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Anakin had only seen Obi-Wan well-and-truly drunk once before.
Which wasn’t to say it didn’t happen—just that the man was remarkably good at holding his liquor. Anakin himself had spent many an evening being dragged back to the Temple, leaning all his weight against a still very sober Obi-Wan despite the fact that he’d consumed just as much alcohol. When he was a boy, it was rumored among the older Padawans that Master Kenobi had once drank the entire Council under the table and could still walk straight.
Well. He certainly wasn’t walking straight now.
Anakin first noticed his Master somewhere near the North entrance. He’d been on his way out, on his regular midnight masquerade to a certain Senator’s apartment, keeping his head down as he passed some nocturnal Jedi comrades. He might’ve walked past Obi-Wan altogether if not for the raucous he was making—Anakin looked up just in time to see his old Master walk into a potted featherfern plant, sending dirt and leaves scattering to the floor. And nearly falling to the floor himself.
“Master?” Anakin sped his pace down the Temple hall. “What are you doing? I thought you went to bed.”
Obi-Wan steadied himself against the wall and looked up, stepping back from the mess on the ground.
“Anakin!” He listed briefly to the side, smiling absently. “Why are you here?”
“I live here, that’s why,” he said. “And I don’t go out alone in the middle of the night to get completely plastered. Seriously, Obi-Wan, how drunk are you right now?”
“Wasn’t alone. Rex was there.”
“Ah.”
Obi-Wan was swaying—looking blankly over Anakin’s head, his expression faintly pleasant. Anakin bent down and righted the spilled potted plant, then reached out for Obi-Wan’s shoulder. He didn’t smell like beer—kriff—which meant he’d been drinking the strong stuff. Though Anakin probably could’ve figured that out from the way Obi-Wan was now leaning against the wall.
Anakin spared a glance over his shoulder, toward the Temple doors. Sorry, Padmé. Duty calls.
“Alright, old man,” he said, sliding an arm beneath Obi-Wan’s. “Let’s get you home.”
“I am home.”
“I mean to bed,” Anakin corrected, starting to haul Obi-Wan toward their quarters. “Remember those? Beds? Or have you forgotten, given that you haven’t actually used one since well before Zygerria?”
At the mention of the planet, Obi-Wan stiffened against him. Ah. So that would be the cause of the drinking.
“Let’s just go, okay?” He gave Obi-Wan a slight squeeze. “I’m here now. You’ll be alright.”
The first time he’d seen Obi-Wan drunk, Anakin had been ten. He’d left Anakin with Master Vos, claiming he had some solo work to do before returning that evening, and Anakin had welcomed the opportunity to play with Aayla Secura and avoid his homework for a little longer. But then Obi-Wan had come home. His eyes were bloodshot and he was leaning against the doorframe, and Master Vos had stood between him and Anakin as if to shield his view. It was about a year since he’d come to the Temple, and he’d never seen his Master like this before.
It was around then he realized that it had been exactly a year.
Now, when they made it back home—at long last, given their belabored pace—Anakin deposited Obi-Wan unceremoniously on the couch. Then he went to the kitchen, filling a glass with cold water.
“Drink this first,” he said, returning to where Obi-Wan had curled up with his head on the armrest. “Then you can sleep.”
“Not thirsty.”
“I don’t care. You’ll thank me tomorrow.”
He grabbed Obi-Wan by the wrists and dragged him upright, forcing the glass into his hands, but then he was nearly spilling it as his arm dipped. Anakin sighed. He was going to have a hangover tomorrow no matter what—was it even worth making him hydrate now? But in a few moments Obi-Wan had drained the glass, and was nodding off again with his head on the back of the couch. Anakin shook his head.
“Alright,” he said. “Let’s get you into bed. Need a hand?”
Obi-Wan nodded absently and took Anakin’s hand, then nearly toppled back onto the couch when Anakin didn’t support his full weight. Anakin cursed under his breath.
“Whoops,” Obi-Wan murmured, leaning against Anakin. “Sorry. You’re spinning.”
“I don’t think I’m the one spinning, Master.”
