Chapter Text
The sky is still too dark when Anakin is jolted awake. Warning sirens scream through his head—something is wrong, wrong, wrong. Then pure, unadulterated panic, racing down the bond like wildfire. His throat closes up, and he doesn't know if it's him who’s terrified, or if it's his padawan projecting her fear across the temple to him.
Anakin throws the blanket off himself, practically sprinting across the room and down the deserted corridor to Ahsoka's quarters. This isn't the first time. His heart sinks as he realises it’s not going to be the last.
He’s at her door within minutes, and he punches in the code for her room reflexively. The only thing restraining him from flinging the door open is knowing the temple is full of sleeping jedi, and slamming a solid duracrete door against a solid duracrete wall would not be the most ideal course of action right now.
The room is too dark to see at first. It takes a moment for his pupils to dilate, but he can already make out a smudge atop the bed, quivering under bunched-up blankets. His chest seizes at the sight of Ahsoka curled up into herself, trying to stay quiet, knowing she’s failed to shield her thoughts tonight, now afraid he will hear her thoughts or her sobs—or worse, think she is weak.
Anakin has had his fair share of nightmares and flashbacks and panic attacks. He knows the terror like the back of his hand. He knows there is nothing weak about drowning if nobody ever taught you how to swim.
(To be fair, padawans were never really trained to familiarise themselves with the horrors of war, as they were expected to adjust to the grim realities on their own, and masters were certainly not expected to assist them in that aspect of said curriculum—but then again, that in itself is a grim reality.)
His heart breaks for the tiny togruta, and in an instant he is on the bed next to her, holding her close to his chest. He strokes her montrals with his flesh hand, hoping he’s radiating calm into the bond and not his own distress. She’s still shaking, but holding her breath—perhaps she thinks if she feigns calmness she can hide the extent of her pain and alleviate his concern.
(If anything, his concern only grows. But this is not the time to scold her for matters of that sort.)
Anakin curses the Jedi Code, curses the ban on attachments, curses the elders and their karking ‘wisdom’ for teaching his padawan to hide her emotions, tearing herself down to convince her own master that she is strong. He knows she tries to snuff out her messy sentiment and fails, just like him. He knows she tries to silence the voice which screams at her to care and protect with passion.
(And she never has to convince him she is strong. That he knows for sure.)
It takes a moment for it to register in Ahsoka’s terror-addled brain—that Anakin is holding her like a youngling, murmuring soothing words under his breath as he gathers the bits and pieces of her together before she can fall apart. Shame burns like fire on her side of the bond, fuelled by something horribly close to disappointment and self-hatred. Anakin soothes that too, smoothing out the rough surfaces and jagged edges, until the blanket around her shoulders doesn’t feel like it will smother her in her sleep.
Is it selfish of her to wish she was born at a different time? After the war, perhaps? Or in a parallel universe where fifteen year old padawans don’t wake crying in the middle of the night, because they dreamed of the corpses of a battalion which fought beside them?
“You are not,” Anakin says, his arms tightening around her. The blanket between her skin and his is warm and thick and heavy. A luxury, and one she does not take for granted—not when the gentle pressure of her master’s embrace opens wells within her mind for her fear to ebb out of.
He was like her once. Only a few years ago. He remembers how Obi-Wan would sit him down face-to-face on a meditation mat, insisting that he release his emotions to the Force. He meant well, but it had never been effective, and it took years for Obi-Wan to realise all Anakin needed was to be held, and have his fear acknowledged rather than banished. His mind was too dark, then. Like the sky now.
Anakin makes a mental note never to tell Ahsoka to meditate her feelings away. One, she hates it as much as he does; and two, it just doesn’t work.
“I’m sorry I woke you up,” Ahsoka whispers.
There it is again, an unwelcome thought sinking into her mind. He is your master, she tells herself. You should not be the burden. You should not be the liability. She swallows her tears, harsh reminders quickly hardening her resolve, but it’s all wrong—like wet duracrete setting too fast. Yet she cannot ignore the nagging voice telling her to grow up and stop being such a child. He works too hard for you to wake him over trivial matters like these.
