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They’ve been sparring for hours.
Ahsoka insisted that Anakin stop pulling his swings, claiming she needed to practice against a realistic opponent if she was going to fight properly in a real battle, and that she had trained long enough now to almost match her Master in a duel. Anakin didn’t mention that one: he wasn’t a realistic opponent, and two: a realistic opponent wouldn’t stand half a chance against him.
Now she’s lost track of how many times he’s knocked her to the ground. If this was a real fight, she would have died more times than she can count on both hands. She always knew her master was one of the best, but the way he fights is almost inhuman — more so now that he’s not holding back for her sake.
She’s also lost track of how many times she’s had to hold herself back from calling a yield. She can take the blows, but she’s reluctant to put her pride on the line. It’s getting harder by the second, though, as fatigue starts to fill her limbs, weighing her strikes down, stealing her only advantage: agility.
Pain bursts across her side as her ribs make contact with the hard floor again. It’s the hardest hit she’s taken so far, yet she knows Anakin is already starting to pull back, giving her a chance to best him at least once. That’s what he promised — we’re done once you’ve beaten me.
At the rate this is going, they’re never going to be done.
Ahsoka grits her teeth, blinking back the tears of pain and frustration which threaten to fall and throw her to the winds of humiliation. She hastily swipes a hand over her eyes, disguising it as brushing sweat off her brow, and pushes herself upright again, so she’s sitting instead of lying on the floor.
Kriff, her shoulder aches.
If she stays down, she knows Anakin will hold back, allowing her to recover. If she stands, as stubborn as ever, she knows he will not show compassion.
In the split second it takes for her to make a decision, she’s thrown back onto the ground, her Master’s lightsaber at her throat with one of her arms caught between them. His mechno hand pins her other arm to the floor, squeezing her wrist until she feels a faint crack and cries out in pain, grip loosening around her saber.
She hates it when he does that.
“Solah,” Ahsoka gasps. “I yield.”
Anakin is a little surprised that she’s given in so easily. He’s seen her slip out of that very same grip multiple times before. In fact, he’s the one who taught her how.
“C’mon, Snips,” he encourages, still holding her down firmly. “I know you can get out of this.”
Ahsoka struggles against his grip, but it’s half-hearted. She closes her eyes to gather herself, swallowing, arm trembling with the effort of trying to push him off. “I can’t.”
When she opens those same eyes, they are clouded over in — in pain? Is that pain? — and she’s breathing hard. Anakin flicks his saber off, standing from where he’s pinned her to the floor, and offers a hand to pull her up. She takes it with her opposite hand. Her wrist throbs.
Karking hell, he thinks. I've hurt her.
“We’re done for today,” Anakin says. She hasn’t beaten him once. Ahsoka opens her mouth like she’s about to argue, but he gives her a pointed look, motioning for her to retrieve her weapons from where they’re strewn on the floor.
They make their way out of the training salles, Anakin casually twirling the hilt of his saber, barely winded. Ahsoka is quiet, but Anakin hears her uneven breaths — the sharp inhale, the way she holds it in her chest for a few seconds before exhaling quickly. With no small amount of concern, Anakin also notices she’s holding herself rigid, and the arm she’s wrapped around her midsection looks like it’s holding her ribs in for support.
“Are you alright?” Anakin asks. Stupid question. She will never say no.
Just as expected, she nods. “I’m just a little stiff,” she says. “Don’t worry. I’m okay.”
Anakin sighs. “Ahsoka, you can tell me if you’re hurt. I didn’t go easy on you today. And I’ll know if you are, anyway.”
“I’m alright,” she insists.
“You know, Obi-Wan can barely beat me when I’m sparring like that.”
“Master,” she says. “I’m fine.”
“You’re resting until tomorrow once we get back,” Anakin says. Now that she can do.
Ahsoka doesn’t reply, just continues walking down the familiar halls to his quarters. But Anakin knows something is wrong when she stops suddenly in the middle of the corridor, leaning against the wall, eyes shut tight with a hand pressed to her side.
“Ahsoka?” Anakin asks worriedly, turning back to check on her. She’s standing upright by the time he gets to her, and she smiles weakly, even though her eyes betray her fatigue.
“Dizzy,” she mumbles. “I can walk,” she adds, when he holds out his arms, offering to carry her.
“I’m surprised you haven’t fainted yet,” Anakin scoffs, but it’s much kinder than it is condescending. “You weigh nothing, Snips. You know I can carry you easily.”
Still, she manages to stay on her feet without passing out until she’s inside his quarters, where she finally collapses onto the couch while Anakin goes to find food and water.
