master Unduli, her Padawan, and some of her soldiers, I felt like I was suffocating. I don't sleep well in hyperspace, if at all, I get cold easily on ships, and I was still dealing with the consequences of fighting Skywalker. I probably shouldn't have left for Dathomir so soon after closing out my case--I'm sure Maul wouldn't have begrudged me a day or two of rest after what he and Skywalker had inflicted on me, and it wasn't like the delay would make him more dead than he already was--but I don't think it would have made any difference. There's no amount of rest that could save me from the relentless emptiness of hyperspace.

I just had to do it. Some things were more important than my personal comfort, and taking Maul’s body to his family was one of them. I'd endured hyperspace before and I could do it again, and after a month I would be back home in Coruscant where I belonged.

I must have looked awful by the time we made the transfer to Master Unduli's flagship, because she kept shooting concerned looks at me when she thought I wasn't looking. I sort of got the feeling she didn't know what to do with me--not just some civilian but an ex-Jedi and an ex-dead ex-Jedi at that. From the few conversations we’d had, she seemed like a decent enough sort--professional and respectful at minimum, which was a welcome change from the usual riffraff I dealt with. She would have been one of my agemates had I stayed with the Order, though as far as I recalled, we'd never met. She would certainly have heard about my 'death' and possibly even attended my funeral, though if she had any thoughts about the whole affair, she kept them to herself. I appreciated that. Getting treated like a ghost had gotten old pretty fast.

It felt like she was showing me her diplomat’s face. She was, after all, only transporting me as part of her mission and not because she personally wanted to. Still, every now and then I’d see a flash of something very genuine--her humor or her concern or her enthusiasm--and I thought in another life, we might have been friends. It was a nice thing to think about.

The flagship was enormous--conceptually, I’d known it would be, but there’s a big difference between seeing the numbers on a specifications sheet and actually standing inside one and being unable to see the end in any direction. That kind of thing made me anxious, and being surrounded by thousands of strangers with blasters and Jango’s face did not help.

This is what the Republic’s war looked like--enormous warships and aerial support and artillery and elite soldiers with food to eat and roofs to sleep under. It was a world of difference from hiding in trenches and burned-out buildings and scrounging for weapons and medicine in Melida/Daan.

What a difference the Senate’s money made.

Something roiled inside me at the thought of it and I forced myself to take a deep breath, gripping my neural port tightly all the while. My war was over, and while we were on the flagship, we were safe. I knew that--I just had a hard time believing it, is all. I wanted to excuse myself and find the smallest room I could lock myself into until I calmed down, but after we finished offloading the emergency supplies, I felt the Force around Master Unduli move sharply as she noticed someone and realized I would never be so lucky.

"Hey! Luminara!" I heard a man shout from further down the corridor. "What took you so long? I got here ages ago!"

There were some sounds of commotion behind the soldiers escorting us, then a large man pushed through, a black-haired, brown-skinned Kiffar with gold markings on his face. Even after twenty years, it was unmistakably Quinlan Vos.

Despite the recently split lip and inexplicable lack of sleeves, he looked good. He had two lightsabers on his belt, one on either side, and he had put on some height and bulk and moved like he liked it that way. He looked like he still got into as much trouble as he had when we were Padawans, except now he could get himself out of it, too. Bant had told me he did a lot of undercover work and intelligence, and it was good to see that such dangerous work hadn’t beaten down his sense of humor.

Master Unduli waved hello. "Quinlan. How did you get here so fast? I thought your mission would take a few more days."

Quinlan smiled. It was the same wide devil-may-care smile I remembered, except that it fit him better now that he was big enough for it. "Did the Council tell you that? That must have underestimated the power of my unmatched wit and sexy looks."

"Or," Master Unduli said, "maybe just your fists, if your face is any indication."

Quinlan waved her off. "Oh, this? This is nothing. It's just a scratch, though if you want to kiss it better..."

"We have bacta gel. I think that'll do the job just fine."

"On my mouth? Gross, no thanks. The last time I had to taste bacta--"

"Not in front of my troopers, Quinlan. You'll corrupt them."

Quinlan rolled his eyes. "They're soldiers, not Temple younglings! There's nothing I could tell them that they haven't already heard worse of."

Master Unduli crossed her arms. "You're a bad influence and you know it. The last thing my men need is you scandalizing them with your misadventures. Isn't that right, Commander?"

One of the soldiers beside us nodded gravely. "I'm feeling very scandalized, sir."

Quinlan threw his hands into the air. "And now you're ganging up on me? Luminara, how could you? Aayla wouldn't treat me like this."

"You say that as if Aayla isn't always the first person to offer up dirt on you."

The two of them continued talking as we walked to the bridge. I tried not to listen too closely--it felt too much like eavesdropping on something private. It was clear then, if it ever hadn’t been, that I was an outsider among these people, Jedi and soldiers alike. I wasn’t part of this war--I was just tagging along on an errand to transport a corpse to a faraway planet for no reason other than sentimentality. Amidst all these discussions of military engagements and intergalactic affairs, my presence felt very frivolous.

I wasn’t paying attention to how much time passed or when we finally reached the bridge. I don’t think I was very present to begin with--at that point, I hadn’t slept in almost thirty hours and felt it badly. I vaguely remember people who actually seemed to know what was going on making reports to Master Unduli and Quinlan while I stood by with my cloak wrapped tight and tried to be as invisible as possible.

Eventually, I felt Master Unduli’s attention shift to me, and I glanced up.

“--supplies for your next mission to Dathomir.”

Quinlan followed her gaze towards me and his brows came together. “What the hell,” he said. “Has he been here this whole time?”

“It’s not my fault if you’re unobservant,” Master Unduli replied. “This is Detective Obi-Wan Kenobi. He used to be part of the Order--”

“Yeah, I know,” Quinlan cut in as he stepped towards me. He looked me over up and down and didn’t seem too happy about what he saw. “So you’re the cargo, huh?”

So that was how this conversation was going to go. “That’s a crass way to put it, but yes,” I said. “It’s good to see you, Quinlan.”

“Oh, so it’s Quinlan now? No more Quin?”

“Things didn’t end well the last time we spoke,” I said. “We’re going to be on a ship together for approximately a tenday. If you want to be strangers, I can do that.”

Quinlan leaned in towards me, trying to get a better look. The Force around him stayed carefully still, not giving anything away. “What, you’re not even going to try and convince me? You don’t care if your old friend doesn’t like you anymore?”

“Quinlan, I spent the last twenty-two years believing the Temple abandoned me and all my friends forgot I existed. If that’s the narrative you want to live, it’s nothing new to me. I just need to get Maul’s body to his family on Dathomir and we can go on with our lives. I’ve already told you what’s happened--I’m not going to fight you to make you believe it.”

Quinlan scowled. “You didn’t explain dick shit. You said you lost the Force. That’s not a thing that happens.”

I could feel eyes moving towards me as Quinlan’s voice got louder. I didn’t like that much. “It happened to me,” I said. “I’m not happy about it either.”

“How?” Quinlan pressed. “How in the hell would that happen? Explain it to me.”

“There’s not a lot to explain. I found the Force overwhelming, so I cut it off to protect myself. It ended up being permanent.”

“That’s banthashit,” Quinlan retorted, stepping even closer to me despite Master Unduli’s attempts to keep him back. He wasn’t taller than me by much, but it was enough to look down at me. “No Jedi would ever cut themselves off from the Force. That’s literal suicide.”

“I’m not saying it was a good idea. I’m not even saying I was in my right mind,” I said softly. “Do you have any idea how long Melida/Daan’s war was? It was centuries. If I hadn’t intervened, it might have gone on for decades more--as it turns out, a place like that is a bad place for a Force-sensitive youngling that reads the past and the future without trying. It was killing me. It was more than I could take and nobody came to save me, so I cut myself off. Maybe that should have killed me, but I’m here. I’ve changed, but I’m alive. You’re a Jedi--you can feel for yourself what’s happened to me.”

“There’s nothing to feel, jackass. You’re empty, and that’s not something I want to touch--”

Master Unduli pulled Quinlan a couple steps back from me. “Quinlan, don’t say that.”

Quinlan shook her off, continuing, “I can’t believe everyone’s letting this go on. Why don’t you just tell me why you’re doing this? What can you possibly gain by pretending to be Obi-Wan?”

I took a deep breath. It felt like everyone was watching me now, and I felt it like fingers on my throat. I had to get out before I did something drastic. “I am Obi-Wan. I’m not going to pretend otherwise just to make you feel better, Quinlan. If you don’t want to believe me, that’s fine, but I’m not changing my story because it’s the truth. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” I turned to leave.

Quinlan stepped in front of me, blocking my way out. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Somewhere with a bed, preferably. Hyperspace and I don’t get along. Would you prefer I pass out here?” I asked. “I can do that, too.”

“If you’re really Obi-Wan, then convince me.”

“I told you what happened. If you won’t believe me, then there’s no point in continuing.”

Quinlan crossed his arms. “Let me see for myself, and I’ll believe you.”

I took a step back, out of arm’s reach. I was wearing gloves, but it paid to be cautious--if Quinlan touched skin, his psychometry could read back memories and sensations going who knew how far back. Easy enough to prove my story beyond a doubt...if I didn’t care about what else he found out. I wasn’t that cavalier about my privacy. “That’s a lot to ask from someone you haven’t seen in twenty-two years. My past is my own and you’ll only see it if and when I want you to.”

“So you won’t prove you’re actually Obi-Wan?”

“I’ll talk if that’s what you want, but not right here and not right now. I am exhausted.” I faced Master Unduli. “Thank you for your hospitality, Master Jedi, but I think I’ll take my leave now.”

Master Unduli, who looked more than a little uncomfortable about this conversation, said, “As you wish, Detective. Would you like me to escort you to the medbay first? You don’t look well.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” I said. “I always look like this when I go off-planet. I can stop by medbay if it’ll make you feel better, but there’s nothing they can do that’ll help, short of sedating me.”

Master Unduli seemed to take that as agreement and stepped past Quinlan. I followed her out, only for Quinlan to grab me by the arm.

I don’t react well to getting grabbed even at the best of times, and deep in space with armed men all around was very much my breaking point. I twisted back and slammed my right fist into Quinlan’s stomach. I felt the impact straight through to my neural port and he doubled over, gagging.

I don’t know exactly what happened after that. The bridge erupted into chaos and suddenly everyone was moving and there were hands on me and I used my mechanical fist on more than one soldier who probably didn’t deserve it. Quinlan grabbed me by the back of my cloak and I dropped down, pulling him over my back. He hit the ground hard and I tore a lightsaber off of his belt. He tried to kick me and I pinned him, knee to diaphragm with the open end of the lightsaber pressed to his heart.

Heat burned behind my left ear, and everything froze.

“Calm yourself, Detective,” Master Unduli said behind me, holding her lightsaber steady at my neck. It didn’t feel like full power, but it was high enough to kill me if she so much as twitched. I didn’t look up to see, but I could feel at least six blasters aimed at me. “Don’t do something you’ll regret.”

I was breathing hard and the world felt like it was spinning. My right arm throbbed where metal met flesh, and the lightsaber in my left hand felt like it was humming--that didn’t seem normal. Wherever my limits were, I had definitely passed them a broken jaw or two ago.

“Put the weapon down, Detective,” Master Unduli said. I could feel a thread of the Force behind it and deflected the minor compulsion. I could be reasonable--but I wouldn’t be controlled.

“Is Quinlan going to assault me again?” I asked.

“I didn’t assault you, I touched your arm!” Quinlan hissed. There was blood on his teeth. “You’re the one who tried to liquidize my insides!”

“I don’t like being grabbed,” I said. “I’ll apologize if you promise not to do it again.”

“Oh, that’s real nice. Beat up a man and still act like you’re the good guy. Pillar of honor right here.”

Master Unduli sighed. “Quinlan, apologize to him.”

Quinlan shot Master Unduli an incredulous look. “Seriously? You’re taking his side? He’s got a lightsaber pressed against some very important bits right now!”

Master Unduli lifted her lightsaber from my neck. The ring of soldiers lowered their blasters, too, which made breathing a little easier. “Detective, please return Quinlan’s lightsaber. You used to be a Jedi--I’m sure you understand how important it is to him.”

I glanced back at her, then to Quinlan. Deliberately, I pulled the lightsaber away and got off of Quinlan. He groaned and rose slowly. I didn’t help him--I wasn’t feeling that charitable.

He didn’t look great. I had only hit him a few times, but I’d made them count.

The lightsaber still felt like it was buzzing in my hand, which was weird but not unpleasant. I flipped it around to look at it properly. It was similar to what I remembered Quinlan’s lightsaber looking like, but it wasn’t the same. It was a simple design, with a silver barrel hilt that had a side cutout for the black grip, just large enough to fit my hand. That froze me.

Quinlan held out a hand for the lightsaber, but I didn’t offer it. This didn’t look like Quinlan’s lightsaber because it wasn’t his lightsaber. It was mine.

As if realizing it had been recognized, the Force around the crystal reached out, pressing against me. It didn’t feel like a person’s Force would, and it didn’t feel the way I remembered it, like warm sunlight cradled between my hands. It was quieter and colder now, but it was still unmistakably the same kyber that had chosen me in the caves of Ilum an entire lifetime ago.

I think it missed me.

I looked up at Quinlan, who was staring like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Obi-Wan?” he said.

“Why do you have my lightsaber?” I asked. “I thought they put orphaned lightsabers in the Archives.”

“I stole it,” Quinlan said. “Jinn kept it after Melida/Daan. When you died, I...I had to find out what happened. I broke into his quarters and took it, and I saw--he abandoned you. You went off to a war zone even though you both knew how bad it was and he let you.”

“I know. I was there,” I said. “You stole it from Master Jinn and they let you keep it?”

“I didn’t give them any other option--I couldn’t let anyone take it away. It was all that was left of you, Obi.”

“Don’t call me that. Only Bant is allowed to call me that.”

Quinlan looked at me and pursed his lips slowly. “You’re...alive. This whole time, you were alive. And I didn’t--how long were you on Melida/Daan?”

“That’s...not important,” I said.

“It was a long time, wasn’t it? You must have been there for--for years. I could have--I should have--”

“Quinlan. You thought I was dead. I’m not angry about you getting over me--it’s been over twenty years. I’d be concerned if you didn’t.” I held my lightsaber out to him. “Here. Take it back.”

“That’s your lightsaber.”

“I’m not a Jedi anymore and I can’t use the Force that way--I left the Order and that’s not something I can or will take back. This lightsaber is yours now. You’ve had it longer than my entire life as a Jedi. You can put it to good use.”

Quinlan hesitated, then took my lightsaber back. He held it in his hands for a few moments, just staring at it. “It’s really you. You’re really alive.” He looked back up at me. “Just because you’re alive doesn’t mean you can get out of apologizing for punching me.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “You grabbed me and I reacted, and I’m not sorry for that, but I’m sorry I hit you that hard. It wasn’t personal, and I--” A wave of dizziness hit me and I staggered against the wall.

“Obi-Wan?” Quinlan said. Thankfully, he did not grab me this time. “Are you dying? You can’t die on me right now!”

“I’m not--” I grimaced. “I’m not dying, I’m just going to pass out. I wasn’t kidding when I--kriff--” My legs buckled under me and I went to the ground. “I might stop breathing while unconscious. If that happens, don’t panic. That’s normal.”

“You might what?” Quinlan said.

I pointed vaguely towards Master Unduli. Everything felt far away and getting farther by the second, so I’m not sure how accurate I was. “And don’t let Quinlan use psy--psychometry on me.”

Maybe someone said something after that, but I was already gone.

Things were never meant to go like this.

Decades of planning, thousands of hours of insipid interactions with spineless politicians, millions of credits funneling to the right places to create just the right kind of tension...

Everything was in place. Everything was meant to culminate in the rise of his Sith Empire and the complete eradication of the Jedi from life and memory, a plan so well-concealed and all-encompassing that no one would see the jaws of the trap until it was sprung, and yet--

Someone had seen him. Someone had uncovered his plans and unveiled him for who he really was, and in less than a month, had galvanized the Senate, the Jedi, and his clone army against him, cutting down his Empire before it could begin. The most infuriating part is that even now, dethroned and detained and Force-bound on charges of conspiracy and treason against the Republic, he has no idea who.

It wasn’t the Jedi--he had kept his eyes on them and Skywalker hadn’t spoken a word of any suspicions. It wasn’t one of those soft anti-war groups--they simply didn’t have the teeth. It wasn’t anyone within the army, not the clones nor the commissioned officers--his spies would have seen something.

So many of his plans are crumbling around him so quickly, and all he can guess is that he has been usurped by a ghost.

Sidious waits in detention and bides his time. His plans have fallen to the wayside but he has not failed yet--he still has supporters and he is the most powerful Sith in over a millennium. The pieces he has spent so much time to maneuver have not moved, and he will make use of them, the clones most of all.

Perhaps Senator Organa’s motions against him have ensured there is no hope for a peaceful transition into his Empire, but he may yet still build one, subjugating each world with the Dark Side if he must. There will be time then to execute each and every Jedi, and force them to experience an agony beyond their worst nightmares for subjecting him to this indignity. And the ghost who has driven him to this? Death will be too merciful. He will find them and he will make them suffer for all eternity--he will break their spirit and let them feel the undiluted wrath of the Dark Side until they beg for mercy, and only then will he shatter their mind and soul until there is nothing left but a husk that unquestioningly serves him.

Yes, that will be an appropriate punishment. Let that be a warning to all who wish to stand against his Empire.

The sound of footsteps brings him out of these thoughts. One of the Jedi guards steps into view, escorting what is unmistakably Tyranus, who is dressed as aristocratically as ever in satin black robes. Tyranus casts a disdainful look at his escort. “Leave us,” he commands.

The Jedi sighs. “You have five minutes, Count Dooku. We will be watching.”

With that, the Jedi leaves the two of them alone--an especially idiotic thing to do, even for a Jedi.

“Former Chancellor Palpatine. Or, I suppose, now that you have been unveiled for your true self, Lord Sidious,” Tyranus drawls. “I must say, it is a pleasure to see you under these circumstances. You always seemed to believe you were...above such things. Humiliation is a good look on you.”

“Why are you here, Tyranus?” Sidious demands.

“Well, aren’t you touchy? Are the accommodations not to your standards? Or are they, perhaps, too lavish?” Tyranus says, gesturing to the bare cell Sidious has been confined to. It is meant to hold Darksiders, with Force-suppression in the very walls, in addition to the cuffs around his wrists. One of them on their own, Sidious could have overcome--the two of them combined, even he cannot reach the Force. Too lavish indeed. “I wished to see how my Sith Master fared in the face of execution. Call it sentimentality.”

Sidious snarls. “Remember your place, apprentice.”

“I’m well aware of my place and of yours,” Tyranus says, “seeing as you are a prisoner and I am a diplomatic leader. By most standards, that would put me several steps above you, wouldn’t you agree?”

Sidious burns with the urge to rip Tyranus from limb to limb--a Sith Lord will not suffer this insolence from his own apprentice. “If you are not a prisoner, then why are you here, Tyranus?”

“I am here for your trial tomorrow, dear Master. I am, I understand, a key witness.”

“You dare defy me?” Sidious seethes. “After all I have done, you think you can betray me like this?”

Tyranus looks utterly nonplussed by the implicit threat. “After all you have done? Shaak do not thank the farmers that lead them to butchery. I have been made aware of certain details that you thought fit to withhold. Like, for example, your interest in my Grandpadawan.”

“You are not a Jedi, Darth Tyranus. Don’t tell me you would betray me out of some misplaced care for your estranged Jedi lineage.”

“I have no love for your Chosen One,” Tyranus says. “But I have even less love for the idea that you mean to replace me with the likes of him. You’ve planned it since before you even took me on as your apprentice, haven’t you? Since the Trade Federation blockade on Naboo.”

Sidious hisses. Tyranus shouldn’t know this.

“But truly,” Tyranus continues blithely, “I chose to betray you because you have lost. You overreached, Lord Sidious. You wanted an empire and a genocide and the galaxy to be cloaked in Darkness with the Chosen One by your side, and you picked up and disposed of people as was convenient all the way. You thought you covered all your tracks, but you did not, and you have been brought to this point by a mere civilian.”

Sidious’s eyes widen in realization. “You’ve met the ghost.”

Tyranus raises a brow. “A ghost? I suppose that’s an apt description. Yes, I spoke to him--he commed me a few weeks ago when I was in Serenno and he elucidated many things about your plans for me. He made a few very compelling arguments, but I didn’t mean to do anything with them until I heard of your arrest and Senator Organa reached out to me, asking for testimony and an end to this pointless war. Imagine my surprise when I arrived here to find just how much of your plans have been dismantled so quickly. Like a youngling’s wooden stacking blocks. Your ghost’s reach is quite far, wouldn’t you say?”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t think I’ll tell you,” Tyranus says airily. “Even if you knew his name, you wouldn’t recognize it. He is, as I said, a civilian. Not even a proper Force-sensitive. Utterly beneath your notice, except for the fact that he saw your schemes when no one else did, and spoke to everyone who could have stopped you. Not so insidious after all, were you?”

“Did you come here simply to taunt me?” Sidious growls. “Because if you are not here to make yourself useful, then you are worthless.”

“I have always been worthless to you,” Tyranus says. “I was only ever a placeholder, and excuse me if I find that objectionable. I am only acting in self-preservation.”

“You are a traitor.”

“You are the one who taught me that treachery is the way of the Sith. You should be proud of my studiousness.” Tyranus waves his hand dismissively. “But no, I am not simply here to taunt you. I am here to see what you will do in your last moments, and how you choose to die.” He reaches into his robe and pulls out a durasteel knife.

Sidious sneers. “You mean to kill me yourself?”

“Not at all,” Tyranus says. “I think execution for high treason is a very fitting end for you, and if I don’t have to dirty my hands to kill you, then all the better. No, this knife is for you. You are, I understand, cuffed with very powerful Force suppressants. This knife will not cut through those cuffs, but in determined hands it will cut through flesh.” He smiles grimly. “Handcuffs are much easier to remove once there are no hands.”

“You would have me mutilate myself to escape?” Sidious asks.

“In order to escape this prison, you need the Force,” Tyranus replies. “I am offering you a solution--the only solution you have available. I have seen the case against you for tomorrow, and their evidence is undeniable and extensive--perhaps the work of your ghost. I do not believe you will receive anything other than an immediate execution.” He tosses the knife from one hand to the other. “I don’t honestly think you will be able to escape, even with this--I wouldn’t offer it if I did. But I want to see what you can do, Master. Nobody is coming to rescue you--you are a Sith, and Sith act alone. In your last hours, prove to me the power of the Dark Side.”

“You will be the first to die, Tyranus. I will make you regret being born.”

Tyranus smiles vindictively. “You will have to escape, first. May the Force be with you.”

With that, Tyranus sets the knife on the floor, just in reach of the bars, and departs. The knife isn’t even a vibroblade--it’s a simple if heavy blade with a serrated edge. He would have to saw to cut through flesh, much less tendon and bone, and there is hardly anything he could do to stem the blood loss. It is clear that Tyranus has not offered an escape route, but a slow and painful suicide.

Sadism worthy of a Sith. Truly, Tyranus had learned well--too bad he will shortly die for this insult.

Sidious takes the knife.

Cody shuts the door behind him and takes a deep breath. "Brothers," he says. "We're all gathered here today for a terrible reason. We've been betrayed by one of our own."

"I can't believe you called me out here for this." Wolffe mutters under his breath.

Cody ignores him. "This will break our hearts, but we have to do our duty." He clasps his hands and looks each of his gathered brothers in the face. "We have to kill Fives."

A round of muttering goes around the room, some in agreement, some in confusion.

"As you all know, our honored Captain Rex--"

"Honored to you, maybe--" Fox grouses.

"--is dating a civilian known as Obi-Wan Kenobi. He's a private investigator and also runs seminars once a week for Jedi about information sciences. Many of us here have been to at least one of his seminars."

"Isn't he that guy who showed up a while ago and kicked your ass?" Jesse asks.

"That's not important right now," Cody says. "The important thing is that Obi-Wan is Rex's boyfriend, and since he's our favorite little brother, we have to make sure he doesn't get his heart broken."

Tup raises a hand. "Isn't Rex older than like, half of us in in this room?"

Hardcase elbows Tup in the side. "If Cody says Rex is the little brother, he's the little brother."

"What? How does that work?"

"Big brother privilege," Jesse replies, not looking up from his holomag. "You're the squad baby--you wouldn't understand."

Tup does that thing where he makes his eyes really big and pathetic. "I'm not a baby!"

"You are as long as you do that thing with your eyes," Hardcase says, clapping him on the shoulder. "But it's okay, we love you and your baby eyes, Tup'ika."

Cody claps his hands sharply. "Back on topic!" he says. "Fives has violated our code of honor and tried to steal Obi-Wan from Rex! He received multiple warnings and continues to commit offenses, so now he has to die."

"Are you sure you aren't overreacting?" Fox asks dryly. "Detective Kenobi is a popular person, especially after that holovid of him dumping your ass on the mat in front of several witnesses. We're not trying to kill everyone who talks to him, are we? Because we're not going to have a lot of brothers left if we do. Hell--you're on first name terms with the guy yourself."

"Fives isn't just talking to Obi-Wan--he's dating him! Just a tenday ago, he asked Obi-Wan out to dinner."

“At the end of his seminar. In front of the whole class. I’d be impressed by his sheer balls if I thought he even considered what he was saying for a microsecond before it came out of his mouth,” Hardcase adds. “He took it back, but after the seminar was dismissed, he doubled down. Didn’t you see the holos?”

“Unlike some people, I have to actually do work,” Fox says. “What holos?”

Wolffe leans back in his chair to show him.

“Oh, what the--” Fox says, squinting at it. “He went out in public wearing that? And Kenobi didn’t laugh him out of the room? I mean we all know Fives is a slutty clown, but he didn’t have to show it.”

“Kenobi thought it was funny, but he’s too polite to laugh in people’s faces, unfortunately,” Hardcase says. “I tailed them to the restaurant and you wouldn’t believe the looks they got.”

“Wait, you’re the one who tailed them? Did they kiss?” Jesse asks.

Hardcase snorts. “No, obviously not. If they kissed, Fives would already be dead--he looked like he was going to pass out every time Kenobi smiled. It was disgusting. Not to mention our Fearless Ori’vod would have killed him,” he says, shooting a look at Cody.

“But that’s not all,” Cody cuts in. “Apparently, Fives decided he hadn’t gotten enough, so he’s going on another date with Obi-Wan. To the aquarium. There were at least six witnesses, myself included. They’re going tomorrow, so there’s not a lot of time.”

Wolffe rolls his eyes so hard it’s almost audible. “Well, maybe it wouldn’t be so urgent if you’d called this stupid meeting a few days ago. What’s the difference?”

“The difference is this!” Cody pulls out a flyer. “Tomorrow’s a special couple’s event at the aquarium! They get half off admission if they kiss, and Fives is not allowed to kiss Rex’s boyfriend!”

Tup raises his hand again. “Rex says Obi-Wan isn’t his boyfriend, though.”

“Rex’ika is shy,” Cody says. “If you’ve seen the two of them together, he’s obviously head over heels for that detective, and by the stars are we going to get them together. So we can’t let Fives continue. We have to kill him. All those in favor?”

“We warned him. He knew the consequences,” Hardcase says.

“If he’s wearing shit like that, then yeah, he probably deserves to die,” Fox says.

“I don’t give a damn,” Wolffe says. “Whatever gets me out of here sooner.”

Cody nods. “All those opposed?”

“Killing him seems...a little drastic?” Tup says.

Echo raises his hand in the back. “We can’t kill Fives. We already signed the lease for our apartment and he’s going to pay half the rent. You’re not going to leave me without a roommate and having to pay twice the rent, are you?”

“Dammit, you’re right. We can’t do that to you,” Cody says. “When does your lease run out?”

“A little over a year from now.”

Cody scrubs a hand over his face. “Shit. Okay, we need to come up with a new plan to stop Fives from stealing Obi-Wan. Any ideas?”

“Maybe we can get him arrested?” Hardcase suggests. “Fox could detain him for crimes against fashion.”

“I could,” Fox says. “I’d have to be in close proximity to him, though, and that sounds awful.”

“We could break all his legs,” Jesse says.

“All his legs?” Echo asks. “Like he’s got more than two?”

Jesse raises a brow. “We could also break all his arms.”

“Jesse! That’s terrible!” Tup says.

Jesse waves him off. “They’re just broken bones. It’s not like it’s permanent.”

Cody opens his mouth to interrupt when the door slides open.

“--find even one bottle of...” Detective Obi-Wan Kenobi trails off. “...cleaning solution. Sorry, am I interrupting something?”

“We were planning our monthly strip sabacc tournament,” Hardcase says.

“In a supply closet?” Obi-Wan asks, lowering his commlink. “This is a supply closet, isn’t it?”

“Cody likes supply closets,” Hardcase says with a completely straight face. “It’s harder for people to eavesdrop.”

“Eavesdropping. On your planning of the monthly strip sabacc tournament,” Obi-Wan says.

“It’s extremely high stakes. Isn’t that right, Cody?” Hardcase says. “Since you’re the reigning champion and all.”

Cody shoots Hardcase a murderous look for this stupid, stupid cover story. “We try to make things different every time,” he says. “So it doesn’t get old.”

“Yeah, there’s only so many ways to get ori’vod to take his shirt off before it gets boring,” Echo jumps in. “We were thinking of changing the venue. Like the aquarium.”

“Really?” Obi-Wan says. He glances down at the flyer sitting on the rickety card table. “Oh, Charduul Aquarium? I wouldn’t suggest that one--the exhibits aren’t very good, especially since they changed management a few years back. I’m fairly certain they’re only still in business for legacy reasons.”

“Aren’t you going to the aquarium? Tomorrow?” Hardcase asks.

“Where did you hear that?” Obi-Wan asks. “Yes, in fact, I am. Not Charduul, though--you couldn’t pay me enough to go there. I’m visiting the Vespid, a few districts south--it’s much better, and it’s a free admission day tomorrow. Boba wanted to go, and it’ll be good for him to see some new things, so Feral and I are taking him.”

“What about Fives?” Jesse asks.

“My goodness, you’re all gossips, aren’t you?” Obi-Wan says. “I told Fives that it was a free admission day, and he said he’d love to come along. Rex and Ahsoka are coming, too. You are all free to join us--the aquarium is very good, and it deserves at least one visit while you’re still on Coruscant.”

“Oh. I see,” Cody says. “We’ll...consider it. Out of curiosity, Obi-Wan, what do you think of Fives?”

“Fives? Well, he’s got a peculiar sense of fashion and he’s very nervous when speaking. I still would have preferred he hadn’t asked me to dinner at the time that he had, but he’s a decent sort. He cares very much about his brothers, which is always admirable. Is there a point to this line of questioning?”

“No, I just...wanted to know,” Cody says.

“I see. Is there a bottle of cleaning solution in here? There was an incident in one of the refectories and the cleaning droids are malfunctioning.”

Echo hands him a bottle.

Obi-Wan smiles, making Cody’s heart do something slightly peculiar. “Thank you, dear. In that case, I’ll let you go back to planning your monthly strip sabacc tournament. It sounds very exciting--perhaps someone should take holos. Good luck defending your championship, Captain,” he says, winking at Cody, then leaving.

It takes a full ten seconds for Cody’s brain to start working again after that, but fortunately everyone else seems to be suffering from roughly the same problem.

“Rex, that lucky son of a bitch,” Hardcase says, voicing what they’re all feeling.

“So...” Echo says. “We have to actually make a monthly strip sabacc tournament now, don’t we?”

“Yeah,” Cody says.

“And we’re all going to the aquarium tomorrow, aren’t we?”

“Yeah...”

“All right,” Echo says. “What’s the funniest thing I can get Fives to wear?”

When Obi said he would start doing a series of seminars for the Jedi, Bant had been surprised. Not because Obi was a bad teacher or anything--she was certain he would be great at it--but because both he and Master Che had made it abundantly clear that the less time Obi-Wan spent within the Temple, the better it would be for his health. Or, rather, Obi-Wan had said that going to the Temple was ‘inconvenient’, and Master Che had said it was a miracle that Obi-Wan was even alive with how much time his soul spent outside of his body, and that she would personally hunt down anyone who endangered him further by forcing him to enter Temple grounds unnecessarily.

Well, thankfully for Master Windu’s continued health, he had not arranged for Obi-Wan to do his seminars at the Temple but at a nearby university for the arts which had some long-standing connections with the Order and was the home of Master Windu’s very brief theater career some decades back. Most of Obi-Wan’s seminars were about information sciences and security, though he occasionally also did talks about other Force traditions, especially the ones observed on Jedha.

Bant was usually on call at the Halls of Healing, so she didn’t have a lot of time to attend these seminars, but the few she’d attended were very good. Obi-Wan commanded a stage almost effortlessly--a far cry from when he’d stammered through assignments as a youngling--and his expertise on his subjects was abundantly obvious, as was his enthusiasm. Teaching suited him.

This week, Bant stops by the university after her shift at the Halls, just in time to catch the tail end of Obi’s talk. The atmosphere’s a bit more subdued in the lecture hall than usual--a lot of people don’t seem to be paying all that much attention to the seminar for once. A quick look at Obi makes it pretty obvious why:

He’s shaved his beard.

Obi-Wan had joked before that he’d grown the beard out so people would take him seriously as a detective, but it’s never been more obvious than now--clean-shaven, he looks absurdly young. If Bant didn’t know better, she would guess he was twenty-five at most.

And if shaving his beard wasn’t enough, Obi-Wan has decided to wear an embroidered wine-red Alderaan style blazer that has obviously been tailored to fit him perfectly and his hair has been braided back into rosettes and pinned with shining brass ornaments. Even the long gloves that cover his mechanical hand are sharper than usual, a complimentary fawn brown with decorative straps across the back. Bant doesn’t even know where Obi-Wan got such nice clothes from, but she can easily admit he wears it extraordinarily well.

No wonder everyone seems a little dazed. At least a third of the people who attend these seminars already only do it to see Obi-Wan talk--Bant can’t imagine what havoc this is going to wreak.

Obi-Wan brings his seminar to a close, and Bant is one of maybe ten people in the hall with enough of her wits to remember to applaud. After a small closing statement (nobody has any questions today), people filter out of the hall.

Bant catches Obi by the exit.

He sees her immediately and smiles. “Bant, it’s great to see you. You look wonderful today.”

Bant pulls him into a quick hug. “Good to see you, too, Obi. Sorry I wasn’t able to come earlier--I wanted to see your whole lecture, but I had to stay late at the Halls.”

“Oh no, it’s fine,” Obi-Wan says as he tugs Bant along down the hallway. “Feral tells me it’s a circus in there these days. Master Che’s getting some new equipment installed or something?”

“Something like that. A lot of the east wing needs to be updated, so we’ve had to shuffle everything around while the technicians do their work,” Bant says. “What was your seminar about today?”

Obi-Wan hums. “Data degradation and preservation. I’m not sure it was a very good seminar, though. I might need to revise it for the next time I do this talk.”

“What do you mean?” Bant asks. “I know I only came in at the end, but it seemed like a perfectly good seminar.”

“Well, nobody was paying much attention,” Obi-Wan says. “So I assume either the subject or my presentation left something to be desired.”

Bant opens her mouth, then closes it. “Obi,” she says. “They weren’t distracted because your seminar was bad. They were distracted because you look like that.” Bant gestures to the entirety of Obi-Wan’s body.

Obi blinks. “Like...myself?”

“I mean you dressed up.”

“I always dress up for lectures.”

“...Not like this, you don’t. Where did you even get those clothes?”

“Bail gave them to me. I finally let his tailor take my measurements, so obviously he wasted no time in trying to replace my entire wardrobe. I wouldn’t usually wear this, but Bail threw all my clothes in the wash and I had to get here in time for the seminar. It was either wear this or look like a soggy tooka.” Obi-Wan self-consciously straightens his blazer. “I didn’t think this jacket looked too bad--it’s a subtle design.”

“It looking bad isn’t the problem,” Bant says. “And excuse me, but did you just say you were at Senator Organa’s apartment before coming here?”

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “I don’t go to Republica 500 if I can help it. There’s this, ah, diplomatic suite on the west end of the Senate District that Breha uses when she visits Coruscant, and Bail and I are staying there for now.”

Bant decides to leave aside the fact that Obi is apparently on first name terms with both Senator and Queen Organa. “So...you are staying with Senator Organa.”

“Yes, but only for a few days,” Obi-Wan replies. “We’re working on a case together, which I can’t talk about, but there’s some time-sensitive elements involved. It’s easier to make our moves if we stay together until it’s resolved.”

“Okay, but that doesn’t explain your hair,” Bant says. “You didn’t have to make it so fancy for a lecture.”

“My hair?” Obi-Wan reaches back to touch his braids. “Bant, I have no idea what’s going on with my hair anymore. These days, whenever I spend time with someone, they redo my hair. I’ve completely stopped keeping track of what happens back there. Did Bail do something besides rosettes?”

Senator Organa braided Obi-Wan’s hair. Okay. That’s...weird to think about. “He put ornaments in it,” Bant says, “They’re shiny brass. It really brings out the redness.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound so bad,” Obi-Wan says, waving hello to one of the Republic soldiers and causing them to nearly walk into a wall. “That shouldn’t distract people that much.”

“You also shaved your beard,” Bant points out.

“I had to. I went to the Senatorial Ball the other day, and I needed to be clean-shaven for that.” He rubs his chin. “I didn’t really want to--I probably won’t be able to get anyone to hire me again until it grows back, and I’m not sure Feral and Savage will like how I look without it, but Bail asked me nicely and I was trying to go incognito--some of the Senators there know what the lower half of my face looks like. What does my beard have to do with anything?”

“Your students aren’t distracted because your seminar was bad, they’re distracted because they think you’re hot.”

Obi-Wan frowns. “What? Surely not.”

Bant takes a deep breath. “...Obi. Are you an idiot?”

“Not typically.”

“Then how have you not noticed people think you are, in Quinlan’s words, a snack?”

“Please tell me he doesn’t actually say that,” Obi-Wan says.

“Oh, he says and has said much worse,” Bant says. She can hardly count the number of times she’s had to talk Quinlan out of propositioning her brother. She deserves a medal in patience for that alone. “But that’s not the point. Surely, surely, someone’s told you you’re very attractive for a human male. Senator Organa, maybe?” After all, he was the one responsible for Obi-Wan’s current appearance.

“Well, of course he does--we’re friends.”

“Right,” Bant says. “Friends.”

“Very good friends, if you must know,” Obi-Wan says. “Of course we compliment each other.”

“Okay...but you also get flirted with regularly. I’ve seen people flirt with you. Force, you flirt back!”

“What are you talking about?”

Unbelievable. Bant valiantly resists the urge to put her face in her hands. “You call people pet names. You’re constantly telling people you think they’re beautiful or marvelous or whatever. You accept offers to go out to dinner with near-strangers.”

“That’s not flirting--I do it all the time. It’s friendly.”

Bant breathes in, counts to ten, and lets it out. Obi-Wan was oblivious when they were younglings, but he’s thirty-five now. Surely, after all his trials and all the things he’s learned... “Obi, you...please don’t tell me you think that’s just how a normal conversation should go.”

“Is it not?” Obi-Wan asks. “People enjoy it when I compliment them--I’m not lying when I do it, and I’m careful to not be rude about it. Am I not supposed to?”

“It’s not about what you’re not supposed to do. My point is that most people don’t do that. Unsolicited compliments are considered flirtatious, Obi.”

“People compliment me all the time.”

“Yes! That’s my point! I love you, Obi, but you are denser than a black hole. People compliment you because they think you’re attractive. They’re not doing it just to be polite.”

Obi-Wan frowns. “Really? And you’re saying this outfit...”

Bant sets a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “It looks very good on you. You look like you’re going to audition for a fashion holomag.”

“You must be exaggerating.”

“Trust me on this one, I’m not. I can ask Quinlan to back me up--I already hear way too much about how badly he wants to tap that.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I heard it myself on our trip to and from Dathomir,” Obi-Wan replies. “Once he came to terms with my still being alive, he made sure to inform me how much he enjoyed my appearance.”

All right. Clearly, Obi-Wan is completely hopeless. “He told you that and you thought he was just being friendly?”

“I mean, it’s Quinlan. He’s always a bit on the crude side,” Obi-Wan says. “What I’m getting from this conversation is that if I want people to pay attention to my seminars, I should dress worse.”

At times like this, Bant wishes she knew if Obi-Wan was serious or just messing with her. Unfortunately, they haven’t spent enough time each other for her to judge that offhand and his medical condition with regards to the Force renders her ability to judge people’s emotions that way completely useless.

“That was not at all the point of this conversation,” Bant says. “But you know what? If that’s what you got out of it, that’s good. We can work on the other parts another time.”

Obi-Wan grins. “Well, I’m always glad to have your insight, Bant. We should get together again sometime when my case is over--all of us. Get dinner somewhere nice, maybe, and play a few rounds of sabacc.”

