Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Golden light edging its way through the marginal slits between the window’s blinds woke you gradually, softly. With each passing moment, the gentle beams lit the inside of your eyelids until they opened, your gaze immediately resting upon Obi-Wan’s sleeping form. 

He laid on his side on his couch, knees and hips slightly bent. A blanket covered his lower half while a thin, white shirt rested loosely on his upper body, lines of freckles disappearing underneath the fabric. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, and you found yourself matching it as your eyes drank in the sight of him, your heart beginning to race.

You’d never slept in the same room as the slightly older Jedi—not since you’d been a youngling, not since you’d both moved out of bunk beds and the hush of whatever Master had been assigned the night shift, not since you'd both grown into adulthood even as you'd retained your status as Padawan learners. But now… Now Obi-Wan was more than just an adult—more than just a man. Now he was responsible for a Padawan. Now he was a Jedi Knight, a Jedi Master.

Such was the topic that had kept you two up late talking last night. Eventually, you’d suggested continuing in the morning, and Obi-Wan—despite both of you knowing that you had your own room to retire to and could be back in the morning—insisted he sleep on the couch while you took the bed. 

At the thought of his mundane-yet-gallant-all-the-same offer, you smiled and took a deep breath in through your nose… and caught the undeniable scent that was Obi-Wan: fresh, clean, and somehow woodsy even on this city planet. 

It smelled like home to you. 

And then he stirred, limbs stretching slightly, and your cheeks warmed like you’d been caught, as if you’d written your thoughts in the air and on the sheets, as if he would know exactly what you were thinking the moment he opened his eyes, or the moment he laid down in his bed the next night. 

Little did you know that as his own eyes opened to see you—in his bed, snuggled into the sheets and watching him awaken—he was terrified that his own feelings for you had already been ingrained into the mattress, the pillows, and the blankets after only a few short weeks of sleeping in it, of lying awake at night and thinking of you, unable to stop himself. And right then he wondered if—he hoped that—his resting place would smell like you when he occupied it once again later that night. 

But then he locked eyes with you, and words spilled from his mouth: words he wished he could always say first, words he wished he could always say to you.

“Good morning.”

A smile lit up your face. “Good morning.”

Obi-Wan stretched his legs out before sitting up with a groan. Internally, you winced, immediately shifting from your obviously-comfy position to sitting cross-legged in his bed. Elbows on your knees, you stared at him as he wiped the sleep from his eyes. The movement made him look much younger, much less mature, and much less burdened than he really was. 

“You’re staring at me,” Obi-Wan said with a chuckle and a hint of something deeper in his tone.

“I’m thinking,” you countered as Obi-Wan met your gaze.

“Come now, do enlighten me,” he invited with a smile, leaning back against the cushion, blanket still adorning his lower half. He relaxed into the couch, his body taking up as much of its space as his presence always took up in any room he entered. Or at least that was how it felt to you: even when he was across a room, a myriad of bodies physically separating you, still his aura reached out to you, called to you, sang to you, and lingered around the beat of your heart. “What’s on that mind of yours?”

You took a deep breath, opened your mouth, and then closed it again, giving your head a slight shake. “It’s early.” You glanced at his kitchen. “Do you have tea?”

Obi-Wan gave you a smirk. “You do know whom you’re talking to? My, it must be early, indeed.”

You rolled your eyes and stood for one moment, suddenly feeling the coolness in the air seeping through the shorts and t-shirt Obi-Wan had let you borrow. In one second, your cheeks had warmed, and in the next you were pulling on your robe and tying it around your waist. 

You made the tea, Obi-Wan remaining in his seat and giving you quiet instructions on where the necessary components were located, but he gave you no further details—you’d made his tea far more times than either of you could count. The process was soothing for both of you: a routine of familiarity and of love. More than that, this morning it allowed you time to gather your thoughts, memories of yesterday’s events and of last night’s conversation swirling in your head. 

After you’d placed his mug in his hand—fingers brushing just so—and sat down facing him on the edge of the bed, you and Obi-Wan blew gently on your hot beverages and then took a sip in unison, eyes locking and a grin threatening both your abilities to keep the liquid in your mouths. But you managed, and a few sips later Obi-Wan was giving you a look that said Out with it. 

You sighed and smiled at him. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Rather the same as I did last night,” Obi-Wan replied before taking a sip, letting out a soft breath in satisfaction once he’d swallowed. Then, he smiled at you. “Although not a panacea—though it can cure some ills, in my experience—the tea is helping.”

“I’m glad,” you said, watching him, the heat from the mug giving comfort to your hands and heart as Obi-Wan’s face turned more serious.

He said your name, and he sounded so weary, so small, so scared. The silence in between that utterance and his next words felt like a plea, but for what, you weren’t sure. 

“I rather doubt I can do this,” Obi-Wan began slowly and quietly. You allowed silence to fill the air for a few moments. His eyes shifted down to watch his tea. “I’m not Qui-Gon.”

The confession was not unexpected, but its weight pressed on you like a block of duracrete. And still, you welcomed the silence into the moment like a long lost friend, let it create a space, a bubble, a nest for Obi-Wan’s woes to fill, for him to let out all he was feeling. 

But instead of doing so, he grew mute, eyes becoming unfocused, mind traveling somewhere you couldn’t follow, could only experience by watching as his face played out every scene.

Let him process, you thought, eyes kind and tender on your friend until one minute later saw him looking at you once more. 