“Ahsoka,” Anakin says, gently but firmly. “I need you to understand that you should never, ever hide things like this from me.”
And oh, hearing those words is a benediction, but good things never last, do they?
“I can take care of it on my own,” she says, a little too quickly, and for a moment Anakin wonders how many times she has woken herself up like this—in pain and anguish and fear—without him knowing. At the same time, Ahsoka realises she’s probably managed to make it sound like she doesn’t want Anakin here, and that she doesn’t appreciate him coming over to take care of her in the middle of the night, and she’s nothing but an ungrateful—
“Do you want to talk about it?” Anakin asks, gently tilting her chin up to meet her eyes. He can read the sorrow in them before she’s said a word.
Ahsoka’s throat bobs as she swallows. “I’m scared.”
Just like that, it all comes rushing out—scared she will be a second too slow to deflect a blaster bolt, scared she will die before she sees the war end, scared she will have to hold her master’s still body in her arms one day, scared she will be taken prisoner by the separatists if a plan goes wrong, scared of what opportunistic sleemos think of her species.
All valid fears for a soldier. None valid fears for a child.
“I know,” Anakin says softly, holding her close again as she trembles with silent sobs.
How long does he hold her for? It cannot be long—the chronometer doesn’t lie. Perhaps she should credit that to Anakin too—the way he is able to calm her so quickly, even though his own emotions are often chaotic and jumbled. Perhaps she should credit that to him being a wonderful Jedi and master.
When she has stilled once more, Anakin releases his hold on her shoulders and sets her head down on the pillow, pulling the blanket up to her chin. Ahsoka blinks slowly, her eyes clearer now, and gazes up at him. He reads the thank you off her lips as she mouths the words, too tired to make a sound.
“Sleep, Ahsoka,” he says quietly, with so much love in his voice, smoothing a hand over her brow and weaving a Force suggestion into his words. He knows she needs it.
For once, she doesn’t have to say I don’t think I can.
Ahsoka reaches out with a trembling hand, grasping meekly at the air in front of her. Anakin smiles, knowing exactly what she means, and shifts himself under the blanket to lie beside her. She curls her tiny hand into the fabric of his tunic and nestles into the fold of his arm, as the breath she’s been holding is blessedly let out.
The sky is still too dark when Ahsoka blinks blearily, the wall on the far side of her room coming into focus like a crappy holorecorder lens. She is vaguely aware of the heavy arm resting on her waist, pulling her back against a warm body. It takes another five seconds to realise the arm is not organic flesh, but gloved durasteel, and it hums with a weak little vibration—barely enough for her montrals to pick it up; completely unnoticeable against her skin.
The only other time Anakin has ever slept beside her like this was on a mission which went wrong, when the rescue ship hadn’t made it to the frigid planet they were stranded on before nightfall, and they’d had no choice but to huddle for warmth. She’d ended up falling asleep in her exhaustion, and she’d woken up like she has now—with her master holding her in his arms, everything soft and slow and warm.
The only other time he’s ever slept beside her like this was after a battle.
And it feels stupid to compare a childish nightmare to a battle.
But in all honesty, it hadn’t just been a nightmare. She knows she didn’t just imagine the feeling of not being able to breathe, and she didn’t imagine the voice in her head telling her she was going to die if she didn’t get out right now run fast run—
Deep breaths. That’s what she needs to do. Deep breath in, out.
Ahsoka shifts carefully, trying to turn onto her back to face Anakin where he lies beside her. She must have moved during the night. Anakin’s arm only tightens around her waist, and she huffs quietly but endearingly, even though she’s now completely trapped.
“Go back to sleep, Snips,” Anakin mumbles, his voice hoarse.
Before she can apologise for waking him up, there’s a soft brush against the walls of her mind and a loving smile down the bond, and it doesn’t even take a Force suggestion for her to comply.