“That’s a good idea,” Bant says. “You should invite Senator Organa, too. We could all get to know each other a little better.”

It would be good, after all, to give Senator Organa a talk about Obi-Wan. Just to be safe.

Padmé is no stranger to grand buildings, having once been a queen herself, but she can admit that Alderaan’s architecture is breathtaking. The palace is enormous and a marvel of engineering and architecture both, with sleek rounded spires that stretch up into the sky, inlaid with inscriptions and art. She’s escorted into the antechamber by one of the palace attendants and the inside is spacious with bright warm colors and tiled mosaics that might be hundreds of years old yet gleam like they were installed yesterday.

“Senator Amidala,” Queen Organa says as she enters from a side door, escorted by one of her own attendants who holds her gently by the crook of the arm. For a queen she is dressed subtly, in a dark green and gold embroidered dress with cinched sleeves and a dark veil over most of her hair, but despite the relative simplicity compared to the wardrobes found on Naboo, she is beautiful. Her dark eyes seem to glitter in the sun and she moves gracefully like she is made of air. She smiles, radiant, and the very atmosphere around her seems charged with grandeur.

That is the difference, perhaps, between a monarch who is only trained to wear regalia and one who is born and raised for it.

Padmé bows deeply. “Your Majesty. Thank you for your hospitality. I’m honored to be welcome in your halls.”

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” Queen Organa says. “Any friend of Bail’s is a friend of mine. You can call me Breha.”

Padmé smiles. “Then I must insist you call me Padmé.”

“If you wish, Padmé,” Queen Organa says. “You wanted to see how the Republic soldiers were settling in?”

Padmé nods. “I have the utmost faith in your people, and I’ve only heard positive things, but I’d like to see it for myself. The clones have given more of themselves than they ever should have, and they deserve nothing less than the best we can provide.”

Queen Organa laughs, a delicate sound. “You don’t have to convince me--Bail’s told me enough of what these men have had to endure. After their service, it’s the least we can do to open our planet for them, if they want to be here.” The two of them exit the palace, and Queen Organa brings her over to a luxury speeder, with a guard beside it and waiting. It is one of the clones with a scar through his eyebrow, wearing a guard’s uniform with added green accents. Queen Organa nods to him. “Needlepoint,” she says. “This is Senator Amidala, visiting from Coruscant to see how our new residents have been settling in. Could you take us down to the new district?”

The clone, Needlepoint, salutes. “Of course, Your Majesty. It would be my honor.”

It’s a pleasant ride. Alderaan is a beautiful planet, full of mountains and modern architecture--a strange combination of natural and technological aesthetic. Very different from Naboo.

On the way over, Queen Organa explains the settlement of the clones and the ‘new district’.

“In order to make sure there was enough space and work for the immigrating soldiers, we renovated large parts of one of our older districts,” Queen Organa says. “It’s a few kilometers south of here, where the old spaceport used to be before we had to move it further from the city center maybe sixty years ago--many citizens moved out of the area around the same time, and the district hasn’t seen too much life since. It seemed like a good place to have our new citizens settle in, and we’ve decided to make some long-needed improvements there, including expanding the rail transport and setting up employment services and a new library. It’s still a work in progress, but the extra manpower has made its development move much faster than we ever thought possible.”

“How many clones live in this new district?” Padmé asks.

“About twenty thousand,” Needlepoint replies. “At least, that’s what it was the last time I checked. Plenty of brothers are still coming in, and there’s lots of space for more.”

Twenty thousand. That was a much larger number than Padmé had expected, when Bail started this program for the settlement of clones two months ago. “And how do you like it, Needlepoint?”

“It’s a good place--a hell of a lot better than Kamino, that’s for sure. Lots of space, and we can do what we like. Not everyone settling here lives in town, and plenty of us are planning to move out to other parts of the planet, but it’s nice to have a place that’s ours, that we get to plan and build ourselves. Feels homey. Got some brothers starting small businesses or attending trade schools nearby or doing guard work, like me.”

“Is there a name for this new district?”

Needlepoint shakes his head. “Not yet--we’re trying to come up with one, but since most of us come from different units, it’s hard to find anything we can all agree on. We’ll have to come up with something soon before natborns start calling it ‘Clonetown’ or something.”

“What are they calling it, then?” Padmé asks.

“Daplon District was its old name,” Queen Organa replies. “I believe most people are still calling it that, and will likely continue to do so even after the name change is made.”

“Oh, no doubt, Your Majesty,” Needlepoint says. The speeder slows, and he points out the window. “There, Senator, you can see the new library.”

Padmé looks, and sees a large brushed chromium-plated building with stained windows that glint in the sunlight. It looks as elegant as everything else on the planet, and it must be five or six stories high. There are banners hanging off of it with emblems that must belong to different units of the Republic army. “That was built in two months?” she asks.

“It took a bit longer than that,” Queen Organa says. “Bail and I planned a lot of this about seven months ago, after the previous Chancellor was executed. We knew then that the war would likely end soon, and that all these soldiers would need a new home. We prepared accordingly.”

“And we appreciate it, Your Majesty,” Needlepoint says. “A lot of us never thought we’d end up someplace like this. It’s a good surprise.”

They drive slowly through the district, and Padmé sees--clones. Not everyone in the district is a clone, but they are definitely the overwhelming majority. Some of them are painting buildings, some of them are talking, some of them are just getting something to eat. It occurs to Padmé then that she’s never really seen the clones out of armor before, and certainly never this many. A few clones are still in full armor, but most of them have stripped down to only a few pieces--bracers or boots, mostly--or completely switched over to civilian clothing. Despite all the men here having the same face, nobody seems to be dressed alike--it’s colorful no matter where she looks.

It’s...strange to see.

Padmé can feel some kind of emotion she can’t name from all of these men who look so much happier and real here than they ever did. All these clones are undoubtedly, unmistakably people. That it took the end of a war to treat them like it is...horrible.

Her commlink beeps with a new message.

Padmé sighs. She’d only left a day ago--back during the war, they had hardly seen each other at all. Logically, now that they live together and see each other all the time, there would be no need for all this pining, and yet, if anything, being together and out in the open has only made Anakin want to be with her even more.

She loves Anakin with all her heart, but he can be exhausting sometimes. It’s tempting to ignore the text, just this once, but she knows Anakin will only become more insistent. It’s easier to just respond now.

She texts him back.

“Is something the matter, Senator?” Needlepoint asks.

“No, it’s just my husband,” Padmé replies, switching her comm to sleep mode. “He’s just worried about me, like always.”

“If you say so, Senator.” Needlepoint glances back. “Should I take you to the res hall?”

Queen Organa nods. “That would be lovely, Needlepoint. I think that would be a good place to start. After we see the residence halls, could you give Senator Amidala a tour of the district? I would accompany you, but Bail will worry if I don’t watch my health.”

Padmé recalls then that Queen Organa has a weak constitution--Bail once mentioned that she had multiple issues with her lungs and some other organ systems, which was why she visited Coruscant so infrequently. With that, it was no wonder that Queen Organa would need to limit how much she walked around.

She wonders how Queen Organa and Bail are so happy together even though they hardly see each other. With light years between them, it’s difficult to have passion, but they don’t seem to mind.

“No problem, Your Majesty. You take good care of yourself and I’ll take good care of the Senator,” Needlepoint replies. The speeder stops in front of a very tall duracrete building that’s covered in murals. “Here we are, the res halls. Got a thousand or so people living here.”

“So many? Isn’t it cramped?” Padmé asks as she helps Queen Organa out of the speeder.

“Not at all,” Needlepoint says. “It’s a good deal. Pretty much free, and got a lot more space than our barracks did, especially on the flagships. Only got to share your fresher with your bunkmates and the ones next door and there’s hot water, to boot. Res hall’s good for brothers who like how it was back in the barracks, or if you’re just staying a couple nights.” He waves to one of the clones, who is adding to one of the many murals. “Hey, Crys. What’re you working on?”

Crys, who is wearing paint-specked black clothes and a set of gold-painted bracers, looks up. “Needlepoint? What the hell are you doing here? Didn’t you get a fancy new place so you could show off all those quilts you were making?”

“I’m showing Senator Amidala and the Queen around,” Needlepoint says, gesturing to Padmé and Queen Organa. “They’re checking up on us, seeing if we’re doing all right.”

“Senator Amidala and the Queen?” Crys looks over at them, then scrambles to his feet to bow. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there, Your Majesty. Senator. I’m Crys. I served with the 212th.”

“At ease, Crys,” Queen Organa says. “Are you still working on the murals? I thought they were finished.”

“I just wanted to touch it up in some places,” Crys says. “The yellows and whites don’t show up great unless it’s got multiple coats.” He points behind him to a depiction of several soldiers in full armor alongside some of the Jedi--one of them looks like Master Windu. “Still haven’t figured out how to get the lightsabers to look right. Hardcase says he might know how, but until he proves it, I think he’s full of shit--or, uh. Full of it. Excuse my language, ma’am.”

“You’re excused,” Queen Organa says. “I saw some new murals on the way in--are you and your brothers planning to paint the entire town?”

“Well, we’re seeing how we feel,” Crys says. “The town’s pretty big, but we’ve got a lot of people and a lot of paint.”

“Then I wish you the best of luck on your endeavors,” Queen Organa replies. “I look forward to seeing what you all come up with.”

Crys salutes. “We do our best, Your Majesty.”

Needlepoint says a bit more to Crys, then swipes them into the residence halls. Even the inside is colorful, with painted walls and mounted art that must have been made by the clones.

“I didn’t realize the clones were so artistic,” Padmé says.

“Many of them expressed interest,” Queen Organa replies. “And here on Alderaan, we value the arts--it was the least we could do to encourage them to create.”

Needlepoint nods. “The paint makes it feel like ours--never really had that before. Customization wasn’t allowed on Kamino. Defacing your living space or the facilities got you reprimanded, and if you did it enough times, you could get decommissioned. The kaminiise didn’t like us painting our armor, either, but since the Jedi backed us up, they couldn’t scrap us for it.”

“They would...decommission you for something that small?” Padmé asks.

Needlepoint shoots her a look. “I wouldn’t call it small, Senator. Maybe it’s small for a natborn, but a brother’s colors are important stuff.” He gestures to the green bands on his uniform. “The kaminiise might have made me, but I’m the one who made me a person.”

“Oh,” Padmé says. She recalls, vaguely, what Anakin had said about the clones and how they chose names for themselves. It had seemed like a small thing for her, but it’s obvious that to the clones it is very much not. “I’m sorry, Needlepoint. I misspoke.”

“It’s fine,” Needlepoint says. “Just don’t do it again. The mess hall is through here.”

They go down the corridor into an extremely large refectory with colorful tiling and wide windows overlooking a small park. There’s maybe forty or fifty clones, scattered around the many tables, talking and eating what looks like some kind of noodle dish.

Queen Organa excuses herself to sit down and get something to drink, leaving Padmé with Needlepoint.

“How is the food here?” Padmé asks.

“It used to be pretty terrible, but it’s actually real good now--brothers who really like cooking had the time to get into it and figure things out. Better ingredients, too. There’s a co-op not too far out with a lot of brothers helping out with the farming, so almost everything we get these days is fresh--it’s a damn sight better than ration bars and nutrient broth,” Needlepoint explains as he grabs a couple of fruits out of a basket and offers one to Padmé.

Padmé takes the fruit. It’s blue with firm flesh--a local fruit, she thinks. She bites into it and finds it pleasantly juicy and sweet. “This refectory seems inordinately large.”

“A lot of brothers come here even if they don’t live in the res hall,” Needlepoint says, eating his own fruit. “Just convenient not to cook, for those of us who never learned and aren’t interested. It’s nice to see everyone else anyways, and catch up on what’s going on--get the gossip. Some tables are mostly reserved for certain units, like the 212th--that’s Crys’s unit--usually sit over there by the doors. 425th--that’s my unit--we usually sit back here by the windows.”

Padmé points at a cluster of long tables. “And there?”

“Oh? That’s usually the 501st. Most of them came to Alderaan after the war ended.”

Padmé blinks. “The 501st? That’s Anakin’s unit, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, your husband’s,” Needlepoint says. “The way I heard it, the 501st didn’t care for the Jedi Temple much--probably because General Skywalker left the Order. They didn’t really have anywhere else to go, so they came here. There’s so many of them they’ve practically got their own section of town, a few blocks east.”

Padmé’s not sure what to do with that information. Back when the clones started transitioning out of the army, she and Anakin had offered a place for the 501st on Naboo, but they’d turned it down. Somehow, learning they had settled down here instead feels like some kind of betrayal. They hadn’t so much as mentioned it to her or Anakin, even after two months.

“For most of the units that have a lot of people here, we’ve had Generals visit once or twice, especially since a lot of stuff with the war is cooling down now,” Needlepoint says. “It’s a big reunion kind of thing. Lots of noise, lots of fun.”

“Has Anakin been here?” Padmé asks.

“Excuse my boldness, but he’s your husband, ma’am. Shouldn’t you know that already?” Needlepoint asks.

“Anakin can attend to his own affairs,” Padmé says. “I don’t keep constant tabs on him.”

“Really?” Needlepoint says. “Well, I haven’t seen General Skywalker once. I don’t think he’s ever visited--there’s so much of the 501st here that I’d have heard about it. Seems kind of crummy of him not to check in at all, but that’s not my business.”

“I don’t think he knows they’re here.” Which is absurd. Anakin knows where she is almost every second of the day--the idea that he might not know where his entire squad is after so much time is ridiculous.

“Why shouldn’t he?” Needlepoint asks. “A lot of the Generals personally helped find places for their men--General Freel’s the one who told me and my brothers about Alderaan--but if Skywalker didn’t, it’s easy enough to ask, isn’t it?”

Padmé opens her mouth to protest that Anakin did ask, only to realize that perhaps he hadn’t. Rex had visited a couple months ago to talk, but afterwards Anakin hadn’t told her if Rex had said anything about the 501st. Maybe that was Anakin keeping things to himself, but they didn’t keep secrets from each other--it’s more likely that Rex hadn’t said anything.

Why would the 501st keep this secret from them, especially after she had offered a home to them? If they had wanted to stay close to their General, there were options on Coruscant, or at least on Naboo where Anakin visited with some regularity--they didn’t have to come here.

“Like I said,” Needlepoint continues, tossing away his fruit rind in a recycler, “not my business. If they didn’t tell General Skywalker about coming here, then that’s their choice. That’s not something I want to touch.” The two of them loop around to where Queen Organa is speaking to a clone with tightly braided hair and tattooed red stripes on his cheek. “Your Majesty, we’re ready to head up to the rec room. Do you want to come with?”

Queen Organa nods, then says to her companion, “I’ll take your suggestions for a new medcenter into consideration, Pip. Do you think enough of your brothers would be willing to staff it?”

“I know I would,” Pip says. “There’s nothing wrong with the medcenter downtown, but it’s not really made to deal with people like us--veterans and clones, I mean. A lot of us are more comfortable getting treated by our own, especially since we were trained specifically for working with the genetic mods we got.”

“It’s a good point. If you and your brothers can write up a proposal and send it to me, I think we could get your new medcenter up in a month or two.”

Pip raises his glass. “Cheers, Your Majesty. I’ll get on that straightaway.”

“Who was that?” Padmé asks as Queen Organa joins them.

“He’s Pip, one of the clone medics,” Queen Organa replies. “He personally operated on many of his brothers to remove their chips.”

“He got mine,” Needlepoint says, pointing to his temple. “Good surgeon, not so great bedside manner.”

“Oh,” Padmé says. “I would have expected something more...friendly from someone named Pip.”

Needlepoint shrugs. “I don’t know why he named himself that. It’s supposed to be short for something, I think. Turbolift’s here. Rec room’s on the third floor.”

The three of them file into the turbolift, and just as the doors close, Padmé’s comm beeps with another message.

Padmé frowns. As always, she’s flattered by Anakin’s love and attention, but she is in the middle of something. There never seems to be a way to tell him that in a way that makes him happy.

Unbidden, that detective’s voice comes back to her, saying you are not sufficient. She pushes it aside. He is and was wrong. She and Anakin love each other. That’s what’s important. That’s all they need.

Needlepoint clears his throat. “Senator?”

“Sorry, one moment. It’s my husband again,” Padmé says.

She changes her status to ‘do not disturb’, then puts the commlink away. She knows Anakin doesn’t like it when she does that, but he’ll understand this time. She’s making sure his men are okay.

“All right, lead the way, Needlepoint,” she says.

“You sure, Senator? If you’ve got something you need to do, I can wait.”

“No, it’s fine,” Padmé says. “You said you were going to show us the rec room?”

Needlepoint nods. “It’s just over here.” He pushes the door open into a large, low-lit room. There’s several card tables and couches and a shelf full of board games on one side of the room, and some large open space on the other. A set of speakers in the back is playing some type of music Padmé’s never heard before and there’s plenty of clones in clothes of all colors lounging on the floors or playing games with each other.

“What’s all the open space for?” Padmé asks, gesturing to the open part of the room.

“That’s the holofloor. They play holofilms every few evenings, or use it for large scale games during the day, like that dejarik tournament a few weeks ago. Sometimes we just use it as a stage for theater stuff--as long as you remember you can’t actually touch any of the set, it’s good fun.”

“Yes, someone almost broke a wrist trying to catch hold of a branch that wasn’t actually there,” Queen Organa says. “We’re trying to avoid similar incidents in the future.”

“In our defense, it was very funny, Your Majesty,” Needlepoint says. “We used to have a place for spars here, but some things got broken and we had to ban it. All fights have to be settled in the gym downstairs, now.”

“I see,” Padmé replies. She glances at a crowd of half-dressed clones playing cards in a corner. “And, uh, what’s going on over there?”

“Oh, that’s the monthly strip sabacc tournament,” Needlepoint replies. “They’re only doing quarterfinals today, so it’s not too intense yet.” He leans in conspiratorially. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m betting on Glitch to win this set. They’re long odds, but he’s picked up some tricks since the last one, and I think he really might have what he needs this time.”

“He has done much better this month,” Queen Organa replies with a small smile. “But I still think it’ll be another few sets before he can reach the finals. Personally, I’m betting on Longshot.” She leans over to get a better look at the crowd. “Is that Captain Rex? Rex!”

Rex--the only blond clone in a sea of mostly dark colors--turns around. He’s got a charcoal gray cloak slung over his shoulder and is wearing a draped blue tunic that appears very Jedi in style. “Queen Organa?” he says. “What are you doing here?”

Queen Organa pulls Rex into a hug and kisses him on the cheek, and he’s so at ease with it that this must have happened before at least once. “Just seeing how everyone is doing,” she says, straightening out his tunic with a sharp tug. “How is Coruscant treating you? Obi-Wan tells me you’ve started studying library sciences.”

This is yet another thing that Padmé hasn’t heard anything about.

Rex’s cheeks turn a little red. “Yes, ma’am, that’s correct.”

“Good for you,” Queen Organa says. “How do you like the new district? I think the last time you visited it was only just getting started.”

“It’s...good. Very different from Coruscant. Quieter,” Rex says. “It’s, uh, kind of weird seeing so many brothers in one place outside the Jedi Temple now. It’s good for a lot of us, but I don’t really think I’d ever move here myself.”

“Because you have friends in Coruscant,” Queen Organa says knowingly.

“Yeah, that’s part of it. I’ve got friends here, too, obviously, but we’ve got comms and I visit for a few days every month. That’s a good arrangement, I think.”

There’s something very surreal about seeing Rex so overtly casual with Queen Organa, yet nobody in earshot seems to think it’s out of the ordinary. Padmé’s pretty sure she’s never been so casual with Rex, and he’s one of Anakin’s best friends.

Queen Organa hums. “Are you happy?”

Rex nods firmly. “I am.”

“Good. I’m glad for you. Give Obi-Wan my best wishes when you go back.”

Rex grins. “I’m pretty sure the clothes you’re sending him will say that well enough, but I’ll let him know.”

“And take holos,” Queen Organa says. “I want to see how it looks on him.”

Rex salutes. “Of course, Breha.”

Padmé clears her throat. “Rex.”

Rex turns towards her, and the casual fondness he’d shown for Queen Organa disappears immediately--it’s like a curtain has dropped over his expression. “Senator Amidala,” he says politely.

“I haven’t seen you in a while. How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you. And you?”

“I’m also doing well,” Padmé says. “I’m just seeing how all of your brothers are.”

“I see,” Rex says, and doesn’t elaborate.

The conversation stalls. The silence feels like an endless gulf.

“I, um, understand a lot of the 501st moved here?” Padmé tries.

“That’s correct.”

Padmé isn’t dumb. She knows how to read a room, and she knows Rex doesn’t want to talk to her, but she can’t leave it like this, either. “You...didn’t tell Anakin.”

“He never asked, Senator,” Rex replies.

“He didn’t have to ask--any of you could have said anything,” Padmé says. “He cares about you.”

“Then he has a funny way of showing it,” Rex says, his expression still flat. “He hasn’t made much of an effort to see us since he left the Order and publicized his marriage. Seems to me he’s happier that way.”

“That’s not true. You were important to each other--you fought for each other.”

“We were and we did,” Rex replies. “He was a good General and we were good soldiers. We served our purposes and then he got the life he wanted and didn’t bother with us anymore. If that’s what he wants, we won’t fight it--there’s a lot more out here for us than a General.”

Padmé wants to protest. She wants to say that Anakin must still care, that he misses his men, but she can’t honestly say he’s said much about them, and they spend so much time together now. Ever since they moved in together, everything seems to be about his Master, or Ahsoka, or, more typically, her.

His love for her has eclipsed everything else.

“We’re not holding it against him,” Rex says. “Or some of us might, but I’m not. We had good times during the war, and I respect that and I respect him. If he wants to be friends, we’re not going anywhere--he can reach out. But I won’t have you trying to make those bridges for him, Senator.”

Padmé opens her mouth to respond when she feels her commlink vibrate in her pocket. She pulls it out.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s Anakin. I should take this.”

Rex's brows go up, the first amount of expression he’s shown to her. “Aren’t you in the middle of something? If you’re busy, you can comm him back later.”

It’s not that simple, though. If she doesn’t answer, he’ll be upset now and until she gets back to Coruscant, and he’ll keep being upset until she reassures him that she loves him and he’s still the most important thing to her. Even then, he might still hold this against her, that she couldn’t make time for him around her work, again.

“It’s better if I answer,” Padmé says. “You know how it is, when people love each other.”

“No, not really. If he loves you, he should respect your time.”

“He’s just worried. He can’t help it--he’s lovesick.”

Rex frowns. “Anakin is an adult, Senator. He can make his own choices.”

Padmé’s commlink vibrates again.

“You don’t have to take that if you don’t want to,” Rex says.

Padmé looks at him and over at the crowds of clones she needs to speak to. She’s supposed to learn how they’ve settled in and if there’s anything else they need. Right now, she is the face of the Senate for these clones, who have previously been so cruelly treated by it. It won’t be a good look if she leaves now to talk to her husband, especially for how long he usually wants to.

She thinks of Anakin and how miserable they will both be if she doesn’t answer this comm. They already get into too many fights. She doesn’t want to start another, especially over something so small. It’s not worth it.

Padmé takes a deep breath. “I need to take this.”

She goes out of the rec room and opens the transmission.

It's said that there's nothing worse than for a Master to outlive their Padawan. It's not the way things should be--a Master should protect their students and raise them to become great Jedi and good people, and one day far in the future die peacefully surrounded by friends and family.

Qui-Gon stands before a pyre that has long since burned to ash--Obi-Wan's pyre--and thinks that of all the ways he wished to break from Jedi tradition, this was not one of them.

This was never supposed to happen. Obi-Wan was meant to come back. Ever since he and Obi-Wan parted ways at Melida/Daan, he has held faith that one day, the Force would bring his wayward Padawan back home to the Temple where he belonged...

And now he is dead. A boy so bright, so eager and thoughtlessly caring, snuffed out in an instant. Contrary to certain opinions, Qui-Gon is not an idiot, and he knows that however Obi-Wan met his end, it was not kindly. Maybe it was a blaster bolt or an ion bomb, maybe it was starvation or thirst or any other horrible ailments that might befall a youngling in a place like Melida/Daan. It is cruel that there is no way to know the details, and a mercy that he does not have to see the outcome.

Qui-Gon feels a presence move to his side.

“Here, you still are?” Grandmaster Yoda asks. “To ash, the pyre has burnt. With the Force, young Obi-Wan is. Return to your quarters, you should, Grandpadawan.”

“I am fine here,” Qui-Gon says. Yoda is one of the last people he wants to talk to under these circumstances, and he hopes that the soft rejection will be enough to send him on his way.

Of course, he is not so lucky.

“Fine, you are not. Deceased, your Padawan has. Great grief, I sense within you.”

“My Padawan is dead,” Qui-Gon says. “For the second time, I have led a student to his death. I think I am allowed to grieve.”

“Grieve, you shall. But for your Padawan or yourself, do you grieve? Important distinction, that is.” Yoda taps his stick sharply. “With me, you will walk.”

“I will return to my quarters later,” Qui-Gon says.

“A request, that was not.” Yoda swats him in the legs. “Come along, you will. Much to discuss, we have.”

Qui-Gon looks down at Yoda and seriously considers what might happen if he simply...doesn’t go. Just stays here like a petulant youngling. At minimum, he would get some very bruised shins and a very cross Grandmaster. Is that worth it?

Yoda raises his stick, and Qui-Gon sighs. He may be stubborn, but Yoda is, too. The sooner this is over with, the better. “Very well. I will accompany you, Grandmaster.”

Yoda sets his stick down with a nod, then motions for Qui-Gon to leave the pyre behind.

The two of them go out into the corridor. It is dimly lit, but still brighter than the courtyard where the funeral was held. The smell of clean air hits him full in the face after so much time smelling woodsmoke and ash and it is...not unwelcome. It helps to clear the haze in his mind, just a little.

“What did you want to discuss, Grandmaster?” Qui-Gon asks.

Yoda takes a deep breath. “A year ago, when returned from a mission you did, left behind young Obi-Wan was. His privacy and choices, you asked us to respect. Safe, you stipulated he was. Safe, he was not.”

Qui-Gon’s heart clenches. “No,” he says. “I suppose he was not.”

“Lied to the Council, you did. Why?”

“It was not a lie,” Qui-Gon says. “I believed that Obi-Wan would be safe, and that he would return to the Temple. Humbled, perhaps, but not permanently. Certainly not dead. The Force cares--cared--for that boy. Was I wrong to believe that if it was the Force’s will for Obi-Wan to become a Jedi Knight, that it would protect him until the time he was meant to return to us?”

“Then the will of the Force you believe it is, that abandoned in a war young Obi-Wan should be. To die away from his family, Obi-Wan should, because the will of the Force, you believed you understood.”

Qui-Gon blinks. He’s not sure he’s ever heard Yoda speak in that tone before, not in forty years. “You...you’re angry.”

“Angry, I am? Maybe true, that is,” Yoda says. “Very bright, young Obi-Wan was. Not powerful or extraordinarily skilled, perhaps, but hardworking and filled with love Obi-Wan was, and loved him, the Force did. Believed I did, that deep enough, his love would be to reach you.”

It was, Qui-Gon thinks. Obi-Wan loved so much and so recklessly that he was willing to give his life in an instant if it meant others could live. He made friends so easily, he cared so much, he never gave anything less than everything he had...it was inevitable that Qui-Gon would love him, too.

Perhaps that was why it had hurt so much, when Obi-Wan had turned against him.

Qui-Gon slides his hands into his sleeves. “He did not love me as much as you think he did.”

Yoda stops dead. “Love you, you think he did not?” he asks, almost offended in his tone. “Loved you the most, Obi-Wan did. Idolized and respected you, he did. Worked hard to please you and be the Padawan you wanted, he did, and abandoned for all his hard work, he was. Dead, he is.”

“He chose to leave,” Qui-Gon retorts. “I gave him the chance to return--I told him what he would lose if he did not return with me--and he still chose to turn in his lightsaber and sever our bond. Should I have forced his decision? Should I have broken my word and dragged him back to the Temple like some kind of criminal?”

“A youngling, Obi-Wan was. Believe you do, that understood the consequences of his actions, he did? Prepared for war, young Obi-Wan was not. Continues now, Melida/Daan’s war does. Centuries, it has lasted. Centuries more, it lasts yet. A death sentence it was, to remain there. Especially if rescue comes not, and idle, you have been. Never retrieved, your apprentice would be, hmm?”

“I did not abandon him,” Qui-Gon says heatedly. “He is the one who cut all ties. If he had reached out even once, if he had ever asked for help, I would have returned to him in a heartbeat.”

“And know this, Obi-Wan did?” Yoda says. “The Order, he left. A Jedi, he was no longer. His lightsaber, to you he gave. His apprenticeship you ended, and his Master, you became no more. No power, the Jedi have to interfere in Melida/Daan’s war. Why ask the Temple for help, would Obi-Wan?”

“I am always there for him.”

Yoda shakes his head slowly. “For a year, you were not. Forever more, you will not. If cared for him, you did, then reached out you should have.” He raps Qui-Gon in the shins. “Prideful and stubborn, you are, Qui-Gon. Believed, I did, that Obi-Wan would help you. Believed, I did, that a great Knight he would become under your tutelage. A mistake, that was. Ready for a Padawan, you were not.”

Qui-Gon’s stomach twists. “I told you I wasn’t. I told you I would never take on another Padawan after Xanatos, but you forced Obi-Wan on me. I didn’t want him, and you meddled so that I would take him on. He was clumsy and awkward and impulsive and emotional and in every way inferior to Xanatos...” He lets out a low breath. “...and I loved him. By the Force, I loved Obi-Wan, Grandmaster. I promised myself I wouldn’t, but I couldn’t help myself, just like you wanted. I know I could have saved him. I know I should have saved him.

“But...he was supposed to come back. I saw him in a flash, a strong Jedi Knight who would protect as many people with his heart as with his lightsaber, and I knew that to bring him there, he had to make that choice for himself, just like he had to choose to come back. After he left, I waited for him to contact us. He had to--he’d left behind everything. His friends, his family, his home, and he was in such a difficult situation, too. How could he stand that and never ask for help? How could he cut off everything like that and never look back? He didn’t even say goodbye to his friends, or have a chance to tell them what choice he had made. He cared so much that he couldn’t have done that to himself--to everyone. Night after night I waited for any sort of contact, and he...never did. Why? How could a youngling who loved so much be so cold?”

Yoda closes his eyes. “Because self-sacrificing, Obi-Wan was. Think you do, that hurt, Obi-Wan was not? That scared, Obi-Wan was not? Hurt him deeply, losing you must have. Less important to him this was than helping others. Believed he did, that the war, he could end. Mistaken he was, but believed, he did. Tens of thousands of lives, he would save. Insignificant in comparison, his future was.” He opens his eyes again and leans heavily on his stick, looking so, so old. “Loved you, he did. But loved the people of Melida/Daan he did also. Disparage him, you should not, for placing duty above his feelings for you.”

Qui-Gon takes a deep breath, or tries. He feels like he’s choking, though whether it is on sorrow or grief or anger he can’t say. He’s already watched his Padawan’s funeral pyre tonight. He can’t stand through much more of this, too.

“What is the point of this conversation?” Qui-Gon asks. “I already feel guilty. I am already grieving. If you are only here to salt my wounds, then leave me be and I’ll salt them plenty on my own.”

“The death of a youngling, your actions have caused,” Yoda says bluntly. “Consequences there are, and reparations there must be to prevent further harm. Probationed indefinitely, you will be, Qui-Gon. Removed from the missions roster until further notice, you will also be. Ineligible to take on a new apprentice, you are, until proven you have that responsibly you will act. Counseling, you will attend.”

The words hit Qui-Gon like a punch in the stomach. Is it not enough that his Padawan is dead? “You can’t decide that on your own,” Qui-Gon hisses.

“Decided by the Council two days ago, this was,” Yoda says. “Believed, we did, that allowed to attend Obi-Wan’s funeral, you should be, and deferred until now is our sentence.”

“So you would lock me in the Temple grounds indefinitely for this? That seems terribly vindictive, Grandmaster.”

“Not intended as punishment, this is,” Yoda replies, though his voice implies otherwise. “But change, your behavior must. Irreversible harm, your pride has caused. Entrusted to our care, our younglings are, and protect them we do, even from our own Masters.”

That nearly knocks Qui-Gon’s breath away. “You...you honestly think I would hurt the younglings?”

“Hurt younglings you already have, Qui-Gon. Malicious, we think you are not, but thoughtless, you have proven in the past. Mindful you are not. Conduct befitting of a Jedi, it is not. Improve yourself you must, so another pyre, we do not have to light.”

Qui-Gon exhales deeply. Indefinite probation, suspension from missions until further notice, and mandatory counseling. It is, despite all of Yoda’s words, a punishment. Perhaps no less than he is due, after what has transpired today, but it chafes nonetheless.

He thinks of Obi-Wan’s grim and determined expression as he had handed over his lightsaber at Melida/Daan, and wonders if Obi-Wan knew, with his strange and frequent visions, exactly what was laying in store for him when he made that choice. It is not out of character for Obi-Wan to walk to his death.

Qui-Gon closes his eyes. It doesn’t matter now. Obi-Wan is dead and his pyre is nothing but ash. The brief future he had seen of Obi-Wan reaching knighthood would never come to pass.

“I accept the Council’s sentence,” he says.

War, Dooku has come to learn, is tedious.

He understands the utility of it, of course--there is no neater way to draw the Jedi Order into the zenith of their hypocrisy than by forcing them to become the face of war, and no cleaner way to destroy them than to put the clones' blasters at their backs--but it does not change how much busywork and pointless posturing is involved, especially when it comes to dealing with the Separatist so-called 'leaders'.

It is a relief to have time to himself on Serenno, where nobody will bother him for at least a full day-cycle, by the end of which he will have perhaps regained his ability to suffer the fools he is constantly surrounded by. He pours himself a glass of wine, sits back in a plush chair, and reads a manuscript about a subject that has absolutely nothing to do with current events.

He is interrupted about three hours into his determined leisure time by a serving droid.

"There is a comm for you, my Lord," it says in its tinny little voice.

Dooku takes a deep breath, counts to three, and resists the urge to crush the droid's chassis with a flick of the Force. It wouldn't do to dirty his library--even over something as annoying as this.

"I believe I explicitly commanded you not to interrupt me until daybreak tomorrow," Dooku says slowly, as if that will make this stupid droid any better at understanding human language. "And unless I am mistaken, daybreak has not yet occurred. Isn't that correct?"

"Correct, my Lord. It is currently 2135 and 40 seconds. Sunrise tomorrow will be in 9 hours, 22 minutes, and 22 seconds."

"I see," Dooku says. "Then why are you interrupting me with a comm, despite direct orders not to?"

"My Lord, your command was to refuse any comm from Separatist or Republic parties. The party contacting you is neither Separatist nor Republic."

What?

"Then who, pray tell, is this party?" Dooku drawls.

"The contacting party claims to be your grandson," the droid says.

"Ridiculous. I have no grandson."

"The contacting party also says that in the event that my Lord does not recall him, he says that he is sorry for spilling Master Yoda's Hel'vi tea on my Lord's robes when he and my Lord last met, and that at least the tea was no longer hot."

It takes an entire fifteen seconds to parse that. He hasn't thought of Yoda more than in passing since Geonosis, and he wishes it were longer. Just thinking about his old Master and his complacency infuriates him the way only Masters can infuriate their apprentices. But tea? He hasn't had tea with Yoda since before he renounced the Jedi Order. Years before then, even.

He remembers then, a late night in Yoda's quarters with a tiny red-haired youngling--Qui-Gon's newest Padawan at the time. He remembers thinking at the time that Qui-Gon's new Padawan was a strange match--too quiet and absent-minded and anxious--and then, of course, the Padawan had tripped and spilled tea all over him and his robes. Not the most auspicious first encounter, certainly, and Dooku had never heard anything about him since. Nothing special at all, then--he must have grown up and become Knighted, completely mediocre like so many other Jedi. At least mediocre is better than utterly insufferable, the way that Skywalker boy is.

He tries to recall the Padawan's name. Kenobi? That sounds about right. Yoda had talked about the boy plenty of times, back when they were still on speaking terms. Not that he can recall why Yoda cared so much about that specific youngling. Knowing his old Master, it could have been anything.

What in the world is Kenobi doing, comming a Separatist leader? Why would he reach out after two decades of complete silence, under circumstances like this? And why, of all things, would he try to appeal on the basis of a Jedi lineage that has long since lost its relevance? It cannot possibly be sanctioned by the Order--they're too spineless to act on their own for something like this.

Well, the droid had said Kenobi was neither Separatist nor Republic. Maybe he is a defector--that would serve Yoda right, to have yet another one of his lineage tear away from the Jedi's suffocating stagnancy. It is, if nothing else, an entertaining idea.

For that alone, he will perhaps humor young Kenobi. It certainly takes guts to directly contact an enemy leader for a chat. If he is comming to waste everyone’s time, then Dooku will make sure he regrets it.

“Fine,” Dooku says. “I will accept the transmission.”

“Yes, my Lord,” the droid says, handing over a commlink and holodisk.

Dooku activates the holodisk and sets it down. A life-sized blue hologram flickers on of a not-so-tall young man with a full beard and long hair pinned back into a bun. He is wearing very civilian clothing--thick gloves, a heavy duty jacket, and trousers that are much more suited as a spacer’s casual wear than anything a Jedi would ever choose. Overall, there’s little more than passing resemblance to the youngling Dooku had seen--so much time had gone by, after all, and Dooku had not been especially interested in the newest addition to his lineage anyways.

Kenobi smiles politely. “Hello, Count Dooku. Good evening to you.”

At least he has manners. It’s good to see Qui-Gon’s terrible influence wasn’t enough to take that out of him.

“Good evening,” Dooku says. “To what do I owe this comm, Knight Kenobi?”

“Ah, you remembered my name! Wonderful,” Kenobi says. “I’m not a Knight, though.”

“Surely, you do not mean you are a Master?”

“No, no. I mean I’m not a Jedi at all. I guess you never heard about that.”

Well, that’s interesting. Maybe the defection theory is more correct than originally assumed.

“I have not been in touch with the Jedi Order for some time,” Dooku replies. “They do not bother to tell me such things as my Grandpadawans leaving the Order--perhaps they are too scared that I will corrupt them with my politics.”

“I should preface this by saying I don’t have any interest in turning against the Republic or using the Dark Side--I’ve already had that discussion with someone else,” Kenobi says. “But my leaving the Order wasn’t recent--it was twenty-two years ago. Six or seven months after that time I spilled tea on you, actually.”

Dooku pauses. He hadn’t heard anything about this. Even if he was on a long-term mission at the time--which he’s pretty sure he was--wouldn’t anyone have bothered to tell him that he no longer had a Grandpadawan? “That’s ridiculous. You left the Order as a...fourteen-year-old?”

“Thirteen,” Kenobi says. “And yes, there were some extenuating circumstances. The details aren’t relevant--you can ask the Jedi Order if it’s important to you. I’m sure you have some sort of contacts over there. The point is I’m not a Jedi.”

“Then why did you say you were my Grandpadawan?” Dooku asks.

“I thought that was the most likely way to get an audience with you, Count. Sorry for the subterfuge, I guess. I don’t actually think of you as being part of my family--as far as I’m concerned, I have no Jedi lineage. I’m a civilian and have been for a long time.” Kenobi rolls his neck slowly, then says, “I’m getting away from the point, though. I commed because I have a proposal for you, Count.”

Dooku regards him coolly. “Oh? And what would that be?”

Kenobi clasps his hands. “I would like you to end hostilities between the Separatists and the Republic. Stop the needless bloodshed, stop the destruction, and open channels for peace talks. Do it now, before there’s too much blood to turn back.”

Dooku scoffs. “Arrogant whelp. You think you can end a war by asking me nicely? What kind of simple-minded fool are you, Kenobi?”

“I know it’s not that easy to end a war,” Kenobi says. “Believe me, I know all about that. But this isn’t a regular war, is it? It’s manufactured by the Sith with the purpose of destroying the Republic and putting an Empire in its place. The wheels are moving because you and related parties are forcing them to move--I don’t think the war has gone quite long enough for the momentum to be self-sustaining yet. You can still deescalate.”

That...is remarkably close to the truth. How in the Sith hells did Kenobi come to those conclusions?

“You think the war is a conspiracy by the Sith?” Dooku asks. “The Sith have been dead a thousand years. They are nothing more than stories.”

“Bold words for a man who has declared himself Sith,” Kenobi says. “And yes, I do think it’s a conspiracy. I know it is. Your Master, the Supreme Chancellor Palpatine, plans to use this war to destroy the Republic and the Jedi Order, and he’s been planning to do so ever since he orchestrated his rise to power in the Trade Federation Blockade on Naboo. Probably for many years before then, too.”

Kenobi says this simply and easily, as it is nothing at all to rip the veil off of the Sith’s galaxy-shaking plan, and Dooku finds his mouth dry. How could he know? Where could he have learned all this?

