Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Now — Day One

If he had to count the days, it would be around 2,500.

To make it easier: seven years.

Seven years since he last felt truly alive — like a real person.

Not that he cared. He really didn’t.

Nor did his former colleagues, evidently. Why else would they have sent him here, to rot in a desk job? Seven years ago, they transferred him to this department. Seven years later, no one had ever called him back.

The salary, oddly enough, remained the same — high enough that it didn’t make sense. Maybe they bundled in some of Qui-Gon’s life insurance. He never asked. He never really spent the money either.

He already owned an apartment on the Upper West Side. He ate alone. He hadn’t dated anyone in all these years. His office was exactly 2.6 kilometers from his home.

What else could he possibly need to spend money on?

Maybe the one cup of coffee a day? But lately, his interns had started buying it for him — particularly that pretty young woman, the new intern, who insisted on getting it every morning.

“Black, no sugar, double cream. I got you, boss,” she’d say with a wink.

His instincts told him there was some ulterior motive behind the sudden generosity, but he didn’t bother to ask. He simply accepted it — noting the coffee cup’s label had changed. The shop was from three blocks away.

“They’re all obsessed with that café lately. You noticed?” he asked, finally, after a week of free coffee.

The woman in front of him raised a brow, clearly surprised that he even cared. She grinned.

“Well, Obi-Wan, the girls aren’t obsessed with the coffee. They’re obsessed with the new guy who works there. He’s seriously gorgeous — like model-level gorgeous.” Satine sipped her coffee, still grinning.

“Stop by yourself if you’re curious, Kenobi. He might even be your type.”

Satine was the only person in this office who dared to mention his love life. None of them, including Satine, knew what had really happened to him before his transfer. They just assumed — correctly, perhaps — that he’d been deeply hurt, and had shut the door on that part of his life.

No relationships. Boring desk job. Sandwich lunches.

The man he had been seven years ago would never recognize what he’d become:

A lifeless, emotionless ghost.

He shrugged and waved a dismissive hand.

“You don’t win a guy’s attention by buying extra coffee from him.”

“I know. But the girls need something to get excited about. A harmless crush. They’re not like us.”

“You have your crush.”

“If you mean my husband — thanks. But we’ve been married for sixteen years. The excitement is long gone.” Satine laughed. She didn’t seem to mind that he’d changed the subject to avoid her suggestion.

“But seriously, Obi-Wan,” she said, placing a hand gently on his shoulder, “it wouldn’t kill you to step outside your comfort zone for once.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of irritation tightening his chest.

“I don’t know what happened to make you show up here and instantly become the coldest boss we’ve ever had, but…” Her fingers squeezed his shoulder softly. “You’re not as indifferent as you act. I can see it. You’ve got all these feelings bottled up. If you don’t want to share, fine. But you’ve got to let them out somehow. You’re always so… guarded.”

Was he? He thought he was calm. Kind, even.

But she walked off before he could argue.

⸻

Eight Years Ago

“Are you sure he’s the one?” Obi-Wan frowned, watching the boy from afar.

Qui-Gon chuckled under his breath.

“What? Disappointed already, Obi?”

“I just thought he’d be… more unique. Someone who stands out from the first glance.”

Qui-Gon laughed again.

“We’re not casting James Bond, you know.”

They were scouting a teenager to go undercover with Qui-Gon — deep inside the most dangerous organization the CIA had ever investigated. The candidate had to be someone exceptional. At least a little like James Bond, didn’t he?

Obi-Wan looked down at the file in his hand. The boy’s face looked young and pure in the photo. He sighed. Something about this already felt wrong.

Why was the CIA choosing a kid — an actual underage kid — for such a dangerous mission?

Still, they’d followed orders. He and Qui-Gon had spent five months vetting candidates, starting in military academies, then moving on to stunt performers, then drama schools. From New York City all the way to Toronto.

And they found this boy — in a Toronto acting school.

He couldn’t fight.

Average height, average build, forgettable looks, barely any acting skill.

He knew nothing about the world they were about to pull him into.

“Well… we could’ve at least chosen someone from a military academy. At least they’d know how to fight,” Obi-Wan muttered, repeating “at least” without realizing. He was confused, and Qui-Gon could tell.

What was the kid’s name again?

He looked down at the file.

Anakin Skywalker , 14.

Born in Vancouver. Raised in Toronto.

“We’ll train him our own way,” Qui-Gon said with a slight smile.

“And besides — he’s got potential. He’s great at sports. A natural marksman.”

That meant they’d take him out of the world he knew, and throw him into something cold and brutal. They’d turn a maybe-actor into a maybe-assassin — teach him to hold a gun like a fork.

For a moment, Obi-Wan realized:

Being chosen wasn’t always a blessing. Sometimes, it was a curse.

“You’re worrying too much. Your face is giving you away.”

Qui-Gon was right, of course. He always was. Obi-Wan raised both hands as if surrendering and offered a sheepish smile.

“You’re the master. I’ll follow your lead. So… this one it is.”

He looked at the name again.

Why was it so hard to remember?

Anakin Skywalker.

⸻

Now — Day One

He had a strange ability — if it counted as one — to know when he was dreaming.

Not many people could do that, right?

In the dream, they were all there. Laughing together.

Qui-Gon would pull both Anakin and Obi-Wan into a bear hug until their faces turned red.

And Obi-Wan felt, truly and unbearably, happy.

That’s when he always realized he was dreaming.

Because in the real world — the world he knew all too well —

Anakin Skywalker killed Qui-Gon the day he was sent into that organization.

With the very shooting skills Qui-Gon had once praised.

Right in the heart. Almost effortless.

In the real world, Anakin became the most efficient professional killer after his first mission.

And Obi-Wan was transferred to a desk job, never to hear that name again.

Until now.

His insomnia had never been kind to him. But regret could come later.

The café smelled like heaven the moment he walked in.

He sighed. Curiosity rarely won with him — but this time, it did.

The model-like new barista.

The one who’d captured the attention of all his interns.

The one Satine said might even be his type .

He stopped breathing.

Their eyes met.

You’ve got to be kidding me, Qui.

The thought flickered across his mind like a spark.

His legs moved on their own, carrying him closer — just to see more clearly.

The same complicated blue eyes, framed by long brown lashes, now stared at him without the slightest surprise.

He knew Obi-Wan would come.

And somehow, that average boy had turned into this —

This striking , ridiculously handsome young man.

Obi-Wan didn’t understand how seven years had drained everything out of him,

yet had turned this boy into a walking masterpiece.

This is so fair.

And he would never forget the name now.

Anakin Skywalker.

-tbc-

Chapter Text

Now — Day Two

At 8:46 a.m., Obi-Wan Kenobi was sitting alone at a small Vietnamese pho place on the corner of 67th and Columbus, staring into a bowl of broth like it might explain something to him.

