It was the smell of the Temple gardens that made it feel the most real, he thought. The sky was too blue, the grass too soft, the air too peaceful, but the smell – earthy and sweet, nothing like the harsh chemical scent of Coruscant, or even the clean, ancient smell of the Temple itself – was exactly right, dredged up from his memories with an odd, persistent clarity.

He knew it was just a dream, though. He hadn't had the time or inclination to meditate in the gardens for years and years, now, and the small hand that rested in his hadn't belonged to a child for just as long.

He'd forgotten, somehow, that Anakin's hands – hand, now – hadn't always been rough with callouses, stained with oil and blood. That once they had been soft and smooth and small. He'd been so unused to sitting still, when he'd first arrived at the Temple, could hardly bear not to fidget, not to move, fingers always shifting restlessly in the grass, in the carpet, in the fabric of his trousers. Meditation, for him, was an exercise in torture. Obi-Wan had finally given up, abandoned the traditional teaching methods and given him a hand to hold instead, a firm, unyielding grip and a current through which to find the Force and anchor it.

"The light – let it flow through you, so that you may find peace. Can you feel it now, Anakin?" Like a river, Qui-Gon had always explained it to him. A river washing over stone. The words he spoke now, an odd, half-remembered echo of words he'd spoken long ago, felt stilted even still. Perhaps because they hadn't been his own. He'd been dreadfully uncertain, back then. Unsure of his own ability to teach, mired in grief that he dared not speak of, daunted by the task that lay in front of him.

Anakin, hair short and spiky, eyes closed, face twisted in concentration, hand clamped around Obi-Wan's, tilted his head as he sought to do as Obi-Wan asked. His shoulders finally slumped, eyes opening to glare half-heartedly at a spot in the grass in front of him.

"No," came the frustrated reply, tone as familiar as breath, his disappointment twisting the Force. "I can't – I can't make my brain just stop, Master." Blue eyes met his own, pleading for some measure of understanding but uncertain of how much they would get. "There's too much going on."

It was just a dream, so the garden surrounding them was blurry around the edges, the boundaries undefined in the way that dreams often were. But Obi-Wan remembered – it had been absolutely deserted, perfectly quiet. Even the halls adjacent to the garden had been emptied of people. He had understood, then, for perhaps just a moment, how Anakin's gift might in some ways be more of a burden. Wondered how loud and overwhelming the world might seem to a child that could sense the life in everything, feel the Force pulse in all things, without knowing what to do with it. Without knowing how to make it quieter.

"That's what meditation is for, Padawan," he said. "To help you find clarity. To help you be at peace."

His expression was probing now, curious. Sympathetic, even. Obi-Wan remembered this as well. He'd never been able to hide anything from Anakin, especially back then, when the idea of mental boundaries, privacy of thought, had been an unknown and unfortunately novel concept. As a young child he'd had an uncanny knack for getting to the root of all the things Obi-Wan wanted least to acknowledge.

"Are you at peace, Master?"

The garden shook, ever so slightly. Its edges shimmered. Obi-Wan looked away.

"A Jedi is always at peace."

Anakin, hair catching in the sun, continued on, as if Obi-Wan hadn't spoken. "I don't think I can ever be at peace," he said conversationally, standing up even as the ground began to shake underneath them. "You tried to teach me how to let go, and maybe you thought I could, but I can't. I can't let go, and so I'll never find peace. You should have known that, probably."

Obi-Wan's brows drew together. This wasn't his memory any longer. The hair on the back of his neck rose on end. The ground continued to shake, dirt rising from the grass, the trees around them rattling, leaves falling.

Anakin turned to look at Obi-Wan, his tunic, too long for him in the arms, ruffling in the sudden breeze. The smell of smoke filled the air, stung the inside of his nostrils. Anakin's voice was softer, but somehow it still carried. "I thought you would have known that."

The ground broke apart with a groaning, heaving shudder and there was a chasm between them now, belching smoke and flame and glowing with an unearthly red. Lava spat at Obi-Wan's feet, burnt holes in the bantha-hide of his boots. He stepped back, alarmed.

"I do know," he said, voice unsteady. It was only a dream. His subconscious was not so beholden to the Jedi Code – he could be forgiven the slight tremble in his voice. For the clench in his heart. "I do know, Anakin, better than you think. I regret," the words stuck in his throat, even in this nonspace, where no one would hear them,"I regret what I did. It wasn't my intention to - to hurt you. I'm sorry." The words felt slightly hollow. Useless.

He would never be able to say them where they might be heard. It wasn't their way.

Anakin stared at him, cutting a small silhouette against the fury of red and orange spitting flame and smoke in front of him. Sparks jumped at his face, left red, angry welts where they fell on his young, unblemished cheek. He didn't react. "Well," he said matter-of-factly, fire licking at his boots, climbing up the leg of his too-long trousers, padawan braid swinging in the wind, "how would I know?"

Obi-Wan startled awake, cold sweat gathered on his brow, phantom smoke lingering in his nose. The grey of early morning trickled in from the window. On the table beside him, his chrono began to beep.

He turned it off with the Force (frivolous, a voice inside his head muttered) and sat up, blanket – only one, despite the relative coolness of his quarters – pooling by his knees. He scrubbed a hand tiredly down his still-beardless face, relishing even the small amount of stubble that now graced it, and reached down for his boots. He was still wearing the tunic he'd changed into yesterday, but saw little reason to take it off. It was Anakin's turn to do laundry, which meant it probably hadn't been done.