He does not, however, let his weakness show. One does not become a Sith by allowing themselves to be ruled by fear. “These are outlandish claims,” he says. “You think the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic is a Sith? On what basis could you possibly claim that? Some kind of a vision or other Force-given insight? Are you so arrogant as to think yourself more powerful and true to the Force than your own High Council?”

Kenobi sighs. “Count Dooku, this conversation will be a lot less tedious if you drop the pretenses. I know I am right because I have done my homework and found evidence against the Chancellor. You know I am right because you are a part of this plan.”

Dooku blows air out his nose. “Is that so? If I am a part of this so-called conspiracy, then why do you believe you can simply ask me to end it, and expect me to do so? Surely, if I am such an evil Sith Lord, I will stop at nothing to bring pain and suffering to the galaxy. Surely, you do not think I have some kind of deep-seated sympathy for the innocent at this point.”

“I have no illusions about your character,” Kenobi says. “You killed hundreds of Jedi at Geonosis--your own family. If you can’t bring yourself to care for the lives of the people who raised and loved you, then I have no doubt at all that you do not care the slightest bit about the lives and worlds you’ve destroyed and are yet to destroy.”

“Then why, Kenobi, should I listen to anything you say?”

“Because I think you are a selfish man, but an intelligent one,” Kenobi says, his voice and gaze perfectly flat. “You want power, but you’re not foolhardy. You want luxury and servants to order around and above all, you want to be alive to do so.”

“Tread carefully, Kenobi. I may yet decide to kill you.”

“You won’t,” Kenobi says. “Because I know things I shouldn’t, and things that you don’t. It’s in your best interests to keep me alive until I tell you my secrets, isn’t that right, Count?”

There is something to be said for sheer cheek. No Separatist dares to talk to him so brashly these days, and it’s as impressive as it is infuriating. It’s nothing like Skywalker’s childish taunts, nor Qui-Gon’s appeals to sentiment. No, Kenobi is calm and cold, and he talks like he knows he will get what he wants.

It’s a good thing he is not a Jedi--he is too good for them.

Dooku sniffs. “Get to the point.”

“Sure. My point is that Palpatine doesn’t plan for you to survive to see the Empire. He’ll use you for his pretty little war, bleed you dry for all your resources and powers and skills, and then he will dispose of you like all the tiny people you’ve disposed of in your manufactured war. Nobody will remember you, Count Dooku. For all your power and atrocities, you won’t even be a footnote in history.”

Dooku can feel rage simmering beneath his skin. Bold, Kenobi may be, but he must learn how not to overstep. How dare he act like he knows anything of war, of Sith, of power?

“Do you think I am foolish enough to believe a Sith Lord’s lies at face value? The way of the Sith is betrayal, haven’t you heard that? Who is to say that I will not kill him and become the Sith Master myself?”

Kenobi smiles. It’s not friendly. “Because Palpatine already has a plan to kill you, and you don’t have a plan to kill him.”

Dooku’s eyes narrow. “Continue.”

“Palpatine’s already chosen a new apprentice--he’s had it chosen since before you even left the Jedi. Over eleven years now, he’s groomed that boy--Anakin Skywalker, your own Grandpadawan,” Kenobi says. “I had the dubious pleasure of meeting him myself not too long ago. He’s angry, he’s rash, he’s impulsive. He’s powerful, too, I suppose. Good with a saber and the Force, and practically chomping at the bit to commit murder--not to mention very easy to manipulate. Perfect material for a Sith Apprentice.”

“Perfect material for an attack dog,” Dooku snarls.

“And do you think for a single moment that that isn’t what Palpatine wants? Once he has his Empire, you and your Separatist movement are completely pointless. All your work vanishes into nothing and you yourself become a liability--we both know how much Palpatine loves his power. Why should he have you at his side when he knows you desire his death? Why not simply have Skywalker execute you and take the place at Palpatine’s side that was always meant for him?“

Dooku resists the urge to Force choke Kenobi across the holocomm. It is not as if he has never entertained these ideas himself--he knows Sidious means to betray him the moment he becomes more dangerous than he is useful. Such is the way of the Sith.

But he is not some mere pawn. He was one of the most well-respected Jedi Masters in the Order. He is the Count of Serenno. He wields more political power and strength in the Force than any Jedi can even dream of--he is necessary for Sidious’s Empire, not something to be disposed of, and certainly not for some arrogant, brainless little slime like Skywalker.

“The fact is, Palpatine never meant for you to be his Apprentice,” Kenobi continues. “The moment Maul was defeated on Naboo, he already had his eyes set on Skywalker. He saw you, disgruntled and unsatisfied and intelligent and trying to change things, and he saw a tool he could use to carry him to his Sith Empire. He probably planned your death before he even approached you. Do you think he cares about your loyalty? He certainly didn’t care for Maul--one defeat, and he was immediately cast to the wayside like trash.”

“Darth Maul is dead,” Dooku spits.

“He certainly is dead now,” Kenobi replies. “But a tenday ago, he was not. He survived Master Jinn’s saber through his heart and spent ten years homeless and in pain, only alive through his desire for revenge. Palpatine never went back for him in all that time, you know--such is the way of Sith Apprenticeship, I suppose. Is that a fate you’ll resign yourself to?”

Dooku takes a deep breath, feeling cold fury settle in his skin as the Dark Side rises. He will not be left by the wayside. He is more. He will become more. “What do you want, Kenobi?”

“I told you. I want you to end the war. I want you to work with the Republic to stop this senseless violence and killing, and to stop from killing even more of the Jedi Order that raised you. In exchange, I am opening up an opportunity for you to remove your Sith Master before he can destroy you.”

“This is all talk. How do you propose to bring down the most powerful man in the Galaxy?” Dooku asks.

Kenobi shrugs. “I’ve already done what I can. If you keep your ear to the ground, you’ll see your opportunity--take it. Break your chains. Don’t let yourself become another sacrifice in Palpatine’s plans.”

It’s the word choice there that pings something in Dooku’s mind. Kenobi isn’t speculating. He isn’t full of empty words. He knows something about this. For all that he says he is not interested in the Dark Side, he knows something of the Sith ways. How?

Dooku reaches out through the Force, across light years of space to Kenobi’s mind. He feels no shielding at all--not a Jedi, indeed--and presses deeper, trying to unearth Kenobi’s secrets.

Darkness floods back. Darkness like green mists, Darkness like endless swamps swallowing beasts whole, Darkness like the breath of the dead.

Dooku snaps back to himself, violently and abruptly. His head feels like it’s spinning.

“My dear, are you trying to probe my mind over holocomm?” Kenobi asks, his expression more amused than genuinely offended. “That’s extremely rude. I thought you were above that sort of thing.”

Dooku snarls. “What was that? That Darkness?”

“That was Dathomir you just felt,” Kenobi says. “I imagine it’s not very pleasant to touch directly, even for Sith.”

“Why--how is Dathomir in you?”

“The Force doesn’t work for me the way it works for you, Count,” Kenobi replies. “I lost my connection to the Unifying Force over twenty years ago, and it makes me open to the Force around me. Here on Dathomir, I must feel rather Dark.” He looks at his hand and flexes his fingers a couple of times. “I’m not a fan of it, honestly. If this is anything like what it feels to be Sith, I don’t know how you stand it.”

“Why are you on Dathomir?”

“That’s irrelevant,” Kenobi says. His hologram flickers for a second, then reforms. “Ah. It looks like the storms are moving in again. It was lucky to even have as much of a break as we got. Give my proposal some thought, Dooku. If you work with the Republic, you’ll have a much better chance of removing your Master than you’ll ever have alone.”

“I am not joining your little Republic crusade. My Master is too powerful--his command of the Dark Side will destroy you all.”

“Ah, but it’s not just a duel he wants to win, is it? It’s an Empire he wants to build, and it isn’t the Dark Side that got him there--it was politics and long-term planning. The Force isn’t everything. Palpatine may be strong, but he’s only a person.”

“So are you, Kenobi.”

Kenobi smiles like he knows something Dooku doesn’t. “So I am.”

The hologram flickers again, then blinks out completely as the transmission breaks from ion storm interference.

Dooku stares at the silent commlink, then puts it away. Kenobi talks pretty, but it is only that. What can a single man with a mutilated connection to the Force accomplish? All the knowledge in the galaxy can’t bring Sidious down--there’s no way Kenobi can deliver what he has promised.

But if he does, wouldn’t that be something?

It’s a cold morning on Jedha.

That’s not surprising in the least--mornings are always cold on Jedha. Even with sunlight shining directly down, from so far away it’s never enough to really banish the constant chill. It’s not so bad with a warm set of robes and the decent heating in the Temple--not to mention sharing a bed with another warm body, though there are other reasons for that.

Mornings are always cold, but Baze usually wakes up warm, which is why he’s abruptly woken up by a gust of cold air when Chirrut gets up even earlier than he usually does.

“Chirrut?” Baze asks groggily, rubbing his eyes. Chirrut appears to be changing not into his typical robes, but something formal--the proper ceremonial Guardian robes. That’s weird, because last he remembers, there isn’t any kind of ceremony today, and while plenty of Guardians always wear traditional robes all the time, Chirrut isn’t one of them. “What’s going on?”

“We’re having visitors soon,” Chirrut says as he ties his sash. He sounds perfectly awake despite it still being almost an hour before dawn, which seems very unfair. “You should get up, too, Baze.”

Baze reluctantly sits up, his blanket still clutched to his chest as if that can help him reclaim his lost warmth. “Visitors? What, did the Force tell you that? Because nobody said anything to me.”

Chirrut shakes his head. “No, not the Force. Obi-Wan commed--he and a few guests will be landing in about half an hour. I’d like to give him a warm welcome, but of course you are free to continue sleeping. I will be sure to tell him a suitably exciting story about how you needed your rest after defending me from a series of powerful monsters with your bare hands. Would you prefer they be dragons or rancors?”

“Obi-Wan?” Baze says. “He’s coming back to the Temple? Today?”

“He’s on his way right now,” Chirrut replies primly. “It’s good--I was starting to think he was never actually going to visit us like he said he would.”

And who wouldn’t? After sixteen years of Obi-Wan messaging, “I’ll visit someday” without following through, anyone would think that perhaps he was being a little insincere.

Chirrut runs his hands over the collar of his robes and frowns. “Are these robes on straight? I can never seem to get it right.”

Baze sighs and gets out of bed to straighten Chirrut’s robe. He’s not staying in bed if Obi-Wan’s finally coming back for a visit--not only would Chirrut never let him live it down, he would never forgive himself for it.

Obi-Wan’s got a beard.

Baze already knew that--he’s seen the holos Obi-Wan sends periodically (Chirrut certainly is not looking at them) and he’s had a beard for almost ten years now, but it’s still weird to see it in person. It’s not stubble or anything subtle--it’s a full beard and mustache, and it suits him. Makes him look a little more reputable, though where Obi-Wan is concerned, that isn’t saying much.

Baze grabs Obi-Wan at the spaceship ramp and pulls him into a crushing hug. Obi-Wan still does that thing where he hesitates before hugging back, and he sags slightly into Baze’s arms--and no wonder, with his hyperspace insomnia. Wherever he’s visiting from, he probably hasn’t slept properly in days if not weeks.

“Hey,” Baze says. “You’re not gonna visit for the first time in sixteen years and immediately pass out on me, are you?”

Obi-Wan laughs. It still sounds the same as when he was eighteen, just a bit deeper and softer. “Baze, there’s no one I’d rather pass out on than you." He sinks a little deeper against Baze’s chest and murmurs, “Unfortunately, that might just be what happens. I’ve been...”

Baze never hears what Obi-Wan’s been, because Obi-Wan goes completely limp in Baze’s arms, thoroughly unconscious.

“Woah,” says a Kiffar man wearing a...sleeveless robe as he comes down the ship’s ramp. “I looked away for five seconds and he passed out? Is he okay?”

Baze shifts Obi-Wan’s dead weight so he’s a little easier to carry, not that it’s especially difficult to support him--he may have put on some height and weight in the last sixteen years, but not that much. “He’s exhausted,” Baze says. “I’d better get him inside. Chirrut can get you settled in one of the visitor rooms, and if you’re hungry, you’re just in time for breakfast. We can reconvene in the refectory.”

The Kiffar nods. “Sounds like a plan. All of us could probably do with some proper food.” He glances back up to the ship. “Feral? Savage? You coming?”

Behind him, Baze spots two yellow Zabraks with black tattoos, staring up at the Temple as they descend from the ship. Feral and Savage, apparently, though the names don’t seem all that indicative--they don’t seem dangerous so much as curious and maybe a little scared. Baze’s never even heard of yellow-skinned Zabraks. They must be a long way from home.

Chirrut bows and leads the three visitors into the Temple while Baze brings Obi-Wan back to his and Chirrut’s room and gets him on their bed and tucked under the blanket, then puts another one on top for good measure--Obi-Wan used to get cold easily, and that probably hasn’t changed. Baze presses a hand to Obi-Wan’s forehead to make sure there’s no fever (there isn’t), then pats him on the shoulder. “Sleep well, all right?”

Obi-Wan obviously doesn’t answer, but it’s the thought that counts.

From experience, Obi-Wan will be dead to the world for at least the next ten hours, so Baze heads to the refectory. When he gets there, Chirrut and their guests have sequestered a spot at the far end of the room. Chirrut is smiling and gesturing widely, which means he is undoubtedly telling a ridiculous story that is completely full of lies. Baze sighs and goes over to meet them before Chirrut goes too overboard with it.

“You hatched a real-life dragon?” the larger Zabrak asks excitedly.

“He absolutely did not,” Baze says, sitting down next to Chirrut.

“Baze,” Chirrut chides. “It’s very rude to interrupt when I’m telling a story. I was going to tell them about the smuggled dragon egg incident.”

Baze spoons out a bowl of rice porridge and vegetables. “It was a varactyl egg, and the only contribution you made was distracting the overseers long enough for Obi-Wan to hatch the thing himself.”

“Wait, hold up. Go back. Obi-Wan’s in this story?” the Kiffar asks. “Obi-Wan hatched a varactyl?”

“He did,” Chirrut says. “There was a visitor in the Temple of the less reputable sort.”

“He was a smuggler,” Baze says. “Illegal animal trafficking, I’m pretty sure.”

“Yes, and one of his wares was a varactyl egg, which Obi-Wan liberated from his goods. It was very close to hatching, so Obi-Wan decided to take it upon himself to make sure it was safely hatched and raised.”

“Yeah? And how did that go?” the Kiffar asks.

Chirrut grins. “It worked very well--she followed him around almost everywhere. Maybe she thought Obi-Wan was her mother.”

“He pretty much was. He fed and played with her and sometimes carried her around in his robes. I’m pretty sure he let her sleep in his bed,” Baze says. “It worked out pretty well when the varactyl was newly hatched and tiny--not so great two months later when she was a meter long head-to-tail.”

“He got caught and we had to release the varactyl to a wildlife rehabilitation center. It was heartbreaking--Obi-Wan probably would have raised her to adulthood if he’d had the chance.”

The Kiffar snorts. “Oh, I don’t doubt it. He’s always had a thing with animals. Did he ever tell you about that time with the tooka kittens, where--”

This is how they end up exchanging stories over breakfast. Not all of them are about Obi-Wan, but a decent number of them are, and it’s...very strange to hear about this youngling version of Obi-Wan. He’d always known, though Obi-Wan never said it straight out, that Obi-Wan used to be a Jedi at the Coruscant Temple, before something terrible happened. The Kiffar, Quinlan Vos, tells stories of an Obi-Wan who was bold and reckless and eager to please. Obi-Wan the Jedi sought out comfort from his friends and threw himself into everything he did with gusto. Obi-Wan the Jedi did not eye newcomers with distrust or hide under tables when it thundered because the sound reminded him of bombs or cry silently in the night because some part of his heart and soul had been torn directly out of his chest, still raw and bleeding.

Obi-Wan the Jedi may as well be a completely different person.

“I don’t know what to think about him sometimes,” Quinlan says, sipping a lightly sweetened flower tea. They’d relocated to one of the training halls a little while ago, and Chirrut was currently fending off both Feral and Savage at the same time with his staff. “The last time I saw Obi-Wan, he was a kid, but now he’s...not. He’s a whole-ass adult with his own life and his own shit going on. He’s the same guy, but also, he’s really not. He’s so closed off now, even in the Force. And whenever he looks at me...he looks like he’s preparing to say goodbye. He always looks like that. Do you know what I mean?”

“He’s always looked like that,” Baze says. “The whole time he lived here, he looked like that. I think it’s one of the reasons we knew he’d never stay on to become a Guardian.”

Quinlan makes a kind of choked noise from the back of his throat. “Why does he look like that? I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going to leave him alone. Why does he think I will?”

“I...don’t think he thinks you’ll leave him,” Baze replies. “I think he thinks he won’t have a choice. Did he ever tell you what happened after he left the Temple?”

“No, but I’ve got a pretty good idea. It was Melida/Daan and their war. Not that we knew about it until after the fact,” Quinlan says.

Baze nods slowly. He’s never gotten the whole story about Melida/Daan himself, but he’s read the reports. He knows enough. “A lot of people died at Melida/Daan, you know, and after the war was over, he was forced to leave the planet. And the Temple...he missed it badly. He’d never say it out loud, but I could tell he did. We told him we could send a message to the Coruscant Temple for him, but he told us no, because he wasn’t a Jedi anymore and everyone wrote him off, or forgot about him, and it would be better to move on and let things lie. He wasn’t really angry about it, just sad that it had to end that way. I think...I think Obi-Wan got very good at saying goodbye to people he loves.”

“We didn’t write him off,” Quinlan says softly. “We thought he was dead. Ever since he left the Temple, we all thought he was dead. That’s why we didn’t go looking for him. If we’d known he was alive, we’d have searched for him and brought him back. Fuck, I’d have done it myself if I had to. I just...twenty-two years, man. I mourned him for such a long time, and there were times when I believed he had to still be out there, because it just wasn’t right for the galaxy to be enough of a fucker to knock off a fourteen-year-old kid like that. And every time, I’d get slammed back to reality that Obi-Wan was really, definitely, absolutely stone-cold dead. That fucks you up, man. Even now that he’s here and real, I expect to turn around and find he’s gone. Like a ghost.”

Baze remembers then, when Obi-Wan had left Jedha sixteen years ago. Back then, he’d been...not empty, but hollow. Aimless and unsure of anything, except that what he needed was elsewhere in the galaxy. He’d looked scared, even as he’d taken those last steps onto the transport, like he still wanted to turn back to the safety of the Temple but couldn’t. That look had haunted Baze for such a long time, left him awake late nights wondering if Obi-Wan had gotten himself killed or worse until finally, three years later, Obi-Wan bothered to send a message that he was alive and okay, relatively speaking.

“Sometimes, I wonder if he isn’t a ghost,” Baze says. “Back when he lived here, we could tell there was something off about him. Spiritually, I mean. Chirrut wouldn’t even talk to him in the early days--he was sure Obi-Wan was some kind of trick of the Whills, not even a real solid person.”

“He got messed up in the Force real bad,” Quinlan says. “Lost his connection to it or something. If it had happened to any other Jedi, they would have died for sure. I still don’t know how Obi-Wan didn’t.”

“Maybe he did, but he decided to come back.” Baze clasps his hands together. “We have stories, you know, of people who can die and retain their consciousness as a ghost. So they stay themselves even when they shed their body and enter the Whills. Maybe he died a long time ago and he’s been haunting himself ever since.”

Quinlan snorts. “I don’t think that’s how the Force works.”

Baze shrugs. “I wouldn’t know, Master Jedi. I don’t feel the Force the way Chirrut and some of the other Guardians here do. It’s just something I think about sometimes.” He looks over to where Chirrut is leaning against the wall with a bottle of water, laughing at something Savage just said. At least they’re getting along well. “You’ve been with Obi-Wan for a little while now, haven’t you? How is he these days?”

Quinlan grimaces and drinks more of his tea. “Shit, man. He’s sad. If you could take all the sadness in the galaxy and build it up into a man, you’d probably get something that looks a lot like Obi-Wan. He’s good at hiding it, but there’s...there’s stuff going on under there. I don’t even think he’s really even trying to hide it--he’s just accepted that that’s how life is gonna be, which is kriffed. I think he’s fucking lonely and forgotten how to be anything else.”

That sounded about right, unfortunately.

“But you know something else?” Quinlan says. “There’s something about him that’s a little bit crazy. Like, I don’t mean that in a bad way necessarily. I just mean that he’s got something in his head that decides he’s going to do a thing and then he just makes it happen. It doesn’t matter what it is--if he gets it into his head that it needs to happen, it will. He’ll do it, and he’ll go through people to get there if he has to, no stopping him.” Quinlan shoots him a sideways look. “Have you seen the news recently?”

“I heard something about the Supreme Chancellor getting arrested. Is that what you mean?”

“Yeah, the Supreme Chancellor got arrested for treason against the Republic, which is wild enough,” Quinlan says. “I checked to see if there were any updates right before we landed this morning, and it turns out Count Dooku’s agreed to testify against him. And to initiate peace talks after all this shit is over.”

“Seriously? How did they do that?”

“That’s the thing. I don’t know. But I’m 100% kriffing sure that Obi-Wan made this happen somehow. Back when we were on Dathomir, Obi-Wan had some...I don’t know, some kind of thing with the funeral for this guy named Maul--he’s Feral and Savage’s brother--and when it was done, he said he had to make a private comm, so like, sure, you know? I let him borrow my long-distance commlink so he could do that, but I got it back after and checked the comm logs just because I was curious and it turns out he commed fucking Count Dooku. I have no idea what he said to him, but whatever it was, it was apparently enough to make Dooku think maybe all this war shit isn’t worth it.” Quinlan shakes his head. “Thank the Force Obi-Wan’s got a fantastic moral compass because I don’t doubt for a second that if he wanted to burn down the entire Republic, he could take the entire thing down. Shit’s scary as hell.”

Baze takes a moment to consider that. He thinks he believes it. Obi-Wan isn’t powerful in any conventional sense, but even when he was at the Temple he was sharp and knew where to apply leverage. He knew where to find what he needed and what he had to do to make things happen, and he did it. In another world, that methodical focus would have made him a terrifyingly competent Jedi. In this one...who knows?

Maybe Obi-Wan really is enough to single-handedly stop the war--it sounds like he’s gotten pretty far already.

“What are you planning to do after this?” Baze asks. “All four of you are heading back to Coruscant, right?”

“Yeah, and I’m not sure,” Quinlan says. “I think Obi-Wan’s decided to adopt Feral and Savage. He’s already offered to house them until other arrangements can be made, and he’s trying to help them learn more about the Force in non-Dark ways--that’s one of the reasons why we’re here in the first place. I’ve still got shit to do with the war effort, so I’ll have to head back out after I report.”

“And what are you planning to do with Obi-Wan?”

Quinlan pauses for a few seconds, thinking about it, then says, “I don’t know, man. I just wanna be there for him. I know I can’t get my friend back from twenty-two years ago, but he’s still Obi-Wan and I still want to have him in my life if I can. If that means I gotta get to know him all over again, that’s fine. I can do that.”

“It won’t be easy,” Baze says. “He opens up easily if he thinks it’ll help others, but he hardly ever opens up to help himself. He’s just not very good at trusting people that way, I think.”

“Did he ever open up to you?” Quinlan asks.

Baze nods. “For his cybernetic surgery,” he says. “He was scared--he needed five surgeries, which is pretty standard, but he had a really hard time going through it. I helped him with it, Chirrut and I stayed with him after uplink and kept his mind off it when we could, and I helped him decide what he wanted out of his new hand. We got him through physical therapy learning how to use it--that was actually around the time the thing with the varactyl happened. I think that’s the only time he ever really trusted me to help him, and I’m glad I was able to.”

“Well, hopefully he doesn’t have to lose his other hand for him to trust me again,” Quinlan says. “What am I supposed to do?”

Baze shrugs. “Be there for him, I guess. He’ll come to you or he won’t. And give him a hug from time to time--he likes them, but he doesn’t know how to ask for them.”

“The last time I touched him without warning, he punched me in the stomach so hard I had to get a minor surgery.”

“What? You grab him from behind or something?”

Quinlan grimaces.

“Yeah,” Baze says. “Don’t do that. That mechanical hand was designed specifically so he could hit people as hard as possible with it.”

“I know that now,” Quinlan grouses.

“Other than that, be patient,” Baze says. “And don’t be mad that he’s ready to lose you. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t care and it doesn’t mean he wants to get rid of you. He’s just so used to letting go of people that I think he takes it for granted that he’ll have to.”

“He shouldn’t have to do that.”

Baze shakes his head. “No, but after what he’s been through, can you blame him? Just be a good friend for him. I think he’s doing better these days about that, but he could always use more friends.”

Quinlan nods. “Yeah, that’s the plan.”

Just then, Chirrut shouts to him, “Baze! You’ve lazed around long enough! This is a prime opportunity to share cultures! Bring your Jedi Master over here and give him a demonstration of our teaching.”

Baze sighs and gets up. With a grin, he says, “You just want to see me get knocked on the mat. Is this revenge for interrupting your dragon story?”

“It was going to be a very good story,” Chirrut says. He tosses Baze a staff. “Here. I told Feral you’re better than me even without being Force sensitive and he doesn’t believe me, so you’ll simply have to disprove him.”

“I didn’t agree to any of this,” Baze says, testing the weight of the staff. “Do I have to blindfold myself as well?”

“Maybe a little later,” Chirrut replies, cheeky as always. “Master Vos, would you like to spar against Baze? He’s one of the best martial artists in our Temple, and he’d be happy to demonstrate his skills for you.”

Quinlan rolls to his feet with easy Jedi grace and says, “Sure, why not? I could always go for a round. Do I get a staff too?”

“If you want,” Baze says, pointing to the rack of them. “Pick whichever one suits you--there’s plenty of lengths and weights to choose from.”

Quinlan grabs a staff and spins it around a bit. It’s obvious he’s used a staff before, but he’s not well-trained with it. Not that it’ll necessarily make that much of a difference, with his being Jedi and all.

The two of them find their places in the center of the mat. Baze takes a deep breath to center himself and bows. “I hope this will be an enlightening exchange of cultures, Master Jedi.”

Quinlan bows in turn. “Hey, I’m all for cultural exchange, as long as I don’t get my ass kicked, noble Guardian of the Whills.”

Baze laughs. “I guess there’s only one way to find out,” he says, and strikes first.

“I appreciate your help today. I know it was short notice, but it was very informative.”

Bruck, who is just glad to finally be done, nods. “Sure. Glad to be of service, or something.”

“I’m sorry it went on so much longer than expected,” Kenobi continues. “But I think we’ve covered everything I wanted to, so we won’t have to do this again, unless another Sith turns up and starts causing trouble.”

Bruck grimaces. He’s just spent the last seven hours following Kenobi around Coruscant’s undercity to provide ‘Jedi expertise’ on mostly abandoned buildings as some kind of follow-up on Palpatine being a real-ass Sith Lord, which would be annoying enough on its own if almost all of these buildings didn’t also feel like someone had been tortured in them, frequently and at length. He feels gross, and more than a little ill. “Please don’t even joke about that.”

“Ah. My apologies, Knight Chun,” Kenobi says, without even the grace to actually look sorry. “Usually, I pay consultants for their time, but I’m not really sure how that works with Jedi Knights, since you don’t exactly have a salary to begin with.”

“The Temple’s giving me a stipend,” Bruck tells him, and not just because the idea of getting paid by Oafy-Wan makes him feel skeevy for a lot of reasons. “And this counts as normal Jedi work, with the Sith involvement and stuff, and Senator Organa’s the one who actually requested our help, so you’re definitely not supposed to pay me for this.”

Kenobi nods. “Right. I thought that was how it worked, but it’s been a while since I’ve done anything involving the Jedi.”

There’s something about that that really doesn’t sit right. The way Kenobi refers to Jedi from the outside and calls him ‘Knight Chun’, like the two of them didn’t grow up together in the same dormitory in the same Temple. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do about it, because it’s obvious Kenobi isn’t a Jedi anymore--that had been pretty clear around the time he’d walked into a room with an aura of death in the Force and hadn’t even noticed.

It’s just...weird. Bruck hadn’t ever really thought being a Jedi as something someone could stop being.

“Well,” Kenobi says, bringing him out of his thoughts, “I know it’s been a long day for both of us, but if you’re amenable, I could treat you to dinner? As thanks for your help, and because it’s getting late.”

Normally, Bruck would jump at the occasion to get free food that’s not from the Temple refectory--not that the Temple food is bad, it’s just that thirty-some years of the same stuff gets a little tiring--but getting food with Obi-Wan? Yikes. It’s not like either of them ever agreed to hang out or anything; it’s the Council that put him on this assignment, and Kenobi’s been nothing but aggressively professional. They might as well be strangers.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Kenobi says. “But I know the Temple refectory stops serving dinner in about ten minutes, and it’s my fault you had to work so late. If you’re in a hurry you can get something to take home.”

“Oh, all right,” Bruck says. He is hungry, and he’s definitely not in the mood to cook when he gets back to the Temple. “Getting a snack or something won’t hurt.”

“Wonderful,” Kenobi replies. “There’s a kebab stall on the way back. I think you’ll like it.”

Obligingly, Bruck follows Kenobi as they head back in the general direction of the Temple. It’s well into nighttime in Coruscant now, and noisy because of it--both physically and in the Force, like a constant barrage against his shielding. It’s even worse down in the lower levels, and Kenobi’s lucky he can’t feel any of it.

“How’s your kid?” Bruck asks when the awkward silence stretches on a bit too long. “Boba, right?”

Kenobi smiles. Not the little professional smile he uses to be polite, but a genuine warm smile. For a second, Bruck catches a glimpse of the person Obi-Wan used to be, back before everything. It’s disorienting.

“Boba’s good,” Kenobi says. “I think he’s really settling in to life on Coruscant. He’s made some friends his own age, both at the Temple and out. He’s getting into trouble, of course, but he’s ten--I’d be surprised if he didn’t.”

Bruck’s only met Boba once, and not under the best of circumstances, but he’d gotten the impression the kid was a handful and a half--just as likely to try and charm people for treats as to break someone’s nose. Not too different than Obi-Wan at that age, Bruck supposes. He certainly remembers the last conversation they had before Obi-Wan became a Padawan and then fake-died.

“Never really put you down as the fatherhood type,” Bruck says. “Especially not to Jango Fett’s kid. Is that, like, weird? You know, since Boba’s a, uh...”

Kenobi shoots him a sideways look. “That’s not a very polite question, Bruck.”

Oh, okay. So it’s Bruck now.

“Sorry. Just curious. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

Kenobi is silent for a very long moment, then says, “The kebab stall is just here. Come on.”

Bruck follows him into an out-of-the-way small street food stand with a very strong smell of herbs and roasted shaak. It smells very appetizing.

“Order whatever you like,” Kenobi says, handing him a greasy flexplast menu.

Bruck looks it over. It’s not expensive food, obviously, but it’s not cheap cheap, either--as far as street food goes, this is actually pretty high-end, which at least means he won’t get food poisoning. Probably. He orders the house special, some flame-grilled shaak kebab with mushrooms and sweet sauce, rolled in flatbread. Kenobi orders a set of three bantha skewers and pays for their food.

“To answer your earlier question,” Kenobi says, sitting down beside Bruck to wait, “No. I don’t think it’s strange to raise Boba, even though he’s a clone of Jango. Maybe it would be, if I’d known Jango when he was younger, but he was very much an adult when we met for the first time. I can’t make that comparison even if I wanted to. And if I live long enough to see Boba grow to be Jango’s age--and I hope I do--I already know Boba’s going to be very different. He will not be a soldier, and chances are, not a Mandalorian, either.”

“Isn’t being Mandalorian kind of Fett’s thing? What’s wrong with it?”

“Mandalorian isn’t something you’re born into--it’s a culture you learn,” Kenobi says. “A culture that I am not only not a part of, but when Jango offered to adopt me as Mandalorian, I refused. It is one of many reasons we eventually parted ways.”

Bruck shoots a look at him. There is so much about that to unpack that he’s not even sure where to start. Like, Kenobi and Fett were apparently a serious thing? What, exactly, has he been doing in the last two decades? What’s so loaded about being Mandalorian?

“Why’d you say no? You had a good thing going, didn’t you?”

Kenobi takes a deep breath and clasps his hands. “There’s a concept in Mandalorian culture of, literally translated, a white field. As it was explained to me, it refers to a blanket of snow, killing old growth to pave the way for new growth in the coming season. In practice, it’s the purging of old loyalties and deeds to begin anew as Mandalorian,” he says. “In asking me to become Mandalorian, he was asking me to stop being Jedi.”

“But you’re...not a Jedi.”

“I’m not a member of the Order,” Kenobi says. “There’s a difference.”

Behind them, the stall owner calls out their order numbers, and Kenobi goes back to get their food. He hands Bruck his meal, wrapped in oily flimsi.

“Careful, it’s hot.”

Bruck accepts it. It looks pretty good. “Yeah, thanks.”

The two of them go back out into the night to walk and talk. The shaak is a little overspiced in Bruck’s opinion, but it tastes good and that’s what matters.

“So what do you mean, you’re Jedi? You can’t even feel the Force anymore,” Bruck says.

Kenobi sighs. “And people call me tactless.” He bites off one of his skewers. “It’s not that hard of a concept, Bruck. I was raised by the Temple, with Temple values and a Temple Jedi’s understanding of the Force. Leaving the Order doesn’t change that, making changes to my faith doesn’t change that, and becoming disabled with regards to the Force doesn’t change that, either.”

“Really? Because it sounds like you gave up your faith, the Force, and the Order. What’s even left?”

“Only my history and culture,” Kenobi says, his voice flat. “I wouldn’t fault anyone who chose to leave those things behind, but I chose not to because they’re important to me and who I am.”

“But--”

“I’m not accepting any arguments about this, Bruck. I really don’t care if you don’t understand.”

Bruck frowns. “Wow, you kind of grew up to be an asshole.”

Bruck half expects Kenobi to punch him in the face for that, but instead, Kenobi laughs. “Oh, believe me, Bruck. This is not me being an asshole. This is just my baseline these days.” He takes another bite from his skewer. “But to return to our earlier subject, I don’t have the ability to raise Boba as a Mandalorian. I’m not going to hide his culture from him or anything--I can teach him the language and the recipes and some of the customs and I can even try to track down some of Jango’s old associates to talk to him, but that’s not the same as raising him Mandalorian. If I’m honest, I’m not sure I’d want to, even if I could.”

“Huh? What’s the problem now?”

“Mandalorians are warriors. It’s an integral part of their culture--you can’t divorce the two,” Kenobi says. “I don’t want to raise Boba as a warrior. I want him to have options that don’t involve violence and death. I’ll teach him to fight and defend himself, of course, and if he grows up and wants to be a bounty hunter or anything else like that, I won’t like it, but I’ll accept it because that’s his choice. It’s not how Jango would want him raised, but Jango’s not here anymore--I am. War and violence have already taken so much, and I’d like if between the three of us, at least one person doesn’t have to be a killer.”

Bruck doesn’t even know what to say. He only has the vaguest idea of what happened to Obi-Wan after he disappeared, and that it somehow involves something on Melida/Daan, but it’s obvious that that’s barely scratching the surface.

Shit happened in the last twenty-whatever years. While Bruck was busy getting manipulated by Xanatos and making bad life choices, Obi-Wan left the Order, got his ass kicked, got kriffed right up, had a fling with a notorious bounty hunter, broke up, got back to Coruscant and became a detective. He’s not the crybaby he used to be--he’s not going to fold or scream after a couple of insults anymore. He’s professional and he’s mean and he looks at the absolute worst crimes a Sith Lord can drum up and doesn’t even flinch. He just makes some notes in his datapad and moves on. Ice cold.

After all that, it’s really no wonder Obi-Wan didn’t even remember him.

“I can feel you thinking about me,” Kenobi says, tossing away his finished first skewer in a recycler. “If you have a question, you can just ask.”

“I wanted to say sorry,” Bruck says. “You know, for being a dick to you when we were kids. I already said it at your funeral, but since you’re here and not actually dead, I figured I’d say it again.”

“Really?” Kenobi asks. “Why the change in heart?”

Bruck feels heat rising in his cheeks. What a shit way to respond to someone’s apology. “Because I stopped being a shitty twelve-year old, Kenobi.”

“You can call me Obi-Wan, you know. We’re not working right now.”

“Shut up. Just...listen to me, okay?” Bruck says. “After you left, a whole lot of crap went down. I was pissed off about not being a Padawan and--do you know who Xanatos is?”

“We met,” Kenobi says, his voice neutral.

“Right, well, he approached me about the whole Padawan thing. And he was like, you know. Nice. Charming and stuff. He understood me, how it wasn’t fair that Qui-Gon wouldn’t pick me as a Padawan even though I was talented and smart and good at saberwork--”

“Sure.”

“I thought that, okay? I was a shitty jealous twelve-year-old!”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You wanted to. I know you did.”

Kenobi slides a grilled fruit off his second skewer with his teeth. “You were trying to tell me something, Bruck?”

“Yeah, yeah. I was.” Bruck shakes his head to clear it, then says, “What I meant to say is Xanatos ego-tripped me into helping him bomb the Temple and it was a whole awful thing. I almost ended up killing Bant, which is around the time that I realized I karked up super super hard.”

“Is that where the scar is from?”

Bruck grimaces. He doesn’t like to think about the massive burn scar on his face or the circumstances leading up to it. “Yeah. I got caught a little close to one of the bombs when it went off, but that’s not important. My point is, I was laid up in the Halls of Healing for a while and put on pretty much permanent probation, but the Order still didn’t throw me out. They didn’t write me off even though I almost literally murdered one of my classmates. One of the Healers worked with me and my issues with Xanatos and stuff. You came up a lot.”

“Okay.”

The two of them make their way to the upper city promenade. It’s crowded as hell, like always, with glitzy lights and shining shop windows. Bruck thinks he spots a clone soldier or two--they’re becoming more common around downtown Coruscant, ever since the war ended.

Bruck continues, “I guess I really made you miserable. I mean, I know I did--that was the point of it. I just...I hated how you had everything without even trying. You had all your friends and you were good at everything and all the Masters liked you. Even Grandmaster Yoda favored you. I didn’t have any of that, so it wasn’t fair that you did.”

“You remember my days at the Temple very differently than I do, Bruck.”

Bruck finishes his dinner and tosses away the wrapper. “Yeah. Yeah, I mean, I guess I kind of get that better now. But that’s not the point. Even if you did have all that and I didn’t, it wasn’t right for me to be a dick to you all the time. The Temple Healers helped me with that, and like, I got a Master of my own and became a Padawan and I thought I was going to show you just how good of a Padawan I could be--prove that I was just as good as you, and a better person and stuff and then you...died.”

“I see,” Kenobi says.

Bruck feels his cheeks grow hot again and he shouts, “‘I see’? What are you, a droid? I’m dredging up some emotional stuff for you here--can I at least get a reaction?”

Kenobi’s silent for a long moment, finishing his second skewer. “I don’t know what you want from me. I’m sorry you went through the difficulties you went through, and I’m glad you’ve grown from the experience. I appreciate the apology, and I forgive you, if that makes any difference.”

It’s so anticlimactic that if anything, it makes Bruck feel even worse. “Is that all you can say?”

“Bruck, you’ve got to understand that these are all things I left behind twenty years ago. I’ll listen and let you get it off your chest if you need that, but my emotional involvement with this ended a long, long time ago,” Kenobi says. “I’m glad you’re not angry and petty the way you were when we were younglings, and that you were able to find help and support. Thank you for telling me about what happened. You seem to be doing well now, and I’m happy for you.”

Bruck takes a deep breath, counts to ten, then lets it out. This is, he supposes, what he wanted. Obi-Wan’s forgiveness for everything that happened when they were younglings. Water under the bridge.

“This doesn’t mean I want to be friends,” Bruck says. “Just to be clear.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I got that,” Kenobi replies. He twirls his last skewer around, frowning. “I think I might have ordered too much to eat.”

“Seriously? You’ve been running around all of Coruscant for over seven hours and you can’t even finish three skewers?”

“Well, if you’re still hungry, then help yourself.” Kenobi holds out his skewer. It’s cooled down now, but it still smells good. “Go on, don’t be shy.”

Bruck squints at Kenobi, trying to see if there’s some kind of trick to this. Slowly, he grabs Kenobi’s hand holding the skewer to keep it steady, and slides off a piece of sliced bantha. It’s a bit spicy, but it’s chewy and tangy and just the right amount of sweetness. “Mm,” he says. “That’s good.”

“It is,” Kenobi agrees. “I see the Temple just ahead, so I think this is where we part ways. It was good working with you, Bruck. Hopefully there’s no need to do this a second time.”

“Yeah, it was all right, but let’s never do this again,” Bruck says. “Have a good life or whatever.”

“You, too. And Bruck?”

“Yeah?”

Kenobi grins and hands over the rest of his skewer. “This is me being an asshole.”

Without explaining what the hell that’s supposed to mean, Kenobi leaves and vanishes into the crowd.

Bruck’s commlink buzzes in his pocket. Confused, he pulls it out of his pocket.