“Here,” he says, returning from the kitchen with a couple of ration bars. “Eat.”
Ahsoka leans her head back against the couch, tilting her face to the ceiling. It’s easier to let her eyes fall shut than to keep them open. “Too tired, Master. I’ll eat later.”
“Ahsoka,” Anakin says disapprovingly. “That’s not a request.”
“One minute, please?” she mumbles. Anakin knows if he allows her to have that minute, she’s going to fall asleep before she can get her blood sugar back up, and then she’s going to feel even worse when she wakes.
“Now, Ahsoka,” he says, in his no-nonsense Master Skywalker voice. It’s not a voice she hears very often, and it’s not a voice she likes to hear either.
With a sigh, Ahsoka pries her eyes open and takes the opened bar from Anakin. She’s going to have to chew, she thinks with dismay. She feels like that will take more energy out of her than she’ll gain from eating it.
Nevertheless, she finishes the first, then the second, then the glass of water Anakin places in front of her, before leaning back on the couch and closing her eyes. She’s never been this sore after a sparring session.
The couch dips beside her as her master takes a seat himself.
“Your shoulder is bruised pretty bad,” Anakin notes. She knows it is. She can feel it. There is a fresh splotch of mottled red and purple on the fleshiest part of her right arm. It hurts, but it’s not serious enough to warrant a trip to the Healers.
Ahsoka just hums in reply. She doesn’t really have anything to say to that.
Anakin slides an arm around her waist, guiding her head onto his shoulder, and pulls her closer — with a hand against her chest. Ahsoka winces, a sharp smarting sensation spreading through her upper body.
“Ribs,” she squeaks.
Anakin recoils quickly. “Sorry.” His fault again. He vaguely remembers knocking her down, a Force push to her chest, and the flicker of pain across her face as the side of her ribs slammed against the floor. He wonders why he’d brushed it aside back there. That must have been why she seemed somewhat dazed for the rest of the session.
“Doesn’t hurt that much,” she reassures him. That’s a lie. It does hurt that much. But telling her master the truth won’t do any good for his concern, so she keeps her mouth shut.
He probably sees through her words, though, as he frowns, and says, “You hit the ground pretty hard. Can I take a look?”
“You sound like Master Kenobi,” she complains, but obliges, lifting the side of her tunic to expose another bruise on her side. It’s worse than the one on her shoulder, a pattern of crimson prints, and he can see the outline of her bones. Anakin hisses, instinctively reaching out to trace the bruise, fingers dancing over her skin so lightly she barely feels it.
It’s something Obi-Wan has always done as well — sketch the outline of any bruises Anakin has come back from missions with, like he’s learning the shape and size of the contusions. Sketching them as they heal and shrink and turn different colours each day, reminding himself that they are real, but only temporary.
“I’m okay,” Ahsoka says, seeing Anakin’s furrowed brow.
“I know,” he replies. “Doesn’t mean I am.”
Is that a cue to apologise? Argue? She doesn’t know, but she wishes she’d fought better, especially if being able to hold her own would have prevented her from losing so badly, and prevented the bruises which her Master is now beating himself up over. Anakin was right — she could have slipped out of his grip.
But she was so tired, and her body hurt so bad.
“You did really well,” Anakin says softly, hearing her thoughts. “I know you tried your best.”
She looks away. “I could have tried harder.”
“You were hurt, Ahsoka,” he says. “I know I expect you to push yourself in training, but not to the extent that you need to take days off to recover.” Not to the extent of this.
Ahsoka buries her face in her hands. There are even more bruises on her wrist, unmistakably fingerprint shaped, from when he almost crushed it in his durasteel hand. The joint is swollen.
Anakin grimaces, imagining the pain she must have been in. He hadn’t even realised he’d been using his metal hand. He could have easily broken her wrist, shattered the bone into tiny splinters in his metal grip. The thought unsettles him.
One, her shoulder. Two, her ribs. Three, her wrist. So much pain. All his fault. Force, it looks as if she’s been abused.
“I’m not going hard on you again until you’re a lot stronger,” Anakin says firmly.
“I held you off pretty well!” she replies. “I’m not that fragile, Master. I can take a hit. I won’t break.”
“Ahsoka,” Anakin says, taking a deep breath. “With all due respect, you look terrible. You look like I’ve been trying to beat you to death. I refuse to hurt you if I can help it, and if it means going a little lighter on our sparring sessions, so be it.”
“I’m okay with it, you know,” she says lightly. “Getting banged up a little. You get hurt all the time.”
“I’m not okay with that,” Anakin says, glaring at the fingerprints around her wrist.
