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Description:
When Darth Vaderâs weekly lightsaber duels with Obi-Wan Kenobi start to feel more like therapy sessions, something has gone terribly wrongâor terribly right. Watch the Dark Lord of the Sith grapple with his greatest enemies yet: household chores, expired coupons, and the horrifying truth that Obi-Wan makes terrible tea but somehow perfect blue milk pancakes.
A comedy about finding yourself, healing old wounds, and the surprising difficulty of defeating an evil emperor when youâre arguing about whose turn it is to do the laundry.
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Well, anon, tumblr completely messed up that ask and ruined it! I donât even KNOW what it did to my formatting. Luckily I still have the fic. And I agree that #22:Â âWhich part of me wasnât enoughâ in the angst prompts is VERY VERY Obikin (or maybe Vaderkin, Anakin isnât sure who he is, atm).Â
So, as a fill, have some post-Volcano Divorce AU where Vader won.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
âWhich part of me wasnât enough?â Obi-Wanâs voice was quiet, ragged. It was the first thing heâd said in hours.
Anakin - no, that wasnât, he wasnât Anakin anymore, Anakin was dead - blinked over at him. Obi-Wan sat slumped against one wall of the bridge. He was staring at nothing, shoulder leaned against the wall, head at an awkward angle on his neck; his eyes just⌠just blank.
Theyâd been blank since Mustafar. Since heâd backed up the side of the hill, retreating, the way he had for the entirety of the fight, falling back, giving way. They were blank the way theyâd been since theyâd both felt PadmĂŠ die, alone on the ship. Blank the way heâd been since heâd wavered and just⌠collapsed, down into himself.
Anakin - Vader, that was his name now - blinked, slowly. It was strange, already, to hear someone speaking without first having him bark an order. None of the troopers spoke to one another anymore. There were no more conversations in the halls. No more laughter. No more anything, but marching footfalls.
Just order, order on his bridge, order from the troopers standing around him in silence.
That was what heâd wanted. Order. Security. Peace, for the galaxy. It was.
He shook the thoughts away. âWhat?â his voice was rough and ragged, still, from inhaling all the fumes on Mustafar. He needed to wash the ash off of his skin, but⌠Hadnât, yet. He hadnât moved off of the bridge, despite the shaking in his legs and his hands.
He needed to be there, to stare at the stars. Heâd brought peace to them. He had. He had, he--
âWhere did I fail?â Obi-Wan asked, and his voice hitched, terribly. âWhich part of me left you down so severely, that you would--would do--all of this--would--â
Vader stiffened his shoulders, listening to Obi-Wanâs voice crack and break. There was a gibbering voice inside him, in the back of his head, asking those same questions. Heâd been smothering it since Coruscant. Since the Chancellorâs rooms. He pushed that voice away.
Heâd done the right thing. The necessary thing. It had been his only choice, it had. âYou never cared before,â he said, his voice coming out flat, angry.
Obi-Wan wept. Vader heard it and the shattered tremble of his breath. âI loved you,â Obi-Wan said, through those tears, those false, lying tears.Â
âNo,â Vader said, stepping over to him, grabbing onto horror and forcing it into fury. Obi-Wan was lying to him, that was all. Obi-Wan always lied to him. Just to--to keep him pliant and foolish and weak.
He reached out with the Force, grabbing Obi-Wan and jerking him up the wall. Obi-Wan made no attempt to struggle against him, to fight the pressure around his throat. He just hung there, limbs dangling, hair lank, his eyes bloodshot and his cheeks wet. None of the troopers said a word. None of them even looked over.