There, in crystal-clear resolution is a candid photo of him, three minutes ago, eating Kenobi’s skewer directly out of his hand. Kenobi’s smiling at him, and his eyes somehow catch the light to make it look like they’re sparkling. It looks exactly like they’re on a cheesy late-night dinner date.

His commlink buzzes with another message, then another, then another, all with the same holo attached.

That rat bastard. Bruck stares up to the sky and asks the Force what he ever did to deserve this.

“And so you see, Ahsoka,” Obi-Wan says, pivoting inwards so his back is to Wolffe, “If you drop down like this, grabbing his arm, you can lever him over your back.” He demonstrates, throwing Wolffe down to the ground with a heavy whump. “From here, you can easily disarm him if he’s holding a blaster, then you can either run or press the attack, depending on what you’re trying to do. It works even with people who are a lot bigger than you. Give it a shot--just watch out for your lekku.”

Plo watches as Obi-Wan walks Ahsoka through performing a shoulder throw on Wolffe. When he had taken on Ahsoka as his Padawan after Anakin’s departure from the Order a few months back, Ahsoka had expressed interest in both jar’kai and hand-to-hand combat. Plo, not being the best suited teacher for either one, had found another Master to help Ahsoka learn jar’kai, while Ahsoka had suggested asking Obi-Wan for help with the latter.

Obi-Wan was enthusiastic about the idea, and had reserved some space at a local martial arts hall for the occasion. Wolffe, who had accompanied along as he often did, didn’t seem to like Obi-Wan much--the only explanation Plo could get was that Obi-Wan had gone to dinner with one of Wolffe’s brothers. In any case, Wolffe expressed his doubts on Obi-Wan’s combat ability, and was quickly disabused of the notion by a demonstrative bare-handed spar, in which Obi-Wan swiftly and deftly pinned him to the mat. That defeat seemed to have raised Wolffe’s opinion of Obi-Wan enough to not bare his teeth at him. Since then, the two of them have been teaching Ahsoka throws and other bare-handed self defense.

There’s a heavy thud, then a cheer as Ahsoka successfully throws Wolffe to the floor.

“I did it!” Ahsoka says. “That was way easier than I thought it would be.”

Obi-Wan pats her on the back with a smile. “Leverage is the important part--if you get the right leverage, you can use these throws on people who are many times larger and heavier than yourself.” He rolls his shoulder, wincing, then says, “Let’s take a break. We’ve been at this for a while.”

Ahsoka and Obi-Wan go off to stretch and get some water, while Wolffe drifts back towards Plo.

“What do you think of Obi-Wan?” Plo asks, handing over a bottle of water.

Wolffe drinks, but doesn’t answer right away. He hands the bottle back. “I don’t know, sir. There’s something weird about him.”

“In what way?”

Wolffe shakes his head. “He’s uncanny. I don’t know how to describe it. You watched our spar, didn’t you?”

“Of course, Wolffe.”

“He’s not stronger or faster than me, but he dodged all of my attacks. Every single one. He wasn’t fooled by any of my feints, either. Nobody’s got reactions that fast,” Wolffe said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s...precognitive or something. In some ways, it’s similar to sparring against you, sir.”

Plo hums to himself. He’d noticed Obi-Wan’s evasive fighting style and hadn’t thought too much of it, but now that Wolffe mentions it, it is strange that he’s able to pull something like that off, especially against someone as well-trained as Wolffe. “Young Obi-Wan used to be a Jedi,” Plo says. “That might account for some of the similarities.”

“Really? I wouldn’t have thought so. So he’s Force-sensitive, then?”

Plo shakes his head. “Obi-Wan had an incident some time ago. He’s not Force-sensitive anymore the way Jedi are. I’m not sure how he would be...precognitive, as you call it. Without the Force, it shouldn’t be possible.” He presses his hands together. “What do you mean, you wouldn’t have thought he was a Jedi?”

“He doesn’t fight like one, sir,” Wolffe says. “He’s not good at fighting because he’s had a lot of training--though I guess he’s probably had that, too. He’s good at fighting because he’s done a lot of it. He doesn’t fight like the vod’e, he fights like some of our instructors back on Kamino did. Like some of the bigger bounty hunters do. Like he’s fought for his life. I don’t think he thinks when he fights anymore--he’s just going off instinct.”

“I see,” Plo says. He knows what Wolffe means--most Jedi have a certain refinement in battle, hard-drilled from katas and sparring. Only recently through the war have more Masters picked up the dirty and brutally efficient edge only gained by hard experience with death and danger. If Wolffe is to be believed, Obi-Wan has had that edge for a long time, indeed.

The very idea of it makes Plo’s heart hurt. He wonders where Obi-Wan would have picked up all that fighting experience. Not Melida/Daan, surely?

“Wolffe!” Ahsoka shouts, dragging Obi-Wan over to them. “Wolffe, tell Obi-Wan he’s wrong!”

“You’re wrong,” Wolffe tells Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan throws his free hand into the air. “You don’t even know what we’re talking about!”

“I like Ahsoka more than you, so if she says you’re wrong, you’re wrong,” Wolffe says. “I don’t make the rules.”

“See? I’m right!” Ahsoka says, sticking her tongue out at Obi-Wan.

“If I may ask,” Plo says, “what were you arguing about?”

“It’s not an argument, it’s just a discussion,” Obi-Wan says at the same time that Ahsoka says, “He says I can’t eat rats to supplement my rations even though I’m a carnivorous species that needs extra protein!”

Wolffe puts a hand to his forehead. “Ugh, not the rats argument.”

“You are misrepresenting my statement,” Obi-Wan says.

“You said I can’t eat rats!”

“I said you can’t just pick up a rat and bite into it! You don’t know where it’s been!” Obi-Wan retorts.

Plo looks over to Wolffe. “The rats argument?”

Wolffe sighs, looking slightly disgusted. “According to Rex, Ahsoka likes to get into arguments about eating small animals. I think she mostly did it to rile up the shinies. I didn’t think she was still doing it.”

“I am a lethal carnivore! My teeth are genetically designed for maximum chompage of small animals!” Ahsoka shouts.

“You are also a sentient with opposable thumbs and tools!” Obi-Wan says. “You can’t just eat a rat, you have to skin and gut it first! Have you never had a mouthful of grimy fur? It is horrible.”

“Oh, good,” Wolffe says. “There’s two of them.”

Ahsoka and Obi-Wan argue more about the proper way to eat rats, while Wolffe looks increasingly mortifed. Presumably, he only stays where he is out of a sense of duty to Plo.

“Obi-Wan,” Plo says before the argument gets too intense. “Why have you had to...eat rats?”

Obi-Wan shoots him a positively perplexed look. “Well, what would you do if you didn’t have any food supplies? It’s not like I’ve only ever eaten rats--I’ve eaten other rodents and birds, too. They’re easier to trap than large animals. They don’t have a lot of meat, but they taste fine raw if you prepare them well. Which includes skinning them, Ahsoka.”

“It’s not my fault nobody ever taught me how to skin animals!” Ahsoka says. “They don’t teach that to Jedi Padawans!”

Obi-Wan looks to Plo incredulously. “They don’t?”

Plo sighs. “No, that’s not part of the standard curriculum. Certain Padawans will get that kind of training if they’re expected to be in the wilderness for long periods of time, but that’s not...that’s not common.”

Obi-Wan looks at Ahsoka, then back up at Plo. “Okay,” he says. “Change of plans. I’m going to borrow your Padawan for the rest of the afternoon, Master Plo. Come on, Ahsoka, I’m going to teach you some life skills.”

“Oh! Okay, we’re doing this now,” Ahsoka says, trailing after Obi-Wan. “See you later, Master Plo! We’ll make sure not to get into trouble!”

“I’m not promising that,” Obi-Wan says. “She’ll be back at the Temple by 2200.”

Plo watches the two of them leave, thinking to himself not for the first time that he really hardly knows anything about Obi-Wan anymore. Obi-Wan had told the Council, in brief, what had happened to him since his abandonment by the Order--the war, Jedha, working with Jango Fett, then returning to Coruscant for detective work--but that was hardly enough to explain everything about him. He wonders how much Obi-Wan had sanitized his accounts of his life, not out of any sense of censorship so much as not realizing it might be significant. Obi-Wan certainly never mentioned experiencing food scarcity, though Plo supposes he should have been able to deduce that from the circumstances himself. That’s a clear failure on his part, to not dig more deeply into the matter.

He wonders if Vokara knows about the starvation thing. If she does, she’s not likely to share--she’s been exceptionally tight-lipped about anything concerning Obi-Wan’s health, except to make sure everyone knows not to bring him to the Temple grounds unless absolutely necessary.

“Well,” Plo says, “I’d say today has been very informative.”

Wolffe looks like he wishes he were a million light years away. “Is that what you call it, sir?”

“I believe it’s good to treat many things as a learning experience,” Plo says. “In any case, this change of plans means we now have this hall to ourselves for the remainder of our reserved session. We may as well make use of it. Would you like to have some learning experiences of your own, Wolffe?”

Wolffe’s face lights up. “Of course, sir. I can’t let Ahsoka get ahead--she’d never let me hear the end of it.”

Plo pats Wolffe on the back and sends him off to warm up again. Wolffe and Ahsoka have been unrelentingly competitive since Ahsoka became his Padawan, with plenty of shouting on either side. He doesn’t mind it--it’s how they show affection to each other, and a little competition between siblings never hurt anyone.

Plo moves to Wolffe’s side and opens his stance. “We will start with the kata I taught you last week. Move to first position, and we’ll go from there.”

Naboo is a beautiful planet. There’s so much greenery and water everywhere that even after so much time, Anakin can’t help but marvel at it all. Back when he was a little slave kid on Tatooine, he’d never even imagined he’d end up someplace like this on a beautiful planet with a beautiful wife. Sure, the Jedi thing fell through, but whatever. He doesn’t need them--he’s got Ahsoka and Qui-Gon, which is everyone who matters. Nobody else really understood him anyways, and they had to make such a big deal out of his marriage when it wasn’t their business to begin with. He’s doing better now as a pilot and mechanic and occasional bounty hunter, and he’s helping people and seeing the galaxy the way he never would have been able to with the Jedi.

The point is, he’s pretty sure kid him would be happy with how he turned out.

The war’s been officially over for nearly seven months now--a distant memory of frantic battles and daring rescues. Here on Naboo, it’s like it never happened at all. It’s peaceful like Coruscant could never be and there’s none of the turmoil that he’d seen all over the galaxy back in the war and the months afterwards. It’s perfect, but of course it is--it’s Padmé’s home. His, too, now.

He’s working on another project in his workshop--he has a personal workshop now, no more sneaking droid parts into his room--and it’s going good. It’s a new droid for Padmé, for their rapidly approaching anniversary. C3PO is great and all, but he wasn’t really made for Senatorial stuff. He’s way better at this stuff than he was when he was a little kid, and he can make a droid that’s perfect for everything Padmé needs--a translator, a protector, an archivist. Anything to makes it easier for her to do what she needs and come home at night, safe and sound.

Thinking about it makes him miss her again. She’s out on another assignment--part of a diplomatic envoy to negotiate some trade agreements between Naboo and a few nearby systems. It’s scheduled to take eight days, and it’s already been three--he’d commed her yesterday night and it sounds like things aren’t going great. They’ve requested Jedi assistance to mediate the agreement, and as much as Anakin definitely doesn’t miss all that diplomacy stuff, he kind of wishes he could be a Jedi again just to go see her. He’d thought that after the war and they moved in together everything would be good and it has been, but still, Padmé’s work means that she’s away from home so often and even with Anakin’s freelancing, they just...don’t get to spend as much time together as they want.

He’s assembling parts for the lower chassis on Padmé’s new droid when he hears the muffled sound of the front door opening. Anakin pauses, then gets up to see what’s going on, his hand hovering at the blaster on his belt.

Padmé is there in the entryway, hurriedly taking her shoes off.

“Angel?” Anakin says.

Padmé pauses, then looks up and smiles at him. It looks a bit strained. “Ani. I thought you were out on another job.”

Through the Force, Anakin can feel her anxiety--enough that it’s making him antsy, too. “My job finished early. Padmé, what’s wrong? Did something happen? What about the trade agreements you were working on?”

“I’m not,” Padmé says. “I’ve been reassigned.”

“Reass--What? They can’t just reassign a Senator, can they?” Anakin says. “Why would they do that? They need you, don’t they?”

“Apparently, they don’t,” Padmé replies tightly. Anakin reaches out to help her out of her coat, but she steps back, keeping it on.

“What happened?”

“The negotiations turned sour, we requested Jedi assistance, and they’ve assigned a different ambassador from Naboo to take over proceedings. They’re worried that my...connections to the Jedi Order will impact their ability to reach an agreement suitable for all parties involved, so I’ve been reassigned.”

Anakin pauses. “Does that mean you can stay home for a little while?”

“No, I’ve got--there’s something else that I need to do,” Padmé says, and she’s lying. “I’m busy still, I’m just making a quick stop. I didn’t realize you were already here, Ani.”

Anakin is frozen. He can feel the lie hanging around her like a bad smell. Why would Padmé lie to him? They never lie to each other.

Padmé tries to move past him and he grabs her by the wrist. “Angel,” he says. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

“I--” Padmé says. “Ani, of course not.”

“Then what’s going on?” Anakin asks. “Why are you so nervous? We’re home, we’re together. That’s a good thing.”

“Of course that’s a good thing, but I can’t stay. I’ve got another assignment and--”

“You don’t!” Anakin shouts. “I know you’re lying! Tell me what’s going on!”

Padmé flinches, pulling her arm from Anakin’s grip. “Ani, there’s nothing going on. I just wanted to...stay somewhere else for a little while. I was going to pick up some of my things. That’s it, I promise.”

Anakin lets out a sigh of relief. She’s just stressed out from work, that’s all. Of course that’s all. “That’s it? Why didn’t you just say so, angel? If you need a vacation, we can pick anywhere in the galaxy you want. It’s perfect timing, too, and we can stay there for our anniversary...”

“No,” Padmé says softly. “Not us.”

Anakin blinks. “I...what? But it’s our anniversary soon, and--”

“I wanted to be alone for a little while,” Padmé says. “To think about things. And rest.”

“You can do those things with me, can’t you?” Anakin says. “There’s a beautiful ocean moon I visited during one of my jobs, we could go there and you’d be able to rest and think as much as you need to and--”

Padmé lays a hand flat on his chest and pushes him back. “Anakin. You’re not listening to me. I want to be alone.”

Anakin feels like his mind’s grinding to a halt. There’s something churning in his stomach, anticipation for a ship crash that hasn’t quite happened yet. “Angel, I don’t understand. Why don’t you want to be together? I thought we loved each other.”

“I do love you. You’re wonderful and everything I could have ever hoped for,” Padmé says, and she’s telling the truth. “But Ani, I’m not happy.”

Anakin feels like the floor’s fallen out from under him. “You...are you trying to break up with me?”

Padmé shakes her head vigorously. “No, Ani, no. That’s not--I need some space for a little while, that’s all. I just...I need to figure out what’s going on. Between us. What we’re doing. Where we should go from here.”

“We should go together,” Anakin says. “Have a family, be together forever, just like we promised each other at the wedding.”

“One day, maybe,” Padmé replies, “but I’m not ready for all that right now and I need to figure out what’s between here and there. Please, Ani, it’ll just be a few weeks, and I’ll be back. Everything will be back to normal. Everything will be good.”

Padmé moves past Anakin towards the bedroom and Anakin follows after her. He feels...bad. This isn’t how things are supposed to go. They fight sometimes--just over little things, because every couple fights over things sometimes--but it was never supposed to come to this. Padmé was never supposed to leave him.

“What brought all this on?” He asks as she packs her things into a decent-sized travel bag. “I thought everything was good. I’m happier than I’ve ever been.”

Padmé doesn’t answer straight away. She continues loading clothes into her bag--traveling clothes, Anakin notes. Definitely not going on an official Senate thing, then. “Things are good, Ani. It’s just...I’m tired. I’ve been tired for a long time.”

“You’ve been working too much,” Anakin agrees. “The Senate is giving you too much to do--you’re amazing and perfect, but you’re only one person.”

Padmé laughs, and there’s something a little bitter about it. “Well, that’s not a problem anymore. Maybe things will get a little better now.”

“What? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Padmé finishes packing her clothes and moves on to some of her other items. Toiletries, makeup, a blaster pistol with extra battery packs. “The Senate’s been...unhappy with some of my recent work,” she says softly. “You remember, right? Mon talked to me after the Alderaan mission--checking up on the clones. After some recent incidents, she decided it was best if that position got assigned to someone else, like Riyo.”

For a moment, that makes Anakin burn. He doesn’t really have a problem with Mon Mothma being the new Supreme Chancellor, but some of the things she does really gets him heated. Palpatine would never have taken Padmé off of a job that was so important to her. Of course, Palpatine was also a Sith Lord, and a traitor, and corrupt, and--

That’s got nothing to do with it. Palpatine had his heart in the wrong place and he’d done some things wrong, but that didn’t make him completely evil. Evil people didn’t make friends with people and listen to them and help them and make them feel better. That’s just not how the world works. Palpatine would have helped Padmé like he always did.

“I’ll talk to her,” Anakin says. “She’ll see you’re the best person for the job--of course you’d be the best, and it’s such an important assignment for you--”

“Ani, no. I’ve already talked to her, and I think she’s right,” Padmé says. “I’m not giving everything I can for the clones. They don’t deserve that, and Riyo will do a wonderful job with them. I just need some personal time to focus, and now is the perfect opportunity.”

Anakin clenches his fists, caught between the ideas of Padmé having the position that’s so important to her and her getting the break she desperately needs. He doesn’t want Padmé to leave in either case. He wants Padmé at home, with him. Or out in the galaxy, with him. It doesn’t matter as long as he can be with her, but she’s not giving him that option.

“What am I supposed to do when you’re gone? I’ll be alone without you,” Anakin says.

Padmé looks back up at him. “Ani, you’re not alone. You can go back to Coruscant for a little while and spend time with people you haven’t seen lately. You have Ahsoka and Qui-Gon and...Rex and the others, too. You don’t have to spend all your time with me.”

“I don’t want to go back to Coruscant and the Jedi, I want to spend my time with you,” Anakin says. “Where are you going?”

“Sabé has some kind of surprise lined up for me.” Padmé closes her bag with a snap.

“Sabé? Your handmaiden?”

“My former handmaiden,” Padmé confirms, hefting her bag. There’s something unmistakably warm in the Force around her, and something about it makes Anakin’s heart clench. “I think she’s planning to take me somewhere I’ve never been before--we used to talk about it when we were younger.”

Anakin knows so many of Padmé’s expressions and emotions, but he’s not sure what he’s feeling around her now--it’s soft and pleased in a way that it never is when she’s with him, and that’s not...that’s not right. He should be the one to make her feel happy, not some former handmaiden.

“Do you and Sabé spend a lot of time together?” Anakin asks. “Like when you’re not home? When you’re working?”

“Of course I spend time with her. Sabé is a very good friend,” Padmé says.

“You’d rather go traveling with her than with me?”

“Ani, this doesn’t have anything to do with you,” Padmé lies.

Of course this has something to do with him. This has everything to do with him. After all, if it wasn’t, why would Padmé be...sneaking out? Getting too friendly with her handmaiden, her childhood friend?

Padmé would never...would she?

“You can’t do this!” Anakin pleads. “What does she have? She doesn’t love you like I do! She can’t make you happy like I do!”

“You’re not making me happy at all!” Padmé snaps, fury sparking in her like an ion blast. “You’re suffocating, Anakin! You make it hard for me to do my job, you don’t listen to me, you’re so jealous! I’m tired of fighting all the time! I’m tired of you being angry at me all the time over the smallest things! I love you so much, I really do, but you make it so hard to be with you!”

Anger lights in Anakin’s soul and he grabs Padmé around the shoulders. "And you think Sabé is better than me? This is our anniversary! This is supposed to be our time together, and you want to...run off with your handmaiden on some joyride around the galaxy?”

“This is not a joyride, Anakin, this is something I need personal time for!”

“Personal time with Sabé!” Anakin shouts. “I can’t believe you’d do this to me, Padmé! You’re my wife. We’re supposed to be devoted to each other, and you’re leaving me behind? I love you, Padmé.”

“I know how you feel, but have you ever stopped to ask how I feel? Have you ever thought about what I want?” Padmé retorts sharply. “Why can’t I work without you constantly texting me? Why can’t I spend some time with my friends without you hovering over my back? Why do you have to always assume the absolute worst of me--that I’d cheat on you the instant your back is turned?”

“Is that not what’s happening?” Anakin says. “You love her! I can feel it in the Force--you love Sabé in a way you’ve never loved me. Was all this just a lie?”

Padmé’s face twists into something so angry and without warning, she slugs him in the stomach so hard that he doubles over, gagging.

“Love isn’t just one thing, Anakin,” she says. “If you’re going to tell me I can’t love my best friends, if you think that somehow makes our love less valuable, then maybe this love isn’t worth it.”

“Padmé, no, don’t say that,” Anakin coughs. He feels like he’s been punched through the chest. He feels like his heart is being torn apart. He hasn’t felt this way since his mother died.

“I’m leaving. If you follow me, this is over--I can’t keep doing this. I’ll comm in three weeks and we’ll figure out where we can go from there.”

With that, Padmé turns on her heel and leaves.

Anakin squeezes his fist to his chest, leaning against a bedpost as he tries to catch his breath. There’s a storm building in Padmé’s wake, a horrible force of nature that can’t be contained. He hears the Mind Healers advice to step back from the situation and evaluate things objectively. He hears Qui-Gon’s voice telling him to release his anger, release his frustration, release his sorrow, but he can’t. He can’t.

The Force whips around him like a sandstorm, ripping at his skin and clothes and face. It hurts--it hurts like the pain in his chest made physical and he doesn’t know what to do. He can’t talk to Padmé--she’s gone, now. He can’t talk to Palpatine--he’s dead, murdered by the Jedi. He can’t talk to Qui-Gon or Ahsoka--they’re Jedi, they wouldn’t understand feelings like this. They wouldn’t care.

He fumbles his commlink out of his pocket and scrolls through his contacts. He needs to talk to someone. He needs someone to hold him down, someone to drain this poison and make things right.

He comms Rex.

Boba doesn’t know what he expected when he got sent to Coruscant.

It’s not what he wanted--he was going to stick with bounty hunters and be the best bounty hunter ever just like his buir and then avenge him by killing the stupid Jedi who murdered him--but then Cad Bane had recognized who he was and told him to stop annoying the adults and go home to his dad. His other dad. Some guy buir used to like--he talked about it, sometimes, on the rare occasions he got a bit drunk. The good old days, he used to say. We were the best damned bounty hunters in the galaxy. Nobody could hide from us.

Boba always hated when buir got like that. He hated Kenobi. Boba’s never met the guy, but he didn’t need to--he knew enough. Kenobi was a stupid dickhead and if he had ever really cared, he would have stayed with buir instead of ditching him. Then maybe buir wouldn’t have been so bitter because he missed Kenobi so much. Maybe buir wouldn’t have been so sad and angry all the time, and then maybe he wouldn’t have died at Geonosis.

It doesn’t matter. He can run away when he gets to Coruscant. He knows how to steal and sneak onto ships, and it’s not like Kenobi will care. Chances are, he’ll just shove Boba into the foster system and never see him again, and Boba will just make his own way again. That’s the best outcome for everyone involved.

So. Boba doesn’t expect it when Kenobi is waiting for him at the spaceport. He doesn’t expect it when Kenobi brings him home to his undercity apartment and introduces him to his roommates--a pair of yellow Zabrak brothers, which is weird but at least they have cool tattoos. He doesn’t expect it when Kenobi shows him a room that’s been prepared just for him and tells him he can arrange it however he likes for as long as he stays. He definitely doesn’t expect Kenobi to ask him what he wants to eat, and then cook his favorites the same way buir did.

And yet, here he is.

There’s so much going on in his first week on Coruscant that Boba just doesn’t have time to think about his plan to run away. Feral and Savage are okay. They work in the Jedi Temple for some reason--Feral as a healer-in-training, and Savage as an...assistant or general helper or something--while Kenobi is a detective, not that he ever seems to actually do any work. Kenobi gets him set up with virtual classes until he can transition to a more permanent school setting and shows him around different parts of Coruscant and doesn’t mind speaking Mando’a and his accent is just like buir’s.

It sucks. Kenobi sucks. He’s too nice and he’s always trying to talk and ask questions. He’s too concerned over schoolwork and making friends and he frowns when Boba talks about bounty hunting and he doesn’t like fighting, even though he wears a baton and a blaster almost everywhere--Boba’s not even convinced he knows how to use them.

Kenobi hovers a lot more than buir ever did, too. He’s never as far as hanging over his shoulder, thank the stars, but he’s constantly making sure Boba knows he’s there and always available if he wants to talk about anything. He also likes the Jedi and thinks they’re good people and not murderers who killed buir and all the other True Mandalorians. He never gets angry or shouts, either, not even when Boba yells and swears at him. He just takes it and smiles and tries to make things better.

There’s no way for Kenobi to make things better. He’s ten years too late for that.

Kenobi tells him it’s okay to call him dad or buir if he wants, or Obi-Wan or Kenobi if he doesn’t, and Boba just wants to punch him. Kenobi’s not his dad--he’s just some dude who abandoned buir when he needed him most. He’s never going to replace buir and it’s shitty of him to try.

Boba doesn’t see why buir ever cared about this guy.

At the end of the first week, Kenobi sits him down at the dining table and says, “Boba, do you want to stay here?”

Boba crosses his arms and looks away. Of course he doesn’t want to stay here, but nobody cares what he wants. He’s just some ten-year-old kid, like that makes him stupid or like he can’t make choices for himself.

“Boba, please. Look at me,” Kenobi says softly. It’s always softly, with him. Nothing like the firm way buir used to talk.

Boba looks at Kenobi. Kenobi’s thirty-five, but he looks twenty and it’s weird as hell when he’s used to eleven-year-old clones looking thirty. He’s doing the thing where he makes his eyes look big and sad, and Boba’s pretty sure he’s not doing it on purpose--he just looks like that, sometimes.

“It’s clear you’re not happy here,” Kenobi says. “I’m trying to do everything I can to make you feel welcome, but I don’t feel like it’s working. If you don’t want to stay with me, I understand. You have alternatives, Boba. I know of a few well-vetted foster care systems--Alderaan has a very good system for younglings, as do a few other Core worlds--or I can try reaching out to some of Jango’s old acquaintances. Mandalorians are well-known for their willingness to adopt younglings, and I’m sure there’s at least one person who would be happy to bring you into a loving family.”

Boba shakes his head. As much as getting raised by a proper Mandalorian would be better than this, he already knows a lot of buir’s ‘old acquaintances’. They’d been brought on as trainers at Kamino, and none of them really liked him. To them, he was just another clone, just a shittier and smaller one. There probably isn’t a single one of buir’s old acquaintances who will see him as anything but buir’s clone and he can’t do that. He’s gotten too much of that in Kamino already.

“Then what’s wrong, Boba? What do you need? What can I do to help you?”

“Nothing,” Boba says under his breath.

Kenobi’s brows draw together. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what you said.”

“Nothing!” Boba shouts. “There’s nothing you can do, because you’re just gonna abandon me like you abandoned buir and nothing’s ever going to be good again because buir is dead and you weren’t there for him! You’ll never be as good as buir and you don’t care about me or him or anyone! I hate you!”

Kenobi’s breath leaves him in a gust. He closes his eyes for a long moment, then opens them again, his expression unreadable. “Boba,” he says, his voice getting even softer when buir’s would have gotten louder. “Jango and I loved each other, but we parted ways because we weren’t compatible. I couldn’t condone his work anymore and he couldn’t reconcile his hatred of the Jedi with my past. The decision to break it off was mutual. It was better that we left on friendly terms.”

“You could have stayed with him! You could have said the Resol’nare and been Mando with him and everything would have been better!” Boba yells.

“It’s not that simple,” Kenobi says. “I am Jedi. I left the Order a long time ago, but that’s still my past and it’s still who I am, and it’s just as important to me as being Mandalorian was to Jango. He wanted me to give all that up--he wanted me to walk away from my past and build myself anew with him, and I couldn’t cross that line. Maybe once upon a time, I would have, but not then. I’m not the kind of person to sacrifice everything that makes me who I am. Not anymore.”

“But you said you loved him! And he loved you! He missed you so much that he talked about you a lot and he was always so angry that you didn’t want to be with him!” Boba says. “If you stayed with him, if you swore the Resol’nare, he’d forgive you for everything! You could have been happy together!”

Kenobi takes a deep breath. “Boba. Why is my being Jedi something I should ever have to apologize for?”

“Because you’re evil!” Boba cries. “You killed buir! You killed all of the Mandalorians and you never helped anybody who needed it! The Jedi always promise to help and they never do! They never do anything right!”

There’s another long silence, and Kenobi’s face shifts to something so sad that it makes Boba uncomfortable to see it. He wishes Kenobi would get angry. He wishes Kenobi would yell. That would make this all easier to endure.

“The Jedi are not evil, and I’m disappointed but not surprised that Jango would teach you that,” Kenobi says. “I’m sorry about what happened to Jango--it’s not the way he would have wanted to go, but he made his choice at Geonosis to engage in battle and lost, as anyone can. I’m sorry about what happened at Galidraan--the Jedi made their best judgements based on the information they had at the time, and that information was faulty. I’m sorry that the Jedi cannot save every person they set out to save--we’re only people, and we make mistakes just like anyone else. Oftentimes, unfortunately, that means our help is too little or too late.”

“What, so all those people deserved to die?” Boba shoots back. “It’s okay because it was just a mistake? Because you feel bad?”

“No. None of them deserved to die--no one deserves to die and the Jedi do not take lives lightly--but despite our best intentions, it has happened, and there’s nothing that can be done now except to make what reparations we can and prevent our mistakes in the future.”

“Saying sorry won’t bring buir back!” Boba shrieks.

“No,” Kenobi says, his voice heavy with emotion. “I’m afraid it won’t.”

That’s all Boba can stand. He pushes himself out of his chair and runs to his room, slamming the door shut as hard as he can. There’s tears in his eyes and he buries his face in a pillow to muffle the sounds of his crying because he’s not a little kid, he’s not supposed to cry anymore.

He hears footsteps down the hallway and there’s a knock at his door.

“Go away!” Boba shouts.

Kenobi doesn’t open the door, but he says through it, “Boba, I’m so sorry. I’m not the best at speaking delicately, and I knew it was a difficult topic for you. I should have--”

“Kriff off!”

Kenobi falls silent, then says, “All right. I’ll leave you alone. If you want to talk, you know where to find me.”

Boba hears Kenobi’s footsteps trailing away, and he buries his face in his pillow again. He doesn’t want to talk to Kenobi. He wants things to be the way they were before.

He wants buir.

He doesn’t leave his room even when Kenobi calls him for dinner. It’s childish to stay in, but Kenobi still doesn’t yell at him for it. He gives him his space and lets him know if he’s hungry he can grab leftovers out of the cooling unit and that, again, he’s always willing to talk.

He hates how much Kenobi wants to talk. There’s too much of it and still not enough and it never helps. He falls asleep hating Kenobi and his stupid sad face and his stupid constant talking.

It really figures that that night he dreams of Geonosis.

It’s the same dream he always has, of buir going down into the chaos of the arena. Boba tries to stop him, yells at him to come back because he’s going to die, but there’s nothing he can ever do to stop the purple blade that shears buir’s head straight off.

Boba wakes, choking on a scream.

The room is dark. It’s quiet, but not quiet like Kamino was quiet--absolutely dead silent except for the occasional storm. Here in Coruscant, there’s the sound of speeders and commotion outside, the low hum of mechanical white noise. It feels wrong.

He doesn’t want to be here alone. He wants someone to hug him and tell him everything’s going to be all right, but buir is gone. There’s nobody here to help him because he couldn’t save buir, he can’t live up to buir’s legacy, he’s just another clone out of hundreds of thousands, just shittier and smaller. A tiny scared crybaby little baby kid.

He coughs and gets out of bed. Maybe Kenobi can do something. Kenobi’s useless but he would give him a hug at least. He wouldn’t laugh or tell him he’s too big for that kind of thing.

He pads down to Kenobi’s room and pushes the door open. It’s dark in there, too, with only a small night light near the doorway. What little he can see of it is clean, with almost no belongings at all. Kenobi just doesn’t have a lot of stuff, it looks like.

He goes over to the bed--it’s a smaller bed than even his own bed, which is weird--and shakes Kenobi by the shoulder. “Kenobi?” he says.

Kenobi doesn’t wake up. If he’s this deep of a sleeper, Boba’s got no idea how he survived as a bounty hunter.

Boba shakes him a little harder. “Kenobi, wake up!”

There’s still no reaction.

Boba turns the bedside lamp on, only to find that Kenobi isn’t breathing.

His breath catches in his throat. This can’t be happening. Kenobi can’t be dead, he was shouting at him just earlier that day, he doesn’t like Kenobi but he doesn’t want him to--

“Obi-Wan!” he shouts, shaking Kenobi as hard as he can.

There’s no response at all, and Boba feels a sinking feeling in his stomach. He’s already failed one buir, he can’t do this again. He’s got to do something. There’s something he can do, right?

Right?

He doesn’t know what to do. He needs help. Feral and Savage are both at the Jedi Temple--they won’t be back until nearly midday. Where is he going to find someone who can save Kenobi?

He pulls on a jacket and runs outside. He’s not sure where he’s running to, just that he needs to find someone and fast. Someone who can do anything. Someone like...

There’s a Jedi with short white hair patrolling the streets. Kenobi’s a Jedi, a Jedi can help him, right? That’s how it’s supposed to work.

“Mister Jedi!” Boba shouts, barreling straight into them. “Mister Jedi, I need help, something’s wrong, there’s something bad, I need you--”

“Woah, slow down,” the Jedi says, kneeling down to look him in the eyes. He seems to be human, and there’s a huge burn scar on the side of his face. “What’s going on? Are you lost?”

“I need your help, you’re a Jedi, you’re supposed to help people, right?”

“Yeah, of course,” the Jedi says. “What happened?”

“I don’t know!” Boba shouts, grabbing the Jedi’s sleeve and trying to pull him towards the apartment. “It’s my--it’s my dad, he’s not breathing! I don’t want him to die!”

The Jedi says a swear word under his breath, then sets his jaw and says, “All right. Where’s your dad?”

Boba takes the Jedi back to the apartment--it’s not far, only a couple blocks away, but it feels like an eternity. The Jedi makes a face as he enters, but follows Boba back to Kenobi’s room. Then he sees Kenobi and says a really bad swear word.

He pulls his commlink out of his pocket and gives it to Boba. “Comm Master Che. Vokara Che. I’m going to see what’s going on with your dad.”

Dutifully, Boba scrolls down through the contacts and selects the one labeled “Vokara Che” while the Jedi closes his eyes, kneels, and puts a hand on Kenobi’s forehead. Something about the atmosphere in the room gets a little heavy with whatever he’s doing--some kind of Jedi thing, Boba guesses--which makes goosebumps go all down his arms.

The transmission opens and a small blue hologram of a grumpy-looking Twi’lek appears. “Knight Chun, why are you comming me at this hour?”

“My dad’s not breathing!” Boba says. “I went to check on him in the middle of the night because--” He swallows, then says, “I went to check on Kenobi and he wasn’t breathing! I don’t want him to die, Master Che, can you help him?”

The Twi’lek straightens. “Kenobi? Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

“Yes!” Boba cries. “He’s supposed to be my dad because he was friends with my buir and I got mad at him because I miss buir and Kenobi is too different and he’s a Jedi and he likes to talk too much and now he’s not breathing and it’s all my fault!”

“Breathe, youngling,” Master Che says. “This isn’t your fault. Obi-Wan has a medical condition--this is a known issue.”

“A medical condition where you stop breathing is called being dead!” Boba shouts.

“He’s still alive,” Knight Chun says, pulling his hand away from Kenobi’s forehead. Chun looks a little pale, but his expression is determined as he takes the commlink from Boba. “Master Che, it’s not a meditative trance. He’s...I don’t know what to call it. It’s like he’s completely empty. There’s nothing in there.”

“His soul has left his body,” Master Che says with a grimace. “He says it happens a few times a month, usually when he sleeps. I was hoping he was making a joke in poor taste, but it seems he was not.”

Boba doesn’t know what that means, but it sounds really bad.

“How do we get his soul back into his body?” Boba asks.

“From what he’s told me, he can find his way back on his own,” Master Che says. “Knight Chun, on no account are you to dive after him.”

“Oh, good,” Chun says faintly. “What should I do, then?”

There’s some commotion on the other end of the transmission and Feral pops up in the holoreader. “Boba?” he asks.

“Feral! Obi-Wan isn’t breathing! Master Che says his soul left his body!” Boba says in a rush.

Feral winces. “Um. Yes, that happens sometimes. He’s not moving around or anything, is he?”

“No,” Boba says. “He’s just lying there. He looks like he’s dead, Feral. He’s not dead, is he?”

Feral shakes his head. “Obi-Wan will be fine. He’ll be better in the morning--you don’t need to worry about him.”

“But he’s not breathing!” Boba says insistently. Nobody here seems to be grasping the gravity of that. “What can I do?”

“You can...call him back,” Feral says. “If you talk to him, it makes it easier for him to find his way back to his body. He probably hasn’t wandered too far, if he was just sleeping.”

“Talk to him?” Boba asks. “Talk to him about what?”

“Well, anything, as long as you’re talking to him. He can feel it when people are thinking about him--if you talk to him, he’ll know you’re calling for him.”

That makes absolutely no sense, but it’s probably another Jedi thing and Feral must have been through this before. Boba pushes past Chun and sits on the bed next to Obi-Wan. He grabs his hand and squeezes it tightly. It’s warm.

“I’m sorry, Obi-Wan,” he says. “Buir says it’s bad to yell at people when they’re trying to help you and I know you’re trying to help me and you’re doing your best, probably.”

Obi-Wan still doesn’t react. Boba’s not sure if it’s actually working, but if he has to talk to bring Obi-Wan back, then by the stars he’s gonna kriffing talk.

“I miss buir. I hate that you’re not buir. You’re too different from him, I don’t know why he missed you so much all the time because you’re so soft and you don’t like fighting and all you ever do is look sad and try to talk things out. You never yell at me even when I’m doing things wrong, you keep telling me stuff like how schoolwork is important even though it’s boring and this apartment doesn’t feel right because it’s not my home like Kamino was my home but--” His breath hitches. “You’re the only one who speaks Mando’a to me like buir did. You’re the only one who cooks buir’s stir-fried noodles the right way. You’re the one who cares about me even though I’m just another clone of buir and not even a cool one with genetic modifications and training and armor and stuff. Buir said I was better than all the rest of his clones because I was his but he still died and I couldn’t save him because I’m just a weak--little--k-kid!”

He begins sobbing in earnest and he can’t even stop it, grasping at Obi-Wan’s shirt and trying to get him to come back from wherever he is. “I don’t know what to do, Obi-Wan! I don’t know how to make things better! I don’t know if I’m happy here but you’re what I’ve got and you’re trying so much harder than anyone ever tried for me and I don’t understand why you care about me when I’m just a copy that can’t live up to the real thing!

“I want buir back! I want you and buir to be together so buir isn’t so upset all the time and he can be happy because I’m not good enough to make him happy!” he sobs into Obi-Wan’s chest. “Why did you have to make him love you and be happy if you were just going to leave, Obi-Wan? Why would you do that to him? Why don’t you love him anymore?”

Boba cries so hard that his head feels like it’s buzzing, and he keeps shouting more words, skipping between Mando’a and Basic. It doesn’t really matter at that point what he’s saying, just that he’s saying it for the first time because it’s the first time he’s ever needed to say what’s been knotted tight in his chest.

He feels arms close over his back, squeezing him. “Boba?” Obi-Wan says, his voice a low croak. “Boba, it’s okay, I’m here.”

“Obi-Wan!” Boba gasps. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry--”

“Hey, you don’t need to apologize,” Obi-Wan says. His voice is a little stronger this time. “Are you okay, dear?”

“I thought you were dead! I thought you were dead just like buir and I couldn’t do anything to help you!” Boba blubbers.

“Oh, darling, I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan says, sitting up slowly to give Boba a better hug. “I’m so sorry I scared you like that. I just drifted a little, but I’m back now. I felt you calling me back.” He looks up over Boba’s shoulder and says, “Bruck? Why are you in my apartment?”

There’s a sound of shifting fabric. “Your son needed help because your soul left your body, Kenobi. I just happened to be the closest person,” Chun says. “Is everything okay now? Can I go back to my patrol?”

Obi-Wan nods. “Thank you, Bruck. I apologize for the trouble.”

“Yeah, you scared the hell out of me,” Chun says, his voice slightly shaky. “Whatever is going on with you, it’s spooky as hell. I’d like to never do this again.”

“Hopefully, we won’t need to,” Obi-Wan says, pulling Boba tighter into his arms. “Have a good night, Bruck.”

