#bedsidevigil

logos, not pathos Xenoblade Chronicles 2 - Jin/Malos - 639 words

No. 27: “Would you even want me, looking like a zombie?” Whumptober 2025. Jin/Malos. Bedside vigil. -- self-hate, chronic illness, catholic guilt; in love but too emotionally repressed to say it like a normal person

prompt: Bedside Vigil

follow up to day 4, betrayal (aka Palpatine decides to cut his losses and get rid of Anakin while he’s still young and easy to take care of)

ao3

He sits by the bedside until his eyes ache from the flourescent lights of the Healing Halls.

He's been practically sleeping here, for the past week, in the chair by the bed; it can't be good for his back but that's the least of his worries right now. He thinks the silhouette of the crumpled form beneath the sheets must be burned into the insides of his eyelids by now.

"It's just a nasty bout of Corellian Flu," Master Che had said, a week ago. To be fair, he hadn't worried much either. It had just been a cough and fever; unpleasant, surely, but nothing serious. Anakin was young and—well, as healthy as he could be, considering his upbringing. He'd gotten vaccinated for most of the common strains, so while he'd be in for an unpleasant few days, his immune system should have been able to fight off the disease with little issue. 

But now Anakin's in critical condition. And Obi-wan doesn't know what to do.

The door creaks open, and Master Che enters. "You ought to get some sleep, Kenobi," she says neutrally. She flicks her gaze to Anakin, who's hooked up to so many machines and wires it makes Obi-wan's head spin. He hasn't woken all day. "You're no use to him dead on your feet."

She may have a point. But it'll be a cold day on Mustafar before Obi-wan leaves Anakin here to suffer alone. 

"I'm not on my feet," he replies. He nods his head towards Anakin. "I've been resting almost as much as he has."

Master Che gives him an unimpressed glare, but luckily lets the matter rest. "We need to take some tests. You'll have to at least move towards the back."

Obi-wan complies as the team of healers floods in. Hopefully this time they'll be seeing some progress.

*

There is no progress. And now, three days later, Obi-wan finds himself in the same position, slumped by Anakin's bed side, as they wait for the inevitable news.

How could they have let this happen? For force's sake, he was supposed to protect the boy, guide him, teach him, and yet, only a few years into their apprenticeship, Anakin is—is dying. Of a preventable disease. 

How could he have failed his padawan this badly? How could he have failed Qui-gon this badly?

He reaches forward to take Anakin's hand in his. Anakin, still unconscious, doesn't react. His hand is limp and frail in Obi-wan's—he's lost a lot of weight, this past week. Even his breathing—through the respirator chugging air into his lungs with a determined, haunting rhythm—sounds weak.

"I'm so sorry, Anakin," he says to thin air. Anakin doesn't even twitch. "I'm so sorry."

Master Che enters quietly. "Obi-wan?"