And now almost certainly wouldn't be done, he thought with an internal sigh. Passive-aggressive neglect of vital household tasks was one of Anakin's favoured methods when it came to expressing his displeasure without actually talking about it. Though when it came to Anakin, passive-aggressive was typically preferable to the alternative.

Obi-Wan's hand itched to scrub down his face again, but he refrained, missing his beard intensely. He wasn't entirely certain the displeasure was justified, though he was sympathetic enough to Anakin's plight. He'd thought that perhaps their duel against Count Dooku had smoothed things over between them, but he had hardly seen or spoken to Anakin since and their discussion prior to the duel hadn't exactly been...friendly. He hadn't had time to think much on it at the time, the certainty that he had missed something (and the certainty that he'd made the right decision, that he'd done his duty, that he hadn't horribly miscalculated) enough to push any thoughts of Anakin's words, his handling of the situation, to the back of his mind. Where they had evidently stayed, and stewed.

But it was far too early to ruminate. At the very least, he needed a cup of tea first. Rising, knees protesting the movement far too much, he walked to the kitchen area, where he could hear Anakin clanging around, the smell of caf wafting through the eerie stillness of early morning. It was hearteningly familiar, after everything that had happened. He avoided the fresher entirely, wanting to avoid (vainly, he knew) seeing his head free of hair, knowing the spiky bit of stubble that now covered it likely looked as ridiculous as it felt. The transformation chamber did wonders on the actual structure of the body, but cared little for replacing actual hair. He wondered fleetingly if there was some method of making it grow back faster.

"Good morning," he said quietly as he passed by his former apprentice, slumped in a chair, a cup of caf steaming inches away from his fingers. The Force felt thick, heavy, gathered like a storm cloud around him. This, coupled with the flash of golden hair in the corner of his eye, brought the disturbing image of a younger Anakin, staring ahead calmly as he slowly caught fire, to the forefront of his mind. He banished it ruthlessly, headed for the box of tea kept beside the stove.

"'Morning," Anakin replied in kind, after a beat, voice hoarse. Obi-Wan turned, tea in hand, frowning.

"You look terrible," he commented, an echo of Anakin's own words to him, and it was the truth. He'd noticed before, of course, on Naboo. Before that, even, when they'd met and fought. He'd been slightly horrified at how easily he'd been able to gain the upper hand; he knew that Anakin at full strength would be at the least an even match. But his apprentice was as gaunt and pale as he'd been then, eyes sunken, jaw clenched. Corpse-like.

The irony wasn't lost on him.

"At least I don't look like a shaved womp-rat," Anakin shot back, taking a sip of caf with a shaking hand. It was a take on their usual insult-filled exchanges, usually a hallmark of their comradeship, but today it held the slightest edge, lacked the warmth that dulled the impact. Obi-Wan felt heat rise in his cheeks, all the more visible, he was sure, because of his lack of beard. He fought it back. Jedi cared not for appearances.

"You ought to take better care of yourself," he chided, ignoring the jab. "Did you sleep last night?" He hadn't bothered to look in on him, the sheer disorderliness of Anakin's sleeping quarters enough to set his teeth on edge, ruin his sleep. They'd both been exhausted by the previous day's events. He'd assumed his friend had gone straight to bed soon after their return to Coruscant.

"No," Anakin said, after a moment, resignedly. He was too tired to lie, then. "I was – out."

Out. That could mean any number of things, none of them good, none of them anything Obi-Wan wanted to know about – but Anakin's bangs were curly with dried sweat, a single, surreptitious scrape dusted along his cheek that had been free of blemish yesterday. It mingled with the scent of caf, but now that Obi-Wan knew what to look for he could detect the unmistakeable whiff of motor oil, staining Anakin's sleeve, dried onto his boots. Pod-racing. Not the worst thing his young – former – apprentice could have been doing in the depths of Coruscant's underworld, but not the best.

Reckless, he thought, foolhardy, and some of it must have shown in his face or leaked out into the Force. Anakin's expression hardened, knuckles whitening around the cup in his hand.

"Not that it's any of your business," he said coldly, rising to dispose of his cup. It clattered loudly in the sonic dishwasher. Not that you care, he didn't say.

"Anakin," Obi-Wan began, though he was uncertain of what exactly might come after.

"I'm training with Ahsoka today," he interrupted. Obi-Wan was almost glad for it. "If the Council asks," and there was a hint of sneering indignation in his voice where there hadn't used to be, some dark seed planted that couldn't be unearthed, "you can tell them I'll have my report to them by tomorrow."

He turned and stalked out, cloak trailing behind him, door closing with an anticlimactic 'snik'. Obi-Wan, box of tea in hand, sank into the chair opposite the one he had vacated, hand over his eyes.

"Blast," he muttered.

From that point, his morning did not improve, exactly, but it did not significantly deteriorate either. He would take it.

"Too young, look you, to be so tired," Yoda teased, when they met, later, outside the Council chambers where he had been summoned. "More of your face, we have not seen since you were Knighted."

"Yes, well," Obi-Wan said in reply, again fighting against the blood so determined to rush to his cheeks. He knew he looked ridiculous. It was a testament to the Jedi Code (and, perhaps, his military reputation) that he had heard no muffled snickering on his journey through the Temple. If Anakin had been in a better mood, he felt sure that there would have been unflattering and surreptitiously taken holos to document the experience. "I'm hopeful that the situation can soon be...remedied."

