#victoryfic

“Jocasta’s busy at the moment,” you tell him. "Can I help you?"

He glances at your head. “Shouldn’t I be asking that?”

You remove your hand from your head. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? I can find someone else—”

“I’m sure,” you promise. “How may I help?”

Master Kenobi clears his throat. "Ah, yes. I noticed an error in the Kamino file I’d like corrected."

"Of course," you reply with a nod, sliding a datapad over to him. "Applications for corrections are here."

As he fills out the application, you rest your elbow on the desk, chin planted on your fist. His eyes wander to you once, twice, before he says, “You’re Master Mundi’s padawan, aren’t you?”

“Mhm,” you confirm. “And you’re Master Kenobi.”

“Yes, I am. How did you know?”

“It’d be difficult not to recognize you after your victory on Geonosis.”

Master Kenobi hums low as he continues with the application. “Rather a pyrrhic victory…”

“Pyrrhic? How so?”

Master Kenobi shakes his head. “I hardly think that beginning a war and failing our role as the peacekeepers of the galaxy is worth winning a single battle. The cost of the victory was too great to justify it. A pyrrhic victory.” 

You ponder this as he finishes the application and hands the datapad back. “I wouldn’t consider Geonosis a pyrrhic victory,” you conclude, more to yourself than him.

“No?” he says, quirking his brow.

“This war was planned for some time,” you say. “It was always going to happen. We gained an advantage in discovering the Separatists’ plot early and winning the first battle. The victory was worth the cost.”

Master Kenobi considers you a moment before allowing you a small smile. “You have an interesting point of view.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was one.” Without another word, Master Kenobi turns and leaves. You’re still staring after him when he walks away. 

It’s a week later when Anakin Skywalker passes the Trials. Anakin Skywalker who’s two years younger than you and started training six years after. And you’re still sorting holofiles in the archives. It’s what you’re doing when you see Master Kenobi again. He’s in the next aisle with his back to you, and you catch a glimpse of him through a gap in the shelves.

“Master Kenobi?” you whisper.

He lifts his head and turns around, brows furrowed in confusion. “Oh, it’s you!” he says when he meets your eyes. 

“It’s me.”

“I wondered if I’d see you again.”

You pause before pushing a holofile onto the shelf and asking, “Why?”

“I don’t know your name.”

“You could’ve asked Master Mundi,” you point out.

He folds his arms and strokes his mustache. “Oh, I did,” he said. “And he told me more than I asked for, but he ultimately failed to mention it. Unless, of course, your name is Headstrong, Obstinate Girl.”

“No,” you say, rolling your eyes. With a sigh, you tell him your name. “I hope you don’t think badly of me, Master Kenobi.”

Master Kenobi smiles. “Not at all. I’ve had a headstrong, obstinate padawan,” he says. “And please, none of this Master Kenobi business. Call me Obi-Wan.”

Anakin was his padawan, you remember. That same screaming frustration from before rushes back. It had been silent while you talked to Master Kenobi. To Obi-Wan. “Shouldn’t you be celebrating with Master Skywalker now?” you questioned. 

“No time, I’m afraid. He’s escorting Senator Amidala home,” Obi-Wan explains. “Besides, I’ve been meaning to ask for an update on the correction I requested.”

“Ah,” you say. “Jocasta oversees corrections. You should ask her.”

Obi-Wan nods. “I see,” he says. After a moment’s pause, he continues. “Very well.”

“Very well,” you repeat. “Goodbye, Obi-Wan.” 

He gives another bright smile. “Goodbye,” he says. Then he says your name. When he walks away, you’re smiling, too.

It’s two days before you see him again. Two long days. You’re tending the desk (sitting under it and avoiding everyone) when you sense his presence. It’s still a moment before he speaks, calling your name. “What in the blazes are you doing under there?” he asks.

Slowly, you pull yourself up to face him. “Obi-Wan,” you greet him. “Jocasta’s on break.”

“That’s not an answer,” Obi-Wan says, a smile playing at his lips as he folds his arms over his chest.

A moment’s hesitation. “I’d rather not talk to people,” you answer, taken aback by your own honesty.