Boba hears Chun pick up his commlink and leave. Then it’s just the two of them.

“D-don’t ever do that again!” Boba says, throwing his arms around Obi-Wan.

“Boba, this is a medical condition. I can’t control it,” Obi-Wan says. “I know it’s scary, but it’s fine--I’ve been like this for years. I’m almost always back by sunrise.”

Boba sniffs. “F-fine. Th-then I’ll just call you back again. Your soul is supposed to stay in your body. It’s not allowed to go running off.”

“Ah, if you want to--”

“I do!” Boba says. “I don’t want you to die, Obi-Wan. You’re not the same as buir but you’re my dad now and you’re not allowed to die.”

Obi-Wan sighs. “Boba, I can’t promise that. I’ll do everything I can to stay safe, but I can’t promise not to die.”

Boba knows. Buir promised he wouldn’t die, and he did anyways. Boba just tightens his grip on Obi-Wan’s shirt. “Fine. But you can’t leave me, okay?”

Obi-Wan pauses, then says, “I’ll be here as long as you need me, Boba.”

That’s not a yes. But for now, held safely in his dad’s arms, it’s good enough.

“Are you trying to slice Kenobi’s criminal record?”

Echo pauses, then looks over his shoulder at Fives. “Uh...maybe?”

Fives looks vaguely concerned about that. “Why? Did something happen when you two went to the Senate District?”

Well, yes. Echo could certainly call it that. Kenobi had offered to give a brief tour of the Senate District, since according to him, anyone trying to start a private investigation practice in Coruscant worth peanuts had to have a working familiarity with the place. Fives had wanted to go, but his brain tended to completely stop working the moment Kenobi smiled at him, which, while hilarious, meant that neither of them would actually learn anything useful--so Echo had made the executive decision to go on his own and then give Fives the tour himself later.

Which was fine. It was a good, if brisk, tour. Everything had gone well, except for one thing.

“We ran into a lady there,” Echo says. “She knew Kenobi. Had some history with him, I guess.”

“What? Like an ex-girlfriend?”

“Uh, I hope not. She punched him in the face and called him a murderer,” Echo replies, tapping out another sequence on his data terminal.

“She punched him in the face?” Fives yelps. He leans down over Echo’s shoulder. “Who was she?”

“A representative from Melida/Daan, according to Kenobi,” Echo says. “I looked it up, it’s a really obscure planet--they don’t even have a Senator.”

“And she called him a murderer?” Fives asks. “What gives?”

Echo grimaces. “Yeah. The really worrying part is that I asked Kenobi what she meant by that, and he said, ‘I’m sure you know what that word means’.”

Fives pulls up a seat next to him. “No way. You think Kenobi might have actually killed someone before? That’s why you’re trying to get his criminal record?”

Echo scratches the back of his head. “Yeah. I mean, I don’t think he’s that kind of a person, but...I have to check, you know? We can’t let Rex date a murderer, right?”

“No, of course not!” Fives says. “But, uh, you know criminal records are public information, right?”

Echo looks over at the console he’s been working over for the last fifteen minutes. “...no. I didn’t.”

This is how the two of them end up spending their entire afternoon trying to figure out what the kriff is up with Kenobi. Nobody can really blame them, Echo thinks. After all, they want to start a detective agency and they were left unsupervised. It’s only natural that they’d want to go snooping around.

Four hours in, Echo’s starting to regret it.

“According to his criminal record, Kenobi’s been arrested twenty-three times,” Echo says. “Mostly for stuff like interrupting crime scenes or being a suspect in a murder case because he keeps finding bodies while doing his investigations. There’s nothing here about assault or murder, but there’s some notes about trespassing. He’s never gotten convicted, though.”

“That’s encouraging,” Fives says from where he’s lying on the floor.

Echo continues, “And then I tried looking up the representative, Olyen Krast, it looks like she’s been a citizen of Melida/Daan all her life, though she wasn’t able to get properly registered until seventeen years ago because of extended civil conflict on the planet cutting off most communication with the Republic. No living family--she reports two deceased brothers, one older and one younger, and no parents at all. She’s very vocally against war because of how badly the civil war ruined her planet--it’s pretty messed up over there even now--and her speeches have made reference to her faction, the Young, which is credited with ending Melida/Daan’s absurdly long conflict. It looks like she would have been fifteen when the war ended, which is kind of concerning. All the records around Melida/Daan are pretty spotty because of the war ruining pretty much everything, but to the best of my knowledge, she’s never lived anywhere but Melida/Daan. I don’t have any clue how she and Kenobi would have even met, much less have any sort of history.”

“Oh, I can answer that,” Fives says holding up a datapad. “Tax records show Kenobi moved to Coruscant like ten years ago, and I can’t find anything about what he was doing immediately before then--on his paperwork when he got his private investigation license, he says that he was previously doing freelance work on the Outer Rim, which can mean literally anything, but immigration wasn’t an issue for him because he was already a Republic citizen. So I looked up his immigration records, and those show Kenobi was taken in by the Jedi Order when he was one.”

Well, that explained why Kenobi seemed to have so many connections in the Jedi Temple, Echo supposes.

Fives stretches his arms and says, “Then I tried looking him up at the Temple, but people outside the Temple can’t search anyone who isn’t a Knight or Master. So then I looked into the mission archive to see if he’s mentioned anywhere and it looks like his name comes up twice in some reports by Master Jinn, so maybe he was Jinn’s Commander--”

“Jinn’s Commander--Master Jinn? You mean General Skywalker’s Master Jinn?” Echo asks.

“Yeah,” Fives says. “I’m surprised, too. I wasn’t really under the impression Master Jinn had any other apprentices.”

General Skywalker certainly had never said anything to that effect, but maybe it makes sense. Echo’s seen Master Jinn before--his age range would make it pretty unusual for him to not have previously had any students at all.

Fives clears his throat. “Anyways, I found a report about a mission to Melida/Daan by Master Jinn, which says that, um.”

“Yeah?” Echo prompts.

“There’s a, uh, footnote here, where Jinn wrote that his Padawan ‘left the Order due to no longer being able to uphold his vows to the Jedi’. Kenobi would have been thirteen.” Fives looks up from his datapad with a vaguely sick expression. “What’s the, uh, chance that Kenobi stayed on Melida/Daan?”

Echo pauses. If Kenobi was thirteen, then that would have been twenty-two years ago. “Melida/Daan’s war...hadn’t ended yet then.”

“Right,” Fives says. “The report says that the Jedi they went to rescue was tortured by one of the factions due to suspicion of espionage.” He makes a face. “That’s kind of all it says. This is not a very good report--Rex would kick my ass if I ever wrote something like this.”

Echo holds out a hand and Fives passes the datapad over. The report is, in fact, exactly five sentences long, and so brisk that Echo would get hives if he ever thought of writing something like this. It does explain some things about General Skywalker’s report writing skills, or rather, the lack thereof.

“Maybe...he did a verbal report?” Echo says.

Fives shrugs. “Maybe. If he did, it’s not on file, so there’s nothing we can do there. Do you think it’s possible Kenobi would have stayed on Melida/Daan? Because I can’t see any other way he’d know a lady from Melida/Daan who’s never lived anywhere else.”

“This is Skywalker’s Master, though,” Echo protests. “You really think he’d leave a youngling in the middle of a literal civil war?”

“I’m kind of getting the feeling we don’t know nearly as much about Master Jinn as we think we do,” Fives says. “It’s not like any of us ever worked with him--he refused to lead a battalion, and I guess the Council agreed he wasn’t well-suited for it.”

Not that any Jedi was especially well-suited for command. It became pretty clear pretty fast that vanishingly few of them had experience or training in warfare, and lightsaber tricks and the Force could only go so far. A lot of them had to learn fast or die, and not everyone had the time to do even that. In the five short months it took for the war to end, there were too many losses. Echo doesn’t really want to think about the body counts if the war had gone much longer.

“But that’s not really the point,” Fives says. “If we assume Kenobi stayed on Melida/Daan, he would have been pretty much stuck there until the end of the civil war--it’s not like there were operational spaceports on the planet until then. That’d be three or four years, and he’s, y’know. Missing a hand.”

“Missing a hand--You think he fought in the war?” Echo asks.

“Well, I don’t know if he fought in it, but I think he at least lived in one,” Fives says. “You ever notice how he gets nervous when he’s in big open spaces?"

“Big open spaces? What are you talking about?”

Fives makes a wide gesture. “Big open spaces. Places you can be easily seen from afar. He never sits next to big windows if he can help it, either. He gets kind of twitchy about it. Like you remember how 4041 was after he got sniped in that training exercise? Before he got taken in for reconditioning? Kenobi’s kind of like that. He hates loud noises, too.”

Echo stares at him.

Fives sighs. “Look, I’m not completely dead in the head when I’m around Kenobi. I do actually pay attention to him when he takes me someplace. And you’ve seen him fight, haven’t you? It’s super hot, but also, he doesn’t fight like martial arts, he fights like he’s actually fought a lot. I think he was a soldier, Echo. I think he was thirteen and got dropped in a civil war and he became a soldier and fought and killed people for three years. Or more. I have no idea when he left Melida/Daan or what he did after that. There’s no records of it that I can find.”

Echo has no way of knowing if Fives is right, but Fives has always been able to see things that he hasn’t. He’s perceptive and his intuition has rarely steered him wrong.

Echo looks down at his hands. “The Young was a faction trying to end the fighting. They were mostly made up of the children of the Melida and the Daan,” he says slowly. “If Kenobi was in that, he would have killed...actual people. The families of his allies.”

“Do you think that’d be enough for Krast to call him a murderer?” Fives asks.

“Killing in a war isn’t the same as murder,” Echo says. “If it was, we’d all be murderers.”

Except that’s not completely true, is it? Their war was primarily against droids--he’s never put his sights on a sentient except with training weapons. The only blood on his hands is lives he’s been unable to save from the Separatists.

“I mean, they were younglings, Echo,” Fives says. “She was younger than him, too. Maybe she didn’t realize that joining the Young would...lead to what it led to.” He looks up at the ceiling. “I...don’t think I want to keep looking into this.”

Echo grimaces. He’s not sure he wants to look any more into this, either. “Then what do we do? Just let it go? We’ve already gotten this far.”

“And I guess you still want to know,” Fives says. “Maybe you should just ask Kenobi directly. Instead of us doing all this behind his back. Least we can do is say sorry.”

“Yeah,” Echo says. “Maybe that’s what we should do.”

They deliberate on it for some time while cleaning up their datapads and notes and everything else. The more Echo thinks about it, the more it makes sense that Kenobi was a soldier. Not the kind of well-trained regimented soldier like he and Fives and the rest of the vod’e were, but someone who’s been through war and come out the other side not entirely the same. It’s just something about the air he gives off, of someone who knows violence and been hurt by it.

At the end of it all, they comm Kenobi.

The transmission opens and a small hologram of Kenobi flickers on the holodisk. Besides the bandage over his cheek where Krast had punched him, he looks as put-together as he ever does--neat hair, neat clothes, serene expression. “Echo. Good evening. How did your investigation go?”

Echo blinks. “Investigation? What do you mean?”

“The investigation you inevitably ran on me after our encounter with Olyen this morning,” Kenobi says. “That’s the only reason I can imagine you comming me like this right now.”

“Um,” Echo says, feeling kind of wrong-footed about being so incredibly predictable. “Sorry. We shouldn’t have looked into it, it’s private information, and...”

Kenobi waves a hand. “Ignoring the morality of your actions, you probably wouldn’t be a very good detective if you didn’t like getting into people’s private matters, and it’s not like I’m that sensitive about my past. What did you find?”

“We think you fought in Melida/Daan’s war when you were thirteen,” Echo says. “And that you might have killed a lot of people, including Krast’s family.”

He goes on to explain what else he’s found, while Kenobi listens and nods every so often. The whole explanation takes about ten minutes, with Fives contributing now and then. At the end of it all, Echo feels very exhausted. They really had found out a lot about Kenobi that they probably weren’t supposed to, and yet that hardly scratched the surface.

“Not bad,” Kenobi says at the end of it all. “Your logic is solid and you did decent work searching the records. You should have gone deeper into investigating what happened with Melida/Daan’s war, but I suppose that’s around the point where you started feeling guilty about it.”

“...Yes, sir,” Echo says.

“Well, I suppose there’s no harm in filling in the blanks. It was about three and a half years after I had joined the war when we managed to negotiate a ceasefire between the three factions, but there was an issue--we had intelligence of three major leaders who were trying to spark the fighting again. We’d already had one incident of such people breaking the previous ceasefire, and we couldn’t afford it happening again,” Kenobi says. “So I assassinated them.”

Fives makes a choking sound. “Assassination?”

“Three leaders in three nights,” Kenobi says grimly. “It wasn’t my idea, but I was the one who did it. I wouldn’t say it was especially difficult, once I got past the morality issue. With their leaders dead, those factions ended up scrambling for long enough for us to actually complete peace talks and get a government in place. Once people could see a way to live through peacetime, we had enough popular support to keep conflict from breaking out again. That’s a gross oversimplification of the matter, but you get the idea.” He sighs. “Olyen Krast’s older brother was the first of my assassinations. Singred Krast.”

“Which faction was he?” Echo asks. “The Melida or the Daan?”

“He was with the Young, actually,” Kenobi says. “Hence why it was very easy for me to murder him.”

“You...you killed one of your own faction?” Fives asks, his voice shaking.

“He wanted the fighting to continue. He wanted to keep going until all the Melida and the Daan had suffered enough for all they’d put us through, not that I think he ever would have been satisfied,” Kenobi replies. “So yes, I killed him. I’ll spare you the details. I don’t think he deserved it, but it was the only solution we had, and I was the only one willing to do it.”

“What happened after that?” Echo asks.

Kenobi shrugs. “Well, Olyen was understandably furious about it--Singred was, by most metrics, a good person. He cared deeply about his siblings and believed he was acting in the best interests of the Young, so his death hurt a great many people. After the establishment of the peace treaties, Olyen made my crimes known to the public, and I was banished from the planet as a result. I don’t blame her for it--obviously, the issue was very personal for her, but you certainly don’t want a three-time assassin near your newly established government. That’s just common sense. Does that answer your questions, Echo?”

Echo looks down. The churning feeling in his stomach still hasn’t gone away. “I...guess so. I don’t feel like I wanted to know any of that.”

“Well, let this be a lesson to you, then,” Kenobi says. “If you’re going to do detective work, you’re going to learn things you don’t want to know, and you’re going to have to look for information that will be uncomfortable. If that’s something that upsets you, it might not be the right path for you.”

Echo grimaces. That’s food for thought, he supposes. He’s good at finding information, but he’s never really thought about what it means to unearth what’s meant to be buried. It’s not a great feeling.

“Do you still do that?” Fives asks. “Kill people?”

“I’ve killed in self-defense,” Kenobi replies. “Which is thankfully infrequent. I don’t actually enjoy murder or violence, Fives. Not then and not now. I don’t think anyone deserves to be killed--it’s just that we don’t live in a world where nonviolence or nonlethal measures are always an option. That’s all I’ll say on the subject.”

“What are you going to do with Olyen?” Echo asks.

“Nothing,” Kenobi says. “She already knows why I did what I did. She’s not going to hunt me down over it--the context of my assassinations in Melida/Daan’s internal civil conflict means I can’t be prosecuted for them by the Republic and she’s already gotten me banished from her planet. Neither of us expected to meet today--she just reacted, I think. Even if I killed her brother to end the war and save lives, to her, I’ll always just be the boy who slit Singred’s throat. She’s not obligated to forgive me for that and I don’t expect her to.”

“I see.”

It seems like such an unsatisfying way to end things, but not everything gets closure. After five months at war, he knows that as well as anybody can.

“Is there anything else you wanted to ask, Echo? Fives?” Kenobi asks.

“No,” Echo says faintly. “I think that’s everything.”

“All right. Apologies for leaving things on such a grim note, but sometimes that’s how it is. If you still want to pursue investigative work, then I’d be happy to show you the Hall of Records next week--otherwise, we can just get dinner someplace and talk.”

“We’ll let you know,” Echo says. “Thanks, Kenobi. Have a good night.”

“You too, dear,” Kenobi says, then cuts the transmission.

An awkward silence settles in their apartment. Fives flops back onto the floor, looking absolutely spent. Echo knows how he feels. When they’d started looking for information about Kenobi’s past, they hadn’t expected all this.

Does it really matter if Kenobi was in a war as a youngling, or if he’s killed people? Of course it does. But does it change anything? He’s still the same person they already know. He’s still Detective Kenobi, he still spends time with clones and talks to them and helps them get situated in Coruscant when he can and does seminars about information theory and makes Fives absolutely stupid with that little smile of his--knowing all this about his past doesn’t make a difference, or it shouldn’t. Echo’s not sure what to think about it.

After five whole minutes, Fives finally speaks:

“Should we tell Rex about this?”

When Ahsoka knocks on the door to Obi-Wan’s apartment, she expects, reasonably, to find Obi-Wan.

She doesn’t expect a tiny, dark-haired, brown-skinned human youngling.

“Who are you?” the kid says. He’s got a bit of an accent--definitely not Core-bred.

“I’m Ahsoka,” Ahsoka says. “I was kind of hoping to talk to Obi-Wan.”

“Dad’s out. He’s working,” the kid says. He looks up at her silka beads and says, “What do the Jedi want with him? He’s not allowed to go to the Temple.”

Ahsoka stares at the kid. He looks around Initiate-age, so he’s probably somewhere between ten and thirteen. He also looks absolutely nothing like Obi-Wan, and she’s pretty sure that human kids are usually supposed to look like their parents, and not just in an ‘all humans have the exact same bodyplan’ way. Most of the human kids she knows are Jedi, so she doesn’t really have much of a baseline when it comes to how typical human families work.

Also, Obi-Wan has never mentioned having a son--she’s pretty sure she’d remember something like that. That’s something you usually tell people, right? Master Plo certainly tells a lot of people about her and the Wolfpack and every other Initiate he’s decided to pick up. Embarrassingly frequently, too.

“I’m Obi-Wan’s friend. I just wanted to talk,” Ahsoka says.

“Yeah?” the kid retorts, crossing his arms. “If you’re Dad’s friend, then tell me how you do his hair.”

What the hell kind of question is that?

“I usually braid it down the back, with ribbons across the middle,” Ahsoka says. She rummages in her pockets and pulls one of her ribbons out. “Like this.”

The kid makes a face, then sighs very dramatically. Ahsoka wonders where he learned to do that. “Okay, fine. I guess you can come in.”

The kid steps aside to let Ahsoka in, and instructs her to take her shoes off in the hall.

“There’s slippers in the box if you really have to put something on your feet,” the kid says. “Dad’s out at the Hall of Records because somebody asked him to look some boring business stuff up, so he’s probably not gonna be back for another hour. But you can wait here and talk to me, I guess. You’re more interesting than my homework.”

“I...okay?” Ahsoka says, taking her shoes off. “And, uh, what’s your name, kid?”

“I’m Boba Fett,” the kid says, glaring at her as if expecting her to comment on that. Which, while it’s kind of weird that he’s got the same last name as that dude they cloned to make the vod’e, that feels kind of personal to ask about a stranger. Like if someone asked her about her akkul teeth. “And I’m not a kid, I’m ten years old.”

“Right. Well, I’m fourteen, so you should respect your elders.”

Boba sticks his tongue out at her. Apparently, Obi-Wan’s manners thing hasn’t rubbed off on him.

Ahsoka sits down at the dining room table and Boba goes to get her some juice, ‘because Dad says things are less awkward when people aren’t just staring at each other’, which, to be fair, does sound like something Obi-Wan would say.

“So,” Boba says, with a glass of purple juice in one hand and a large cookie in the other, “why’d you wanna talk to Dad? Did something happen?”

“Um,” Ahsoka says. When she came here, she didn’t expect to get interrogated by a tiny kid. “It’s nothing huge, I just wanted someone to talk to.”

Boba takes a bite out of his cookie. “I’m someone.”

“Yes, but I was kind of hoping to talk to an Obi-Wan-shaped someone, not a Boba-shaped one.”

Boba frowns. “But I’m really good at listening! I won’t tell anybody or anything.”

Ahsoka sips her juice. It’s very sweet. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“I’ll give you half of this cookie if you tell me,” Boba says.

Ahsoka looks at the cookie and considers it. After all, the whole point of coming to Obi-Wan’s place was to talk to someone who wouldn’t blab around the Temple--Boba’s certainly not going to do that, and she could use a cookie right now. It’s a big cookie, too, and it looks like it’s got huge chocolate chunks in it.

“Deal,” she says.

Boba breaks the cookie in half and they get into a brief argument over which half Ahsoka gets, which gets resolved when Ahsoka uses the Force to snatch the one she wants away from Boba.

“Hey, you said half a cookie, I get half a cookie,” she tells Boba as she holds her prize out of reach of Boba’s short arms. “Do you want to hear what I came to say or not?”

Boba pouts. It’s very cute. “Fine. What happened?”

“I’ve got this friend back at the Temple, her name’s Barriss,” Ahsoka says. “We’re really good friends, like best friends, right? I’ve known her almost my whole life and we really care about each other. You know how that is.”

“No, I don’t,” Boba says.

“Oh,” Ahsoka says awkwardly. “Well, when you’ve got a really good friend, you talk to them about a lot of stuff. Like, almost anything, so I was talking to her about Skyguy, that’s Master Skywalker. He’s my Master, you know what a Jedi Master is?”

“Yeah, he’s like your Jedi dad, right?” Boba asks.

Ahsoka makes a face. Skyguy is definitely not her dad. “He’s my Jedi teacher,” she says. “He teaches me stuff and takes care of me and we share a set of rooms and go on missions together.” Or they would, if they’d gone on any missions since that whole Sith kidnapping thing. “If anything, he’s like my older brother. And he’s really cool, you know? He’s like one of the best duelists in the Order and he’s super strong and he’s awesome at flying. A lot of people like him, right?”

“He sounds pretty cool,” Boba agrees.

“Yeah, he’s super cool,” Ahsoka says. “But he’s also like, you know. Not the best to talk to about everything. He’s not always around because he’s spending a lot of time with his, uh, Senator friend, and he’s sort of bad at people sometimes? So he says stuff without thinking first, and sometimes I don’t really wanna talk to someone who just says stuff. But Barriss was talking about how I’ve got to learn to trust him more because he’s my Master and everything, and like...” Ahsoka sighs. She still vividly remembers that night in the reactor core, watching Anakin try to murder Obi-Wan. She remembers his lightsaber locked against hers, bearing down with so much rage. He’s apologized about it and they’ve moved on with their lives like it didn’t happen, but it did. She remembers what his anger feels like, how much it hurt like fire through her mind. It scares her, still. “You ever know someone who accidentally hurts you? Like they hit you or something and you know they didn’t mean it, but you still flinch when they get too close?”

“Um, sort of,” Boba says. “It really sucks.”

“Yeah, it really sucks,” Ahsoka says. “But Barriss was saying that I’ve gotta get past that, and I know she doesn’t mean it like that but I’m just not ready right now. We kind of got into a big fight about it, so I came here to talk to Obi-Wan because Obi-Wan always knows what to say.”

“Oh,” Boba says, like a revelation. “Obi-Wan’s like your dad, too, then.”

“Wh--” Ahsoka makes a choking noise. “Obi-Wan isn’t my dad! He’s my friend, and he’s like, my uncle or something! He teaches me to pick locks and takes me out to dinner and helps me with homework and talks about my problems.”

“It’s okay, I don’t mind sharing,” Boba says. “You can be my sister and I’ll beat up anyone who’s mean to you.”

“I don’t need a dad. I already have Master Plo!” Ahsoka says. “And I don’t need you to beat anyone up--I’m a Padawan and I can fight for myself.”

“Okay, then do that,” Boba says with a sharp nod. “And it’s fine to have more than one dad. Obi-Wan’s my new dad because buir isn’t around anymore, and Savage and Feral are kind of like my dads, too.” He claps her on the shoulder. “As your new little brother, I think you should go to Barriss and spar with her until you’re both all super tired. And then you can both get soup together, then you’ll be friends again. If that doesn’t work, you can talk to Dad.”

“That’s...not really a solution,” Ahsoka says. “I have to talk to her at some point, too.”

Boba makes a face. “Why does everyone want to talk? Fine, whatever, you can talk to her after the soup.”

“Why soup?”

“Because soup tastes good!” Boba says, like this is the only logical answer. “I guess Dad hasn’t made you soup yet--it’s the best thing he makes and we have it every time he has to talk about things. I think he’s trying to make me like talking about things.”

Ahsoka pauses. “Obi-Wan can cook?”

“He’s my dad. Of course he can cook.” Boba looks over at her half cookie, still uneaten. “Are you gonna finish that? Or can I have it back?”

Ahsoka pulls it back protectively. “No, this is my cookie.” She bites into it. It’s soft and sweet and rich with a hint of salt and dark chocolate chunks that melt in her mouth. It’s literally the best cookie she’s ever tasted in her life. “Holy shit.”

“That’s a bad word!”

“Where did you get these cookies?” Ahsoka asks. “Obi-Wan didn’t make these, did he?”

Boba shakes his head. “Dad doesn’t like to bake things. Sometimes Mr. Organa visits, though, and he makes cookies.”

“Mr. Organa, like Senator Bail Organa of Alderaan? He comes over to Obi-Wan’s house to bake cookies?” Ahsoka says incredulously. She knew Obi-Wan was friends with Senator Organa, but there’s kind of a difference between friends and comes over to bake cookies.

“Yeah, I guess,” Boba says. “Dad told Mr. Organa he can’t keep buying furniture for the apartment, so Mr. Organa bakes treats instead when he comes over.”

Ahsoka takes another bite and briefly experiences cookie transcendence. “Senator Organa should have opened a bakery. This is insane. If I asked him for the recipe, do you think he’d give it to me?”

“We have the recipe already,” Boba says. “Mr. Organa gave it to Dad a while ago. Dad just doesn’t like baking, and I’m not allowed to use the oven without an adult around.”

Ahsoka finishes her cookie and licks chocolate off her fingers. She could go for another cookie. “I’m like 80% of an adult. I know how to use an oven. That’s close enough,” she says. “We could make more cookies now.”

Boba gets up. “Yeah! Let’s do it! I’ll go get the ingredients!”

Ahsoka follows him over to the kitchen, setting aside her thoughts of the argument and Anakin for later. All that stuff is better with fresh-baked cookies, anyways.

Inevitably, when Obi-Wan gets back home, there’s a distinctly burnt smell in the apartment and Ahsoka and Boba are both lying on the floor regretting all their life choices.

Obi-Wan looks at the two of them and sets his bag down. “Ahsoka. How many cookies did you eat and why?”

“Hey, Obi-Wan,” Ahsoka says. “It, uh, seemed like a good idea at the time. Cookies taste good.”

Obi-Wan closes his eyes and sighs deeply. “Ahsoka. We still have cookies from Bail’s last batch. There was absolutely no need to bake and eat an entire new batch.”

“Well, I know that now,” Ahsoka groans. She pushes herself up a bit. “I wanted to...to talk to you about something, actually.”

“I don’t think you’re in any state to talk about anything right now,” Obi-Wan replies. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“Um,” Ahsoka says. He’s not wrong.

“Well, if you’re going to sleep, at least you can do it in a bed.” Obi-Wan ducks down and scoops her off the floor. “We can talk when you wake up and feel a little better, okay? I’ll let Master Koon know you’re here.”

“Boba says you make soup for him,” Ahsoka murmurs. “You never told me you could cook.”

“I’ve lived on my own for over ten years. Of course I can cook,” Obi-Wan says, depositing Ahsoka on a soft bed and pulling a blanket over her. “I’ll make some soup for both of you when you wake up, and we can talk about whatever is on your mind, okay?”

“Okay,” Ahsoka says into a soft pillow that smells like tea. It’s really very comfortable. “I’m...gonna sleep now, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan pats her montrals. “Of course. Sweet dreams, dear.”

“Count. I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you in the flesh, but it really isn’t.”

Count Dooku looks up to the guest in his doorway. “Kenobi. I was told you would not come.”

“I wasn’t going to, but I heard you specifically requested my presence. It makes a man curious,” Kenobi says, clasping his hands behind his back. He’s dressed in civilian spacer clothes, quite similar to what he’d worn in their last correspondence--a synthleather jacket, dark turtleneck sweater, canvas trousers, and soft brown gloves. His hair has been pulled back and clipped up in a fashion that might, by some descriptions, be considered ‘roguish’. There’s dark circles under his eyes and a pinched look in his cheeks, like he’s suffering from some kind of illness. It’s hard to imagine this man ever being a Jedi. “I was really hoping to be asleep right now, so I hope whatever you need, it’s actually important enough to warrant an in-person meeting and not you stroking your own ego.”

“Your insubordination is fascinating,” Dooku drawls. “Do you often insult people who have the ability to end your life?”

“You must think highly of yourself,” Kenobi replies, unruffled. He gestures around the infirmary room they are sequestered in. “Do you really think that you could kill me even with your injuries, Force-suppression cuffs, and three Jedi Knights watching? From what I heard, you’re lucky to be alive at all.”

Dooku scowls. Sidious had, in his desperate ingenuity, managed to escape his cell and briefly access the Force. Obviously, it had not been enough to save the wretched man from being killed in his escape attempt, but he had spitefully used his last moments to smite Dooku’s spirit through the tenuous connection between them. Had it not been for the Jedi Temple’s swift action, Dooku would have died from it. He still might--even after death, Sidious’s power of the Dark Side is vast, and Dooku can feel it clinging to him like a horrible phage, trying to eat away at his psyche and sanity. He can’t even use the Force for fear of it turning on him--the Force suppression is just as much for his safety as everyone else’s. As it is, the Light of the Jedi Temple and the work of the Jedi Soul Healers is enough to hold it off, but the Dark Side is growing stronger, and these efforts will likely not last much longer.

“You do not look so well yourself, Kenobi,” Dooku says.

“As it turns out, I don’t feel well. I haven’t slept in over twenty-five hours, you see. Hyperspace and I don’t get along, and I’ve been busy since I landed in the Jedi hangar two hours ago,” Kenobi says. “You’ll have to forgive me if I’m a little short on patience and health at present. What did you want, Count?”

“I wanted to see the face of the man who took down a Sith Master,” Dooku says. “Looking at you, I never would have thought of it. Sithkiller Kenobi has a ring to it, I must admit.”

Kenobi sighs deeply. “Fantastic. I’m glad this couldn’t wait another ten hours. If you just wanted to gawk at me, then I’m leaving.”

“Wait,” Dooku says before Kenobi actually gets out the door. “I had a proposal.”

“Oh, this will be good,” Kenobi says under his breath. “What would you request of me, O Gracious Count Dooku?”

Dooku sighs. As refreshing as this boldness is, it really is annoying sometimes. “I would appreciate some respect, Kenobi.”

“Well, I would appreciate being unconscious right now, but we can’t all have what we want. Spit it out, Count.”

Dooku pinches the bridge of his nose. “I was impressed by your talents in taking down Sidious. Obviously, you managed to accomplish something that no one else could. Your skills are wasted here in Coruscant. I wished to offer you employment.”

Kenobi levels a flat look at him. “Employment,” he says slowly. “Just so we’re on the same page, what exactly do you think my job is?”

“A bounty hunter, according to my sources. You were well acquainted with Jango Fett, were you not?” Dooku says. “Not that he bothered to tell me so when I hired him, but I suppose it is unreasonable that he would know of your relation to me, or that he would want to disclose that he was...intimate with what was effectively my grandson.”

Which was really for the best--Dooku has less than no interest in thinking about what Kenobi did or did not do with Fett.

“You’re not my family,” Kenobi sneers. “If you wanted a doting lineage, you should have thought about that before you murdered two hundred of your own people. Even if I were a bounty hunter, why would you think I’d want to work for you?”

“I pay extremely well, and I can certainly offer you much more than you currently have,” Dooku says. “What do you mean, ‘if’?”

“Your information’s a decade out of date, Count. I stopped doing bounties a long time ago because I have a moral objection to murder for profit. An unfamiliar concept to you, I’m sure. I’ve been known to befriend murderers, but I’ve got no inclination to want to know you, much less to work for you.”

“I can make it worth your while. Serenno is a prosperous planet and much more palatable than Coruscant,” Dooku says. “Besides, I have not yet had the opportunity to establish peace treaties with the Republic. Your employment would go a long way to accelerating proceedings on my end.”

Kenobi levels a long, tired stare at him. “Really? You’re going to try and extort me over this? I thought you had more dignity than that.”

Dooku’s brows go up. “You would expect honor from a Sith?”

“I don’t know. Maul was pretty honorable, when it came down to it. I guess he was the exception and not the rule. We didn’t really have a chance to discuss Sith philosophy in depth before I killed him.” Kenobi sighs. “Look. I was serious when I said I needed to sleep, so I’ll just cut to the chase here. I helped you remove Palpatine from power, so your side of the deal is to stop all this nonsense war. It’s expensive and it’s killing innocent people that do not deserve to get pulled into your power struggle kark. Maybe you got into all of this with the best of intentions, but all I see right now is a bastard and just a generally unpleasant and selfish person. You don’t want to do peace treaties unless there’s something more in for you. Fine. I’ll give you something.”

“Oh? You have an offer?”

“I talked to Master Che about what happened to you. She didn’t say anything about your specific medical condition because of Healer confidentiality, but Palpatine hit you with the Dark Side pretty bad, from what I heard. I’m not really an expert in spiritual health, but it sounds like you might die if you leave the Temple grounds, which is why you haven’t gone back home yet, even after a full month,” Kenobi says. “The Soul Healers told me they’ve been channeling the Temple’s Force to try and purge the effects of Palpatine’s attacks, but it’s only a stopgap measure. They’re not going to be able to keep it up indefinitely--they need to stamp that stuff out soon or it’ll be too late for you.”

Dooku does not want to sit here and listen to speculations on his mortality. “Get on with it, Kenobi.”

Kenobi huffs and shoves his hands in his jacket pockets. “Well, I can’t use the Force like the Jedi do anymore, but I can channel a lot more of the Temple’s Force than anyone here. I can fill my whole soul with it, if I want to, and if you open up a path to me, it’ll flow down to you. That’s the theory, anyways.”

Dooku narrows his eyes. “You are offering to...heal me?”

“Cleanse, more like. And not a peaceful cleansing--a violent one, like with a pressure washer,” Kenobi says. “There’s records of this kind of stuff, back at the Temple of Kyber. Someone who’d been ‘cursed’ with malicious energy would purify their spirits by exposing themselves to the full force of the Whills, which I can tell you from experience is an extremely unpleasant process. Now, obviously I’m not the Whills, but the Force here in the Temple is comparably strong and I’m able to channel it directly--using me as a conduit is as close as you’re going to get.”

Dooku looks at Kenobi, reaching out to him as much as he’s able to with the light Force suppression around his wrists. Kenobi’s presence is detectable, only barely, and what little Dooku can sense is...empty. It’s like there’s an endless void within Kenobi, where any Jedi--any person--would be filled with light and life. It’s unsettling, even by Sith standards.

“You think you can cleanse the Dark Side as powerful as this?” Dooku asks.

“I’m not the one doing the cleansing, Count. All I’m doing is giving the Force a path to touch you directly--what it does with you is completely out of my control,” Kenobi says. “But I think this is only way you’ll be able to leave the Jedi Temple alive after what Palpatine did.” He holds out his hand. “Is your life worth brokering peace with the Republic?”

It is, and Kenobi knows it. Dooku somewhat reluctantly places his hand in Kenobi’s. “Very well. What happens now?”

“We start, and you hope like hell the Force thinks you’re worth saving.” Kenobi clasps Dooku’s hand and takes a deep breath. Suddenly, his presence seems to fill, growing stronger by the moment as the void inside him is replaced with what is unmistakably Light. It’s not natural. Not human.

Dooku feels a faint tremor of fear in his heart as the very air seems to grow heavy around him. He realizes, in that moment, just how desperate he really is. In the end, for all his power and machinations and pride, he is just a old man scared to die. Pathetic to be brought so low, but if Kenobi can save him, he will take that chance.

“Open yourself to me,” Kenobi murmurs, the Force still building within him like a miniature sun. “The Light can’t reach you unless you reach for it, first.”

Dooku lets himself think a quick prayer to the Force. Help me, he thinks. Please.

For a brief moment, Dooku sees a different Kenobi before him, with cropped hair and Jedi tabards, suffused with Light and determination. Jedi-Kenobi smiles, then the vision dissipates as a rushing force grabs him by the soul and drags him into the heart of the Temple’s power and blackness overtakes him.

Dooku doesn’t know what happens after that. That’s probably for the best--the sentient mind is only equipped to handle certain things, and what happens within the heart of the Force itself is probably not one of them.

He wakes blearily some time later, feeling very distinctly like he has been judged harshly and found wanting, and also beaten to hell all over. Pressure wash, indeed.

Self-examination reveals that the Dark Side from Sidious is still there, but smaller and more detached. Manageable, even by the Jedi Soul Healers. Kenobi, it seems, was not just talking.

He opens his eyes, and Kenobi is slumped in a chair beside him, sleeping upright with his cheek propped up on his hand. It looks massively uncomfortable--surely Kenobi could have found someplace more horizontal to sleep on?

As if detecting his gaze, Kenobi stirs and blinks at him. “Ah,” he says, yawning. “Count. I see you’re still alive. Congratulations.”

“Yes, apparently so,” Dooku says. He peers at Kenobi. Only half-awake, he looks even more disheveled than before, but now Dooku thinks he can see the Jedi this man had once been and could have been. There’s still Light in his soul, slowly seeping away to let Kenobi’s usual emptiness return.

“I can feel you thinking about me,” Kenobi says, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. “If you have a question, just ask.”

“Your talents are wasted here,” Dooku says. “Are you sure you won’t work for me?”

Kenobi grimaces. “Definitely not. I’m a private investigator. I don’t think I’d find a lot of work on Serenno, and also I don’t like you. Besides, Coruscant is my home.” He gets up and dusts himself off. “Well, since you’ve safely made it back, I think that means I can go. You’ll talk to Bail--Senator Organa--about peace negotiations?”

“Hm,” Dooku says. “I’ll have to wait until I can actually leave the Temple for that, but I suppose I can start drafting some terms.”

“Fantastic. I’m leaving now.”

“Kenobi. One moment,” Dooku says.

Kenobi sighs. “What now?”

“You were always going to do that, weren’t you? To try and purge the Dark Side from me--my agreement to the peace negotiations had nothing to do with it. All your frustration with having to see me in person was just theater.”

“Ah,” Kenobi says. “I mean, I was genuinely pretty upset about having to come here right after landing--I would have preferred to do it after I’d slept, but some people were worried your condition might suddenly deteriorate.”

“One would think that the preferable outcome,” Dooku replies. “What with my being, what do you call it, ‘a bastard and a generally selfish and unpleasant person’?”

“Dooku,” Kenobi says tiredly. “You used to be a Jedi Master. You know our philosophies. Nobody deserves to die, not even a bastard like you. Not even a bastard like Palpatine--it’s just that killing him was the only safe way they could find to neutralize him. If you keep up this war, if you cause more undue suffering, then the Jedi will probably solve that problem the same way they solved Palpatine--not because they want to or think you’ve crossed some event horizon where you can no longer stop being a shitty person, but because you’ve refused every other path back and in the end we have to prioritize the lives of innocents over the lives of those inciting the violence. But it’s not the Jedi way to let people die when we can help them. That’s how you pulled them into the war. That’s how you’ve gotten everyone into this mess.”

It’s really fascinating, just how idealistic Kenobi’s view of the Jedi is, despite everything. Dooku can’t remember when he used to think like that, like there was something worth fighting for in the Jedi doctrine, but it must have been a very long time ago.

Kenobi scrubs a hand over his face. “I really don’t care if you feel sorry--I just want you to stop killing people. So fix this, end the war, and you can go home and sip some wine or whatever you do when you’re a Count and a Separatist leader. Maybe you can talk to Yoda and Master Jinn while you’re here and sort out your personal problems, or don’t. I don’t care. Just don’t come bothering me.”

The Force flickers once again, and Dooku’s vision shifts to that of Jedi-Kenobi--dutiful, honorable, talented, and tired. For a moment, Dooku yearns for it--a lineage to be proud of, students to teach, a world where the Jedi can be as they were meant to be.

He does not miss the complacency and hypocrisy of the Jedi Order, but he misses the ideals and the camaraderie and the years he had called these hallowed halls his home. It is not the Jedi way to dwell on what could have been, but Dooku has not been a Jedi for a long time, and he has let himself fall into bad habits.

He blinks, and the moment is gone. Kenobi is on his way out of the door.

“Kenobi, do you ever think about what could have been, had you remained a Jedi?” Dooku asks.

Kenobi casts a dispassionate look back at him.

“No,” he says, then leaves.

It’s near to closing time when Dex hears the front door open. He stops wiping down the countertops and goes to see who it is--most of his regulars are considerate enough to not come in right before closing, but it’s not like you can control when you need a bite to eat.