Ahsoka winces, remembering the way Anakin easily seized her wrist in his hand. “Yeah,” she says, drawing out the sound. “That. I’d rather you not do that again. Please. That wasn’t very nice.” She pauses, then adds, “and I don’t think that’s a saber technique either.”
It also hurts to Sith hells.
“Ahsoka, you should have told me,” Anakin says, tamping down on his frustration. He’s used that move on her too often to count. How much more is she going to hide from him?
The little togruta nuzzles up to his side, and all his anger dissipates immediately as he instinctively slips a hand around her, deliberately avoiding her battered shoulder.
“I asked you not to go easy on me, and you didn’t,” she says stubbornly. “I got what I asked for.”
You didn’t ask for this, he wants to say. It’s scary how his padawan has very obviously inherited his self-destructive streak.
Anakin doesn’t reply. She’s not wrong, but it doesn’t make him feel any better.
“Master?” Ahsoka says timidly, breaking the silence. Anakin turns to look at her, and she glances away like she’s embarrassed. In an even softer voice, she asks, “Do you have any bacta?”
Anakin silently berates himself. Stupid. How could be so selfish? That should have been the first thing on his mind — bacta for her injuries. Instead of tending to her, he sat by, lecturing her, while she was clearly in pain. The fact that she asked only goes to show how much she’s hurting.
“I do,” he says. “Wait here.”
She’s not going anywhere — that’s for sure.
When Anakin returns with a medkit and a blanket, Ahsoka is already lightly dozing, feet tucked under her as she lays her head against the armrest. Anakin hates to have to rouse her, but he does anyway. She gives a little indignant sound of protest when he pulls her up and props her up against his chest, but turns her face into his neck with a sigh as he gently peels her tunic back to coat the ravaged skin with bacta.
Ahsoka flinches in his arms when he rubs a little too hard over a particularly tender area, the contusions extending across her chest in a horrifyingly perfect print of her ribcage.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. He knows how rib injuries are — this must hurt immensely. “Hold still.” She nods weakly, and he tightens his arm around her to hold her steady. Her hands come up to wrap around his forearm.
Now that the adrenaline has completely worn off, she can feel every little twinge in her muscles, every overstretched ligament, every overworked joint.
“Let me see your wrist.”
She tips her head back against his shoulder, looking away as Anakin examines the quickly darkening fingerprints. His touch dances across her skin, setting her nerves on fire, and she exhales sharply, swallowing a curse.
“Might be fractured,” he says. His voice is even, but Force knows how distressed he really is. “I’ll take you to the Healers if it’s worse tomorrow.” He’d prefer to take her now, but he knows she’d rather not be poked and prodded even more, and he’d rather not have to explain why it looks as if he’s been using his padawan as a punching bag.
“Ahsoka,” he says gently, already hating himself for what he has to do. “Squeeze my arm if it hurts too much.”
As much as he tries, he can’t tune out her pained whine when he holds her wrist straight, tightly bandaging it the way he’d learned to do in the basic first-aid classes from his days in the creche. It’s somewhat sick that he’s having to use those skills on his own padawan, for an injury he inflicted.
“Shh, I know,” he soothes, as she grips his arm so tightly that her knuckles turn white. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I know.”
He hates seeing her like this.
“Sleep, okay?” he says, once her wrist is wrapped up tightly enough to stop her moving the joint and causing more damage.
“Okay,” she whispers, but makes no move to lie down, even when he loosens his hold around her.
“You’ll be more comfortable in a bed,” Anakin says. He secretly finds it adorable how she's content to sleep like this, in his arms.
“Hurts too much to get up.”
“I’ll carry you,” Anakin offers.
“I hate to say this, but that would hurt even more,” she replies, smiling faintly despite it all.
Anakin shifts himself off the couch from behind her. “Don’t move.” She almost laughs at that utterly pointless command.
Then there’s a blanket around her shoulders, and he’s laying her on his lap with such gentleness that she could melt. He drapes his arm over her middle. The protective gesture sets alight something warm, deep in her chest.
“Master?” she asks tentatively.
“Hey, Snips.”
“Are you upset at me?”
Anakin falters. Is he upset? Yes, he is. Is he upset at her? Absolutely not. If anything, he’s upset at himself. Ahsoka should be too — upset at him, that is.
She must read his thoughts, because she says, “I’m not mad at you.”
“Did you hit your head as well?” Anakin teases. “How can you not be even a little upset? I am the reason you are in so much pain.”
Ahsoka simply says, “I’ve had worse.”
“That is not an acceptable answer.”
