Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I’m going to get us some food, all right?” Master Qui-Gon says. “Is there anything you’d like me to grab in particular, apart from a hydropack?”

Ben shakes his head.

He has a packet of dried muja fruit in his pocket. It’s not lunchtime yet, so he can get away with a snack. He hasn’t– the last time he’d been in the mess hall, the noise, and– and the people– all the people– and so open–

Well. He doesn’t go into the refectory anymore.

They make their meals together now, the two of them. Master Che had given him a meal plan, and Master Qui-Gon makes sure he follows it. Three meals a day. At least two snacks a day, as well. There are bowls of sealed snacks throughout their apartment– protein bars, or bags of nuts and dried fruit that they’d prepared themselves– and he always looks quietly pleased when Ben takes one, whether or not he eats it there. Ben thinks he knows about the stockpile he’s building under his bed, but– he hasn’t said anything. He doesn’t look disappointed, or– or frustrated, or– angry, he just– 

He just seems relieved. 

Sometimes others join them.

Sometimes Master Tholme comes. And Quinlan.

He’d missed Quinlan.

He thinks Tholme had maybe said something to him, because his friend is a bit quieter, now, than he had been when he’d come to see him in the Halls– but his hug is just as tight, and Ben can’t help but cling to him as the buzzing under his skin seems to– retreat.

Just for a moment. 

And Master Tholme is– kind, his craggy face creased in an easy smile, and– and Quin– there’s no burn of sour fear to him, but he– he can’t help it, seeing the two of them together–

But they always let him take the seat between the two of them.

Once Bant and Master Tahl had visited, but Bant kept giving him pitying looks that made him feel all itchy in the Force, and he couldn’t quite make himself look at Tahl. His words had become more and more clipped until they strangled in his throat, and then he’d blinked and they were both gone, and Master Qui-Gon was sitting cross-legged in front of him, easy patience suffusing the Force around them both. 

A little ragged noise had torn its way out of his throat, then, and he’d scooted forward, and Qui-Gon had tucked him against his side, draped his robe over his shoulders, and held him until the shaking subsided.

Sometimes Master Yoda visits. 

It’s stupid, the way he relaxes. He knows. He knows that Master Yoda is maybe the strongest Jedi out of all of them. He’s seen him fight before. He knows–

But he’s– small.

He doesn’t loom.

He tells Master Yoda this, one day, very quietly, fingers tap-tap-tapping against the floor, back pressed to the wall. 

Master Yoda tells him that sometimes the mind teaches the body.

Other times, he says, the body learns its own lessons first.

Sometimes– a lot of times– Master Mace comes.

He’s– warm. And there’s something– very sad, in his eyes.

The first time he visits, the Force sparks bright and angry between him and Master Qui-Gon, sharp enough to make Ben recoil–

But they notice. Both of them do, and the Force settles almost immediately, and Master Mace– he speaks very gently, tells him that he is very glad to see him home, and his warmth unfolds like a blanket, and if Ben shuffles a little bit closer to him while they’re eating, well– no one comments.

He thinks, sometimes, about asking him for help. 

He knows the Unifying Force the same way Ben does, and he– he’d always helped before, after all. From the beginning, he remembers– nightmares that weren’t nightmares at all, driving him out of the creche and into the halls, being found– talking him through them, helping him untangle them until his breathing had steadied and sleep had dragged him back down, and– and he doesn’t always remember making his way back to the creche, but he’d always woken up there, and he thinks that maybe someone had carried him back–

But. But. But.

He can do it by himself. He can. He can. 

He’d rebuilt once, after the hospital. He can do it again. He can. He does, bit by bit. He packs the lightning away into his bones, pushes it down, and it– it retreats. It’ll– it’ll go away. He’s fine. He’s fine.

And besides. He doesn’t know if he can find the words for it. 

He can’t find the words for a lot of things, these days.

Master Bombadil tells him that this is expected. He tells him that selective mutism is a common response to trauma.

Ben tells him that he is not traumatized. That he is fine.

Master Bombadil tells him that selective mutism is a common response to difficult circumstances of any sort. That he himself had dealt with a similar difficulty when he was younger. 

At that, Ben subsides.

They practice. At first, all he can manage are jagged bursts of sensation– defensive, prickly, blurred storms of feeling bursting forward like a thunderstorm– and it’s only another thing to mourn, another thing lost, a whole year without anyone else to speak to in the Force–

But the mindhealer coaxes him through shallow, easy meditations, helping him settle, helping him collect himself enough that he can shape the storm into words. Enough to serve a purpose, when he needs them.

And Master Qui-Gon is always waiting for him, when he emerges.

Master Qui-Gon is– gentle. Carefully, cautiously gentle. 

He had woken up curled in the bathtub one night, and Qui-Gon had said nothing when he emerged the next morning. But the next night, when all the lights were out, Ben had padded his way into the fresher only to find a pile of freshly-laundered bedding waiting for him.

The whistling kettle had sent him diving for cover under the table, head full of the echo of bombs– and now Qui-Gon always keeps one eye on the stovetop, and deftly removes the kettle just before it starts to boil.

They spend a lot of time in the gardens together, and Ben refamiliarizes himself with the feeling of growing things under his feet. He curls his fingers into the dirt as the sunlight warms his face and watches Master Qui-Gon’s hands as he points out the silk-spun tunnels of a colony of webspinners in the grooves of the underside of a log. 

All of his favorite spots in the garden seem to have– changed.

It takes Ben nearly a week to realize why.

The new spots– always, always, there is something at his back. No windows or balconies near them, where someone could get the drop on him from above. Clear lines of sight in all directions for at least thirty feet, at least two potential escape routes, if he needed to run–

And this– just this morning– he thinks that Dex must have said something, because they had gone down to Master Dubon to request a new apartment, something on the lower levels, while Ben, wide-eyed, hardly daring to breath, had watched from the shadow of Qui-Gon’s cloak, the weight of the other Jedi’s hand on his shoulder a comforting pressure–

(They are full of unspoken grace, now, the two of them.)

He calls him Padawan, now, too– all the time. Like a reminder. He can’t– his hair is still too short to braid, and he recoils at the thought of anyone touching it– they’d all kept theirs short, all of them, a dull blade held by trusted hands, because the Elders would reach and grab and slam–

Yes. A reminder.

It’s– nice.

He finds it easier to answer to than Obi-Wan, these days.

He’s home. 

(The lightning itches at the inside of his skin.)

He is.

(Like something burning.)

He is.

