Archive of Our Own

“I’m not going.”

Obi-Wan sighs through his nose, waiting patiently outside Anakin’s locked door, “Anakin, it’s expected of you. Jabba would find it extremely disrespectful if you weren’t in attendance when he specifically requested you and Ahsoka, and the Republic needs a steady alliance with the Hutt’s trade routes. Jabba has already begun closing them off again. We need this mission to be successful if we wish to have complete access to those hyperspace routes again.” 

The only reason that disgusting slug wants Anakin there is because he was involved in rescuing Jabba’s equally disgusting and sluggish son. Obi-Wan could easily go in his place, and Jabba would be none the wiser. 

Anakin can feel Obi-Wan prodding through their bond and quickly slams his walls up. He can’t let Obi-Wan in. If he does, then Obi-Wan will be able to feel the way shame burns through his skin. The way anger dances along his nerves at the mere  thought  of seeing twin suns in the sky and sand as far as the eye can see. 

His mother’s final resting place.

“I’m not going,” He repeats, raising his voice to be heard through the wall. 

Obi-Wan refrains from banging his head against the wall, but only barely. He can hear Ahsoka’s stifled giggles from where she’s hidden in the kitchen. “If you think you can do any better, Padawan, then be my guest,” He gestures to the door with an unnecessary flourish. 

Ahsoka stops giggling. “Wha- me?” 

“Yes, you,” Obi-Wan jerks his head towards the door before collapsing onto the couch. It’s unbelievable how much arguing with Anakin can take out of a person.

Ahsoka groans low in her throat and shuffles towards the closed door, “Skyguy?” She raps her knuckles gently against the metal, “You don’t want to see Stinky again? That cute little guy?”

“No, I don’t want to see that slug, Ahsoka. I’m not going,” Anakin feels an intense sympathy for Master Windu at this moment. He imagines that the blood vessel that’s no doubt fit to burst rivals the one that the revered Jedi Master gets when he spends too much time with Anakin.

~

Anakin stares out the viewport. Piloting has never been so unfulfilling. 

“Skywalker,” Windu appears in the doorway of the cockpit, “What’s our ETA?”

Why  Windu had to show up is beyond Anakin. Most days, he smiles serenely and nods when the Council tries telling him things that aren’t strictly mission-oriented. 

“I’m just about to start the landing sequence, Master Windu,” Anakin replies anyway, leaning forward to begin the sequence with a heaviness he didn’t feel until they got closer to their destination. 

The venerated master still lingers in the doorway. He wants to say something, Anakin knows, probably about Tatooine. 

“Master Windu,” Anakin says just as the other Jedi starts to open his mouth, “You really don’t need to worry about anything. I’ll be fine.” He feels like a foolish child promising to be on his best behavior when they go to the market.  I’ll be good, Dad, I promise.  He shakes his head at himself. How humiliating.

Relief flashes across Windu’s face at Anakin’s words, “Good. That’s… good.” The words sound uncharacteristically lame coming out of his mouth, not to mention almost  kind.  “I understand how difficult this is for you, Skywalker. The Republic appreciates you coming.” Windu turns on his heel and leaves without another word.

Anakin stares at the empty space before snorting and turning back to the console.  The Republic appreciates you coming.  As if Anakin even had a choice in the matter. Obi-Wan all but dragged his ass onto the ship and sat down next to him in the cockpit until he was sure Anakin wouldn’t revert course back to Coruscant. 

Tatooine looms closer through the viewport, and Anakin can feel his bones get heavier and his skin prickle with the phantom itch of sand. 

He moves on autopilot to flick on the radio and contact whatever son of a bitch is on the other end to clear the landing. Anakin’s hands tremble, and not even the tight grip on the armrests can hide that.

~

Anakin picks at the new beige tunics as he exits the cockpit. His usual black tunics would be  murder  under the two suns.

Ahsoka’s whistle dislodges him from his thoughts. “Skyguy, you’re switching it up? Decided to look good for your homecoming?” 

He knows she’s teasing. Knows that she would have no idea of knowing what his past was actually like on Tatooine, but the words still cut deep. Anakin still hasn’t even told her about how he actually became a Jedi, much to her annoyance. This is not his home.  The Temple  is his home. She and Obi-Wan are his home.

His mom used to be his home too.

“Haha, Snips,” He rolls his eyes as he waves her towards him, “But that reminds me,” He shucks off his robes and shoves them in Ahsoka’s arms, “Put that on.” 

Her good mood turns sour, “Aw, Master!” She whines, trying to push the robes back to him, “It’s gonna be so  hot. ” 

Anakin raises a single eyebrow, “Ahsoka, put it on,” He orders again, taking a step back. He’s seen the way the leeches and perverts gobble up girls Ahsoka’s age, especially Togruta girls. Togrutas and Twi’leks are a commodity on Tatooine, and Anakin will be damned if his padawan has to learn that the hard way. “I’m not messing around,” He says when she still just stares, “Put it on.” 

“Okay!” The white markings above her eyes scrunch together as she frowns, but she puts up no other fight as she shoves her arms through the too-long sleeves. 

Anakin reaches across to pull the hood up and tugs it down to cover as much of her face as necessary. There isn’t much that can be done about how the tops of her montrals press against and indent the hood, but Anakin will take what he can get. “No matter what, stay next to me. Don’t let anyone touch you that isn’t on this ship, and don’t talk to  anyone  in the street. Understand?” 

“Yeah, Master,” Ahsoka says, oblivious to the way the honorific slices through his heart, “I understand.”

She’s confused, Anakin knows. None of this is her fault, and it isn’t fair of him to treat her so rudely. 

“I’m - I’m sorry,” Anakin tugs weakly at the end of his sleeve that hangs far past her fingertips, “I’m just nervous.” 

Ahsoka wriggles her hands out from the confines of the robe and catches his wrist, “You don’t have to be nervous, Master. We’ll be out of here before you know it.” 

~

The trek to Jabba’s palace is long. Distantly, Anakin is grateful he had the sense of mind to change into lighter clothes, but all he can focus on at the moment is the way sand slips into his boots and bites into the soles of his feet. If Obi-Wan and Windu have the same problem, they give no inclination. 

