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Chapter Text

Alpha-17 is not an idealist. 

This trait has blessed him in his current ventures. 

Tatooine is a shithole. He anticipated that much, despite all the tacky praise of the Majestic Twin Suns! pasted all over the transport docking station he's currently standing in. It's hard to look unassuming as a man of his stature but he makes due, hunching in front of the poster like he gives a fuck what it says because at least it keeps his back turned from the man at the checkpoint counting incoming travelers. 

In a better world, he would've shot to the surface of the planet in a ship of his own, nosediving into the Dune Sea in a glorious feat of skill and finesse. Then again Alpha isn't a snob. He doesn't mind coming in on an untraceable refugee ship, huddling among the unwashed masses, so long as he gets off of the Imperial radar unpursued. 

The Order came out and everything changed. Most people died. Those who didn't turned to a worse kind of life, over which he was given a position of authority despite his significant disability. 

The other clones are gone. He doesn't see many familiar faces anymore outside of dark alleyways and the food kitchens his teams are sent to shut down.

The Empire swapped his white armor for black and they replaced his heavy guns with electrostaffs. He tried to get by as best he could; they approved of his work, judging him superior to his identical brethren. The opinion had it's merits. Then Alpha-17's leg prosthetics began to malfunction. 

They were never going to be very good. He's got the liver of some decommissioned CT class clone and the kidneys of another. He doesn't know what misstep cost them their lives, but their failure to keep him perfectly healthy in the aftermath of losing his legs nearly got him recycled too, so he can't say he's very impressed. When his spinal implants started to lag and the migraines disrupted his strategic planning, he noticed a sharp downtick in what meagre dignity and respect he received. 

Alpha met his makers enough times in his life to recognize the look in their eyes when you've surpassed your shelf life. There's always a threshold for their tolerance of imperfection. His aging body crossed it. The clock was ticking.

Alpha had to get out of there before he woke up strapped to a dissection table or left out on the street.

So he did. Equipped with the freedom of an early generation ARC Trooper, Alpha talked, charmed, lied, smuggled, bribed and shot his way out of the Imperial core. It did not come without a cost.

He's got new pain to file in among the old now, and has witnessed far too many unnecessary casualties to endorse any other ARCs, command class, and Alpha clones fleeing the way he did. He hopes he's the only one. They should die clean, neat deaths, like they were born to. 

To his left, an old woman is gesturing at him. She's got her Lekku tied up, bound to her montrals at the back of her head, and she's holding out her palm for the bribe he promised. 

Alpha's nearly her age. It's a shame how honest the Kaminoans were about the accelerated ageing; that's one thing he could have accepted them lying about. He shoves a fistful of credits into her hand and goes in the direction she points- out the backdoor- while she stages a distraction. Even fifty feet out under the blistering hot sun, Alpha can still hear her hysterical shouting.

Blaster fire erupts from within the docking structure. 

Alpha winces. 

Red flashes before his eyes; his hands go briefly numb, and in his mind he's bloodier than he's ever been. It's sticky and disgusting. Good soldiers follow orders, better ones die when they're asked to.

His undersuit clings to his neck. It smells sickly sweet, warm, like bacta. Heat burns his fingertips. A saw slides through the flesh of his leg like a knife through butter. He's just meat.

Then he's five minutes ahead and hunkering beside a moisture vaporator, the time between these two moments completely blank. That happens sometimes. Time turns elastic, rocketing him moments into a disorienting future. Sometimes people are angry at him. Sometimes they're dead. Right now he's clean and bloodless, his trembling hands the only evidence that anything happened at all. 

He stands up and dusts himself off. There's a lot of dust here on Tatooine, enough to make him cough and squint against the grains of it blowing in the air, the breeze too hot to be considered any kind of relief against the temperature. 

He's got a particular destination in mind. 

It is what drove him to this unfortunate corner of the galaxy in the first place; Alpha-17 needs to be fixed. His body is failing him in more ways than he can describe. Sure, he's still a functional desk jockey, could live a tolerable civilian life with some caveats, but he's no longer a soldier. What good is he to anyone if he can't fight? It is vital that he get back to how he was back before that day, when it all went wrong. 

If the Empire won't fix him, the body modification expert on Tatooine might. 

Were he not in such a dire predicament, he'd go somewhere with more reputable industries- Coruscant or Corellia would do just fine- but alas he has a recognizable face. 

The distance between inner Mos Espa and the docking station isn't far, but it's enough to make the gears in his hip grind unpleasantly with every step. He's due for maintenance. Alpha never did trust the Imperial med-droids to do a good job. 

Alpha limps into the first cantina he sees. At least he thinks it's a cantina. 

The door swings open to reveal a raucous party. The band is playing something jolly and upbeat; a bunch of Trandoshans hunker around a table and argue over their bets. In the corner sits a large, dark-furred Wookie, glaring at the lizards as they talk. Nobody spares him a second glance. 

Alpha trudges in, parting the beaded curtains and descending the stairs towards the open bar. Out of nowhere, a light pink-skinned Twi'lek with an ornate head crown steps in his way. She can't be any older than sixteen. "Sir."

Alpha pauses. His hand twitches, unsure if he should reach for his blaster or not. "Mhm."

She smiles at him, shiny and fake. There's a large bandage on her chest, clumsily tucked beneath the front of her ornate lace shirt. It's slowly turning red.

"Welcome to Sanctuary! My name is Garsa Fwip, I serve Madam Valotra. How may I be of service?" 

Alpha stares at her. "You're bleeding."

Her eye twitches. Garsa's hand flies to cover her bandage, a bit of blood smudging on her fingers. "My apologies."

He grunts and glances at the other patrons. Quite a few are watching them. "You need a doctor."

Blinking rapidly, Garsa struggles to smile. "You wouldn't happen to be one, would you?"

"No," says Alpha. "I have basic training in field medicine, but that's the-"

"That's enough," she interrupts. She grabs his arm and squeezes, looking him very pointedly in the eye. "I can pay with information."

"Credits go further."

"Not on Tatooine. Not always."

Alpha furrows his brow and thinks about it for a minute. He needs to find that body-mod doctor. He nods and gestures loosely, urging her to lead the way. 

"How polite, for a man of such few words."

He follows silently behind.

Sanctuary is more alive than he'd expected. All the people there seem intent upon something- either drinking, performing, enjoying the music, going home with someone, or getting their hands on some spice. The customers are raucous and jubilant in their enjoyment, cheering and nearly knocking one another over in their efforts to clap and hoot as the band bows to take their leave. Someone knocks a drink over. Garsa sidesteps the puddle without a second glance.

Alpha always thought deserts were inherently dead, and that all the people trawling about them were most likely just husks, all their personality and soul melted out of them years ago by the radiant suns, all their motivations and passions sloshing around while they numbly shuffled towards death. 

Perhaps that was a bit pessimistic of him. 