(And if he scratches at his skin until he bleeds then that’s nobody’s business but his own, he can handle it, he can handle it–)

But. Anyway.

Master Qui-Gon has been gone for six minutes and twenty-three seconds. 

The refectory is probably busy.

Seven minutes.

His fingers tap-tap-tap on the stone wall behind him.

Eight minutes.

At least the garden is empty. Quiet.

Sometimes, if there are more people than they’d expected, Master Qui-Gon changes course even before they reach the entrance, saying something about a report he’d forgotten to submit to the Archives.

(He never does end up finishing it.)

Nine minutes.

The back of his neck prickles uncomfortably.

Hypervigilance. That’s what Master Bombadil had called it. 

He casts his gaze out across the garden once more, sending out a pulse in the Force, and reminds himself to breathe when he finds nothing in the immediate vicinity.

A questioning tug in the back of his mind–

All good, Ben offers up carefully, and a gentle wash of warmth eases some of the tension from his shoulders.

It is. He is. 

Ten minutes.

The prickling doesn’t fade.

Master Bombadil had said it was a well-honed survival mechanism. Needed on Melida-Daan– Melidaan, now, that’s right– but less so in the Temple. 

Everyone has tools to feel safe, the mindhealer had told him gently, when humiliation had clogged his throat. This, for now, is one of his. It won’t always be. But there is no shame in using the tools available.

So Ben lets himself be– hypervigilant. He keeps his eyes open and builds up shields in the Force and keeps someone something at his back, and tries to remember he is safe.

He is. He is. He is.

And then, very suddenly, he’s not.

1. A flash of red.
2. A face melting like candlewax.
3. A voice that reeks of death, hissing–
4. I will make you witness, before I kill you.

– and Ben doesn’t know who’s screaming louder, if it’s him or the lightning or both at once, because there’s something in his head, there’s something in his head–

Then–

(Hold!)

A voice he knows in an impossible instant, shouting–

(Ben!)

A hand, reaching–

(You must hold on!)

And instinctively, even as the darkness folds in around him, even as all the lights flicker out, he reaches–

–and Qui-Gon feels him shatter like prismatic shards of starlight.

No–

He reaches– the bond isn’t broken, not broken, he can still feel– but Obi-Wan is– in the Force, he’s– in pieces–

Obi-Wan! he screams, and finds nothing.

The Force roils and screams like a wounded animal– something has been torn, twisted and bent until it broke–

Obi-Wan!

He skids around the last corner and sees jagged lightning blooming across the walls, humming under his feet–

Padawan!

Then, as if in answer–

It’s like a supernova.

For a moment, the dreadful darkness falters before redoubling in a wash of astonished, concentrated fury–

The wall in front of him explodes.

Something heavy slams into the opposite side of the hallway. 

Qui-Gon blinks– blinks again, trying to– the smoke, the smoke–

Padawan–!

The Force leaps to him when he asks, drawing the acrid stench from his lungs, clearing his breathing–

Then he inhales again, and tastes ozone.

The stranger that steps out of the sky moves in a blur.

When Qui-Gon tries, later, to recall the fight, he will remember only fragments of those first few moments. The two duelists move impossibly fast, darting in and out of the lightning with unparalleled speed, every concussive collision carving another chunk out of a wall, and he catches– glimpses–

A flare of red, the screaming of a kyber bled and broken a thousand times over–

The humming of a blue blade, a melody so oddly, achingly familiar–

Yellow eyes streaked with writhing lightning–

Red hair pulled back into a messy braid–

A shriek that reverberates with incomprehensible wrath in the face of a smile that’s tasted blood–

(Still, the silence, the shattered starlight–)

Qui-Gon surges forward, to the top of the rubble, and oh, oh–

He had left him in the Chrysalis. A sheltered, secluded corner, with its walls of muted color and dappled sunlight, full to the brim with the humming of quiet life. Not quite ready, but waiting. Full of promise. Qui-Gon had left him with a newly-freed butterfly crawling across his hand, slowly flexing its orange-smeared wings, feeling a bit of tension ease from Obi-Wan’s tangled Force signature and a bit of hope unfurl in his own. 

Now, the garden is burning, and his Padawan is nowhere to be found. 

He leaps downwards, into the ash that is all that remains of hundreds of small promises, lightning crackling up the walls around him, blazing under his feet–

“Padawan!” he screams, turning, searching–

Where, where, where–?

“Obi-Wan!”

–and for a moment, Obi-Wan falters, barely catching the next blow–

In front of him, Sidious snarls even as the skin sloughs off his face, even as the lightning tears him apart from the inside out–

“Like Master, like Padawan,” he hisses. “I should have gutted him first.”

Then he’s gone, and Obi-Wan is a half-step behind him with a mind full of red ray shields and the remembered terror of helplessness–

But he has the lightning now.

Not again.

Never again.

The Force shrieks a warning, and Qui-Gon turns just in time to block the descending slash, the collision reverberating down his arm.

He shifts, recalibrates, raises his saber–

And then beside him, materializing in an instant, the stranger– Jedi, a Jedi, he could not be anything else– raises a hand and the Sith– the Sith– goes flying into the opposite wall.

“Not him, Sidious,” he says, almost conversationally, and when Qui-Gon turns he sees a sliver of blue in a gaze so full of lightning as to be blinding. “Not any of them.”

The Sith– Sidious– howls, surges forward, and the stranger ignites his blade–

Later, fragments of the fight will bob to the surface of Qui-Gon’s memory like debris from a shipwreck.

But now–

There is the Force.

There is the song of his saber.

There is the man at his side who fights with lightning at his fingertips and flaring in his eyes, the most familiar stranger Qui-Gon has ever met.

And there is still, in the back of his mind, an aching, gaping silence.

He catches the next blow, shoves him back, and shouts–

“What did you do to my Padawan?”

His partner falters for a split second, the smallest gap opening in what is perhaps the most solid Soresu defense he’s ever seen, and a blur of crimson flashes downwards–

Haste makes mistakes, Qui-Gon thinks, and swings.

The green blade connects, carving upwards–

Sidious screams.

A shockwave in the Force gives him the instant he needs to disengage, leaping backwards onto the pile of rubble that was once a garden wall, the stump of his right shoulder still smoking slightly, and the two of them surge forward at once–

Then the Sith reaches to his left.

Into the lightning.

And when he pulls his hand back, the world goes cold and still and brutal, because–

He’s holding Obi-Wan.

