Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a Thursday.

Ewan McGregor was halfway through brewing his second cup of tea when the call came through—or rather, the alert.

Not a ring, not a pleasant “ping!” from his calendar, but the subtle thunk of his inbox syncing with an email flagged FCA–Priority Level 2 , followed immediately by a sterile text message from an unlisted number.

"McGregor. Your assistance is required at the London branch. Your presence is requested within the hour."

He stared at it. Then sighed.

“…Another one.”

With a resigned exhale, he set the kettle back on the counter. The first cup had barely cooled. He hadn’t even added the milk yet.

It wasn’t exactly uncommon anymore—this world, post-Rift, post-logic. Ever since the fictional bleed-throughs began, ever since characters began appearing in the real world—panicked, lost, half in costume, half in crisis—the world had scrambled to adjust. It started with one character in a remote town in Germany, a Shakespearean villain who’d mistaken a high school drama classroom for a battlefield. Then another in New York. Then Tokyo. Then everywhere.

By year three, there were containment protocols. By year five, there were departments. And by year ten, there was a global infrastructure devoted entirely to dealing with what the public now blandly called Narrative Events.

In the UK, the response came in the form of the Department of Fictional Affairs , or DFA —housed under the vaguely titled Ministry of Cultural Contingencies. Not that anyone called it that aloud. Most people in the industry—and even some outside it—just referred to them as The Agency , because it felt like a secret government body from a sci-fi movie. Which, in a way, it was.

Their headquarters were anonymous concrete slabs tucked behind high fences in cities like London and Manchester, complete with anti-surveillance tech and agents trained in both diplomacy and hand-to-hand combat. You never saw them in uniform. You never read about them online. But actors knew. Actors always knew. If you’d played someone who mattered —someone who might walk into this world by accident or force—you’d get the call eventually.

That’s where people like Ewan came in.

Actors were called when the character who arrived was too unstable, disoriented, or resistant to authority. In some cases, the presence of their actor helped them adjust: a mirror to ground them in reality, a familiar face to break the shock. Most characters responded well—some broke down in relief, others grew defensive, and a rare few… lashed out. But the logic was sound.

Who better to handle a fictional mind than the one who knew them from the inside out?

Over time, it became a rite of passage. Big franchises always saw the most appearances: fantasy heroes, brooding antiheroes, dead wives and warlords. And Marvel? Marvel had it the worst. There were three Loki variants that wandered into Prague within the same week once. At least two Peter Parkers had attempted to web-sling across real-world traffic. RDJ had to handle his version of Tony Stark—twice—and rumor had it they nearly got into a fistfight over ethics and alcohol.

Ewan, by comparison, was lucky. His characters—stoic Jedi, soft-spoken lovers, repressed priests—were manageable . Human. Containable. No powers, no mind-altering tech, no alternate timelines. Just a lot of heavy emotions and trauma-induced monologues.

He remembered the time he and Christian Bale were called in together because both their characters from Velvet Goldmine had appeared in the same alley in Soho. Christian’s character had nearly gotten into a bar brawl within twenty minutes. Ewan’s had tried to seduce the responding agents. That had been a long night. But weirdly, it had been the start of a quiet, steady friendship. They still texted every few months, joking that they shared joint custody of glam rock.

Actors bonded over things like that. You couldn't not get close to someone who’d also had to negotiate with a hallucinating version of themselves in a locked Agency room at 3 a.m.

And so Ewan counted himself lucky. No Kryptonians. No time-travelers. No roided-out Asgardians bursting through ceilings. Just men with trauma. With poetry. With robes. Sometimes with eyeliner.

But even in this increasingly surreal world, there were tiers. And the DFA never contacted you for Level 2 cases unless the character was emotionally volatile, potentially dangerous, or deeply confused. Especially if the character came from a violent narrative, or one that had trauma baked into the arc.

Jedi characters? Usually fine. A little solemn, a little cryptic, but manageable. He knew Obi-Wan inside and out. He could handle stoic, monk-like contemplation with one eyebrow raised.

But then his phone buzzed again.

Hayden.

Hayden: you’re gonna want to show up early.
Hayden: this one’s intense. we need to stick together on this.
Ewan: Who is it?
Hayden: Vader.

Ewan blinked.

Not Anakin.
Not Clone Wars era.
Not even the heartbroken, scorched version of Anakin Skywalker at the end of Revenge of the Sith.

Just: Vader.

Capital V. No further qualifiers. No ambiguity. No metaphor.