"Care more for what is inside than what is outside, we do," Yoda said sternly, the tone of voice so familiar that Obi-Wan instinctively moved to avoid the rap of gimer stick that so often accompanied it. "Abeard does not a Jedi Master make."

"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan said hastily. "Of course."

Yoda looked at him carefully, inscrutable as always, though Obi-Wan caught what he thought was a hint of kind amusement through the Force. "Gathering, Separatist forces are, in Mandalorian space. Needed there, you are." He hmmed thoughtfully, leaning on his stick. "General Skywalker and his padawan. With you, they will go."

Obi-Wan nodded, resigned, though a spark of something that was not quite anger momentarily lit his chest. He fought it back, knowing Master Yoda would be able to sense it, knowing he had no right to complain. They were at war. It didn't matter if they were tired, didn't matter if they'd only just returned, didn't matter that the last task set by the Council (yes, but you agreed) had broken something in them. "Yes, Master," he said. "Will there be a briefing?"

"Later," was all the master said. "Commed, you will be."

"Then I take my leave," Obi-Wan said, bowing politely. Master Yoda nodded and shuffled away, down the hallway. Obi-Wan was left alone, the doors to the Council chambers looming beside him. The greyness of dawn had slowly melted away into a pleasantly sunny morning, a patch of sunlight warming his foot and his mood. Sunlight was good for the soul – or so he had heard. From Qui-Gon, most likely. He had always been full of unorthodox advice, most of which had gone in one ear and straight out the other, to Obi-Wan's eventual regret. But the frequency of its deliverance meant that some of it had been bound to stick.

Unbidden, he found himself heading towards the garden, unable to rid himself now of the desire for sunshine. The path he took was familiar – he had adored the garden as a youngling, enjoyed it still as a young man. It was easier to find stillness, there, amongst the plants, living but quiet. He hadn't been since the war, but the dream, however disturbing, had reminded him.

He wondered if Anakin remembered, sitting in the grass for hours, searching for peace. Wondered if he thought back on it fondly.

The garden wasn't empty this time, like it so often was. It was the middle of the day, the middle of the week (or at least he thought – keeping track of days, weeks, months, it was difficult on the front, and even harder back at the Temple, constantly bouncing from mission to mission). Masters roamed the fountain in the middle serenely. He caught sight of a class of padawans learning about plants, a gaggle of younglings being lead delightedly through the flowers.

The smell hadn't changed. He breathed in deeply, found a patch of grass beside a grand Nubian oak and sat. Sunlight warmed his back. He stayed for the rest of the morning, eyes closed, mind carefully blank. Eventually, he moved under the shade of the oak, not wanting to burn to a crisp under the midday sun. He found stillness. Calm.

But not peace.

Eventually his knees reminded him that he was not so young anymore that he could spend half the day on the ground with his legs crossed, and his chrono beeped to remind him of the briefing he was bound to be summoned for. It would be wise to dine early, rather than wait until after. He did so, though he got no joy from it.

The briefing, called much later in the evening, was short, not least because both Anakin and Ahsoka were quite conspicuously not there.

"Are we surprised?" he thought he heard Master Windu mutter to Master Gallia, who huffed lightly in agreement. Obi-Wan wasn't in the mood to spring to their defence. Irritation that was doing its best to edge into worry was lodging in his throat. The sun had long set and he hadn't caught so much as a glimpse of Anakin since the early morning.

Yoda seemed less concerned, for reasons that were beyond both Obi-Wan and the rest of the Council.

"Inform them, you will, of our instructions," he said mildly, face unreadable. "Act cautiously, you must. Engage the enemy unnecessarily you must not."

"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan said, bowing, face grim. Another day, another front, another set of vague instructions that they would very likely have to disobey.

He had a bad feeling about this.

Turning to leave the chamber, he suppressed a yawn with difficulty, joints aching with tiredness. Perhaps the bad feeling could wait until he'd had a proper rest – they wouldn't be leaving until later the next day.

Anakin wasn't in their quarters, either, and he wasn't answering his comm. Typical. It was anyone's guess where he and Ahsoka had gotten off to – though Obi-Wan had a sneaking suspicion that a guess would be unnecessary.

It was their pattern, he thought tiredly as he prepared for sleep. Upset each other, avoid each other, until it all boiled over into something worse than what it had been. Or, more lately, since the war, until they were forced to set aside their differences in the name of the Republic, swallow down their grievances and fight together.

He wasn't sure how much longer it could last.

Tired despite his concerns, he fell uneasily into sleep, stomach churning, head aching. It was remorse, he thought irritably as he drifted off, that had lodged itself into his chest and refused to leave. Remorse he didn't want to feel, remorse that he had no room for. Remorse that fuelled his dreams. He would have to meditate on it.

He woke to grey, watery light washing in from the window, tangled in his blanket, throat sour, covered in sweat. He could hear muted conversation from the kitchen, feel Ahsoka's bright and spiny presence in the Force. Wherever they had been, they were back. The relief he felt was tinged with annoyance.

He scrubbed a damp towel over his face briefly, still avoiding the 'fresher mirror, washing away the tacky feeling of dried sweat, and made his way over to the kitchen area. Ahsoka was seated at their kitchen table, a cup in hand, bags under her eyes, Anakin slumped in the chair at her left. They both reeked of oil and sweat and caf and clearly hadn't slept. Annoyance blossomed into outright reproach, on Ahsoka's behalf. Irresponsible. Dangerous. Obi-Wan didn't bother with pleasantries.