They hobbled into the bedroom. Anakin felt relief budding in his chest as he set Obi-Wan down on the bed, wondering if he might make it to Padmé’s tonight after all—
A hope that was immediately quashed when Obi-Wan stood up and bolted for the refresher.
And so that was how Anakin found himself sitting on the floor with his back up against the sink. Patting Obi-Wan’s back as he vomited into the toilet. Trying very hard not to sound exasperated about it.
“There you go. Better to get it out now anyway,” he murmured, “than in the middle of the Council meeting tomorrow.”
Obi-Wan moaned. “Forgot about that.”
“Pretty sure tomorrow you will have forgotten a lot of things.”
Another round of heaving prevented a response.
Anakin got up once, unsure if Obi-Wan even noticed, and returned with a damp towel. He handed it to Obi-Wan, who wiped his face before his shoulder blades tightened again, and he leaned back over the bowl.
Anakin sighed and sat back down on the bathroom floor. “So Rex was there?”
Obi-Wan’s forehead dropped down against the toilet seat. “Mmhm.”
“And I’m hoping he isn’t as drunk as you.”
Obi-Wan shrugged. “Cody got him home. And put me in a cab. I think.” His breathing was labored. “Said he commed you.”
Oops. Anakin hadn’t checked his comm. He left it on the Temple during nights like these, so Obi-Wan couldn’t trace his location and…
He swallowed the guilt. “Good thing I was there, then.”
“You always are,” Obi-Wan said. “Even if it is a little late.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Obi-Wan started to heave again, saving him from an answer.
But Anakin knew it anyway. People had died on Kadavo. Obi-Wan had watched. And probably still watched, every night on the insides of his eyelids.
And Anakin was a little too late.
Obi-Wan exhaled again, at last able to breathe. He handed him the glass of water. “Drink.”
Obi-Wan shook his head. “Just gonna throw it back up.”
“Yeah, that’s the point,” Anakin said. Obi-Wan raised a weary eyebrow. “Right now you’re throwing up straight tequila, or whatever it was you were drinking. That stuff hurts when it comes up. I bet your throat burns, doesn’t it?”
“No,” Obi-Wan rasped.
“Liar.” He shoved the glass forward. “Drink. And when you’ve held a whole glass down for half an hour, then you can go to sleep.”
Obi-Wan grumbled and ran his hands down his face. But then he took the glass, swallowed a few long sips, and exhaled.
And then threw up. Again.
This was going to be a long night.
Anakin took the dirty towel from the floor beside Obi-Wan and grimaced as he threw it in the laundry bin. He grabbed another from the linen closet, dampening it with warm water. But before he brought it back to Obi-Wan, he paused. Stood there in the doorway, watching as his old Master pulled himself back from the toilet seat and leaned his back against the shower door, head tilted upward and eyes closed. He looked exhausted. Worn down. Ill and weak and a bit forlorn. But the worst part was, Anakin realized—most of it wasn’t even from the alcohol. The dark circles beneath his eyes, the pallor of his skin, the bone-tired slump of his shoulders, well—
Anakin had seen that all before. Too many times to count.
He went back to his post against the sink, and set the new cloth down for Obi-Wan. “I hope you and Rex at least talked about it.”
Having his head in the toilet gave Obi-Wan a great excuse to avoid eye contact. “Nothing to say.”
“There is,” Anakin insisted. “You can’t go forever without processing what happened. Force knows I learned that when I first came to you. Being a slave is—”
“Do I look like I want to talk about this?”
“You look like you need to talk about this, or we wouldn’t be having this talk at 3 a.m. on the bathroom floor. The Zygerria mission was…traumatic, for everyone, in different ways. But you were on Kadavo for a long time, and I know I don’t know exactly what happened, but—”
“Don’t want to talk—”
“—but Rex told me what they did. Most of it. And…” Anakin exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “You have to know it wasn’t your fault.”
Obi-Wan closed his eyes. He didn’t respond.
Anakin just pressed the glass of water into his hands and tried to keep his own hands steady.
Obi-Wan sipped. Swallowed. And, at least for a few minutes, kept it down. “Well,” he said, “wasn’t so bad this time. Kadavo. At least this time I knew someone was coming for me.”