You smiled gently, and he apologized, “I’m sorry,” before running a hand over his face. 

“It’s alright,” you replied, pouring truth into every syllable. “There’s a lot to think about. So much… has happened.” You paused. “Why do you doubt you can do this?”

Obi-Wan let out a short, humorless laugh; placed his mug down on the coffee table; and placed his elbows on his knees. “One month ago, I was a Padawan, a learner. Now I’m a Master—a teacher—with a Padawan of my own who may be the Chosen One. A prophecy whose meaning no one can truly decipher or say for certain. And on top of that, Anakin is…” He trailed off, running his hand over his face once more before pinching the bridge of his nose and letting out a sigh. “Well,” he continued, removing the hand, “to say he is a handful would be an understatement of epic proportions.”

But although tiredness and frustration still lingered in his eyes, you smiled, for there was something else in his expression: something soft that spoke of a growing fondness. And then the room grew silent again, and the gears in your mind turned over the conversation like meat over a fire, warming all angles with your consideration. 

And then it clicked.

“So,” you started off gently, “what you’re saying is you don’t feel like a Master?”

“Another understatement, dear friend.” Obi-Wan looked at you, curiosity surrounding him and transposing onto his features in furrowed brows and a small smile. “I can tell you have something in mind. Do tell.”

A grin broke out on your face as he leaned back once more, crossing his arms. It melted into a soft stare as you shifted your weight, preparing yourself. 

“If you don’t feel like a Master, embody one anyway.”

He stared at you. “You have truly lost me.”

You shook your head. “What I mean is—Obi-Wan, you still look like a Padawan.” The older Jedi’s face scrunched up, and you did your best to remove the urge to reach out to him, to smooth out the muscles creating hills and valleys on his skin. Instead, you asked with a half-laugh, “Why are you making that face?”

“I simply don’t see what something like my appearance has to do with the situation at hand.”

A sigh automatically left your mouth. “It has everything to do with it. You have looked the same for over ten years now: clean shaven, short hair. And why is that?”

Obi-Wan narrowed his eyes. “Because I was a Padawan.” His eyes drifted to where your own Padawan braid rested on your right shoulder. “It is tradition to show the braid as a symbol of that rank.”

“Exactly,” you said, a smile lifting the corners of your mouth. “But you’re not a Padawan anymore, Obi-Wan. You’re a Knight—and you’re not just a Knight: you’re a Master now. You’ve skipped a step, and your appearance hasn’t changed at all. If—”

“If you haven’t noticed, I haven’t had time to focus on the way I look,” Obi-Wan said defensively, his posture going rigid. 

Your gaze softened further, as well as your voice. “I know, Obi-Wan; I know. I know it hasn’t been easy, and you’ve had a lot on your plate. I’m trying to help.”

Obi-Wan let his posture relax, the pressure of his gaze on you lightening up as well. “I know that; I do apologize.”

The tense moment left the air as if sucked by a vacuum, and you smiled. “Thank you. As I was saying, you look the same as you looked when you were a Padawan. And now you’re a Master, with the freedom to look how you want to look, how you envision Master Kenobi to look. And I know you don’t feel like him, but… embody him anyway. You’re not putting on airs; that’s who you are.” 

You wrung your hands together, heart pounding, taking a deep breath to give your lungs the air they were yelling for. Obi-Wan’s patience filled the room like a fluffy cloud, and it mixed with something sweet, something that matched the blue of his eyes that were locked onto you, hanging on your every word as if they were the most important he had ever, and would ever, hear in his life. 

And so you gave him the words he needed to hear the most.

“And you’re doing a great job, Obi-Wan. So just… Just help yourself become the best Master you can be. You. Not Qui-Gon, not Master Yoda, not Master Windu, not any other Jedi. You.”

Obi-Wan continued to regard you, eyes at once very much present with you and very far away. Eventually, he said one word, his mouth forming it as if it were foreign to him, as if he’d never considered it before: “Me.”

You nodded and closed your eyes for a moment. When you looked at him again, you gave him a bright smile. “You.” You shifted slightly. “What does Master Obi-Wan Kenobi look like?”

It was silent for a few moments, Obi-Wan’s gaze steadily on you. 

An amused smirk suddenly lit up his face. “I could always emulate other Masters—you know, as a trial and error process to see what I like. Maybe Master Fisto. What would you say to me dyeing my hair green? Is it my shade?”

You let out a snort but managed a half-stern look. “You’re very funny, Obi-Wan.”

“Oh, I can be a funny Master.” He brought one hand to his chin in a mock-thinking gesture. “I’ll just need to buy some clown makeup and red hair dye.”

Instantly you stood and crossed over to him, Obi-Wan automatically shifting to make room for you on the small couch. As his body heat hit your skin, you put as much conviction, kindness, and love into your next words: “Stop beating around the bush; it’s me.”

His demeanor shifted immediately. Once again, he looked so very small as he gazed down at his hands that were folded in his lap. “I don’t know who Master Kenobi is.”

“Well, let’s keep it simple, then. Let’s start by growing out that hair of yours a little. Have you ever not shaved your facial hair?”

He chuckled as he looked up at you. “No, I’ve always found a way, even on missions. I’m very resourceful, you know.” Obi-Wan watched you as you shook your head and rolled your eyes, your grin ruining the illusion of annoyance. “A beard, huh?”

You nodded. “A beard.”