Anakin’s steps start to slow. He tilts his head up towards the twin suns that loom in the distance and lets his eyes flutter closed. A sharp inhale through his nose tells him all he needs to know.

“There’s a sandstorm coming soon,” 

Windu turns to inspect him, skeptically, “How do you know?” He eyes the surrounding sand with a sense of caution one can only get when you’ve been attacked on a seemingly harmless planet one too many times.

Anakin shrugs. You can take the boy out of the desert, but you can’t take the desert out of the boy, he guesses. He would recognize the signs of an oncoming sandstorm anywhere, even if it’s hard to explain it adequately. “Just do.”

Windu only stares for a second longer before deciding to accept the thin justification and continuing to walk. His steps, Anakin notes with a small smile, are cautious, as though walking too harshly will trigger the storm.

With each step that brings the looming palace closer and closer, Anakin feels an acute sense of dread fill his lungs. The only time he has ever been inside was when he was going to rescue his padawan from what he was sure would be her death. 

Now, all Anakin can think about is how if a slave was ever dragged to Jabba’s palace for some reason, they were never seen again. No one ever wanted to step out of line enough to be noticed by the Hutt. 

Both Obi-Wan and Windu shoot him looks of concern, but he shakes them off. Anakin is fine. He doesn’t need anyone's pity.

He just wants to get the fuck  off  this planet. The sooner they can kiss Jabba’s slimy ass, the sooner they can leave. 

~

“Busy?”  

“Yes,” The droid responds calmly, “His Excellency is currently very busy and sends his apologies. You will have to come back tomorrow.” 

Anakin seethes from behind Obi-Wan and Windu. His mech hand clenches so hard he thinks he can hear the grinding of metal against metal.  Busy?  What a load of banthashit. Busy stroking his own ego, maybe.

“Very well,” Obi-Wan replies after whatever attempt at charming the droid failed, “We’ll be back tomorrow.” 

Once they’re all out of hearing range of the droid, Anakin can’t hold it in anymore.

“That is so  typical  of a Hutt,” He spits, kicking at the sand in his rage, “He’s not busy. That slug is just doing a riffing power play. Probably gets off on it - making Jedi wait for him.” 

“Skywalker, control yourself,” Windu demands, fixing him with a stern look that Anakin pays no mind to. 

“Now, now,” Obi-Wan, ever the mediator, steps in, “There’s no reason to waste a perfectly good day. The suns are out,” No one laughs at his joke, “and I see the market up ahead. Why don’t we try to salvage what's left of the day before retiring to the ship?”

Anakin frowns as Ahsoka visibly perks up, “Obi-Wan, I don’t think that’s such a -”

“Oh,  please,  Master?” Ahsoka begs, peeking up at him from behind the shadow of his hood, “Please, I saw some really cool stuff when we passed by!” 

“Merchants here don’t even accept Republic credits, Obi-Wan, you know that as well as I do,” Anakin points out, knowing damn well that his former Master remembers the time his ship was used as a gambling chip all those years ago. 

Obi-Wan claps a hand between Anakin’s shoulder blades, “There’s no way to know unless we try. Besides, maybe we can see how much better you’ve gotten with your Force Persuasion.” 

They continue to walk, each one of them oblivious to the way Anakin fidgets more and more with every step.

Every step closer to the market is another step closer to the life Anakin tried so hard to leave behind. 

Everything is still just as it was when he was nine. If someone were to blindfold him, Anakin would still be able to point and name every shop that lined the sandy walkways. Name every place he had incited the rage of his master and paid the price for it.

The group forges on like one of them isn’t drowning.

Anakin hovers closer to Ahsoka and leaves Obi-Wan and Windu to their own devices. They can handle themselves, and he knows that Ahsoka can too, but no battlefield in the galaxy can prepare someone for the cruelness of Tatooine.

Anakin is a constant presence behind Ahsoka, the girl oblivious to her six-foot shadow that wards off any leering gazes. He stands closer than normal to her as she tries to barter with a merchant that scoffs at the face of Republic credits.

“How much?”

Anakin turns slowly to the poor soul who made the mistake of speaking to him. A Weequay stands at his shoulder as though the two are longtime buddies. “Excuse me?”

The Weequay slaps Anakin’s shoulder good-naturedly, and gestures to Ahsoka, who has finally called it quits with the stubborn merchant and turns around empty-handed, “How much for the girl?” 

Anakin can see the way Ahsoka’s eyes get wide, and her hands twitch towards the sabers hidden on her belt. He pushes himself off the table he had been leaning on, purposely putting his body between Ahsoka and the Weequay. “She’s not for sale,” He says slowly, well aware of how his lip begins to curl up.

“Come now!” The Weequay laughs and goes for another good-natured slap that Anakin quickly dodges, “Everyone has their price.”

Oh.  

This Weequay thinks that Anakin is one of  them.  A slave owner.

Anakin’s stomach drops from his body and into the sand, promptly sinking far below the surface. His mouth gets dry in a way that has nothing to do with his lack of hydration.  I’m not like you,  he thinks to himself,  I will never be like you.  

“I said she’s not for sale,” Anakin spits, using his height to his full advantage as he looms over the Weequay before turning and pulling Ahsoka into his side, “Let’s go. We’re going back to the ship.”

Ahsoka nods in agreement and scrambles to keep up with his long strides.

“Anakin!” Obi-Wan and Windu jog into view from his left, both of them looking awkward as they try to run through the sand. “What happened?” 

“Someone tried to buy Ahsoka,” He answers, his rage barely concealed, and everyone knows it, “We’re going back to the ship.” He levels Obi-Wan with a look that hopefully conveys the message:  I told you this was a bad idea.  

Windu straightens and twists around as they walk, obviously catching sight of the Weequay still leering after the padawan. He wordlessly drops back to walk behind Ahsoka, hiding her from anyone who tries to catch a peek.

Whatever response Obi-Wan has prepared is drowned out by the squeak of a door on rusty hinges and the sound of wings trying their damndest to support a large weight.

“Ani?”  

Anakin’s heart stops. His fingers lock into Ahsoka’s arms, but she gives no outward expression of discomfort. 

Windu nearly knocks into his back with how sudden Anakin stops in his tracks, “Skywalker -” He hisses, contorting his body awkwardly so that he doesn’t collide into the stunned Jedi Knight. 