He sniffs and ducks his head when he enters the back room.

"So," says Garsa, hopping up onto a crate and kicking her legs over the edge. "I've got thread, a needle, alcohol. Is that enough?"

Alpha shrugs. The quality of her supplies will affect the quality of his medical care- it's her funeral. He stands in front of her and waits expectantly as she digs around in the satchel on her hip. 

"So," she hums, "What's your name, stranger?"

Alpha frowns. Small talk is completely unnecessary right now, a waste of both their time. He sidesteps it. "How'd you get this wound?"

Garsa's free hand brushes her collarbone. She sighs. "Tried to kill one of the Hutt's henchmen before I fled."

The statement means nothing to him. Alpha waits. 

"Jabba the Hutt owned my mother and I," she clarifies, glancing dubiously up at him. "A lot of men on Tatooine own people."

Alpha nods. This particular fact is not news to him.

"That's something you should know, considering you're new here."

"I know. It's none of my business." Alpha-17 cleans off his hands with the disinfectant wipe she hands him. "I have my priorities in being here."

"I see. Doesn't matter, then." snaps Garsa, her tone bitter and sharp. "I shouldn't have expected otherwise. You wouldn't know. You've never been owned ."

Alpha pauses. He looks at his hands, which shake a little bit these days, and wills them to be still. There's no way to explain the life he's lived in such short terms as ownership or birthright. How do you tell someone that you were born and made for only one purpose- to kill, and be killed? He glances up just in time to see Garsa's face fall, watching him intently. She presses a hand to her bloody chest, where gulps of crimson seep between her fingertips. Her voice softens. "Oh."

Wordlessly continuing with his work, he takes the supplies she hands him and begins to thread the needle. 

"I... I only ever heard stories, but- this armor?" She gently taps on his armored forearm. 

He swapped it out for the sturdy white pair he was supposed to recycle years ago, back before he was elected trainer of the purge troopers and was required to blend in. He thought he could get away with scrubbing off the paint and wearing only the chest piece and gauntlets, but he's been caught. Alpha casts a warning glance her way. He inhales slowly to stop the tremble of his hands.

The Jedi used to praise him for his steady hands. That was a different time. "Take off the right sleeve. I need to disinfect the area." 

She bares her upper chest to him. Alpha-17 calmly inspects the wound and cleans it properly, ignoring her hiss of pain, the way she flinches minutely. Then he begins to draw the thread through her jagged flesh.

"Ah," says Garsa. "Nothing like the sting of a needle in your skin to wake you up in the morning." 

Alpha doesn't really laugh, per se, just exhales through his nose and nods. "You get used to it."

"I'm sure you're- careful!" Garsa squeezes her eyes shut, her right hand flying out to grasp Alpha's unoccupied forearm. "Sorry… I'm sure you're experienced in that area."

"I am." He can still remember the cold kiss of the saw against his thigh. 

Metal sliding through his flesh like a knife through butter. Bright lights. Bacta- sickly sweet- I'm only meat.

He winces.

"Those prosthetics must have come at a high cost. You lost them in the war, didn't you? When you were..?"

She must be trying to distract herself from the pain. He's only a few more stitches away from being done, so Alpha tries to work faster to cut the chit-chat short. 

"Come on. I showed you mine. Were these wartime wounds?"

He frowns. "...Yes."

She slowly releases his forearm, curling her hand around the edge of the table in a white-knuckled grip. "We didn't hear much about it out here, but I know they made a whole race of men just to fight their war for them. Didn't sound like a very just Republic to me." 

Alpha hates talking politics. He scowls, pausing for a second to inhale, rubbing his left hand against his undersuit to wipe off the sweat. It's hard to focus beyond the dull throb of pain in his thigh. He swallows down his bitterness and grits out, "We were soldiers, nothing less and nothing more."

"Could you say no?"

He blinks. Alpha stops, holding the needle a half-inch from her skin. 

"To any of it? Could you drop your weapons and go home?"

"Wasn't much of a home to go back to."

"So that's a no," says Garsa. "You couldn't reject your duties."

"Because that's just what they were. Duties. You don't discard duty on a whim."

"The desire to live isn't a whim." Garsa suddenly isn't paying any attention at all to the cut on her chest or the needle dangling from it. "Honor means nothing when it's been bought."

"It was the Jedi who bought us, not the Republic."

"Who?"

Alpha doesn't bother to respond. He straightens the needle and pierces her skin for the last three stitches, making her gasp. 

"What's your name?"

He takes it as a subject change and acquiesces. "Alpha-17." 

When he chances a glance upwards, she's looking mournfully down at him with those big, sad eyes of hers. "That can't be it."

"Why couldn't it?"

"That's a product number," she says, "not a name. You're a man, not some droid."

He gestures loosely to his prosthetic legs. "Depends on who you ask." 

He drags the last loop through the flesh and closes it cleanly off, swiping once more over it with disinfectant and snipping the thread off. Garsa sighs, relieved, her lekku twitching as she slowly pulls her shirt back up. They stare at one another. 

"You must think you're very funny."

Alpha shakes his head. "I'm not."

"I owe you information."

"That's right."

"Let me guess; you're looking for body-mods." says Garsa. 

"Yes. Dr. Evazan."

She actually lurches back at the suggestion. Suddenly frantic, Garsa grasps him very forcefully by the shoulders and shakes him. He's too sturdy for it to move him much, but Alpha's hands still fly to her forearms to peel her off of him. "You can't go to Evazan!"

"What, you've got bad blood?"

"Bad blood?! He cuts people's brains from their skulls!"

He blinks. Maybe he should've gone to Corellia after all. "I wasn't aware."

"Are you-?!" Garsa cuts herself off, pinching the bridge of her nose. She exhales roughly and starts again. "If you go to him, he will cut your head in half at the nose while you're unconscious and sell your body as a drink servant." 

Alpha snorts, trying to tamp down his disgust with humor. "The Kaminoans would have liked him a lot."

She squints at him. He realizes dumbly that she must not know what in the kark he's talking about. "You mustn't go to him."

"Alright," he surrenders, holding his hands up. "I still need body-mods. These aren't going to hold up much longer."

Garsa thinks about it for a moment, clearly still hung up on his previous suggestion before an enthusiastic look blossoms on her face. She grabs one of the pens from her satchel and reaches out to take Alpha's forearm, with only minimal resistance.

"Go to Yan Wey," she says, scrawling a name and address onto his wrist. "Out near Mos Eisley. If you can't find her, check in at the cantina."

"Which one?"

"It's Mos Eisley. There's only the one."

So he does. Armed with new knowledge and wisdom in regards to Tatooine, Alpha sets off, his pockets full of notes Garsa wrote for him. She has a surprisingly wide network on what he'd considered a remote, scarcely inhabited desert world. Alpha suspects that she's going to be running this planet before he even leaves it behind. 

