#veloursdor

—

“When was the last time you cleaned your room, Skyguy?”

Anakin sent Ahsoka a sharp glare, one she promptly ignored. Picking up a used caf cup from the rest of the mess on the counter, she sniffed the contents and immediately regretted all the choices she’d made that led her to this moment.

“I haven’t had the time. If you hadn’t noticed, we’ve been away for most of the last three months,” he mumbled. Opening the closet, he started rummaging around in a collection of black and brown fabrics, mumbling about how he swore he’d put the tools they needed in his room.

Ahsoka had half a mind to suggest they just go out and buy a new toolkit. They had a better chance of finding it in a scrapyard than the mess that was Anakin Skywalker’s room.

“You know we’ve got droids in the Temple who can clean this up for you,” she said idly. Stepping over a pile of datapads, she inspected the dead plant on top of the dresser.

“I don’t trust them not to throw out important things,” Anakin’s muffled voice called.

Ahsoka didn’t press the matter, knowing that Anakin’s tendency to hoard had come from a childhood where anything and everything could be useful. Instead she chose to judge Anakin for the pair of black underclothes that hung lewdly from a lamp.

“The least you could do is put your underwear away,” she said. Tilting her head, she realized the underwear was silky. “Ew, Anakin, do you really wear silk underwear?”

Anakin’s head shot up, curls a static mess atop his head. Whipping around to look at Ahsoka, she pointed to the offended pair with a wrinkled nose. With a speed that Ahsoka only saw on the battlefield, Anakin ran across the room, leapt over his bed, and snatched the underwear, almost knocking the lamp over in the process.

“Never took you as the type, Skyguy,” she teased.

“These are Obi-Wan’s,” Anakin said quickly. Seemingly completely oblivious to Ahsoka’s expression, he continued. “He thought he lost them, but clearly he just uh, misplaced them.” Letting out a sigh, he shoved them in his pocket. “He’s going to be so mad, knowing they were here all along.”

Ahsoka blinked. Did she want to know? No… no. She really didn’t want to.

“Did you… find the tools?” she asked.

Anakin shook his head. “Nope. Just gonna have to add that to the list of reasons Obi-Wan is going to give me the silent treatment.”

—

Skywalker and Mace skittered to a stop at the end of a hallway. Above them the sirens of the Separatist cruiser blared, blocking out the sounds of their heavy breathing. Off in the distance, Mace could feel the heavy footfalls of battle droids as they ran through the halls after them. They were closing in. They didn’t have much time.

“Which way?” Mace asked.

Skywalker stilled a moment, attention fixed on something Mace couldn’t see, before he nudged his chin down the hallway that went left. Relying on Skywalker’s almost umbilical-like connection to Kenobi, Mace followed behind, hoping that they’d find Kenobi before the droids found them.

It was supposed to be a routine scouting mission, with the three of them setting off in in opposition directions to scan the surrounding area, find the best way through the thick jungle, and re-converge at the camp with their data. Only Kenobi didn’t return, and with the patience that Mace had some to expect from Skywalker, Skywalker sped off in search of Kenobi. After a few firefights, one very talkative droid, and a couple of stolen Separatist starfighters, they found themselves in the belly of the beast.

They shouldn’t have been in this position in the first place, but then again, any time one worked with Skywalker and Kenobi things like ‘plans’ and ‘should’ and ‘normal’ went right out the window.

“Down here,” Skywalker said as they rounded another corner.

Stopping in front of a door, Mace kept lookout while Skywalker fussed with the locking mechanism. A sharp click soon followed, and Mace entered the room with his lightsaber drawn.

It was empty.

“He was here,” Skywalker said as he stepped inside. “They must have moved him.”

“Are you sure he was even here?” Mace asked as he glanced around the room.

Nodding, Skywalker left the room. “I can smell him.”

Following behind, Mace tried to bite back the question he knew he didn’t want answers to, but it slipped past his lips before he could stop it. “You can smell him?”

“It smelled like his cologne in there - Hapan cologne. He wears it all the time.”

“I… didn’t notice.”

“Really?” Skywalker asked distractedly. “It’s all I could smell.”

Mace wasn’t going to ask any further. It was better that way. Ignorance was bliss, and prevented culpability.

—

“Ahsoka, have you seen Anakin?” Padmé asked.

Ahsoka nodded and pointed down the hallway of the hotel. “I saw him head toward his room a couple of minutes ago. He said he was going on a break.”

A contingency of Jedi had been sent to act as security during a senatorial retreat. It was mostly formality - they were well within the boundaries of the Republic - but with the war advancing as it was, even the most well-guarded senators were beginning to worry. Padmé, for her part, felt a little more secure knowing that Anakin was present, even when he wasn’t directly next to her.