“Doesn’t that make it difficult to work?” Obi-Wan asks. “Which begs the question... Why are you working in the archives? I’ve seen you here more than with Master Mundi.” 

A bitter laugh escapes you. “I recently had a… lapse in patience. Mundi assigned me here for as long as necessary to learn a lesson, he says.” 

“I take it you’re not overly fond of Master Mundi.”

You shrug. “I’m not used to him. I’d probably like him if I’d known him longer.”

Obi-Wan furrows his brows. “Not used to him?”

“Mundi’s my third master,” you sigh, leaning against the desk. “The first was killed, and the second couldn’t stand me for longer than a year. I’ve been with Mundi for two now.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan says. “That doesn’t sound easy.”

You shake your head. “It’s life. I don’t think it’s meant to be easy.”

“Perhaps not,” he allows. “But I know how it is to lose a master. I know the kind of pain that brings. The damage it does.”

You believe him. You’re not used to trusting masters, but this is different. No other master has tried to understand the hurt. They brush it off as a frivolous emotion that you should have been trained out of years ago. But Obi-Wan is looking at you differently than anyone has. He looks like he could fit all your pain into the palm of his hand and carry it with him.

The next day, he visits the archives and tells you about his old master Qui-Gon. Qui-Gon who bent rules. Qui-Gon who taught him compassion and trust. Qui-Gon who was killed in battle. Was the victory worth the cost? 

In turn, he asks about your masters. The first who had been killed in a conflict after being your anchor for five years. The second who barely made an effort. Mundi who’s breaking his back conforming you to his ideas. Obi-Wan keeps you company for your entire shift and doesn’t flinch when you mention the anger. 

When he begins to leave, you stop him by calling his name. You’re not sure what to say except, “Thank you.” Thank you for seeing me. Thank you for understanding. Thank you for making me feel the most alright I’ve been in years.

His smile is as warm as always, but it’s not quite so bright. It’s warm in the quiet way a candle is. He slides his hand over yours where it rests on the desk. It’s the only cold thing about him, clammy like he’s afraid. You don’t understand why until he stares at you with those sincere blue eyes and says, “It isn’t any trouble,” in a low voice that sends your heart pounding. Pounding like you’re terrified.   

He’s there the next day for an update on the correction, he says, but he never speaks to Jocasta. There isn't an update that day or the next or the next. For three weeks, he's there nearly every day for correction updates that never come. But he stays to tell you more stories. Happier stories that manage to make you laugh and settle something in you that you never realized was disquieted.

The first time you see him outside the archives is in a conference with the Supreme Chancellor. You’re shadowing Mundi ten feet away from Obi-Wan, but you keep glancing at each other from the corners of your eyes while the other masters talk. It’s difficult not to smile. You have to bite your lip to keep it in. So does he. 

When the conference dismisses, Mundi turns to you. “What did you learn, padawan?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You didn’t pay any attention to the meeting at all. 

“As I thought,” Mundi sighs. “This is a testament to my fears. Without the patience to be attentive to the Chancellor or even Master Yoda, how can you pass the trials? More time in the archives will serve you well, I believe.” 

“Master,” you say, disappointment crushing you. “I thought we’d be combat training today.”

Mundi shakes his head. “You’re a skilled swordswoman,” he says. “It’s emotional control that you lack. You need more time in the archives.”

So, back to the archives, you go. Under the desk, you stay for two hours, willing your mind blank. Anger leaking from your eyes, wetting your cheeks.

When you sense Obi-Wan approaching, you wipe away the tears and try to steady your breaths. He whispers your name over the desk. “I came for a correction update,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” you say, pulling yourself up, “I don’t know where Jocasta is.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t respond to that. He’s looking at you like you’re bleeding out and unaware of it. “What’s wrong?”

With anyone else, you’d shrug and tell them it’s nothing. But it’s Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan who carries your pain in the palm of his hand. 

“I’ve been assigned more time in the archives,” you say.

His sigh sounds relieved. “Is that all?”

“No,” you say. “No, that’s not all. I’m tired, Obi-Wan.”

“Tired of working in the archives?”