Halfway down an alleyway he sees what he needs; an unsuspecting and shabby old landspeeder beleaguered by rust. It may not be in the nicest condition, but neither is he. Alpha glances down one path and then the next, finding no eyes on him. He is alone here, as he is in most things, and he likes it that way. 

Alpha kneels beside the landspeeder and unlatches the engine cap, rewiring it to the best of his abilities until it does, finally, cough out a black cloud of smoke and rumble to life. 

From somewhere behind him, he hears a shout of protest.

"Hey!"

Alpha-17 throws a leg over the speeder and hits the gas. It jerks violently, his entire body lurching as it rockets forward with unexpected speed. He grabs on tight. Something in his chest unthreads itself- a loose wire tumbling forth, a smile tugging at his lips. Alpha grins and twists his grip around the handlebars. 

The desert opens up before him; two hundred kilometers of blistering orange light. Ahead, the deep red clouds of a vicious storm curdle in the air, tinting the sky a sickly green and dragging up swirls of dust. 

He presses on.

Chapter Text

Tatooine doesn't agree with him.

This much is self-evident; in fact it doesn't seem to agree with most anyone but the Tuskens and the Jawas, which seems properly in order with what he knows of the planet's history. Still, Alpha cannot help but resent, to a certain degree, the near-sunstrokes it keeps threatening him with. Nature has its ways. He wishes it didn't. 

The storm still has not settled in. It lingers ominously in the distance, waiting for an opportunity to descend- most likely whenever it'll be most inconvenient.

The sunset offers no shade as Alpha-17 leans against the hull of a storage facility, shoulder pressed tightly to the warm clay wall. Though he couldn't get a warm meal, someone was merciful enough to let him bum something else off them. He squints at the sun and moves to light the cigarra. 

His search was unsuccessful. He's been looking for hours for the so-called Yan Wey, and he'd been promptly kicked out of the cantina for daring to show his clone face.

All he can hope for is that the trail of word-of-mouth will lead back to him. A man of his features asking questions in this region is likely to garner quick attention. He settles in to wait.

Just over the edge of his shoulder, a hot bar of blue, rippling plasma ignites with the slow but foreboding hum of imminent death. He inhales sharply.

"Those things will kill you, you know." 

Word-of-mouth works exceptionally well on Tatooine, it seems.

Alpha turns just the barest inch- a bold move, considering the proximity of the deadly lightsaber to his throat. He cannot see his assailant. The emerging annoyance he feels at the sound of his voice, however, does give him away.

"It's not much of a disguise, is it? I thought they gave you lot new armor."

Alpha-17 considers his options. His head will say goodbye to his shoulders before he can reach for his blaster, and he no longer has an electrostaff to deflect a saber. In conclusion, he's fucked six ways to Kamino. He might as well leave this world with some dignity. Alpha slowly lights his cigarra and takes a long, slow drag. "The new armor's shit."

"Sorry to hear it."

The Jedi slowly encircles him, maintaining the blade's careful balance adjacent to his neck. 

The man looks positively haggard- a shadow of his former clean-cut self. It almost suits him. Alpha pushes the thought aside, staring him down.

Obi-Wan's hand does not tremble when he points the blade at his chest. At the base of Alpha's skull he can feel it- that prickling sensation, the intent buzzing of the Force slowly curling under the cap of his bone and into his brain, drawing out the vague shape of his memories. His teeth ache strangely; in a gesture of self-comfort the fingers of his free hand curl at his side.  He loathes this part- being picked apart by the very material of the universe, checked for intent and left out to dry.

He must pass the test. Something in Kenobi's face slackens, all his wrinkles moving back into place as his tension eases incrementally; he lowers the blade ever so slightly and stands before him, slumped and exhausted, breathing as heavily as if they'd just dueled. 

He doesn't ask Alpha if he's alright. Nobody ever asks.

"You're not.. like the rest of them."

"What am I lacking?" asks Alpha, knowing full well what he means. "The murderous intent?"

"Yes, that."

He taps his forehead. Silly man. I'm not like other clones, he wants to say. "We Alpha Class troopers were too headstrong to be remote-controlled." 

Kenobi sighs. "Yes, your skull is rather thick." 

For emphasis, Alpha taps solidly on his scalp and goes back to smoking. 

They are at an impasse. He eyes the saber. "You going to turn that off, or have you got some unfinished business?"

Kenobi, when he looks back up into his eyes, looks nothing short of miserable. There is a palpable sadness weighing him down like a wet blanket. To be fair, what happened to his people was unfathomable. To most, that is. Alpha knows exactly how it feels. He glances over his shoulder and then back at Alpha, squinting dubiously against the sunset. 

"Did you come alone?"

He spreads his arm out at his side. "Who would I bring to this shithole?"

"Jedi hunters."

Alpha's frown carves deeper lines into his face. "They don't associate with me anymore. I'm damaged goods."

A flash of what might be regret crosses Kenobi's face. He glances up and down from his prosthetics to his worn face. Then he grips the hilt tighter. "Have you been followed?"

"No."

"Are you certain?" 

"To the best of my knowledge. Look, General-" he bites his tongue, glaring at the Jedi. "Kenobi.. your presence here is just as concerning to me as mine is to yours. I should be asking you if you've been followed." 

Kenobi just stares at him.

"Well?"

He blinks. "What?"

Alpha gestures at him. "I'm on the run as well. Have you been followed? Are you here alone?"

The line of questioning seems to baffle Kenobi, who squints at him like he's lost his mind. He actually has the nerve to scoff. "No!" 

"You're not here alone?" Alpha asks, glancing theatrically around as if seeking pursuers.

"Alpha-17," he warns. 

"Ah. You remember my name. I'm flattered." 

"Yes, I haven't forgotten. You on the other hand seem to have forgotten I'm not a General anymore. I can't say I'm not touched." 

"None of us are what we were before."

They stare at one another for a moment. Alpha drops his burnt out cigarra. 

Kenobi extinguishes his lightsaber. Something in him seems to settle as his tight grip slowly slackens. "I'm alone."

He can relate. Alpha stubs the cigarra out with his boot and reaches out to Kenobi, who eyes it suspiciously for a moment before finally grasping and squeezing his forearm firmly. It's the most heartfelt greeting Alpha's given to anyone since he stopped working with brothers and started working with whatever dipshits enlisted as stormtroopers. They each hold on a little too long before stepping back. The warm ring of his fingers left a tingling imprint that Alpha rubs idly with his free hand, averting his eyes towards the desert. 

"So," he starts, "you live… here."

"In the Dune Sea," Kenobi confirms. "I have a house, if you need shelter."

"Is it nice?"

"Not really."

Alpha snorts. "You really know how to sell it."

"A couple years out here have left my manners with something to be desired." 

"You look properly burnt."

"Thank you."