Snatched from the air, only half-conscious– his head lolls against his chest, just barely missing the plasma blade held an inch above his heart. His half-lidded gaze is sightless, unfocused–

And full of that same, blinding lightning. 

When Qui-Gon reaches for him in the Force, he finds again only that dull and fractured starlight.

He freezes immediately. The man next to him, who had been half a step ahead, does the same, spreading his hands, palms open.

(His saber hilt is balanced neatly against the back of his hand, out of sight.)

The Sith looks half-dead. Something scorches the front of his robe– is that blasterfire?– and even as they watch, the lines of his face shift and melt as if under a blowtorch. His voice, when he speaks, is that of a rattlesnake.

“I should have killed you properly when I had the chance,” he hisses. 

(Out of the corner of his eye, Qui-Gon sees the hilt disappear, swallowed by a ripple of lightning.)

“But now that I’m–”

A rattling, rasping cough– a splatter of blood–

“Now that I’m here, I wonder if– if I might not pick up where my apprentice left off?”

And then–

His Padawan’s head raises the tiniest bit. 

“So much to learn–”

A small hand flexes once, twice, curling into a fist.

“Such power–”

Eyes full of lightning fix on the man to Qui-Gon’s left.

“I wonder if he’ll scream as prettily as you?”

Something materializes in Obi-Wan’s hand.

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” the Jedi says, his smile turning sharp. “I’m so good at faking it.”

Sidious’s eyes narrow–

And then go wide as a blue blade punches through his chest.

Obi-Wan twists, extinguishing the blade as the sword held to his neck dips downwards– a terrible little noise tears out of his throat but he’s still moving, wrenching himself out of the faltering grip, scrabbling backwards on the ground– and the stranger surges forward, the hilt leaping from Obi-Wan’s hand to his, and swings–

The blade materializes just in time to cut cleanly through the Sith’s neck.

The head hits the ground with a thud.

The body follows half a second later.

For a moment, frozen:

The stranger. Lightning webbing across his face. Across his palms. His saber extended in the last moment of a follow-through sweep.

The body on the floor. Yellow eyes faded with fury. Smoldering edges. Death delayed but not dodged.

His Padawan. His boy. Sprawled backwards on the smoking grass. Shaking. The look in his eyes is that of one who rides a comet.

Qui-Gon takes one faltering step forward. Then another.

“Obi-Wan,” he says.

His Padawan doesn’t spare him a glance.

The stranger extinguishes his blade. Tucks the hilt into his belt.

In the sudden, stifling silence, Qui-Gon hears him exhale. A long, slow breath.

It’s a call. A summons. The lightning crawling across the walls begins to retreat.

Into him. 

It’s– his. 

But the Sith had–

And Obi-Wan–

His boy staggers to his feet, stumbles forward, reaching–

The stranger crouches just in time to catch him. Small hands curl into the sleeves of his robe.

“Hello there,” he says, very quietly. “Let me see. Alright? Let me see.”

A single beat of silence–

“Oh,” his Padawan says, in a tiny puff of breath. Almost inaudible. “Not even the younglings?”

(The younglings, he calls them sometimes, as if to draw a distinction, as if he is not still one himself–)

A hand presses to his forehead.

“Sleep,” the Jedi says gently, and Obi-Wan folds into him like flimsi. 

Caught and carried easily– he rises to his feet, Obi-Wan in his arms–

Qui-Gon notices, then, that not all the lightning has retreated. 

Something stretches up the length of the rear wall in the garden. A crack in the air. A fracture. A fault line. A wound in the very fabric of the Force itself, humming at the edges– he feels pressure building behind his eyes–

(They had to come from somewhere, those two.)

And the stranger is edging backwards, towards this rift–

With his Padawan–

“Wait,” Qui-Gon croaks, and then again, stronger, as if shaking off a shroud– “Wait–”

But the stranger shakes his head. A shudder tears through him, something flickering behind his eyes–

“He needs– needs help he– can’t get here–”

“We have Healers,” Qui-Gon interrupts, because he can feel– finally– the others approaching, and if he can just keep this stranger here for long enough, then–

“Please, we can go now, let’s–”

“He’ll be dead in– in thirty minutes,” the other Jedi interrupts bluntly. “And– maybe me? I can’t–”

He stops. Shakes himself.

“I’ll be back with– updates. And– to get the body. They’ll need– proof.”

That same, odd stuttering– a momentary slackening–

Then his eyes clear for a brief moment, and Qui-Gon nearly takes a step back when they focus on him.

“I need to go home,” the stranger says. More clear and sincere than anything he’d said before now. “Do you understand? I need to go home.”

Qui-Gon doesn’t mean to ignite his lightsaber. 

He really doesn’t.

(But this stranger has his Padawan.)

Then–

Footsteps. A flurry, rushing towards them, and a tidal wave of relief washes through him–

Glancing backwards is a fool’s mistake.

A cracking sound–

A snap of light, bright and blinding–

They’re gone.

He leaps forward, reaching– the rift is open, it’s open, he can follow–

The maelstrom that greets him makes him stagger backwards.

Qui-Gon finds his strength in the Living Force. In wellsprings and harvests, the changing of the seasons, the warmth of the sun. His shields take the form of an old and wild forest, the paths through which only he knows– all grasping vines and shifting roots and ancient, looming life. He digs his feet into warm soil, into cool water, into hot sand– rooted in green and growing things, in life and its promise all around him.

But this–

There are no roots to grab onto. 

If he steps in, he will not come out again.

He stares, hand still outstretched, at the gaping, crackling fissure.

They’re gone.

A hand lands on his shoulder. 

“Qui-Gon!”

(He has made a lot of promises over the past month.)

“We couldn’t get through, the whole Temple was– warping, almost, it didn’t want to let us–”

(You’re safe, he tells him. Nothing will hurt you here.)

“Is that a– by the Force–”

(Sitting by the door. Tucking him against his side. Giving space and leaving space. Finding a balance.)

He can’t look away from the lightning.

(He’d promised.)

Someone yanks him around, and he blinks, clearing his gaze of the blinding light that sears behind his eyes–

Mace.

His friend’s nose is bleeding.

“Qui-Gon?”

(The truth of it is this, he knows: Obi-Wan keeps forgetting his lightsaber. His hand seeks a blaster every time he moves to draw. The weight of it sits strangely in his hand. Qui-Gon reminds him gently, every day, before they leave their quarters. He dislikes the flush of shame that crawls up the thin face; if shame should fall on anyone it should be him.)

“Where’s Obi-Wan?”

He had forgotten to remind him this morning.