Elbows on the desk, you bury your head in your hands. “No! I’m tired of being a padawan. I’m tired of masters stretching me beyond where I can reach.”

“Isn’t that a master’s responsibility?” he says gently.

You look up at him. “But when does it stop hurting?” you ask. “Or is it always that you find someo— something that takes the pain away, and it becomes a distraction you have to get rid of? Is being a Jedi a matter of always being at war with yourself and paying through the nose for it?”

He doesn’t answer. In the silence that permeates the air, you can sense his conflict. He reaches out cautiously, the very tips of his fingers just barely grazing the curve of your jaw under your ear. You're fortunate there's a desk separating you. Otherwise, you’d melt into that feather of a touch without reservation. You know that now. And once you did, there would be no recovery afterward. Would it be worth the cost?

His hand moves from your jaw to your padawan braid which he gives a gentle, affectionate tug. "It will stop hurting, dear one," he says. "I believe that."

You can't help wondering if he only believes it because he has to. Because the hurting hasn't stopped for him, either.

His fingers are still holding the end of your braid when he says, "The Council is sending me off-planet to negotiate alliances for the Republic."

Your voice barely comes to you. "Good luck."

"There's no such thing," he sighs with a smile. "I'll come here when I return. To check on the correction."

You nod, and he leaves you. 

It’s a week later when you catch word from Mundi that Obi-Wan is returning, and you ask to go work in the archives. He isn’t there yet when you report to Jocasta for your daily assignment.

“You can sort the holofiles in the north wing,” she decides after a moment. Then she sighs. “I suppose you heard that Master Kenobi is returning today.”

The fact that she’s asking is enough to give you pause. “I’d heard something like that,” you confirm.

She shakes her head. “In all my time, I’ve never known a single Jedi Master to visit the archives quite so much as he does,” she muses.

“Well, he’s waiting for an update on the correction application he submitted,” you remind her.

She looks at you like you grew a third eye. “The correction Master Kenobi requested was completed weeks ago,” she tells you. She walks away, shaking her head and never explaining why she brought him up, to begin with.

Your head is spinning on the way to the north wing. Completed weeks ago, Jocasta said. How long has Obi-Wan been lying to you about it? Why? What did he hope to gain?

You’re still not sure what to make of it when he finds you and stops on the outside of the aisle you're in. His hand is lingering on the outside of the shelf like he’s waiting for you to invite him closer.

“Master Kenobi,” you greet him over your shoulder.

“Back to Master Kenobi, are we?” he questions with something of a laugh, daring a step closer to you. “Oh, dear. What have I done wrong?”

You turn to face him fully. “Nothing,” you say. It’s more of a snap. “Are you here for your daily correction update? How is that going, by the way?.”

A realization seems to come over him, and his smile fades. You return to your work, trying not to pay him any more attention. Pretending you don’t notice when he barely whispers your name and takes two long strides towards you.

You aren’t ready for this kind of confrontation. You need time to figure out what the lying means. You want to know why it’s starting to matter less and less. “Jocasta’s busy,” you tell him. “Come back later.” 

He grabs your wrist as you reach for another holofile, making you look at him. “I don’t want to talk to Jocasta,” he says, leaning in close enough for you to feel his warmth. 

As if on cue, Jocasta herself approaches, and Obi-Wan drops your wrist and takes a step back. 

“Master Kenobi,” she greets him. “I’m told you had further questions about the correction you requested.”

If Obi-Wan looks back at you, you don’t see it. You’re already walking away.

That evening, near closing, when the archive is all but empty, he finds you again in a secluded corner of the archives where the lights seem dimmer. Nothing is separating you now. Not a desk. Not a cart of files. Nothing but space.

“I want to explain,” he says after a long silence.

You fold your arms over your chest—a habit you picked up from him. “Why should you have to?” you ask. “You’re a Jedi Master, and I’m a simple padawan learner. Whatever ulterior motive you had in lying to me for weeks must be beyond me.”

He closes the space with two strides and stands over you. “It isn’t like that, dear one,” he says. “I wanted—” He stops himself short and lowers his head.

“What?” you question. “Obi-Wan.”

He looks up at you again with terrified, desperate eyes.

“What did you want?”

