Work Text:
The door to his quarters opens suddenly and loudly. A certain tall, blond-haired Jedi Knight storms in, not bothering to walk quietly even though half the temple is asleep. He is, to put it simply, sick of this shit.
“Obi-Wan,” Anakin says. “Obi-Wan. What happened to the promise you made? That you would sleep a normal, acceptable number of hours in a week?” Not even a healthy number of hours. Acceptable. That was already being generous.
Obi-Wan glances up for a second, then looks back down at this datapad. This isn’t a conversation he wants to have right now.
“I appreciate your concern, Anakin, but I really have to finish these reports before tomorrow.” Which, according to the chronometer on the wall, gives him roughly two hours. He knows he will be able to finish his work, and he can start tomorrow’s reports to get a head start. That is, if he doesn’t get sidetracked, like he is now.
It’s not like he needs to sleep.
Anakin leans over the table, touching Obi-Wan’s forehead with his flesh hand. It’s clammy. He’s not really surprised — those bloodshot eyes and dark circles are pretty telling on their own.
“When did you last sleep?” Anakin doesn’t sound pleased, and Obi-Wan knows he’s trapped. Still, he ignores Anakin, eyes trained on the datapad in his hands.
Anakin reaches over, takes the datapad (which prompts an exasperated “Anakin!”) and turns it off, setting it face down on the table, so Obi-Wan has no choice but to glare at him.
Said glare makes Obi-Wan look more pitiful than intimidating.
“When is the last time you ate a meal?” Anakin asks.
Obi-Wan blinks, collecting his muddled thoughts, hoping he has some recollection of the day’s events, then says, slowly, “I had a ration bar this morning.”
Anakin sighs, closing his eyes, nearing the end of his patience. “A full meal, Obi-Wan. Not a ration bar. And you’re saying you haven’t eaten all day?”
He takes the resounding silence as a no. Somehow, being ignored is worse than being argued with.
“I’ll take it you haven’t slept for at least two days either.”
“It’s not your place to tell me what to do, Anakin.” Obi-Wan is growing irritated now, and his voice has taken on a snappy edge. Yet he can’t hide the tiredness behind each word.
Anakin almost winces. It’s true, but it stings all the same.
“What happened to the Jedi Master who told me over and over that sleep was important for me?” Anakin asks. He’s ready for this argument, even though he knows Obi-Wan will probably give him the silent treatment for days if he wins.
When Obi-Wan doesn’t reply, he adds, “What happened to the Jedi Master who threatened to ground me from missions if I didn’t eat three proper meals a day?
Why is it only okay when you put your health on the line?”
“I’m not your master anymore, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says evenly. “You can make your own choices, and I can make mine.”
Anakin frowns. Obi-Wan’s hands are trembling. Exhaustion? Hunger? Both?
“You’re unwell,” Anakin says softly. “Obi-Wan. You need to rest.”
“Anakin, I am finishing these reports tonight. I would appreciate if you didn’t disturb me while I work.”
“Fine,” Anakin says, then stands from his seat and leaves. Obi-Wan raises his eyebrows, surprised that he gave in so easily, but relieved nonetheless. Until Anakin returns with a blanket and a cup of tea, which he sets on the table in front of Obi-Wan. “Thank you,” Obi-Wan says, even though he’d much rather be alone.
“Are you just going to sit there?” he asks, when Anakin sits back down instead of leaving, propping his chin up on his hands, watching Obi-Wan as he works.
“Yes,” Anakin replies bluntly.
The silence isn’t awkward. Obi-Wan manages to immerse himself in his work, and Anakin zones out after thirty seconds of watching Obi-Wan’s robotic typing.
It’s not quiet for long. The cup of tea isn’t even half empty when Obi-Wan suddenly drops the datapad, pressing the heels of his palms against his forehead, eyes shut tight.
There it is, Anakin thinks. The inevitable sleep deprivation headache.
“Obi-Wan?” he asks tentatively, reaching forward to gently pry those clenched hands away. Obi-Wan is about to tell that same lie — I’m fine — but his soft groan as a result of the stabbing pain in his head gives him away.
“You’re done,” Anakin says firmly, moving beside Obi-Wan to pull him up. “Alright. Up. You’re done. I’m not watching you wreck your health any longer. No —“ Obi-Wan is protesting, fighting against Anakin’s insistent hands. “— that is not a request. That is an order.”
Anakin leads Obi-Wan to bed, metal fingers tightly gripping his wrist. As if Obi-Wan even has the strength to pull away.
Obi-Wan pauses at the door, and Anakin’s grip loosens ever so slightly. “Well?” Anakin says, not unkindly.
Robes and tabards are dropped on a chair by the desk, and an exhausted Jedi Master makes his way to an untouched bed, reluctantly laying his head on an underused pillow.
Anakin sits up on the mattress beside him, pulling the covers over his knees. “No,” he says sharply, catching Obi-Wan eyeing the datapad on the bedside table beside Anakin. “Absolutely not.”
Obi-Wan sighs, rolls his eyes, and turns away to lie on his other side, leaving Anakin to stare at his back. The air grows still, as does Obi-Wan.
“I’m sorry if I was a little brusque,” Anakin says softly. He doesn’t know if Obi-Wan is asleep yet, but it doesn’t matter. Moving closer, he combs his fingers through coppery hair, the strands soft against his skin, gently scratching his scalp, the way Obi-Wan does for him.
Obi-Wan hums contentedly, rolling over to face Anakin. “Thank you,” he says quietly. He really should be the one apologising.
“You’re welcome,” Anakin replies dryly. “Please stop breaking your promises.”
“I don’t deserve you, you know?” Obi-Wan says, and he means it.
“You’re a pain to take care of, you know?” Anakin murmurs.
I’ll try to be less of one, Obi-Wan replies.
Anakin snorts. In the words of Master Yoda —
I promise I’ll be less of one. He feels Obi-Wan’s laughter through the bond.
Anakin counts his heartbeats until Obi-Wan’s breathing slows. With another glance at the sleeping form beside him, he picks up the datapad by his side, flicks to the latest incomplete report, and begins to type.