Work Text:
At first, blinking drowsily into the darkened room, Anakin is unsure what has wakened him. His quarters are quiet save for the rustle of wind just outside, and there is no sense of alarm in the Force.
Gradually, he realizes what it must have been – what it so often is. Obi-Wan. He’s become more and more in tune with his former master’s signature in the past weeks, to Anakin’s relief and Obi-Wan’s evident displeasure. Makes it hard to hide from me, doesn’t it, Master? He has been roused by Obi-Wan’s wakefulness, the absence of another sleeping mind across their bond.
It is not unusual for Obi-Wan to struggle to find rest. He has always been prone to bouts of insomnia, and even more so since the war had ended, but Anakin had hoped … well, he had hoped his former master would find it easier on Alderaan. It seems some things don’t change.
Anakin leaves the bed with minimal reluctance (just a little; the floor is cold ) and waves the door open. Obi-Wan is there in the overly spacious living area afforded to them, seated on the sofa, staring blankly at the holovid playing on the projector. Anakin’s heart clenches.
“Can’t sleep, Master?”
Obi-Wan startles slightly and glances toward him, instantly repentant. “Did I wake you?” he asks, though he clearly hadn’t; the holovid is muted, and he hasn’t made a sound. “I’m sorry. Go back to sleep. I’m alright.”
“You didn’t. It’s fine.” Anakin pads across the room, settling onto the edge of the sofa. “Is that … a soap opera? You don’t even like those.”
“Options are limited this time of night.”
Anakin hums in response, but his gaze is on Obi-Wan, considering. Whatever is keeping him awake, it doesn’t seem to be one of the worst nights. He’s anxious, tired, sad (always, always sad, and Anakin is less and less confident in his ability to take that away), but his signature is relatively calm. Muted.
Ah. No, there it is. Muted, because his shields, still unsteady and gossamer thin – and to sense them always has something aching deep in the pit of his stomach. Before the war had ended, Obi-Wan’s shields had been incomparably strong, though in the end, those shields had contributed to the catastrophe – are lifted. Not one of the worst nights, but not a good one either.
“Master,” he says, and waits for Obi-Wan to look at him before continuing. “Master, I know you don’t want to talk about it right now – and that’s alright – but you don’t have to say you’re fine. It’s okay not to be fine. Remember?”
This is something he – that all of them – have been trying to help Obi-Wan learn for months. Or unlearn, really. Unlearn the need to be just fine at all times. It’s a slow, precarious journey, but little by little, they have made progress in this, at least.
A beat of silence, and Obi-Wan nods once in a quick, jerky movement.
“It’s just anxiety,” he says then, and something unfurls in Anakin’s chest. “I keep … thinking. About all of it. There wasn’t a particular trigger, I just – I can’t sleep. And I think – perhaps we should return to the temple – I don’t want to be a burden on Bail and Breha … they are kind, but they are recovering from the war as well, and I worry …”
Anakin waits, but it seems that Obi-Wan isn’t going to say anything else. He’s looking to the floor once more, clasping his hands together, but there are no voluminous sleeves to hide them beneath. He makes a note to locate the garments that have said sleeves, or to ask the droid where they had been stored. It’s warm here at the moment, but Obi-Wan manages better when he has them.
“You – we – aren’t a burden on Bail and Breha. Bail was thrilled when I asked him. He’s your friend, and he wants to help you.” Anakin leans into Obi-Wan, bumping his shoulder gently. “People want to help you, Master. Besides, I think Breha wants to adopt you.”
This elicits a soft snort. Obi-Wan tilts his head into Anakin’s shoulder, relaxing slightly. “I’m not … that much younger than either of them. Perhaps she wants to adopt you. ”
“Doesn’t matter how old you are, I’ve seen how she looks at you. It’s in her nature. His too, I think. Neither of us is leaving this planet without gaining ten pounds.”
Obi-Wan huffs softly, but says nothing. Anakin waits a moment before nudging him.
“Master, it’s cold in the bedrooms,” he says, purposefully light, and tries to fake a shiver. “Come share my bed so neither of us freezes to death.”
Obi-Wan is, of course, unconvinced by this excuse, as Anakin had known he would be. He starts to shake his head, leaning away, and Anakin catches at his shoulder, meeting his gaze.
“Hey. It’s alright not to be alright.”
A lingering beat of hesitation. Anakin waits.
“You really don’t mind?” Obi-Wan asks at last, scarcely audible. “I didn’t want to start asking…”
“I really, truly don’t mind.” He squeezes his brother’s shoulder gently and rises, pulling Obi-Wan to his feet as well. “It’s okay, Obi-Wan. I used to crawl into your bed all the time, didn’t I? And I – I sleep better with someone else too, anyway. Plus, it really is cold in there.”
Another quiet huff, closer to laughter this time.
Shutting off the holo projector, they return to Anakin’s quarters, and (thankfully) the warm blankets. Anakin has never had much tolerance for the cold, and though Obi-Wan rarely complains, he knows his master has always been one to catch chill easily.
He makes little effort to make conversation. Though this is the first time they’ve slept in the same bed in the night, Anakin knows well enough by now that his presence, his signature, inexplicably serves as a sort of lullaby to Obi-Wan. He’s too grateful for that to question it. If it’s one small way he can be of real help, he has no right to question it.
At first, Obi-Wan is slightly tense, unsure of himself and keeping to his own side of the bed, but curls gradually closer to his former padawan until his forehead meets Anakin’s bicep. It isn’t long after that that he eases into slumber, warm breaths puffing against Anakin’s arm.
—
Obi-Wan wakes to the soft chitter of flare - wings and quiet birdsong. He is alone, tucked with such obvious care beneath the blankets that emotion swells in his throat, but the door is cracked and the scent of the foul caf that Anakin favors wafts into the room, accompanied by the low murmur of voices – both Bail and Breha, he thinks. Sunlight falls across the bed, warming his skin. It is hours past dawn, and for the first time in years, he has slept through much of the night.