The place wasn’t exactly his usual type — plastic stools, laminated menus, a flat-screen TV looping old Vietnamese pop songs from the early 2000s. But it had two things that mattered: it opened early, and it served beer.

Those fancy cafes down the block — ones his interns flocked to every morning — didn’t sell alcohol. Which was a problem, because this morning, Obi-Wan wanted a drink.

And now he had one.

The cold bite of beer clashed violently with the hot, herby broth of his pho, but he didn’t care. He slurped anyway. One sip of beer, one mouthful of noodles. Like a man performing a ritual he didn’t believe in.

In seven years, Obi-Wan had never had breakfast with beer. Never done anything remotely inappropriate before 9 a.m. Never skipped protocol, never even raised his voice in the office.

But this morning he’d ordered two beers before 8:30, just to see if he still could.

Twenty minutes later, Satine Kryze pushed open the door and spotted him immediately. She stood there for a second, brow raised, as if debating whether to join him or turn around and pretend this was a hallucination.

“You summoned me to a pho shop,” she said dryly, sliding into the seat across from him. “At eight in the morning.”

Obi-Wan sipped his beer. “I did.”

“Are we doing something? Or are you having a midlife crisis?”

He glanced at her, vaguely amused. “Would it be so bad if I was?”

Satine blinked at him, then tilted her head with a smile that said ‘alright, now I’m interested.’

Satine was — for lack of a better term — a functional chaos agent. A damage-controlled hurricane with impeccable taste in shoes and no patience for bureaucratic stupidity. She and Obi-Wan shared a strange kind of friendship: half professional banter, half mutual psychological hostage situation.

To her, Obi-Wan was a puzzle box — one she’d long since given up on solving. Still, she liked him. He was polite. Clean. Mysterious in a brooding, handsome sort of way. Secretly kind, she suspected, beneath all that emotional constipation.

They worked for an administrative sub-division under the FBI.

Which sounded important, but really just meant they processed declassified documents no one read, and filed things so that someone else could lose them later.

Their office, however, was in one of the most luxurious corners of the Upper West Side — with windows that overlooked Central Park like a postcard. Government money had strange priorities.

“I went to that cafe yesterday,” Obi-Wan said suddenly, eyes fixed on the condensation sliding down his beer glass. “The one our interns like so much.”

Satine’s eyebrow rose. “And? Did you fall in love?”

He didn’t answer.

In his mind, the image returned in excruciating detail:

Anakin Skywalker — or whatever he called himself now — standing behind the counter, pouring steamed milk like it meant something.

They had locked eyes from five meters away.

Obi-Wan had frozen.

He couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t breathe.

He hadn’t approached.

Hadn’t said a word.

After sixty seconds of absolute stillness, he had turned and walked out.

And then failed to sleep for the rest of the night.

“I don’t like their coffee,” he said at last. “They roast the beans too lightly.”

He stood up. She followed.

At the counter, while reaching for his wallet, he added — tone carefully neutral:

“And the new barista everyone’s talking about? He’s not that attractive.”

Pause.

“Definitely not my type.”

———

Eight Years Ago

Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon were never seen together in public.

Not once.

Qui-Gon was buried too deep — the kind of deep that came with a burner phone, a dozen fake names, and no real home. He was embedded inside that organization, the one no one in Langley dared to name directly over the phone. If anyone ever saw him walking next to a registered CIA field agent like Obi-Wan Kenobi, it could cost them both everything.

So they kept their distance.

They coordinated in shadows, at drop points, through secure lines and unmarked files.

But when it came to training the kid, they found ways.

Sometimes it was a derelict barn in rural Tennessee.

Other times, a frozen lake cabin outside Winnipeg, Manitoba.

Always places no one would ask questions.

Qui-Gon, too often, was absent.

The organization’s operations demanded his presence more than the boy’s training did.

Which meant it usually came down to Obi-Wan.

Two months in, the boy was already showing frightening potential.

He was a fast learner — faster than anyone they’d ever seen.

Shooting, tactics, codebreaking — he excelled at everything.

But most of all: he could shoot.

He could really shoot.

There was one evening — cold, late November, somewhere outside Whitehorse — where Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon stood shoulder to shoulder in a makeshift range, reviewing Anakin’s shooting log.

The grouping on the target sheet was almost unnaturally tight.

Qui-Gon laughed softly.

“You still think we picked the wrong kid?”

Obi-Wan frowned, his breath curling in the cold.

“I thought we’d choose someone more suited for hand-to-hand combat.”

Qui-Gon shook his head.

“Bullets travel faster than fists.”

He always had a poetic way of justifying lethal efficiency.

But Obi-Wan couldn’t deny the results.

Anakin was already as good as some trained operatives — maybe better.

And just as unsettling: he had grown.

Two months ago, the kid barely came up to Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

Now he was nearly eye level.

The human body wasn’t supposed to grow that fast.

But then again, nothing about Anakin was exactly average.

Not anymore.

⸻

It was snowing outside someday when Obi-Wan found the boy alone in the cabin.

No training that day — just rest.

Anakin was sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor, dry-firing an empty Glock like it was a toy.

Obi-Wan sat across from him, silent for a long moment before asking, quietly:

“Do you know what you signed up for?”

Anakin didn’t hesitate. “I do.”

“Then why did you agree?”

The boy set the gun down and looked up, his face still too soft to belong to a killer.

“You know how much money the CIA’s going to pay me for this?” he said. “I could leave Toronto. Go somewhere better. Not be someone’s burden anymore.”

Obi-Wan’s throat tightened.

He knew about the car crash.

The dead parents.

The aunt and uncle who barely scraped by.

“You were at an acting school before this,” Obi-Wan said. “Didn’t you like it?”

Anakin’s lips curved, almost into a smirk.

“Consider it an asset, Obi-Wan. Maybe this job needs a lot of acting.”

Obi-Wan frowned. “You don’t sound like a kid.”

Anakin leaned forward, eyes steady and a little too knowing.

“Then stop treating me like one.”

⸻

Now — Day Two

Seven years ago, the funeral was quiet.

No press, no flag-draped coffin, no national anthem.

Just a cold morning, a closed casket, and a sealed report Obi-Wan was never allowed to read in full.

After that, they reassigned him.

From CIA field operative to Director of Administrative Operations under the FBI.

A big enough title to keep the pay consistent.

Small enough to make sure he never touched a field op again.

They called it “internal reallocation of critical human assets.”

He called it exile.

Anakin, by contrast, had succeeded.

He’d entered the organization. Had taken on real CIA credentials.

And then—disappeared.

No trace. No messages. No updates.

The boy he’d trained with his own hands became a ghost.

And Obi-Wan’s world… flattened.

No highs, or purpose, never again. Just numbness.