And a Sith had come.

And now Obi-Wan is–

“Gone,” he says.

A ragged wound in the sky, leading–

Where? Where did they go?

“I don’t know where. He’s gone.”

(There’s blood on the ground, where his Padawan had fallen.)

Chapter Text

One minute.

Waxer, on the comms, anticipating Cody’s every move–

Telling him they’re on their way. Telling him they’re two minutes out. Telling him that Organa had livestreamed it, that Palpatine’s face was all over the holonets, that everyone knows–

Telling him that Helix is with them.

“No,” Cody interrupts. “Tell him to stay back, patch in one of the others. Obi-Wan’ll lock onto him when he comes back, and I want him out of the hot zone.”

Where? Where? Where did he–?

“Done.”

(His head hurts.)

Three minutes.

Fox tells him that Amedda tried to issue a warrant for Obi-Wan’s arrest.

“Made our job a lot simpler when he tried to activate the chips to make sure we listened,” he says, and even over comm Cody can hear the vicious glee.

“Is he dead?” 

“Can he be?” Fox asks hopefully, and against all reason Cody feels his lips twitch upwards.

“Better if not,” he says reluctantly, and a gusty sigh emerges from the static.

“Hit him with a stunner,” Fox informs him. “Thire’s got him in a cell.”

And then, a bit sulkily–

“You’re no fun.”

(His head hurts.)

Five minutes.

He blinks at the sudden flash of light in his eyes, and when the spots clear from his vision he sees Needle, tucking a penlight into his belt.

“Eyes on my finger, follow, come on–”

Well. That’s easy enough.

Needle’s face, though–

“One hell of a concussion,” he sighs. “I suppose if I were to ask you to sit down, I’d be met with–”

Cody scowls at him.

“–that, yeah, all right, fine,” Needle concedes. “Stay out of the Rotunda, I’ve got Hound on comms and he says the east wing is coming down fast– too much of the frame was compromised, and they’re aiming for a controlled demolition. Avoid another head injury and we’re good, fair deal?”

He nods, and the indomitable grin materializes once more.

“Watch yourself, sir,” Needle says cheerfully, and then he’s off, sprinting towards the crumbling dome.

The building looks like it’s bleeding, with all the red armor–

(His head hurts.)

Eight minutes.

“I want a perimeter set up around the rift– the Sith might make a run for it, might try and come back through–”

And then–

Jedi.

A flurry of robes, swarming across the plaza, and the next chunk of masonry that falls from the Rotunda’s roof slows almost to a stop in mid-air before being redirected.

Windu skids to a stop next to him, staring at the ragged tear in the sky.

“Can you follow him?” Cody blurts out, but the other General shakes his head.

“There’s no room,” he says nonsensically, and there’s something in his– his eyes, they’ve gone distant, somewhere far away–

His nose is bloody.

“Sir!” Cody snaps, because they can’t afford to lose another Jedi, and Windu blinks once, twice–

“No,” he says, his gaze refocusing, looking at Cody instead of through him. “No. But I can feel him– it’s muffled, but he’s holding, he’s alive–”

They know what it feels like when he’s dead, now.

(His head hurts.)

Ten minutes.

Helix tells him that the comms blackout has gone through and patches him through to Jess. 

They don’t have the docking facilities to accommodate six venator-class starships, she tells him, her voice strained but steady, but they’re mobilizing all portable units and prepping coordination of a transport rotation. The nearest battalion is three hours away, and they’ll need to patch him through to the bridge officers to confirm instructions, so if he could do her the favor of not dying and stay available on comms–

“Needle already ordered me not to die,” he grumbles. “I’ll be here.”

“Well, if Needle ordered it,” she says, amusement flaring in her voice before vanishing. “We saw Ben go through. Anything–?”

“No,” Cody interrupts, something he can’t afford to indulge twisting uncomfortably in his chest. “Not yet.”

A beat–

“He’s in so much trouble when he gets back,” she says. “Pass that onto him for me– for all of us, will you?”

“Done,” he says, and Jess barks a laugh before the call cuts out.

(His head hurts.)

Twelve minutes.

They’re clearing the east wing, Jek tells him, evac’s more than halfway complete– there’s a few trapped in a pocket under the remains of the turbolift shaft–

(His head hurts.)

Thirteen minutes.

It’s safe, Obi-Wan had said, pointedly persistent. Well-guarded, too. I have to start somewhere, right?

(His head hurts.)

Fourteen minutes.

He nearly decks Boil when the trooper materializes in front of him, telling him to sit down before he falls over–

(His head hurts.)

And then–

(Fifteen minutes and twenty-three seconds, a little voice in the back of Cody’s mind informs him–)

The ever-shifting, crackling lightning of the rift–

Stills.

Just for a moment, but then it twists, snarls, curls in on itself in a way that he knows–

“Don’t shoot!” he roars, and other voices echo him but he doesn’t– can’t bring himself to care, because–

Because–

A blur of motion tumbles out of the rift, hits the ground, rolls, and Cody catches a glimpse of red hair and something in his arms before the lightning swallows him up again, tearing forwards, and he fumbles for his comm and shouts–

“Helix, he’s coming to you!”

(don’t stop to think don’t stop where’s safe need safe)

Helix has less than five seconds to be grateful that Cody had ordered him to stay behind before the air splits open.

“Got him!” he barks, and snaps the comm shut before scrambling forward.

Obi-Wan’s landing is more of a collision with the wall than anything else. He reels backwards, slumping, folded over– something–

“General!” Helix snaps, crouching, hands spread, palms open. “Obi-Wan, can you hear–”

Eyes shot through with lightning blink at him, flaring with recognition.

“Take him–” he gasps out– “Take– please–”

And Helix realizes–

It’s not– something, what he’s curled around.

It’s someone.

(helix is safe like a lighthouse and ben needs– he’s lost, he needs–)

The medics don’t tend to look at faces very often when they’re working.

They all have the same one, after all, and in the middle of a battlefield there are more important things to be looking at, and if you’ve seen one moment of realization then you’ve seen them all, and if you’ve seen one look of resignation then you’ve seen them all, and if you’ve seen one light go out then you’ve seen them all, and–

Well. 

That is to say, when Obi-Wan shoves an unconscious kid into his arms, Helix doesn’t look at him, not really. He looks at what needs treating instead.