"I see you've taken to dragging your apprentice along with you into Coruscant's underbelly," he said in greeting, pouring himself a cup of caf. He preferred tea, but only when he was in the mood to truly savour it. This was not that moment. "Tell me, what part of the approved padawan learner curriculum does 'illegal pod-racing' fall under?"

The Force grew sharp in response.

"That's not exactly -" Ahsoka began, clearly uncomfortable. A nervous hand twisted in her padawan beads.

Beside her, Anakin took a long sip of caf, eyes dark. The scrape on his cheek was a livid, angry red against the pallor of his skin. "It's fine, Ahsoka," he said measuredly, though with a noticeable edge. "You don't owe him any excuses. If the great Jedi Master wants to jump to the wrong conclusions, then that's his problem."

Ahsoka swallowed uneasily and took a sip of her own caf, foot tapping restlessly on the floor. Any other master would likely have rid her of the habit ages ago – Jedi did not fidget. Like master, like padawan, Obi-Wan thought resignedly, feeling a rush of affection for the both of them that nonetheless failed to curb his reproach. It was typical for Anakin to act out when he felt he'd been wronged, for him to fling himself headfirst into danger, heedless of the consequences, to escape addressing the problem at hand. He'd done it often enough when he'd still been Obi-Wan's apprentice. But Ahsoka's participation in the reckless charade was new, and entirely inappropriate. This had gone on long enough - did they not understand that he was living, breathing in front of them? He had done his duty, and he was alive after all. That should have been the end of it. He'd expected - not celebration, perhaps, but certainly something more than the cold shoulder he was receiving. The aberrant recklessness, the cloying thickness of the Force. It was like they were still in mourning.

He wasn't sure what to do about it.

"If you have another explanation for your prolonged absence and the fact that our kitchen floor is stained with oil, I'd be delighted to hear it," he said mildly, arms crossed. "Perhaps the Council would be delighted to hear it, too. You missed a briefing."

Ahsoka blanched, fingers scrabbling for her commlink, though Anakin gave no sign that he was bothered. She inspected it carefully and sighed. "Comm was turned off," she muttered. "Sorry, Master."

"Not your fault, so was mine," Anakin said, face tight. "It's not like it's the first time."

"I fail to see how that fact reflects favourably on you," Obi-Wan stated.

"Well, as long as it doesn't reflect unfavourably on you, then you have nothing to worry about, right Master?"

"Much as you'd like to deny it, everything you do reflects back on me, unfortunately for the both of us -"

"Um -" Ahsoka interrupted, standing up abruptly. Please stop fighting, she didn't say, though the Force was tense and twisted with the sentiment. "Master, I should – I'm gonna – go," she finished lamely, desire to leave painfully transparent.

Anakin's eyes momentarily stopped boring holes into Obi-Wan's forehead. He frowned and turned to her. "Sure, Snips. Get some breakfast."

Her eyes narrowed, momentary timidness vanishing. "Only if you do too."

"Sure, sure. Set some toast aside for me."

"If you're not there in ten minutes, I'll come right back here and throw it at you," she said, with heat but no malice. "Master," she tacked on, perhaps feeling Obi-Wan's vague reproval through the Force.

Obi-Wan watched a brief, fond smile flit across his former apprentice's face. "Go," he said, "before someone takes the last of the porridge. I'll be there."

Mollified, she bowed to Obi-Wan politely (if brusquely) and left, without the usual spring in her step. Anakin turned his gaze back on Obi-Wan, smile gone.

"You really think I'd take my padawan pod-racing?" he asked, tone biting. "You think I'd ever willingly put her in danger like that?"

"I don't know what to think, Anakin," Obi-Wan replied, tone carefully measured, "You were pod-racing the other night, don't try to deny it. It was the logical leap."

Though in hindsight, he had to admit that perhaps his initial impression had been mistaken. Anakin, to Obi-Wan's ever present chagrin, didn't care overly about harm incurred to himself, but he was almost pathologically obsessed with keeping the people he cared about safe. Ahsoka might have followed him, might have even enjoyed the sport herself – they were a heartbreakingly reckless pair – but he would never have knowingly put her safety at risk.

"Logical leap -?" But it was too late for Obi-Wan to recant. He was truly angry now, though the source ran much deeper than their current squabble. Obi-Wan bit his tongue and resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "Fine," Anakin spat. "You want to know what happened? We went to Dex's for dinner. I thought – Ahsoka deserved something fun. It's been – difficult," and that was a half-hearted glare being levered in his direction, his heart twisting in knots, did your duty, "for her lately. She raised some ideas about how we might improve the efficiency of the Twilight's engine, which I agreed with, but we needed a rare part. I – I know a guy, in the underground. He had what we needed, so we took it back to the Temple hangar and lost track of time. By the time we got out of the engine, it was almost dawn." His jaw clenched, eyes mutinous, face bloodless. "You can ask the hangar technician if you don't trust me. He was there."

Well. It explained the oil. And though spending the entire night in the bowels of a star fighter was a slightly ridiculous excuse, it rang with truth. Meditation, he thought, had never done any good for the likes of Anakin and Ahsoka – they had to fix things, make them better. Work through their problems with a wrench.

If only he understood what those problems were.

"You might have commed me," he said finally. "Or kept your commlinks on, for that matter." I was worried.

"Like I said," Anakin ground out. "We lost track of time."