He loops around to find Anakin Skywalker in the doorway, his hair loose and nearly down to the shoulders--he’s grown it out--and his face a bit flushed.

Dex waves to him. “Anakin! Haven’t seen you around these parts in a long time--you visiting from Naboo?”

Anakin waves back, sullen. “Hey, Dex. I guess so.”

“You guess? It’s not like you to be so indecisive, kid,” Dex says, patting him on the shoulder. “What do you need?”

“I don’t know,” Anakin says. “I just didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Nowhere? That can’t be right--you’ve still got the Temple, don’t you?” Dex says.

“I’m not a Jedi anymore, Dex. They don’t want me.”

Dex crosses his arms. “Now, that ain’t true. You might have left the Order, but you still lived half your life there--that means something. If you need a place to stay, they won’t turn you down. I know Qui-Gon would be thrilled to have you visit--he tells me you don’t comm enough. He gets lonely sometimes, you know?”

Anakin looks up at him, then sighs and turns away. “I don’t wanna talk to Qui-Gon.”

Okay, so it’s pretty obvious something’s gone wrong here, but Dex has known Anakin through his teenage years--and Anakin’s barely out of them anyways--so this kind of moodiness is nothing too surprising. It’s best to figure out what’s going on and go from there. “All right, that’s fine,” Dex says. “Come on, sit down and I’ll get you something to eat and drink. You’ll feel better when your stomach’s full, and we can talk about what’s eating you.”

Somewhat unhappily, Anakin lets himself be guided into a booth. Close up, it’s pretty clear he’s been crying recently and is probably not too far off from breaking out into tears again. Dex gets him a glass of water and goes to grill Anakin something he likes.

When he gets back about ten minutes later, Anakin’s got his head on the table and hasn’t drank any of his water. Dex slides over a tray of food for Anakin, then takes the seat opposite him. “Hey, now,” Dex says, “I got you something to eat. Fried tubers and a nerf burger, cooked up the way you like it. I’ll bet you haven’t eaten since mid-meal at least.”

Anakin looks up at him with kicked tooka eyes, then says, “Thanks, Dex.” He pulls over the tray and starts on the tubers, though not very enthusiastically.

Dex gives him a little while to eat, then says, “All right, kid. What’s going on with you? What’s got you so down?”

“Padmé doesn’t love me anymore,” Anakin says.

Okay. That sounds bad. “I’m sorry,” Dex says. “What happened?”

It takes a little while, but Dex manages to coax the story out of Anakin, of Senator Amidala sneaking home, the argument, and her running off with one of her former handmaidens. It sounds pretty bad, he has to admit, especially since Amidala isn’t, from his experience, that sort of a person.

“Why’d she leave?” Dex says. “Do you know?”

“I told you, she doesn’t love me anymore,” Anakin replies.

“Is that what she said? Those exact words, she doesn’t love you anymore?”

“Um,” Anakin says. He thinks about it a few moments while he takes a bite from his burger, then says, “She said...she wasn’t happy being with me.”

“I see,” Dex says. Anakin and Padmé had seemed happy with each other when they’d made their marriage public and Anakin had left the Order, but the two of them are young and they really didn’t know each other long before getting together. It’s not too surprising that they might encounter incompatibilities and fall apart, under those circumstances. “Did she say why she was unhappy?”

“Because she doesn’t love me anymore!” Anakin says.

“Love can make you happy, but it’s not usually a lack of love that makes you unhappy--if she’s unhappy, there’s usually a solid reason for it. Maybe you did something that upset her, or something about your relationship just isn’t working, or there’s something about your personality she’s having difficulty with.”

“If she loved me, then my personality wouldn’t be a problem!” Anakin retorts.

All right. Okay.

Dex takes a deep breath. This...is going to be a trial. He wishes Qui-Gon were here to have this conversation with Anakin instead, but then again, Qui-Gon probably already has, and failed to make an impact. It’s wishful thinking to hope he--a friendly acquaintance at best--can do any better, but he’s got to try. “Anakin, that’s--that’s not how that works, bud. Maybe there’s some sort of soulmates out there who love absolutely everything about each other, the good and the bad, but I’ve never met anyone like that. For normal folks like you and me, love isn’t a one-and-done deal. You gotta work for it, work to make each other happy, listen to each other, support each other, all the time.”

“I do support her! I comm her every day, I make sure to know how she’s doing and tell her I love her!”

“Okay, and how are your comms with Padmé?”

“They’re good, of course! We tell each other how much we love each other and, um,” Anakin takes another bite of his burger. “Well, she never really has much time to talk. Her job keeps her busy all the time, so there’s not much else we get to talk about.”

Dex purses his lips. “Right. Anakin, has it occurred to you that maybe Padmé doesn’t like being commed every day, especially when she’s working?”

Anakin’s mouth falls open. “What? Why wouldn’t she like that?”

“Well, she’s a busy woman and she takes her work very seriously. It’s probably hard for her to focus if you’re comming all the time, and some people just don’t like comming all that much to begin with. I know I don’t.”

“That’s not possible--if she didn’t like it, she would have told me,” Anakin says.

“Maybe,” Dex says. He’s not discounting the possibility that she did tell him at some point and he forgot. Qui-Gon has certainly complained enough times of Anakin forgetting or disregarding important instructions. “She knows it makes you happy, so maybe she let it go on because of that. But if it’s something she doesn’t enjoy, it’s something she doesn’t enjoy.”

“Then...then I’ll just make it better. I’ll make the comms better, and she’ll be happy again and--”

“Anakin,” Dex cuts in. “The solution here isn’t to make the comms better to try and make her like them, it’s to comm less. Padmé’s a strong woman--she can take care of herself. You really don’t need to comm every day.”

“But if I don’t, how will she know I love her?”

“Well, you married her, you live together, and you keep telling her,” Dex says. “I think after a year she’s gotten the idea, even if you don’t tell her directly for a few days. It’s not like you always need to check to make sure two and two still makes four.”

“But...but what if she stops loving me?” Anakin asks. “She’s just gone off with her handmaiden, who she loves--she’s never loved me like that! She’s off with Sabé and she’s going to stop loving me forever and I’ll never see her again and--”

“Woah, there, Anakin. Slow down. Take a deep breath,” Dex says.

Anakin gulps and takes a deep breath. He’s shaking a little bit.

“Here,” Dex says, handing Anakin the glass of water. “Have a drink, it’ll make you feel better.“

Anakin drinks some water and sniffs.

“Padmé told you she loves you, didn’t she?” Dex says.

Anakin nods.

“Padmé’s an honest woman, isn’t she?” Dex continues.

Anakin nods again.

“Then she’s probably telling you the truth when she says she loves you. Her loving someone else doesn’t change that. Padmé’s not the kind of person to go behind your back and cheat--she wouldn’t abuse your trust like that.”

“But--”

“No buts, Anakin. I don’t believe she would do that. She said she was taking a vacation with Sabé to think things over about your marriage--I believe that’s all that’s happening. You made vows to each other, and that means something. You’re upholding them, and you’ve got to trust that she’ll uphold them, too,” Dex says. “When you’re constantly comming and interrupting her to say how much you love her, especially when she doesn’t want it, you’re telling her you don’t trust her to take care of herself and her end of the relationship, and that’s probably part of why it’s not going so hot right now.”

Anakin frowns. “It was going good, though. Until Padmé left, everything was great.”

“It was good for you, maybe,” Dex says slowly. “But it’s not just your relationship, it’s hers, too, and if it wasn’t going good on her end, it wasn’t going good at all.”

“Why didn’t she say anything, then?” Anakin asks.

“Well, that’s something you can talk to her about, too, but chances are, she probably showed you she was unhappy before it came to this and you didn’t see it or maybe didn’t care to,” Dex says. “Take some advice from this old man, Anakin--if you want a good relationship, you have to communicate, and that means you have to listen, too. If she’s unhappy and you don’t know why, something went wrong there and that’s something that has to change if you want this to keep going.”

Anakin presses his lips together and looks down at his tray. “But what if she comes back from her...vacation and says she doesn’t want to do this anymore? She wants a divorce and she never wants to see me again?”

“Then that’s her choice and you’ve got to let her go, Anakin,” Dex says. “Otherwise you’re just going to hurt her more.”

“I...want to be with Padmé. I don’t want her to go,” Anakin says.

Yikes.

“Anakin, I’m not talking about you, I’m talking about her,” Dex says, his voice firm. “Listen to me: if Padmé decides she doesn’t want to try and fix things, if she doesn’t want to be in this relationship anymore, then the relationship is over and you’ve got to let her go. What you want doesn’t matter, because a relationship only works if both of you are in it. Qui-Gon gave you the consent talk, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, of course he did.”

“Consent isn’t just about your intimate moments, it’s about everything. You’ve got to respect that Padmé’s her own person and there’s things she wants or doesn’t want and you’ve got to listen to that, even when she tells you no. Do you understand what I’m saying?” Dex asks.

“I...yeah, I guess?” Anakin says. “But what if we have to break up?”

“Then you break up,” Dex says. “It’s not a bad thing to break up a relationship. If you’re better off without the relationship than with the relationship, then it’s good to end it. It hurts like hell, believe me, I’ve had my own romances back in the day and I know it hurts, but if you’re not compatible then that’s how it is. It’s like a nut and bolt that don’t fit--you can’t force them together or you’ll break them. I don’t want that for either of you.”

Anakin looks down and pushes his food away. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s a heaviness in the air that Dex usually associates with one of Kenobi’s fits--some kind of building of the Force like atmospheric pressure before a storm.

“You don’t know that Padmé will decide to break off the relationship. But if she does, it’s not the end of the world. You’re young and there are other people out there, Anakin, I promise,” Dex says softly.

“What if I never find anyone else?” Anakin asks.

“Anakin, you’re a whole person all on your own. You don’t need a relationship to be happy, and if you’re using your relationship to make yourself happy, then I gotta be honest: you’ve got some issues that are beyond my ability to help, and you really ought to talk to a professional who can help,” Dex says.

Anakin swipes at his eyes, sniffing. “I just don’t want to be alone.”

Dex blows out a long gust of air. “You’re not alone. Even if Padmé leaves, Qui-Gon will always love you, you’ve got people in the Temple, and of course I’ll be here if you want to talk and I’ll always be happy to get you something to eat when you need it. I’m sure there’s plenty of other people you work with who would be willing to help.”

Anakin sighs heavily. “Thanks, Dex.”

“What are you planning to do next?” Dex asks.

Anakin shrugs. “I tried to comm Rex, but I couldn’t reach him. Maybe he got a new commlink or something and never told me, so I...I came back to Coruscant,” he says. “Everything’s so different now--they did some weird stuff with the barracks and nobody lives there. I haven’t been able to find anyone.”

Dex raises a brow. It’s not exactly a secret that the overwhelming majority of the 501st has been doing very well for themselves on Alderaan for months now, and Dex knows for a fact that Rex has not gotten a new commlink code since the end of the war, which means Rex has blocked Anakin’s code. He hasn’t heard of Rex or the 501st getting into a fight with Anakin, but clearly something happened, and not anything good. That’s definitely something he has to look into.

He takes a deep breath. For now, it’s pretty clear they don’t want Anakin in their lives, and he’s got to respect that.

“All right,” Dex says. “Here’s what I suggest: finish up your meal and head to the Temple. Go visit Qui-Gon and catch up--he misses you. And then if you want to, stay the night there. I know Qui-Gon hasn’t gotten a new Padawan since you left, so he’s got the space, and he’d love to have the company. But if you don’t want to stay in the Temple, you can go rent a room for a few nights and have a good think about what’s going on with your relationship and how things can go. How does that sound?”

“My relationship is over, Dex.”

“Not yet, it isn’t. Maybe Padmé will want to break up, maybe she won’t, but you’ve got to be ready for either case, because clearly things have to change. I want you to be happy, but I want her to be happy, too,” Dex says.

“I won’t be happy if she leaves me,” Anakin says. “I love her.”

“Bud, sometimes loving someone means letting them go. If it happens, it’ll hurt, but you’ll be okay. Padmé’s not the only thing that makes you happy,” Dex says. He pushes the food tray back towards Anakin. “Try and finish what you can, and if you want, I can make you a shake for dessert and you can take that with you to the Temple. I can even make something for Qui-Gon for you to take with--he hasn’t been around here in a few weeks and I’m sure he could do with some food that doesn’t come from the Temple’s commissary. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Anakin says, picking up his half-eaten burger again. “Can you put the chocolate shavings in the shake?”

“Sure thing. I’ll go get that started now. You be good, you hear?”

“I’m not a kid, Dex,” Anakin says with his mouth half full. “I’ll be fine.”

Dex nods and heads back to the kitchen to start Qui-Gon’s favorite grilled sandwich and fried onion platter. Soon enough, the kitchen is full of the smell of good food.

He pulls out his commlink while it cooks and scrolls down to Rex’s code. Rex is on one of his monthly visits to Alderaan right now, but he’s due to return in a few days. Dex sends off a quick heads-up about Anakin’s arrival in Coruscant, then tucks the commlink back into his pocket.

What Rex decides to do with that information is up to him.

“What do you mean,” Obi-Wan says slowly over the holocomm, “you lost Boba?”

“Um,” Savage says. “The younglings were playing hide-and-seek, but nobody was able to find Boba. We were hoping he’d come back, but it’s been almost an hour now.”

Obi-Wan closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. His expression is so flat that Savage can’t tell if he’s about to start screaming or not--Obi-Wan’s never screamed before, but this could be what pushes him over the edge.

“We know he’s still in the Temple,” Savage offers. “And we have Masters looking for him right now, I just thought it was best to comm you about the situation. Was that...wrong?”

“You did the right thing, Savage. Thank you for letting me know,” Obi-Wan says softly. “Have you tried comming him yet? He should have his commlink with him at all times--at the very least you could narrow down where he is.”

“Yes, we commed him, but we weren’t able to connect,” Savage says. “Master Plo thinks he might be in the Temple’s lower levels because of that.”

Obi-Wan grimaces. “Okay. Keep looking for him. I’ll be at the Temple in twenty minutes.”

Savage does a double-take. “You’re coming to the Temple? You don’t need to do that, we’ve got everything handled, I just wanted you to know...”

“Savage, you just told me my son is lost in the Temple’s lower levels,” Obi-Wan says. “I grew up in the Temple, and the lower levels are not a good place for a youngling to be lost in, especially not a youngling who isn’t Force-sensitive. There are bad things there, and I’m not going to leave Boba alone with them.”

“But you, but the Temple--” Savage stammers.

“I don’t burst into flames if I cross the Temple’s threshold,” Obi-Wan snaps. “I’m sorry it makes you and the Jedi uncomfortable when the Force takes me, but I’ve lived with it for over a decade now with no lasting harm. If Boba really is lost in the lower levels, he might be facing something much worse than some discomfort. Go look for him. I’ll join you at the Temple in twenty minutes.”

With that, Obi-Wan cuts the transmission. Savage stares at the empty holodisk, then looks over at Master Plo behind him and says, “I guess Obi-Wan’s coming to the Temple now. Is there actually something dangerous in the Temple’s lower levels?”

Master Plo nods. “The Temple is built upon a Force Nexus. It makes the Force very powerful in the lower levels--even willful, at times. It may be comparable to how the Force acts on Dathomir.”

Savage feels himself going cold. He remembers what happens to Nightbrothers who aren’t born with enough power--what he has now learned is similar, if not the same as what the Jedi call ‘Force sensitivity’. Without the ability to defend their minds, their wills are ensnared and oftentimes, they are walked to their deaths in the swamps, sacrificed to appease the forces that guide the planet. It was a better fate than what the Nightsisters would deliver, but not by much.

“The Temple is Light, though,” Savage says. “It wouldn’t...it wouldn’t kill Boba, would it?”

“I don’t think we need to worry about young Boba being hurt by the Force Nexus so much as him finding and awakening something he’s not equipped to handle,” Master Plo says. “Since he’s not Force-sensitive, he has no way to know what is or isn’t safe.”

“That’s...not better,” Savage says. “We have to find him. Hopefully before Obi-Wan gets here.”

Master Plo nods in assent. “That would be ideal.”

They do not, unfortunately, find Boba before Obi-Wan arrives at the Temple. He meets them down in the lower levels some thirty-five minutes after the comm, holding a glow stick out for light.

“There you are,” Obi-Wan says. He’s still wearing his work clothes--he must have come directly from the Hall of Records. “I’m sorry it took so long--I had a brief argument with Master Che on my way in.”

This is unsurprising, since Master Che is the one who practically banned Obi-Wan from the Temple for health reasons in the first place. Savage supposes he should be happy Obi-Wan managed to get through that conversation quickly, because they really do need the help finding Boba.

“How did you find us?” Savage asks.

“This may surprise you, but one of my main marketable skills is finding people,” Obi-Wan says. He gestures to the ground. “I got directed to this area and then I followed your footprints. It wasn’t that hard. What progress have you all made in tracking down Boba?”

“We’ve checked the turbolift records, so we know he didn’t take any of them,” Master Plo says. “We tried scenting him, but we were only able to track him to an area back near the old archives--after that, the air currents get too turbulent for us to track him further.”

“He probably did that on purpose,” Obi-Wan says. “Losing a trail was probably one of the first survival skills Jango taught him and we all know how competitive Boba can get. Have you checked the ventilation shafts?”

Master Plo nods. “There’s no disturbances from the last few hours on any of the monitors, so he certainly didn’t go through them.”

“Great. Have you checked the Temple’s old ductwork, too?” Obi-Wan asks.

Master Plo pauses. “The...old ductwork?”

“The shaft that runs down from crawl space outside the Room of a Thousand Fountains. I don’t actually know if it’s ductwork, I just kind of assumed it was, because it connects to a lot of the gardens,” Obi-Wan says.

Savage feels a mild sense of alarm coming off of Master Plo. “Obi-Wan,” Master Plo says, “are you telling me you went into the lower levels when you were younger?”

“Of course I didn’t, I was scared of ghosts,” Obi-Wan says. “But I know some of the shafts go down deeper into the Temple--Boba wouldn’t have known not to go down them.”

“Who knows about these, ah, old ducts?” Master Plo asks.

Obi-Wan shrugs. “My friends and I used to hide in them when we were initiates, so Bant might know--she was small enough to get into a lot of the secret passages. You could try asking her.”

“I will do that,” Master Plo says, pulling out his commlink. “Hm. No transmission. I’ll need to move back towards the turbolifts. Will you two be okay? I’ll send another Master to accompany you.”

Obi-Wan nods. “We won’t wander off. I just need to see what we’ve already found.” He turns towards Savage. “You said Boba was definitely in one of the old archive areas? Can you take me there?”

Savage obligingly leads Obi-Wan back through the dimly lit halls. Parts of it have collapsed entirely under the weight of what was built above, which doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence in the rest of the structure. It’s an agonizingly slow journey--the Temple’s lower levels are cold and not always clean or safe, with dust and bits of scattered debris everywhere. There’s a strange push-pull feeling in the Force, like the heartbeat of a living thing that Savage can’t get out of his head.

He had no idea all this stuff was down here--he thinks he’d be happier if he’d never learned about it.

“Take a deep breath,” Obi-Wan says, setting a hand on his back. “The Force isn’t going to hurt you--it’s just curious, I think.”

“You feel it, don’t you?” Savage asks him.

“Not like you do, but I can tell it’s there,” Obi-Wan says. “It’s a little Dark down here--I’m really not surprised, with all the ghost stories.”

That must be why it feels a bit like Dathomir. Just a little bit too sharp and too active, like there’s a predator lurking in the shadows.

“Aren’t you scared?” Savage asks. “Why aren’t you scared?”

Obi-Wan grimaces. “Well, I’m certainly not having fun. I don’t like places that feel like they’re watching me. I’m just better at hiding it. Is this the archive you were talking about?”

He goes through a wide archway into what is unmistakably an old archive--rows and rows of empty datapad racks line the walls while a few broken datapads are scattered on the floor. Master Nu would not approve of the way this archive had been treated.

“Oh, Boba definitely passed through here,” Obi-Wan says.

“You can tell?” Savage asks.

“There’s a way places like this get, when nobody’s been around for a long time,” Obi-Wan replies, making his way between the shelves. “It’s like dirt settling at the bottom of a stagnant pool--completely still. When someone comes through, it kicks things around and makes turbulence. Especially when it’s someone who doesn’t know how to shield, like Boba. People who are properly Force-sensitive can’t feel that kind of turbulence very well. It’s similar to how being under a bright light makes you more blind in the darkness--acclimatization, or something,” He pauses at one of the shelves, then tucks his glow stick behind his ear and glances back to Savage. “Can you lift me up? I want to see what’s on top of this shelf and I’m not sure if it’ll support my weight.”

Savage ducks down and locks his fingers together to make a step up for Obi-Wan. “Do you see anything?”

“Yeah, there’s footprints. This is Boba’s tread,” Obi-Wan says. He holds up his glow stick. “Count on a ten-year-old to go climbing on top of these shelves. Honestly. I can see where he went--it looks like he hopped out the dividing wall window.”

Obi-Wan hops down and weaves through the shelves back to where Boba had left the archive and into what may have been a study room once upon a time. Sure enough, there’s a scuff on the outer edge of the sill where a foot might have disturbed the dust. Nobody would have seen it if they hadn’t known to look.

Without warning, Obi-Wan vaults the sill and continues deeper through the level.

“Obi-Wan?” Savage says. “Where are you going?”

“I’m following Boba’s trail,” Obi-Wan says.

Savage looks back to the archive’s entrance, then back to Obi-Wan. “I don’t think we should go further into the level alone. It’s dangerous--we could get lost, too.”

Obi-Wan pauses, then glances back and rubs his chin. “I guess you’ve got a point. We should at least leave markers so the Jedi can find us. And so we can retrace our steps. Give me a second, I’ve got a holotagger somewhere in here.” He fishes out some kind of small device from his bag, dials something into it, then taps it on the sill--a bright blue glowing mark appears under it, pointing down Boba’s trail. “There, we can go now.”

“I didn’t mean we should leave marks, I meant we shouldn’t go in alone,” Savage insists. “We said we wouldn’t wander off, and there’s another Jedi coming to search with us.”

“Yes, but Master Koon has to get back to the turbolifts, hail a Jedi, and wait for the Jedi to arrive here--that could take at least half an hour, depending on who’s available. Besides, we’re not wandering, we’re purposefully following Boba’s trail--we’re going to get the exact same amount of lost with or without a Jedi helping, and it’s not like there’s murderers or monsters lying in wait down here,” Obi-Wan says reasonably. “I’ve got enough awareness of the Force to know what not to touch, and with the tags, the Jedi can catch up to us easily enough. You can wait if you want, but I’m going after Boba.”

Obi-Wan turns back down the hallway and Savage experiences brief conflict--he really doesn’t want to go deeper into the Temple without backup, but he also doesn’t want to let Obi-Wan and Boba face whatever is down there alone. He swallows and musters his resolve, then hops the window and follows Obi-Wan. If some kind of ghost or Dark creature shows up, he’s not sure what he’d be able to do against it, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t do something.

Savage follows Obi-Wan down the ancient corridors. It really looks like Boba had gotten himself well and truly lost down here, doubling back in multiple places as he hit dead ends.

“They really should put some exit signs down here,” Obi-Wan says, about twenty minutes into their search. There’s still no signs of Boba’s current location or the Jedi who was supposed to catch up with them. “Boba can’t possibly be the first youngling to get lost in the lower levels like this. Or person in general--I’m sure adults would appreciate some exit signs, too.”

Privately, Savage doesn’t think the exit signs would help much, even if they did put them up--everything’s so labyrinthine that he’d be hard pressed to find his way out even with the guidance. “Do you have any idea where we are?” he asks.

“I’ve got a pretty good idea. Look,” Obi-Wan says, holding up his glow stick to an open doorway. The room beyond has some ruined desks and other rubble. “Looks like an old lecture hall, doesn’t it?”

It kind of does, if Savage squints. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“The hallways down here are very similarly arranged to the ones on the main level. It’s not a perfect transposition, but up there, this would be the Masters’ presentation hall, if you’ve ever been there,” Obi-Wan replies, continuing down the corridor again.

“How could you possibly tell that?” Savage asks.

“Well, I did grow up in this Temple, and I did a lot of exploring in that time. It’s not like anything’s really changed since then,” Obi-Wan says. “Even after all these years, I know my way around. Chances are, this was the main Temple level back in the High Republic era, or maybe even further back than that, judging by the art style. I’m guessing something happened to collapse the lower levels, or sink the ones they already had, and the Jedi had to rebuild on top. Not an uncommon occurrence in Coruscant, and Jedi architecture isn’t immune to it.”

The idea of the entire Jedi Temple experiencing some kind of massive collapse is one that makes Savage queasy. Especially when they’re currently walking down those allegedly collapsed tunnels right now.

“Don’t worry, I don’t think another collapse is imminent,” Obi-Wan says, patting Savage on the shoulder and still sounding not nearly grim enough for the situation. “People have developed much better weight-bearing materials and structures since those times and have gotten a lot better at figuring out how to keep tiered cities from falling in on themselves. As long as we don’t do anything drastic like blow something up, we’ll be safe.”

“You’re making me worried we’ll blow something up,” Savage says.

“Well, fortunately for you, I did not bring any bombs,” Obi-Wan replies. “And the Jedi Temple is not known for storing explosives, so I think we’re safe in that regard.” He glances up towards another archway. “I think Boba might be here.”

“What’s here?” Savage asks.

“Well, on the main levels, it’s one of the meditation gardens,” Obi-Wan says, stepping through the archway and into a large open space--or what would be a large open space if half of it hadn’t caved in. “Back when this was in use, I believe this would have been a prayer hall.”

Savage squints. Underneath the rubble is a squat building with an intricately decorated (if faded) facade. The door is wide open, with footprints leading in but not out. He steps up to enter, but Obi-Wan pulls him back.

“Not so fast,” Obi-Wan says, looking around the area. He ducks down by a small rectangular structure and pulls the lid off--there’s a fountain and basin of water inside. “Over here. Come wash your hands.”

“What?” Savage says.

“Wash your hands before going in.” Obi-Wan stabs his glow stick into his hair bun and tugs his gloves off, then washes his hands in what must be extremely stagnant water. He doesn’t seem to mind getting his mechanical hand wet in what could be hundreds-years-old water, though Savage supposes a mechanical hand that couldn’t get wet in this day and age would be pretty kriffing sad. Obi-Wan steps aside. “Here.”

Savage washes his hands in the basin. The water feels and looks and smells clean, surprisingly, and it does feel nice to get the dirt off his hands. Still, it’s a weird thing to do under these circumstances. “Why am I doing this?”

“We’re entering a house of worship,” Obi-Wan says. “You’re expected to cleanse yourself to, at minimum, show the proper respect. If they protected the fountain this well, it’s probably a very important step.”

Savage doesn’t really get it--they’d never had anything like this back in the Nightbrother villages--but he at least understands the concept of showing respect to a powerful and unknowable force. He certainly does not want to be the reason they get smote by any gods. He shakes his hands dry as Obi-Wan covers the fountain again, then the two of them enter the darkened hall.

As they cross the threshold, Savage immediately feels the Force shift. What had been a vague feeling of being watched suddenly becomes razor-sharp, and there’s a heaviness in the atmosphere that makes it hard to breathe.

There’s a feeling of something rushing through them, and Obi-Wan crumples to the ground as if struck.

Savage startles. “Obi-Wan!”

Obi-Wan doubles over on the floor, eyes unfocused and expression pained. There’s unmistakably something other in the Force moving through him as he gasps for breath. The Force--or whatever Force construct inhabits this temple--is trying to flood him and take him over, but he’s fighting it to stay conscious with a desperation Savage has never felt in him.

“Obi-Wan,” Savage says. “Obi-Wan, stay with me!”

“Heretic,” rasps out of Obi-Wan’s throat, and his words resonate in the Force so that they echo in Savage’s mind. “You dare defile...this sacred place with the blood of innocents.”

“Let him go!” Savage shouts at the thing possessing Obi-Wan. “Get out of him!”

Obi-Wan lets out a long hiss, his chest heaving as he tries to breathe. Sightless eyes move up to Savage, almost seeming to glow in the dim green light of their glow stick. “Why...do you care? This...creature...murdered your...brother.”

Savage clenches his jaw. He knows Obi-Wan killed Maul. He knows. There had been a moment when Obi-Wan had arrived at Dathomir, between understanding Obi-Wan’s hand in Maul’s fate and Maul’s final wishes, where Savage had wanted so badly to destroy Obi-Wan the way he had killed Maul.

“Why did you bring him here?” he’d demanded, throwing Obi-Wan to the ground. “You had to know we would kill you for this.”

“He asked me to,” Obi-Wan had said. “He wanted to be laid to rest by his brothers. That means something.”

Savage had seized him by the throat, snarling. “You murdered him!”

“I did,” Obi-Wan had wheezed. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

He was. He said it, he meant it, he believed it with such a sorrow that even in so much anger, Savage couldn’t deny it. For that, Savage had let him go.

Maul wasn’t the name he’d known his brother by, but it was the only name he had anymore, and the one that had been used at his funeral. Obi-Wan had helped to bury him and paid his respects and explained everything he could about the brother Savage hadn’t had the opportunity to know and now never would. It was a long conversation involving the Sith, an intergalactic war, and a Nightbrother who had never been allowed a family.

Savage doesn’t know when he forgave Obi-Wan. Maybe it was when Obi-Wan sat next to Feral at the funeral and comforted him. Maybe it was at Jedha, learning about the Force in a way that wouldn’t hurt them. Maybe it was when he had opened his home to them on Coruscant, because he had wanted to help and it was what he could give. Maybe it really was back at the very start, when he was sorry for a death he wasn’t strong or skilled or charismatic enough to prevent, and it was worth something.

Obi-Wan had cared when he didn’t have to and nobody else had. In the end, that was all. That was everything.

The creature inhabiting Obi-Wan writhes, pulling Obi-Wan’s body to its feet. He’s loose and unbalanced, too reminiscent of the last time he’d been taken over by the Force, but he’s still breathing and Savage can feel the Force churning through him. He’s still fighting it. “This creature is a killer of innocents. He has...a betrayer’s heart. He...has left every family he has ever...known. He will destroy...all of you.”

“I don’t think he will,” Savage says. “I trust him.”

The creature snarls. “He will never love you.”

It lunges at Savage, swinging wildly, and Savage grabs Obi-Wan, pulling him in and wrapping his arms tight in a crushing hug, immobilizing him. “You’re wrong,” Savage says softly. “Obi-Wan loves so much it’s in everything he does. You could never fool me otherwise.”

Obi-Wan shudders in his arms, hissing in pain, and there’s something that feels like a violent snap in the Force. Obi-Wan makes a choking noise, gasping against Savage’s chest, then murmurs something indecipherable.

Savage loosens his grip slightly. “Obi-Wan?”

“--Boba,” Obi-Wan rasps, all himself again. He looks up, clinging to Savage’s shirt. “I saw--where he is. There’s an altar near the back.”

“What?” Savage asks.

“He felt like someone was chasing him, and he tried to hide there. He opened something on--on accident and let the spirit out,” Obi-Wan says, his eyes half-closed. “I think the spirit tricked him here.”

“The spirit? What happened to it?”

Obi-Wan staggers out of Savage’s grip, pulling him towards the back of the hall. “I...don’t know. I forced it out, I think. It’s probably not dead, but I don’t think it’ll cause any more trouble while we’re here.”

The two of them make their way back to the altar and Obi-Wan kneels down to peek behind the altar where Boba is shivering with his knees hugged tight to his chest.

“Boba,” Obi-Wan says. “Boba, are you okay?”

Slowly, Boba looks up and over. His eyes widen. “Obi-Wan? Savage?”

“Yeah,” Savage says. “It’s us. We came looking for you.”

Tears well up in Boba’s eyes and he flings himself at Obi-Wan, knocking them both to the ground. “I didn’t mean to get lost! I just thought it would be cool to climb down one of the shafts and I didn’t know where I was so I went down the halls trying to find my way out but I was so scared and--”

Obi-Wan pulls Boba into a tight hug. “Hey, it’s okay, Boba. We’re here now. You’re not lost anymore. Everything’s going to be all right.”

“Promise?” Boba sniffs.

“Yeah, I promise,” Obi-Wan says, rubbing Boba’s back. “We’ve got some more people who are coming to help. Everything’s okay now.”

The three of them are exhausted, but at least have the presence of mind to get out of the obviously haunted building. Obi-Wan just about collapses against a massive chunk of rubble and settles down on the floor with Boba fast asleep in his lap. It’s really no surprise the kid’s been knocked cold--he’s had a rough day.

Obi-Wan gently runs his fingers through Boba’s hair and says to Savage, “The spirit didn’t lie, you know.”

“Hm?” Savage says.

“I’ve killed innocents. I’m not loyal and I’ve betrayed people who trusted me. I really have left everyone who’s ever cared about me,” Obi-Wan says softly. “Chances are, I’ll end up hurting you and Feral and Boba because if I think there’s something that’s worth that, I’ll do it. That’s just the kind of person I am.”

Savage settles on the floor next to Obi-Wan. The floor is dirty and caked in dust, but at least it’s cool and dry. “I don’t think you’ll leave us, Obi-Wan.”

“And why not?” Obi-Wan says. “I’ve got a responsibility to raise Boba and I’ve got a debt to you and your brother for what I did, but those duties won’t last forever. You’ll be ready to move on and so will I.”

“I...guess that’s okay, if that’s what you want,” Savage says. “But I don’t think you’ll leave us, because we won’t ask you to leave. We’re a family now, Obi-Wan. I think you’re stuck with us.”

Obi-Wan pauses, pressing Boba closer to his chest. “...I guess we kind of are, aren’t we? I don’t know how I feel about that. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a family.”

Savage takes a deep breath. He’ll never be able to get back Maul after the Sith took him away, but he won’t let Obi-Wan disappear after all they’ve been through. He slings his arm around Obi-Wan’s shoulder and pulls him close. “That’s okay. We’ll figure it out together.”

By the time the Jedi catch up to them, the three of them are all asleep against each other.

Kix waits for Rex’s response, but Rex seems to be gone for real now, like the filthy deserter he is. It must be so nice, to be out on Alderaan and see the nice mountains and be around so many brothers and play strip sabacc and gossip with the queen. They even have an honest-to-goodness clone-run medcenter over there now, and Kix would know--Pip’s been insufferable about it in the medic chat for weeks.

Kix sighs and closes out of the chat window, then peeks out the front blinds. Skywalker’s still out there, milling around outside their front door. Apparently, he’s got nothing better to do than to bother a bunch of clones he’d left behind months ago. What’s changed? What’s new? Why now?

Whatever it is, it’s probably nothing good.

It’s tempting to take Rex’s advice and simply ignore Skywalker. After all, this isn’t a conversation he wants to have on his day off and he’s not the person Skywalker wants to see anyways. If he goes out there and talks to Skywalker, there’s no guarantee Skywalker won’t just come back at a later date, so what’s the point?

Well, the threat of Jesse committing homicide on the doorstep is very real, unfortunately, and Kix is at least trying to get their deposit back at the end of the lease. A thankless and probably hopeless task to be sure, but it means he can’t leave Skywalker out there.

Kix goes to brew himself a bracing cup of caf. He can afford to stall--Jesse won’t be back for another six hours, and he deserves the time to prepare himself for whatever nonsense is incoming. Maybe it’s petty to make Skywalker wait, but it’s been six months. Turnabout is fair play.

He stacks a caf dripper and filter on top of a mug and gets out the nice stuff, the stuff Rex’s boyfriend had brought over a few months back that he’s not supposed to drink. The smell hits him full in the face as he measures it out, rich with toasty and slightly sweet undertones. It’s parsecs beyond anything he ever gets from the university medcenter’s break room and way too nice of a drink for Rex, who likes the simpler things--it’s why he hasn’t finished the bag after all this time, and yet the selfish bastard refuses to share because Kenobi got it for him.

Well, Kix thinks as he pours boiling water over the grounds, what’s Rex gonna do about it? Stop him from having and appreciating a good cup of caf? He’s in Alderaan eating cookies with the queen and gossiping about his boyfriend. He can afford to give his beleaguered tired brother a couple cups of decent caf.

He watches black liquid drip down through the filter and tries to gather his thoughts. Tries, because in the end, he doesn’t have all that many. He’s not angry at Skywalker the way Jesse is. He’s not even bitter about being left behind or upset about not getting so much as a goodbye.

You don’t say goodbye to a blaster before you throw it away, after all.

His caf filters all the way through, and Kix sets the dripper aside to take a sip. It’s the best caf he’s had since the last time he stole Rex’s caf--he really should ask Rex where his boyfriend got it. He lets himself enjoy it for a minute or two, then goes to face the music.

He pulls open the door and Skywalker is there, tall as ever. His hair’s longer now, and he’s not wearing Jedi robes anymore for obvious reasons. He looks like he’s had a few long nights, but that’s really not Kix’s problem right now.

“Skywalker,” Kix says.

Skywalker does a bit of a double-take, then says, “Kix.”

So Skywalker remembers his name. That’s a good start. “What do you want?”

“I...I wanted to talk?”

“Rex isn’t here,” Kix says. “He doesn’t want to talk to you, and frankly, neither do I.”

Skywalker frowns. “You--what?”

Kix takes a long sip from his caf. “Did I stutter? I don’t want to talk to you. Get out of here.”

“Kix, you can’t just kick me out, I came out all this way just to--to see how you’re doing, and--”

“Then you should’ve called ahead,” Kix says. “Skywalker, if you’ve got something to say, say it now. This is the first day off I’ve had in three weeks and I’m not spending it talking to you.”

Skywalker makes a few abortive stammering noises, then says, “I don’t get it. Why are you mad at me? I didn’t--I didn’t do anything!”

“Why do you think I’m mad at you?”

“Of course you’re mad! You’re kicking me out and I haven’t even said anything!”

“I’m mad because I don’t want to talk? Is that how it works?” Kix takes another sip of his caf. “Were you mad when you stopped talking to anyone in the 501st?”

“I--” Skywalker grimaces. “Is that what this is about? You’re upset because I was gone?”

“You weren’t gone, Skywalker. You left.”

“What is this? I’m not allowed to have my own life? The Jedi weren’t right for me! I had to leave, do things on my own--it was important, Kix. You get that, don’t you?” Skywalker says. “But you’re still important to me, too. We’ve been through a lot together. You’re my--you’re my men.”

“We were,” Kix says. “But we’re not yours anymore. We own ourselves. We’re people, Skywalker, and you won’t take that from us again.”

“Again? What--Kix, of course you’re people, you’ve always been people! You chose your own names and fought and died alongside each other--what are you even saying?” Skywalker says, his eyes wide. “I’d never take that from you, I’m not some kind of slaver. I care about you--all of you.”

“Yeah?” Kix says. “Is that why you haven’t visited the 501st once since the war ended? Is that why you left Rex alone when he needed a friend to get him through his surgery and finding a new place to be? Is that why you’re skulking around on my doorstep even though I’ve told you to leave?”

“Kix, look, I’m sorry, I just--I was going through things, maybe I should have done things differently, but--”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” Kix says. “You got us out of your life when you left six months back, and it doesn’t really matter if you got rid of us like people or like things.”

“You’re not things!” Anakin says. “Why would you say all this? You’re people, you always have been!”

Kix closes his eyes and sighs deeply.

The fact is, they’re clones. Biological hardware, biological software--either of which could be wiped and replaced at the Kaminoans’ say-so. They’re military equipment, just like mass-produced blasters, functionally interchangeable and equally disposable. Decommissioning and reconditioning are just medical procedures, and Kix knows every step of restoring a clone to factory standard. It’s not even that hard--the process has been optimized over so many generations of trial and error, and it’s simple to identify the broken parts, replace them, and put everything back together. They’re biological machines, and repaired in just under a tenday--the miracle of modern science. He’s done it several times since starting medical track. Every clone medic has.

Kix and every single one of his brothers know they’re not machines. They’re not things, they’re living creatures with thoughts and feelings. They love and hurt and cry and laugh and none of it mattered at all because if the person who holds your life in their hands believes you are a thing, you will die like a thing.

When Kix was in the war, he thought Skywalker had made him and the 501st people--flesh and blood and soul, not just military hardware. He’d talked to them, after all, and listened to what they had to say. He’d been there and made jokes and helped them run the Resolute, slotting in as easily as any brother could. He’d commanded them the best he could and mourned when they died, and that was all Kix could really ask for. It was nice, to be a person.

But then the war ended, and Skywalker left. It hurt then, but not as much as it hurt when they went out into the wider world and found out what it really meant to be people. To have people listen to them talk about things they cared about. To have people want to spend time with them even though they could do anything else. To be liked not for their skills with a blaster but for the small things they’d learned for themselves, the small niches they’d carved for themselves. To not be treated like a tool.

Out in the galaxy, there were so many people who, given the chance, could look at a face that was grown in a tube, one that was identical to that of a dead man’s and hundreds of thousands of other clones, and still see a person.