The singed edges of a (Jedi?) tunic reveal a saber burn underneath, severity undetermined– he lays him out on a bed, assessing, and cuts away the fabric that’s getting in the way– pus-white and charred, third– no, fourth degree, that white’s a flash of bone–

A voice snaps out on your left and Helix shifts on instinct, reaching for an LR bag, starting a line, and out of the corner of his eye he watches Stitch flush out the wound and a part of him flinches in anticipation because you have to clear it out before anything else and the pain of that has drawn many a brother out of unconsciousness but the kid doesn’t move, thank fuck for that, and he presses two fingers against a skinny wrist, checking–

Hypovolemic shock? BP is too low and still dropping, and he glances up, checks the kid’s color, ignores the little shriek in the back of his mind– it’s poor, yeah, dextrose solution– maybe norepinephrine? Keep the blood flowing– Stitch is a step ahead of him, tucking a pillow under the kid’s legs, keeping them elevated, and Helix checks the burn again, thoughts already leaping ahead to skin grafts, to bacta– he’d prefer a tank, but the kid’s an unknown quantity, might react poorly to submersion, so if they can stabilize him then they can hold off–

His eyes catch on a scar just below the ragged-edged burn.

A remarkably familiar scar.

It’s– fresh. 

Fresher than the one he knows. 

Or– knew.

Before the lightning had sewn his General back together and wiped a canvas of survival clean.

A long-range blaster rifle. Intercepting an assassination. A knotted starburst across his chest.

Melidaan.

This time, when Helix glances at the face, he really looks.

Oh.

Oh, hell.

“Norepinephrine drip,” he snaps out, already moving, but Stitch shakes his head and reaches for a different bag, words clipped and terse and steady–

“Not smart, sir, norepinephrine could complicate a psychic attack– I’ll run a dextrose drip, it’ll hold for now–”

Ha. Stitch had already figured it out, hadn’t he?

Psychic attack. The Sith had gone hunting.

(Where does that rift lead to, exactly?)

Helix squeezes his shoulder and turns back to Obi-Wan, reaching for him, gripping his shoulders, and maybe he’s a bit desperate but the people he cares about keep running off to face Sith Lords and he would like to be able to be able to keep them safe for once in his godsdamned life–

(Pack it up.)

“Obi-Wan.”

(Pack it down.)

No reaction.

(Pack it away.)

“General.”

That, at least, gets him a response. Shaking hands come up and wrap around his forearms.  

Encouraging. Acknowledgement is something, acknowledgement is good–

“I need a status report, sir,” Helix says, holding his composure at knifepoint. “Injuries?”

(He doesn’t see anything, but that doesn’t mean shit–)

(general he is a general he is needed he needs to–)

(he needs to–)

He needs to–

Obi-Wan shudders back into himself in an instant.

The ground has vanished from under his feet. The way he’s clinging to the bonds may be a bit– unseemly, he thinks, and bites back a bubble of hysterical laughter as he scrambles for footing over empty air, desperate– 

But.

Steady hands. Reaching hands. Rocks in the river, and he grabs on and holds.

Injuries. Injuries. Injuries?

Sidious didn’t– he didn’t land a blow–

Nearly, nearly, if Qui-Gon hadn’t–

He shakes his head.

“There’s blood on your teeth,” Helix says. “Check again?”

He does. Shakes his head again. Pries his mouth open.

“Bit my tongue,” he croaks. “Nothing– internal. Bruises. Not– fatal.”

“Acceptable,” Helix says drily. His grip doesn’t relax, and Obi-Wan leans into it. “And the Sith?”

A convulsion tears through him without his consent, all the way up his back, and his head jerks backwards, slamming into–

Helix’s hand. 

“We’ve got you,” he hears, through the ringing in his ears. “We’ve got you. Dead?”

“Dead,” he echoes, and then, remembering–

“The body.”

“What?”

“The body–” 

He shifts, trying to stand, but his legs don’t obey him– he can’t feel them either, not really–

No drifting. No time.

“I need to get the body–”

“It’ll wait,” Helix says. His tone brooks no argument. “He’s dead. He’ll keep. You need to find your footing.”

“No,” Obi-Wan grits out– there, left foot is on the ground, he’s getting there– “I need to–”

His voice fails him. 

Hands on his shoulders, not pushing but holding steady–

“Another Jedi can get it,” Helix says. “Where you went through– it’s still open, another Jedi could– I’ll comm Mace–”

“No room,” Obi-Wan manages, and nearly shouts with frustration when his legs give out from under him. Another Jedi had never– he’d never dragged one through. They can feel it– the strength of the current–

It would tear them apart.

“There’s– he’s already there– no room, no space for– for him to– to step into–”

“No room–?”

Utter silence, so complete the only thing Obi-Wan can hear is the sound of his own breathing.

He closes his eyes, trying, trying–

The hands on his shoulders squeeze, deliberately. 

“Okay,” Helix says. “Okay.”

There’s something odd in his voice.

“Can we go through?”

What?

He pries his eyes open.

There’s something churning under the surface of Helix’s steady gaze.

“Can we go through?” he repeats. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but–”

He stops.

The scar is fresh, Helix thinks. Barely a month old, if that– and the kid’s still got the remnants of that look about him, of half-sunken starvation–

And that would have been what, twenty years ago? Which means–

If Mace can’t go through, because there’s already– he’s already there–

Then–

(Helix is fourteen years old.)

“We don’t exist yet, do we?” he says, very quietly. 

Obi-Wan shakes his head.

Lightning carves jagged lines through his eyes, and Helix knows– this scrabbling at consciousness isn’t sustainable, he needs time– whether to drift for a bit or find his footing, he needs–

So this needs to be quick.

“You’ve pulled us through before,” he says, quick and careful and steady. “And it’s open and holding. So. Can we go through?”

Obi-Wan’s gaze is light-years away, when he nods. 

“It won’t hurt you,” he says blearily, and then, sharpening for an instant, the hand on Helix’s arm spasming– “I won’t hurt you. You– you know that, right? It– I won’t hurt you–”

“I know,” Helix interrupts, relief crackling through him– and maybe a bit of something else, too, something that he isn’t letting himself think about right now, because there’s a child in his medbay and a way through to–

Not now.

“Okay. Okay. We’ll get the body, we’ll make sure it’s seen–”

(Cody’s told him about the warrant, about the attempt, and Amedda might be out of the picture but there’s no sense in creating more problems for themselves–)

“-and you just– you find your footing, okay? I’ll be right here, Stitch has the kid, it’s just a burn, we know how to handle– will you please sit down–?”

Because Obi-Wan’s already trying to scramble back to his feet– the solution to one problem only making room for another–

“General.”