"Alright, then," Obi-Wan conceded, not wanting to argue any more. He thought, achingly, of the garden. "We're shipping out later today, to Mandalorian space. Stealthily, so we'll have to take the long way. I'll send you the briefing notes." Anakin nodded in acknowledgement, stood, swayed. Obi-Wan moved forward, but a stubborn glare stopped him in his tracks. Anakin grabbed the table instead. A fine sheen of sweat coated his brow. "Anakin," Obi-Wan said quietly, worry burrowing a hole in his gut. He didn't know how to fix this. "Are you quite alright?"

A tick of the jaw. The silence was too thick, too tense. "Yeah," he said eventually.

Obi-Wan swallowed. "Would you like to - if you – that is, if you want to – to talk -"

Anakin stared at him. Blue, bloodshot eyes met his own, searching for something they didn't find. "What's there to talk about?" he asked finally, tiredly, without the provocation Obi-Wan might have expected. The fight had gone out of him, for the moment. Obi-Wan blinked and didn't understand. Anakin's expression flattened. "I'll see you on the Resolute, Obi-Wan."

"Right," Obi-Wan said as his former apprentice turned and fled unsteadily. "That's – right." He sank against the wall, arms crossed. Caf and motor oil wafted under his nose.

Blast.

If he'd thought being confined together with the two people in the galaxy who seemed to want the least to do with him in a finite, metal deathtrap might have contributed positively to his rapidly deteriorating mood, Obi-Wan, three days into their long, clandestine sojourn through the galaxy's hyperspace backwoods, was being proven sorely wrong, slowly but surely. Even the slight chance of coming into contact with Satine, the way even the word Mandalore brought a spark of something warm to bear in his chest, was not enough to counteract the dour atmosphere that had fallen, unbidden, over them all.

He had commed her, of course, at the first chance he'd gotten, had caught sight of her long, pale face, shuttered with grief, in the holos from his funeral and felt something catch in his throat.

She hadn't yet replied.

Admiral Yularen, ever the consummate professional, was clearly aware of the sour note of tension brought aboard by the Jedi, but knew better than to comment on it. The clones were another story, tuned in to the campaigns of the Jedi and more than smart enough to put together the pieces. Cautious sympathy for all parties involved was the reaction of choice, caged within the constraints of military protocol. It was a precarious mix of attitudes, one bound to eventually boil over into something unpleasant. Its approach loomed like a cloud over the bridge crew, simmering.

"I told you already, Snips, two more days at least until we get where we're going. No, I don't -"

Anakin's voice echoed over from where he and Ahsoka were hunched under a control console, toolbox splayed open beside them. For the past hour they'd been working away at it, muttered, multi-lingual curses floating out from underneath while Obi-Wan looked over maps of the space they approached, trying to familiarize himself with the area. He couldn't honestly say whether they were doing legitimate repairs or simply tinkering with the mechanics. For the sake of plausible deniability he had decided earlier that it was better not to ask. They were occupied, at least. With any luck they'd emerge from the console having increased the efficiency of the ship's weapons by a ridiculous percentage.

Ahsoka backed away, wrench dangling loosely in her hand, softly worded reply robbed from his ears as Anakin stood up from under the console, the side of his head catching on the edge with a painful-sounding clang. His already sour expression darkened as he approached, face alarmingly pale.

"Obi-Wan," he said, voice carrying, tone already belligerent, as if anticipating rebuke. Obi-Wan – was tiring of it. "Ahsoka's right, this ship really isn't cut out for extended hyperspace travel. If she falls apart at the seams before we even get there it'll be coming out of the Council's pocket. Remind me again why we're being forced to come in through the back door?"

Obi-Wan gritted his teeth, expression outwardly calm. The question had been phrased a thousand different ways over the course of the three days they'd been aboard though its answer hadn't changed once. "Because this is a reconnaissance mission with the remote possibility of engagement," he replied, making an attempt at civility. They were in front of Anakin's troops, under his command. "The information we were provided with was acquired sensitively. If we came barging straight in we could compromise our intelligence."

"All the while Dooku gets up to Force knows what -"

"That's exactly the point," Obi-Wan said sharply. "We have no idea what he's doing out here, and if we head straight for him we'll never find out. His presence here defies our expectations – it's uncharacteristically incautious. That gives us the tactical advantage."

"Not if he's gone before we even get there," Anakin shot back, jaw set angrily. The air around them was tense, the eyes of the surrounding crew soundly averted. Captain Rex and a few other tactical officers stood gathered behind them, pretending not to listen. Ahsoka lurked behind her master, knuckles white around the wrench in her hand. "And definitely not if the Resolute's resources are drained because she had to spend a week getting sucked through hyperspace. How do you even know that nobody knows what he's getting up to there?"

Obi-Wan's head began to pound. "Despite what you might believe, the Jedi Council does not in fact make a habit of withholding vital intelligence to spite you, Anakin."

"It's not about me, it's about the success of this mission and the structural integrity of my ship -"

"This mission was planned out meticulously by people far more qualified than you or I. You would do far better to meditate on the wisdom of following orders during wartime than to throw pointless tantrums on the bridge of your own flagship -"

Anakin's face was drained of blood now, but for two blotchy spots of colour resting atop his cheekbones.

"Maybe," he spat, livid, "the Jedi Council would do far better to actually provide some tactic information for once instead of sending all of us flying about the galaxy at their whim. I'm tired of being left in the dark!"