Kix opens his eyes and looks Skywalker in the face. “A part-time person isn’t a person, Skywalker. We’re not people only when it’s convenient for you. You didn’t want us when you had no more use for us, and that’s fine--we did good work when we had to, like we were built to. The war’s over and we’ve had enough time to think and make our own choices, so we decided we didn’t want you anymore, either.” He steps back into the apartment. “Don’t come back here. Rex doesn’t want to talk, and a lot of the others are even less happy about you than I am.”

“Wait!” Skywalker says, shoving his hand in the doorway before Kix can close it. “You can’t just end it like this--there’s got to be some way to fix this, what do I need to do--”

Kix sighs. He’s not angry at Skywalker the same way he’s not angry at the Kaminoans, the same way he’s not angry at the ocean storms or blaster fire or the droid armies. It’s not a kind of violence he can change--only reduce the harm of and get away from when he can. He only has so much energy, and he has to spend it on what’s important--his brothers and his work.

He heard Skywalker’s announcement of his marriage and his renouncing the Jedi Order as loveless, oppressive, and hypocritical. He was there when Rex got his chip taken out, and the only non-clones in the recovery room were his boyfriend and the Commander. He’s spoken to brothers from other battalions and seen how much their Generals cared, and still care. He’s visited the 501 District on Alderaan and seen how everything still goes deathly quiet when Skywalker’s name gets mentioned.

He’s not angry, but he certainly feels something. Resentment, maybe, or just plain tired.

“You hurt my brothers,” Kix says. “If you want to fix anything, start there.”

He’s a medic. He knows not everything can be fixed.

Kix shuts the door and goes to make another cup of caf.

“Master Plo, you wanted to see me?”

Plo looks up from his spot by the meditation pools to Ahsoka standing in the garden’s entrance and gestures for her to sit by him. She does so, sitting with her legs over the edge of the pool so that the water laps at her bare feet and ankles. She looks well today--healthy skin tone and bright eyes. She’s doing much better since she was pulled from the war front due to Anakin’s incident, but that’s no surprise at all. She really shouldn’t have been out there to begin with. None of their Padawans should.

At least with Dooku reaching out for peace talks, unnecessarily long-winded and with unreasonable demands that will need to be negotiated down notwithstanding, the end is in sight. There are still Knights and Masters out on the war front, but almost all Masters with Padawans have been able to safely return to the Temple.

There have been too many dead in the last few months of this war, but at least no more will fall. That is something to be thankful for.

Plo clears his throat. “How are you today, ‘Soka?”

Ahsoka looks out over the bright sunset-colored fish swimming under the clear waters of the pool and says, “I’m good, Master Plo. I was studying for astronav before I came here. I’ve got an evaluation coming up in a few days, so, you know.” She shrugs. “Gotta study.”

“Yes, it’s important to keep up your studies,” Plo tells her. “I have the greatest confidence that you will do well.”

Ahsoka bows her head. “Thanks, Master Plo. It shouldn’t be too hard--I mean, I’ve got plenty of experience with that stuff now. Skyguy and Rex showed me how to do the course-plotting stuff and it was a lot easier than it sounded when they talked about it in class. I think I’ll be fine.”

“You will,” Plo says. “Other than your upcoming evaluation, how are things? I heard your sessions with the Mind Healers were going well.”

“Yeah,” Ahsoka replies. “Things are going good with that, too. Meditation hasn’t hurt at all for the last few weeks--Healer Puri just want to do a few more sessions to make sure everything’s really okay, but other than that, she says I won’t need any more therapy sessions unless I want to.”

Plo nods slowly. He doesn’t know everything that happened in that undercity factory two months ago, but Captain Rex’s report indicated that Ahsoka had been forced to pit her lightsaber against Anakin’s, and that she had sustained significant psychic damage in the process. It had been difficult for her to reach for the Force at all in the weeks immediately following the encounter, even with extensive sessions with the Mind Healers. No doubt, Anakin’s strength in the Force and direct connection to her through their training bond had left her especially vulnerable in such a stressful situation.

It’s good that things have improved.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Plo replies. “And how are things between you and Anakin now?”

“Um, they’re okay.” Ahsoka fidgets a bit. “He’s, well, Skyguy. He wants to be out doing missions, so he’s kind of frustrated about being grounded.”

“I see,” Plo says. “Ahsoka, I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but Anakin isn’t just grounded because of his incident. Three days ago, he made a formal petition to the Council to resign from the Order.”

It wasn’t exactly a surprise--it’s been clear for a while now that Anakin does not find the Jedi lifestyle especially fulfilling, his skills with a lightsaber and piloting notwithstanding. It’s not common, but it certainly happens with a non-negligible number of older Padawans and younger Knights--realizing that the Jedi Order is not right for them, whether for ideological reasons or for a desire to build a family or any other need that compromises their ability to act impartially as a Jedi Knight must. There’s nothing wrong with that, and for those young Jedi, Service Corps or civilian life are often better suited to their needs. Plo knows that the Mind Healers working with Anakin had brought up the possibility of pursuing a different occupation and he’d been fairly receptive to it.

Still, it probably had not been necessary for Anakin to burst into the Council Chamber as he had--it’s certainly not the most disruptive thing he (or Qui-Gon, for that matter) had ever done, but it would have been nice if he’d sent a note ahead. With how willful Anakin could be sometimes, perhaps they should be relieved he told them about his resignation at all.

Ahsoka sags a little. “Yeah, I know. He’s been thinking about it for a while, ever since that whole kidnapping thing, but I had him talk to Obi-Wan about it a few weeks ago and I think it really made him think about it. I guess he really did want to leave, after all.”

“Anakin spoke to Obi-Wan?” Plo says. “I was under the impression they didn’t like each other very much.”

“Well, Obi-Wan doesn’t like Anakin at all,” Ahsoka says. “He’s got a thing about manners and Skyguy doesn’t, so...” She shrugs. “You can guess they don’t really get along. But Obi-Wan doesn’t really try to make things difficult just because he doesn’t like someone--he says he, uh, dislikes too many people and causing a fuss about it without a good reason is exhausting. So they managed to discuss things without too much trouble.”

Plo does recall seeing multiple testimonies to Obi-Wan’s professionalism, so that makes sense. After all, Obi-Wan had helped Anakin at great personal risk, even vocally disliking him as he did. A conversation was hardly anything in comparison.

“Has Anakin spoken to you about his plans to leave the Order?” Plo asks. “More specifically, the logistics of when he will leave the Temple, and who will manage your education as a Jedi?”

“Um,” Ahsoka says, “sort of? He says he’s got someplace outside the Temple already available for him to live downtown, but he has to take care of some stuff before he goes. He’s waiting for the right time, whatever that means. In the meantime, he’s been packing up some of his stuff, but not super fast. I don’t think he’s going to leave for another month at least.”

It’s news to Plo that Anakin already has lodgings outside the Temple prepared--last they’d checked, Anakin had not made any major purchases from his Temple-provided expense account, and certainly not anything that would indicate paying for rent in a downtown apartment. It wouldn’t be so strange if he were returning to his birth family, as some Jedi do, but Anakin has been vocal about his distaste for Tatooine and he has no other known family. So this either means Anakin has a personal expense account independent of the Temple, as some Jedi do, and has been doing significant extracurricular work to get the money to rent an apartment, or he has some kind of benefactor they don’t know about, which is a deeply troubling thought.

Plo makes a mental note to bring up the subject with Anakin more directly at a later date. If he truly wants to leave the Order, they will certainly release him from his vows, but they will have to make sure he doesn’t fall prey to unscrupulous individuals in such a vulnerable time. Anakin has already been deeply influenced by a Sith Lord once--they will not allow it to happen again.

“How do you feel about Anakin leaving the Order?” Plo asks. “Has this time been difficult for you?”

“I...” Ahsoka sighs. “I don’t know. I mean, I’ll miss him--I kind of already do. We barely ever see each other these days, since he’s got all his Mind Healer sessions and then when he’s out of them he leaves and goes downtown. It’s just so weird that he’s leaving, and I’m sad about it because we had a lot of good times together, but at the same time...I’m also kind of happy about it? Like, that sounds terrible, but I think it’ll be easier if I don’t have to see him anymore. At least for a little while.”

“Has he hurt you since his incident?”

“No! No, Master Plo, he’d never--” Ahsoka grimaces. “Well, I mean. No. He hasn’t hurt me. He’s the way he was before all that stuff happened, but now sometimes he’ll raise his voice or I’ll feel that anger, and I’m scared he’ll do something. I know he won’t--it wasn’t his fault he attacked me back at the factory--but it was still him. Things are getting better, but...I don’t really feel safe with him all the time.”

Plo scoots closer to Ahsoka and pulls her to his side. She leans into it, tucking her montrals just under his arm. “I’m sorry, Ahsoka.”

“I’ll be okay, Master Plo,” Ahsoka says. “Skyguy’s not around most of the time anyways, and I’ve been staying with Barriss and Master Unduli a lot. Things have been good with that.”

“Still, you shouldn’t have to be scared in your own home like that. Have you spoken to the Mind Healers about these feelings?”

Ahsoka grunts into his side. Not really a yes, not really a no.

“It might help to speak to them about it,” Plo says. “Or if you don’t want to speak to them, someone else you trust would also be good. I will always be available if you need someone to talk to.”

“That’s okay,” Ahsoka says. “I’ll...I’ll talk to someone, I guess. It’s just...hard. He’s my Master, you know? And he isn’t doing anything wrong, he’s just...being himself. I shouldn’t be scared because of that.”

Plo shakes his head. “We can’t control what we’re scared of. But we can examine those fears and learn to deal with them. I know it’s hard, but it will help in the long run.”

Ahsoka’s fingers curl into his robe. “Yes, Master Plo.”

“Very good. Do you have any ideas about what will happen in your future once Anakin leaves, ‘Soka?” Plo asks.

“I don’t know,” Ahsoka says. “Anakin says Master Jinn would be happy to take me, but I don’t...I don’t trust Master Jinn. Not after what he did to Obi-Wan.”

“I see,” Plo says. “What did Obi-Wan say happened between him and Master Jinn?”

Ahsoka bumps her forehead into his side. “That’s kind of personal. I don’t know if Obi-Wan would want me to tell you about that.”

Plo hums to himself thoughtfully. From what Master Che had reported, Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon had some significant bad blood between them. Not just for their separation at Melida/Daan, but for significant friction between them even before then. She hadn’t reported the exact nature of the conflict out of respect for Obi-Wan’s privacy, but...

Nobody went to rescue Obi-Wan from his war, and he believed, without question, that everyone in the Temple had abandoned him--to the point that even after the war was over, he refused to contact the Temple for any sort of assistance, believing there was no hope of receiving it. That said enough on its own.

“Well,” Plo says, “I agree that you and Qui-Gon are not well-suited to each other. He may be deeply rooted in the Living Force and one of the best diplomats in the Order and among our best duelists, but he is...bad at expressing himself on a personal level, and he’s often too hard or too soft as a teacher.”

“Yeah, Obi-Wan told me that much,” Ahsoka says softly. “It’s not like he’d want to teach me anyways.”

“I believe he would gladly take you on if you asked him to, but no, I don’t think he wishes to teach anymore in general--the responsibility scares him,” Plo says. “He’s afraid of repeating his past errors.”

“And getting me killed or Fallen?” Ahsoka says. “Because that seems to happen to a lot of Master Jinn’s Padawans. After Skyguy leaves, he’s kind of zero for three on successful Jedi Knights.”

That is...accurate, if harsh. Ahsoka doesn’t know about Qui-Gon’s first Padawan, who is very much still alive and not Fallen, but then again, most people don’t. “Let’s leave the topic aside--I think we can safely say you won’t become Qui-Gon’s Padawan,” Plo says. “Are there any other possibilities you can see in your future, once Anakin leaves the Order?”

Ahsoka kicks at the water, scaring the curious fish into scattering. “Not really. Nobody really knows what happens when your Master decides to leave the Order. I guess I’ll just be a Padawan without a Master. Go to classes and stuff. Figure something out.”

“Ahsoka, your situation might be unusual, but it’s certainly not unprecedented,” Plo says. “There are many Padawans who have lost their Masters, especially in the last few months.”

“Yeah? And what happens to them?”

“If it’s a traumatic loss, many Padawans will choose to leave the Order. But sometimes, Padawans who lose their Masters transition into Service Corps, while other times they will be taken in by another one of their lineage. In other cases, they remain unattached Padawans until they are taken on by another willing Master. It sounds like your situation might be one of the latter case.”

“Yeah, but who would want to take me as a Padawan?” Ahsoka asks. “I talk back too much and my disciplinary record’s huge. I don’t always listen to instructions, I’m bad at flying, I’m only good at getting into trouble and slowing people down. Nobody wants a Padawan like that.”

“You are being much too hard on yourself, ‘Soka,” Plo says. “You may have gotten yourself into a fair amount of trouble, but you’re a good Jedi and a good Padawan--you would be a credit to any Master.”

Ahsoka pouts. “I’m not a little kid, Master Plo. You don’t have to lie to try and make me feel better.”

“Ahsoka,  I am not lying to you. I know for a fact that there are many Masters who would be willing to take you as their Padawan,” Plo says. “I, for example, would be honored if you would allow me to become your Master.”

Ahsoka freezes for a moment, then pulls back from Plo with a choking sound. “Wh--Master Plo--I, you--”

Plo sets a hand on her shoulder. “Take a deep breath. Gather your words.”

Ahsoka shuts her mouth and takes a few deep breaths, then says, “You--you want to be my Master?”

“If you still wish to pursue your Knighthood and there is no Master you would prefer to have after Anakin leaves the Order, then yes. Nothing would please me more than to have you as my Padawan and raise you to Knighthood,” Plo says.

Ahsoka’s presence in the Force seems to swell with emotion, and Plo reaches for her with his own calm presence. Her feelings are sharp and clear, bright and full of wonder and hope as they have been since the first day he met her. Even the war hasn’t been able to dim her intense will and Light.

Ahsoka throws her arms around him and says, “Yes! Yes, yes, yes, Master Plo, I want you to be my Master! I always wanted you to be my Master ever since you brought me to the Temple and I thought you didn’t want me because you never chose me and--” she continues on for a little while like that, speaking so quickly that her words are practically falling over themselves.

Plo hugs her back and says, “There is no point in time when I didn’t want you, Ahsoka. I didn’t take you as a Padawan before because the circumstances weren’t right for it, and I was scared of putting you into a situation where you would be harmed, but things are different now. Of course, we won’t be able to make the transition straightaway--matters with the war are still delicate and transferring Padawanship isn’t such a simple thing--but when the war is over, we can transfer your Padawanship from Anakin to myself. A fresh start for both of us as Master and Padawan.”

“Thank you, Master Plo, thank you so much, you’re the best! I won’t let you down!”

Plo pats her on the back. “Thank you, Ahsoka. I know you’ll make me proud.”

The day Mace gets back from a relatively simple diplomatic mission, he pulls Plo aside into a spare meditation room and asks, “What have you been teaching your Padawan?”

“A great many things, hopefully,” Plo replies. “Why? I thought you said Ahsoka did well on the mission.”

“She did do very well. She’d be an honor to any Master,” Mace agrees. As far as Padawans with no diplomatic experience at all, Ahsoka had done wonderfully, charming the dignitaries they’d been sent to negotiate with and keenly observing the proceedings while drawing insightful conclusions. While she didn’t seem to find diplomacy very interesting, she certainly had the skills and temperament to do very well as a diplomat. “However, she is also fourteen. She should not be able to, completely unprompted, immediately identify sniper vantage points.”

Plo clasps his claws together. “That...is interesting. I certainly did not teach her that. What exactly happened?”

There’s not a lot to recount. Mace had been reviewing the palace’s security for the upcoming parade and Ahsoka had mentioned, apropos of nothing, that the palace’s antechamber was extremely vulnerable to snipers.

“What--why do you say that?” Mace had asked.

Ahsoka had, with some minor stammering, pointed out the tall windows, which had not been treated with a blaster-deflecting coat, then to the emergency comm towers some half a kilometer off which had a clear line of sight to large parts of the antechamber, and the lack of cover in the event someone did decide to snipe an official or anyone else.

She was, of course, correct. Upon inspection, the antechamber would be a prime location for sniping a target if an assassin were lying in wait, and the relatively unsecured comm towers--the only nearby structure built taller than the palace--would have been the prime location to undertake such a kill.

Fortunately, in this case, there was nobody trying to assassinate the royal party--that would have certainly made the diplomatic mission significantly less simple. Still, that doesn’t change the fact that Ahsoka had accurately evaluated a sniper risk without being prompted to, something that would be challenging even for many new Knights, much less a junior Padawan.

“Why does she even know it wasn’t blaster-deflection glass?” Mace asks. “I’ve seen deflection glass and normal glass side by side before. You really can’t tell them apart just by looking.”

Plo hums to himself, clearly concerned by this development. “I do not know--it’s certainly not something we’ve encountered together. Maybe it was something she learned on the war front?”

Mace crosses his arms. “She was only out there for a month or two, and the Separatists didn’t really use snipers.”

“That is also true,” Plo says. “Maybe we should simply ask her. That seems to be the most straightforward solution.”

Fortunately, it’s not difficult to find Ahsoka--she’s studying in her quarters for an upcoming mechanics evaluation. When the two of them arrive, Mace notes Ahsoka’s quarters are sparse, probably due to having an entire suite to herself where most Padawans only have the Padawan room in their Master’s suite. Due to Plo’s quarters being set up with his native atmosphere, Ahsoka had needed to move into the suite next door, which had a double airlock directly connecting the two to prevent any risk of either Padawan or Master getting poisoned. Mace notes a pile of rolled-up sleeping bags against the wall--for when Plo’s Wolfpack wants to stay the night in the Temple, most likely.

“Master Windu? Master Plo?” Ahsoka says, looking up from where she’s working at the dining table. “Do you need me? Did something happen?”

“No, nothing happened,” Plo says. “We just wanted to ask a couple of questions, if you’re not busy.”

Ahsoka shoves her datapads to the side and says, “No, I’m not busy! I can answer whatever you need!”

“Relax, Padawan,” Plo replies. “You’re not in trouble. We were just curious about a few things. Such as how you were able to tell the difference between blaster-deflection glass and normal glass.”

“Huh? That’s easy,” Ahsoka says, relaxing in her chair somewhat. “When light goes through deflection glass it scatters weird. It makes shadows do a funky fuzzy-looking thing and if you look through it, stuff that’s close by looks normal, but stuff that’s far away always looks kind of blurry.”

Mace has no way to know if that’s true, but it sounds like it could be. “Where did you learn that from, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Ahsoka’s brows draw together. “Obi-Wan taught me.”

Mace pauses. Obi-Wan, apparently, knows an alarming amount about snipers and decided to impart that knowledge to a fourteen-year-old youngling? “Why, exactly, was Obi-Wan teaching you about deflection glass?”

“Oh, he wasn’t,” Ahsoka replies. “I mean, it wasn’t like one of his lessons or anything, he was just talking about it. He likes to bring up fun facts a lot when he’s talking, you know? And I told him that maybe we could try one of those observatory deck places for lunch sometime and he told me about how he doesn’t like those sorts of places where it’s glass all the way around--they can’t use deflection glass for those kinds of places because it gives people headaches and anyways it’s not a very good observatory deck if they can’t actually see everything. So I asked about deflection glass and he told me about it.”

Plo nods. “Do you know if Obi-Wan has...a lot of experience with that sort of thing? Snipers?”

“He got sniped a couple times when he was fifteen,” Ahsoka says. “He says the first time, someone shot him in the side while he was transporting supplies, and the second time, someone tried assassinating him in a medcenter or something--don’t know what asshole would want to assassinate a fifteen-year-old, though. And I guess he did some kind of bounty hunting related stuff later on, which also involved sniping. Did you know you can get sniped from nearly five kilometers off? I mean, it depends on the size of the planet obviously, but that’s still crazy.”

Mace takes a deep breath. That is something Obi-Wan very much did not report about his past. When Luminara had taken Obi-Wan to the Mid-Rim, she had reported that Obi-Wan showed signs of agoraphobia upon reaching the flagship--possibly due to its massive size--and he had additionally become agitated when people looked directly at him for an extended time. This would probably partially explain that. “I...see. Ahsoka, do you do these safety checks frequently? For lines of sight and defensible cover?”

“Um,” Ahsoka says. “I mean, sometimes. Like down in the lower levels, there’s a lot more machines, and they’re kind of loud, so it’s, uh, hard to focus...” Machinery, Mace notes, that can sound quite similar to droids and artillery at a cursory listen. “And then when I’m with Obi-Wan, I’ll do it sometimes then, too, because he gets nervous and that makes me nervous and knowing where I can run for cover if shit--I mean, uh, stuff, happens. I feel better if I know where I can run and hide. But that’s, like, normal, right? Rex and the Wolfpack do it too. It’s just personal safety stuff.”

“Ahsoka,” Plo says, “that’s...not really normal. Rex and the Wolfpack and Obi-Wan do that because they’ve lived through very violent environments.”

“I was in a war, too,” Ahsoka points out, so matter-of-factly that Mace wishes, not for the first time, that he could have killed Palpatine sooner.

“Yes, you were,” Plo says, his sorrow as clear through the Force as it ever could be. He takes the seat beside Ahsoka and pulls her into a sideways hug, then looks up to Mace and says, “Mace, I told Savage I’d meet him by the Archives to help him with his research project--could you let him know I may be a bit late?”

Mace knows a dismissal when he hears one. He nods and lets Plo have some privacy to have some long-overdue conversations about the war and Ahsoka’s part in it.

Mace heads back to the Archives and wonders, even for how swiftly the war ended and how much they’ve tried to support each other in the tumultuous times following it, how many people have still fallen through the cracks. He knows entire swathes of Padawans who go scared-still when they hear loud noises and blaster discharge. The Temple’s Force hasn’t recovered from those dead and lost and likely never will. Even now, Mace sometimes wakes in a cold sweat from nightmares of battlefields and red lightsabers.

The war ended over two months ago.

It really doesn’t feel like it, sometimes.

“So that’s it. It’s over.”

Bail looks up to Obi-Wan standing in his office’s doorway. He’s dressed in his work clothes--he’s finally gotten a new coat--and has his hands shoved into his pockets. He’s at ease but with signs of exhaustion written all over his face, and no wonder, with all the work he’s done since returning to Coruscant. After such a long day, it’s a relief to see a friendly face.

“Yes,” Bail says. “The war’s over now. Mon’s been officially instated as the new Chancellor and both she and Count Dooku have signed the treaty. It took long enough.”

Obi-Wan shrugs and comes into his office, letting the door slide shut behind him. “I guess it’s not reasonable to expect the Senate to move quickly. There’s still a lot of people who support Palpatine, and a lot of Senators who have a lot to gain from continued war.”

Obi-Wan would certainly know. He’s spent the entire last month digging into corruption in the Senate at Bail’s request, and his reports have been especially thorough as always. Bail’s always known Palpatine appealed to the worst in people, but it’s still shocking to see how many people are throwing themselves behind his rhetoric, even after his treason and death. Obi-Wan’s investigations have helped to shine light on all the under-the-table dealings, but that alone won’t be enough. They both know that.

“I’ve certainly got my work cut out for me,” Bail says. They have to handle the official secession of the Separatist worlds from the Republic, rewrite trade agreements between the now-split galaxy, and clear out the corruption and traitors from the Senate so this can’t happen again. It’ll be months before the dust settles, and even that won’t be enough to fix things.

“I don’t envy you a bit,” Obi-Wan says, taking a seat next to Bail on the couch. “How are you holding up?”

“As well as I ever can,” Bail says. “I’ve been putting out fires non-stop ever since Palpatine’s execution, but that’s nothing new.”

Obi-Wan threads his fingers together and sighs. “No, I suppose it’s not.”

The two of them sit there for a while longer, letting the silence stretch. They’re both so tired. It feels wrong, to be so grim during such a momentous occasion--Bail is sure there are billions of people across the Republic currently celebrating the official end of the war, but all he can see is the long road ahead.

The end of the war is not the same as the start of peace. Obi-Wan had told him that a long time ago, and he’s never felt it more keenly than now.

“I watched the signing today,” Bail says after an interminable five minutes of silence. “Count Dooku is...very different in person, isn’t he? There’s a certain aura about him that doesn’t come across on holocomm.”

“Well, he is a Sith Lord,” Obi-Wan says. “And a ruler of several worlds on top of that. He is powerful, whether we like it or not.”

“You’ve spoken to him, a few times, haven’t you?” Bail asks. “What do you think of him?”

Obi-Wan pauses, thinking about it. Bail doesn’t know everything Obi-Wan gets up to, but it’s obvious that he had somehow made contact with Dooku even before Palpatine’s execution--Dooku had mentioned Obi-Wan more than once during negotiations. He might even dare to say Dooku admired Obi-Wan in some ways.

“I think that, at some point, Dooku had good intentions,” Obi-Wan says. “He does, in some ways, still care about the Jedi, and when he left the Order he believed that was the only way to uphold his ideals and to stop being complicit in what he felt was corruption or complacency in the Jedi’s cooperation with the Senate and the Republic.”

“You think Dooku can be saved?”

“Saved? Darling, what would I be saving him from?” Obi-Wan asks. “The Dark Side? The Sith? Himself?”

“I don’t know,” Bail says. “It just feels...wrong, to let him go back to Serenno after everything he’s done.”  It’s certainly not the first time he’s had to deal with abominable leaders and war criminals, but Dooku is...personal. He’d declared war against the Republic and torn it apart, and billions if not trillions of people will be feeling the effects for years to come. After all that, it seems so unjust to simply let Dooku go. “It would feel better if there was something good in him. If he could be reformed, and we wouldn’t have to worry about another galactic war.”

“Maybe he had good intentions, but I’m not sure they matter anymore. He’s got the blood of millions on his hands,” Obi-Wan says. “It’s not like he made one choice one time and he’s forced to keep committing crimes against sentient life. It’s a constant choice he’s making, one that he can stop any time he chooses to. I think he understands that, but he’s, I don’t know. Maybe he’s scared to acknowledge what he’s done, or to acknowledge he’s the one who brought him to where he is, and that he’s made the wrong choices. Maybe this peace treaty is him deciding to be better, or maybe it’s just him cutting his losses. We’ve got no way to know except by waiting for something to happen.”

Bail sighs. “Obi-Wan, has anyone ever told you you’re not very reassuring?”

Obi-Wan smiles sheepishly and grasps his hand. Bail can feel the hard metal of Obi-Wan’s prosthesis beneath his gloves as he twines their fingers together. It’s always such a strange feeling, to have a mechanical hand move so delicately. “I’m sorry, dear. Fundamentally, I believe anyone can stop doing wrong and start doing right. There’s no line where you’ve committed so much evil where you are no longer capable of stopping. I don’t think Dooku can ever be forgiven for what he’s done, but that doesn’t mean he can’t stop the violence and be something better moving forward. Yes, he’s a killer, but I mean, so am I.”

“You were a soldier in a war, and a youngling at that. That’s not the same thing at all,” Bail says.

“Murder is murder. We both believed we were justified in our actions--as many people who commit terrible crimes do,” Obi-Wan says. “His crimes are obviously on a much larger scale than mine, but I think the point still stands. No matter what he does or how much he changes, he’ll never be forgiven for his actions. Reformation doesn’t have anything to do with that, though, and I think he has the capacity to do some self-reflection and choose to be better. Does that mean he deserves that chance? Not at the cost of more lives, but also I don’t think we have much of a choice.”

That’s the unfortunate truth. They simply don’t have any other option--the Republic has no authority to remove Dooku from power, and imprisoning or executing him would destabilize thousands of worlds and launch them straight back into the war. They can’t afford that, and so Dooku gets to safely leave Coruscant with his life and his Separatist worlds.

“Do you think he would choose to be better?” Bail asks.

“I don’t know,” Obi-Wan replies. “Dooku’s a stubborn man, and a proud one. I don’t know if he’s the kind of person to admit to himself he’s made the wrong decisions. But...I think he also wants things to be better. I think he recognizes that the Sith have only taken things from him, and he misses what he used to have. He’s lonely, Bail.”

Dooku hadn’t seemed like a very lonely person when Bail had seen him. He’d seemed imperial and larger than life, untouchable. It’s strange to even put him and ‘lonely’ into the same context, but maybe that’s the point. “Why do you say he’s lonely?”

Obi-Wan goes quiet for a few moments and says, “He’s like me. I can always tell when I see someone like me.”

“Obi-Wan...”

“He misses his family, I think,” Obi-Wan says. “Not just his birth family on Serenno, because I don’t think he’s very close to anyone there, but his family with the Jedi. He was Yoda’s Padawan and Master Jinn’s Master, did you know?”

Bail shakes his head. He knew Dooku used to be a Jedi, of course, but he’d certainly never heard anything like that.

“Obviously, they’re estranged on account of he orchestrated the deaths of over two hundred Jedi at Geonosis and who knows how many in the war that followed, but I don’t think Yoda or Master Jinn ever really gave up on him. They knew he had the ability and the capacity to stop what he was doing--he just never did until the war ended and he had no more reason to continue,” Obi-Wan says. “When he was confined to the Temple for his health, I think he had the opportunity to speak to some of the Jedi a bit more civilly, and maybe it’s reminded him of what he stands to gain from being a less horrible person. That’s really all we can hope for.”

“And you? What would you do about him?” Bail asks.

“Me?” Obi-Wan asks. “Darling, I’m a private investigator. Dooku is so far out of my scope of practice there’s nothing I can do about him.”

“I mean, if you were in that position, facing down Dooku. Would you trust him to come back to the Light eventually?”

“No,” Obi-Wan says, voice flat. “I would kill him. If that was the only way I could be sure he wouldn’t hurt more people, I would shoot him through the heart.”

It’s not an unexpected answer from Obi-Wan, but it’s still strange to hear him, usually so kind and careful about life, say he would commit murder without hesitation.

“Even knowing he might change his mind now? You’d execute him?” Bail asks.

“Bail, if I met my sixteen-year-old self, I would probably kill him,” Obi-Wan says. “Not necessarily, because he’d be sixteen, and I’d have ways to limit his damage that didn’t involve murdering him, but if he came after me like the feral monster he was and my options were to let him go or to put him down, I would put him down. You can’t make your moral judgements based on what might happen to someone or what choices they might make. All you have is what’s here and now, and you make the judgements you can with what information you have. Today, I wouldn’t execute Dooku because the evidence shows he’s not going to go back to murdering people when he gets home, but four months ago, in the midst of the war? I would have shot him down. That’s all there is to it.”

“Would you kill me if I turned against the people?” Bail asks.

“Yes, absolutely. If you started murdering innocents, I would be well beyond the point of giving you the benefit of the doubt. I’d believe it was my personal duty to stop you, and if necessary, end you. I expect that you would do the same to me,” Obi-Wan replies. “Does that bother you?”

Bail folds his other hand on top of Obi-Wan’s and looks him in the face. There’s a sharpness there and an uncanniness that he’s never been able to quantify. Obi-Wan is, in so many ways, good--he cares so much about everything, even when he doesn’t have to, and he works so hard to be kind even when it hurts him, but. He has hurt people, accidentally and on purpose. He is a killer. He will likely kill again, and maybe he will only ever do it for a good reason, but is killing, fully understanding the value of a living creature, really better than indiscriminate slaughter?

In the end, it’s not so easy to pass judgement on Obi-Wan’s morality. He’s kind when he can be and ruthless and sometimes cruel when he has to be, but both sides of him are still him. There’s no having one without the other.

Bail’s known that much for years now.

“It does,” Bail says. “But I understand why you would do it.”

Obi-Wan takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “That’s all I ask for, dear.”

The ride back home from the Temple is quiet. After getting lost in the underground levels, everyone is exhausted, Boba most of all.

“Boba,” Obi-Wan says, gently shaking him by the shoulder. “Come on, wake up. We’re home.”

Blearily, Boba blinks and curls up tighter in the speeder’s back seat.

Obi-Wan sighs and scoops Boba up into his arms. “One day, you’re gonna be too big for me to carry you,” he murmurs as he closes the speeder door behind him. “But we’ve got some time before then, I think.”

It’s dark--all the artificial sunlights have cycled off a long time ago, leaving only the yellow street lights and neon signs. It’s loud the way it always is in Coruscant at night, with speeders going this way and that over the sound of machinery and carbon dioxide scrubbers. Boba shoves his face into Obi-Wan’s shoulder and tries to fall back asleep.

They get to the apartment after not too long, and Obi-Wan carries Boba over to his room and sets him down on his bed.

“Boba,” Obi-Wan says, “I need you to look at me. There’s something I need to tell you tonight. This is important, okay?”

Boba’s not really sure what’s so important that they can’t talk about it tomorrow morning, but Obi-Wan turns the lights on and Boba doesn’t have much of a choice but to groan and look at Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan smiles and says, “I know you’ve had a long day, and I’ll let you sleep soon.”

“Can’t you just say what you want?” Boba asks. He really doesn’t want to talk right now.

Obi-Wan nods. “Of course. Boba, Feral or Savage might have told you this already, but I’m not supposed to go to the Jedi Temple.”

“Huh? Did you make the Jedi mad?”

“No, the Jedi and I are fine with each other,” Obi-Wan says. “This is another thing that has to do with my...medical condition.”

That makes Boba sit up. It hasn’t even been a week since he found out Obi-Wan sometimes stops breathing when he sleeps. “Are you going to die?”

Obi-Wan sighs. “No, Boba, I’m not going to die. I will be perfectly fine.” He holds out his left hand. Over his glove is a thin silver cuff Boba’s seen before in buir’s supplies.

“That’s a Force-suppressing cuff,” Boba says. “Doesn’t it hurt Jedi to wear those?”

“This cuff isn’t very strong, so it’s only somewhat uncomfortable,” Obi-Wan says. “I’m wearing it because the ambient Force in Coruscant is very strong--even stronger than in the Jedi Temple. This is keeping it out for the moment, but when I remove it, the Force is going to flow through me very powerfully. It’s going to take me a few days to get it under control and until then, I won’t exactly...be myself.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Boba yelps. “Is it going to kill you? Are you going to stop breathing again?”

“Yes, I will probably stop breathing, but no, it won’t kill me. I’ve been through this before. I will be fine,” Obi-Wan says. “I want you to know I won’t be available for the next three or four days--I should be in my room for most of that time. I understand it’s sometimes frightening to others when the Force takes me, so it would be best if you don’t see me until I’m better. You won’t be home alone--Savage will be here soon and I suspect Master Che will have Feral checking on me to make sure nothing happens, so they will be here if you need anything, okay?”

“What--why do you have to take the cuff off if it’s going to do that to you?” Boba says. “Why can’t you just leave it on?”

“Boba, having the Force flow through me is a good thing,” Obi-Wan says. “If I don’t let the Force in, like if I wear a cuff all the time, it hurts me. It can be very painful, and it’s bad for my overall health. I don’t want that, and I don’t think you want that, either.”

“I...guess not,” Boba says.

“It’ll be okay. It’s just going to be a few days, and everything will be back to normal. I just wanted to make sure you knew, so there aren’t any surprises,” Obi-Wan replies. “If you do see me, don’t be scared, okay? I might be a bit different, but I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

Boba nods slowly. “Okay, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan leans in, pressing their foreheads together. “You’re a good kid, Boba. Everything will be all right.”

Boba looks down. Obi-Wan’s saying he’s going to make himself really sick for a few days on purpose--that’s not all right at all. “Can I have a hug?”

“Of course,” Obi-Wan says, bringing his arms around in a big hug. Boba clings to him for a while, pressing his face to the warmth of Obi-Wan’s chest. Eventually, Obi-Wan pulls back and says, “All right, I’ll see you in a few days. Have a good night, Boba.”

Obi-Wan tucks him into bed and kisses him on the forehead, then turns the lights out and leaves. Boba isn’t able to sleep for a long while after that--he’s just listening to the sounds, maybe for some sign of what’s going on with Obi-Wan, but there’s nothing except the quiet noise of Feral and Savage coming home.

The next morning, Boba wakes to the smell of pan-fried eggs. He gets up to eat breakfast, only to find Feral in the kitchen instead of Obi-Wan.

Last night’s conversation crashes back like a sack of bricks.

“Good morning, Boba,” Feral says. “I didn’t know what you would want to eat, so I sort of...cooked a little bit of everything.”

Boba looks at the kitchen counter. There’s some flatcakes, eggs, porridge, rolls, leftovers from yesterday’s lunch, and a bowl of rice. It’s...a lot of food, though not too much if all four of them are eating. He grabs a little bit of everything that looks good and sits down with Feral and Savage to eat.

It’s not the most comfortable breakfast. The food doesn’t taste quite the same as when Obi-Wan cooks it, and when he isn’t there to talk, the meal is mostly awkward silence. Boba finishes as fast as he can then loads a second plate and gets up.

“Boba, where are you going?” Feral asks.

“I’m bringing Obi-Wan some breakfast,” Boba says.

Feral winces. “Obi-Wan isn’t eating.”

“What?” Boba asks. “What do you mean, he’s not eating? He’ll be hungry!”

Feral shakes his head. “No, Obi-Wan, he...the Force has him right now. It’s like the breathing thing--his body doesn’t need that stuff until he’s back.”

Boba squints at him. He knows what all those words mean individually but all together they make no sense. People need to eat and breathe or they die. Obi-Wan is a people, so he needs breakfast even if he’s sick or whatever is going on.

“Is his soul gone again? Do I need to talk to him?” Boba asks.

Feral gets up and gently takes the plate of food away from Boba. “This is a different thing, Boba. You just need to leave him alone until he’s better.”

“Can I see him?”

Feral frowns. “Boba, I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’re not going to like how he is right now...”

“He’s not going to hurt me,” Boba says. “He promised, he said he wouldn’t hurt me, and I’m not going to be scared. I’m not a kid, I’m not scared of people getting sick or dying or anything.”

“He’s not sick or dying, he’s just...not here.”

“You keep saying that! I don’t know what that means!” Boba says. “If he’s in his room and he’s not sick and he’s not dying and he’s not gonna hurt me, why can’t I see him?”

“Boba, leave Obi-Wan alone, he doesn’t want to scare you--Boba!” Feral grabs for Boba’s wrist, but Boba slips away and off to Obi-Wan’s room.

It’s dark in Obi-Wan’s room--for some reason, Obi-Wan’s completely closed the curtains, making the only light in the room the small night light near the door. Boba flips the lights on.

He expects to find Obi-Wan asleep or soulless in his bed, but instead, Obi-Wan is kneeling in the open part of his floor, dressed in loose clothes with his hair tied back into a simple nerf tail. His mechanical hand has been detached and placed on the desk, and he isn’t moving at all. He isn’t breathing.

There’s a strange atmosphere in the room, like electric charge in the air before a thunderstorm, but it’s not really scary. It’s just Obi-Wan sitting on the floor.

“Boba,” Feral says from behind him. “Come on, let’s leave Obi-Wan alone.”

“This is what was so bad?” Boba asks. “He’s fine, he’s just--he’s sitting there. Obi-Wan, are you okay--”

Slowly, Obi-Wan turns towards him. There’s something rigidly mechanical about the motion as his head turns and his eyes move up to meet Boba’s.

There’s nothing in Obi-Wan’s unblinking gaze. There’s no warmth, no emotion, no thought. Looking into his eyes makes Boba feel like he’s being sucked out of an airlock into the vacuum of space, lost in nothingness. It looks horribly, horribly wrong.

Something quietly terrified creeps up Boba’s throat, and he tries to swallow it back. “Obi-Wan?”

Silently, Obi-Wan stands. Not like a person would stand, pressing up against the floor with their hands and knees, but lifted like a puppet on strings. His movements are slow and deliberate, almost mechanical like an uncalibrated droid, and just watching it makes Boba want to scream.

That’s not Obi-Wan. Everything in his mind is screaming that the creature in this room is not his dad, it’s something wearing his body. The longer he watches, the more he expects that Obi-Wan’s skin will peel back, revealing some horrible monster underneath.

Obi-Wan steps towards him, and Boba flinches back. Obi-Wan wouldn’t hurt him, he promised he wouldn’t, but this isn’t Obi-Wan. This thing is powerful that just looking at it makes his mind blur into static, but he can’t turn away--he’s rooted to the spot, paralyzed.

Feral steps in front of him. “Obi-Wan,” he says softly. “Obi-Wan, it’s just us.”

Obi-Wan stops moving, and Boba feels a crawling sensation in the back of his mind, like fingers pressing against his brain. A whimper slips from his mouth.

Feral sets a hand on his shoulder. “He’s just reaching out to our minds to find out who we are--he can’t see us when he’s like this.”

“What’s happened to him?” Boba asks, his voice barely a whisper. The crawling feeling is still there, moving around like a handful of bugs in his head. He grits his teeth against the feeling. He doesn’t like it. He wants it out.

“The Force has him,” Feral says, not taking his eyes off of Obi-Wan. “It’s stronger than Obi-Wan by a lot, so it’s taken over his consciousness. He’s not the one controlling his body right now.”

“He’s...possessed?” Boba asks. “Like, by a ghost?”

“It’s similar, I guess. He’s still in there, just...different,” Feral says. “Obi-Wan, it’s us. Feral and Boba. Boba was worried about you.”