He seemed to mull it over for a few moments. “You think I’d look good with a beard? Older, more sophisticated?” 

You grinned and shook your head again, completely unaware that that was the exact reaction Obi-Wan had been going for, the one that made him want to reach out and take you in his arms—but he knew he never would.

“Well, we’ll never know for sure until you grow one.”

Chapter Text

“You know Anakin,” Obi-Wan said as he paced your room in slow, languid movements that juxtaposed the tension in his voice, the stiffness of his back, and the tight way his arms crossed over his chest. Still, his hair caught the early morning light that streamed through the window and cast everything—cast Obi-Wan—golden, in complete defiance of the Jedi Master’s determination to be, well, moody. “He’s arrogant, and he’s reckless, and he often does not heed my direction.”

Exasperation poured out of him, but as he met your gaze, his mask of moodiness and irritation momentarily lifted, eyes screaming worry—before he turned around and walked away from your seated position at the end of your bed. 

He’d knocked on your door that morning—any earlier and he would’ve interrupted your meditation—and had said five simple words: May I speak with you? 

Those five words strung together in a sentence—said to anyone else, they would have laid flat, like ink on a page. But to you—to him—they meant a moment and forever, a place you couldn’t see but had a feeling that if you reached toward him, you could suddenly grasp it, feel it. 

They were a promise come alive. 

And you’d responded with your own promise: an open door and room for him to step past you and enter.

Since then, he’d been pacing just like this, one hand occasionally lifting from its tucked position at his side to run through his beard or over his face.

He’s not ready, Obi-Wan had said first off—and had started his pacing. 

Anakin was set to leave for Naboo with Senator Amidala later today—while Obi-Wan would embark on a mission of his own. For the past ten years, it had been Obi-Wan and Anakin, Master and Padawan. Now, both teacher and student would be put to the test.

You didn’t disagree with Obi-Wan, but he wasn’t here to make a case for his Padawan to not be given this mission. Nothing could be done now; the Council’s word was final. 

No, this conversation, this space, here and now, where he existed with you, wasn’t for Anakin or anyone else: it was for him. In your room—in your presence—and in the freedom and safety of the morning, he ceased to be just a Jedi Master, ceased to be just the Jedi Knight training the Chosen One, ceased to be the first Jedi to kill a Sith in over a millennia. In here, he was a friend venting to a friend. He needed a comrade; he needed a vote of confidence—in him, and in his apprentice. 

And so you’d been listening, and thinking, and mulling over his every word. And with his last—He’s arrogant, and he’s reckless, and he often does not heed my direction.—it fell into place. 

“And you’re worried the only direction he’ll be hearing now is his own?” you asked him, shifting out of your cross-legged position to lower one leg to the floor, stretching it out.

“Precisely,” Obi-Wan replied as he once again turned to face you. “Not that he ever listens to a voice other than his own in the first place.”

You shook your head. “Obi-Wan, that’s not true.” The Jedi Master stopped in his tracks and gave you a look that said both I doubt it and Explain yourself. “You two have been around each other pretty much every day for the past ten years. You’re in his head, whether or not he knows it.”

That one hand reached up to thread through his facial hair, but this time, it didn’t retreat back to its crossed position. And for the first time since he’d walked in, it was he who was silent and patient, anticipating what would come next. 

The lack of his pacing gave you leave to rest back on your hands. “Remember that mission on Kashyyyk? With the pirates who captured the Wookiee Chieftain?”

He nodded slowly, hand bobbing up and down with his chin. “Of course. Anakin was… giving me a hard time to say the least.”

You chuckled. “That he was. And he wasn’t listening to you back then, either. But remember, you realized it was best to lead him by example, that giving him direction wasn’t getting you—or him—or me, for that matter—anywhere that day.” You paused, and the ensuing silence, like another promise, lifted your lips in a smile. “And isn’t that most of what you’ve done as a Master? Like I said, he’s been with you almost every day for ten years. He’s seen you; he knows you. So trust me when I say that you have rubbed off on your apprentice, Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan’s fingers ceased their movements, as a smile lifted his lips: the galaxy’s grandest, most extravagant, most beautiful prize—all for you, in your tiny bed chambers, in this little moment. It—he—stole your breath, and for a moment… you drowned in its beauty and affection. 

The spell broke as Obi-Wan maneuvered himself to sit on the ground in front of you, and you had to forcibly stop yourself from gasping like your lungs were as void of air as the vacuum of space.

His back rested against the wall, one leg crossed over the other and arms once again crossed over his chest. “Point taken,” he conceded with a nod.

You snorted. “That’s it?” 

Obi-Wan smirked. “Doubting your abilities to soothe this old man’s mind?”

Heat flooded your chest at his words, and you grasped at any coherent phrase you could. “It’s not that; I’m doubting that you, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Master of not only an unruly Padawan but of clever banter and equivocation, have nothing more to say on the matter.”

Obi-Wan laughed, and the sound lifted you so that you were sitting upright, smiling with him. “It is unlike me; I’ll grant you that,” he said.

But then—eyes meeting eyes, his expression grew softer, more hesitant, as a lovely thought sprang up as a flower within his mind, its seed finding good soil upon his lips. As he formed the words, your heart sped up as if it were preparing you to run.

“I can’t explain it,” Obi-Wan nearly whispered, mindlessly worrying his bottom lip, a slight furrow growing between his brows. “Other than…” He sighed, a long inhale, a long exhale—but not in annoyance, or frustration, or impatience. No, his sigh filled the room with the beautiful fragrance of that flower within his mind, and you found yourself leaning forward slightly, gripped with the urge to taste it on his lips. 