"And that's really what this is about, isn't it," Obi-Wan countered, pulse throbbing, painfully aware of the inappropriateness of the setting. In the background, he saw Ahsoka wince. "Not the viability of the mission, but your own distrust of the Council. Your judgement is clouded by it." He swallowed. "I would have thought you of all people would understand the necessity of what had to be done -"

"Necessity?" Anakin stopped, fists clenched, face unbearably tense. Obi-Wan could hear him breathe, great, sucking intakes of air, even from where he stood, a great many steps between them. A chasm, he thought. The Force shook, trembled, was pulled taught like a string. Anakin's mouth snapped closed, anger radiating from him almost visibly as he stalked abruptly past, shoulder brushing Obi-Wan's own with a staticky jolt. Ahsoka trailed after him, face exasperated, eyes tight.

Obi-Wan stood, mouth tasting faintly of regret.

"Sir," Rex said quietly, stepping up from where he had been standing behind them, cutting into the tense silence that lingered. He paused before continuing, waited for the low hum of the bridge crew getting back to work. "It's not my business -"

It is most certainly not, Obi-Wan caught himself thinking sharply, but the sentiment was borne out of frustration, exhaustion, and Rex didn't deserve it.

"It's just – I've done my fair share of following orders. It's what we're bred to do. And there are some orders that – that cost you." Rex looked away, throat bobbing painfully, though his face remained admirably stoic. Obi-Wan felt the back of his neck prickle with sudden, horrible sympathy. He'd read the report on Umbara. "Cost you quite a bit. Cost other people, too." Rex cleared his throat. "I think eventually – there comes a moment when you have to choose between doing your duty and doing what you feel is right." He looked Obi-Wan in the eye. His voice was rough and kind. "I don't always trust the General to do what he's been told, but I do always trust him to do what he thinks is right. And I think, deep down – so do you. So you must – believe that too."

It was perhaps the longest sentence Obi-Wan had ever heard come out of his mouth, but it was genuine, sincere in all of it's halting, roughly-cut glory. Obi-Wan paused, stomach clenching, the shame he'd been doing his best to deny crawling up the back of his throat. He couldn't -

Rex, perhaps mistaking the paling of his face for anger, averted his eyes.

"Pardon me, sir -"

"Perhaps you're right, Captain," Obi-Wan said, voice hoarse. He smiled ruefully, watched the tension melt from Rex's shoulders. "Thank you."

A careful nod. "Sir."

And with that melting of tension came a roaring, panicked spike in the Force, as his commlink flared to life.

"Master Kenobi," Ahsoka was saying, voice tight and anxious, "Master Kenobi, I think you need to come -" and he could hear those awful, shallow, sucking breaths crackling through the frequency and knew -

"Call Kix," he ordered Rex, shame forgotten, feet already moving, tracking through the Force. Blast. They hadn't gone far. "Make sure he's in the medbay."

The crisp "sir" he received in reply was lost as his feet carved a path through the long metal halls connecting the ship, honing in on the beacon of sheer terror that was leading his way, heart pounding even as he reached for placid calm. In the back of his head, he'd known some sort of collapse was imminent – he could see them coming usually, predict them in the trembling of fingers and the shaking of breaths, fix them with the brush of a Force-suggestion to sleep, a bowl or two of home-made stew. Something about this felt different.

Obi-Wan felt his stomach tie in knots as he rounded a corner, dodging a group of clone troopers, harsh ship's lighting guiding his way. He knew. Anakin would never have fallen in front of Ahsoka, not when he could help it.

The beacon grew brighter, larger in his mind even as he felt it snap, dull with the encroach of unconsciousness. He skidded to an undignified halt before them, slumped against the wall, robes brushing against his ankles.

"Ahsoka," he said, reaching down to clasp her trembling shoulder. She was kneeled beside her master, legs folded underneath her haphazardly, one hand white-knuckled over Anakin's, curled loosely into a fist at his heart. His eyes were closed, face grey, breaths shallow, wheezing.

"He just -" she said, panic rippling, barely contained. Not again, he caught the barest hint of, her throat catching.

"It's alright," Obi-Wan said, squeezing her shoulder, though he wasn't sure it was. He moved, bending at the waist to drape Anakin's left shoulder over his own. "It's alright, Padawan, but you must help me."

She jerked, shakily, to her feet, took Anakin's metal arm for her own. They stood together, began their quick-paced but unsteady journey to the medbay. Anakin's head lolled against him, his face too clammy, his shallow breaths hot and too fast against his neck. Obi-Wan felt the sick roil of guilt in his stomach, irrational, impossible to banish. The world was moving too quickly.

Kix ran out to meet them at the doors, brow creased as he replaced Ahsoka under his right arm. The Resolute's medbay was larger than most, but harsher-looking than the Halls of Healing back at the Temple, two bacta tanks at either end with droids to fill the gaps. There were only so many clone medics. "General," Kix said, helping Obi-Wan lift his former apprentice into one of the bunks, all of them empty in the absence of battle, "what happened?"

"He – he just dropped," Ahsoka answered for him, face nearly as pale as her master's. She swallowed anxiously. "He couldn't breathe. I thought he was just mad, at first, but then -"

Anakin's form was obscured by a medical droid – an IM-6, a cool, collected part of Obi-Wan's brain identified – as it scanned. A blood sample was taken, quickly, efficiently. Ahsoka averted her gaze. Kix glanced at the ensuing data as it rolled out, frowning as he unravelled a long tube of oxygen from the ceiling, placed the end of it around his general's nose. The noise of the respirator, once turned on, was harsh, mechanical. "This shouldn't be," he said, puzzled, squinting closer at the readout. "I thought -"

"What?" Obi-Wan asked, daring to move closer. The fingers of Anakin's real hand twitched.