He doesn’t answer you. But with something between a grunt and a sigh, he’s crushing his lips against yours, pushing you back until your back is pressed against the shelf.

There’s not a moment’s hesitation for you. The second his actions register with you, you’re reciprocating with equal force. Hadn’t you already decided that you would melt into him if given the chance? Your hands are tangling in his long hair before you permit them to, pushing him down closer to you.

His lips soften after that. Warm. Pliable. Breaking open against yours. He’s everywhere around you. One hand in your hair (padawan braid between his fingers) the other on the only part of your back that’s not against the shelf. You sigh an involuntary sigh from your chest when he pulls back just to kiss the corner of your mouth. Your cheek. The curve of your jaw that he had barely dared to touch with the tips of fingers before. He’s sighing too, and that’s how you know that even though you’re the one with your back against a wall, he’s completely surrendered to you.

It’s then that Jocasta’s voice over the speakers announces the closing of the archives in ten minutes, making both of you jump. Once the initial panic subsides, you’re both laughing and breathing hard. Obi-Wan’s forehead is buried in the crook of your neck, and you stroke his hair once, smoothing out the tangles. He presses a gentle, breathy kiss to your collarbone before reclaiming your lips.

“I have to go,” you mutter, never fully pulling away.

“Not yet,” Obi-Wan says, moving to kiss your temple.

“Yes,” you laugh. “I have to be in my quarters by curfew. I’m still only a padawan learner, remember?”

“You’re clever. You’ll think of an excuse.”

You roll your eyes and kiss him again before slipping out of his arms. “Who’s headstrong and obstinate now?”

Before you walk away, Obi-Wan grabs your hand and presses a long kiss to your knuckles. He doesn’t let go of your hand until you’re stretching too far to hold on any longer, and you grin all the way back to the dormitories. 

The grin fades when you see Mundi sitting outside your door looking sterner than he ever has before. “Hasn’t any master of yours ever taught you not to project your emotions?” he questions. “He clearly learned not to, whoever he may be. But it’s a wonder the entire Temple didn’t sense you wantonly breaking the code.”

Everything crumbles: your face, your confidence, your joy. “Master, I can explain,” you start.

He holds up his hand to silence you. “I was to send you on a mission to negotiate an alliance with Lasan soon,” he tells you. “If you had been successful, you would have faced the Trials. I see now that you are further from that goal than I dreamed. I will request to send Anakin Skywalker in your place.”

Fury builds in you like billows of ash. “Master, that’s not fair,” you snap. “I've been ready for the Trials since I came to learn from you.”

“Clearly not,” Mundi counters. “This attachment that you are vulnerable to can only serve to hinder a Jedi’s path.”

“Would your wives say the same?” you shout back.

Mundi closes his eyes and breathes deeply through the nose. “I must ask myself every day if those attachments hinder me from my duty. Every time, my duty wins. It must always come first. Would you now sacrifice yours? Understand that this offense is worthy of expulsion from the order. Everything you have worked for—everything you have suffered for—now hangs in balance. Would it be worth the cost?”

You grind your teeth, refusing to show Mundi that he struck a chord. Without another word, you retreat into your room and slam the door. Once you hear him walk away, you slide down the door and sit with your face buried in your knees, wanting to scream but unable to. Instead, you cry for hours.

Years of training emotions away didn’t prepare you for the numbness. Years of training didn’t prepare you for many things. You question it all now. Mere feelings, mere logic becomes as objectionable as absolutes. The only thing that feels sure is time. The years you spent training. The moments you spent with Obi-Wan. Would it be worth the cost?

The first light peeks over the horizon, and you rise with the sun, clipping your lightsaber onto your belt and charging toward the starfighter hangar. This is not a decision. It's instinct.

You know Obi-Wan is there the minute you cross the threshold. His presence screams at your senses. Still, you move forward, locating your starfighter and fueling it for takeoff.

Of course, he senses you too and approaches you in the quietness of the near-empty hangar. “Hello there,” he says. “What are you doing here so early?”

“I’m leaving for Lasan,” you tell him. You know you sound cold. You can’t help it. 