The easy banter is so easy to fall back into. It shouldn't be; between the two of them lies a cavernous expanse of betrayal, loss, and years lost to time, but it seems that proximity has driven them both to brave the leap across it. Anything for a little banter in a boring life, he figures, watching as two Tatooinian teenagers crouch to watch a pair of bugs fight in the dirt. 

"Obi-Wan Kenobi, out late past nowhere. Who would've thought." 

"Ben," he interjects. Kenobi squints at him, clearly uncomfortable. "I go by Ben Kenobi these days."

He seems uneasy, glancing around warily and raising his hood as though afraid of being recognized. 

"You know," hums Alpha-17, "if you didn't want to be recognized, you should've changed the surname too. And changed the hair."

Kenobi scowls. "To what style, pray tell?"

"Beardless and bald, obviously." Alpha-17 grins mischievously, clearly taking the piss. "It suited you so well the last time. Utterly unrecognizable."

He scoffs. "Don't remind me." 

"I hate remembering it, too."

Through the din of the crowd, a stormtrooper's distinctive mic chatter comes slowly closer. They both stiffen. 

"That may be our cue to abscond from here." 

"I hate it when you say things like that, General."

"Ben," he corrects.

Alpha-17 rolls his eyes, dusts himself off and separates himself from the wall. "Well. You gonna show me your shithole residence or would you rather be introduced to the inside of an Imperial cell, Ben?"

The troopers mic chatter is getting closer by the second. 

"I've seen enough of those for quite some time." Kenobi grabs his wrist and drags him around the corner without another word. 

They make it down four separate alleyways, ducking beneath drying laundry and low-hanging arches as they weave through the city. Kenobi is clearly knowledgeable about the area; he must have spent years learning it inside and out. Alpha-17 keeps up as best he can, but– just when it really matters, when they are sharply turning a corner to sidestep another patrol– his leg betrays him.

Needle-sharp pain rockets up his spine and splinters through his head like a thousand tiny blades. The pain is unreal, comparable, almost, to the day he lost it. He buckles at the waist and clutches the armored thigh, breathing hard through his nose in an effort to get a hold of himself.

"Don't lag behind, now," says his companion, turning to look urgently over his shoulder at him. Shameful realization replaces what was a look of frustration as he immediately drops to his knees, crouching beside him. "Oh–"

Despite the proximity, he still doesn't touch him, keeping the barest hand's distance between them. Alpha scrambles at the nearest wall, trying to regain his footing.

"Alpha-17?" he asks, his voice suddenly soft. "Stay still. We're fine here. It's fine." 

He scowls at him, thumbing the mechanical joint in his knee. "It's not fine. I'm stuck like this." 

"Stuck like what?" asks Obi-Wan, imploringly searching his eyes. 

Alpha-17 looks away. "With this body." 

Something about the situation must spur bravery in him. Obi-Wan stands, gently squeezes Alpha-17's shoulder, and ducks to lift him under the arm. He's surprisingly sturdy for his age– always seemed more lithe or agile than strong– lifting Alpha-17 to his feet. The motion kicks up a cloud of dust around them. The cogs in his legs clank and the mechanized features whir loudly in effort. 

"Come on. Let's get you better."

Alpha-17 casts a sidelong glance at Obi-Wan, who is obscured by the strand of gray-streaked hair that's fallen into his eyes as he strains to support him. They start slowly walking forwards. 

Nobody has taken care of Alpha-17 in a very long time. 

"Where are we going?"

Obi-Wan hums. "To my Eopie. She's better at carrying people than I am." 

Alpha snorts. "You and your animals."

He beams. "She's a charmer." 

They manage to make it quite far, avoiding busy areas as they aim for a small covering under which many pack animals and speeders are stored. He can see what he assumes must be the Eopie in question, chewing away at nothing. 

He fumbles with his free hand, procuring the flimsi note from his pocket and offering it to Obi-Wan. "Met a nice lady who had a-" he huffs, inhaling sharply when his leg aches, "a recommendation… Yan Wey, she said."

Obi-Wan takes it and turns it over. "I've heard of the name. Not too bad of a reputation, considering the alternative."

He deposits Alpha-17 carefully against the wall before handing it back and untying his pet. She nibbles at his hands and lips at his hair. He shakes his head, petting her nose fondly. "Good girl. We've got a new companion with us today." 

He points at Alpha-17 as if the creature cares. The Eopie chuffs and stares blankly at him. 

Alpha only tolerates animals. He rubs a hand across his face and begrudgingly accepts the reins of the Eopie, carefully stepping forward and, with Obi-wan's assistance– and possibly that of the Force– leaps onto her back. 

Obi-Wan stands beside the Eopie looking terribly awkward for several moments, glancing between the empty space behind him and the reins in his hands. "I'll lead her," he finally says, clearing his throat. 

"How long's the walk?" 

"Perhaps an hour," he shrugs, clearly avoiding something. 

"An hour on foot." Alpha-17 pats the Eopie's neck once. "Seems to me she's rather sturdy. Can she handle another passenger?"

"I couldn't-" says Obi-Wan, his throat clicking as he awkwardly opens and closes his mouth, fishing for a fitting answer. "Oh, I wouldn't like to impose. Walking is fine."

Alpha-17 scowls at him, grabbing his shawl when he turns and yanking it harshly. "Don't pretend to be a gentleman."

"Agh-!" 

"Just get up here."

Obi-wan's thighs bracket his hips as they slowly cross the desert. Sunset is nigh, the twin suns descending over the horizon and coloring everything a dusky pink. It's lovely, actually- a pleasant reprieve from the bristling glare of relentless heat that blinded him during the afternoon. 

To the east, the green-tinted storm still looms ominously in waiting.

Chest to back, they sway as the Eopie slowly meanders towards the distant huddle of clay houses clustered away from the city. A few speeders are parked outside, and if one strains to listen, the sound of talking and quiet music echoes through the air. It's very quiet. The movement is hypnotic, repetitive, and somewhat uncomfortable; his already sore thighs ache as he tolerates the ride, grateful only for the reprieve his spine is getting.

They are awfully close like this. Obi-Wan already tried multiple times to maintain a stiff posture and formal distance, but it did not work very well. The warmth of his chest splayed against his back reminds him of years past– the gruesome day when he'd lost his legs, lying on the floor of the medical ship in a pool of his own blood, wrapped in a shock blanket, his face turned against the General's chest. He can feel his breath tickling his ear, warm against his neck.

Alpha-17 fishes for something to say to fill the silence. He leans back a little into the contact. "I'm surprised you pulled a saber on me."

Obi-Wan sighs. His breath smells like green tea. "For all I knew, you were a threat."

Alpha shakes his head ever so slightly. "No, that's not what surprises me. I would've expected that, had I expected you. It's the thing itself. What kind of Jedi in hiding keeps a saber on him?" 

The wind whistles over the sands. Obi-Wan exhales. "I buried it."

