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"You should get that looked at."
Obi-Wan blinks away the blur of tears that have been continuously welling up for the past few hours. He refocuses his vision from the procedure room behind the pane of transparisteel to the faint reflection of Alderaan's senator standing behind him.
"I'm quite fine, Bail," he replies in a tight voice. The mucus that has accumulated in his nose and down his throat betrays his attempts to hide his compromised emotions. Then again, Bail has seen worse than tears from Obi-Wan.
"Mmhm," the senator steps closer, now appearing in Obi-Wan's peripheral. "Fine or not, this needs to be cleaned."
Obi-Wan glances down at where Bail has gently pulled the arm tucked close to his chest outward, revealing the nasty mess of burnt and bloody robes, flesh, and pieces of that damned lava planet that have embedded into the back of his forearm.
Wordlessly, Bail leads Obi-Wan into an adjacent procedure room where it appears this has been the senator's plan all along. A medical droid awaits him— not Obi-Wan's ideal choice for wound care, but a necessary measure for discretion.
He sits atop the examination table, and Bail stands at the opposite end of the cushioned surface.
"You don't have to stay," Obi-Wan assures him as the droid places his arm atop a raised surface and scans it. Bail crosses his arms, leaning a hip against the table.
"I'm aware."
Obi-Wan expected Bail to be hovering around the nursery as Padmé's twins—and his new adopted daughter— are being evaluated. It is where Yoda has presumably posted himself as he clings to any sort of life he can find following the devastation of his Order.
"Tissue scan indicates 4.5% of the patient's body has sustained a thermal burn. Specific locus being the right anterior forearm," the medical droid says in a monotone that has been uncannily altered to mimic a caring inflection. To Obi-Wan, it sounds condescending. "82% of affected area classifies as second-degree burns, 12% as third-degree burns, and 6% as first-degree burns."
"Dear Force," Bail mutters, his eyes flickering to Obi-Wan's with a touch of shock. "Aren't you in pain?"
Obi-Wan just stares down at his arm and the uneven surface of blood and pus-filled blisters. Truthfully, he hadn't noticed the severity of the burn. Though, now that he is more aware of the injury, the white-hot pain and slow throb of his charred skin makes itself known. All the Jedi could really feel before was this profound sense of numbness choking out his body and mind.
"IV fluids, pain medication, wound debridement, cleaning, and topical antibiotic and bacta treatment are recommended to prevent infection."
All of that seems a bit excessive, but Bail appears to believe Obi-Wan has lost the privilege of patient autonomy and tells the droid to proceed with treatment. He might have argued if he had the energy. Now that he's finally sat down— perhaps for the first time since he followed the parade of medical droids accompanying Padmé's unconscious body into the Polis Massa Medical Center— exhaustion has soaked into his overexerted muscles. His eyelids betray him, heavy and longing to lie down and allow the droid to work on his arm in peace... but the instant moist compresses are applied to the area his sleepiness vanishes into the haze of pain.
Despite the injection of local anesthetic, the droid's agonizing procedure of soaking the melted fibers of his Jedi robes from the damaged skin beneath feels as though he's being burned ten times over. Obi-Wan grits his teeth to stifle a whine, his gaze, unfortunately, meeting the sympathetic eyes of Bail Organa whose own face has gone pale.
"Sit," Obi-Wan says to the senator before he ends up passed out on the floor. Bail seems to take Obi-Wan's request as a personal favor instead and grabs the Jedi's hand as he takes the seat next to him on the exam table.
Not exactly what he was intending, but he doesn't pull away. Obi-Wan accepts the offering of a place to redirect this new stream of agony. If the strength he is putting into squeezing Bail's hand is bothering him, the senator doesn't say anything.
"Your wife... Breha," Obi-Wan forces the words out, trying to put his mind in another place for the time being. "Have you told her she will be a mother yet?"
Bail shakes his head. "It will be a surprise when I see her. Both for the sake of safety, and because there are no preparations needed to be made anyway. We have had a nursery ready for months."