He stood there for a second, thumb hovering over the reply button, as a strange, hollow sort of chill worked its way down his spine.

There was a moment, a flicker, where he hoped Hayden was joking. But Hayden didn’t text like this when he was joking. Hayden’s joking texts included emojis. All caps. At least one meme. Sometimes an unsolicited photo of a pastry or his dog.

These were different.

They were short.
Dry.
Serious.

And that, more than anything, sent a ripple of unease through Ewan’s chest.

Vader.

The character was on the FCA’s high-priority watchlist. He had appeared once before— years ago , in the early days of the Rift phenomenon—and it had taken six Level 1 agents and a reinforced containment chamber to stabilize him before they could send him back. That time, no actor had been called . James Earl Jones had politely declined involvement, citing his age. Hayden wasn’t ready then.

But he was now, apparently.

Ewan took a breath, picked up his tea—still warm—and drank it all in one long, bracing gulp.

Then he set the mug down, pulled out his phone, and typed:

Ewan: You okay?

The reply came quickly.

Hayden: i will be
Hayden: just. please come. you’re the only one he fixates on
Hayden: he saw some of my memories
Hayden: before they could contain him

Ewan’s brow furrowed.

Ewan: …what memories?

There was a long pause.

Hayden: you.

Chapter Text

Ewan McGregor stepped through the heavy security doors with the air of a man who’d just walked into a very specific kind of trap. A familiar one. One with lightsabers, moral high ground, and the exact amount of emotional chaos he hadn’t had enough caffeine to deal with.

The doors sealed behind him with a hiss. Hayden Christensen was already waiting by the wall, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a golden retriever who had just discovered his ex was in the building.

Ewan, ever the voice of weary reason, spoke calmly but firmly. “Hayden. Why did you really request me?”

Hayden grinned like a teenager about to show off a prank that could get them both banned from Comic-Con. “Oh, you’re gonna love this.”

“I already don’t.”

“No, listen. You remember how Rift entries can sometimes cause a fictional to—like—absorb ambient memory data from their actor’s life?”

“Yes, you’ve said that three times in your text messages.”

“Well,” Hayden said, bouncing slightly on his heels. “This time, Vader got a big chunk . Right as he stabilized. Boom. Right into the Haydenverse.”

Ewan narrowed his eyes. “Define ‘chunk.’”

“Some con footage. Behind-the-scenes bloopers. A couple red carpet interviews. Us baking banana bread during lockdown.”

Ewan froze. “Oh no.” he then blinked. “ Banana bread? That was supposed to be private. ”

“To be fair,” Hayden said, raising a finger, “it was very wholesome. Very brotherly. But Vader took it weirdly. Started pacing around the holding cell like he was being haunted by scented candles and emotional availability.”

“Wonderful,” Ewan muttered. “So you called me to calm him down, I assume.”

Hayden’s grin sharpened into something far more unholy.

“Oh no,” he said. “I called you to ruin his day. ”

Ewan stared. “...I’m sorry, what?”

Hayden’s hands came out of his pockets as he gestured dramatically. “Look, I’ve spent years being called wooden. Whiny. The lesser Anakin. And now he shows up—peak Sith trauma, zero coping skills—and he sees how far I’ve come. I have a stable job, a working moral compass, and you. ”

Ewan looked skyward. “You’re not seriously trying to make Vader— Darth Vader —jealous.”

Hayden clapped his hands together once. “I am trying to make Darth Vader jealous. Of me. Because I still have my Obi-Wan and he has asthma and regrets.”

Ewan pinched the bridge of his nose. “You realize you’re talking about a man who threw people through windows for slightly disappointing him. ”

“Yeah, and he also fell into lava, so like. Karma’s got receipts.”

“This isn’t a good idea.”

Hayden’s voice dropped into something uncharacteristically honest. “Ewan. He looked at me like I was nothing . Like I was the failed version. The shadow. He called you his. ”

Ewan blinked.

“And I—” Hayden exhaled. “I needed you here so I could show him he’s wrong. That even without the Force, I’m the better version. Because I still have you.”

“…Are you trying to win a spiritual custody battle with yourself?”

“ Yes! ”

Before Ewan could respond, a red light flashed above the next chamber. A warning. Vader was stirring.

Hayden’s eyes gleamed. “It’s showtime.”

—

Vader was already pacing when they entered, the mechanical rhythm of his breathing echoing like a funeral march. His helmet turned the second Ewan stepped into view.

“Kenobi.”

The voice was rasping, hungry. Obsessive.

Then it shifted.