Another enormous, shuddering inhale–

“He needs– me,” Obi-Wan manages, the blue in his eyes gaining ground, however briefly. “He needs– the Sith– did something. Trapped him. In his head, I saw– there’s– all the lights gone out, Helix, it’s–”

“We’ll lose you both if you try and pull off some psychic fuckery now,” Helix snaps. “You trust us, right?”

That’s a low blow, maybe–

But effective.

“‘Course,” Obi-Wan says, sounding slightly offended. “‘Course I do.”

“Then trust us to keep him alive until you can pull him out,” Helix says. “You’ll be of no use to anyone if you fall into the trap with him, right? You’ve got contact, take a minute– we’ll keep him stable until you can figure out what’s going on.”

A beat of silence–

Then the tension under his hands unravels, and slowly, Obi-Wan slides back down against the wall. 

“Okay,” he breathes. “Trust you.”

Helix closes his eyes.

“Thank you,” he says, and shifts to sit next to him, tugging him against his side. “I’ll be right here. Find your footing. It’ll wait.”

He feels Obi-Wan slump against his shoulder, and knows– he’s gone drifting for a bit. Sometimes you can only get a grip on the end of the rope.

“It’ll wait,” he repeats, and reaches for his comm.

The buzzing of the incoming call feels like an electric shock.

“Cody here–”

“I got him, he’s alive– drifting, but he was talking earlier, he just needs a minute,” Helix says immediately, and Cody– curls inwards, just for a moment, the wave of relief nearly taking him out at the knees.

“Okay,” he says, and gathers himself before he does something stupid like bursting into tears in the middle of a rescue op. 

It’s the concussion. Definitely the concussion. 

“What do you need from me?”

“Congratulations, you’re going on your first solo ride,” Helix says. “Sidious is dead, and the body needs to be recovered for proof before the Senate starts accusing him of attempting a coup.”

Yeah, that tracks. Amedda had tried to arrest him, and he won’t be the only one–

Then the rest of the sentence trickles through.

“What?”

“Grab a couple others, go through, grab the body, come back. Make it fast– if you’re longer than three minutes I’m sending people after you– minimal interference, in and out, and don’t start any fucking fights, Commander, or so help me–”

“Where exactly–?” he starts, but then he hears Stitch’s voice, slightly muffled but tinged with panic, and Helix swears before the call cuts out.

Cody clips the comm to his belt, staring upwards.

It’s a lot louder up close. 

Like a waterfall. An avalanche. A flash flood, something vast and enormous descending in a roar, unwitting and uncaring of what stands in its way–

But it’s Obi-Wan’s.

And Obi-Wan wouldn’t hurt them.

He'd explained, after that first terrible tear on Geonosis– not the first time he'd let the lightning swallow him, no, not by a long shot, but the first time he'd dragged anyone with him. He’d been almost frantic when he’d come back, too– stumbling to his feet, going searching, ignoring requests that verged on orders to sit down until Cody had caught on and summoned every trooper who’d been in the shuttle with him.

And even then– even then, afterwards–

He’d never pulled anyone through with him before, he’d said. He never would have risked it. It’s– going through means dissolving, dissolving into the Force, a dissolution and reconstruction of the physical form, and he’d had practice but another Jedi would’ve gotten torn apart–

It had been Trapper who’d suggested the theory that had eventually prevailed among the rest of them– that maybe it worked because they weren’t Force-sensitive. They couldn’t feel the Force pulling at them. They needed a– a catalyst, maybe, to yank them through, but in there–  

“Dense as rocks,” Decker had said cheerfully, “that’s us.”

And Obi-Wan had laughed at that, finally–

But he hadn’t completely relaxed until each of them had been cleared by the medics.

“I’d rather not find out I misplaced something,” he’d said wryly, ill-concealed stress digging lines around his eyes. 

A catalyst. Yes.

But if it’s already open–

If they can just– step through–

Twin flashes of gold catch his eye, and he turns and whistles sharply.

“Huh,” Boil says, when Cody finishes explaining– or rather, extrapolating from the crumbs of information that Helix had deigned to share. 

“Well,” Waxer says, already stepping forward, “nothing we haven’t done before, right–?”

Cody snags him by the belt and ignores the indignant squawk. “Hold on. We go together, alright? Maintain points of contact, and no one drops their hold until we’re all through.”

He can almost feel Waxer’s offended look from behind the visor.

“You think we need the reminder, sir?”

“With you,” Cody says drily, “I’ve learned it’s best to be cautious.”

“Ouch,” Waxer mutters, and Boil does a very bad job of disguising his snort.

“Did you want another bucket, sir?” he asks. “If we’re going into unknown territory– we can ask the Guard for a spare–”

The thought of putting something over his head right now makes him nauseous. 

The thought of putting something painted in Corrie red over his head makes it worse.

And besides– 

If they were about to be walking into a hostile situation, Helix would have said something. Would have opened with that. Would have commed him back within about thirty seconds.

And he’d said don’t start any fights.

Don’t start them.

Which implies he doesn’t think they need to be anticipating them.

(Corrie red on his armor. Ugh. Disgusting.)

“No,” he says, but then remembers– the crash into the speeder. Something wet on his face. He reaches up, fingers fumbling along where he remembers the stinging cut to be and doesn’t feel– the blood flow must have stopped, that’s good, but still– to prevent infection, or– something, he remembers vaguely, he should–

“Do either of you have a bacta patch for this, though?” he asks. 

“For what?”

For what?

Cody stares at them.

“For the cut,” he says slowly. “Maybe you two should take your buckets off anyways, if they’re impeding your vision that much–”

Waxer actually does take his helmet off at that. His eyes narrow–

Then a slow smile blooms across his face.

“No bacta needed, sir,” he says cheerfully. “Looks like the General took care of that one for you.”

Oh. Well. That was nice of him.

(Why does Waxer look so smug–?)

“Wipe that smirk off your face,” he mutters, and Waxer jams his bucket back on. 

“Yessir,” he says, but still–

Hell. Whatever. Pick your battles.

He scrambles up onto the half-collapsed roof, the other two right behind him.

Waxer’s hand lands on his shoulder. Boil threads their arms together. 

“Step together, all right? On three–”

He drops his free hand to his blaster.

“Two–”

Best to be prepared, after all.

“One–”

And in the instant before they step, he catches sight of Windu, turning towards them, eyes wide, and thinks briefly that maybe they should have informed someone–

But Waxer’s already moving forward, and Boil’s right beside him, and Cody can’t risk losing his footing, so they s t e p–

(It’s an odd thing indeed, doing this without Obi-Wan.