“Little Ani, that is you!” Watto claps his grubby hands in glee and flutters out of the doorway to his shop. “This is perfect! You know my shop just hasn’t been running the same without you -”

“Well, that tends to happen when you gamble away your slaves,” Anakin cuts in shortly, eyes staring unseeing ahead. In his peripheral vision, he can see Watto’s lumbering shape trying to stay in the air on one side and the way Obi-Wan tenses steps closer on the other.

Ahsoka takes a sharp intake of breath and reaches out to wrap war-calloused fingers around his wrist, “Master -”

“Master!”  Watto repeats, positively delighted, “Look at that, Ani, you’re a master now!” He fixes Ani with a chummy grin, just like the Weequay did when he tried to buy Ahsoka, and knocks his elbow into Anakin’s, “You’re just like me, Ani.” 

Anakin  snarls.  He whirls his body, shoving Ahsoka behind him and safely towards Windu and Obi-Wan and faces Watto head-on. “I am  nothing  like you, do you understand me?” The finger he shoves in Watto’s face trembles more than he’d like to admit, and Anakin knows his breathing is coming out too labored to be truly angry. 

Watto’s friendly smile turns more into a smirk, like the bastard knows what he’s doing to Anakin. “Ani, you’ve always been more like me than you wanted to admit.”

What little Anakin had been able to force down his throat threatens to make a reappearance. Every spot on his body where Watto had lashed out in his rage  aches  and his knees begin to shake in that tell-tale way when they’re about to give out. He knows he must be projecting his anger and grief even without looking at the other three Jedi. 

“Go back to the ship,” He finally whispers, eyes dropping away from Watto like a  coward.

“What?” Ahsoka grabs at his wrist, but Anakin pulls away just before she makes contact.

Anakin turns fully, his instincts screaming at him as he turns his back to Watto, “I said go back to the ship. I’m taking a walk.” He turns on his heel to go back the way they came. It wouldn’t do him any good to go back to Jabba’s palace, but maybe he could pay a visit to the Larses. If they even wanted anything to do with him.

“Anakin, the storm -”

“I’ve got time,” Anakin calls back, cutting off Obi-Wan. He can’t go back to the ship, not like this. Anakin is nothing but pent up rage and barely concealed anguish and all he wants in this moment is to  scream.  

Besides, he does have time. Anakin may not have lived here for decades, but the calm before the sandstorms of Tatooine is not something one forgets so easily.

~

Anakin does not have as much time as he thinks. He realizes this at the first subtle gust of wind that makes his clothes flap and shutter. 

“Fuck.” 

Anakin turns around the way he came. The market is a distant speck and he has no idea if he’s even close to the Lars’ homestead right now. 

The wind picks up, now taking fistfuls of sand and sending it flying at Anakin’s face. The abrasiveness of it whipping against his skin makes him curse again, and he tucks his mechno hand, carefully concealed by the glove he had tightened even more than usual, into his side. If he gets sand particles into that he’ll be so screwed.

Up ahead he can see three little huts, far enough apart that they must belong to different people. Far enough away from Anakin that the storm may be in full swing by the time he gets there. 

His comm unit blinks steadily on his wrist but he ignores it. Anakin can respond to Obi-Wan when he’s in the safety of someone’s home. That is to say,  if  someone lets him in his home. 

Anakin knows Tatooine is rough. People specifically try to stay out in sandstorms to trick good samaritans into letting them stay in their homes, where they’ll rob the family blind at best and do unspeakable things at worst.

When Anakin and his mom would have to hole up during a storm, the two of them would take turns peering through their grubby window, trying to see any type of silhouette through the onslaught of sand flying through the air. Shmi Skywalker never said no to any wandering soul, risks be damned.  There just isn’t enough kindness in the world, Ani,  she would tell him while pressing a soft kiss to his hairline.

His steps begin to drag. The wind is a heavy resistance against him and Anakin is too tired to use the Force to boost his momentum. He’s still too far away from even the closest hut to make it without getting caught in at least some of the storm. 

The wind picks up and sand begins to knick the skin of his face. He hisses as the sensitive under-layer of skin gets exposed to the biting winds, ducking his face down as much as he can. Blood starts to trickle down his cheeks.

Anakin pulls his tunic up to cover his mouth and nose. There isn’t much he can do about the sand that gets in his eyes, sticking to the corners and blurring his vision, but the thin layer of clothes offers the barest protection against the sand that threatens to choke him.

The hut is closer now and Anakin thinks he can even see a little figure standing by it, waving desperately to him. 

You’re hallucinating now,  He thinks to himself, not daring to open his mouth to say the words lest he swallows enough sand to make a beach. Still, he picks up the pace as much as he can. 

The wind roars even more, almost entirely obscuring his vision. Tears drip from his eyes only to be immediately swept away.  Fuck it.  He shuts his eyes and hopes that he’s still going straight. It’s harder to rely on the Force with all of the extra stimuli. It’s hard enough for Anakin on a good day - there’s just so  much  of it - but like this is nearly impossible. 

His mech hand is a lost cause now. His receptive sensors pick up the biting grain of sand wedged deep in the leather. All Anakin can hope for is a halfway decent toolkit if he’s fortunate enough to be allowed inside the hut. 

More blood and sweat drips only to be taken by the wind. 

Maker, Obi-Wan is never going to let him hear the end of this.

“Hey!” The voice can just barely be heard over the wind, “Hey! C’mon, just a little closer!”

Anakin would collapse in relief if not for his sense of survival. Thank the Force he wasn’t going to die in this sandy deathtrap. He drops the shirt over his mouth and tries to use his arms to push himself forward even though one of them is a near deadweight. 

A hand claps over his bicep and pulls him into a blessedly non windy hut. 

Anakin collapses to his hands and knees, retching up bursts of sand that managed to get stuck in his mouth instead of swallowed. He swipes furiously at his eyes even though he knows it will do more harm than good. The leather of his glove only irritates his eyes even further and the skin of his flesh hand is ripped up, just transferring sand from one irritated spot to another.

“Easy, easy,” A large hand drops between his shoulder blades and rubs soothing circles, “Stop trying to rub your eyes; you’re cut to shit. I’ll be right back.”

