Missing In Action

VIII.

Of course, victory sometimes takes unlikely forms.

"Master!" he exclaims, darting across the small chamber and into Ali Alaan's willing embrace.

The tall crèche-master's black hair is tied back in a long silver-flecked plait behind his head. He holds the prodigal at arm's length, making a sober assessment of his own. "What's this about you leaving the ward without permission?" he asks. "You had the entire Temple concerned on your behalf. That is not courteous behavior."

Dangling with his feet in mid-air, the miscreant squirms in mortification. He does not want Master Ali to think ill of him, nor does he wish to be discourteous. That is Bruck Chun's stock in trade, not his. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, looking down, away, anywhere but the crèche master's face.

Ali Alaan relents, a little, and holds him closer, against his own chest. His presence is soothing, solid and reliable, an island amid the turmoil of this long afternoon. "We will discuss this later. In the meanwhile, you need to cooperate with the healers."

What? He bolts upright from his relaxed posture, eyes wide with betrayal. "I want to go home!" he protests, shaking his head in denial. Master Ali mustunderstand. His plea tumbles out, a distraught river flooding its youthful banks, without regard for logic or the listening healer, or the need to take a breath. "I don't want to be here! There are machines and droids and they stick funny things on your skin and they put my arm in an itchy cast and they have medicine and they make you lie still in bed and it smells awful and there aren't any toys and they watch you all the time and Master! They're going to put me in batca!"

The last bit comes out in a horrified squeak, utterly bereft of Jedi dignity.

Ali Alaan chuckles a bit, and strokes his back. The healer releases a very long and quiet sigh, as though she is seeking serenity from the Living Force. Her job must be very stressful. He buries his face in the crèche-master's tunics and waits for vindication.

What he gets instead is… a shock.

"I really do think," Ali Alaan says to the healer, "That it is in everyone's best interests to have him back in the crèche as expeditiously as possible." A pause, in which the Twi"Lek grudgingly acquiesces to this sensible suggestion. And then – like a vibroshiv in the back – "Perhaps you could release him to my care directly after bacta immersion? Which would best be done now, while I'm here."

Mouth agape, heart pounding, he wriggles in the crèche-master's firm grip. This betrayal is unthinkable, preposterous, abominable! "But but!" he protests, doubling the magnitude of his transgression by doubling the forbidden word.

"Peace, little one," Master Ali insists. "This is for your own good." He tightens his hold, his voice and hands calm, soothing, inviting trust while his words and actions scream treason. It is confusing and horrifying and it is, maybe, just a bit too much at the end of a very long day.

His tears are a delicately calibrated solution of anger, fear, and hurt feelings. It is not supposed to end this way. He hides his face in shame and defeat.

Oddly enough, now that they have emerged as conquerors – by the dirtiest, most underhanded trick in the book – the conspirators turn kindly. Another assistant shows up, along with a proper humanoid med-droid; the whole lot of them bustle into the reeking-of-yeast bacta room, with its macabre tanks and ominous, bleeping machines and glaring light.

In a state of stunned and exhausted misery, he finds himself settled upon Ali Alaan's lap, then scanned and prodded and petted and stroked and coddled and soothed and talked about as though he is not present as a participant, and fitted with a respiration mask which he is too despondent to rip off, and then pricked by a hypo, which sends a hot chill racing through his veins.. and then…

And then…

He is falling, through billowing shadow and light, into an oblivion circumscribed by strong arms and a familiar voice.

Of course, victory sometimes takes unlikely forms.

In this case, it takes the form of being summarily abandoned inside the cell, while Puggil and company rush to salvage their collective careers from the disaster which has quite literally crashed down on their heads. They don't even stay long enough to let him gloat over his triumph.

Ah, well. A Jedi craves not such things. On the other hand, especially after an hour's ennui, he does crave the ability to open the star-forsaken door, which ordinarily he could rip off its hydraulic pistons with a flick of his fingers, were he not so –

The door crumples into a mangled ball and collapses, as though in response to his thought.

He blinks, momentarily astonished, and then sees the true cause of the portal's precipitous demise.

"Anakin!" he gasps, unable to hide his spreading smile. The young Jedi is shin-deep in scrapped droid parts, boasts a scorch mark or two on his synth-leather tabards, and looks as jaunty as ever as he assesses his friend's condition in one sweeping head-to-toe look.

"You're alive," the hero of the moment concludes.