Strange. He's only ever known the Jedi as martial forces; the mental image of a weaponless Jedi is as unnatural as a defanged predator.

"I thought 'your lightsaber is your life'."

Obi-Wan nods. "It is. And I buried it."

"I'm flattered," hums Alpha, trying to lighten the mood. "That you'd dig it up for my sake. Did my presence really spread such rumors?"

The huts are getting closer by the minute. The music grows louder. He tenses again, slowly remembering what they've come here to do.

"No, none at all. This place is a hive of scum and villainy. It'd take an actual Inquisitor to inspire any such talk."

"Then how'd you know to dig it up and hunt me down?"

"It wasn't for you," he murmurs. "I recovered it three years ago. I needed it. It was urgent."

"... Why didn't you bury it again after?"

Obi-Wan hums, unsettled. His face is so close to his neck. "Because it's part of me."

The Eopie seems to know where to go, making a beeline for the hitching posts. Obi-Wan pats Alpha's thigh and leaps off. Then he turns, extending a hand to him. 

The warmth of the touch lingers on his skin. He can still feel it, and he's trying very much not to think about it.

Though defiance is tempting, Alpha-17 accepts the limitations of his condition and accepts the offered hand with a firm squeeze. 

"Let's go have a look at those prosthetics."

Alpha-17 glances up at the clay building before him. The door is covered with only a beaded curtain, and jovial conversation flows from inside. He's still holding Obi-Wan's hand. "Think they'll do a good job?"

Obi-Wan nods. "Most likely. How come?"

Alpha-17 glances down at himself– all the bits he was born with and those added later. He squeezes his hand just once more. His prosthetics ache; a gentle reminder of all that he has endured and overcome.

"Because they're part of me." 

Chapter Text

Outside the battered window, the incoming storm tints the sky a deep, foreboding violet.

"This is all I have," murmurs Obi-Wan from the next room over. "I should hope it would suffice for–"

"It doesn't," interrupts a steady, clear voice. "I'm sorry to say."

Alpha-17 sighs and rises to his feet. 

The room is small and unassuming. A silver metal table sits perched in the center, encircled by a few scattered wheeled shelves containing what appear to be medical supplies. Ragged cloth hangs over the window, a makeshift curtain that he lets fall as he steps away.

"I've got enough to spot the rest." Alpha turns the corner, holding out his coin purse. It's the most money he's ever possessed in his life. 

Yan Wey– a short, stout Kessurian with two long braids plucks the purse from his hands and pours the contents into her palm. She counts it out carefully, checking a few credits by biting them. She nods approvingly and pockets the majority of it, handing back only a third. "I do feel awful guilty for chargin', but it's not a charity I run here. The supplies alone ain't easy to come by." 

Obi-Wan is eyeing him carefully. Alpha-17 tries hard to ignore it. 

"Understandable. The trade routes leading here aren't what I'd call.. lucrative."

"You can say that again," she replies, shouldering past him into the medical area to start briskly scrubbing her hands clean. "It's tough work gettin' by out here. You passing through?"

Alpha nods, moving to sit on the table in the center of the room. Obi-Wan still lingers awkwardly in the doorframe.

"Yeah, just passing through. I–"

"That's all I need to know," she interrupts, holding up a hand. Yan seems perceptive, glancing between the two of them. "Seems y'all have some business I'm not interested in bein' privy to. Just tell me; you want a full replacement on each leg?"

"That's right."

"Mind if I repurpose sections of the old ones for upgrades?"

Alpha-17 shakes his head. "Whatever you need to get them in working condition again."

She turns to her supply cabinet. A little droid emerges, clucking and tittering as it marches right up beside her to begin gathering the tools she hands to it.

"Do you have medical experience, particularly in relation to prosthesis and the relevant treatment?" asks Obi-Wan, rather abruptly. "And are you an experienced anesthesiologist?"

Yan wipes her hands on a bacta soaked towel and squints at him. "It's Tatooine, sir. Point me to where I can go 'bout gettin' a license and I'll be sure to get right to it."

He sighs, his shoulders slumping. "Please, tell me you at least have anesthesia."

The droid points emphatically at a nearby machine of mysterious purposes. Yan throws a pair of gloves at Obi-Wan before snapping hers on. "I've got plenty. If you're so worried, why don't you help me out here? Said you've got medical experience, ain't that right?"

"I–" Obi-Wan frowns, catching the gloves midair. He inspects them with a scowl. "Only emergency field medicine, and–"

"That's enough," shrugs Yan. "I know what I'm doing, but an experienced assistant is rare 'round here. Say, if you've got no other employment proposals on your–"

"Is he alright with it?" interrupts Obi-Wan, glancing up with an urgent, intense look on his face. He meets Alpha's eyes. "Do you..consent to this?"

Alpha-17 takes a moment to earnestly consider it. He thinks of every Jedi he's killed, and he thinks of Obi-wan's hands unlatching his prosthetic from his thigh as he lays there– bare, prone, vulnerable and helpless– and decides with steely determination that he will trust him.

His life has been in his hands before. He handled it with care.

"Yes," he finally responds, gripping the edge of the table. "Yes, I consent."

Yan hands the mask and kit to Obi-Wan, who approaches him with both in hand. Alpha slowly shifts to lie down on the table. Obi-Wan rests his hand on his chest and gently straps the mask to his face. 

"I'll be here when you're up," he murmurs.

"That's what I'm afraid of," replies Alpha-17, feeling even more sardonic as the fear begins to build up inside him.

"I've got a lovely face to wake up to, thank you very much." Obi-Wan smiles awkwardly, his face blurring as blackness starts to overtake Alpha's vision. "Alpha, it's going to be alright. The Force is with you. As am I."

It all goes black.

He does indeed wake up to the lovely face of Obi-Wan Kenobi hunched in a chair to his left, snoring away.

Alpha-17 stirs with a quiet groan, struggling to sit upright. His entire body aches. He feels so much lighter.

Something's wrong. 

"She's unresponsive," says a familiar voice. There is hushed chatter coming from the next room over. "What're we–"

"I'll kill you before I let you take her back there." says a deep, masculine voice.

"Who said we was planning on taking her back?"

Alpha-17 looks down at himself. His legs are still missing, flat at the base of his mid-thigh and knee, respectively. The sight still shocks him, sometimes; the phantom weight he feels there always catches him by surprise.

What's left of his own prosthetics sit stacked carefully against one wall, dripping oil. It pools like blood at the base, blackening the clay tiles. 

"She's gotta have a tracker on her," says Yan. "Maybe in the cranial box."

Whatever's going on outside sounds increasingly disturbing. Alpha turns as best he can to look for his new prosthetics– which are curved at the foot in a flat, foot shaped plate this time, each stacked neatly upon one of the shelving containers and humming as the internal batteries are slowly charged. 