⸻

That morning, after his beer-and-pho stunt and Satine’s half-joking half-worried ribbing, his interns returned to their usual coffee brand.

Still the same flavor for him, black, no sugar, double cream.

But it didn’t sit right.

Obi-Wan couldn’t stop thinking about Anakin’s face when they locked eyes yesterday — how calm it was. Too calm.

He hadn’t looked surprised.

He hadn’t even blinked.

And if Anakin was still with the CIA — still active — then him working as a barista meant something.

Meant a cover. A mission.

Whether it came from the Agency or from them — the organization that had taken Qui-Gon — it meant movement.

Something was coming.

And that made Obi-Wan uneasy.

⸻

He returned that evening.

Same café. Same warm yellow lights spilling onto the sidewalk.

Anakin was still there, behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, fingers moving fast and clean over the espresso machine.

God, he looked different.

Tall now. Beautiful in a sharp, cinematic kind of way.

The sort of face that turned heads, then stayed in your memory far too long.

Qui-Gon would’ve laughed.

Would’ve elbowed him and said: “See? Maybe we did get our 007 after all.”

The thought made Obi-Wan’s chest ache.

This time, he walked in.

Didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t stop five meters away and freeze like yesterday.

He walked right up to the counter.

And looked Anakin in the eye.

⸻

“Evening,” Anakin said, voice smooth, neutral. “What can I get you?”

Obi-Wan didn’t blink.

He didn’t order.

He asked, calmly:

“What is this?”

Anakin tilted his head, unbothered.

“I’m sorry, sir — what do you mean?”

“This.” Obi-Wan gestured around the counter.

“You. Working at a café. Why?”

Anakin gave a one-shoulder shrug.

“I got an interview. They hired me.”

Obi-Wan stared at him.

For a second, the silence stretched into something unbearable.

Then Anakin turned, began preparing a latte like this was just another day.

“House blend?” he asked without looking up.

Obi-Wan didn’t answer.

He felt like he was choking on air.

Anakin finished the drink, wiped the cup clean, and placed it carefully in front of him.

“It’s on the house,” he said evenly. “Given how much your interns have helped our sales this week.”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to speak — then closed it.

He picked up the cup.

Turned.

Walked out.

⸻

He made it halfway down the block before he took a sip.

And nearly choked.

Way, way too much sugar.

Sickly sweet — aggressively so.

He paused, coughing into his sleeve, cursing quietly.

Then glanced down at the cup.

There, in permanent marker along the side of the cardboard sleeve, were the words:

Nothing to worry about.

And great to see you again, too.

- tbc-

Chapter Text

Now — Day Three

“What are all these? Did you plan it? Are you bored?”

The words left his mouth without meaning to. Quiet. Aimed at no one in particular.

A protest against the universe, maybe.

Obi-Wan stood in front of the grave, coat still buttoned.

Cold air scraped down his throat when he breathed. It was too early for this. He hadn’t slept properly in three days.

Qui-Gon Jinn’s headstone hadn’t changed.

It never would. The frost still collected in the carved letters like punctuation marks.

Another long winter. Another strange question.

Another day where he woke up and didn’t recognize the world he lived in.

“I don’t know if you’re testing me,” he said at last. “But it feels like something you would do.”

There was no answer, of course.

He stared down at the stone for a long moment.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel when I look at him.”

A pause.

“I don’t hate him. If that’s what you’re asking.”

Another breath. His voice was steady. Almost.

“I think I even understand. If killing a traitor was his final test to get into that organization… and because you were the traitor to them….then maybe it was always going to be you.”

The sentence tasted like iron in his mouth.

“But I just couldn’t figure out how they knew you were one. We were so cautious…”

“And I hate that I wasn’t part of the ending,” he said, after a while.

“I was part of everything else. The selection. The training. The mission parameters. And then one day it was over, and I was the only one still left behind.”

And had to live in it.

“You died,” he said. “He disappeared. And I got the job no one wanted.”

He crouched beside the grave and pressed a hand to the frozen edge of it.

“The others got to move forward. I got to stay still.”

There was a sharpness in the air. The kind that stung behind the eyes.

“I keep trying to mourn you like everyone else does,” he said, quieter now. “But it never feels finished.”

His voice dropped to almost nothing.

“Give me a hint. If this is still one of your games.

If you’re watching, still pushing pieces around on the board.

Then give me something to work with, Qui.”

He stayed a few minutes longer.

Then stood up. Walked back to the car.

It was just another Wednesday after that.

⸻

Two new interns joined the department that morning.

Everyone seemed to like them. Cupcakes were brought in. Music played from someone’s speaker.

The office buzzed with harmless chatter and minor updates.

He answered questions. Signed forms. Ate nothing. Said very little.

He couldn’t shake the feeling.

The kind that curled behind his ribs like static.

Unease. Not paranoia. Not yet.

Just… an itch he couldn’t reach.

He walked home alone.

Didn’t stop by the cafe. He couldn’t think of a reason to.

Besides, his intern had already switched back to the old brand of coffee. The one closer to the office.

It started raining sometime after nine.

By then, he was already in bed, lying still with the lights off, listening to the water run down the windows.

For the first time in days, his mind was quiet.

Not asleep. Just… stilled. Like his body had finally surrendered to its own exhaustion.

Then the door clicked.

Not loud. Not threatening.

But unmistakable.

He sat up slowly, body tense, pulse already rising.

He walked to the door barefoot, heart drumming against his ribs.

The hallway was dark.

He looked through the peephole.

And stopped breathing.

⸻

Anakin stood there.

Dripping wet. Pale.

His hand pressed against the space just below his shoulder — red blooming between his fingers.

His shirt soaked through. His knees shaking.

He opened the door. Their eyes met.

Anakin’s face was calm.

The boy wasn’t panicked or urgent.

Just exhausted.

He raised his chin, mouth tight with pain.

“I need a place to stay tonight,” he said.

“Please.”

———

Seven Years Ago

Anakin

The Tennessee air clung to everything. Dense, humid, unmoving.

He sat on the wooden floor of the cabin, shirt plastered to his back with sweat, knuckles scraped raw. His ribs ached where a well-placed elbow had landed. His chest rose and fell in shallow gasps.

Three hours of sparring. Bare-handed. No gear, no breaks.

The kind of training session Qui-Gon always claimed was “good for discipline.”

A cold soda thunked against his leg.

Anakin looked up. The can was dripping with condensation.

Qui-Gon sat down beside him with a groan, long legs folding easily beneath him. He cracked open his own drink and took a long sip before speaking.

“Do you know what you signed up for?” he asked, almost lazily.

Anakin didn’t answer right away.

His voice had taken on a rough edge recently — puberty and exhaustion working in tandem — but the annoyance was clear enough.

“Obi-Wan already asked me that,” he muttered.

Qui-Gon chuckled.