"The adoption process is lengthy I've heard," Obi-Wan says. Truthfully, he doesn't know a damn thing about adoption procedures, but the sentiment seems correct.
"Lengthy and more difficult than you may think for a child that would literally become a princess under our ward," he sighs with a hint of sardonic amusement. An inside joke, perhaps. "I am eager to see Breha. It has been especially difficult on her."
Obi-Wan assumes Bail is referring to her health. He remembers the story the Queen of Alderaan told him at one of the diplomacy dinners he attended many years ago. Before anyone realized the galaxy was tearing itself apart. Frolicking among politicians is not one of Obi-Wan's preferred ways to spend a night, but that bias often finds an exception in the likes of democratic monarchs.
One of Padmé's early influences, Obi-Wan thinks sadly.
Breha Organa is an acquaintance, but one that the Jedi gained the utmost respect from their first meeting. Alderaan as a society is one that Obi-Wan admires for the rigor and accountability they require of their political officials. At that dinner, Breha told the captivating yet sorrowful tale of her Day of Demand ceremony to claim her right to the throne. It was also the day she fell and nearly lost her life— and what now prevents her from bearing children these years later.
"I admire Breha's strength and patience. Even from our limited meetings, I can guess she will be a wonderful mother to Leia."
Bail smiles but it does not quite reach his eyes. "She often reminded me of Breha," the senator says, his gaze pointed toward the door.
Obi-Wan needs no clarification of who he means.
The droid is cutting away another section of Obi-Wan's sleeve when Bail's comm buzzes softly. He apologetically pulls his hand from the Jedi's grasp.
"Oh. It's Master Yoda."
"Are you being summoned?" Bail looks up at him with conflict in his features. Obi-Wan nods his head toward the door. "Go. I believe the good part of my IV concoction has begun to kick in at full force. I will meet you both at the nursery when I am finished."
It's a fib, but one that gets the hesitant senator to pick up and leave. Obi-Wan feels Bail's presence in the Force fade with distance, and when it is clear he is gone the Jedi sighs deeply. His face contorts and twists as the debriding process moves into the systematic scrubbing of his tender skin. He catches a quick glimpse of the process and immediately regrets it.
His arm is over a portable sink as the droid sprays water across unroofed blisters. Run-off water washes down the drain in shades of pink and brown, the occasional piece of lava rock getting caught in the grate. He has to force himself not to jerk away from the sting of bacteria-riddled fluids being rinsed away, and the sensitive under-layers of his skin subjected to the cold procedure room air.
Obi-Wan's vision goes white and then swims with black spots as he comes down from a particularly intense moment of debriding near the crook of his elbow. Distantly the medical droid asks if he is experiencing any discomfort, but his throat feels like it's closed completely and all he can manage is a high-pitched hiss.
"Good. Please alert me if your pain level rises above a four."
My pain level is an eleven, he wants to say, but his words are trapped in his throat-- just like when he sustained this burn in the first place.
"Anakin please, listen to me."
"I'm done listening to you and your lies."
Obi-Wan remembers being struck with how not-Anakin he sounded. He's heard venom in his tone before, but never like this. Never with actual, fully-intended malice. It caught him so off guard that he couldn't stop his former padawan from pressing Obi-Wan's arm into a piece of durasteel sticking out of the lava river.
His own scream sounded as foreign as Anakin's voice. It isn't until he opens his eyes and realizes the droid has backed off from his arm to retrieve a syringe of pain killer that Obi-Wan realizes he released that same scream from his lungs once again.
Is this what pain Anakin went through? Was this the source of his screams as his flesh caught fire? The very thought of Anakin having to go through this sort of agony makes Obi-Wan's chest hurt— no matter if the boy was fueled by the dark side or not. He loved Anakin. Obi-Wan never wanted to see him in pain and would have done anything to protect him from such experiences.
Except kill him out of mercy.
