Chapter Text
It's an afternoon like any other for Satine, fugitive Duchess of Mandalore, in that it is as bizarre and unpredictable as every other day.
They find themselves in a forest. A deluge that morning had soaked them all to the skin, leaving behind a mud drenched landscape.
A moment ago, she was collecting berries from a bush. Her two Jedi protectors were meditating. Now, she feels the familiar sense of fear and adrenaline rise up in her gut at the sound of shouts and blasters.
No kriffing peace.
Through the dense trees, bursts Kenobi, eyes wide, tearing towards her at full pelt.
"Run!"
She doesn't need telling twice.
He seizes by the upper arm, steadying her stumbles as they careen through the underbrush of the forest, roots and vines catching her feet (but seemingly not his) as they flee.
She hears the blaster bolts following them, and he stops suddenly, activating his saber and parrying several strikes.
Then, because of course things couldn't just go well, she trips too hard, and the two of them land solidly in the mud. They're only down a second, but it's all their pursuers need.
A short, grubby man leads the gang that is firing. He holds up his hand, and the shots stop.
"Ah, here she is! How do you do, Right and Honourable Duchess Satine Kryze of Mandalore?"
His possy snigger behind him. She draws herself to her full height, but before she can answer Kenobi steps forward.
"You saw what my Master did to the first of your men. If you go now, we will not hunt you. Turn your backs on us, and we will spare you."
The leaders throws back his head and cackles.
"What are you going to do, puppy dog? Is this really the best the Order could spare you, Duchess? What an insult to Mandalore: the hippy and a spotty teenager."
Kenobi ignites his saber.
"This is your final warning."
"Why don't you run back to mummy and let the Duchess and I chat," sneers the man. "It's probably getting past your snack time."
Kenobi doesn't give a single second more. He attacks.
His swift, graceful movements are almost acrobatic today as he deflects and dodges and protects, swinging his blade with ease. She can only really appreciate the art of his battle when he's doing his practice katas, but you'd have to be blind not to see the skill, even now as she fears for their lives. Some of the mob must note it top: more than a few turn on their heels and flee for the trees.
"Duchess!"
She catches his eye, just as his eyes widen.
He dispatches one of the final men, but unoccupied is the rat faced leader, grinning straight at Satine.
She doesn't spot it until too late. The blaster aimed at her heart.
Just as she prepares to say her final prayers, she's hit from the side by something, sent crashing to the ground.
She is winded, but she is not dead.
Obi-Wan, now her savior again, this time knocking her out of the line of fire, leaps back to his feet, lighting the saber again and tearing back into the fray, deflecting bright flashes from blasters, thrown daggers, and maker knows what else.
"Stay down, Duchess," he shouts, not turning to look, and she obeys wordlessly, simply watching his prowl towards their predator.
There are no words from him either this time.
She watches their deadly dance, light and sound, but it's over in a flash, the bright saber through the man's stomach.
Obi-Wan turns back to her, and it's at exactly the same time she notices the growing red patch on the abdomen of his muddy beige robes that he falters.
She leaps up, grabbing him by the tabard to steady him as his knees waver.
"You idiot," she scolds, looking him up and down for any other injury as he regains his breath.
"A thank you would suffice," he says, rolling his eyes.
She stares him down.
"Do we need to worry about the ones that got away?"
He shrugs.
"Some may chase us for a second chance at capturing you, so we'd do well to find some hidden shelter, somewhere where Master Qui-Gon can meet us. You're not hurt are you?"
She can hardly believe him.
"I'm fine. It's you who needs treating. Shall we do it now? I don't want you to bleed out here."
"As opposed to bleeding out somewhere else," he mutters.
She doesn't deign a reply.
"No, I'm fine. Let's get to cover."
She accepts this with a nod of her own, and heaves one of his heavy arms over her shoulder.
"Duchess I'm perfectly capable-"
"Shut up and walk, Kenobi."
At first he puts no weight on her. They don't speak, silence as tense and awkward as ever without the placid barrier of Jinn.
Within twenty minutes though, his breath is catching roughly, and he's obviously trying not to show his struggle.
"Are you too proud to lean on me?" She snaps, when he nearly trips into the mud. "I assure you, I can take your gangly weight."
He huffs a humourless laugh, but thankfully seems to drop his ego and lean gratefully on her shoulder.
"I sense a cave," he gasps breathlessly, "north. A mile or so. We'll be safe there."
She inhales sharply.
"Can you walk another mile?"
She looks at him, surprised to find she's genuinely concerned, and he rolls his eyes at her.
"Well we haven't got much hope if I can't. What are you going to do, carry me?"
Bloody infuriating, annoying, proud, tiresome-
"You need to keep a hand on that wound," she orders shortly, not meeting his eyes.