“And what did you tell him?”

“I said… I know.”

“Sure,” Qui-Gon said, smiling faintly. “You know it’s dangerous. You know the pay is good. You know we’re supposedly on the right side.”

He took another drink. The fizz crackled between them.

“But do you know the consequences?”

That made Anakin pause.

He glanced sideways, uncertain, but didn’t speak.

Qui-Gon leaned back on one arm, raising his other hand and forming a mock gun with his fingers. He pointed it squarely at Anakin’s chest.

“What if one day, being part of that organization means giving up someone you care about?” he asked.

“What if it means lying to the people who trust you? Letting them believe the worst of you?”

He tapped his finger once against Anakin’s sternum.

“What if they ask you to kill me?”

A beat.

“Or Obi-Wan?”

The gesture wasn’t harsh. But it landed heavier than any punch that afternoon.

Anakin stilled.

He didn’t blink.

Qui-Gon’s voice stayed calm — almost conversational.

“Would you do it?” he asked.

“For the greater good?”

Silence.

Anakin looked down at the can in his hand. It was slippery. Cold. His fingers were shaking a little.

He didn’t answer.

Ten seconds passed. Maybe fifteen.

Then he lifted his head.

“What would you want me to do?” he asked.

It wasn’t defiance. Just a quiet, unnerving honesty.

Qui-Gon smiled. But it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“There’s no right answer,” he said. “You can choose anything you want.”

A pause.

“But you’ll live with the consequences afterward.”

He stood, brushing dust from his pants.

“No pressure,” he added, already walking away.

Anakin sat there a few seconds longer, heart thudding somewhere too high in his throat. Then he raised his voice, loud enough to echo across the empty room.

“I will kill you, Master. If it’s for the greater good, I’ll shoot you. But I will make sure it goes right through the heart.”

Qui-Gon laughed so hard he nearly dropped his drink.

“Oh my God,” he called back. “You’re almost ready.”

⸻

Now — Day Three

Hours Ago, Anakin

He hadn’t planned to get this close.

Five days ago, he sat in a dim back room of the organization’s crumbling operations wing, surrounded by the scent of smoke and fraying paranoia, listening to men scream about traitors.

They were desperate. Nervous.

The leadership had turned cannibalistic, eating its own in search of ghosts.

And in the middle of that firestorm, someone had said a name.

Obi-Wan Kenobi.

The so-called partner of Qui-Gon Jinn.

The only one who had slipped through the net.

The one who should’ve died with him.

“He must’ve known something,” someone spat. “Kenobi was part of it. Seven years ago, he worked with Qui-Gon.”

“Then why is he still alive?”

“We didn’t want to challenge CIA back then, by killing two of their best agents. But now it’s different. We find him. We end him. Or we make him talk.”

Anakin said nothing. Silent throughout the entire meeting. He didn’t flinch, acted like nothing’s wrong.

But inside, something went rigid.

The instinct wasn’t panic. It was fire.

⸻

He didn’t report it to Mace Windu. His CIA supervisor. So he didn’t have to wait for orders.

He used one of his long-buried aliases and secured a cover job.

Easy enough — barista, upscale Cafe, Upper West Side. Three blocks from Obi-Wan’s office.

He thought he’d watch from a distance.

Maybe intercept a threat if one appeared.

Maybe just keep him safe long enough for it all to pass.

He never expected Obi-Wan to walk into the cafe some day.

Didn’t expect to see that face again — older, sharper, but still unbearably familiar.

He hadn’t expected anything, really.

Not the breathlessness. Not the ache.

And certainly not Obi-Wan’s eyes locking with his across the cafe floor like something still remembered him.

⸻

But the assassins from the organization didn’t come. Ten days passed.

Nothing moved. And Anakin began to think — maybe it was just noise. Just old men screaming shadows.

Until tonight.

⸻

He had just finished closing up.

Lights off. Machines cleaned. Apron folded.

It had started raining lightly — mist on the glass, soft and forgettable.

Then he saw them.

Two shadows flanking the street. One more across the way.

Slow and armed.

He didn’t need confirmation.

They were tracking.

And Obi-Wan had just walked home.

⸻

Anakin moved before he had time to think.

He kept his head down, rounded the alley behind the block, slipped between parked cars, and made himself visible.

Just for a second, although long enough for them to see him.

And then he ran.

They followed. Like he knew they would.

Old habits and instincts.

He led them through the dark. Past dumpsters and fire escapes, across a stretch of wet pavement slick with oil.

He didn’t want to kill them. He really didn’t.

But he did.

⸻

They weren’t rookies.

It took time.

One had a knife. Another nearly broke his wrist.

They got hits in — ribs, back, legs.

He lost track of how many punches landed.

But he kept going.

Because they couldn’t reach Obi-Wan. Also because they were not technically good people. World would be a better place if some of them died here.

When the last one dropped, coughing blood, Anakin finally let himself breathe.

And then he turned—

Just in time to feel it.

A gunshot.

Short range. Right side of his chest.

He didn’t hear the sound so much as feel it — a hard, burning crack just beneath his collarbone.

He stumbled back, vision flashing white.

The last man was still alive, hand trembling as he tried to reload. “So you are traitor, we were so stupid…” that man mumbled, in disbelief.

Anakin didn’t hesitate.

He dropped to one knee, took the man’s head in both hands—

And snapped it.

⸻

He stayed crouched in the alley for a long moment, rain seeping into his clothes, blood spreading warm and thick over his shirt.

The pain was sharp, but distant. Like it hadn’t fully landed yet.

He could have gone to his safe house. That was the logical choice.

Patch himself up. Report properly. Disappear before he got caught.

But the thought wouldn’t let him go:

What if they sent a second wave?

He wanted to be there to protect Obi-wan if they did.

So he walked. Step by step.

Back to the address he wasn’t supposed to have memorized.

-tbc-

Chapter Text

Now — Day Three

Obi-Wan stepped aside. He didn’t ask why.

Some part of him—cold, instinctive—had already accepted that he wouldn’t get an answer.

Anakin walked past him like a shadow, steady but unraveling at the edges.

He stopped to remove his shoes. It took longer than it should have. The wet leather clung stubbornly, and the movement pulled at something in his shoulder.

Blood hit the floor before the shoe did.

Dark and aggressive, but soon diluted by water.

Anakin glanced down, expression unreadable.

“I think I need to borrow your bathroom,” he said simply. “And your medkit.”

Obi-Wan gave a small nod. Watched the boy disappear down the hallway, trailed by the faint, uneven sound of wet footprints on tile.

He hadn’t realized until then that he was still only half-dressed — a thin undershirt clinging damply to his skin.

He pulled a button-down from the back of the chair, shrugged into it quickly. His hands moved like they belonged to someone else.

He followed after a beat. The bathroom door wasn’t locked.