"Very astute," he snaps. The room appears to be spinning on its axis, which is peculiar. "The defensive shield collapsed?"

Anakin steps over the threshold and grabs him by the shoulders, brows coming together in a frown. "Yup. I assume that was you? Good work. And the 501st boys are busy shredding up the rest of this place. Gotta leave them some juicy bits or they get kinda pissy, you know? So I thought I'd hunt you down."

He nods, weaving on his feet. "What about Puggil?"

"The Seppie commander? Coward got away… but we'll catch up to him later." Anakin's promise is a threat, and an oath. He flashes a lopsided grin. "Guess what I found in his private office, or what's left of it?"

"Ah…?"

His cocky young friend produces a burnished lightsaber hilt and flourishes it before his eyes. "This weapon is your life, Master. Try not to lose it."

He snatches the weapon from his friend's grasp. "Well, I'll try… but it's infernally difficult with you sabotaging my fighter, Anakin!"

The culprit has the good grace to blush, just a little. "It was just an upgrade, and uh – whoa, easy, Obi-Wan! Easy!"

"I'm fine," he grunts, sagging in the younger man's grip. His recent activities might, theoretically qualify as 'overdoing it," he supposes. From a certain point of view. It all seems to be catching up with him in the present moment, at any rate.

Abruptly tender, Anakin tightens his grasp. "I'm glad I found you when I did," he says. "Just tell me I'm not gonna have to carry you outta here."

Poppycock. "This does not count as a rescue," he declares.

"What?!"

"I only crashed because….. your tinkering, Anakin! Doesn't…. should think you owe me one."

"Huh, okay, whatever you say," his young counterpart agrees, with complete insincerity. "Stay with me, Master, you don't look so good – "

What in stars' name does his appearance have to do with anything? The CIS uniform is gauche and ill-tailored, but that is not his fault. And it is uncharacteristic for Anakin to take notice of such trifles, anyway. "Not a rescue," he insists, woozily.

"Sure," his companion replies, in a soothing voice generally reserved for toddlers and the mentally incapacitated. "It was all part of your big plan."

"It was," he snarls.

"Funny - I don't remember that briefing," Anakin smirks.

"Because you never listen," he smiles, blandly. The world tilts on its axis, and he staggers against the younger Jedi again. "Now do your job and get me out of here."

Anakin rolls his eyes. "Yes, Master," he intones, in his best martyred saint voice.

He snorts, because if he chuckles aloud he might retch, or collapse, or faint or do something else completely undignified, and at the moment all he can focus on is getting out of here. They take one wobbling step together, then another, and then…

And then…

And then he is falling through billowing shadow and light, into an oblivion circumscribed by strong arms and a familiar voice.

When he wakes, it is into blessed warmth and comfort. And to the sight of Garen Muln's face, peering intently into his at nose-to-nose distance.

"Garen!" he hiccups, trying to blink away the lassitude laying claim to his limbs and thoughts alike. It does not shake off easily, so he succumbs to momentary languor.

The other boy grins widely. "You're awake!" He leans in. "I'm 'sposed to be taking a nap. Tell me all about it!"

About….?

"How you got away and hid and everything. How you got capturized, and did you fight?"

He pushes up on his elbows, squinting in the dim light. He is tucked into a pile of thermal blankets, safe in his own cot in the crèche dormitory. There are no nasty, itching things stuck on his skin, and there is no machine bleeping at him. Though, he notes with a fastidious wrinkle of his nose, the place bears a certain lingering odor of batca. And there is an artificially hushed quality to the environment. Still, he will take what he can get.

This kind of coddling is far preferable to interment in the Halls of Healing.

"Master Ali said it was for my own good," he pouts. Forgiveness is the Jedi way, but he is still lying stunned by the side of the road.

"What's batca like?" Garen urges him. "Is it disgusting? Reeft wants to know what it tastes like!"

He muses upon this. "I don't remember." Odd, that.

This does not satisfy his friend. "If you can't remember maybe it's not bad," he theorizes.

What utter stuff and nonsense. "It's disgusting , Garen."

"But how do you know?"

He crosses his arms. "I know." An ear-splitting yawn interrupts their discussion. He is still tired, and the overtones of pain still resound faintly in the back of his psyche, somewhere deep in his bones.

"So…" Garen changes topics. "Are you not going to the obstacle course anymore? Cause you got hurt?"

What a foolish notion. He scowls. "No," he scoffs.. "I'm not going to fall anymore."