"I'd- intended to just- bleed out instead-" he pants, jaw clenched tightly.
"Shut up and move," she snaps.
She's getting into the swing of the walk, heaving him along with her.
"Why did you take that blaster wound for me? He wouldn't have shot me there. They'd want to being me back to Mandalore before they killed me."
He inhales raggedly. Hes getting paler and paler, and maybe by riling him up he'll perk up a bit.
"They wouldn't have killed you yet," he gasps, "they'd have shot you in the leg so you couldn't run, then they'd have brought you back to their boss, beat your state secrets out of you, then sold you to the highest bidder who'd either use you as a slave or have you publically tortured, executed, and have your head mounted on a spike."
She feels slightly ill, and suddenly a lot more grateful for her Jedi protection.
Kenobi, on the other hand, looks so pale his skin is almost translucent. Maybe talk is not the way to go.
He falters again, almost gasping for breath, and it hurts her not to allow him a moment of respite. She has a feeling not all of those bounty hunters will be as easy to dispatch should they catch up on them.
"Just keep moving, you stubborn donkey."
There's probably only a quarter of a mile left when all of a sudden he simply drops to his knees, gasping.
She'd allow him the moment of release, except that she can hear, distant but growing closer, the swearing and shouting of the bounty hunters.
"Get up Kenobi! We haven't got time for this!"
He expels the contents of his stomach info the grass, heaving and gasping, and then rises, deeply unsteadily even with her help, to his feet.
The last few minutes are excruciating, his moans of agony and complete weight upon her, but she spots the concealed entrance to the cave when he points, and the make it in through the mouth.
As soon as they cross the threshold, his legs dissolve like jelly, and Satine knows he's reached the end of his endurance. She lowers him as gently as she can to the floor, muscles burning.
She loops her arms underneath his shoulders and drags him a few metres deeper into the safety and darkness of the cave. He's heavier than he bloody looks, her hands holding onto the hard muscle beneath his Jedi garb.
A few shouts pass by the cave, whoever they belong to hidden to them by the rock and darkness.
"Right," she says, kneeling beside Kenobi, trying not to let her voice shake as much as her hands are. "Let's get you sorted."
He grits his teeth and closes his eyes, but nothing can stop the gasp of pain when she presses both hands firmly down on the bloody stain.
"Don't be such a wuss," she manages unsteadily. "you're completely fine."
He lets out an equally unsteady laugh, breathing heavily.
"Only you, Duchess, would insult me as I bleed to death "
"You're not dying," she snaps. "I forbid it."
"Well in that case," he says, eyes clenched tightly shut, but a shadow of mirth in the creases, "I'll take the orders ma'am."
"Take the pressure from me again," she says, ignoring the odd sensation that last comment sent to her stomach, "I need to get the bacta patches ready."
He nods.
"On your command."
She takes her hands off, diving for her bag of supplies.
"No sissying about with it," she barks over her shoulder as she rifles desperately through the pack. "Push as hard as you can."
He grunts back.
She seizes the bacta patch, dropping it to the floor beside him.
His eyes are closed. His hands have slipped slightly from his stomach.
"Kenobi!"
She strikes him sharply across the cleek, and his eyes snap open again, a glaze to his pupils.
"Ow," he mumbles, vaguely annoyed, and she feels instantly terrible.
"Sorry," she whispers, suddenly fighting the urge to cry, as he blinks dizzily.
She neatly slices open the front of his tabard with the shears, exposing the oozing wound. It's not good.
"Buy me dinner first?"
She ignores the comment, ripping open the bacta patch with shaking hands.
"Stay with me Obi-Wan."
He nods weakly, looking more than a little lightheaded.
She presses the cool patch firmly into his lean stomach, begining to feel frantic at the sheer volume of blood soaked up by his ridiculous robes.
"Tell me," she says, suddenly panicked as his attention seems to slip again. "what's the best mission you and your master have been on?"
He hums vaguely.
"This one."
She stares, aghast.
"In what way?"
"I've met you," he says, slightly dreamily, smiling. "That's been good."
"You must be getting delirious," she says shortly, beginning to tape down the bacta patch. "You hate me."
"I don't," he hums, blue eyes striking even in their hazy exhaustion. "Could never hate you."
A moment of silence.
"I couldn't hate you either," she says quietly, unable to help looking at him. "never. Even if you are the biggest di'kut I've ever met."
He smiles faintly again.
"Don't fall asleep Obi-Wan!"
"I won't," he insists, eyelids drooping.
"Then open your eyes!"
"I will. I have... to protect you," he mumbles, eyes firmly closed.
She's too stressed to roll her eyes at his chivalry.
"Then stay awake, Obi. Unless you can do your ridiculous Jedi Voodoo in your sleep."
He gives a small smile at that. Then his face relaxes completely.
"No!"