He pushed it open without knocking.

⸻

Anakin stood hunched over the sink, bare from the waist up, his back pale against the dim yellow light. He had one hand braced on the porcelain, the other gripping a pair of metal forceps.

He didn’t flinch as Obi-Wan entered.

Just continued doing his job, so annoyingly calm.

He was in the middle of digging the bullet out himself — elbow locked, breath tight, hand shaking just enough to make the gesture crueler than necessary.

The forceps slipped. Blood welled higher.

Obi-Wan stepped forward and said, flatly:

“Enough.”

His tone cold. He took the medkit from the counter and gestured to the floor with his chin.

“Sit.”

Anakin obeyed. Slowly. Like it hurt to bend.

He slid down the wall, back pressing against cold tile, and let his head rest against it.

Obi-Wan crouched in front of him. He remained silent, he tried hard not to even show his emotion. Curiosity, fear, worry, they all didn’t fit it here.

He didn’t ask where the bullet had come from, or who had fired it, or whether someone else would be arriving next.

He just opened the kit. Found the gauze. The antiseptic. The needle and thread.

And He didn’t clean the wound gently.

His movements were precise, but there was no softness. He scrubbed with just enough pressure to sting, dragged the cloth across broken skin like it were any other surface to be sanitized.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, not looking up.

“No,” Anakin said.

The word came quiet. Certain.

Obi-Wan reached for the needle.

“There’s no anesthetic.”

“I don’t need it.”

Of course not.

He threaded the needle and started the stitches.

The metal pierced skin. Drew it together. Again. Again.

Twelve, maybe thirteen loops. He didn’t count.

Anakin made no sound. No twitch. His eyes didn’t even close.

But he kept looking at Obi-Wan.

That part was harder to ignore.

The gaze wasn’t angry, or pleading, or even wary. Just… patient. Observant.

Like someone cataloging the world from the outside.

So damn calm.

Obi-Wan tied off the last stitch and rose abruptly, shaking out his fingers.

His joints ached. Or maybe they just noticed what he’d made them do.

He walked to the closet. Found a folded set of cotton sleepwear.

Worn soft from age. Too large.

It had belonged to Qui-Gon.

He didn’t think about it.

He walked back and tossed it into Anakin’s lap without ceremony.

“You can sleep on the couch,” he said. “If you can make it.”

Then he turned and left.

⸻

He lay in the dark. Turned his back to the hallway.

The bedroom was still.

Too quiet to be restful.

His pulse was still high.

His throat was dry.

He closed his eyes. Opened them again.

Rain tapped the windows in a slow, steady rhythm. Other than that, the silence stretched.

There were no footsteps for a long time, no sound for any movement.

Was he still in the bathroom?

Obi-Wan rolled onto his side, restless. The pillow felt wrong. His shirt too tight.

Then—finally—he heard it.

Soft steps. Careful. Almost dragged.

The sound of someone easing themselves onto the couch, one inch at a time.

He calculated the seconds, holding his breath for no reason, waiting for any sound that hinted the boy had finally lay down properly…

And then, so faint it barely registered—

A quiet exhale from outside. He heard that.

Like Anakin was finally letting himself to show the slightest sign of discomfort.

———

Now — Day Four, Early Morning

He woke up too early.

Not by alarm of course, he never really needed that for the past seven years. His insomnia had trained him well. Plus today there was more than one problem in the house.

Despite everything, his room was still too silent. Something about it scratched at the edge of his nerves.

The rain had stopped. The windows were grey with morning light.

He sat up, unsure when he’d fallen asleep. He still felt tired.

And then he remembered.

He padded quietly out into the living room.

Anakin was still on the couch. Asleep, or close to it. He hadn’t moved much during the night. No pillow and no blanket. He curled on his side like something trying to stay small.

Even after so many years, he looked too young.

The shirt was a size too large — one of Qui-Gon’s old ones — sleeves rolled to the elbows, collar slipping low over his shoulder. His knees were drawn up toward his chest, like the position helped hold him together.

Obi-Wan crouched down.

There was sweat beading on his brow. His breathing was uneven.

He reached out and pressed the back of his hand to Anakin’s forehead.

The heat made him frown.

A low, almost inaudible sound escaped Anakin’s throat — a hoarse whimper, discomfort sharp enough to bleed through sleep.

Guilt landed hard, sudden and merciless.

He shouldn’t have cleaned the wound so carelessly. He hadn’t even tried to do it properly. Now it was red, swollen, hot to the touch.

This fever was on him.

He rose slowly, the motions deliberate, already calculating what to fetch. Fever reducers. Fluids. A fresh dressing. There were still old throw blankets in the closet—

The doorbell rang.

A single sharp note. Too loud for morning.

He froze.

No one ever rang the bell this early. No one rang his bell at all.

The silence that followed pressed close around him. For a moment he only stood there, sleeve half-rolled, the sound of rain-damp traffic outside faint against the walls. Then, reluctantly, he crossed the room. His hand lingered on the cuff of his shirt as though fastening it could slow time.

He opened the door.

Satine swept inside without pause, her presence abrupt, perfumed, the faint chill of outside air curling in around her. She carried a box in both hands as if it were a trophy.

“You remember that croissant place I told you about?” Her voice was light, incongruous against the tension in the room. “The viral one from Seattle? They finally opened in Manhattan. Line was insane. But I got us two.” She lifted the box. “Thought we could split them before work.”

Obi-Wan blinked, disoriented by the normalcy.

And then—behind him—the sound he dreaded.

Soft footsteps. Careful. Too careful.

He turned.

Anakin was standing.

At some point he had pulled on one of Qui-Gon’s old jackets, zipped halfway. The fabric hung loose on him, and yet he held himself straight, as though posture alone could disguise the pallor beneath. His hair was still damp at the ends, his eyes steady in a way his body was not.

He inclined his head toward Satine, voice low but even.

“Thank you for the hospitality. I’ll head out now.”

He crossed the threshold with a steadiness that made it impossible to stop him.

And then he was gone.

Just like that.

The echo of the door lingered far longer than the sound itself.

Satine turned toward him with a kind of theatrical shock.

“You told me he wasn’t attractive,” she hissed.

Obi-Wan didn’t answer. He was still looking at the door.

“Oh my God. Don’t even try to deny it. You two—” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “You slept with him?”

“No,” he said flatly.

“You just let him sleep over.”

“I didn’t plan—”

“You literally said he was not your type. Two days ago.”

“I never said—”

“Well I went to that café too, you know,” she said, pointing at his chest. “You think you’re the only one with legs and curiosity? He was my type, too.”

He gave up.

“Satine, please,” he said. “It’s not what you think.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“Fine,” she said. “But next time you judge me for falling for someone too fast? I’m going to remind you of this moment.”

He didn’t respond. He was still looking at the closed door, wondering if Anakin made it down the stairs without stumbling.