The helmet turned toward Hayden.

“Impostor.”

Hayden didn't flinch. He strolled into the room like he owned the place—and like the enormous Sith cyborg wasn’t bristling with more rage than an internet comments section.

“Sup, Lava Grandpa.”

Ewan audibly choked.

Vader’s breathing paused for a second. A long, suspicious pause. Then resumed—slower. Louder. Like someone holding back murder with mechanical effort.

“You mock me .”

“No,” Hayden said sweetly, “I embarrass you. There’s a difference.”

He threw an arm around Ewan’s shoulders like they were co-stars at a press junket and not standing ten feet from a homicidal son of the Force .

“This guy?” Hayden said, nudging Ewan. “Still in my life. Still sends me voice memos. Still tells me he’s proud of me.”

Ewan gave a little wave. “Hello,” obviously emitting the other word as to not make the killing machine more angry.

“You remain... unchanged,” Vader hissed.

Hayden beamed. “Unchanged and thriving. Did I mention Ewan sends me photos of his son? Sometimes in little Jedi robes?”

“ Hayden, ” Ewan said under his breath.

“No, no—this is working. ”

Vader’s fists clenched.

“You cling to weakness. To affection. To sentiment.”

“I cling to boundaries, thank you very much,” Hayden said, now pacing in front of the glass like a TED Talk speaker on emotional intelligence. “You know what I have that you don’t? Closure. And community. And access to a really good mental health app.”

Vader took a step forward—and was yanked back by the containment tether. Sparks flickered near the floor.

“I have no need of your peace.”

“Well, I do, ” Hayden said. “I live in a world where I’m not chained to vengeance and trauma. And guess what? It’s great. ”

He turned to Ewan, softening. “Tell him.”

Ewan sighed, defeated but game. “I send him soup recipes. We talk about our feelings. I care about him.”

“See?” Hayden said brightly. “That’s called support. ”

“You dare flaunt your weakness—”

“I dare flourish, ” Hayden cut in. “With hair, moisturized skin, and meaningful relationships.”

“You have no power,” Vader growled.

“I don’t need power,” Hayden said. “I have Ewan. ”

He pointed.

“I have Obi-Wan. You don’t. ”

Vader’s breathing pitched, spiking into a low mechanical snarl. The glass rattled.

“I would destroy you,” Vader hissed.

“You already did, one way or another,” Hayden replied. “But I got better. Without rage. Without hate. Without hurting anyone. With my Obi-wan by my side.”

He raised both arms in theatrical triumph.

“I win, Darth Hoodie.”

Chapter Text

The tether wasn’t meant to tear.
It was constructed from reinforced Force-dampening material—developed after that unfortunate incident when Sherlock Holmes broke the psychic lock by outthinking it mid-monologue. But the barrier wasn't built to handle a Sith Lord.

Especially not one who had just seen proof—raw, uncontested truth—that the man he hated most might have also loved him most.

The thread tore quietly. No alarms, no sparks, no cinematic explosion. Just a faint hum, a tremble, like a string on a cello fraying in the middle of a solo. Vader’s fingers curled, and the Force—ever hungry, ever cruel—took hold.

He reached. Not in rage. Not this time.
He reached with something he hadn't felt in years.
Desperation.

The Force bled open.

It wasn’t the same as it had been in his galaxy. Here, it moved differently, echoing through wires and wavelengths and data. It swam not just through life, but through signals, routers, fiber optics. It touched the digital. The imagined. The archived.

And so he saw.

Not just one moment, but dozens. Hundreds. He saw Ewan—his Obi-Wan—not just as a Jedi, but as an actor. Laughing with Hayden on set. Training. Sitting on couches and giving interviews, eyes creased with affection whenever Anakin’s name came up. He saw Hayden, too—shy at first, always watching Ewan like he held a map out of darkness.

And then he saw the scenes.

Memory. Not his, but lived through the man who portrayed him. Vader watched himself fall to the dark, rise again as a monster. But from behind the helmet, behind the prosthetics, there was him. Hayden, crying real tears beneath a mountain of makeup. Screaming Obi-Wan’s name with heartbreak instead of hatred.

And Ewan—always Ewan—looking back with pain. With regret. With love.

Obi-Wan had loved him. Even knowing his sins. Even knowing the end.

There were more. Scenes he never lived, but others imagined.

The Force tugged him further.

A portal—not quite a Rift, not quite reality—opened. A different kind of Force ghost whispered to him now, in HTML and tags.

He stared.