âYes,â Obi-Wan said, staring at him, âI loved you, you were--â
âYou always pushed me away!â Vader snapped, tightening his fingers, because he wouldnât be lied to anymore. He wouldnât. Obi-Wan had lied to him, just like PadmĂŠ had. Yes, they were both liars, just trying to hold him back. Claiming they cared to control him. âYou were always afraid of me! You didnât even - even want to train me!â
Red spread up Obi-Wanâs face, dark and terrible. His legs shook and still he did not fight. He did not struggle for breath. There was only resignation on his expression, and Vader should have - should have cut him down on Mustafar, should have driven his saber through Obi-Wanâs lying heart, carved him open to prove he was empty inside, only vacant space where his heart should have been and--
Vader jerked back a step, fingers spasming open, some weakness in him tearing at the inside of his chest. He gulped at the air, feeling as though he were the one suffocating. It was some trick, something Obi-Wan was doing. Heâd found a way to squeeze Vaderâs ribs like this, it--
Obi-Wan slid to the ground, sprawling on his side, coughing terribly and trying to sip at the air. The marks around his throat were red and purple. They looked like the marks around PadmĂŠâs throat. They looked--
âYouâre a liar,â Vader snapped, and Obi-Wan shook his head, weakly. He made no effort to rise, to push off of the floor. He only shook his head, still telling all his old lies, the kriffing bastard, still trying to twist Vader around--
âNo,â Obi-Wan rasped, his voice ruined. âNot -- to you.â He tilted his head against the floor, his eyes unfocused and wet, and said, âIâm sorry, Anakin. So sorry. That I wasnât. Enough.â
âShut up!â Vader almost slapped his hands over his ears, restraining himself through force of will. âThatâs not--donât call me that! Iâm not him.â Anakin Skywalker had been a fool. An idiot. A frightened little boy.Â
A hero, a voice whispered, and he ground his teeth together.
He was none of those things, anymore.
âYou are to me,â Obi-Wan said, quiet and sure and horrible, and Vader screamed, the sound torn from him, shoving Obi-Wan over onto his back, falling over him, a hand fisted in his tunics, other fist drawn back, and Obi-Wan made a little surprised, hurt sound when the first blow fell.
âAnakin,â he panted, after the second, and Vader lifted him, slammed him back to the deck, because it wasnât true, Anakin was dead and he had brought order to the galaxy, peace, heâd done what needed done and Anakin was dead, he was. âAnakin--â Obi-Wan coughed, one hand waving up into the air, vaguely.
Heâd try something, Vader knew. Something with the Force. But Vader was ready, was prepared, would overcome whatever it was, and--
And Obi-Wan curled his fingers, delicately, against the side of Vaderâs cheek. Soft. Barely there. He gasped, choking on something in his throat, âAnakin, please. Look. Look at - at my feelings. Look.â
And Vader snarled. It was a trick, a trap. But he could overcome Obi-Wanâs tricks. Heâd look, heâd see right through whatever lies were in his head. And then heâd rip Obi-Wan apart, for making him feel this way, for making him doubt, heâd--
He fitted his hand to the side of Obi-Wanâs face, pushing in to his thoughts, his feelings, nothing gentle about it. He tore, violent and careless, and froze, as he realized what he was tearing through.
Obi-Wan hurt. He was close to death, on the very brink of it. Heâd been pushed there by Vaderâs hands, and yet--
And yet there was so much in him, hope and sorrow and guilty and, yes, love. An incomprehensible amount of it, overflowing through him. Every corner of his emotions was haunted by the ghost of Anakin Skywalker, with fondness and pride and--
And Anakin jerked away, the emotions burning him on the inside, under his skin, in his head. He stumbled back, hitting the floor and pushing with his heels, needing, suddenly, to be as far away from Obi-Wan as possible. He was making a sound, a terrible sound, in the back of his throat.