———

Now — Day Four, Later

Obi-Wan was the one who suggested the coffee break.

Satine raised her brows but didn’t comment. When he added, a little too casually, that they should try the café down the street — the one all the interns were obsessed with — she only gave him a knowing smile and followed without protest.

They ordered two lattes and took a seat near the corner window. Obi-Wan’s eyes hadn’t left the barista behind the counter since they walked in.

Anakin was still standing. Still working.

But only just.

His posture was stiff. His face pale, the kind of washed-out white that no lighting could disguise. He moved with the kind of precision that betrayed pain — deliberate, careful, desperate not to falter. Sweat darkened the collar of the jacket he wore. Qui-Gon’s old jacket, Obi-Wan realized. Somehow that made it worse.

The tray in Anakin’s hands wobbled slightly as he lifted it, a flicker of strain across his brow.

Satine cleared her throat.

“Your eyes are glued to him,” she murmured, sipping her drink. “You planning to blink anytime soon?”

Obi-Wan didn’t answer.

She leaned in a little. Smiling.

“Be honest. You sure you didn’t spend the whole night fucking him? He looks like someone who’s been thoroughly wrecked.”

Obi-Wan turned to her, incredulous. She shrugged.

“Relax. I’m joking. Mostly.” Her tone softened, just slightly. “It’s just… this is the first time in seven years I’ve seen you act like you’re still human. It’s a nice change.”

Before he could find a response, Anakin approached their table.

He set two new coffees down — one in front of each of them — then began clearing the empty cups from nearby tables. As he lifted the tray into his arms, his body tensed. The movement pulled too hard on something beneath the jacket. He flinched.

Barely visible. Just a tremor. But Obi-Wan saw it.

He was already on his feet before the tray could slip.

“I’ll take that,” he said, reaching out. “It’s too heavy.”

He didn’t wait for permission. Just turned, walked across the room, and set the tray down at the return station near the back.

Anakin followed, slower this time.

“Thanks,” he muttered, voice low.

Up close, Obi-Wan could see it clearly now — the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the glassy haze in his eyes, the trembling fingers that wouldn’t quite stay still.

He was burning up.

But his expression didn’t waver. He met Obi-Wan’s gaze and managed a lopsided smile.

“Don’t worry,” he said.

Obi-Wan froze. Something sharp stirred in his chest.

“I don’t,” he replied automatically.

Anakin smiled a little wider. Not unkindly.

“Okay.”

-tbc-

Chapter Text

Seven Years Ago

Anakin

He turned fifteen that day.

The number meant nothing to most people. In this line of work, birthdays weren’t marked. They slipped by unnoticed, swallowed in long hours and silence.

But this time, Obi-Wan remembered.

He didn’t mention it aloud beforehand. But he showed up in Tennessee that morning with a single line:

“You said you wanted to see more of the world.”

They took the train north. Packed light. And by dusk, Anakin stood at the door of Obi-Wan’s apartment on the Upper West Side.

His first time there.

It looked exactly as he’d imagined—neat but lived-in, all muted colors and cool angles. A deep green sofa. A tall brass floor lamp. Shelves full of old books, and a record player humming low in the corner.

And it smelled like Obi-Wan.

Not that Anakin would say that out loud.

He walked through the space slowly, eyes taking in the shape of the room, the structure of a life. It was hard to describe what he felt, something between comfort and ache. Like standing in a memory that hadn’t happened yet.

He liked the apartment.

Because he liked the man who lived in it.

He wasn’t proud of the feelings. He didn’t know what they were, exactly, only that they’d started somewhere in the months of training and never really stopped.

He liked pushing harder when Obi-Wan was watching. Liked the way his voice sounded when he offered rare praise.

He was even a little bit obsessed with that, catching the flicker of worry on Obi-Wan’s face when he came back from sparring with new bruises.

If he was hurt, Obi-Wan would care, always.

And he liked to detect Obi-Wan’s feelings, the quiet ways they showed when Obi-Wan thought no one noticed.

The way he sat too still when Qui-Gon hadn’t checked in. The tension in his jaw when the agency delayed updates.

The shift in his tone, months ago, when he’d gone from doubting Anakin’s place in the mission—

To believing in it.

Anakin read him like a language. It’s addictive.

Even now—he saw the way Obi-Wan stood in the kitchen doorway, watching him, holding his breath a little too long.

He knew he’d prepared some surprise.

Anakin followed him in.

There was a table set. A real one. With four different dishes and mismatched plates, and a bottle of Coke instead of wine.

Obi-Wan stepped back, and with exaggerated dramatics, made a jazz-hands motion.

“Ta-da.”

Anakin stared at the food. Blinked once. Then gave a half-smile and said—

“Thanks.”

His voice came out rougher than expected.

Obi-Wan, ever the overachiever, grinned and reached into the fridge again.

A birthday cake.

“I’m not making a wish,” Anakin said, eyeing the candles like they were a trap.

“I’m not a kid.”

Obi-Wan lit them anyway.

“You’re fifteen,” he said, deadpan.

“That’s three years from adulthood. Six from legal drinking. You’re absolutely still a kid.”

Anakin rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

He leaned forward. Shut his eyes.

And without saying anything aloud, made a wish:

Please. Let him stop seeing me as a child one day.

Then he blew out the candles.

⸻

Now – Day Four, Evening

He couldn’t focus the entire afternoon.

He reviewed the same report three times. Typed an email and deleted it twice. Even Satine noticed.

“Do you want to go check on your little boyfriend again?” she teased during their 4 pm coffee break. “It’s happy hour now. Maybe he’ll slip you his number.”

He didn’t reply, just offered her a tight, tired smile and shook his head.

That evening, he left work early. Walked home first, just to fill the tank of a car he hadn’t used in half a year. Then circled back to the cafe.

He didn’t know where Anakin went after his shift. He wasn’t sure why that mattered. But the car ended up idling at the curb anyway, parked diagonally behind the storefront.

He sat there, engine low, watching.

Anakin moved slower than usual tonight. He was doing the closing tasks, wiping the bar, stacking chairs, turning off the neon sign. When he finally stepped out into the street, his steps wavered. The sidewalk seemed to shift under him.

Obi-Wan followed at a distance for one block. Then another.

When the boy swayed again — nearly walking into the side of a trash bin — Obi-Wan cursed under his breath and pulled over. He got out. Crossed the street in three long strides. Reached out and caught him by the arm.

“Come home with me,” he said, voice low.

This time, Anakin didn’t pretend to be calm.

This time, something cracked.

He shook off Obi-Wan’s hand and took a step back, just far enough that their shadows no longer touched.

“You said you didn’t care,” he said, his voice raw.