“How are the talks going?” Ahsoka asked, before Padmé set off down the hall.

Padmé shrugged. “Officially we’re not supposed to speak about the war, but unofficially there have been some talks between staunch supporters of the Republic with those who see the Separatists more favourably. I don’t know if anything will come of it, of course, but at least there is dialog. Sometimes that’s all you can hope for.”

“I see.”

“And how’s guard duty?” Padmé asked with a small smile.

“Boring,” Ahsoka said. “Master Obi-Wan keeps telling me that this is a reward, and I should take the time to relax. But it’s not relaxing - it’s boring.”

Patting Ahsoka’s arm, Padmé sent her a sympathetic look. A few years ago and she’d have agreed, but now Padmé was just happy to have time with her own thoughts for a few days. “When you’re relieved of duty, maybe we can find something more exciting to do together.”

Leaving Ahsoka to her drudgery, Padmé continued down the hall and turned the corner. 241… 243… 245…

247.

Anakin had given her a key earlier, telling her if she needed anything day or night she only come get him. She found it a little over-the-top, but that was just Anakin. Tapping the card against the reader, Padmé stepped in as soon as the doors opened and came across.

A scene.

That was the only way to describe it, really. A scene. A very, very intimate scene.

It wasn’t Anakin she found on the bed, but Obi-Wan, already half-undressed with his tunic opened to expose his flushed chest, his hair in an unfamiliar state of dishevelment, and lips parted as he let out a low, slow moan that swung upward the moment he saw Padmé in the door.

For a moment Padmé had no idea what was going on, until she saw where Anakin was. He was knelt on the floor between his Master’s legs, his head ducked, honey-brown curls caught in Obi-Wan’s thick fingers as he did something.

Padmé was certain that this was not some sort of Jedi ritual.

“I’m sorry,” Padmé squeaked out.

Anakin’s head whipped around to show off pouty red lips covered in spit and. Something. Just something.

This was all just something.

“Padmé!”

“Sorry!” She said again. Finally rediscovering how to use her legs, she turned around and hurried out the door and back down the hallway. She could feel her cheeks burning up, and her heart thundered in her chest.

She should have knocked. Even if Anakin wasn’t in there doing something with Kenobi, he could have been doing something with someone else. Or something with himself.

“Did you find him?” Ahsoka called as soon as Padmé rounded the corner.

“I did,” she said quickly.

Ahsoka’s eyes narrowed as she took Padmé in. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, of course,” she said. Smoothing the non-existent wrinkles on her dress, she sent Ahsoka what she hoped was a convincing smile, but when she thought about what her lips were doing, she couldn’t help but think about what Anakin’s lips were doing. “I didn’t know Master Obi-Wan would be with him as well.”

Ahsoka winced. “Wait, did I not tell you about that? I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. I should have knocked, regardless.”

“You didn’t knock?” Ahsoka asked, her eyes going wide.

Padmé laughed. Or tried to. It sounded hysterical even to her. “Live and let learn, my grandmother always used to say.”

“I’m so sorry,” Ahsoka repeated.

“It’s alright. No harm, no foul. Another expression my grandmother used to say.”

“Do you. I mean. Are you going to be okay?”

I will be, after I walk into the ocean. “I’m perfectly fine, Ahsoka. Next time I’ll knock.”

Nausea rose up his throat like a high tide. Obi-Wan retreated. Up the stairs was Qui-Gon’s study, the place that he hadn’t been allowed to enter, not after the incident that had started it all. 

Fuck. How had he forgotten? He supposed that it shouldn’t matter, not anymore. Qui-Gon was gone. There was to be no heartfelt reconciliation between father and son. No probing questions about had truly gone on between Qui-Gon and Tahl, no explanations. With Tahl also gone, it was only him left.

The liquor cabinet was unlocked. If it hadn’t been, Obi-Wan would have taken a hammer and cracked the glass. He was in no mood to be sober. He tossed the keys onto the dusty dining room table—there was dust everywhere, implying Qui-Gon’s habit of locking himself up in his office hadn’t changed—and grabbed a bottle of rum.

Prize in hand, he settled on the steps of the backporch. The shrill mating call of grasshoppers seeped through his brain, another reminder that he was back in Stewjon, even more so than the copse of trees facing the property. Somewhere, out there, were all his old hiding spots—where he’d go to escape the arguments, the cold silences. 

Better the hush of the uncaring forest than the emptiness of his foster parent’s dissolving marriage. 

The first sip of rum burned. So did the second.

Obi-Wan tipped his head back, the bottle pressed to his lips like a clarion, and swallowed all the fire and bitterness that he could take until he was nothing but ashes, bombed out and numb. 