It’s a moment before he answers. “I see,” he says. “I didn’t realize you’d been assigned—”

“I haven’t,” you interrupt.

“Oh.” Another pause. “Have you considered it may be a little reckless to—”

“What’s one more reckless thing, Master Kenobi?” you question, suddenly looking him square in the eye.

The hurt in his blue eyes has the tears rushing back to yours. “Are you…” he starts. “Are you angry with me?”

“No,” you say, burying your face in your hands. “No, I… I’m angry with myself. I wasn’t think—We’ve both made commitments to the Jedi order. Commitments not easily broken.”

“Yes, we have.”

“Well, are you ready to risk it all?” you ask, dropping your hands and looking at him, pleading.

He doesn’t answer. He just stares back at you with his mouth slightly agape. That’s answer enough. 

You give him a sad smile. “Neither am I,” you tell him. “I have to let go. So do you.” The price of becoming a Jedi. Will it be worth the cost?

You’d be able to sense his hurt even if it wasn’t written on his face. It’s taking everything in you not to take it all back and kiss him again. You want to kiss him again. Not like you did in the archives but slowly and tenderly, taking his pain and carrying it with you. 

“I understand,” Obi-Wan says after an eternity. It’s barely more than a whisper. “You’re right, of course. I am sorry to have caused you further pain.”

“I’m sorry, too,” you mumble. “Goodbye, Master Kenobi.”

“Goodbye, dear one.” This time, it is a whisper, and you sense that you weren’t supposed to hear it. 

But when he walks away, the numbness washes back over you, and you man your starfighter. You have worth to prove.

The pain from before is still there when you wake in the middle of the Separatist encampment, tied by the wrists to a whipping post, kneeling in mud. It’s the dark of night. You’re not sure how long it’s been… Days, probably, judging by your hunger. Ventress isn’t likely to feed you. If she did, it would only be enough to keep you alive. 

Something bright red clouds your vision. Blood dripping from your temple into your eye. It should’ve dried by now. Unless it’s being kept fresh.

If your mind was clearer, you might try to think of an escape. But as it is, you’re on the verge of slipping away again. 

All you can think of is Obi-Wan. How you left him. The pain in his eyes. There’s still so much you want to tell him...

There isn’t even darkness this time. Just swirling nothingness that lasts an eternity… Until the faintest of colors crawls in. A still, small voice piercing the silence. 

“Hang on, dear one, hang on…”

The next thing you’re aware of is falling back into a painful reality. You’re still tied to the post, wrists rubbed raw by the shackles. You haven't been moved even once. Who knows how long you've been suspended there with a broken body desperate for healing?

It’s another bright afternoon, and there’s a voice. A real one that doesn’t belong to a battle droid or Ventress. “I am not here to fight you, Ventress, but I will if I have to,” it says. “Wouldn’t you rather avoid it altogether?” 

Your heart begins to pound, and you begin to dare to hope. “Obi-Wan…” you whisper, voice hoarse from disuse. You’re not even entirely sure it’s him, but you say it all the same.

Consciousness is coming to you heartbeat by heartbeat, fading in, fading out. Fading in, you’re aware of someone crouching in front of you. Fading out, you don’t know who it is. Fading in, there’s a hand on your forehead, tenderly brushing away the hair that’s sticking to it with blood and sweat. Fingers gently lifting your chin. Thumb brushing over your cheekbone. Fading out again, but now you know for sure. No one else has hands like that. 

Ventress is saying something smug. You can’t hear her over the ringing in your ears.

Obi-Wan stands. Maker, he’s so close. If you had full use of your hands, you could reach for him. “Make no mistake,” he says. “I am not here to fight, but Anakin Skywalker isn’t far behind, and he most certainly is. I can tell him to turn around. Or we can test a fleet of starfighters and highly specialized clone troopers against your dozen or so battle droids.”

What happens next is clouded to you, but it feels like another age before you’re vaguely aware of being lifted off the ground. Strong arms under your knees and around your back. Vaguely aware of Obi-Wan’s voice piercing through the fog. “There, I have you now. Can you hold onto me, my darling? There we are. Good. Don’t let go, dear one.”