Obi-Wan blinked. “I never—”

“You sat in a car and watched me. You followed me for two blocks. You taught me that trick — counter-surveillance — remember?” Anakin’s voice rose, just a little. “If you don’t care, why did you do all that?”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth, but no sound came.

“And if you do care, even a little,” Anakin continued, “then why the hell did you clean my wound like that yesterday? You knew it would hurt. You made it hurt.”

He looked dizzy. Feverish. But he was glaring, almost shaking now.

“It really hurt…” he said quietly, and his voice cracked.

Obi-Wan froze.

There were many things he was prepared for, but not this:

A fevered boy, in the streetlight glow, looking like a kicked dog.

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan said, before he could think better of it.

And he meant it.

He really, genuinely did.

Anakin blinked.

That seemed to take him by surprise. So did Obi-Wan’s hand reaching for him again, slower this time, not to restrain, just to hold.

“Come back with me,” Obi-Wan said again, gently this time. “You need someone to look after you.”

⸻

Now — Day Four, Night

Obi-Wan’s apartment

“I just need to sleep on your couch,” Anakin said.

His voice was quiet, stripped of tone, as if the fire in his body had taken everything else with it. He didn’t wait for permission, just walked slowly toward the sofa, movements stiff and mechanical, like his limbs had forgotten what coordination meant.

Obi-Wan sighed. He crossed the room in a few silent steps, opened the linen cabinet, and pulled out the thickest blanket he could find. Then he returned, knelt beside the sofa, and carefully draped it over Anakin’s body.

The boy didn’t stir.

Obi-Wan took a long look at him, at the way his cheeks had flushed with heat, at the way his breath caught faintly in his chest. He didn’t need to check twice. The fever had climbed higher.

Of course it had.

He retrieved the first aid kit again. Sat down beside the sofa without a sound. And as he unsnapped the box, his hand hesitated for just a moment, just long enough to acknowledge what this whole thing was.

He didn’t try to wake Anakin. Instead, he folded a cool damp cloth and placed it gently on the boy’s forehead. Then, slowly, he unbuttoned the oversized shirt — Qui-Gon’s old shirt — that hung loose on Anakin’s frame.

The wound looked worse than it had the night before. Red, puffy, and angry, the stitches visibly uneven. Obi-Wan winced at the sight of it.

The guilt returned.

He’d done a careless job. Not because he didn’t know how, but because some part of him had wanted to hurt the boy. And now, Anakin was paying the price.

He said nothing. Just began again, this time with care. With precision.

He used the antiseptic slowly. Changed the dressing. Applied the antibiotic ointment he’d bought during his lunch break. Anakin didn’t flinch once. His body lay still, too still. He’d passed out completely at some point, possibly caused by too much blood loss and too little rest.

“You haven’t changed,” Obi-Wan murmured under his breath. “Still stubborn as hell.”

When the dressing was done, he fetched a second cold towel, this one to gently wipe the sweat from Anakin’s chest and neck. He started with the collarbone, then moved downwards, carefully, the way he always did things.

That was when Anakin stirred.

His eyes cracked open, unfocused, pupils a little sluggish.

Obi-Wan didn’t stop what he was doing.

“Welcome back,” he said quietly. “How do you feel?”

“You’re taking care of me,” Anakin murmured.

“Obviously.”

Silence stretched between them. Anakin simply stared at him. Obi-Wan, refusing to look up, focused on dabbing the towel along his shoulder line. The moment began to shift, something unspoken growing in weight.

Then Obi-Wan said, almost too quickly, “One of my coworkers thinks I slept with you.”

Anakin didn’t respond.

Obi-Wan glanced up. “Did you exchange your sense of humor for this face? You’re supposed to laugh. I’m trying to be funny.”

Another long silence. Then, finally:

“I’m not a kid anymore, Obi-Wan.”

Anakin’s voice was quieter than before, but clearer. Focused.

“I’m twenty-two. That means I’ve been an adult for four years. I’ve been legal to drink for one. So…” His eyes flicked down, then up again, never leaving Obi-Wan’s.

“…when you touch me like this,” he said, “I react. It’s not a joke to me. It shouldn’t be to you.”

The words landed like a blade across glass.

Obi-Wan froze.

For a moment, his breath hitched, the sudden confession hit hard. And those frozen memories, that he had buried with Qui-Gon’s death, now crashing back like flood.

He started to remembered the young boy he’d trained. The way he used to smile — painfully wide and so eager to be seen.

He remembered seven years ago, what Qui-Gon had said to him. When the boy was feverish exactly like this, resting in a hospital bed.

Now that boy was here again. Older. Changed.

“I think you’re still fever talking,” Obi-Wan said quickly. “You need to take something for the temperature. You should—”

But Anakin moved faster than he should have. His injured arm shot up and grabbed the front of Obi-Wan’s shirt, tugging him back down with surprising strength.

Obi-Wan didn’t resist. His breath caught as he realized what was happening.

Anakin leaned in.

And kissed him.

-tbc-

Chapter Text

Now — Day Five

He honestly didn’t know how he made it into work.

Somehow, he was sitting behind his desk, sipping lukewarm coffee from the original cafe he used to order from. He could barely taste it though.

The whole morning felt unreal.

He hadn’t slept — not truly. Every time he closed his eyes, fragments of last night slammed into him like sharp, disjointed frames:

Anakin, swaying on the sidewalk.

Voice raw with frustration, asking why it had hurt so much.

Anakin, lying on the couch.

Burning. Barely conscious.

And then—

Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose.

The kiss wasn’t gentle.

It was rough, heated, sudden — not the kind of thing a fever dream would invent.

He remembered the way Anakin’s fingers fisted into his shirt, dragging him down. The flush across his cheekbones. The murmur against his lips.

And then the silence after.

Obi-Wan had all but bolted from the room, left the medicine beside the couch like a man fleeing a crime scene.

He thought he’d dreamt the rest.

But when he emerged again this morning, the living room was empty.

The blanket folded. The intimacy gone.

And Anakin was nowhere.

⸻

He checked that cafe before work.

Just to be sure.

The manager only said the boy had called in sick.

No further information. He’d vanished completely.

Now, Obi-Wan sat in his office, the coffee forgotten. The world outside the window moved without him — grey suits crossing avenues, traffic inching forward. His inbox pinged once, twice. He didn’t look.

He closed his eyes.

There was so much left unsaid.

He hadn’t asked why Anakin was bleeding in his hallway. Hadn’t asked how long he’d been watching.

Hadn’t asked why, after seven years, he’d chosen now to reappear.

And now he was gone again.

A knock on the door broke the silence.

Satine stepped in without waiting for permission, heels clacking against the floor.

“Do you have a moment for a small talk?” she asked, already sitting down. “Because, respectfully, Obi-Wan, you’ve been acting extremely weird lately.”

He didn’t respond. Just raised an eyebrow.

