Jamais Vu

He doesn’t wait for a response. Vader ignites his meticulously constructed lightsaber, the red blade casting a crimson glow on them.

Ripples of anger, seething with the need for revenge, swirl around Vader. Then, he feels a familiar touch, a gentle poke at the scab where their bond used to be. It’s tentative. Questioning. A hint of disbelief.

Is it really you?

“Does that suit keep you warm?”

There isn’t in any malice. It’s not a taunt. He isn’t ridiculing the chamber that serves as Vader’s life support.

The violence swirling in the Force comes to a stand still.

“What?” Vader barks.

“You always found space to be too cold,” Obi-Wan says gently, a wistful expression on his aged features.

His voice is full of genuine concern and it washes over Vader, wrapping around him like the warmth of his Master’s Jedi robe whenever he shivered as they traveled through hyperspace.

“What are you doing?” Vader demands and points his blade at Obi-Wan. “Is this a game to you?”

But he’s unable to stop the way his heart stirs at the memory of Obi-Wan’s hands arranging the robe over his shoulders. Fixing the collar so that it fit snugly around Anakin’s neck to keep out the cool draft. Smiling at him fondly as his eyes crinkled at the corners.

Those same eyes stared back at him now, brimming with unshed tears.

“Anakin,” he breathes, broken and hurt. Guilt rolling off him. “I’m sorry, Anakin. For all of it.”

With bitter resentment, Vader realizes how that voice still has a grip around his heart. He’s lost count of how many times he’s had to stop himself from allowing these types of feelings from invading his consciousness. Overwhelmed with sentimentality and yearning for a happiness that was in the past and forever out of reach, he’d respond to those thoughts with rage and anger, letting it fester, and allowed it fuel his hate.

Vader tries to summon that rage now, but his breath shakes with his lack of conviction. He reaches again, and the hate slips away from him.

“Your beard is unkempt,” Vader says.

A tear rolls down Obi-Wan’s face.

The last time Anakin saw him cry was on the first year anniversary after Qui-Gon’s death. His Master was sitting in his meditation pose on the floor, bathed in the sunlight that poured into their shared quarters. In his hands, Obi-Wan cradled his river stone, unaware that Anakin was behind him watching and listening silently while his Master humbly asked for strength. For clarity. For assurance that he was worthy of the responsibility to train Anakin. When Obi-Wan had finally turned and saw his Padawan, he’d swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand and smiled before suggesting that they get pancakes at Dex’s.

“Look at you. Do you wear socks?,” Obi-Wan retorts. “I bet if you do, you’re still leaving them balled up on the floor, waiting for someone to pick up after you.”

At that—at the sheer audacity and gall that only Obi-Wan was capable of—Vader chuckles and it comes out a like wheeze. The sound is foreign. When was the last time he laughed?

“You’re pathetic, old man.” There’s a bite to his tone, but he extinguishes his Sith blade and watches as Obi-Wan clips his own lightsaber onto his belt.

Something tugs at Anakin, at his heart, at the tattered remnants of their bond. It pulls at him, beckoning him to surrender to the comfort and safety of a long-lost brown robe.

It’s a trick, he thinks. A distraction. A trap.

“You’re one to talk,” Obi-Wan scoffs with a sniffle.

They stand in silence as their Force signatures wrap around each other, golden waves twining and hugging.

Finally, Anakin lets go. His sob is a distorted, staticky grunt.

“Where will we go?” he asks.

“I haven’t the slightest clue,” Obi-Wan confesses and extends his hand.