They are just hulls, mostly empty. A pile of assorted devices lays beside them. The droid is frantically cleaning what looks like a knee mechanism.

It glances up at him and beeps in alarm, scurrying away. The conversation halts. Yan sticks her head through the beaded curtain to look at him. "Shit. Weren't supposed to be up just yet. Mornin', trooper."

"I'm no trooper," he snaps, heaving himself to sit upright. "My name is Alpha-17."

"Trooper name," she teases, rolling her eyes. She disappears around the corner once more before returning, gripping the droid by the back of its neck like a disobedient kitten. "Looks like we've got company. You got through alright, no trouble, though your legs might take a bit to finish– we've got somethin' pretty urgent to attend to."

Alpha-17 huffs. "We didn't pay for interruptions."

She scowls at him. "Empathy's not your strong suit is it?"

"Why should it be?" he retorts, rubbing absentmindedly at the painful, throbbing bend of his right knee. "I'm trapped here 'til your new patient's through, then."

In the corner, Obi-Wan stirs.

"She's decraniated," snaps Yan. She pops open a tin of deathsticks, fishing for a lighter. "And it wasn't a neat job."

"Decraniated?" he asks, squinting. She's still fumbling around for a damn lighter. He scowls and digs in his pocket for his own. "Here, just–"

She takes it without preamble, nodding and lighting up. She offers the deathstick with a tilt of her head. He doesn't accept, and she shrugs idly and smokes away, inhaling deeply and coughing. 

"Shii- iiit ." Yan passes the lighter back to him. " Decraniated means this doctor's cut your head up right at the nose and put a droid's where your brain's supposed to be." 

His lip curls. That's what Garsa had told him about. "Doctor Evazan's craftsmanship?"

She snorts, inhaling deeply. "You sure you ain't local?"

"Can she still–?"

"She's a fully functionin' body, that's for sure. Head… not so much."

"Where can we find this man," Obi-Wan abruptly interrupts. "and deal with him?"

"I'm more worried 'bout the girl on my table than the feller who did it. She's in trouble now. He can be in trouble later."

Obi-Wan gets up, moving to stand beside the table Alpha-17 is propped up on. He rests a heavy hand on Alpha's shoulder. "What is going on with this decraniated girl?"

"Marel's a woman… twenty-three, I think. Her spine doesn't seem to agree with the cranial implant; her body's rejecting its governance."

"I see." Obi-Wan frowns, wiping the sleep from his eyes with his unoccupied hand. 

Alpha's shoulder is warm where he touches him. 

"Is there something we might do to help her?"

Yan's gaze flicks between the two of them. Alpha-17 hopes she doesn't ask too much of him. He doesn't want the woman to die, of course– but he himself feels wrung dry, just shy of collapse should he push himself any further.

She sighs. "You didn't do such a bad job on him. Could stay here'n help me keep her stable while I recalibrate her system."

"I can do that." Without hesitation, Obi-Wan nods and retracts his hand. 

Yan nods. "Okay. I'll call for you." 

"Understood." Yan leaves the room. He turns to look down at Alpha. "How are you feeling?"

Alpha-17 hums and drags his hands down his face, exhaling slowly. His legs throb in dull pain. A phantom weight hangs from them. Around his neck, his duty still dangles, heavily and claustrophobic. There is still the instinct to leave and to return to his responsibilities– all of which have been taken from him.

It appears he's woken up in what some might call a bad mood.

"Been better, been worse." Alpha-17 waves his hand dismissively. 

"Irregardless of past experience, I'm asking how you're faring now ."

He scoffs and tries again to sit up straighter. "I'm fine."

Obi-wan's voice softens as he moves to sit on the end of the bed and ask; "... These scars–they're–" 

Alpha-17 looks down at himself. Most of his body is intricately delineated by geometric scars, following every muscle, every vulnerable spot that hurt the most– all thanks to Ventress and her indomitable rage.

He checks to ensure that they are alone. The sounds of muffled clanging and conversation from the next room over give the impression that they still have a few moments before they are to be interrupted. It was always this way– just stolen moments. 

"You know where I got 'em." He frowns, looking Obi-Wan up and down as though he might be able to see through all those robes he still wears. "You don't have any of your own?"

Obi-Wan swallows and nods. Folds his hands in his lap, worrying his knuckle with his thumb. "I do, yes. I do." 

The hum of a lightsaber. Pain, white-hot and molten.

"Ventress was nothing if not thorough."

Fire. A tunnel. The smell of rainwater.

Obi-Wan actually looks somewhat disturbed by the memory. He turns his face away. 

Plasma through flesh. An easy slide. He's just meat . Good soldiers tell no tales.

A warm hand touches his. Obi-Wan threads their fingers together and squeezes softly. He brushes the back of his hand in slow, circular motions. It's grounding. Alpha-17 lets it happen, squeezing back. It's okay. He can blame the pain medication if asked.

"Hey, Ben," calls Yan, breaking the tense silence. "Need you in here."

Obi-Wan sits upright and releases his hand. "Coming."

Nighttime on Tatooine is surprisingly cold.

"Latch this into place," says Obi-Wan, tapping a hinge in his prosthetic knee. "And switch this to auto-mode." 

He complies, sliding it into place until it clicks. The house is dark. His hands are lit in dim orange light by the fire he's got running inside. Alpha-17 thinks briefly of every brother he ever saw holding a lightsaber in the dark, and swipes that memory from mind as quickly as possible. Still, the glow of the memory shines off Obi-Wan's face when he glances up at him between functionality checks.

"One tap," he announces before doing just that. Alpha's prosthetic reacts, the knee kicking against his will. Reflex, like flesh. "Good, that's good."

When was the last time someone praised Alpha-17? Did it matter? Was it heartfelt? He can't remember. 

Alpha-17 grabs a fistful of Obi-Wan's shirt and gently, tenderly, pulls him close until their faces are only a hands width apart. 

"You frustrate me," he says, "you always have, from the minute we met."

Obi-Wan's eyes flick between his. "Glad to hear it."

"You always take the high road even when it gets men killed."

"As is the Jedi way. Though I too would prefer less casualties."

"You chat everyone's ear off with silly platitudes. You condescend ."

Obi-Wan huffs. "Perhaps I should've left you in that alley."

Alpha-17 curls his hand more tightly in his shirt, knuckles white. "You say cruel things that you don't mean."

"I'm sorry."

His free hand strays upwards, moving to cup Obi-Wan's face in his palm. The beard tickles. He strokes his jaw very slowly. "Despite all these things I am glad it's you that's alive and beside me." 

Ever since he awoke in a dark prison cell standing shoulder to shoulder with him, his body cut to bits, he's been glad to see him.

Obi-Wan sits very still. His throat clicks when he swallows. "I was glad to see you too." 

"I'm glad it's you." Alpha-17 is still gently caressing his face, looking intently into his eyes. "Should have known nothing could kill you, you stubborn bastard."