âAnakin,â Obi-Wan slurred, from across the bridge. He was just laying there, terribly still. âIâm sorry.â
Anakin shuddered, horror and disgust quaking through him as he stared at his hands, knowing exactly what heâd used them to do. Obi-Wanâs blood on his fingers was only one of his sins, not the least, not the least by far, but--
âObi-Wan,â he panted, ragged, through the choking pressure in his throat, âwhat have I done?â
He could have been entombed in the dankest sewer of Nar Shaddaa, perfectly enveloped by the darkness there in, packed in carbonite inside of a metal cargo container and she would still have been able to read his expression and all the questions that came from hers, whispered like dry autumn leaves over a duracrete walkway. A voice as dead as they both must feel inside, of this she is sure, because even she can hear it. And could she have told him in the small, clipped words available to her at the moment? Likely. Did she want to explain what made it past her lips when she should have killed it the moment it was a mere thought in her head? Not exactly.Â
It hadnât exactly slipped out as most of her rather personal questions often did, a vibrant curiosity to see into his mind while still maintaining respect for him, for his small but hard-won sense of privacy. Beyond basic human decency, she was perhaps one of the only people who did not think that she had any right to treat Anakin like some half-forgotten droid, to tinker as she pleased with his thoughts simply because she was entitled with the ability to do so through the Force, because even if he didnât want her to, he also wouldnât really give more than a vague attempt to stop her.
No, this time sheâd been deliberate.
For all that heâd told her how it had happened, and perhaps even why, in that sickened knot of words that heâd sobbed into the folds of her robes, one they couldnât even think about untangling on the shipâs plating, she still... isnât handling it well. It was easier for her to understand why heâd done...what heâd done at the Temple. How he was only an instrument of the Force, which to her mind absolved him of the murder.
Not the Masters who had always been cruel, that was almost laudable in her mind. Who had wantonly destroyed the child Anakin had been and systematically continued to do so at their every opportunity. Who shouted from the rooftops that they wanted nothing more than peace and compassion but turned blind eyes to the suffering, the slavery, the injustice of every planet not covered in resources.
And she knows, beyond doubt, that of all the masters heâd not been the one who had killed Kit Fisto, her friend and a truly decent soul, one of handful of people who had ever treated him with kindness and cordiality if not affection.
She is so very careful not to think of the children though. She canât. Especially when they are barely not children themselves, and the grief will drown her for the loss of that innocence.
Going with him to Mustafar had been an exercise in holding him together with her bare hands and teeth and any other part she could get on him, and that is still to raw inside of her to even think about.
And in the silence that follows, this heavy and fragmented connection through the Force...she has to wonder if he didnât survive. If these hours of nothingness means he hasnât realised it and thus hasnât stopped. Keeled over and become a rusted bit of flotsam inside his own skin.Â
So the question. To see if it will jolt him out of his near-catatonia. To get an answer that is the most personal thing of all, and admittedly self-absorbed, but... she canât help it. Perhaps this is her way of lashing out. To pull out one of the venomous snakes writhing inside her chest, each with a different name on it.
Why didnât you trust me enough to come to me in the first place? Why did you feel you had to hide it until it couldnât be? Iâve always been on your side, regardless of anything. Iâd have kept your secrets as I always have. Why her? Of all the people in the fucking galaxy...why Amidala? Why couldnât you...have chosen me. I love you. Iâve always loved you. I would have done anything you asked of me. I still will. You know this, Anakin. You. Know. This.
And perhaps the most vicious and tenacious of them all...
Why couldnât I have been enough?
Her eyes slash away to cut their way to his face the second he stirs. Catches the turn of his mouth and her nails bite deep and bloody half-moons into her palms.
She almost flinches from his question.
âThat you enjoyed it. That you didnât imagine squeezing the life out of her for every time sheâs cast you aside, lied to you, used you. Like sheâs always done since she came back into your life. That I... I donât know. Anything but...â
But donât say you love her.
Donât say you need her.
Donât....donât say...
She closes her eyes, unable to maintain what is at the moment passing for eye-contact. Hoping that doing so both lets her not look at him and hold back the sudden sting of tears threatening to spill over her lashes.
But he answers her.
And she takes it at face value even if it seems to ring a little hollow.
She takes a sobering breath, uses every bit of training in her skill-set to gain some kind of mastery over herself.
âYou...ah. You should go get some rest. You look like shit and I think I can handle this bit of empty space for a while.â
He might have thought about the war then, but there isnât one now. Not the kind that can be fought with Clones and droids and blasters and lightsabres, anyway.