He hung his head forward, shoulders slumped. Receiving the news—Cody’s apologetic expression, right on the heels of what should have been a victory for them, a major contract signed that meant they were now playing in the big leagues—the plane ride, the other papers signed. The calls and texts from friends to extend their condolences, well-meant, but like being punched with a screwdriver each time his phone rang. Putting on the mask of the famed Negotiator to reassure them that he was doing as well as could be expected, that his father had been in his seventies, a heart attack was shocking but not that much of a shock—

He took another drag of the rum. His fingers twitched restlessly. So did his mouth, craving a cigarette. He should have stopped by the convenience store. But the funeral arrangements. The ceremony. The solicitor. All of it in a whirlwind of two days. 

And the fucking doll was the first thing that popped into his head the moment that he was alone. Figured.

Anakin. A name he hadn’t allowed himself to think of in forever. Referring to it as the doll had been easier, and then it’d been easier still to sweep up those memories into a dark corner of his mind. Banished along with the rest of his childish fears, to be suppressed in favor of bigger, more important worries. Getting into a good school. Getting along with his roommate. Getting laid. Getting a job. Getting out of Stewjon. 

Not necessarily in that order.

Two hours later, he was still sitting there. Above him the sky was an endless expanse of dark, clouds shrouding the moon and the stars that still glittered like gems, undisturbed by light pollution. Obi-Wan had cycled through grief, anger, and exhaustion until his eyes ached, eyelids drooped, and his stomach was an empty pit. 

He felt like he stood on the set of a play. If he got to his feet and walked over to the trees, he’d discover them to be two-dimensional, made up of plywood, painted with care to trick the eye. That if he pushed through, he’d wind up backstage, where he’d find…

Obi-Wan blinked, startled. He jerked as if yanked out of a deep sleep. 

“Fuck,” he swore softly. The rum bottle was empty. His grieving suit was hopelessly rumpled. 

Time to call an end to this day from hell. 

He rose to his feet, overly cautious, and felt his way into the house, turning on the lights and then leaving them on as he traveled. Climbing the stairs in his condition was a fool’s gamble, his center of balance was definitely skewed to the left, and if the floor didn’t stop lurching underneath his feet like a capsizing ship, Obi-Wan would throw up. 

Eventually, it did stop. Mostly because he collapsed on the sofa. 

Displaced dust fluttered in the air. Obi-Wan turned his head and coughed. “Jesus, dad.” When was the last time Qui-Gon had been in the living room? Who lived like this? 

A crazy man, whispered an insidious little voice. 

No. He wasn’t going there. Tomorrow, fine, whatever. He could deal with that tomorrow. 

He could deal with Anakin tomorrow.

—

“Want to play?”

Obi-Wan plucked at the hem of his shorts and then looked up, surprised. There was a young man blocking out the sun. Obi-Wan didn’t know him.

But then, Obi-Wan didn’t know anyone. This was his third foster family in as many months. 

He pressed his lips together, doubtful. People were sometimes nice to him, only to then be mean. Best if he kept his distance. Even if this wasn’t a trap, what was the point in talking to someone he’d never see again?

A minute passed. Obi-Wan plucked at his shorts again. They were too big for him. His new foster mom had bought them thinking he was the normal size for a five-year-old boy, but he wasn’t. He was scrawny and gaunt. Food had been scarce at the last house, that was why they’d taken him away. 

“Cat got your tongue?”

Obi-Wan wrinkled his nose and, unbidden, blurted out: “Cats don’t eat tongues. Cats are nice.” 

Then he cringed. Crap. 

“Cats are nice,” agreed the young man, and knelt down on the grass. His eyes were a deep blue, darker than Obi-Wan’s own. Even kneeling, and with Obi-Wan sitting at the bottom of the back steps, he was slightly taller. He offered his hand the way adults did. “Would you like to see some kittens?” 

Obi-Wan was suspicious. He didn’t shake the hand. Instead, he crossed his arms, tucking his arms under his armpits. “No.” 

“Are you sure?” came the playful rejoinder. “They’re very cute.” 

Obi-Wan firmed up his chin. There weren’t any kittens. This was a lie. A trick. “No, thank you.” 

His strange visitor… pouted. 

Obi-Wan wasn’t sure how to react to that. “Um,” he said, a little breathlessly, because oh, no, was the young man actually sad? He was wiping at his eyes like there were tears there, and Obi-Wan’s sense of compassion—and guilt—was immediate and all-consuming. 

“I’m sorry! I—I do want to see the kittens. B-but I don’t know you. I should stay here.” Within sight of the back door, like Tahl had told him.