But then his lips formed the words—“You always seem to know what to say.”—and you suddenly remembered: who you were and who he was. 

Two Jedi Knights. Dedicated to the Jedi Order, to something bigger than yourselves. Dedicated to the Force. 

Never to be dedicated to one another.

And he remembered, too. 

After painting on his face a shit-eating grin that was second only to his Padawan’s, Obi-Wan said, “And you know, really, I think your talents for wisdom and advice giving are wasted on just me.”

“Obi-Wan,” you warned, crossing your arms.

He continued nonchalantly, grin growing as your defiance rose up like a wave. “I would simply be remiss if I neglected to tell you that—”

“Don’t—”

“—you would make a wonderful Master, yourself.”

A light groan came from your mouth as you scrunched up your face. Ever since Obi-Wan had settled into being a Master, you’d heard that line more times than you could count. Even Anakin had caught on. 

But this particular answer had always been reserved for Obi-Wan’s ears alone: “I have enough on my plate with being part of the village it’s taking to raise Anakin.”

Obi-Wan chuckled. “You’ll certainly never hear me say that he’s not a handful.” He tilted his head. “But he has certainly looked up to you.”

“Anakin hasn’t looked up to either of us in a long time,” you retorted. 

“That is… unfortunately true,” he admitted with a grin. “But you get my meaning. You’ve been like a…” Obi-Wan paused, scrutinizing you, his gaze light, kind. “Like an older sister to him.”

You snorted. “If you’re an old man, then I’m a terribly old sister.”

“A terribly old sister who is still keeping her mouth shut about that incident on Ord Mantell.”

“I wouldn’t call it an incident.”

“Ah, of course, forgive me. I forgot you’d dubbed it an—”

The two of you spoke in unison: “unfortunate happenstance.” Obi-Wan pretended to glare at you, and you gave him your best grin. 

“I thought you were supposed to be on my side,” Obi-Wan said jokingly.

You replied conspiratorially, “Oh, trust me, I am.”

The moment grew quiet, the smiling atmosphere morphing into the beating of hearts, into the gazing of eyes.

Obi-Wan touched his beard. As his fingers ran through the reddish hair, you wished they were your own and had to stop yourself from reaching forward.

“I know,” Obi-Wan said, softly smiling. “That’s why I’m here. You’ve never given me reason to doubt that. Or to doubt your advice.”

With your heart in your throat and the desert making a home in your mouth, it took a moment for you to speak. “Ten years, and you’ve still got that beard of yours.”

Your lighthearted reply was a hiding place, as well as a ladder to help you climb out of the conversational hole you’d dug together. A hole that lived within both of you and across any time and space you shared. A hole filled with things better left unsaid. A hole filled with things that never would be said. 

But it took two to climb that ladder—you knew, having climbed it with him so many times. Two to banter and equivocate and jest until your hearts were lightened and you could almost pretend you were content with his friendship, that you didn’t want more, didn’t want to touch him, to hold him close, to press your lips against his.

But instead of climbing, Obi-Wan’s only reply was a humming agreement. It sent your heart rate ever faster, panic and longing flooding your bloodstream and pooling there so you couldn’t move. There was only him. Him and his eyes, and his fingers that hadn’t stopped raking through his beard.

Time passed, the longing only growing more unbearable, and you searched your brain for anything to say, anything to lighten the mood, to flip the switch and let reality shine through.

You blurted out, “I just never expected you to grow a mullet.”

For five solid seconds, you were sure your effort had been in vain, that somehow he’d grown oblivious to this game you’d both played for countless years. But relief filled you with a gulp of air when he smirked, all playful banter, and spoke, “I specifically remember you telling me to start with the beard. I simply took artistic license with the rest. Besides… it’s a classic.”

Every breath came easier now, the expanse of the hole now far beneath you and you safe, far from the ledge. “It’s certainly something, all right.”

Obi-Wan pretended to scoff. “Excuse me, my dear, but you’re the one who told me to embody Master Kenobi. I was simply following your advice.”

You snorted and shook your head.

“Or does the mullet make you want to go back and change that day?”

You laughed, your gaze shifting to his hair, but your mind traveled to his relationship with Anakin: how good of a Master Obi-Wan had been to him these ten years. How honest and patient, how firm and caring. No one else could have been Anakin’s Master like Obi-Wan had been. And no one else could’ve done it as well as him. 

And if the beard—and mullet—had something to do with Obi-Wan becoming the best him he could be… There’s no way you’d ever take back that advice. 

Besides, the mullet wasn’t unsightly, not in the least. Certainly not in the way it curled around his neck, or the way it swept back from and framed his face, or the way his hair parted down the middle during a heated sparring session. 

As you met Obi-Wan’s eyes once more, you found in them a shyness that threatened to steal your breath. 

And within yours, he found… everything he’d always found there for the past thirty five years: you. All of you. And he still couldn’t believe it. 

And then your answer was on your tongue: “No.” And a smile was on your lips. “I suppose it’s not that bad.”

Oh, but you couldn’t hide the truth from him, much like he couldn’t hide from you. But it wasn’t that either of you wanted to keep the truth from the other—the other was too adept at detecting it anyway. No. It was that it was freely given and laid out in plain letters in every glance, every touch, every word, every thought. 