She keeps one hand firmly pressed on his wound, and with the other she shakes his shoulder.
"Come on Obi! Don't make me slap you again!"
But his face remains lax, hands limp at his sides.
She stays like that for a long time pushing down hard on the wound.
Once she hopes the bleeding might have slowed a little, she chances taking her hands off to take off her own cloak and wrap him in it. He's shivering.
She tucks it round him, swallowing.
What they need now is a fire.
There's vague detritus littered all round the cave, and it takes only a minute to gather up a bundle at form a pile. The firestarters in her pack make quick work of the job, and the firelight quickly lights up their cave, painting the walls in dancing shadows.
He's very pale.
She takes one of his hands in both of hers, and begins rubbing and massaging warmth back info the cold, stiff joints. He must have poor circulation: his hands are freezing. She moves to the other hand, repeats the process.
There's not really much else she can do. All that her first aid training on Mandalore seems to encompass was 1. Stop bleeding. 2. Start CPR. and 3. Find a bloody medic.
And so all there was to do really was wait.
She watches she subtle rise and fall of his chest beneath her cloak. The quiet whistling sound it makes when he inhales through his nose. The contrast of his ginger eyelashes to his pale, freckled cheeks. His hair, grown out of the standard, hideous padawan cut it had when she met him, now halfway down his neck, and slightly wavy. His braid is longer still, marked by bands and beads of colour and achievement. He's like a soldier decorated by battle. In sleep, he looks too young for any kind of battle.
Dear Gods, where were these thoughts coming from?
Just bloody hormones, she tells herself. The only product of months on the run, with him the only male, humanoid her age to look at. Natural. Chemical.
She finds her attention drawn to his lips. Thin, pink, and slightly chapped. She looks closer. Soft, she imagines. Warm. Almost-
A noise from outside. She leaps to her feet, heart pounding, and brandishes Obi-Wan's lightsaber.
She nearly screams, until she recognises the tall, broad form that bursts into the cave. Master Jinn.
He crashes to his knees beside his padawan, hands flying to his bloodied stomach.
"What happened?" He asks, more brusquely than she's ever heard him before.
"Blaster shot," she says, voice shaking. "I think its stopped bleeding."
"Are you hurt, Duchess?" He says, not taking his eyes off Obi-Wan.
"No."
He nods, then places one large hand on Obi-Wan's forehead, the other on the wound. He closes his eyes.
She waits a painstaking, unfathomable amount of time. It feels like centuries. She studies both Jedi's faces for any sign of change. There is none.
Obi-Wan continues to breathe. She centres herself on this action, watching him inhale and exhale, however shallowly. Jinn tried to teach her to meditate at one point, but she couldn't focus. Now she focuses. On how much blood he's lost. On how pale he his. On his faint shivers. On his breath. While he breathes, he lives. However tenuously.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Eventually, Jinn takes a deep inhalation of his own, and sits back.
He gently cards a hand through his padawan's hair, combing it back into the neat style Obi-Wan prefers. Laid out laxly beneath his master's ministrations, Obi-Wan looks even younger. Even more vulnerable.
She aches at the show of affection. There is nobody left now who would fear for her like this, and yet Obi-Wan pushed her from harms way and took the hit himself, despite the clear upset it's now caused his master.
Qui-Gon presses a small, private kiss to his padawan's forehead.
He nods at Satine.
"He'll be alright."
A little while later, Qui-Gon carries Obi-Wan closer to the stuttering fire. He lifts him like a babe-in-arms, cradling him to his broad chest, and hold him half upright so that Satine can help him wrap him in cloaks and blankets. It's unsettling, the floppiness of his limbs, the way Jinn has to support his limp head. The complete lifelessness of the dynamic, vibrant Obi-Wan.
And yet, he still breathes.
They lower him to the ground, and tuck him in tightly. It's a cold night.
She doesn't miss the flush beginning to rise in his cheeks, the inflammation she'd noticed when they changed his dressings, both speaking of fever. Of infection.
Qui-Gon tells her Obi-Wan is in a deep healing trance. He tells her it'll help him heal fastest. He tells her the Force will purge any contaminants from Obi-Wan's body. He tells her he will be fine.
And yet all she wants is to see his eyes open, the cheeky sparkle in his gaze, his upper crust accent taunting her.
Maybe this is his way of taunting her.
She takes his hand. He sleeps on.
He mumbles, occasionally. His master's name, her name. She catches his eyes darting beneath his eyelids as if dreaming, but when he begins to mutter Jinn lays a hand on his forehead and sends him back into slumber. A nightmare, then.
His fever rises. He sometimes thrashes illucidly, before Jinn can calm him down again.
She tries to keep him warm, stoking the fire, tucking him in ever tighter, but Jinn says they can only wait.
And so she waits