Anakin sputtered, sitting forward. “Wh—this time? What does that mean?”
“Mmm. Nothing. Means I’m tired.”
“No, hold on. Obi-Wan,” Anakin said, leaning his elbows against his knees. “Were you…a slave before?”
Obi-Wan shrugged. “Wasn’t a big deal. I was like, twelve. Long, long time ago.”
“You were a slave when you were twelve? Hold on, back up. How were you—you were a Padawan, right?” When Obi-Wan didn’t answer, Anakin’s voice raised in pitch. “Right?”
“Not quite.”
Obi-Wan rubbed his eyes. The gesture made him look decades younger.
“Where was Qui-Gon? Where was anyone?” Anakin said. “I mean, Coruscant’s not Tatooine, children don’t just get—”
“Wasn’t on Coruscant,” he said. “Bandomeer. For the Agricorps.” He swallowed. “Slavers had me in a deep sea mine.”
And so that was how Anakin learned—about the bomb collar around his neck, how he and the others were kept half-starved to weaken them and prevent escape. How the guards beat them with electro-jabbers if they faltered, and even if they didn’t, and Obi-Wan’s small size made him subject to the brunt of their cruelty. This all came out in fragments, of course—Anakin filling in the gaps where Obi-Wan’s voice tapered off. And all the while Anakin felt his fists tightening at his sides as he listened.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Anakin said. “All that time, when I was recovering from being a slave, didn’t you think maybe—”
“Couldn’t do that to you,” Obi-Wan said softly. “Carry my burdens. On top of your own.”
And Anakin knew he could argue—that it wouldn’t have been a burden, not to him. But Anakin also knew that sometimes, loving someone meant you did have to carry their own pain with yours. That was love. And sometimes, so was saving someone from it.
“Will you talk about this with me?” Anakin said. “You know…sober?”
Obi-Wan leaned his head back. “’s not easy.”
“I know. But…”
He didn’t know exactly how he planned to finish the phrase. After all, it wasn’t as though Anakin himself was especially free of secrets. He glanced down. Obi-Wan’s eyes were closed as he rested his head against the shower door, knees pulled to his chest and arms folded around himself. He looked small. On the floor beside him, the glass of water was empty. And so instead he let his voice taper off, soft and weary as the man sitting across from him.
Maybe tomorrow.
“It’s been half an hour,” Anakin said quietly. “Since you last threw up. I think you’re safe to sleep, if you’re ready.”
Obi-Wan’s eyes didn’t open, but he nodded. Anakin stood first, then crouched to help pull him to his feet. Obi-Wan moaned as he wobbled upward, bending over at the waist and looking so nauseous Anakin thought they might be back to square one. But then he steadied himself, while Anakin gripped his shoulder. Nodded his thanks. And they started forward.
Anakin deposited Obi-Wan on the bed, then rummaged through his drawers. He’d need a shower tomorrow—quite desperately—but for now, a clean nightshirt was enough. Anakin left the room while he changed, and returned with the kitchen trash can and a fresh glass of water to place by the bed.
“Just in case,” he murmured, sitting down on the edge. “And I’ll be here. If you need me.”
Obi-Wan curled up in the bed, haphazardly drawing the blankets to his chin. Anakin hit the light switch, then laid beside him, leaving space between. He turned his back.
Anakin thought he might be asleep already, from the silence on the other end of the bed. But then Obi-Wan’s voice came quietly through the darkness.
“’m glad,” he said. “Glad you were there.”
“Always,” Anakin said, then grimaced—at the thought that he very nearly wasn’t, this time. He sighed. “Even if I am a little late.”
“No.”
In the darkness, a hand found his wrist and squeezed.
“No,” Obi-Wan repeated. “I think you were right on time.”
The hand lingered there for just a moment, before Obi-Wan was drawing back to his end of the bed and the rustling of sheets became quiet, even breathing. The distance between them felt enormous again. The moment of honesty gone.
But for a moment, he had bridged the gap. He could do it again.
Anakin turned over on his side and exhaled, letting the worry out with the wind.
Maybe tomorrow.