She shrugged. “I know it’s none of my business. But I happened to stop by that cafe this morning.”

He looked up sharply.

“The pretty boy wasn’t there,” she added with a knowing smile. “Which, if I had to guess, explains your tragic little face.”

Obi-Wan sighed.

Satine leaned in, elbows on her knees. “I don’t know what he is to you. But I do know this—”

She pointed at him. “You’ve been more human this week than I’ve ever seen you. And I’ve known you for seven years.”

He looked away, unsettled by how easily she’d named it.

She stood, brushing imaginary dust from her jacket. “So whatever he is… I suggest you find a way to hold on…”

“Whether he is just a friend, or even hookup, or someone from your past and comes back…”

Obi-Wan said nothing. She was already halfway to the door when he finally asked:

“How did you know?”

Satine glanced back, smiling. “I worked for the Bureau for twenty-three years, darling. I can read faces.”

And then she was gone.

⸻

The office was quiet again.

Obi-Wan sat motionless, heart beating a little too fast.

Because here was the real problem:

He had no idea where to look.

Anakin could be anywhere. Could’ve changed names, locations, lives. He might never show up again.

But worse than that — worse than the kiss, the absence, the fever —

was some other thing from last night.

Obi-Wan had gotten up again around three. Restless. Unsettled.

He’d gone to the living room, just to check.

Anakin was still on the couch by then, face pale, breathing shallow. The fever had broken a little bit. Although His skin was still damp with sweat. His shirt half-unbuttoned.

Obi-Wan had replaced the blanket, adjusted the towel on his forehead.

And just as he was turning to leave—

He heard it.

Soft. Barely audible.

“Don’t worry…” Anakin had murmured, lips moving slowly in sleep. “I won’t let them hurt you.”

And Obi-Wan had frozen in place.

Now, even hours later, that one broken sentence kept echoing louder than anything else.

———

Now — Day Five

Anakin

The fluorescent lights in the CIA headquarters had never felt this harsh.

Anakin sat stiffly in the steel-backed chair across from his handler, Mace Windu, trying not to wince every time he shifted. His wound throbbed beneath the clean white shirt he’d barely managed to button this morning. He was sure the bandages underneath had started to leak.

Mace leaned forward, fingers steepled beneath his chin, and frowned.

“So you got shot?”

Anakin blinked at him.

“I just spent twenty minutes explaining that there’s a kill order out for Obi-Wan, and you’re stuck on the part where I got shot?”

Mace raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“You failed to report the organization’s internal coup. You went completely dark. You murdered five of their men without authorization. You inserted yourself into a civilian’s life. And then you got shot. Yes, Skywalker — I’m stuck on that part.”

“I didn’t insert myself,” Anakin shot back, jaw tight. “I got a job at a coffee shop near his building. I didn’t say a word to him. He found me.”

“Of course he did. He’s not blind.”

Mace sighed, rubbing his forehead like this conversation physically pained him.

“We can’t just mobilize CIA resources to protect civilians every time one of our assets gets sentimental.”

“He’s not a civilian,” Anakin snapped. “You transferred him to a federal sub-agency — he’s still within the intelligence system. You think they don’t know that? You think this is random?”

Mace looked tired. Older than he did yesterday. Maybe they both did.

“You’re leaking blood through your shirt and you’re yelling at me about hypotheticals.”

Anakin closed his eyes for a second. His head was pounding. His arm was burning. And his heart…that was the worst part. It felt like it was trying to collapse in on itself.

He was so tired of talking about Obi-Wan like he was a liability. Like he wasn’t the only thing Anakin had ever tried to protect just because he wanted to.

“You know this isn’t a hypothetical.”

Mace’s expression finally softened. Just barely.

“Alright,” he said after a long pause. “I’ll place two plainclothes agents outside his apartment and office. Two days, max. It’s the most I can do without triggering alarms up the chain.”

Anakin nodded, biting back the thousand things he still wanted to say.

“But that’s not a solution,” Mace added, tone sharper now. “You’ve already broken every rule of your operation. Now that he’s seen you, maybe it’s time to tell him the truth.”

Anakin stiffened.

“You still work for us, Skywalker. You killed Qui-Gon because you had to. You were fifteen years old. No one expected you to—”

“Don’t,” Anakin said quietly. “Don’t say his name.”

“Then maybe you should finally tell Obi-Wan what really led to that.”

Anakin looked away.

He had imagined that conversation in a thousand different ways. And every version of it ended with Obi-Wan getting heartbroken.

He didn’t want that.

Mace sat back, preparing to launch into another lecture, when his assistant burst through the door.

“Sir, I’m sorry — I tried to stop him —”

And then the door swung open.

Anakin turned just in time to see Obi-Wan Kenobi stride into the room.

Hair windblown, coat damp from the street, and eyes locked on Mace like he was ready to wage war.

“I need to talk to you,” Obi-Wan said sharply.

Then he stopped.

Because he saw Anakin.

Anakin didn’t move.

Neither did Obi-Wan.

Mace let out a low whistle.

He waved off his frozen assistant and leaned back in his chair like this was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all year.

“You,” he pointed at Anakin. Then at Obi-Wan.

“And you. I think the two of you have some things to talk about.”

⸻

Now — Day Five

Obi-Wan

They walked out of the CIA headquarters in silence.

Side by side, but somehow not together.

Obi-Wan found it oddly difficult, walking next to him now. Perhaps it was the atmosphere. Or the knowledge of where they had just been. Or what they had nearly said inside that building.

After a minute, he cleared his throat.

“You feeling better?”

Anakin nodded. “Thank you. For… taking care of me.”

Obi-Wan huffed a laugh. “Don’t thank me. You got hurt because of me.”

Anakin stopped walking.

He turned to Obi-Wan, eyes narrowing with disbelief. “What did you say?”

Obi-Wan met his gaze, then looked away. “I heard what you said in your sleep. You were talking. I—” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, weary. “Did you get hurt because of me, Anakin? Did you take that job at the cafe… because the organization’s targeting me?”

He didn’t think he was afraid of the answer. But now that he had said it out loud, the fear settled in his chest like frost.

Because if Anakin said yes, then everything became even more tangled. The guilt. The confusion. The responsibility. The years.

Anakin looked at him for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes.

He breathed in, deep and slow.

And then the thoughts came, quick and cold.

That organization knew who he was. But he hadn’t been a part of any action for seven years. Which meant they’d known for a long time. Which meant even before Qui-Gon was killed. Even before the mission fell apart. Even before Anakin—

Which meant Qui-Gon might have been exposed because of him.

It might have all started with him.

The blood drained from his face.

He looked back up at Anakin. But Anakin was already watching him, as if he could see exactly where Obi-Wan’s thoughts were going.

Then, slowly, he sighed.

“I need to tell you something,” Anakin said.

-tbc-