Alpha is not an openly affectionate man, nor is he certain that he's harbored any kind of extravagant romantic fantasies about Obi-Wan– what he lacks in imagination he makes up for in steadfast loyalty, however. Not in the way a soldier is to his General but how a man is to his heart. He follows its lead. It has not led him astray yet. 

Obi-Wan hums. " Stubbornness is a trait I would sooner accuse you of possessing." 

The war is over. He has a world of options before him. He seizes one. 

Alpha-17 draws Obi-Wan in until they are near to touching. He can feel his breath on his face, warm, and sees the tiny sparks of color in his nervously flicking irises. They are near to kissing. He likes the idea.

Alpha-17 releases him, laying back. "I'd make food, but I'm indisposed. Go make sure we don't die of malnutrition. We can exchange insults later."

"Oh."

Obi-Wan adjusts himself, sliding a nervous, ever-so-slightly trembling hand through his disheveled hair. He blinks out of his reverie and sits abruptly upright, clapping his hands on his thighs. "Yes. Yes, alright. Of course. Dinner."

There is something boyish and innocent to the whole display, like a nervous teenager just shy of his first kiss. It shouldn't be endearing. Alpha should feel only scorn for such a display. Instead he tucks it close to his heart where it warms him slowly from the inside out. 

He frowns. "Don't fret."

Obi-Wan throws him a somewhat wild grin, nervous and excited. "I'll try not to." 

He disappears around the corner for a moment to scrub his hands clean. Meanwhile, Alpha-17 drags himself into a sitting position on the makeshift bed. The living room is cramped, but comfortable– clearly well lived in. There are caf-ring stained maps and holopad chits strewn across the table, and the chairs are draped with thick wool blankets. 

"The young woman was very interesting," says Obi-Wan as he circles back around the corner, heading for the meagre kitchenette at the end of the room. He crouches to pick up a metal bowl, filling it with water and putting it in to boil. "The decraniation was tragic– inhumane, utterly monstrous– but it seemed to me that her signature in the Force was no different than that of any other person."

Alpha-17 shifts in place. "What had you expected to find?"

"I'd feared that such a condition might reduce one to the sort of Force signature found in a droid or other synthetic." He's pouring a dissolvable ration pack into the slowly boiling water. "It sounds callous, but there is a precedent for such an assumption."

The powder coagulates and rises into a soft, fluffy bread, threatening to pour over the edges of the bowl. 

"You told me before what a Force signature is." Alpha-17 inspects his prosthetics while he talks, twisting a loose screw into place. The desert wind howls outside the door. "What's mine like? Synthetic? Identical to other clones?"

Obi-Wan pauses mid-scrape, his spatula still stuck in the bowl as he dislodges the bread. He blinks owlishly at him over his shoulder. "Synthetic? Why would you think that?"

"I'm not exactly educated in the ways of the Force. Wouldn't want to be, anyway."

Obi-Wan pops it from the pan and, proving that his reflexes are still awfully quick, grabs the loaf before it can go tumbling sadly to the floor. He looks at Alpha-17 somewhat mournfully. "I've only got the one plate."

He shrugs. "Don't need one."

Obi-Wan holds the pan and crosses over to sit primly beside him on the makeshift bed. It must be his couch when there are no guests about– not that he's given any indicator of having guests to start with. "Here. Please, eat."

Alpha-17 gently tears his half from the loaf. It's warm in his hands and smells familiar, somehow. Comforting. He frowns. "Is it identical, then?"

"Your Force signature?"

"My face." Alpha-17 stares flatly at him. " Yes, my Force signature."

"No need to get–" Obi-Wan huffs and shakes his head, taking an aggressively large bite from his loaf of bread. He must be hungrier than he'd let on. "No, it's not…" he chews, frustrated. " identical . Perhaps in form, yes, there is some.. some pattern to the flow, but it is a pattern similar to how pilots are similar, or carpenters, gamblers, or… or Jedi." Obi-Wan swallows, gesturing with the bread in his hand. "It's little to do with genetics or appearance, mostly just the circumstances of your identity and how it's formed."

"I see. So it's clone shaped."

Obi-Wan snorts. "Sure." 

"I hope mine is difficult to read." Alpha frowns. "Always hated 'open book' type of people."

"Ah, so you dislike transparency. Maybe I should not tell you what all there is to know about your signature…"

When he glances over, he's smiling mischievously into his meal like some kind of gleeful Padawan. Alpha rolls his eyes. "If you're trying to be mysterious, it won't work. There's no hope for you. I've seen you at your worst.

"Oh, there's been worse." Obi-Wan quickly changes back to the main topic. "Your signature is steadfast and firm. It feels like smooth, cold steel– but it is a relief on a hot day, not clinical or… inhospitable.  Beskar, even, if I should be so extravagant. And it is …blue."

"Kamino ocean 'blue,' or real blue?"

"Kamino." Obi-Wan pauses. "It's real, too."

"Alright." Alpha shakes his head, unsure what to make of this assessment. "Is this what it feels like for everyone, or just you?"

"Most of it, anyone can. Yet there are parts of you that only I can see."

"At least buy me dinner first."

Obi-Wan scoffs, caught off guard. "I just made it for you!"

Alpha snorts. "Dehydrated bread rations don't count."

"I'm afraid Tatooine is not known for its fine dining scene."

"At least get a man some bantha steak. Show some gratitude to a cold steel wall on a hot day."

Obi-Wan pushes him playfully. Alpha rocks with it, smiling as he swallows the last bite. 

"Signatures are complicated. Why do you ask?"

Alpha-17 shrugs and replies in the most deadpan tone of voice he's ever managed; "You've appealed to my curious nature."

It's difficult to quantify Alpha's feelings towards himself in anything but the most physical terms. He has a body and he uses it. It is not unique. He's seen it broken and mangled and he's seen it stronger than he's ever been– than he'll ever be again. It is the spirit that eludes him. What's he got to his name besides a few decades of grief? What makes him different from any other clone? If there is a defining factor, can Obi-Wan see it? Does he notice? Does he care?

And why should Alpha-17 care if he doesn't? 

Obi-Wan brushes his hands off and sighs, looking slowly over his own house. "I never thought I would have a house, you know."

"Or live on Tatooine."

"That too." He runs a hand over his beard, still neatly trimmed. "My entire life has veered sharply in a new direction– one which I cannot predict even if I'd like to. There is no guidance, no instinct, no advice from the Force. I only know my most immediate duties and that I must attend to them."

Alpha nods. "I understand."

"Everything is different and nothing will ever return to the way it was; of this I'm quite certain. I have no doubt that, even if the great wave of change comes around to improve the conditions of the universe, it will take great precautions not to recreate anything that has been before."

He grunts, unsure what to say to that.