The hand disappears and Anakin finds himself almost missing it. He forces his hands away from his eyes and instead focuses on making sure he gets the rest of the sand out of his mouth and nose. Now that he’s in the calm of a house and the wind is only background noise, Anakin can’t avoid the beeping of his comm unit. 

“‘Lo?” 

“Anakin!”  Obi-Wan’s tinny voice erupts from his speakers,  “Where are you? Are you safe?”  

Anakin closes his eyes, trying in vain to squeeze a few sand particles out, “I’m fine, Obi-Wan. Just got a little caught. I’m -” He cracks one eye open and tries to take a look around, but his vision is too blurred to make out anything other than vague shapes, “I’m somewhere. But, I’m safe.”

There’s a sigh on the other end,  “Ahsoka is worried,”  He says quietly,  “Master Windu is trying to calm her down but I fear I may need to take over. She isn’t the most… receptive to his efforts.”

Anakin’s laugh is dry and hurts his throat more than he’d like to admit, “She gets that from me.”

“Just be safe. I don’t… I can’t begin to understand the full extent to what you’re feeling right now, but take all the time you need. I’ll comm you again when the storm dies down and we’ll be able to pick you up.”  

Anakin nods even though he knows Obi-Wan won’t be able to see it, “Okay, Obi-Wan. I’ll… I’ll see you soon. Tell Ahsoka I’m -”

“I know, Anakin.”

Something crashes. 

Anakin’s head shoots up, eyes squinting through the sand, and he can make out a figure standing in a doorway. A box, what he prays is a medkit, is scattered across the floor along with some type of rag. 

“Anakin! Anakin, what was that?”  

“Obi-Wan, I’m gonna have to call you back,” He ends the call and scrambles to his shaky feet.

The two stare at each other - well, the other guy stares. Anakin just squints into the space he thinks the man is standing in. 

“Anakin?” The man repeats, voice thick with emotion.

“Yeah?” Anakin shifts backwards just slightly, hand dropping towards his belt. He doesn’t know what good he’ll be with his saber, not when he can barely see and his flesh hand has been scraped raw from the sands, but he doesn’t think this man has an ounce of Force sensitivity. 

The man steps closer, “Anakin Skywalker?” 

“Who are you? How do you know me?” Anakin doesn’t think he can pull off his usual intimidation tactics, but he might as well give it a try. His lip wobbles in exhaustion as he tries to curl it up in any semblance of a sneer. 

“It’s-It’s me. Anakin,” The man laughs wetly, “It’s Kitster.” 

“Kit-Kitster?” Anakin squints even further, craning his neck forward to try and bring him into focus, “Kriff, give me that rag. I need to get this sand out of my eyes.” 

Force, what if it  is  Kitster? Anakin wouldn’t think someone would lie like this. There would be no real reason for it. But Anakin won’t let himself hope. Not until he can see it with his own two eyes.

One hand holds Anakin’s jaw and he tries to flinch out of the grip but the Kitster -  the man -  holds tighter, “No, let me. You’re hands are raw,” 

The damp rag swipes across his eyes far more gently than Anakin would have done. It works the sand out from where it had crusted itself into the corners of his eyes and obstructed his vision and Anakin finds himself undeserving of this gentleness. 

Even when hurt on the battlefield, he isn’t treated this softly - Kix will slap a bacta patch or whatever else he needs with brusque efficiency. Anakin is usually never treated softly, as though he might break if not handled with kid gloves. It doesn’t chafe the way he would have thought it would. 

“Didn’t need to use your water,” Anakin mumbles, tilting his head back in the grip. His words slur slightly, but he seems to get his point across.

The rag switches to the other eye, “Yes, I did.” The rag drifts from it’s work on his eye and begins to trace the scar bisecting his eyebrow and just narrowly missing his actual eye. 

Anakin feels his breath hitch. He finally opens his eyes, blinking away whatever tears and sand that had been missed, and  sees.  He sees-

“Kitster,”  

His old friend, his very first friend, stares back at him. Anakin can see the similarities in this man to the little fellow slave boy that would follow him on whatever banthashit crazy scheme he came up with.  “Ani.”

Kitster smiles and lets the rag fall from his hand with a plop. His hand, still damp, clasps around Anakin’s bicep, but he leaves his other hand on his jaw. 

“You… you grew a beard,” Anakin notes dumbly. 

It’s  true.  The beard is dark and shaggy and Anakin can see sand stuck in some of the hairs. It connects to a mustache that almost hides his upper lip.  Force  he looks so different and so similar all at once. He has more lines on his face, marking his forehead in worry but wrinkling around his eyes like Kitster smiles a lot.

Anakin hopes he does.

“You got a cool scar,” Kitster responds, bringing his hand up to thumb across the scar tissue.

Anakin’s eyes flutter shut at the touch.

“I missed you,” Is all he can say as he pulls Kitster into his chest and wraps his arms tight around him, “I missed you so much.”

Kitster pulls his arms free from where Anakin had crushed them between the two of them and wraps them around Anakin in return. He’s shorter than Anakin, not by much but enough so that he has to duck his head so he isn’t getting a face full of Anakin’s chin. 

“Should’ve known it was you,” Kitster’s voice is muffled by Anakin’s shoulder, “No one else is stupid enough to be out walking when there’s a storm coming.”

Anakin huffs and squeezes tighter, “I thought I had more time.”

“Well, you were  wrong,”  Kitster informs him, bringing up a hand to scuff the back of Anakin’s head and dislodging a shower of sand.

“I’m glad I was.”

~

“I’m free because of you.”

Anakin looks up from fiddling with his arm, which was a whole different conversation that Kitster nearly burst into tears during, and feels the screwdriver drop from his mouth. “You- you are?”

Kitster nods, his gaze flickering from the arm to Anakin’s face. Usually, any type of attention to the metal appendage would make Anakin shift and find any excuse he could to leave the room, but not with Kitster. Never with Kitster. “When you gave me some of that prize money from when you left I used it to buy a book that taught even the poorest idiot some etiquette. Became a steward at the Three Moons and eventually earned enough to buy my freedom.” 

Anakin smiles so wide he irritates the cuts on his face, “Kitster! That’s amazing! You… Man that was the  dream  back then,” He leans back in his chair and observes his friend, a Free Man living in a house he bought with his own damn money where he would never have to call anyone  Master  again.