"It's – some kind of cardiac event. Might even go so far as to call it a heart attack, though I know you Jedi work differently than we do." Kix glanced up at them, face grave. "Though the General's lucky that brought him in here before the rest of his organs decided to conk out on him. Even Jedi need to sleep and eat, you know -"

Obi-Wan tuned out the rest of the quasi-lecture, having been on the receiving end of one or two of his own in his lifetime (Kix was nominally as full of programmed military respect as most clones were but seemed to take any neglect of health and safety as a personal affront, to the rest of the 501st's chagrin), a tired kind of guilt burrowing into his gut. Ahsoka sank reluctantly into a clinical-looking stool pulled to the head of Anakin's bunk, at Kix's urging ("Commander Tano, sit,"), arms pulled around herself. She gave a strangled-sounding huff that might have been a laugh.

"He finally did it," she said quietly, disbelievingly, eyes wet. "He finally shouted himself into a heart attack."

"Will he be alright?" Obi-Wan asked, placing a hand on her bowed head, throat tight. Kix paused in the act of hooking up a heart monitor, stepping back so the droid could shoot something into his former apprentice's neck. Drugs or nutrients. Both, more likely.

"He'll be fine," he replied, plugging something into the wall. "Commander Tano's not wrong, actually. The droid didn't find any biological reason for the infarction, aside from some odd neurological markers. Given how often the lot of you get electrocuted," his face creased with distaste, "it's probably not that unusual. Then you combine intense physiological stress with the fact that his kidneys were on the verge of giving up and, well." He shrugged, face sympathetic. Funny, the way his sympathy could look so different from Rex's rougher, more stoic expression of it. Further still from Cody's own unwavering calm. "He needs rest, mostly. And nutrients." He paused, likely knowing his general well enough to realize the futility of his final request. "And not to be – shouting."

Anakin likely wouldn't have appreciated the exchange of dry, mutually exasperated looks between the three of them, though Obi-Wan's chest felt tight with discomfort. It took two to make an argument. He hadn't exactly made an effort to – deescalate things. And the state that had made the attack possible -

Well, perhaps that was unreasonable. Anakin was an adult, and no longer his padawan, for that matter. More than capable of looking after himself, when he chose to.

If he chose to. Flames licked at his vision again, slowly consuming the Anakin from his dream, pale face utterly unconcerned as he began to burn -

"A chair for you, too, General Kenobi," Kix offered. Obi-Wan, startled, accepted it, moved it to the other end, by Anakin's feet. "I'd like to keep him on the respirator at least overnight," Kix said, tapping into a datapad. "That breathing still doesn't sound all that great. He should sleep, but even if he doesn't he absolutely is not allowed to move."

"We'll keep him here," Obi-Wan said.

"Then I'll leave you alone, sirs," Kix said tactfully, withdrawing. "I'm not far, and I'm monitoring his vitals. If anything happens and I don't come running, comm me. Otherwise, I'll look him over in the morning."

"Thank you," Ahsoka said, looking up. He smiled in reply, eyes crinkling – the clones had a soft spot for Ahsoka, Obi-Wan thought – and ducked out of the bay, datapad in hand. In the silence left behind, only the rasp of the respirator and the soft beeping of machines could be heard. The lights dimmed as he left, lent the gloomy air of late evening to the room.

"Ahsoka," Obi-Wan said finally, heavily. "He'll be alright." She glanced up at his voice, blue eyes bleak, shadows carved out underneath.

"I know," she said, voice quiet. "He'd – he'd tell me not to worry. And I know I shouldn't, but -"

It's too soon.

"You've – had a hard few weeks," Obi-Wan said, wondering if it had been the wrong things to say as she appeared to swallow back a scoff, jaw twitching in a way that was painfully recognizable. Her eyes found his. The markings on her forehead creased together, endearingly determined.

"You don't know what it was like." Her voice was cracked, exhausted. The words that followed escaped her mouth like a flood, some unstoppable force of nature, free from its prior containment. "You being here right now doesn't just erase the memory of you dying in my arms. It was – it was like a nightmare. And Skyguy -" she looked down at her fallen master, her eyes damp, face frozen in a rictus of remembered grief, "he didn't speak. Didn't sleep, didn't eat. Not for days. I wondered – I thought they might try to split us up. Or try to do something to help. He wasn't – right. But then we got on the trail of the bounty hunter that was meant to have killed you and it was like a light turned back on." Her tone became bitter, small hands clenched into fists where they rested on her thighs. "I guess I know now why they didn't do anything. They knew you were coming back. They knew it wouldn't last. They thought it didn't matter."

By extension, 'you thought it didn't matter'.

"Ahsoka," Obi-Wan tried, heart twisting. He had given very little thought to what it might have felt like for her, to have someone she cared about die in front of her, no matter how temporary. And now, to have it almost happen again - she was just a child. And he of all people knew the trauma of losing someone you cared about in your very arms.

"Don't," she blurted out, face flushed, picking up his sympathy through the Force. "I know – I'm not saying it was easy. It was horrible. But for him -" she looked up, jaw clenched. "You know him. You know better than anyone what he's like and you went and died anyway. You died and then you came back and expected us to just be okay. And now," she swallowed. "He thinks that you don't care. That you don't trust him. And – and maybe you don't, I don't know." Her voice softened. "But he cares about you. And so do I."

It wasn't true – that he didn't trust Anakin, that he didn't care about him. It wasn't. He would sooner fall on his own saber than purposefully hurt either of them. He trusted the both of them with his life -

Well. And with his death, evidently.