#Obikin
#AnidalaKenobi
#fix-it AU
#hurt/comfort
#slowburn

Fiction. Written about him. About them.

Thousands. Tens of thousands.

In these stories, Obi-Wan held him in Mustafar’s ash and whispered apologies. In these stories, Anakin never fell. In some, Obi-Wan fell instead, and Anakin came back for him. In many, they were in love. In a few, they were happy.

In almost all of them, Obi-Wan chose him.

He blinked beneath the mask. A thousand fan-written voices screamed the thing he’d been too afraid to say, even at the height of his fall:

He was never unloved.

But the Force was not gentle with truth. As he reached out for more—

The alarms blared.

Lights cut through his awareness. The barrier sealed. And the last thing he saw was a tagged fic titled “He Never Stopped Calling You Anakin.”

Darkness pulled him under.

No alarms. No restraints. Just a faint hum. The cool sterility of the Agency chamber. And… a presence.

One he recognized instinctively. Always. Even now.

“Kenobi,” Vader rasped.

Ewan McGregor sat calmly in the room with him, no glass barrier, no handlers, no protocol. The security team had argued, of course. But he’d insisted. There were moments, he’d told them, that needed truth, not interference.

He rose from his chair.

“Anakin,” he said gently.

The voice was quiet. Not Obi-Wan. Not exactly. But close enough.

Vader didn’t speak. Just stared, breathing slightly uneven.

“You saw it,” Ewan said. “Didn’t you?”

Vader said nothing. But his head tilted, ever so slightly. The echo of yes.

“Then I won’t insult you by denying it.”

Ewan stepped closer, until only a few steps separated them.

“I played him as a man weighed down by failure. Guilt. But underneath all of that, he loved you. He didn’t know how to say it. Not then. But he loved you.”

The mechanical wheeze faltered. “He… knew?”

Ewan nodded. “About Padmé. Your marriage. Everything. He never told the Council. He never would have. He protected you.”

Silence. Then—

“Why?”
The word cracked like a dying star.

“Because he thought you were worth protecting.”

Ewan took another step. His voice softened. “Because you were his family. Because he was too proud to say it. Because maybe he believed that if he loved you enough, it would be enough to stop the fall.”

The room was still.

“Obi-Wan was a man full of sorrow,” Ewan said. “But not because he lost the war. Because he lost you.”

He stopped just in front of him.

And slowly—against every Agency regulation, every breach protocol—Ewan reached up. Unlatched the mask. Slid it off.

Beneath the helmet, it was still Hayden’s face. Burned. Scarred. But his. The same eyes. The same mouth. The man who never got to heal.

Ewan leaned forward. Kissed his cheek.

“Be at peace,” he whispered. “You are loved.”

Something cracked. Not a sound. Not armor.

Something inside.

Vader didn’t speak. But a single tear—real, human, impossible—slipped from the corner of his eye.

He began to fade.

Not violently. Not like the villains do.

Gently. Like mist in morning light.

As he disappeared, he turned.

And there, standing in the doorway, was Hayden.

“You came,” Vader murmured.

Hayden folded his arms, half-smirking. “Wouldn’t miss your meltdown for the world.”

“You were right,” Vader said. “He’s mine.”

Then he vanished.

Leaving only silence.

And two men—two versions of one legend—standing in the place he left behind.

Chapter Text

Ewan was halfway through his morning tea—again—when his phone vibrated.

DFA. Priority Level 3.
Actor Assistance Requested: McGregor, Ewan.
Location: London Headquarters.
Note: Immediate debrief required.

He stared at the message. Then at the tea. Then sighed deeply into his mug like a man being asked to babysit a lightsaber-wielding war criminal. Again.

“Every time,” he muttered. “Every bloody time I warm the kettle.”

—

By the time he arrived at the Department of Fictional Affairs, he wasn’t surprised to see Hayden Christensen already there. But something was off.

There was no bouncing knee. No jokes. No 'Oi, mate, you won’t believe this one.' Just Hayden. Still. Pale. Staring at his hands like he’d just been told he accidentally proposed to his alternate self in front of a galactic Senate.

Ewan didn’t even get a chance to speak before the door opened again.

And in walked George Lucas.

The George Lucas.

The Creator.

The Bearded Godhead of all things Star Wars, entering in the briefing room like a man who’d just watched his life’s work rewritten in real time.

He looked like a man who’d seen the timeline collapse and was trying to file it under “mild inconvenience.”

“George?” Ewan said slowly. “Did they summon you too?”