“No, the dream was freeing all the slaves,” Kitster reminds him, taking a seat next to him. “Don’t you remember?”

Anakin’s smile fades. Yeah, he remembers. He can’t ever seem to forget. Anakin will never be able to forget the polite disinterest on every Jedi’s face that he mentioned it to at the Temple - every  All is as the Force wills it, Knight Skywalker.  “Yeah, well, I think that’s all it may ever be,” He scoops up the screwdriver that fell from his mouth and furiously jabs at his arm with it, “A  dream.”

Kitster frowns and pulls the screwdriver from his hand, “You’ll hurt yourself,” He mutters over Anakin’s protest, “And what do you mean just a dream? Isn’t that why you’re here? You and the other Jedi?” 

The question is so earnest that it makes Anakin want to shove that screwdriver in his own eyes.

“No,” Anakin shakes his head and refuses to meet Kitster’s eyes. “I wish but… we’re just here to kiss Jabba’s ass and stroke his ego. I was involved in the efforts to bring his son back about a year ago.” 

He can feel more than see Kitster slump in his seat, “Oh.”

“Kitster…” he finally looks up at his friend, “I don’t know if the slaves will ever be free. At least not by the Jedi,” Anakin shakes his head again, “None of them seem to care.”

Deep in his heart Anakin knew that wasn’t true. The Jedi  did  care - that was literally their only job. The Jedi that he would speak to were polite in their disinterest, yes, but that wasn’t because they didn’t care. It was because there just wasn’t a feasible way, especially not in this war. 

“Well, maybe we can.”

Anakin’s laugh is more like a bark and is devoid of humor. He pulls the screwdriver out of Kitster’s hand and returns to ridding his arm of sand more gently than more. “What, you’re a comedian now or something? We’d never be able to pull off something like that.”

“Well, why not?” Kitster demands, rising to his feet, “Maybe that’s why  you’re  here. Kriff the other Jedi. Don’t you guys follow the will of the Force or some banthashit like that? How can something this important  not  be the will of the Force?” 

Anakin missed Kitster’s passion, but now was really not the place for it. It was cute when they were little kids with a pipedream, but the two of them had gone through too much to be this naive still. “Kitster-”

“Think about your  mother , Anakin! What would she have wanted?”

Anakin freezes. The screwdriver clatters from his hands again. He can feel the heat that rises to his face and the lump that begins to clog his throat.  How dare he?  Anger, familiar to Anakin despite how un-Jedi Like it was, rushes through him. Kitster wasn’t  there.  He didn’t see the way his mother’s body was tied to a stake like some dog, beaten and bloody. What did Kitster know about Anakin’s mother? What gave him the right? 

“I’m sorry.” 

Anakin looks over at Kitster with numb eyes.

Just like Kitster would do when they were kids and he was feeling guilty about something, he fiddles with his hands, tan by nature but only made darker by the suns outside, and scuffs his feet against the ground. “I’m sorry, Anakin,” He repeats, “That was cruel of me.” 

All fight leaves Kitster’s body as he collapses against the couch again, this time shoulder to shoulder with Anakin. Anakin can feel the tension leaving his body as well.

“We heard about what happened to your mother through Beru. She… she told some people at the market and word spread. I was…  Maker , Anakin, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to say it.” 

Anakin ducks his head and shakes it, using his curly hair as a shield between the two of them lest his friend see the tears that threaten to drip down his face. He does, however, allow himself to be pulled tight against Kitster’s side into a hug.

“Ani, I’m sorry,” He says again, “Just forget I said anything. All that shit was just pointless dreams made by kids, I’m sorry I tried to press it.” 

Anakin shakes his head again, brain whirring. He can hear his mother’s voice in his head and her hands holding his.  No one is free until all of us are free, my love,  She would tell him, eyes sad even as she smiled.  One day we all will be, I can feel it. But until that day, all we can do is look out for one another.  

“No, Kitster,” Anakin pushes himself up, “You’re right. If it’s not gonna be us, then who?” He can feel the fire of determination light deep in his gut, “Maybe that is why I’m here. My purpose, you know? What I’ve always been meant to do.” 

He looks down at his mech arm, twitching feebly, and finally flicks his finger against an exposed wire that triggers an opening of a side compartment. Sand pours out and piles at Anakin’s feet, but his fingers move freely now. He closes the compartment and pulls himself to his feet. 

“We won’t be free until everyone is free, Kitster. This whole damn planet. And as of right now I’ve got a meeting with Jabba tomorrow, and he owes me a pretty big favor.” Anakin feels himself grinning and Kitster has his own grin on his face to match. 

Kitster stands up, so much closer than Anakin expects, and now they’re nose to nose, so close that Anakin can see the varying shades of brown that make up his eyes. Anakin feels his mouth get dry and his face heat up in a way that has little to do with his passionate little speech.

“Are we really gonna do this?” Anakin whispers, flesh hand flexing outward to brush fingers against Kitster’s. He thinks he can hear his heartbeat pounding in his chest.

“You’re damn right we are,” Kitster responds just as quietly, “Right after you sweep up all that sand,” He claps a hand against Anakin’s shoulder and walks away to find the broom.

Anakin feels his face drop even though he really doesn’t know  why.  

~

The storm lets up just before sunset. No sooner than the last grain of sand falls for good does his comm beep. 

“Oh, I gotta answer this!” Anakin leaps at the chance, dropping his sabacc cards without a second thought.

“Hey!”  Kitster makes a swipe for Anakin that’s dodged easily, “You don’t need to answer it; you’re just losing!” 

Anakin pulls his face into as neutral an expression as he can, channeling his inner Obi-Wan, “Kitster, a Jedi takes their losses with grace and dignity,” 

“You’re such a  dick, ” Kitster whines, leaning over to take a look at Anakin’s cards and throwing them down immediately when he sees what a shit hand it is.

“Anakin! Is everything still alright? We hadn’t heard from you -”

“I’m fine, Obi-Wan,” Anakin says, trying hard to focus on his reason for calling despite the fact that Kitster’s smile makes his heart pulse strangely - a side effect of being caught in the sandstorm perhaps? Maybe he should get Kix to check him out. “You’re still at the ship right? All three of you?”