He’s used to the feeling of a hand in his. The singular tether in the storm, curling tight, shepherding them through, keeping them safe, and there’s a part of him that still expects it, even knowing that he’s not with them, and he braces himself–

But something– 

Something meets them anyways.

He feels, very distinctly, something ruffle his hair.

Hands tug at them, pulling them onwards, forwards–)

And then there’s grass under his feet, an echo of laughter reverberating in the emptiness before Cody reasserts himself. 

He feels Boil’s hand curl around his arm, reassuring, before letting go, and Waxer squeezes his shoulder before his hand drops away.

Okay. Good. Good. That’s good. They’re all here–

Then he looks up, and instinct kicks in. 

Assess. First, always– sentients. Enemies? One, two– eight, all of them armed but not aiming, robes and sabers– Jedi, okay, not a threat– and there, the Chancellor’s body– oh, he’s in pieces, isn’t that nice? Surroundings– scorched greenery, rubble from a collapsed wall– compromised infrastructure? No, the arches are intact, and there’s no– 

Recognition flares.

The Room of a Thousand Fountains.

They’re in the Temple?

This is the corner where– the Chrysalis, Master Kara, but what had– oh, oh, if Sidious had come here– but who was he looking for? He’d been trying to kill Obi-Wan, why would he–?

He breathes in. Studies the Jedi.

That’s– Windu, and Yoda, but they’d been– they’d been on the ground by the Rotunda, he’d just– and Koon, to his left, but he’s– isn’t he on Utapau? They’d just made landfall yesterday, Rex had commed him– and then, next to him–

Next to him is–

Is–

Oh.

Oh.

(His head hurts.)

Qui-Gon recounts the sequence of events tonelessly, when the others ask. 

He tells them about how he’d felt Obi-Wan scream. Tells them about how he’d felt the screaming stop. Tells them about how his Padawan had– shattered. 

(The bond is dull with distance, clogged with darkness–)

He tells them about the Sith.

The Sith.

The body doesn’t lie. 

The faded yellow eyes, and the scraps of Darkness that linger in the Force, bitter and burning–

Cin suggests they burn the corpse.

Qui-Gon shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “The Jedi said he’d return for it.”

He tells them about the stranger. The man who’d stepped out of the air with a sky-colored saber, out of the rift that now carves through the space in front of them, showing no signs of faltering. Lightning spinning out from steady steps. The warmth of it. The warmth of him.

He’d been– chasing him, he says. They’d known each other. The Sith had come first, and the Jedi had– had been hunting him.

(Something prickles at the edge of his awareness, but it slips between his fingers like water when he reaches for it.)

Sidious, he tells them. The Jedi had called him Sidious.

Scraps of information, passed immediately to the Archives– 

A Sith named Sidious. A mention of an apprentice. A red-haired Jedi who fought with– Soresu, yes, that’s what it had been. And if he’d been hunting the Sith, then he must have been– fairly high ranking–

(Again, a thought flashes a fin in the back of his mind, gone again in an instant before he can assess it.)

They don’t have enough. They barely have anything. And his Padawan is–

Steady.

He tells them about the– the–

About everything that came after.

There are no more interruptions.

At last, the words run out.

“In danger, you believe him to be?” Yoda asks finally.

Qui-Gon bites back his instinctive response.

Obi-Wan had– reached for the other Jedi. And the stranger had caught him. Had said he needs help. Had held him in a way you don’t hold a prisoner–

“Not– on purpose,” he says, after a long moment. “I believe he meant it, when he said he was going to get him help. But I am– worried.”

That he is alone.

(Alone and afraid among strangers–)

That it won’t be enough. 

(That terrible little noise, as Obi-Wan had stumbled backwards, the smell of burning–)

That they don’t know.  

(How he watches, how he flinches–)

“Can you feel him?” Adi asks.

“Barely,” Qui-Gon admits. The confession tastes like ash. “It’s– dull. Distanced. And I think the Sith– did something. I can’t–”

He stops.

“Right,” Mace says, a bulwark of steady strength even as the Force around him coils tight with worry. “Try to reach him, if you can. When the other Jedi comes back, we can–”

The sentence goes unfinished. 

The rift shudders, crackles, stretches, and Qui-Gon– very deliberately doesn’t reach for his saber; his reaction the first time had been instinctive and had– probably not done him any favors in the stranger’s eyes, come to think of it–

(He does shift his stance. Only slightly. The Jedi will not take offense, and if it’s an enemy, well– he’s a quick draw.)

But it’s neither.

It’s someone– someones– new.

Not Jedi or Sith–

Soldiers.

Three of them.

White armor, painted with brilliant gold. Not pristine, though– these men have seen battle, maybe they just came from it. Well-worn, war-worn, but–

Clean.

Well-cared for. 

In the Force– a prickly wariness, its sharp edges sanded down against confident competence. Banked fire, blazing hot but tightly leashed. The burn of adrenaline is shot through with dragging exhaustion, and– the man in front, the only one without a helmet– his signature is smeared in a way that indicates a fresh head injury. 

All of this, he assesses in an instant, as dark eyes scan the room–

Then all three go very still.

An explosion of shock ricochets through the Force, tinged with– recognition?– before it’s tucked down and away, behind a smooth and glassy shield of practiced professionalism.

A moment of silent stillness–

Then the man in front carefully drops his hand from the sidearm strapped to his waist.

“Sirs,” he says, cautiously controlled. “My name is Marshall Commander Cody. Behind me–” he gestures– “are Lieutenants Waxer and Boil. We’re here to collect the Chan– the Sith’s body for– proper disposal. If you wouldn’t mind–”

Behind him, the other two shift forward. Qui-Gon nearly– nearly– steps in front of them, and it’s only a sharp tug from Yoda in the Force that makes him think better of it. He watches, instead, as the two soldiers move forward, scooping up the– pieces.

“Ugh,” Boil mutters over closed comms. “He’s leaking.”

“There are bits coming off,” Waxer says, disgusted. “If you’re taking the head, you need to take the arm too.”

Mace is the first one to step forward.

“I am Jedi Master Mace Windu,” he says, bowing his head. “We have no wish to get in your way. But we were under the impression that the Jedi who killed him would be returning for the body.”

Another ripple of– something– flickers through the Force, there and gone in an instant.

“He’s– with our CMO, at the moment,” the Commander says, and then clarifies– “Chief Medical Officer.”