George didn’t answer. Just walked to the table, dropped a thick, battered manuscript onto it, and sat down with the sigh of someone whose children had turned into gods.

An agent stepped forward and cleared her throat. “There’s been… an event.”

“That sounds like code for ‘fanfiction broke reality again,’” Ewan muttered.

The agent didn’t deny it.

George opened the manuscript with almost reverent fingers. “My original handwritten draft,” he murmured. “From 1975. Untouched. Stored in a vacuum-sealed vault beneath the Skywalker ranch. And now... it’s changed.”

Ewan squinted at the page. “What changed?”

George didn’t look up. “You stayed.”

Ewan blinked. “I—what?”

Hayden finally made a noise. It was somewhere between a snort and a gasp. “You—Obi-Wan stayed, mate.”

The laugh that followed was not cute. It was not charming. It was the laugh of a man unraveling in real time.

Hayden slapped the table. “Anakin asked Obi-Wan to stay—then dragged him to Mustafar—and he did. He didn’t go after Grievous. Didn’t leave. He stayed. And now? He killed Sidious, didn’t wipe out the Jedi, declared himself Emperor, and—oh this is the best part—he’s keeping the Jedi alive as long as they swear fealty to his ‘New Order.’ Also, uh, you’re his other consort.”

“I’m sorry—his what?”

“Co-ruler. Life partner. Galactic snuggle-buddy. Take your pick.”

Before Ewan could explode in defense of his dignity, the door opened again.

Dry. British. Furious.

“Yes, what the kriff is going on?” snapped a familiar voice.

Everyone turned.

Standing in the doorway was Obi-Wan Kenobi—Rots-era, eyes dark with sleep deprivation and betrayal, cloak dusty with soot and marital disillusionment.

Ewan groaned. “Oh, bloody hell.”

Obi-Wan stormed into the room like a man who had just survived three assassination attempts and a surprise marriage proposal—all before breakfast. “First he weeps on Mustafar and declares our bond eternal, then kisses me like he’s sealing a Jedi-Sith treaty with his kriffing tongue! And now he’s abducted me into some polyamorous political nightmare! And Padmé’s fine with it?! She even gave me an official title—‘the carer,’ apparently—while she and Anakin rule the galaxy, and then asks me to name the twins! What am I supposed to be? A glorified nanny in silk robes?!”

George blinked. “I… didn’t write that part.”

“No, but apparently someone on AO3 did,” the agent said grimly, flipping through her datapad. “There are over ten thousand and four hundred fics tagged with 'VaderWan', 'Obikin', ‘Sith Emperor Anakin x Jedi Captive Obi-Wan.’” She paused. “Subtag: ‘Unwilling Spouses to Ruling Partners Slow Burn.’”

Hayden wheezed into his sleeve.

“Oh, and you,” Obi-Wan snapped at him, “you’re no help. Laughing while I get robed in silk and forced to share a throne with Skywalker and Amidala.”

“Technically,” the agent said, “you requested silk robes. Said you were tired of burlap.”

“That’s beside the point!”

Ewan slumped into the nearest chair. “This is beyond multiverse breach. This is fanfiction manifesting as constitutional law.”

Obi-Wan collapsed into the seat beside him. “I’ve survived Sith Lords, clones, and Maul. But I will not survive domestic bliss with Anakin Skywalker.”

Hayden was crying from laughter now. “You guys should read the comments section. My favorite one just says, ‘Anakin saw Obi-Wan in those silk robes and unlocked his villain arc for good.’”

The agent sighed. “And the worst part is… the Rift’s still open.”

Ewan looked up. “You mean this timeline—this… this AU—is stable?”

“Not just stable,” the agent said. “It’s the dominant continuity in at least three adjacent realities. The fic energy is too powerful. Canon is bending around it.”

“Force help us,” Obi-Wan whispered.

“Oh, one more thing,” she added.

George flinched.

“You’re legally married.”

“To whom?!” Obi-Wan and Ewan said in unison.

“Each other,” the agent said. “And to Anakin. The ceremony took place in a crossover Rift. Witnessed by Yoda and a wedding officiant named ‘Drarry_Trash.’ The vows were crowdsourced on Tumblr.”

Silence.

"So it's canon now?"

"Yes."

Then:

Hayden slid under the table, howling.

And somewhere, across time and fandom space, a version of Anakin Skywalker—robed in black and crowned in light—sat on his throne, his wife at one side, their children in her arms—asking where their third is as she looks at the other throne to his left conspicuously empty.

He leaned back and whispered:

“I told that imposter I’d win.”