Obi-Wan makes an offended noise that doesn’t translate properly across the comm, but Anakin knows him well enough by now to understand what it means,  “Of course we are. We, unlike some, are smart enough to stay sheltered during a sandstorm.”  

Kitster’s laughter is smothered by a Force thrown pillow to the face.

“Good,” Anakin’s brain isn’t focused enough to come up with some witty retort, not when Kitster’s hand is trying in vain to cover up his broad smile and contain his infectious laughter, “Stay there. We’ll come to you.”

“We’ll?”  Obi-Wan repeats,  “Anakin, who else do you have with you?”

“Bye, Obi-Wan!”   Anakin shuts off the comm. He stares at Kitster.

Kitster stares back.

“Do you have a speeder?” 

Kitster narrows his eyes, “If I say yes will you ask to drive it?” 

Anakin grins, “Would you be boring and tell me not to go too fast if I did?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Kitster stands up and makes his way towards his kitchen area. The tinkling of keys hitting each other ring through the air and Kitster comes back, a pair of keys in each hand. “I have two. I’d ask to race you.” 

~

“Come on, come on!”

“No!”  

“Yes!”  Anakin leaps off the speeder, ignoring the three Jedi standing on the ramp of the ship with various expressions of shock, “I got you good!” He cries out as he yanks the goggles Kitster lent him off his head.

Kitster climbs off his speeder with less enthusiasm than Anakin had, “Oh, you  barely  beat me! That was a cheap move you pulled, cutting me off like that,” He pulls his own goggles up, resting them atop his hairline. His thick and dark hair splay out at every angle, and the sight of it makes Anakin’s heartbeat funny again.

“That’s what you get for trying to beat the best podracer Tatooine has ever seen,” Anakin responds once he has control of his tongue again.

“You won one podrace, Anakin,” Kitster whines, “Like eleven years ago.”

“Skywalker?” Windu’s voice stops Anakin from rising to the bait. 

The knight’s face flushes in embarrassment. How could he forget who he was in front of? Kitster’s presence was throwing everything about Anakin out of whack, it couldn’t possibly be healthy. 

“Oh! Allow me to introduce Kitster Banai,” Anakin gestures to his friend who is making a visible effort not to fidget under the scrutiny of the other Jedi, “He was my best friend when I lived here. He helped me make the podracer that won me my freedom.” 

Ahsoka’s eyes light up at the mention of her master’s past, although it’s not as bright as it would have been had it not been for the first hand experience of how it has affected him. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance,” Obi-Wan says carefully, looking between the two Tatooine natives.

Mace Windu nods in greeting before turning to Anakin, “We have to get moving if we want to meet with Jabba on time. Force knows what will happen if he tries and pushes it back another day.” 

“Actually, Master,” The word is like sand in his mouth, but he says it as respectfully as he can manage, “I want to talk to you about that.” His face feels hot. Is he blushing? “I think it would be in the galaxy’s best interest if we demand Jabba to free all of his slaves.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t hide his wince as well as he would like to believe.

Ahsoka’s eyes go wide, not with interest but instead with trepidation.

Windu’s forehead vein begins to make an appearance, “Skywalker, you know that isn’t the mission,” He says carefully, but his voice is stern and offers no room for argument.

As always, Anakin does not care. “Not the  Council’s  mission, but whatever happened to following the will of the Force?” He can feel his heart beating through his chest, not in the funny way that makes him giddy when he’s by Kitster. No, his heart beats fast with the anticipation of a fight. “Or do we just do what the Council tells us and nothing more? Like good little puppets?” 

“We need the good favor of Jabba in order to retain access to vital trade routes-”

“You mean we need to kiss ass to some  slaver?”  Anakin hisses, and now he  knows  his face is flushing. “Is that really what the Force wills, Master Windu? To keep those in chains when we could be helping them? All for the sake of  trade routes?”  

The vein of Windu’s head is fit to burst now, “Skywalker, that is  enough! ” The anger in his voice is enough to make Anakin’s mouth snap shut. “We will meet with Jabba and I will hear no more of this.” Windu pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers, eyes clenched shut, “Not - not until after the war. After, we’ll talk.” 

We don’t have until after the war, these people are dying now,  Anakin wants to say. “Yes, Master,” Is what he says instead.

Humiliation burns hot in his chest. Being yelled at like that in front of the Council is one thing - Anakin is used to that. But being spoken to like that in front of his padawan? In front of Kitster? The mortification is almost enough to make him want to throw himself into the Sarlacc Pit.

He turns around to face Kitster, who has since averted his eyes to study the sand at his feet as though it holds the secrets of the galaxy, “Kit, uhm,” Anakin clears his throat and tries to fight back the tears of frustration that prickle beneath his eyes, “I’ll return the speeder to you after the meeting. I won’t… I won’t let anything happen to it.” 

“Anakin -”

“You should go,” Anakin cuts him off, finally meeting Kitster’s gaze, “I’ll see you later.”

Kitster’s mouth opens like he wants to say something, but he just nods and climbs onto his speeder. “I’ll… I’ll see you later then,” He says quietly before the engine kicks to life and drives away in a cloud of sand.

The pang in Anakin’s heart is from Windu, he tells himself, not the speeder getting further and further away with every breath.

~

“Jedi,” The protocol droid waiting for them greets pleasantly, “His Excellency has been most excited to meet with you all. Please, follow me,” 

Anakin falls in step with Ahsoka, who has been trying to brush against their bond the whole walk to Jabba’s palace to no avail. He loves the girl, but sometimes she just won’t take a hint. In fact, he tightens his shields up even more. If any of his companions could sense the absolute  dread  filling his body, Anakin would be done for. 

They’re led down the stairs to Jabba’s throne room. The lively sound of jazz fills the room, and at every other table, there’s a pleasure slave dressed in a skimpy outfit dancing for her life. Anakin feels sick. He feels six years old again, clinging to his mother as they’re being sold to Gardulla the Hutt. 

Anakin carefully zones out as Jabba and his translator droid exchange words. Anakin could just as easily translate as well; he knows Huttese even better than Galactic Standard. Even so, Anakin keeps a carefully placed look of interest on his face, even as his mind is miles and miles away, in a cozy little hut on the outskirts of town.