"...but you ," Obi-Wan murmurs, turning to look at him– "your face has not changed. Your signature in the Force– I remember it very clearly– is the same. Even if your body is different that means very little. It's strange to see you here in my house where nothing is the same as it was– except for you at my side. I must say this clearly so that there's no mistake; you are entirely unique and for this I'm grateful."

He doesn't know why he cares if Obi-Wan sees him. He does it anyway.

Alpha-17 hums in agreement. "The Empire has changed me. I am not the same as I was. I suppose that could be said for both of us."

Obi-Wan laughs sadly. "Yes, it could."

"I like it." Alpha looks at him intently, taking in every unfamiliar wrinkle on his face, every gray hair. "The ways you've changed." 

"You may be the first to prefer this to my old self."

"I like you how you are." Alpha smirks. "Troubled. A little more human. Brought back down to earth." 

Surely it took great tragedy to yank him from his position in that ephemeral past life that now seems so very long ago, almost unreal, dreamlike and distant. They've had enough tragedy in each of their lives that there's little reason to speak of it. It's a given. All he can do is embrace what's left. 

"I prefer you at my side rather than as my superior."

Obi-Wan exhales slowly through his nose. He reaches out to take his hand. 

Outside, the dust storm is nearing. 

"So do I."

Chapter Text

The Tatooinian sky turns blue before it turns green. Hot pink bursts of light shine through the translucent gaps in the dusty clouds looming above; a thin sheen of orange light colors the air all around them, filling the entire ten mile radius with the smell of rainfall and impending storms. 

The wind picks up. Outside, tools and trinkets slam against Obi-Wan's house, tousled by the rush of hot air. It feels like being locked in a slowly heating oven; the circulation of furious winds, picking up faster and faster by the minute, does nothing to soothe the heat sinking into his skin. 

Alpha-17 watches the storm through the window, sitting up on his hands to strain for a glimpse. 

Obi-Wan drags him back down by the back of his shirt. It's an inelegant maneuver. Alpha chokes a little, falling back. "Hey–"

Obi-Wan stands up, pulling out some kind of thin strips of malleable plastoid and attaching them to the rims of the window. He nails them in place with a comically tiny hammer, drawn forth from Force knows where. 

"Is it going to rain?" Alpha-17 asks dumbly, staring through the window. The plastoid sheet blurs everything into vague colors and shapes.

Obi-Wan frowns, aggressively stripping another sheet of plastoid off the roll and moving to the next window. "No, the sky is about to drop all the dust it's got to give."

Alpha-17 hums. "A dust storm."

They taught him about those back during flash training. Absent-mindedly, he reaches back to the base of his neck, where the lingering metal circle of his long unused neural port lies in wait. A relic from a time where early-model clones had much of their knowledge uplinked straight to their brains– an exhausting, painful process that kept Alpha awake and sleepless during most of his brief years as a Cadet. He brushes the bump where the plug went. It sends chills up his spine. 

He assesses his surroundings. "We gonna be safe in here?"

"Most certainly," Obi-Wan replies, seemingly satisfied with his job taping off all the windows in the main room. He sets the roll aside and faces the view outside, squinting intently. "I've lived through my fair share both here, and in worse shelter."

"Your lungs must be very grateful." 

Obi-Wan scoffs. "Nothing a cigarra can't fix."

He chortles. " You partake?"

"What?" Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow at him. "It's hardly a death-stick. You've seen me."

"No I haven't." 

Feels good to be a little contradictory. In truth, Alpha simply can't remember.

"I could've sworn I'd shared one with you."

Alpha-17 looks him up and down. He watches his throat bob when he swallows, and how his fingertip curls around the cigarra as he draws it back and exhales one long trail of smoke. 

"No," Alpha rasps. "I would remember that."

"You would, would you." Obi-Wan eyes him carefully, squints, and takes another long, slow drag.

He's into it. He doesn’t want to dissect this part of himself like it’s a rare specimen on a slab. Alpha closes his eyes and hums, holding out a hand. "Alright." 

Obi-Wan eyes his prosthetics, the scar on his face, and the dark circles under Alpha's eyes. "Hmm. It's just not good for your health ," he teases and laughs– a clear, bright sound, and presses it into his hand. "-I'm sure."

Alpha nods and takes a long, slow drag- savoring perhaps the fact that their lips have both touched it more than the taste itself. He smiles and passes it back, exhaling slowly.

Obi-Wan is staring at him.

Despite the strange gut feeling gnawing at him, it’s a comfortable, almost familiar quiet that falls when Obi-Wan and Alpha-17 are alone together. It reminds him of the time they sat alone in prison watching the water level rise. It reminds him of when he stood at Obi-Wan's side and watched the sun set over the water. 

Here they are again, waiting for the tide. Watching the stars.

Obi-Wan leans his head against the palm of his hand and smiles lopsidedly at him. His beard's a bit scruffy. The overall impression is shockingly endearing.

He looks into Obi-wan's eyes and begins to search.

Outside, the dust begins to rail against the house in a thunderous onslaught. It sounds like rain. The desert turns blue. Everything, suddenly, all forms and objects rendered some shade of turquoise to cerulean, royal blue toning the rocks and casting pink shadows off Obi-Wan's face.

"Hmm."

It feels good being around him. He feels good. Capable. 

Alpha reaches out with one careful hand and gently caresses Obi-Wan's worn, tired face. He thumbs his cheek, rosy, scarred by the sun, still soft. It's a gentle little thing. Alpha rarely has access to tenderness. It's barred from him, locked up behind six tiers of regulations, inconsolable shame, and the bone-deep programming of a man intended to be a weapon, for all intents and purposes. 

"I'm not supposed to like people like you."

Obi-Wan presses his face into his palm, exhaling a warm breath across his wrist. "Nobody can stop you now."

"I can stop me."

He reaches up to softly touch his hand. "Do you want to?"

"There's a lot of things I want to do." Alpha-17 gently brushes his hair away from his forehead, dragging a strand through his thumb and forefinger. It's just like he'd imagined. "A lot."

Obi-Wan glances pointedly over his shoulder at the dust storm outside. Then he sags pathetically against the wall and into his hand, as if surrendering to it. "The storm doesn't look like it's going to let up soon." 

"So you're saying," Alpha murmurs, leaning in– "we're stuck here together?"

Obi-Wan meets him halfway, only a lip's distance apart. "We are."

"Such a shame." Alpha clicks his tongue, reaching up to cup his neck and press their foreheads together. Their eyes meet. "I'm sure you'd prefer nicer company."

Obi-Wan shrugs. "I'm not one for nice men."

Alpha chuckles. "I know."

He dives in to kiss him, tender and slow. 

The world stops spinning. The suns hang still in place. Outside, five-thousand feet of colossal dust clouds thrust their grandiose forms into the sky. Obi-Wan's mouth moves against his. He whispers; "I've missed you."

Alpha's heart slots comfortably back into the empty space in his chest, warm and familiar.