This is the right answer, and assuages any incipient anxiety. "Okay, good."

Garen lays down beside him and curls on his side. Within moments he is fast asleep, small chest rising and falling steadily, one hand curled about the blanket's edge.

He might or might not fall asleep beside his friend; certainly when he opens his eyes again, the light has changed, and Ali Alaan is crouched beside him.

"How do you feel now?" the gentle crèche master inquires.

He shrugs. "I'm fine."

"You'll be fine, in time," he is mildly corrected. "For now, you need rest. Look at Garen's fine example – you follow his lead and we'll have you fit for the next spot of trouble in no time."

This sounds like a fine plan, one he can wait to implement until he isn't so… sleepy. Another yawn renders him speechless for long seconds.

Ali Alaan strokes his forehead. "We are glad to have you back in one piece," he smiles, before departing. "It's not often that one of mine goes missing in action. It led me to reflect that each of us is a unique… vergence… in the Force." He raises a brow. "However, that does not mean there is no lesson in this for you."

This promises a future reckoning – a lesson that will doubtless taste bitter going down, even if it is "for his own good." He shrinks down into the covers, biting his lip.

"For now, rest. And welcome home." The crèche-master's footfalls are soundless as he glides between the softly shafting beams of light.

It is good to be back.

When he wakes it is into blessed warmth and comfort. And Anakin's face, peering critically into his own at nearly nose to nose distance.

"Anakin," he rasps, trying to blink away the lassitude laying equal claim to his limbs and thoughts. It does not shake off easily, so he succumbs to momentary languor.

The young Jedi grins widely. "You're awake! They said you might go into a coma – those Sith-damned Force suppressant toxins, and –"

"I'm not that easy to sideline," he grunts, pushing up onto elbows with some effort. Stars, he is a wreck. Not that he is going to admit that fact aloud, especially in front of his former protégé.

"Oh that's right," the impertinent whelp retorts. "And you never need to be rescued."

He spares a sardonic moue for this piece of insolence, and squints at his surroundings. Blast. He is incarcerated in a medical unit, probably one of the Republic's major installations near Devaron, judging by the presence of Jedi healers on staff. He can feel the trace of their individual signatures in the Force- which brings him up short. He can feel again. Truly. He is better.

"You still a little doofy from the bacta?" Anakin asks.

Such cheek. "Contrary to rumor, I do not experience an adverse reaction to bacta," he snips.

Anakin shakes his head. "Oh, I would not describe your reaction as 'adverse", Master… but you can't deny you've got a chuba-wonkee allergy to the stuff. I've seen it. I mean, I've seen you."

"Yes, well." Best to change topics. "Perhaps we should decide how much detail to include in the official report," he suggests, slyly.

It takes Anakin a moment to cotton on. "Wha…? Hey! No! Those upgrades to your fighter were experimental – there's no need to –"

"Exactly Anakin. There's no need to. To do them in the first place. To do them at all. If you ever once so much as lay a finger on my – "

But the young Knight raises placating hands, one flesh and one robotic. "Okay okay. I surrender."

"Unlikely."

"I learned from the best, right? Never really surrender and never need to be rescued."

"We'll forget it happened," he grudgingly accedes.

It is a compromise, but they are well accustomed to keeping the peace at all costs.

Anakin leans in, relief shining in bright blue eyes. "I, uh… Obi-Wan. Just promise me not ot go missing in action again. It weirds me out, you know."

"I know."

"I, uh… it just makes me realize how unique every person is, and uh…."

"I understand, Anakin."

He does. But both of them would really prefer not to talk about it now. Or ever.

They share a grin.

"So you're not going to hold a grudge," the young Jedi clarifies. "Especially since I swooped in and saved your sorry arse again."

He snorts. "A Jedi shall know not anger, nor resentment, nor pride in accomplishment," he reminds his companion. "However, that does not mean this escapade contains no lesson."

"Spare me!" Anakin moans, in mock horror. "I've overstayed my welcome here… healers tried to kick me out a couple times already, so…."He stands, fingers of one hand brushing his friend's shoulder in mute greeting, or benediction. "I'll check in later, make sure you're not AWOL."

"You do that."

"I will."

"Of course you will – I told you to."

"Means nothing."

"Fair point. But do it anyway."

"Okay, Master. Get some rest. And welcome home. Such as it is." Anakin's tall sable-clad figure wends soundlessly between the shafting beams of light as he departs.

It is good to be back.