Don’t let go. It’s the last thing you hear before you’re fading, fading, fading… 

Your next waking moment is oddly euphoric. Your mind is still clouded, but you aren’t registering pain. There’s a bed underneath you. Your arm is in a sling, your ankle has been wrapped to immobility, and everything feels tight to the point of discomfort. You can sense that you’re in the Temple, but you’re not sure where.

“The intensive care unit.” It’s Mundi’s voice answering your unasked question. Slowly, you turn your head to face your master. He’s scowling at you like you haven’t just survived being a prisoner of war. 

“Hello there,” you say. Your voice isn’t in perfect condition yet.

“Indeed,” Mundi replies, scowl unchanging.

There’s a long silence before you continue. “How may I be of service, Master?”

“Is this a laughing matter, padawan?” he scolds. “Forgive me if I fail to find the humor in stealing a starfighter to go on a rogue mission ending in miserable failure.” 

“It was my starfighter,” you grumble.

Mundi leaps to his feet. “It was the Republic’s starfighter! Do you realize that I am currently fighting for your position in the Jedi order? You are at risk of expulsion, more than you have ever been.”

Strangely, that does nothing to faze you. Must be painkillers. “Well, I am sorry, Master,” you say. “But considering that I’m not fully recovered, may I be spared the lecture temporarily? And who knows? If I’m expelled, you may not have to give it at all.”

Mundi’s face turns bright red, and he storms out muttering, “Obstinate, stubborn girl!”

With Mundi gone, you sleep. It’s not the slipping to and from consciousness. It's real sleep, deep and restful. The painkillers wearing off is what wakes you. Suddenly aware of how much your entire body hurts, you start awake.

“Careful, careful!” a sweet voice chides. A hand like no other grabs yours, and your eyes focus. There’s Obi-Wan’s face before you. His blue eyes, stung with concern. His hair is newly trimmed and unkempt; but, Maker, it’s still him. “What do you need?”

“Water,” you say immediately. You feel like you haven’t had a drink in weeks. In fact, that may be true. “How long was I…?”

“Nearly a month,” Obi-Wan tells you as he releases your hand and pours a glass of water from a nearby pitcher. “Some thought you may not wake at all.”

He hands you the glass, and you begin to greedily swallow it down. 

“Slowly, my—” He cuts himself short.

You don’t acknowledge what he said. What he almost said. Instead, you finish your water. Slowly. “I hear I’m being expelled from the order,” you say.

Obi-Wan sighs and folds his arms over his chest. “Not exactly,” he says. “The council reached a decision this morning. If you’re able to pass the Trials after you’re recovered, you’ll remain as a full Jedi Knight. You’ll only be expelled if you fail.”

Something between dread and excitement stirs deep in your stomach. “I see,” you say. “Are you here to tell me this, Master Kenobi?”

“I’m here as a concerned friend,” he says. “That is, I hope we are still friends.”

And you know deep down that you’ll never be able to be purely friends with him. Not really. There will always be a part of you that wants to reach for him like he’s the last water in the desert. And you know that Mundi’s right. You’ll never pass the Trials with that kind of attachment.   

None of this stops you from smiling at him. “I suppose,” you allow with an exaggerated sigh. “Only because you rescued me from Ventress. If you hadn’t, I would’ve screamed at you to get out. You’re lucky I even recognized you at all with your hair like that.”

Obi-Wan hums. “Oh, yes, of course,” he says with a nod. “I thank you for your benevolence, oh gravely injured one.”

“You’re welcome,” you continue. “And I suppose, in my benevolence, I will allow you to visit me tomorrow. If you’d like to?”

He smiles. It’s that warm candlelight smile again. “I would like that very much,” he says. Then he reaches over just to tweak your padawan braid, flooding you with so much warmth, you nearly forget your pain for a moment.

A month of painkillers and physical therapy goes by. You’re just beginning to walk again, but it feels like you aren’t making any real progress. 

“Besides,” you complain to Obi-Wan one evening. “It hurts.”

“It’s going to hurt. There’s no getting around that,” Obi-Wan counters. “And I think you’re being a rather difficult patient for the poor nurses.”