It was there for the acting on; it always had been. Even on the day you’d told him to grow the beard that still resided on his face. He’d wanted to kiss you so badly that day, had wanted to take you in his arms to say both Thank you and I need you. And every day that his facial hair had grown, he’d wondered more and more how it would feel for your fingers to run through it, how you’d react to its gentle touch upon your skin as lips met lips. 

So, yes. The truth was there; your feelings were there. But the truth was not only your feelings: it was their implications, your shared duty, your commitments, your family. 

So, while your loving regard for his hair—for him—was clear, and while Obi-Wan took this moment to appreciate your admiration, the weight of the full truth held him back from acting on a smaller part of it—that nevertheless took up a large part of his heart and his mind. 

As your next words came, softer than before (“Do you think it helped?”), Obi-Wan was simply grateful to find that same self-restraint in you.

He doubted he could help himself if you were to speak that softly to him while letting go of it all.

Unable to act on his deepest feelings, there was only one thing left to do: jest—“The mullet? Of course. A powerful hairstyle, this one. I think the Force enjoys it, too; I’ve been feeling especially attuned to it ever since I got it.”—and watch that reaction he loved to see.

With a smile and a shake of your head, you admonished, “Obi-Wan.”

He smiled back at you and took a moment to think. “Your advice did help. Truly. Looking back, I can see how I was able to let go of Padawan Obi-Wan and become Master Kenobi. And, of course, it took more than a haircut—it took a village, some might say—but yes, it helped.”

You nodded and released a breath. “Good. I’m glad. And you are a wonderful Master, Obi-Wan. And Anakin is taking all your lessons with him. It’s up to him to use them, but… He has them. And he trusts you.”

It was his turn to have his breath stolen.

Chapter Text

You woke up to silence—heavy all around you—and to the sight of Obi-Wan’s face pressed into the pillow that supported his head. Mouth slightly open, brows furrowed, he let out long puffs of air that tickled your hand, where it was holding—and was being held by—his: bodies so close but only allowing this small touch, this small intimacy, even as you both had let go of all your faculty and had fallen asleep and dreamed in the same bed.

You wished it had all been a dream: everything from the past few days—everything from the past three years. Wished that even this very moment, as you laid beside the man you loved, was a figment of your imagination, a bacta tank-induced hallucination of both your worst nightmares and your greatest desires. 

Never had you been closer to him… but never had you been farther from everything—and everyone—else in your life that had been good. 

And never had you felt so far away from your best friend. Obi-Wan had barely spoken to you since the two of you had left Polis Massa, and you, him. Even your climbing into bed last night had been wordless, eyes barely meeting each other’s as you’d pulled back the sheets and slid underneath, so careful to not touch each other until the need to connect had been so great to cause both of you to reach out, to find the other’s hand and give a gentle squeeze. 

But now, as he slept, you could finally look at him. Now you could take him in freely, assess the damage done. 

Both of you were still wearing your tunics and leggings from the day before, bodies having been too tired to clean yourself up before letting sleep take over. Yours bore a black mark on the shoulder where a member of the Coruscant guard had managed to land a shot, the wound now only sore where it had once burned: its healing a courtesy of Master Yoda. Obi-Wan’s, on the other hand, looked like they had been licked by flames.

But it wasn’t only his clothing that had been singed by the molten planet Mustafar. 

On the side of his face not pressed into the pillow, Obi-Wan’s usually immaculate beard of golden hair was blackened at the edges, and looked as if lava had scooped a hole out of it.

A pitiful whimper bubbled past your lips. Oh, my love, you mouthed, desperate to reach up and cup his cheek in your palm, to will the regrowth of the facial hair that had helped him discover who he was. That had given him the confidence to be a Master to Anakin, to the Chosen One. That had helped him to find and shape who he was. That had been one of your proudest achievements, silly as it might sound to anyone else. 

The great General Obi-Wan Kenobi—but he was more than that: he was the person you always wanted to stand beside no matter what, the person you hoped wanted to stand beside you—had come to you, and he’d listened to you, and he’d trusted your advice, and he’d kept coming back for those small moments with you year after year after year… And now here you were again, together, much like on that morning you’d woken up in his bed, navigating a new change together.

Gaze oh so light and loving on his lips, you wanted nothing more than to hear his voice, gruff with sleep but its tone light with affection for you. Instead, you knew it would be as heavy as the silence, and filled with horror and pain.

As if he could read your thoughts, Obi-Wan inhaled sharply, his blue eyes flying open and flitting around wildly until they landed on yours. With a squeeze of your hand, Obi-Wan let out a still sharp—but much steadier—exhale, before taking a deeper breath in. You squeezed right back, slightly scooting your body closer to him, to the heat he gave off: pleasant even in the growing warmth of the Tatooine morning. 

And the two of you laid there, simply breathing with each other and holding onto each other. For how long, you weren’t sure, but it was cut much too short with the sound of a cry from a corner of the room.

You closed your eyes, tears welling in them: hot and uncomfortable as they built up underneath your eyelids before sneaking through and trailing down your cheek. You didn’t see Obi-Wan mouth the words you just had—Oh, my love—but you heard the bed creak slightly, and you felt as fingers brushed the wetness from your face. 

How you wanted to press your lips to them, to hear him sigh his appreciation.

But then the bed creaked again, and the mattress shifted as one hand left your face and the other slipped out of yours. And you kept your eyes shut tight, afraid of him seeing the agony brought by the loss of his touch. 