“You shouldn’t be upset,” she says, and her voice is so soft and sweet that Anakin is almost convinced to do just that. “I know you didn’t mean any harm.”
Force, she’s right. What did he ever do to deserve her?
Ahsoka smiles up at Anakin, nothing but unadulterated love and adoration on her face. “You’re a great Master, you know,” she murmurs, before closing her eyes at last, and Anakin’s heart breaks all over again.
“Hello there,” Obi-Wan says softly, as Anakin comes into view from within the darkness of his quarters. Obi-Wan walks in, following behind him, and the lamp in the corner flicks on with a twitch of his hand. He was planning to talk with Anakin about their last mission, which hadn’t gone so well, but —
“Is this a bad time?” Obi-Wan asks, noting how Anakin has left all the lights off save for the dim lamp bulb.
Anakin holds up a finger to his lips, beckoning to the couch with a tilt of his chin. Only then does Obi-Wan notice a small figure curled up beneath the blanket, the dark outline of her shoulder rising and falling with each even breath.
“Is she alright?” he mouths.
Anakin only blinks in response, and Obi-Wan thinks he sees a twinge of guilt in his eyes, but it’s gone in the next second.
“Sparred with her today. I hurt her pretty bad,” Anakin whispers.
“Should I tell Yoda you’ve been damaging your padawan?” Obi-Wan asks playfully, careful not to raise his voice.
He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth.
“Obi-Wan,” Anakin says, his face falling. “I hurt her.”
Next thing he knows, he’s being pulled into a hug, his face pressed against soft robes on a shoulder which is not bruised or bare or half the size of his forearm.
“Is she still in pain?” Obi-Wan asks, rubbing soothing circles into Anakin’s back.
“Yes,” Anakin says, the word muffled against Obi-Wan’s shoulder.
“How bad?”
Anakin pulls away sharply. “I might have broken her wrist.”
“Anakin.”
“I’m not joking, Obi-Wan. It’s bad.”
“Anakin —“
“I don’t know how strong this is,” Anakin says bitterly, holding up his mechno hand. “I use that move so often on droids that I forgot how bad the damage can be. I could have crushed her bone and I wouldn’t even have noticed.”
“You didn’t mean any harm,” Obi-Wan says consolingly, even though he is slightly terrified of the brute force that Anakin is capable of.
“That’s not the point! She’s hurt because of me.”
Ahsoka shifts in her sleep, the blankets rustling. Anakin’s eyes widen and his gaze flicks over instantly, but she’s still asleep; thank the Force.
Anakin turns back to Obi-Wan. “I’m her Master. I’m supposed to be protecting her from harm, not causing her harm!” He takes a deep breath, calming himself. “She wouldn’t even tell me where she was hurt until I saw for myself.”
Obi-Wan can only smile sadly at Anakin’s protective nature, his chest flooding with sympathy for both him and Ahsoka. “Sounds like somebody I know,” he murmurs.
That earns him an elbow jab. “Don’t start.”
Anakin treads quietly to the couch, where his padawan lies sound asleep. He brushes a finger over her temple, over her cheek. Her bandaged hand peeks out from under the blanket, and he carefully takes it in his own, wanting nothing more than to hold a part of her, remind himself she’s alright.
Ahsoka makes a small noise which might be a whimper, forehead scrunching up in discomfort, and Anakin has to bite back a sob. He doesn’t even realise he’s crying until Obi-Wan brushes a tear off his cheek.
“I did this to her,” Anakin whispers, his voice breaking. “Just from sparring. I did this.”
“Anakin, she’s alright.”
“She is not! You have no idea!” Anakin all but yells at Obi-Wan.
He also manages to wake Ahsoka up.
“Skyguy?” she murmurs, blinking blearily.
Anakin calms down almost immediately. “Go back to sleep, Snips,” he says, his voice so much softer than it was five seconds ago.
“I heard everything,” she mumbles. “You’re upset. Ow.” She’s trying to roll onto her back, and the pressure on her ribs sends a fresh wave of pain down the bond. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”
“You’re supposed to be resting,” Anakin says slowly.
“Your heart is beating really fast,” she says. And he’s so loud — both in the Force and on the other side of their bond.
Obi-Wan has backed away, giving them some privacy. I’ll come back tomorrow morning.
Once he’s gone, Anakin lowers himself to the floor beside his padawan, pulling the blanket up to cover her shoulder where it has slipped off. Her eyes, though tired and clouded, still bear that bright spark which they never seem to lose. He hopes nothing in the galaxy ever puts it out.
“I’ll take care of you,” Anakin says softly.
“I know,” she whispers, the tiniest smile gracing her lips.