Obi-Wan looks down to Boba, and the crawling feeling in his head dissipates into something warm and calm, settling over his mind like a heavy blanket. He feels his eyelids start to drop, and Feral grips him by the shoulder before he falls asleep on his feet.

Boba blinks, coming back to reality, and tries to shake off the mental haze, but it’s still there, making his mind slow and quiet. “Wha--what’s happening?” he asks.

“He’s trying to comfort you,” Feral says. “But you’re not Force-sensitive and he is very strong right now--his emotions are overpowering yours.” Feral steps over to Obi-Wan and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Obi-Wan, you can sit down. Everything’s okay.”

Slowly, Feral guides Obi-Wan back down to the ground, kneeling with his hand flat on his thigh. His positioning is stiff and his expression is completely blank, but at least when he’s sitting and still, the unnaturalness of it doesn’t jump out so badly. Feral murmurs something else to Obi-Wan, and there’s a weird tension in the air that’s probably Jedi stuff. Then, like a cool breeze, the heaviness over Boba’s mind dissipates and everything is clear again.

Boba takes a deep breath. He still feels drowsy, but not like he’ll fall asleep.

“All right, I think he’s settled,” Feral says. “We should go now. Let him sort things out in peace.”

“What does that mean?” Boba asks.

“He has to manage the Force in him to come back to consciousness,” Feral replies. “It’s like if you dive into the sea from really high--he’s underwater in the Force right now, but he’s making his way back up to the surface.”

“We can’t help him? You’re a Healer or something, aren’t you?”

Feral shakes his head. “He’s the only one who can get this under control. If I tried to go after him, I’d end up getting sucked down, too.”

“Oh,” Boba says, frowning. “It sounds really hard.”

“It does,” Feral agrees. “But Obi-Wan’s done this before. He knows what he’s doing.”

Feral, Boba notes, doesn’t sound super comfortable with the idea, either. It’s like the soul-leaving thing--too freaky even for Jedi. Thinking about it makes his skin crawl. It’s just...scary. ‘Medical condition’ or not, Obi-Wan shouldn’t have to deal with it.

“Can I...Can I give him a hug?” Boba asks.

Feral looks over to Obi-Wan and murmurs something Boba doesn’t hear. A few moments pass in silence, then Feral says, “Yes, you can give him a hug.”

Boba throws his arms around Obi-Wan and squeezes tightly while thinking very hard at Obi-Wan to get better soon. There’s a pause, then Obi-Wan wraps his arms around Boba and squeezes back.

It’s one of Obi-Wan’s hugs, one hundred percent. Warm and soft and safe.

I’ll be okay, Obi-Wan says, so softly that Boba’s not sure if he really heard it or if he just imagined it. I’m sorry for scaring you.

“I’m not scared,” Boba says. “You’re not gonna hurt me and you’re gonna be okay. I’m not scared.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t respond. Maybe he can’t.

Boba tries to hug Obi-Wan for as long as possible, but eventually Feral pulls him out of it so they can leave Obi-Wan alone.

Feral turns out the light and shuts Obi-Wan’s door behind them. “Obi-Wan will be back in a few days. Don’t bother him anymore, okay?”

Boba swallows back the lump in his throat and wipes his eyes. He’s not scared. He’s not a little kid anymore, he doesn’t get scared by ghost stories or people dying or anything. He just...doesn’t want to think about what’s happening to Obi-Wan. He doesn’t want to think about the way he moves or the blank expression on his face or the crawling feeling moving through his head.

Obi-Wan will be better in a few days, and everything will be normal again. That’s all that matters.

“I don’t like this medical condition. I don’t think Obi-Wan should go to the Jedi Temple anymore,” Boba says with a sniff.

Feral sighs. “Well, you’re not the only person who thinks that. Come on, let’s get you a glass of water. It’ll make you feel better.”

“Why does Obi-Wan have all these ‘medical conditions’ anyways?” Boba asks. “Even Jedi don’t have this stuff happen, right?”

“I don’t know,” Feral says, pouring a glass of water and handing it to Boba. “I think something very bad happened to him when he was little. It should have killed him, but it didn’t, so now he’s like this instead.”

“Oh,” Boba says. He drinks his water. “I’m glad he didn’t die. I just wish he didn’t have to deal with all this weird stuff. It’s freaky.”

“I don’t think he enjoys dealing with all of it, either,” Feral replies, helping Savage clean up the rest of breakfast. “But there’s nothing we can really do about it except be there when he needs us and make sure nothing bad happens.”

“I’ll be here,” Boba tells Feral. “If Obi-Wan needs help, I’m here.”

Feral pats him on the shoulder. “I know, Boba.”

Maybe Feral knows, but Boba isn’t so sure Obi-Wan does. He’s kind of like buir that way, never ever asking for help. But that’s okay. Boba wasn’t able to help buir, but he’ll be here to help Obi-Wan. He’ll make sure Obi-Wan knows it soon enough.

“Master Luminara?” Barriss says when she gets home one evening. “What do you know about Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

Luminara glances up at Barriss. “Who?”

Barriss makes an abortive hand motion, then says, “Obi-Wan Kenobi. That guy who we took to the Mid-Rim like four months ago? Human man, long brown hair. He was sick the whole time for some reason, remember?”

Oh. That Obi-Wan Kenobi. Luminara hasn’t really thought about him since she made her report to the Council. She sets her holonovel down. “Yes, I remember him. Why do you ask?”

“Well,” Barriss says as she hangs up her cloak and grabs a seat, “after you taught that class earlier today, I overheard some of the Initiates talking about a current events assignment. One of them wanted to do their assignment about the former Chancellor’s arrest, execution, and trial, but they weren’t able to figure out how we found out he was a Sith, and I don’t know what happened either, so I offered to help look for information in the Archives.”

Luminara raises a brow. “Is that what you were busy with after dinner?”

“Um, yes? I just wanted to help them with their assignment.”

“It’s not a bad thing, I just thought you were, I don’t know, out with Ahsoka or something,” Luminara replies. Really, she’s not all that surprised. Of course Barriss would decide to take time for herself and then use it to help some Initiates with their homework. Too responsible and diligent for her own good, that Padawan.

“Ahsoka’s downtown with Captain Rex,” Barriss says. “There’s some kind of show going on, I think, so they and some of the other people in the 501st are seeing it tonight.”

“She’s not with Knight Skywalker?”

Barriss shakes her head. “Knight Skywalker is out, too. I think he’s out a lot, actually.”

Huh. Skywalker had been declared fit for active duty again not too long ago, so maybe it’s not too peculiar that he’s out of the Temple, but where in the world is he going? Especially if he goes out a lot? Luminara isn’t especially worried about Ahsoka being out of the Temple when she’s accompanied by the 501st, but it does seem kind of strange--most new Masters get nervous if they let their Padawans out of sight for more than twenty minutes at a time, much less give them free rein to wander around somewhere as potentially dangerous as Coruscant.

“Master Luminara,” Barriss says, a bit more insistently, “do you know anything about Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

“I might know a little bit,” Luminara replies. “Why? Do you think Detective Kenobi has anything to do with the former Chancellor’s removal from power?”

Barriss blows air out her nose. “I don’t know. But I was looking into the mission files and there was one like a month after the execution where Senator Organa asked us to investigate some places in Coruscant that were connected to Palpatine? Knight Chun was on that mission report, and so was Detective Kenobi. If Detective Kenobi wasn’t involved with anything related to how Palpatine got arrested and put on trial, then why would he have been on that mission?”

“Well, Detective Kenobi is an investigator,” Luminara says. “He probably has a working relationship with Senator Organa.”

“But the mission wasn’t just about Palpatine,” Barriss insists. “It was about Palpatine being a Sith Lord. Some random investigator would never be involved in a mission like that, much less lead it. So Detective Kenobi isn’t just a normal detective, right? He’s somehow involved in everything that happened there!”

Luminara sits back in her seat and clasps her hands. “That a reasonable conclusion,” she says. “Unfortunately, I don’t know that much about him.”

“You don’t?”

Luminara shakes her head. “I know he used to be a Jedi a long time ago--over twenty years ago. I think he was a Padawan for a little while before he left the Order and...” She grimaces. “Well, until he died. We had a pyre for him.”

Barriss blinks at her. “But he’s...not dead, right?”

“Apparently not,” Luminara says. “I assume we had compelling evidence of his death--I was only a Padawan myself back then, and I’d never even heard of him until the funeral. I don’t really even think I understood what was going on. It was peaceful back then--funerals for fourteen-year-old Padawans just weren’t a thing.”

Unlike recent times, that is.

“So Detective Kenobi is a Jedi?” Barriss asks. “He’s some kind of...Shadow? He was investigating the Sith?”

“He’s not a Jedi,” Luminara says. “You’ve met him--you know how he feels in the Force. His spirit’s been deeply wounded.”

“He felt empty,” Barriss says.

Luminara sighs. Barriss isn’t wrong, but it’s a bit insensitive to say it that way. “Like I said. He was hurt very badly. I think it’s affected his connection to the Force pretty severely.”

“Wait, you mean we kicked him out because he lost his connection to the Force?” Barriss asks. “That’s horrible!”

“What? No, we--” Luminara takes a deep breath. “Detective Kenobi isn’t a Jedi not because we won’t allow him to be a Jedi--I think if he really wanted to return, we would still be able to reinstate him. Probably not as a Knight, but if he wanted to swear his vows again, we would be able to take him in again. He would even be a remarkable Jedi--he understands the philosophy, he has a suitable temperament, and he seemed to be very in-tune with his connection to the Force, as damaged as it is.” She had no idea what Kenobi’s connection to the Force was, but she’d been there when he did his evening meditation, and it had been...like time had stopped. The Force had gone dead silent for those thirty minutes, and Luminara had felt an eerie stillness, even within herself. Not stillness like ice, but stillness like the void of space.

It wasn’t the Jedi way to interact with the Force, but it was clear he still could.

Luminara purses her lips and continues, “He’s not a Jedi because he doesn’t want to be. The path isn’t for him, and when I talked to him...I kind of got the impression that the Order held a lot of bad memories for him.”

Kenobi never said so outright in their brief conversations about the Order and their philosophy, and he was respectful, even fond in tone, but there had been an undertone of sadness, too. Mostly, Luminara had gotten the impression that Kenobi liked the Jedi Order, but didn’t like his history with it. Considering they had driven him to rescind his vows as a Padawan and then inadvertently left him for dead, it wasn’t so hard to guess why.

“Oh,” Barriss says. She looks down for a bit, fisting her hands in her robe. “So he used to be a Padawan? Who was his Master?”

“I don’t know that,” Luminara says. “You would have to look it up or ask around. I’m sure Grandmaster Yoda or some of the other Masters might remember.”

Barriss nods. “Right, okay. I can ask about that tomorrow. But if he’s not a Jedi and he doesn’t do anything with the Order anymore, how did he find out Chancellor Palpatine was a Sith?”

“I don’t know that, either. Maybe it was the will of the Force?” Luminara smiles. “Or maybe he is just a very good detective.”

“Huh.” Barriss ponders that for a few moments, then gets up. “Okay, thank you for answering my questions. I’m going to finish up some reading and go to bed. Have a good night, Master.”

“Good night, Barriss,” Luminara says. She picks her holonovel back up and goes back to reading.

She doesn’t really think that much of the conversation again until a week later, when she overhears some Initiates gossiping.

“--guy who rescued Knight Skywalker and found out the Chancellor was a Sith!”

“No, that can’t be right, Kenobi’s just some...dude, right? He does lectures and stuff, not fight Sith.”

“I’m telling you it’s real, maybe he even ended the war!”

“Don’t be stupid, that was Senator Organa--he’s the one who got Count Dooku to stop being such a--”

Luminara hears multiple similar conversations like this over the course of the day, as is the nature of gossip in the Temple--it seems that Initiate had done their presentation about the Chancellor’s downfall and Kenobi had played a large part in it. She’s not sure how much she believes Kenobi actually had a hand in ending the war, but if the rumors going around have any weight, his work was...considerable. Helping to find and rescue Knight Skywalker was impressive on its own--everything else on top of that was...well, there weren’t even words for it. Unbelievable, maybe.

She mentions it when she meets Quinlan for dinner that evening.

“Huh?” Quinlan says. “Wait, is that what’s going on?”

“What?” Luminara asks. “Temple gossip?”

“Yeah, everyone’s been talking about Obi-Wan and looking him up and stuff?” Quinlan asks. “Fuck, no wonder he’s been having such a shit time lately.”

“I--Quinlan, what are you talking about?”

Quinlan stabs his fork into a chunk of meat and shoves it in his mouth. “Obi-Wan! I saw him yesterday and he looks like shit! He told me he can’t sleep great and he was all twitchy and everything. More than usual, I mean.”

This is the first time Luminara’s hearing that Quinlan regularly spends time with Kenobi. It’s not all that unbelievable, since apparently they were friends back when Kenobi was still a Jedi, but it’s still a surprise.

“What does that have to do with Temple gossip?” Luminara asks.

“Luminara, Obi-Wan can feel when people are thinking about him,” Quinlan hisses. “He doesn’t talk about it a lot, but it really bothers him, especially when it’s people he doesn’t know.”

“He can feel when people are thinking about him?” Luminara asks, horrified. She’s never even heard of such a thing, but she’d never want to know about every single time someone was thinking about her.

“And looking at him. Or listening to him. From what he says, he doesn’t feel the thinking thing very much unless it’s really focused on him, but it’s like an itch, y’know? Once you notice it, you can’t unnotice it.”

“That’s awful,” Luminara says. “And he’s been losing sleep because of it?”

“Yeah, he almost passed out on me yesterday,” Quinlan says. “That guy’s just full of so much trauma, it’s just like those clown handkerchiefs. You pull out one and then there’s another and another and--” he pauses to take a drink of water, “--my point is, Obi-Wan’s got issues, and he does not like people thinking about him. Because, like, for most of his life? Someone he doesn’t know thinking about him means someone’s planning to murder him. No wonder the poor guy can’t sleep.”

Luminara grimaces. She’s got some experience with people wanting her dead--most Jedi do, at this point--but she can’t imagine having that kind of stress all the time. “Could you just tell him it’s Temple gossip? Would that help?”

Quinlan snorts. “I could tell him, but I honestly don’t think that’ll make him feel better at all. You’d never be able to tell from how he keeps telling everyone stories about himself, but he actually doesn’t like people looking him up. He does the detective thing, you know? He knows exactly how much stuff you can find if you go digging, and the whole thing about people knowing more about him than he knows about them makes him nervous. Sometimes I think he wishes he were just invisible. It would make him feel safer, if nothing else.”

That’s...the saddest thing Luminara’s heard all day. “Can we...do anything? I mean, it’s Temple gossip--it’s not just going to go away.”

“Yeah, you can’t stop Temple gossip,” Quinlan says, “but you can at least change its trajectory.” He leans back and shouts, “Hey! Pipsqueaks!”

A nearby pair of startled Padawans look back over at Quinlan, making a ‘who, me?’ gesture.

“Yeah, you!” Quinlan says. “I heard you talking about my boy Obi-Wan. What kind of crazy shit is that?”

Luminara sighs. So they’re doing this now? A warning would have been nice. “Quinlan, language--”

One of the Padawans stammers, “But he--he caught the Sith and--”

“Obi-Wan’s dead,” Quinlan says. “He died twenty-one years ago. There was a massive pyre and everything. Shit, Padawans these days believe everything.”

The other Padawan says, “But his name is on the mission records and--”

“Have none of you heard of a kriffing fake name?” Quinlan says, incredulous. “Shadows use them all the time! You think we want the Shadow we’ve got hunting down Sith to have their real name and face in public record where the Sith can just look it up? Of course they’re going to use some dead guy’s name instead! This is common sense!”

“Quinlan, you’re scaring them,” Luminara says.

“Obi-Wan was one of my best friends!” Quinlan says. “If you think I’m just gonna sit by and let people go around pretending he, I don’t know, came back to life just to jump-kick a Sith in the neck, you’ve got another thing coming and--”

“All right, that’s enough,” Luminara says, pulling Quinlan up by the arm and towards the exit. To the Padawans, she says, “Sorry about that. Master Vos misses his friend very badly, even after all these years. He shouldn’t have yelled, but also, please don’t spread stories about the dead. It’s not respectful.”

Wide-eyed, one of the Padawans asks, “Obi-Wan is dead?”

Luminara sighs. “We held a funeral for him over two decades ago--he would have been one of my agemates. His name is on the memorial wall. He was just a Padawan.”

“Oh,” the Padawan says, looking mortified.

“Have a good evening,” Luminara says, then drags Quinlan out into the hall.

When they’re a safe distance away, she lets him go and he laughs. “Wow, all right!” he says, clapping Luminara on the back. “Luminara, you sold that so good--this is why we’re bros.”

“I can’t believe you decided to cause a scene in the refectory like that,” Luminara says. “This is why I can’t take you anywhere. Do you really think lying to people is going to solve this?”

“Misinformation tactics will at least move the subject away from Obi-Wan,” Quinlan says. “I don’t care if people want to look into all that stuff with Palpatine. I just want them to stop focusing so much on Obi-Wan. All that looking into his record and past and everything. The guy’s nerves are worn out enough already.”

“And how are you going to keep up this charade that Obi-Wan is dead when he literally runs a seminar for Jedi?” Luminara asks.

“What, you’ve never met two people with the same name?” Quinlan asks. “Anyways, it’s not like Padawans are the ones going to his seminars. Knights and Masters know to mind their own business, and y’know? I heard they’re going to finally sign the peace treaty soon. Once that hits, hopefully Obi-Wan will be the last thing on anyone’s minds. Or maybe some massive scandal will happen, and people can worry about that instead--Skywalker can explode another hangar maybe?”

“I think Master Windu’s still annoyed about that,” Luminara says. “If we’re really going through with this, maybe we should talk to Bant. Just so we’re all on the same page.”

Quinlan nods. “Yeah, I haven’t seen her in a while. We can get the whole crew together. Cause trouble in the Temple again, just like old times.”

Luminara sighs. “I can’t believe the Order ever gave you a Mastery.”

Quinlan flashes a grin at her. “They’re just jealous of my sparkling personality.”

“You certainly give a strong first impression,” Luminara says. “Come on, let’s go before you cause even more problems.”

“I’ve never caused a problem in my life!” Quinlan retorts.

“No, but you’ve certainly caused several in mine,” Luminara replies and heads off to the Halls of Healing.

Brr-brr.

Fox blinks slowly, still groggy from sleep. His neck hurts.

Brr-brr.

There it is again. Fox stares at his commlink in betrayal, willing the notifications to stop. Who the kriff sends messages at 0130? That has to be illegal. A crime against decency, at the very least.

Brr-brr.

Resigned, Fox sits up and stretches his back, feeling it pop in at least five places. He might have been genetically designed for long hours, but the Kaminiise hadn’t planned for the most strenuous of human tasks--taking a nap at an uncomfortable desk. He didn’t even get any proper sleep in because somebody can’t follow comm etiquette.

He unlocks his commlink and finds to his dismay that he has not been woken up by something important, but by that stupid group chat they keep re-adding him to where they gossip about Rex and Kenobi’s fictional love life. His brothers must be out of their minds with boredom since the end of the war because that’s the only reason Fox can think of that they would keep trying to read meaning into whatever place Kenobi’s taken Rex for dinner this time.

Or at least, that’s what they used to do, back when the war ended and brothers were busy getting into civilian life. Since then, more and more brothers seem to have caught on that Rex isn’t going to make a move and also that, in light of Fives’ stupid life choices, Kenobi might be open to dating other people.

So now Fox has to hear about other brothers trying to shoot their shot with a civilian detective and since then he has not known peace.

Fox puts his commlink down and looks at the pile of work he still needs to do. It turns out that even after the war ended, the Senate rather enjoyed having a highly-trained security force, so Fox and the rest of the guard, who are now legally people who can demand work rights without risk of being shipped directly to Kamino for recycling, have collectively refused to do any work until they have an actual contract that outlines their responsibilities and rights such as reasonable working hours and pay and not being constantly abused and harassed by Senators. Unsurprisingly, this has made some very rich people very upset because saying clones have rights is all well and good until they have to actually start paying out some of their endless wealth to pay for the millions of men they chose to create and draft into military service after the military service has ended.

Fox has already received multiple death threats over the Coruscant Guard’s month-long strike, which isn’t really new for him, but with the help of the Jedi--who have both given the Coruscant Guard their support in the political arena as well as provided room and board since the Senate shut down the barracks--they have entered some very arduous and drawn-out negotiations with the Senate. They’re on the fifth revision of the contract now, and Fox has approximately forty more pages to read and make notes on before the meeting tomorrow afternoon.

Fox is absolutely exhausted and yet this is still better than the shit he had to deal with when Palpatine was still alive and in charge. Maybe when these negotiations are over, he’ll finally be able to get something as wild as a full night’s sleep. He puts his head down and closes his eyes and decides that if he thinks very hard at the universe to cut him some slack, perhaps all of this work will magically complete itself. That would be the dream.

Brr-brr.

Despairingly, Fox wonders why he had to have been decanted into the most annoying family in the entire kriffing galaxy.

Fox, who is running on approximately six hours of sleep across the last two days, cannot entirely be held accountable for what he says next:

Everything that happens after that is kind of a blur, because Fox’s commlink starts blowing up with so many messages that he shoves the entire thing under a pillow so he can concentrate on things that actually matter. By that evening when negotiations have adjourned for the day, he’s forgotten the conversation entirely.

This would be fine, except that as he and Thire are on their way out of the Senate building, Thire spots Kenobi discussing something with a senator and flags him down.

“What are you doing?” Fox hisses.

“I’m getting you a date,” Thire says. “You said you would, didn’t you?”

“I what?” Fox says, before abruptly remembering the stupid, stupid group chat conversation from last night. The group chat that way too many of his brothers are also in, who’ve all seen it by now. “Oh, kriff. That’s not--it was 0200, it doesn’t count!”

Thire slaps him on the back. “Of course it counts! Or are you saying you lied to all your brothers? You can’t follow through on your promises? Hmm?”

Fox hastily subdues the urge to strangle Thire as Kenobi greets them with a smile--and yes, perhaps there’s something charming to that smile, if Fox has to say something about it. “How can I help you gentlemen today?” he asks.

“Fox was wondering if you could go to dinner with him,” Thire says before Fox can shut him up. “He’s been working so hard, you know. He deserves a break.”

Kenobi looks at Fox up and down and says, “Well, I don’t disagree, but I think dear Fox would rather get some sleep right now than get dinner with me. You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

“I’ve slept a little,” Fox says defensively. “I just g-g--” he lets out a massive yawn, “--got some last night.”

“But not very much, I’d wager,” Kenobi says.

Fox can’t really dispute that, so he doesn’t.

“Well, if you’re really interested, I should be free tomorrow evening after my seminar. I was planning to visit a friend’s diner and I’d be happy to have you join me,” Kenobi replies. “If that sounds good to you, you can meet me then.”

“Great,” Thire says. “He’ll see you tomorrow.”

“There’s no pressure. You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Kenobi says, looking directly at Fox. “But if you are interested, I’ll be pleased to see you then.”

With that, Kenobi heads out, and Fox turns on Thire. “I will set you on fire,” he hisses. “I will shred all your clothes and fill all your pillows with pointy rocks.”

“Why are you so upset?” Thire asks, laughing. “I got you a date, didn’t I?”

“I don’t want to date Kenobi!” Fox says. “I already hear way too much about him from literally everyone! I don’t have time to moon over some random civilian!”

“Hey,” Thire says, serious now. “If you really don’t want to go on a diner date with Kenobi, you don’t have to. But honestly, he’s a nice guy, and you’ve been working yourself too hard. He’s not going to try anything you don’t want to do. Getting out of the Temple and eating dinner downtown wouldn’t be so bad, would it? Just go and have a good time. You don’t even have to try and actually kiss him or anything. Honestly, everyone knows you only said that because you’re an asshole between 2300 and 0700.”

“Don’t talk about your ori’vod like that. I can still kick your ass,” Fox mutters. Now that everything’s done for the day, he can really feel the floaty feeling in his head that means he’s been awake way too long.

“I learned it from you,” Thire says, grabbing Fox’s arm and supporting his weight. “Now come on, let’s get back to the Temple. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

This is how, twenty-some hours and one minor passing-out later, Fox finds himself at Kenobi’s side in a grungy diner in CoCo Town, wondering what he’s doing with his life.

“Kenobi!” a very large Besalisk, presumably the owner, shouts as they enter. He wraps Kenobi in what must be a very greasy four-armed hug. “I haven’t seen you in a long time! How have you been? How’s the kid?”

“Oh, you know. I’ve been busy as always. Boba’s great, though. Getting into more trouble than I ever did at his age,” Kenobi says.

“You should bring him here sometime,” Dex says, letting Kenobi go. “He’d love to try one of my sundaes--we got a new ice cream distributor about a month ago that’s much better than the last one.”

Kenobi laughs, a surprisingly pleasant sound. “If I bring him here, he’s never going to want to eat my cooking again, dear. Bail’s already been spoiling him rotten with sweets.“

“A little sugar never hurt anyone,” Dex says, grinning. “In any case, what would you and your friend like today? The private room?”

“The corner booth is fine,” Kenobi says. “And a copy of the menu for Fox would be good. As for me, you can surprise me with whatever you want tonight.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Dex says, reaching back for a laminated plastboard menu and handing it to Kenobi. He claps a hand on Fox’s shoulder. “Welcome to my diner, Commander Fox. Didn’t recognize you without the armor. Order whatever you like. Burgers, salads, noodles, soups, and anything between, I’ve got the best food in all of Coruscant.”

Fox is somewhat skeptical of that, but he nods and diplomatically replies, “I look forward to it.”

Dex disappears back into the kitchen, and Kenobi tugs him by the hand to the corner booth. It’s not very...nice-looking, even compared to the barracks canteen or the Temple refectory, but it’s clean and it gets the job done. His civvies will probably smell like grease for a week, but it’s not like he wears them very often anyways.

“Pick anything you’d like off the menu, it’s my treat tonight,” Kenobi says, handing over the menu. “If you have any questions, just let me know. I’ve had pretty much everything here.”

Fox looks at the menu. It’s three pages long, plus drinks, and he hasn’t heard of 90% of the things on it. There’s certainly no nutrient broth or protein cubes or fortified loaves or even the flavorful, if simple, meals the Temple tended to provide.

“This is all...a bit much, isn’t it?” Fox asks, flipping through the menu and seeing a bunch of words he’s never seen in his life. Conceptually, he knows what a burger is, but not what goes into it or what it tastes like or if he would enjoy it. Clearly, he should have done more research before he showed up here. “Are all diners like this?”

Kenobi looks at him for a long moment, then says, “Most of them are pretty similar, yes. Dex’s menu is a bit larger than you might find at other diners, but it’s nothing especially out of the ordinary. Have you not been to a restaurant before?”

With what time and money, Fox doesn’t say. He’s got a stipend from the Temple now, but he doesn’t see the point in going all the way out to the city to get food when there’s a perfectly good refectory right where he lives. It’s too much time and hassle for something as simple as food, especially when he’s got work to do, and he always has work to do. “The Kaminiise weren’t big on restaurants,” he says.

“I see,” Kenobi replies. “Then I suppose you’ll get to try something new today.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Fox says. He’s about five seconds away from slapping his finger down at random and ordering whatever he ends up pointing at. “Is there something here you would recommend?”

“Well, the nerfburgers are classic. You can’t really go wrong with them,” Kenobi says. “But if you don’t like foods that fatty, Dex makes very good grilled sandwiches and meal platters as well.” He goes on to explain the different kinds of foods offered, as well as the baffling concept of appetizers, main meals, sides, and desserts, and the extremely arbitrary difference between breakfast, lunch, and dinner foods because apparently natborns have nothing better to do than make food way more complicated than it needs to be.

In the end, Fox orders a regular nerfburger with stuffed mushrooms on the side. He doesn’t have any opinion on any of the food, but he figures that if he’s going to a place with a specialty exactly one time, he might as well get the specialty.

He hands over the menu to the droid waitstaff, then leans back in his seat and closes his eyes to wait. He’s feeling human again after his sixteen hour nap last night, but he’s hardly operating at optimal capacity. Vaguely, he hears Kenobi and Dex exchanging words at some point, but he’s clocked out enough that he doesn’t process any of it. Something more about food, it seems like. Probably not that important.

He feels a touch on the back of his hand and opens his eyes.

“Fox?” Kenobi asks, still grasping his hand.

Fox stares at it, Kenobi’s bare left hand over Fox’s right. He’s not sure he’s ever seen Kenobi take his gloves--or glove, since Kenobi’s right hand is still gloved--off before. “Huh?”

“The food’s here.”

“Oh,” Fox says, looking over at the two trays that have materialized on the table since he closed his eyes. There’s a very large round sandwich with a stick through the middle on his and a strange assortment of sliced meat and vegetables covered in blue sauce on Kenobi’s. It all smells...very good. “What is that?” Fox asks, pointing at Kenobi’s plate.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Kenobi says, taking a bite of it. “Braised grantaloupe over grilled yams and--oh.” He pauses to make a slightly obscene noise. “Oh, that’s good. I’ll need to get this recipe from Dex.”

“Does he...do that? Share recipes?” Fox asks, trying to spear one of his mushrooms with a fork.

“Dex and I share recipes when we can,” Kenobi replies, continuing his way through his food. “He taught me a lot about cooking when I first came to Coruscant. I think he was just worried I wasn’t feeding myself enough, and I spent a lot of time here anyways. There are worse things to base a friendship on.”

“You spent a lot of time in a diner?” Fox asks. The mushroom slips out from under his fork again.

“You can just pick those up with your hands. It’s a little easier that way,” Kenobi says. “And yeah, I spent some time here in my first few years in Coruscant. Not really intentionally--I just sort of...ended up here a lot of nights when I was out working, because I felt safe here.”

Fox can tell there’s a long explanation behind a statement that loaded, and he’s not nearly emotionally invested enough in this conversation to open that can of worms, so he says, “Okay.”

He takes another stab at his mushrooms with the fork, then gives up and picks one up with his fingers. It’s hot and surprisingly less oily than he thought it would be. It’s also...squishy, which is kind of weird. He puts it in his mouth. The mushroom cap is smooth and has some kind of mild oil-and-herb flavor to it, and then he bites down on it and something bursts out of the mushroom, spilling a strong spicy-and-salty flavor all over his tongue. He makes an abortive noise from the back of his throat as he chews on it. It’s soft, but it’s got a bite to it, too, and whatever was inside the mushroom isn’t exactly liquid, but something much thicker with small chunks of some kind of...vegetable?

Fox swallows. He’s not sure he likes it. There’s too many different textures and flavors for one piece of food, and it tastes more than anything he’s ever eaten. It tastes so much, in fact, that he can still taste it after he’s eaten it. Why would anyone want to taste their food after they’re done eating it?

“Not a fan of the stuffed mushrooms?” Kenobi asks.

Fox grimaces. “It’s fine. It’s just...a lot.”

“Ah, yes,” Kenobi says. “I think I remember Rex saying something similar the first time I treated him to lunch. I took him to a barbecue place and he’d never actually eaten the fatty part of a piece of meat before. It was a bit much for him--he nearly spat it out.” He pushes his basket of fried tubers towards Fox. “Here, try one of these--they’re a bit simpler.”

With some trepidation, Fox tries one of the tubers. It is, true to Kenobi’s word, simpler. It’s salty, the good kind of salty, and the tuber itself has a bit of crisp around the outside for a mild crunch. It is much better than the mushrooms.

“I usually dip mine,” Kenobi says, gesturing to a small cup of orange sauce next to the basket. “But you don’t have to.”

Well, Fox thinks, he’s already in this, so he might as well. He dips his next tuber into the sauce and tastes it. The sauce is...tangy and spicy, but also sweet. It mixes with the saltiness of the tuber in a way that’s strange, but not entirely unpleasant. He begrudgingly admits that maybe natborns are onto something with their ‘more than one flavor per food’ thing. Jury’s still out on the textures, though.

Slowly, Fox eats some more of the tubers, then works up the courage to try the burger. He takes a bite, and immediately, too many flavors hit him all at once. There’s saltiness and grease and some sweetness and a bit of pungent spice and it all balls together into something he can’t really distinguish, like mixing too many colors of paint together to make nothing but gray.

He peels the bun back to look at what the hell is in the sandwich. There’s bread, an extraordinarily thick meat patty, some sauce, two slices of what’s probably melted cheese, and some sliced vegetables including a large leaf, of all things. What a weird combination. He takes a second bite, and this time he’s able to make out a little bit more what the kriff he’s eating. The meat has a similar texture to protein cubes but without the graininess and it’s juicy, too, with an almost smoky undertone to the savoriness. The pungent taste seems to be from the sauce or some of the vegetables, with a sharp acidic taste he’s not too fond of, but is tolerable enough in small quantities. The bread is soft and airy and a little bit sweet with a kind of nutty flavor, and the leaf doesn’t seem to have much of a point besides being crunchy.

“How does it taste?” Kenobi asks.

“It’s not bad, I guess. Better than the mushrooms,” Fox says. He takes another bite. “The flavor kind of grows on you. The bread is good.”

“It is,” Kenobi agrees, reaching over to take one of Fox’s mushrooms. “I’m not a huge fan of the classic burger--nothing wrong with it, of course, but I usually get one of the other varieties. The one with the fried egg is one of my favorites.”

Fox wrinkles his nose. Who puts a fried egg on a sandwich? That just sounds like a mess. He’s already got too much grease on his hands as it is.

The two of them continue eating slowly. Fox makes no attempts at conversation, and Kenobi seems just as content to eat in silence. It is, to say the least, a little awkward.

When Fox finishes his burger--enjoying it more than he honestly thought he would--he reaches to take another tuber from the half-finished basket, then remembers abruptly that the tubers are Kenobi’s food, and it’s bad enough to have a date like this without saying a damn thing, but extra bad to keep eating someone else’s food when you’ve got plenty of your own.

Kenobi glances up and pushes the basket of tubers closer to him. “If you like them, feel free to eat them. I can always get more.”

But getting more means spending more money, and Kenobi’s already paying for this dinner, and it’s not like Kenobi has that much money to begin with--he’s a private investigator, after all, and one who sometimes goes weeks or months without a case. What kind of ungrateful asshole forces their date to order more food for them and doesn’t even pick up the tab? Fox isn’t some kind of freeloader, he’s better than that. He’s got money now, from the Temple, surely he should be able to--

Kenobi squeezes his hand. “Fox, are you okay?”

Fox is not okay. He feels dizzy. His stomach feels heavy. He’s not trained for any of this, he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. Why the hell did he think going on a date would be a good idea? Especially with a natborn? What was he trying to get out of this?

“Fox,” Kenobi says. “Fox. Take a deep breath. Come on, breathe in, breathe out.”

Fox takes a deep breath in. A deep breath out. His head still feels like it’s spinning.

Kenobi talks him through another few breaths, until the world doesn’t feel like it’s spinning anymore and Fox can string a thought or two together. The first of which is that Kenobi’s still holding his hand.

“Kenobi?” Fox asks.

“Yeah, that’s me. Obi-Wan Kenobi. We’re getting dinner at Dex’s,” Kenobi says. “You were panicking a little, there.”

“Sorry,” Fox says, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m not shiny, I should be able to manage stuff like this.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Kenobi says. “You’re not used to this kind of thing, are you? Being with strangers, going to restaurants. It’s natural to be nervous--it must be a lot to take in. We can leave, if you think that will help.”

Fox shakes his head. “I’m fine. I just...I’m fine.”

Kenobi pauses for a long moment, then says, “Okay. But if you don’t feel comfortable here, we don’t have to stay. Just let me know, and we can leave. We can even pack up the food and eat it somewhere else, if you want. I don’t mind.”

Even that softness feels weird. Wrong. Everything about a natborn trying to play nice to him feels off, and Fox knows something that sounds too good to be true when he hears it. He’s just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Kenobi watches him for a little while longer, taking a few bites of his meal in the meantime, then says, “Fox.”

“Yes, Kenobi?”

“Do you actually want to be here?” Kenobi asks. “I know your brother threw you into this. I assumed you genuinely wanted to get dinner with me when you showed up after my seminar, but I’ll be honest...I don’t think you’re enjoying yourself right now.”

Well, at least Kenobi’s detective work is useful for something, because he’s definitely right about that. Fox is pretty sure he’d like to be literally anywhere else right now, preferably alone in his room under a blanket with the lights off.

“Thire didn’t throw me into this,” Fox says. “I said something stupid and I had to follow through.”

“Oh?” Kenobi says.

“It’s...it’s so stupid. There’s so many vod’e that are nuts about you for whatever reason and they’re like, competing to see who can get you to kiss them first. It’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. But they haven’t shut up about it for weeks now, so I said I’d just do it myself, and--” Fox sighs. “I was tired, okay? It was dumb. I don’t actually want to be here.”

“I see,” Kenobi says, with absolutely no inflection.

“I’m sorry,” Fox says. “I didn’t just come out here to get free food off of you, I didn’t even come out here to get you to kiss me, because I don’t actually like you that much. I mean you’re fine, you’ve been nothing but professional all evening and that’s great, I just don’t care that much about you and hearing about you all the time gets on my fucking nerves. But as a person you’re fine. I’ll pay you back for the meal. I just want my brothers to shut up about you for a little while.”

“Hm,” Kenobi says. “Well, yes, I did notice your brothers’ interest in me. I don’t understand it myself, since I’ve been described as overly frank and difficult to get along with throughout my life, but I do enjoy spending time with new people, so I figured there wasn’t any harm in getting to know your brothers better. I guess that’s caused some trouble for you, hasn’t it?”

“It’s not trouble, it’s just annoying,” Fox says.

“Annoyance is still trouble. And all this over a kiss?” Kenobi replies. “Do you think it would actually work?”

Fox glances up at Kenobi. “Would what work?”

“If I kissed you,” Kenobi says. “That is what you meant when you said you would ‘do it yourself’, isn’t it?”

Fox opens his mouth, then closes it. “Are you offering to kiss me?”

“If you want. It’s just a kiss, isn’t it?” Kenobi replies. “I don’t really see the point of it, but I understand many people enjoy that sort of thing.”

“I don’t want to pressure you into this,” Fox says.

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t okay with it,” Kenobi says. “I can give you a kiss to satisfy your brothers, and then we can pack up our food and you can go back to the Temple for the night. Does that sound good to you?”

It does. It really, really does. Going back home to be alone and get some sleep without his brothers talking about stupid shit? The absolute dream right now. Fox nods.

“Okay,” Kenobi says.

He leans over the table and grasps Fox’s chin with his right hand. There’s an unmistakable hardness under the glove, and Fox realizes with a start the reason why Kenobi never takes his gloves off. Gently, Kenobi tilts Fox’s face to the side, and presses a kiss to his cheek. He lingers there for a long moment, long enough for Fox to register not only the soft press of lips to his skin, but the scratchiness of his facial hair and the faint scent of Kenobi’s shampoo. Just when Fox starts to find it’s not a bad sensation at all, Kenobi pulls away, smiling.

“I think that should do it,” Kenobi says. “I’ll go pay for our food and get some boxes so you can take the rest back to the Temple.”

Kenobi leaves the booth, and Fox slowly rubs his cheek where Kenobi had kissed him. It wasn’t bad. Just a little weird. He...wouldn’t mind doing it again, honestly.

His commlink buzzes in his pocket. With an increasing feeling of dread, he unlocks it.

Fox glares across the diner to where Hardcase must have snuck in to spy on him, as if all this date business wasn’t annoying enough on its own.

Brr-brr.

Fox sighs and locks his commlink again, ignoring its now-constant buzzing. Kenobi returns with a few boxes and a small flimsi bag.

“Here,” Kenobi says, handing one of the boxes to Fox. “I got an extra order of the tubers since you liked them, with a couple of different sauces you can try.” He scoops the remaining food into take-home containers, then stacks them all in the bag. “That should be everything. Come on, I’ll walk you to the Temple.”

The walk back is pleasant and mostly silent except for Fox’s commlink buzzing in his pocket non-stop. When they reach the Temple grounds, Kenobi waves him off. “Best of luck with your brothers,” he says.

“Yeah,” Fox replies. “It’s not looking so great, right now.” He unlocks his commlink for a moment to see that there are a hundred and twenty-six new messages in the stupid group chat. “The group chat’s been going non-stop since we left, and every time I try to leave, somebody adds me back in, and I can’t turn my notifications off in case someone actually important needs to contact me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. That’s hard to deal with,” Kenobi says. “Have you tried muting the group chat?”

Fox blinks. “Have I what?”

“Group chats have a mute function,” Kenobi says, glancing over Fox’s shoulder to the group chat that still hasn’t stopped moving. He taps a few menus, and Fox’s commlink stops buzzing. “Like that. So you won’t get notifications. That should help a bit.”

Fox stares at Kenobi, dumbfounded. “You’re telling me I could have muted this idiotic chat the whole time?”

“Yes, I suppose so, if that’s what your problem was,” Kenobi says.

Fox doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry, and settles for a wordless scream.