You heard and felt through the Force Obi-Wan taking care of Luke, first cleaning him and then feeding him, your eyes only opening in surprise when Obi-Wan gave a gentle “There, there.”

Luke was cradled in Obi-Wan’s strong arms: so small but somehow making the man who held him appear small, too. Like Obi-Wan wasn’t just carrying the weight of a newborn baby; like in the weight of that baby was the heaviness of years, the gravity of a shifting purpose, the fate of the entire galaxy. 

It had been over four thousand years since the Republic—since the Jedi—had fought in a war. That period of peace had ended with the Clone Wars. But it had been even longer since the Sith had ruled. 

And Obi-Wan shrunk under the weight of the truth: the time of the Jedi was over.

Now… Now reigned the Sith. Made possible by the father of that sweet baby. By the Chosen One. By the most powerful Jedi that had ever lived. By the man who’d felt called to save people. By the best friend Obi-Wan had ever had.

“No,” Obi-Wan whispered, and you flinched at its suddenness, sitting up as Obi-Wan laid Luke back down. 

His voice had cut like a knife though the thick silence, but the air became dense with it once again as Obi-Wan stared down at Luke and as you stared up at Obi-Wan. No, he’d said, but no to what? 

You longed to ask, but never had words felt so unnatural, so difficult, between the two of you. You scrunched your eyes shut, afraid of what you would see on his face—afraid that after losing everything else, you’d lose him, too. But above all the fear was a greater need, a greater calling.

“Obi-Wan–” His ear inclined toward you, and you abruptly paused, heart pounding. “Obi-Wan…” But the rest—Please talk to me.—didn’t come.

His lips lifted slightly—but then drew downward in a frown. And it was then that he finally met your eyes, the blue in his like an ocean of freshwater on this desert planet. And suddenly you could imagine drinking them in every single day, finding there solace and peace and the quenching of a thirst buried within your soul, one that had gnawed at you for years, without hope of ever being satisfied. 

And as he walked toward you, as his weight hit the bed you’d shared, so close but not where you wanted, not touching you, but with everything you’d dreamed of right at your fingertips, so impossibly possible—all it did was hurt. Because hurt was what made this moment and all it could offer possible. 

But even as he frowned, Obi-Wan’s eyes were so kind on you—at least that hadn’t changed.

“Your thoughts are loud this morning, my dear,” Obi-Wan said with a sad smile. 

Your beating heart did its best to steal your words away. “I…” You paused. What could you say? That it was hard for you to open your mouth to speak? To be near him and to not hold him? That it was hard because you loved him? Because he’d lost the person he loved the most?

“No.”

There was that word again, exiting his mouth so confusingly, so frustratingly. But still, all you could do was repeat it back to him, barely framing it as a question: “No?”

Obi-Wan smiled a full smile then, albeit still full of sorrow. “No.”

“No… to what?”

“The first no: you think that Anakin was the best friend I’ve ever had. But no…” Obi-Wan’s hand that rested on the bed drew closer to yours. “Oh, no. He– He was—He was my brother, but…” He looked down and watched as his hand crept closer and closer, and you wondered if he could feel in his own chest how fast your heart beat for him. “But you’re,” he said, as fingertips touched fingertips, his palm sliding on the back of your hand until his fingers were curling underneath your thumb, holding you, “my best friend.”

You let out an unexpected breath of relief, and Obi-Wan squeezed your hand as his eyes once again met yours. Breathless, completely under his spell, the ladder of former years—the one that had led you out of the abyss so many times before—forgotten as you sunk down into that hole with him, you whispered, “And… the second no?”

Obi-Wan swallowed, his other hand moving so fast you almost jolted, but his skin as it cupped your cheek was soft and hesitant. Your unoccupied extremity anchored itself—anchored you—against this new touch, the pleasant warmth of his skin revealing the pulse in his wrist: insistent in its desire. 

“The second no… I confess, I did; I lo–” He paused abruptly, and you let the silence build between you. Not thick and heavy like dread this time; no, light and soft like a promise. 

Obi-Wan shook his head slightly and further pressed his skin into yours, finding an anchor in you just as you did in him. “I loved Anakin,” he said, drawing deep breaths in and out of his nose. “But,” he continued, voice cracking at the edges, “it is you.” 

And then, as if he couldn’t help himself, as if he was terrified of what would come next, as if the closer he got to you, the braver he became—Obi-Wan inclined his head toward you, slowly, until your foreheads touched, both of your eyes closing at the pressure. 

His words came out as a rushed whisper that stole your breath. “It is you, darling; it is you whom I love the most. It is you I always want to come back to. It is you I always want to laugh with, to cry with. It is you I always want to talk to. It is you I want beside me. It is you that I have always wanted beside me.” Thumb giving a soft stroke to your cheek, he whispered, “It’s you. It’s you. I love you.”

A terrible bubble of laughter built up in your abdomen and left your mouth in a choked whimper, and because being close to him made you brave, too, you threw your arms around his neck, pressing him as close to you as possible. 

In that position, practically clinging to him for dear life, hands buried in his hair, you finally spoke aloud the three words that had dwelled inside of you for far too long: “I love you.” And you really laughed, then, the joy of the moment filling you despite everything outside of it. “I love you.”