“I’m being charming to the nurses,” you counter. “It’s my kriffing ankle that’s being difficult.”

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes. “My mistake.”

There’s something about the way he says it that makes you want to kick him. Unfortunately, your ankle has made kicking difficult lately. “Fine,” you say, throwing your blanket aside. “Help me up. I’ll go walking right now.”

“No, no,” Obi-Wan says, eyes widening. “I’ll call a nurse to help you.”

“No, you can help me, Master Kenobi,” you say with a shake of your head. Your hand reaches for his. “Come on.” 

After a moment’s hesitation, he wraps his fingers around yours and helps you rise shakily to your feet. Slowly, carefully he leads you out of your room and into the infirmary garden. You wince the whole way but bite back complaints. His hand is still holding yours, and the other is on your elbow, gently steadying you. No complaints. You don’t want him to decide that the walk is over.

There’s a bench in the right wing of the garden where Obi-Wan leads you when you begin to tire.

“You ought to get a walking stick,” he remarks when he’s sure you’re comfortable.

You hum and shake your head. “Why would I need one? I’ve got you.” 

“Yes, I suppose you have,” he answers after a pause.

You let a minute pass in the stillness of the garden, breathing in the open air, and letting the sound of falling water lull your eyes shut. “You know,” you say. “It is getting easier to walk.”

“Good,” he says. “The worst of it should have passed by now.”

You open your eyes and turn your head to him. “It could’ve been much worse if you hadn’t shown up.”

Obi-Wan holds your gaze a moment before looking down at his hands. “I try not to think about that.”

“I think about it,” you tell him. “All the time. I thought I was going to die there.”

“It was the will of the Force that you didn’t,” he says. He still won’t look you in the eye.

You hum thoughtfully. “I wonder about that sometimes,” you admit. “I still don’t understand how you found me.”

Now, he looks at you. Oh, that’s a familiar look. The conflict you sense in him is familiar, too. The night he kissed you in the archives is only too vivid in your memory. You’re not sure how long he looks at you like that before he speaks. “I felt you,” he says, his voice quiet and raw. “I always do. As though your voice is always humming in the back of my mind. But it changed that day. I heard you screaming my name as if you were in pain… So, I followed it. That’s how I found you.”

How are you supposed to answer that? You won’t be able to without making yourself a liar. The only honest answer would be to hold him and tell him you loved him in every language you knew. So, you don’t answer, but your voice is choked when you ask, “And how did you get me away from Ventress?”

He braces his hands on his knees and takes a deep breath. “Oh,” he said. “I merely suggested that if she gave you up, I would see to it that she was left alone while she was on Lasan.”

There’s a silence as this revelation registers with you. “Obi-Wan,” you say slowly. It’s the first time you’ve said his name since you returned. “You surrendered the planet in exchange for me?”

“From a certain point of view,” he answers. There’s a smile playing at his lips, but his eyes are so tired.

Your lips are parted in disbelief, and a minute passes before you can gather a sentence together. “That, my friend, would be a pyrrhic victory.”

“No,” Obi-Wan rejects out of hand. There is something firm and resolute about his voice. He is leaving you no room to question him. “No, it was very much worth the cost.” 

Everything is crumbling in you. Your resolve. Your stubbornness. A whole life dedicated to training. Everything you’ve ever been taught. And, somehow, you’ve never been more at peace.

Obi-Wan pats your knee once before his hand lingers there. “We ought to get you back to your room,” he says. “Can you walk?”

“Yes,” you say with a nod. “If you hold me up.”

“Of course, dear one.”

Walking is getting easier. You aren’t holding his hand for support.

Once you’re fully recovered, you’re graciously allowed a month of training before you face the Trials. That month slips by all too quickly. Seeing Obi-Wan becomes rarer and more precious. Suppressing your attachment to him becomes impossible. You know you’re still radiating it by the way Mundi glares at you even when you’re silent and tells you to be mindful of your feelings. You’ve stopped caring.

You’re beginning to understand what Obi-Wan meant when he described how your voice hummed in the back of his head. You’re starting to feel him, too. In quiet moments, no matter the distance, you can feel his being like you can hear your favorite song playing in another room. The strange thing is that you’re not sure it’s much different from regular love. Amplified by the way the Force connects you, maybe. But just regular love, all the same.