“Oh, is that all? But I live here, too.”

“Um. Do you?”

“Oh, yes. For a…” The young man stopped. A line formed on his brow. “You know, I don’t remember how long I’ve been here. Isn’t that funny?” he shrugged, as if it wasn’t really that important. “I’m Anakin.” 

“I’m… Obi-Wan.” 

The smile Anakin gave him was sweet, mischievous. “Well, we won’t go anywhere, if you’re not comfortable,” he announced. “But that means we’re not strangers anymore, right?”

There was a certain logic to that, Obi-Wan supposed. But when he opened his mouth to agree, the door behind him creaked open on its hinges. 

“Obi-Wan? Are you hungry? I’ve made snacks,” Tahl said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Obi-Wan automatically said, and then turned back to Anakin. If he really lived there, shouldn’t Tahl have made snacks for him as well? 

But Anakin was gone.

— 

He’d sell the doll, Obi-Wan decided the next day, after the hangover had stopped pounding nails into his skull. As much as he wanted to throw it in the bin, he couldn’t. It’d meant so much to Qui-Gon, and it had historical value and… 

Why destroy something out of pettiness? He was a better man than that. For God’s sake, he wasn’t a kid anymore. There was enough gray in his hair that he was considering dyeing it, but then he’d questioned himself why he’d bother. 

The rest of the house would also have to go. Donated. Or whatever. There were probably museums that would salivate at the chance to go through Qui-Gon Jinn’s collection. The man had been both well-respected and infamous in certain circles, loved and hated—if not hated, by the end. Surely if he reached out, they’d send someone to evaluate what was worth preserving… they could have all of it, really. Obi-Wan didn’t care.

But before that could be set into motion, he needed to go into Qui-Gon’s study. 

He left the house to pick up something to eat, and came back with caffeine. He’d need it. 

Unlike the rest of the house, the upstairs hallway was clean. Obi-Wan placed his hand on the doorknob to Qui-Gon’s study and cast a worried glance around, reduced to being nine years old again, and sneaking into his then-father’s study. 

Sneaking in to see… to see Anakin.

Obi-Wan exhaled sharply through his nose. The doll. Sneaking in to see the doll. Anakin had never existed. Anakin was the product of a young child’s overactive mind. He’d overheard Qui-Gon at some point talking about the doll, and then his mind had filled in the gaps.

That was all. Logical. 

And yet. He couldn’t turn the knob. Not out of fear that Qui-Gon was around the corner and would find out, but out of a strange swirl of anticipation in his gut. The doll was his now.

(Anakin was his now.)

Obi-Wan opened the door. 

—

“Why is Qui-Gon so mad?” Obi-Wan’s voice trembled, along with his lips, his hands. Even his breath squeezed in his lungs. He didn’t want Qui-Gon to be angry. Qui-Gon was the best foster dad he’d ever had; he always had something to teach Obi-Wan, some curious stone or feather to show him. He never sighed and rolled his eyes at any of Obi-Wan’s questions, no matter how dumb. 

Fear sat like a block of ice in his chest. “I d-don’t get it.” To his despair, tears squeezed out of the corners of his eyes. Obi-Wan scrunched them shut, but they rolled down his cheeks. 

Anakin was quiet. Then his hand brushed the top of Obi-Wan’s head. “I don’t know,” he confessed, and he sounded young even to Obi-Wan. “I don’t think he’s mad at you. If anyone—” Anakin broke off. “He’s probably angry with me.” 

With Anakin? 

The fear melted with the heat of indignation. He scrambled off the bed. “He can’t make you go away.” Obi-Wan wouldn’t let him send Anakin away, he’d—he’d tell Tahl, even though she was just as weird about Anakin. He’d—

“No,” said Anakin, with a strange, resigned expression. He was usually lively, if moody, and Obi-Wan didn’t like the change. “No, he can’t. So don’t worry about it, alright? Cry if you need to, and then let’s go visit the Open Circle.” 

“Boys don’t cry.” Obi-Wan sniffed. 

Anakin’s smile was lopsided. “I cry all the time. And I’m just as much a boy as you.” 

This was not the revelation Obi-Wan expected. First, Qui-Gon angry with Anakin, now Anakin, somewhere, crying? Where Obi-Wan couldn’t see? 

“You can’t cry anymore,” Obi-Wan told him. What he really meant to say was you can’t cry if I’m not with you, but his young mind couldn’t translate his thoughts into words without losing something along the way. 

But Anakin understood. 

Anakin always understood him. 

—

Obi-Wan flipped the light switch. And there, under a large glass cloche on Qui-Gon’s desk, was the doll that his father had destroyed his life for. 

God, how he hated it. 

—