Obi-Wan’s arms wrapped around your middle and pulled you even nearer, burying his head in the crook of your neck and inhaling, as if the feel of you wasn’t enough, as if he wanted you to take over all his senses. As the warmth of his exhale hit your skin, you sighed and gave soft strokes to the back of his head.

The two of you clung to each other, allowing time for the beating of your hearts to become one. Finally allowing them the closeness they’d always desired. And as their rhythms matched, glorious light split cracks through the darkness to reach the very bottom of the abyss of love you’d finally fallen down—together. 

Needing desperately to see his eyes, you slowly pulled away, taking a deep breath. As your gazes met, Obi-Wan let out a light chuckle and said, “That certainly was a long time coming,” before placing his hand on your cheek once more. 

Tentatively, you did the same with a whispered, “Thirty odd years later.” Obi-Wan’s hair was soft yet bristle, and you ran your fingers through it, wondering at the way his eyes fluttered shut and his cheek pressed into your touch. It gave you confidence to reach your other hand up to his opposite cheek—but your hands stilled at the coarse feel of where his beard had been burned away. 

Obi-Wan opened his eyes, going still, too. “What is it?”

But words wouldn’t come—only the memory of when you’d slept in his bed at the Temple, when you’d given him the advice to grow the beard; the memory of when he’d come to you pacing but had ended up sitting on your floor and confessing that your advice had helped him to be a Master to Anakin. Never in thirteen years had you seen him without it.

It was a symbol of Master Obi-Wan Kenobi. First a Master to a Padawan, and then a Master on the Jedi Council. 

But his Padawan was gone.

And so was the Jedi Council. 

And so was the Jedi Order itself.

Your thoughts nestled in your throat like a traffic jam—each one wanting so desperately to move, to be free, but held back by acute pain and sorrow and grief. Unable to speak, you brought one of his hands gently up to his cheek to feel the deformation for himself. 

Obi-Wan’s eyes shut tight, and he gripped your hand, placing it over his heart instead. When he opened them, resolution poured out and filled the space between you: thick and watery, like bacta. 

“Another ending,” he said, brushing a thumb across your cheek before standing up, hands pressing on his knees dramatically, purposefully. And then he walked through the door of the hotel room without a word, leaving you to wonder what he was doing and if you should follow him. 

That man. So often he was talk, talk, talk, but with you, there was a quietness, a stillness to him. Words weren’t everything when you knew the other person as well as you knew yourself. 

The closed door told you to wait for him. His words ringing in your ears—I love you—told you he’d walk through the door again, would come back to you like he always had.

You took the moment to check on Luke—eyes closed, looking as peaceful in sleep as you’d ever seen any child of any species—and were in the middle of adjusting his blanket when the door opened again. Obi-Wan held a razor and shaving cream, and he gave you a small smile before walking to the small fresher. There, he simply stared at himself, one hand moving like a ghost over his singed hair. 

“What are you doing?” you asked.

He met your eyes through the mirror, the memory of humor flitting through the air between you. “I’m shaving.”

You wanted to smile at him—wanted to smile at him forever, to forget everything else you’d been but the object of Obi-Wan’s affections, to forget everyone else but the man before you, to pretend the shaving of his facial hair had no symbolic meaning, that it just was.

But it wasn’t. 

And you weren’t.

Always you had been Jedi, with all that it entailed—even now.

Your sigh sang of sorrow and patience, and you walked over to him, sliding your hand up his shoulder blade to rest on his shoulder—and you really did smile at him: small and kind and warm, even as your lips formed the word “No.”

Obi-Wan chuckled, light flickering behind his eyes. “Using my own words against me, I see.” His hand laid on top of yours. “I assume I’m going to hear an explanation.”

“Always,” you assured as you gave his shoulder a slight squeeze. “I think… I think shaving could be a mistake, Obi-Wan.”

As you let the words settle in the air between you, Obi-Wan’s eyes narrowed with curiosity. “I’m listening.”

You inhaled and exhaled deeply, centering yourself and willing the words to leave your mind and become real, but as you opened your mouth, they stalled once more, and your eyes brimmed with tears, and you wrapped your arms around Obi-Wan’s middle, clutching at his robes and burying your face in the fabric on his back, filling your every sensation with him to prove to yourself that he was real, that he was alive.

Obi-Wan draped his arms over yours; his breath shuddered. The two of you stood for a few minutes, just inhaling the other’s presence, filling yourselves with comfort and confidence and safety. 

“I’m so–” Your breath choked in your throat, and you cleared it. “I’m so glad you’re alive.” 

As the words left you, relief and guilt swirled around your body, and you closed your eyes as Obi-Wan turned around in your grasp and your face pressed against his strong chest. One hand went to your back while the other stroked your hair, moving ever closer to your chin with each pass until he was gently elevating it, your eyes automatically opening to meet his.

With his hand cupping your cheek, and as his brows furrowed in sorrow and sincerity, he said, “I am alive. And you’re alive. And I’m–” Obi-Wan’s voice broke, and he rested his forehead against yours. “I’m so glad you’re alive. I’m so glad you’re here.” Silence filled in the space between you but for a moment: a promise. “And I’d love to hear what you have to say. I always will.”

The proximity of his lips sent a tingle through yours. It cascaded through your body and caused your stomach to flip, and you let out a shaky breath, desperately urging your earlier thoughts to spring to your mind. 

Sensing the comforting silence you needed, Obi-Wan closed his eyes. You did the same and let the moment wash over you like a wave. Let Obi-Wan’s presence ground you and help you say what you needed to say.