He thinks he could get away with the ruse for the whole meeting. What reason would Jabba have to speak with him? It’ll be easy, all he has to do is pretend to listen and -

“- and this is Knight Skywalker,” The droid finishes introductions.

“Skywalker?”  Jabba’s beady eyes narrow in recognition, and his meaty hand tightens its grip on the pipe he had been smoking. He spits out more words in Huttese, words that Anakin can understand and that make his throat feel tight, but the killing blow is landed when the droid translates it for the rest of the room.

“His High Exaltedness, Jabba the Hutt, demands to know why you have brought his property with you to negotiate the terms of his hyperspace routes,” The droid relays, skittering just a bit away from Jabba in case of a fit of rage that would signal the need for a new translator.

The room quiets immediately. The jazz band sputters to a stop, which halts the dancers, which draws the attention of whatever scum that have gathered in the throne room.

Anakin’s face begins to flush again. His throat gets tight again, and it’s suddenly that much harder to imagine himself in that perfect little house again.

“Exalted One,” Obi-Wan begins carefully, “Knight Skywalker won his freedom years ago in a podrace. He has not been anyone’s property,” Obi-Wan, Maker bless him, stumbles over the word, “For many years now.” 

Jabba doesn’t seem swayed at all by the Negotiator’s soothing words. He spits vitriol in Huttese that Anakin is forced, again, to listen to twice. Oh, how cruel the day has been.

“His Honorable one refuses to hold these discussions with a slave in the room,” The droid relays as though there isn’t a woman with a chain attached to her neck being held in Jabba’s hand, “He is most gracious in his willingness to allow negotiations to ensue as long as you return the slave to it’s master.” 

Return him?

Ahsoka’s hand shoots out to wrap around Anakin’s wrist. Her hand trembles against him and he curses Jabba for making his padawan so afraid.

“Knight Skywalker may return to the ship,” Obi-Wan enunciates specifically, shifting his weight minutely so that he’s standing more in front of Anakin.

Windu has done the same. 

The droid listens intently to it’s master before facing the Jedi once more, “That is not acceptable. The slave must be returned to it’s rightful master if negotiations are to be had.”

“Actually,” Windu interjects, shifting so that Anakin has a clear line of sight to Jabba, “Knight Skywalker has a request. A  demand,  actually.” He gives Anakin a meaningful look and  oh.

Oh, Anakin understands.

He steps forward, ignoring the way his heart is thumping like a jackhammer in his chest. He feels the brush of pride and love from both Ahsoka and Obi-Wan. Feels the firm push of determination and sheer righteousness from Mace.

“My name is Anakin Skywalker, son of Shmi Skywalker,” He declares, stepping up to Jabba the Hutt, who suddenly doesn’t seem so scary now that he has some of the best Jedi he knows at his back, “and I demand you let my people go.”

The room is quiet.

Anakin stands up straighter.

Jabba laughs in his face. He swings his meaty hand out towards Anakin and turns his head as much as he can to Bib Fortuna. His garbled voice echoes through the room and cuts through the ringing in Anakin’s ears at such humiliation.

The slave wishes to negotiate.

“This isn’t a negotiation,  Hutt ,” Anakin spits out, “This is a generous offer, and if I have to ask again, I promise you I will not be kind.” 

Jabba stops laughing. His weasely eyes narrow, and he shifts in his chair. His mouth opens, but Anakin will not be spoken over.

“This  slave  saved your son, don’t forget. You owe me a debt, and you’re lucky I don’t choose your life as repayment.”  Yet.  Anakin’s fingertips crackle with barely contained energy, the Force is buzzing like he’s never felt before, but it feels  right.  

The side of Anakin, the side that he’s always been too afraid of to explore deeper but always called to him,  sings.  How could he ever let anyone convince him that this wasn’t the will of the Force? He  is  the Force, was born from it! The Force, just like him, howls with the injustice of slavery.

“Let my people go,” Anakin demands again, not an ounce of Force suggestion in his voice. Jabba will either submit to Anakin’s demands or he will pay the price. It’s looking to be the latter.

Jabba huffs, as though the whole encounter has been nothing more than an inconvenience that can be fixed with a strong drink. He rasps a few words, speaking to the general room.

Kill them.  

Anakin has his saber out between one blink and the next. He both blocks an incoming bolt and slices through the chain securing the woman on her knees to Jabba in a swift movement.

He hears the hiss of four sabers igniting and the  ping  of blaster bolts being redirected. It’s not of any importance, not to Anakin. 

Not when blaster bolts are quite literally  bouncing  off of him as if his whole body is the weapon now. Maybe it is. His fingers hum like the comforting sound of his lightsaber as he wraps them around the chain and flips over the slug sitting stunned in his chair.

Anakin throws his hands out, sending Bib Fortuna and the translation droid flying. His blood roars as he wraps the chain around Jabba’s fat neck. He pulls it as tight as he can, teeth-gritting at the unexpected resistance. For all his sloth, Jabba has a strength in him.

It’s no match for Anakin, though.

But Anakin isn’t even himself in this moment. No, he’s a young woman with her hair pulled into heavy braids, a substitute for the even heavier crown of an obliterated kingdom, that has been forced into a slave outfit. He’s a young man, burning with kindness and conflict with a brand new green lightsaber. He’s a smuggler with a price on his head due to trying to survive in a harsh galaxy. 

He is… He Is. Anakin is every slave ever forced into chains and made to say  master.  

Anakin pulls tighter and finally feels the  crack . Jabba slumps in his throne turned death bed. 

The room halts. Any merc still standing lowers their blaster in shock. The glow of lightsabers vanish from the room with a hiss. Anakin feels every pair of eyes on him as his chest heaves.

He can feel himself slowly returning to his own body, the foreign identities of people who don’t exist yet beginning to fade. 

“Spread the word,” Anakin rasps, eyes scanning the room, “Tell every slaver you come across. They will free their slaves and deactivate every chip. If I catch wind of even one chip detonating, you will have condemned yourself and every slaver you spoke to that did not heed my words to a fate worse than  this ,” with his final word he kicks Jabba’s lifeless form out of the chair, sending it sprawling down the platform that the throne rests upon.

The room stands still. No one movies - are they even  breathing?  

“Go!”  

The room clears between one breath and the next.