Your time before the council approaches faster than you can blink. Everything is going just as you always planned, and it’s making you dizzy. Your back is turned to Obi-Wan’s seat. You can’t risk looking at him now.

Something in the way you’re holding yourself must be unusual. Master Yoda addresses you. “Something to say, have you?”

Yes, you do have something to say. It has been building in you for months now. “Masters,” you begin slowly. “I am truly honored by this chance to prove myself to you…”

“But?” Master Yoda presses.

“But, I regret that I cannot take the Trials.”

Master Windu exchanges a look with Master Yoda before looking back at you. “Are you afraid you won’t pass the Trials?”

You shake your head. “Not at all, Master Windu.”

“Then why will you not take them? You understand the alternative is to resign from the Order?”

“Yes,” you say. “I simply find that the cost of dedicating oneself completely to the Jedi Order is not one that I am willing to pay.”

No one argues this, and the council is silent for a long while.

“What will you do?” Obi-Wan’s voice speaks behind you.

You turn to face him. He’s staring at you half-dazed like he’s trying to read your mind. As if he doesn’t know that you would let him in before he could ask. You smile. “Well, Master Kenobi, with the council’s permission, I’d like to continue to work in the archives. I’ve been trained very thoroughly there, and I don’t need to be a full Jedi Knight to sort holofiles.”

Obi-Wan smiles back at you.

“We will need to confer on this matter,” Windu says.

You turn back to him and nod. “I leave that to your judgment.” With a bow, you leave the council chamber, feeling lighter than you have in years.

Obi-Wan’s presence is outside your door almost as soon as you’ve finished packing away your few possessions.

“Come in,” you tell him.

He steps through the door and shuts it behind him, lingering in front of it for a moment before he speaks. “I— I have been sent to tell you that the council has agreed to your request to work in the archives.”

You respond with a smile and a nod. 

There’s a moment when he looks like he’s about to leave it there and walk away. But he doesn’t. “What did you mean when you said the cost was more than you were willing to pay?”

With a deep breath, you look down at your shoes and answer. “Just that in the past year, I’ve been happier than I ever remember being, just from letting myself feel. Feel everything: the good and the bad. And I was about to sacrifice that for a stoic life that I no longer wanted.”

Arms folded over his chest, Obi-Wan wanders across the room to you in slow, cautious steps. “And you’ll be happy? Working in the archives?”

“Yes,” you promise him. “And I assume I’ll see you quite a lot?”

He smiles. “Well, nothing ever really changes, dear one.”

“Well,” you counter, returning his smile with a teasing quirk of your brows. “Your hair changes every now and then.”

He takes another step toward you. He’s standing over you now. “Do you know why I cut my hair?” he asks, his voice low. 

You can’t find it in you to say anything at all so you shake your head. You’re craning your neck to look him in the eye. His dark, worshipping eyes.

“I did it so I could forget what it felt like to have your hands in it.”

Oh. Oh. “Well…” you say, ignoring how everything in you is seizing and burning all at once. “Rash decision.”

Obi-Wan gives you the smallest of smiles and tugs your padawan braid. It’s a useless thing now, you remember. But you think you’ll keep it. “I can think of worse ones.” His fingers leave your hair to wrap around the back of your neck, his thumb brushing just behind your ear. 

“Did it work?” you whisper after swallowing hard. 

He shakes his head and presses his lips to the space between your brows. “No,” he mutters against your skin. He moves his other hand to the other side of your face, letting his knuckles caress your cheekbone as he kisses your temple. “No.” He kisses your cheek, close to the corner of your mouth. “No, my darling. It didn’t work.”

You’ve had enough of waiting. You reach your hands up to cradle the back of his head, digging your fingers into his hair so he would never be able to forget what you feel like there. You pull him into you, lips meeting lips in blazing heat that gives you chills. It’s not the kiss from the archives. It’s not scrambling and desperate. Everything is slow and deliberate. From the way his arms drop around your waist, cinching you to him, to the way you slide your hands forward so you can feel his beard against your hands.