“Don’t shave your beard,” you whispered, with a tiny huff of a laugh. How others might have viewed you—fussing about your friend’s facial hair after everything that had happened. But they didn’t know what it meant to the man standing before you.

But you knew. 

And he knew.

It was him. And so you told him exactly that.

“You said once,” you whispered, “that it helped you to let go of Padawan Obi-Wan and become Master Obi-Wan. And you–” Your voice broke, but you pushed the words out. “You are a good Master.”

Obi-Wan shook his head, pressure lifting from your own, but your hands found gentle purchase on the back of his neck, and you held him to you.

“I know. I know.” Your fingers tangled in his hair. “Don’t listen to that voice inside that tells you’re not good. You are good. And even if you don’t believe me right now, even if others say otherwise, that doesn’t change who you are. You are good.”

The pressure against your forehead increased, as if Obi-Wan wanted to burrow himself inside your mind: your mind that thought such wonderful things about him, things he didn’t believe he deserved.  

“And not only are you good, but you are still a Master. Obi-Wan, you’re protecting the galaxy again. It’s what you do. You are a protector and a guide, because that little boy– That little boy sleeping soundly in there is hope. He and his sister are hope that light will again overcome the darkness. You are still Master Obi-Wan Kenobi. And it helped you before.”

Obi-Wan shifted, and his voice was so small. “That was to be Anakin’s Master. I’m not…” He let out a shuddering breath. “I’m not his Master anymore.”

The urge to press your lips to his, to fill them with the sweetness of your love, with who he was but couldn’t see, was great, but you had to get this out. “No. I’m so sorry, my love; you’re not. But you wearing this beard”—your hands came slowly around to caress it, and Obi-Wan sighed—“was never about Anakin. It was about who you are.” 

The momentary silenced filled the air with the weight of a million unsaid things, a million untouched touches, a million unkissed kisses. 

“I love the beard,” you said with a smile. “And I would hate to see it go.” A warm, deep chuckle came from Obi-Wan’s chest. “But… It’s about you. And if you think that removing it is who you are here, then I support that. If a beard doesn’t fit the Obi-Wan Kenobi who is spending his life in exile to protect the hope of the entire galaxy–”

Suddenly, his lips met yours in a slow-motion collision of a grand, all-encompassing Finally. 

Finally, you felt his lips moving against yours, your noses brushing, his beard caressing your skin, his hands in your hair, on your waist, the side of your neck, the small of your back.

Finally, you heard Obi-Wan’s sighs, like he’d never felt such pleasure and relief in his life, like this was a dream and he needed to soak it all in, like you were the only person in the world for him. 

And finally, the black, menacing abyss morphed into a field of flowers, bright with the light of the sun, painting everything golden and new and good and lovely. 

In this moment, as Obi-Wan’s tongue licked at your bottom lip, as your mouth parted, open for him to explore—and explore he did, in soft, steady movements, like he was trying to memorize every part of you—and as you shuddered at the feeling, everything was light itself; everything was a promise; everything was you and him and this love you shared. 

Finally.

When he pulled away, your hands went to his chest, feeling the desperate beating of his heart; it brought warmth to your cheeks, a flutter to your stomach, and pride to your chest. Then your eyes met, skin crinkling with your wide smiles as your hearts sang together. 

Hand on your cheek once more, Obi-Wan said, “My darling… I have wanted to do that since…” He tilted his head, a realization of something he’d always known in his eyes. “Come to think of it, there has never been a time I haven’t wanted to do that.” 

A small gasp and a clench of your heart. A hand on a cheek and a kiss placed on a palm. “My love,” you whispered—no, promised—and then shuddered, pressing ever closer to him,  “I have always wanted you.”

Obi-Wan eyes fluttered shut and a smile lifted his cheeks—and you tasted it on him, reaching up and connecting your lips with his once again. Light itself seemed to find a home inside of your heart as his smile only grew.

You pulled away and opened your eyes, a grin planting itself on your face as you witnessed his. Your hand on his chest gave him a little poke. “You’re making it very hard to kiss you right now,” you teased.

Obi-Wan laughed, head thrown back, and it was the best sound you’d ever heard. 

He sighed as his eyes returned to you: their blue depths full of the now, full of the future, and full of hope.

“So,” you whispered, “what’ll it be?”

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, deep in thought. He opened them after a deep breath. “I think… I think it was wrong of me to think of my life in endings. Many things have ended, but you and I… and the boy… This is a new beginning.”

Your smile was at once delighted and cautious as you waited with bated breath.

 “I’m going to shave it.”

Your smile remained, but you deflated a little, closing your eyes and dropping your gaze. But his hand was there to gently lift your chin. 

His gaze was so light and soft upon your skin, and filled with so much love and warmth. With all the years you’d loved each other. With all the mornings spent showing it with words, and this morning where you finally were able to touch it, to grasp it, to freely act upon it. 

“But I’m going to let it grow anew.” Relief coursed through your body, and you pressed into him.  “Fear not, my darling. This new Master Kenobi has a beard, too.”

You didn’t waste a second in kissing him again, relishing the simple feel of him, knowing that this moment wasn’t made from hurt or pain or tragedy. No, the light that burst inside your hearts at this free giving of love was the culmination of a myriad mornings just like this one: the two of you wrapped up in the serene place that inhabited every moment of being together.

And you’d always keep coming back.