Anakin stumbles away from the chair, and the chain slips from his grasp. The exhilarating hum builds from his fingertips up to his elbows. 

What more is there to do, Anakin wants to ask. What else must be done? He’s so  tired.

A pair of hands steady him before he can collapse. 

Mace Windu stares at him in wonder. Can he feel the way Anakin’s body trembles with barely contained power underneath his hands? “Skywalker?” He prods, easing him away from the body of the Hutt and towards Obi-Wan and Ahsoka. “Anakin?” He asks again when he gets no response.

“I need…” Anakin grits his teeth as the humming extends past his elbows. It’s trying to consume him, he realizes. He needs an outlet, needs to  let go.  “Outside.”

Obi-Wan comes to bracket his other side, and together the two masters support Anakin as he stumbles towards the stairs that will lead him outside. Ahsoka falls behind to snatch up the lightsaber that had tumbled out of his hands when he took the chain in both hands and used it to force the last breath from Jabba’s lungs. 

The sand is a welcoming sight, not that Anakin will ever admit it. He wrenches himself from the hands of Mace and Obi-Wan and collapses face-first into the sand. The hum has risen to his throat, and Anakin is choking on it. Is this karma? Is he destined to die how he killed Jabba?  Well,  Anakin thinks between bouts of panic,  I was supposed to bring balance.  

Just when the hum starts to be too much to bear, it  pours  out of his mouth. 

Anakin screams, curling into the fetal position and clenching his eyes shut. He needs to get it  out.  Needs the humming to stop and to release it back into the Force. 

Take it,  he screams,  Make it stop!

Water drips down his cheeks.  Is he crying now?  More drips follow, quickly tracking down his face and following the cut of his jaw and soaking into the collar of his tunics.

Too much water to be tears, despite how Obi-Wan likes to tease him for being emotional. Anakin cracks an eye open, feeling significantly lighter. The humming has stopped, now replaced by an incessant ache that leaves Anakin’s bones heavy. He wants a nap.

But a nap will have to wait because -

Rain splatters his forehead. 

Anakin’s head snaps up. A raindrop falls directly into his eye. 

“Ah,”  Anakin winces, rubbing at his eye furiously before the situation actually hits him. 

Rain.

He rises to his feet. The rain falls harder. All he can see, for miles around him, is the thick sheet of rain falling. The sand soaks up the rain with no shortness of greed. Like a man starved, the sand absorbs the falling rain and hoards it in every pore. Anakin knows the feeling.

He turns slowly, the heel of his boot squishing against the hardening ground, and faces the rest of his group.

None of them have bothered to pull up their hoods. 

Ahsoka stares in awe at her master, her master that she knew was capable of such feats, but  this?  This was something otherworldly that she didn’t feel worthy of watching. 

Obi-Wan is filled with such pride it  hurts.  The boy he raised from adolescence seems so much older than his mere twenties. Not even a quarter of his life lived, and yet he has ensured his name will live on forever.

Mace Windu reaches a hand out. Rain soaks his palm within seconds. He looks back up at Anakin and he finally  sees.  Like a veil has been lifted from his eyes, Mace can see the truth of the man in front of him. Anakin Skywalker  is  the Chosen One, and suddenly the end of the war feels so much closer than before.

“Anakin!”  

The call is barely heard through the pounding of the rain. Anakin turns and squints to see as best he can, but the way his hair plasters to his forehead and hangs over his eyes is more of an impediment than one would think. 

Anakin thinks he can hear the sputtering of an engine if he focuses. Sure enough, a speeder dots into view. It’s closer than it seems - Anakin could barely see it past the rain until it roared closer and -

Kitster jumps off the speeder before it's even fully stopped. His clothes are soaked through, no surprise there, and Kitster’s beard is dripping like a faucet. 

“Anakin!” He yells again, racing forward and colliding into Anakin.

The Jedi Knight allows himself to be shoved to the ground. His head thumps into the hardened sand, and he knows already he’s left an indent that normally wouldn’t be there without the help of rain. 

“How did you do this?” Kitster shouts over the pounding rain, drawing his head back so he can take Anakin in.

“How’d you know it was me?”

Kitster smiles softly, eyes squinted endearingly, “Who else could be so dramatic as to make a desert rain?” 

Anakin grins, eyes falling shut. His hand rises up to cup the back of Kitster’s head and pull him in until their foreheads rest against one another.

They lay there, on the sand while getting properly soaked, and breathe each other in. It isn’t what Anakin truly wants, doesn’t completely satisfy the ache deep in his heart, but it’s enough for now. 

~

Anakin leaves Tatooine with a light heart and the beginnings of a cold. His comm is one contact heavier, a contact he knows he’ll use often. Kitster promises to tell Anakin if he catches wind of any type of detonation, but Anakin doesn’t think he’ll need to. Even if any slaver was stupid enough to test him, Anakin thinks he would know. Deep down, Anakin would sense it if anything were to happen to even one slave, from the youngest child to the oldest woman.

Needless to say from that point on, the Jedi Order takes the subject of slavery very seriously. 

Atone, we must,  Master Yoda declares,  for years of neglect.

So when Arc Trooper Fives comes to his general with words like  chips  and  slaves  and  the Chancellor  Anakin takes it very seriously. 

No one gets around to arresting Anakin for the murder of the Supreme Chancellor once the war effort halts to a grinding stop. One after another, Separatist planets are surrendering. Even Count Dooku vanishes without a trace, other than the curved red lightsaber that had been left at the Temple’s doors. 

The Force feels lighter than it has in decades, so no one faults the Chosen One when he decides to take a short vacation to the Outer Rim, even though he comes back wearing suspiciously high necked robes and tunics. 

No, no one faults him at all. Not when a chip was found in the brain of every commissioned clone with an order to kill all Jedi, only activated by the Supreme Chancellor’s specific and highly encrypted commlink. Not when the Confederacy of Independent Systems was able to peacefully break away from the Republic under the aid of the new Chancellor Organa and Vice-Chancellor Amidala. 

Not when the newest senator of Tatooine, Senator Banai, makes the galaxy’s hero smile so wide it's infectious and blush so hard it’s laughable.

How could you fault him? The galaxy is at peace, and just about everyone agrees that those involved deserve just a modicum of happiness, in whatever form they can find it.