Guilt claws at his throat. The screams that echoed as he walked away continue to howl in his ears. There's no way he will survive this, Obi-Wan had to tell himself. It will be over soon.
Walking away was pure cowardice. A selfish choice he has justified to himself over and over. The truth of it all is Obi-Wan couldn't stand to be there and feel his bond with Anakin fall silent. He wouldn't have been able to handle feeling it snap.
All his life he's committed himself to selflessness. Until the need for him to be a Jedi Knight— to practice mercy and compassion— finally came. And he walked away.
Obi-Wan opens his eyes. He didn't realize he'd closed them. He also didn't realize he laid down, but he stares at the ceiling now.
The lights are dim. A heart monitor trills in a stable cadence. The Jedi turns his head sluggishly to find his forearm loosely wrapped and smothered in bacta.
"You have a warped definition of the word fine," Bail Organa says from where he sits in the corner of the procedure room.
"I believe... we neglected to consider the implications of my Jedi metabolism requiring... a higher maintenance dose," he says, clearing the sleep from his throat.
"The pitfalls of being an intergalactic fugitive in hiding," Bail says dryly. Obi-Wan manages a slight smile.
"Indeed."
"Droid said another four hours with the bacta."
"How long was I out?"
"Six."
Obi-Wan cranes his neck to look at the senator. "The twins?"
"Perfectly healthy. Master Yoda is looking after them."
"Hm. Unsurprising. He was a frequent visitor to the créche nursery."
He regrets saying it the moment the words leave his lips. Memories of the council chambers stained red flash through his mind. He lays his head back down on the pillow.
Silence falls between them. Obi-Wan is approaching the point of drifting back to sleep when Bail speaks again.
"I know we discussed the necessity of separating the twins but—"
"They are both strong in the Force. Their presence together would be an anomaly easily detected by other trained Force users."
"Yes, but, my family has vacation property in Alderaan's southern hemisphere. Basically the other side of the planet. You could stay there with Luke, and once the twins are strong enough to mask their presences or whatever it is you Jedi—"
"No," Obi-Wan interrupts him again with a sharp tone. He sits up, ignoring how his vision swims. "Luke should be with family."
"You know what I'm going to say, Obi-Wan."
"Then you know my reply."
Bail huffs in frustration. Obi-Wan can hear him brush his fingers through his thick hair. "You are Luke's family."
"Oh, I am quite sure I lost that right when I killed his father," Obi-Wan says in a low voice. Bail falls quiet. The Jedi sighs, releasing his anger and sorrow into the Force. "I can't Bail. Luke deserves a real family. A chance to live a normal life. I can be... an eccentric uncle—at best— but a stable home? Even you can't twist the circumstances enough to change that."
The worst part of it all is, Obi-Wan is right. The things he would give to be wrong...
Bail deflates, sinking back in his chair. It's unlike the senator to give up so easily, but even he cannot employ his rhetorical prowess to convince Obi-Wan otherwise, and he knows it.
"Do you think they'll ever get to meet?"
"Luke and Leia?"
"Mhmm."
Even if Obi-Wan did possess the talent to see into the future, the murkiness of the Force that blankets the darkened galaxy prevents him from feeling anything but the chill of evil and the memory of the lava river's penetrating heat. He'd like to close his eyes and see a future where Anakin and Padmé's children didn't have to be spread across the galaxy. He'd like to close his eyes and pretend the last twenty-four hours never happened. Even better, the last three years at least.
"That day will come when the galaxy is no longer beneath the thumb of the Sith. When the danger is gone," Obi-Wan smiles wistfully. "I sincerely hope that day comes soon, Bail."
Perhaps it is the pessimism of grief, or the Force is truly offering some intercession. Either way, he can't shake the feeling that soon is further than either of them hope for it to be. That's the problem with hope, though, isn't it? It's in the eye of the beholder. And the hope that Obi-Wan once beheld burnt with his former padawan.
Obi-Wan decides not to tell the senator of his feeling, though. Bail deserves the chance to believe in a nearer future.