He had never liked the idea, had bowed his head grimly and bit back his misgivings as the responsibility was placed on him. When it came to the Council there was rarely any choice in the matter. But the Code was what he lived by, the Council's judgement the instrumentation of that Code, and it was wartime. It was wartime. He had to think of the greater good, the larger outcome – even if it meant making decisions that soured his throat. Even if it meant taking advantage of the person he –

– the person he loved the most and wasn't that the cruelest of ironies, the harshest of truths? That the failing of attachment, the thing he berated his former apprentice for the most, the thing he denied in himself the most, was the very thing he'd relied on to sell the charade. The Council's entire operation had depended on it. The fact that his death had been believed because Anakin Skywalker was attached. Because Anakin Skywalker loved him.

Loved him without knowing he was loved dearly in return.

Obi-Wan sank back in his chair, covered his eyes with a shaking hand. Ahsoka stood.

"I should get back to the bridge," she said quietly, voice pitched high with youth, brought to hoarseness by stresses she shouldn't have had to bear. It was an unspoken fact that he would remain. "Will you – will you comm me when he wakes up?"

"Of course," he replied, voice rough. "Of course I will."

He waited there for a long time, hunched over in a chair beside the bunk, watching Anakin breathe, the quiet rasping of the respirator, unaccountably, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The dim lighting cast deep shadows. Under their looming depth Anakin looked – small. Like he might be swallowed by them.

They were on a precipice, Obi-Wan thought, powerless to stop the fall they inched ever closer towards. This event had only tipped them further, closer to the edge. Strands of the future spiralled forward from where they sometimes lurked in the back of his head. He couldn't see where they lead, but for the dark. He never could, these days. He bowed his head, one hand reaching upwards to tangle carefully in his former apprentice's, dangling loosely from the cot, heart steadying as his thumb found Anakin's pulse. Slow, thready. But alive.

"You were right," he whispered into the dark, where no one could hear. "I should have known."

It wasn't fair, after all, that the student should suffer for the master's teachings. And Obi-Wan, for all he'd tried, had never been able to rid Anakin – rid himself – of the flaw of attachment, of the one thing above all they were supposed to live without. No matter what he told himself. No matter what he told Anakin. Had Qui-Gon been the one to teach him that? For all of his occasional gruffness, his single-mindedness, he had been the closest thing Obi-Wan could imagine to a father. His death had brought to the surface an anger he hadn't known he was capable of. Had this all began with that damnable, beloved river stone, weighing Obi-Wan and all who came after him down with the strength of its legacy? They were stitched together by its taint, the three of them held close by its damning, forbidden inheritance.

Where did you draw the line, between affection and attachment? Between compassion and love?

"I have failed you," he said quietly, fingers tightening around the rough and calloused hand. Anakin stirred, forehead creasing, the connection between them prickling with consciousness. "In more ways than one."

Blue eyes cracked open, made murky by the cool dark surrounding them. A gloved hand moved up to scrabble at the tubes fixed to his face, breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps. The pulse under Obi-Wan's thumb sped up, thrumming in time to the steadily increasing shrill of the monitor. The Force surged around them, the equipment sparking alarmingly. Obi-Wan stood, quickly, grabbed at the gloved hand gently, forced it away from Anakin's face before he could tear out the air supply. As he moved into view, what little blood there had been rushed away from Anakin's cheeks. Obi-Wan froze, horrified as the eyes he was looking into became glassy with tears.

"...dead?" came his voice, uncertain, the word seemingly scraped from the back of his throat. The respirator hissed in the ensuing silence. Obi-Wan grew cold, heart sinking to somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach.

He hadn't wanted this.

"No," he said roughly, hand moving to brush away a stray tear that had gathered on his friend's cheekbone, where it stayed, half caught in the mess of sweat-dried curls that framed Anakin's face. The monitor quieted, slowly, the harsh beeping fading into the background, the Force subdued. "Not dead."

I'm sorry.

A child's voice echoed in his head, the tone matter-of-fact, devastating: 'Well, how would I know?'

The scent of burning flesh, heat and flame, filled his nose, though there was none. He kept a hand on Anakin's head, brought his other hand, still clutching at the mass of metal and synthflesh that made up his friend's arm, down onto Anakin's chest. For a moment they remained still, a frozen arrangement of hopelessly entangled grief.

I can't give you what you want, Obi-Wan didn't say. I can't tell you what I know you need to hear. What I wish you already knew.

Blue eyes met his own, and maybe they found something in the sad, stubble-ridden contours of his shadowy face and maybe they didn't.

"Sleep, little one," he said, something wet and cold dripping down from his eye onto the bareness of his lower jaw. "I'm here." Anakin's eyes fluttered closed, grip slackening, breath wheezing. Tomorrow he would wake up and demand to be released, disguise exhaustion and near organ-failure with untempered belligerence, meet his eyes from across the bridge as the enemy fired and make peace out of necessity. Sling an arm around him and Ahsoka when they won, teeth bared and glinting in the glare of passing suns. The shadows of the present moment, all-consuming, would be pushed aside until they returned to push them over the edge.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, thought of grass underfoot and gently weaving trees up above. It was the way of things. The way of the Force. They were its servants. They could not afford to be anything else.

But Qui-Gon had never been afraid to lie to him. Probably he had also never been afraid to lie to himself. He swallowed, the skin of Anakin's cheek clammy, corpse-like under his thumb.

"It will be better in the morning," he said.

Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you thought. Also on ao3.

- W