Something in Qui-Gon’s chest eases at this. So the Jedi hadn’t lied. He was going to get him help.

“I see,” Mace says, sharp-eyed and steady. “Do you have any more information? One of our Padawans was injured by the Sith. Your Jedi took him. You understand our concern, of course.”

“Wait–”

“No–”

“You don’t think–?”

“Of course,” the Commander echos, looking shell-shocked. “What’s–”

He stops. His throat bobs.

“What’s the Padawan’s name?”

Qui-Gon steps forward. 

“Obi-Wan Kenobi,” he says. “He’s my–”

The shockwave in the Force robs him of his voice. 

Something enormous shudders, roiling upwards like a tsunami, sharp-toothed and scalding and–

Seized without finesse and shoved back behind steel-walled shields.

The Commander’s expression is made of stone.

“I don’t know much more than you, at the moment,” he says slowly. “A lot’s– happening. Has happened.”

“Will happen?”

“Shut up.”

“But we– we’ll let you know as soon as we have– information. And about– Padawan Kenobi. But if the General brought him to Helix, he’s in good hands.”

“Your CMO?”

“Yes. If he’s hurt– Helix is the best. He’ll–”

He pauses.

“He’s in good hands,” he repeats, and his voice– his voice softens, the slightest bit. “I promise.”

The Force rings with sincerity , but Qui-Gon knows– truth is determined by belief. They may believe he is– and not unjustifiably so, a military CMO will be well-trained, but they– they don’t know–

The other two soldiers rise to their feet, retreating to flank the Commander. The one named Waxer– with a drawing of a Twi’lek on his helmet– swings the corpse over his shoulder in a careless fireman’s carry. Boil tucks the Sith’s severed arm under his own, and carefully shifts the head so the yellow eyes face outwards.

Qui-Gon, suddenly desperate, adds–

“He’s fourteen.”

Young. So young. Don’t– please be careful–

“And he–”

“Understood,” the Commander says, cutting him off. There’s something– something in his tone, harsh and sharp-edged–

“But–”

The Commander dismisses him, turning back to Mace with an– odd sort of ease. 

“We’ll work on establishing a communication line,” he says, every word clipped and cool. 

He takes a step back, towards the rift, the others moving with him, and with a jolt of shock Qui-Gon realizes that– they’re going, they’re leaving, and he still doesn’t know–

“Wait–”

Not a single one spares him a glance.

Cody thinks he is doing a remarkably good job of hanging onto his composure by a thread.

Waxer and Boil are at his shoulders. They have the body. No one’s dead.

“Listen,” Jinn says–

(Yet.)

“Boil, make sure the face is visible,” he says. “Someone’ll be filming, and if we don’t want another warrant–”

“Right, sir.”

“You don’t know–” Jinn tries again, taking a step forward.

“Waxer,” Cody says, marveling at how steady his voice is, “you’ve got a good grip?”

“I’m gonna have Sith juice on my armor,” Waxer moans. “He reeks.”

“That’s what your air filter’s for,” Boil says cheerfully.

“I’ll have to keep my bucket on for months.”

“Save us the view of your ugly mug.”

“And here I was thinking the two of you were professionals,” Cody mutters. “Should’ve brought Trapper.”

“The insult–”

Cody cuts him off with a jerk of his hand, turning back towards the group of Jedi.

He will not look at Jinn. He will not look at Jinn. He will not look at Jinn.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” he says steadily. 

(And he is. He is so, so grateful, this could be going much worse, they could have decided they were a threat, they could have decided–)

“Someone’ll come through soon. With an– update.”

(On the kid. The kid. He hadn’t been holding something, it had been someone, it had been Padawan Kenobi–)  

He looks at Windu and finds no sign of recognition– of course, of course, this Windu doesn’t know them– has no reason to–

But he remembers the funeral. 

Iwanaga.

Everything that came after.

They can– they’re empaths, they can feel it, and he gathers up all the sincerity he can muster, because he knows– 

“He’s safe with us,” he says, and pushes it forward as best he can– the truth of it, the promise of it, the knowledge that Helix is going to have a meltdown and then will never let the kid out of his sight again, the knowledge that they’re soldiers and soldiers know how to look after each other–

Windu’s eyes widen–

Then he inclines his head, and Cody closes his eyes.

“Thank you,” he repeats, meaning it.

He turns back towards the rift. Anxiety hums tight and sharp under his skin– he has to get home, back to their people; he has to get solid ground under his feet again and make sure they’re all alive, he has to ensure completion of the evacuation and facilitate transfers to Melidaan, he has to find Obi-Wan–

He wraps one hand around Waxer’s arm and grips Boil’s shoulder with the other, eyeing the rift.

Then–

“Wait–”

A hand lands on his shoulder–

Cody moves on instinct.

He pivots on his heel, slams a hand forward, aiming for the nose– breaking means blinding, a vital extra second to run, to shoot, to survive–  

–and Qui-Gon staggers backwards, sprawling onto the ground, an explosion of pain blooming across his face in a haze of red.

Blinking through tears, he sees the Commander, wide-eyed and stock still–

Then his face twists with an extraordinary fury, and he leans down until they’re nearly nose-to-definitely-broken-nose.

“You put a hand on me from behind and you think you know better than us how to take care of a soldier?”

The Force blazes with a scything rage– 

“You think you know anything about what he needs right now?”

Behind him, a flurry of movement–

“He’ll be safer with us than he’s ever been with you, Jinn–”

Waxer lunges forward, seizing him under the arms and dragging him backwards–

“Sorry–”

(But something very different sparks in the Force–)

“Sorry, he’s concussed–”

“Get off–”

The Commander twists onto his own feet and shoves them both towards the rift–

And then they’re gone.

Silence settles like ash.

Qui-Gon stares straight ahead, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand.

That had been– a hell of a punch–

He can’t quite bring himself to look at any of the others.

His behavior had been unbefitting of a Master. Foolish. Instinctive. He’d acted out of desperation. He’d only meant to get them to wait– to pause, for a moment, to listen–

Seasoned soldiers. Fresh from battle. And he’d grabbed the one who he’d known had been injured.

From behind.

A gimer stick comes down hard on his shoulder.

“Know better than that, you do!” Yoda says sharply. “Disappointed, I am! Spoke the truth, they did, and know this too, you do! Do that to your Padawan, would you?”

Qui-Gon squeezes his eyes shut.

No. Of course he wouldn’t have. He would never. Obi-Wan is– and he knows that–

He needs to breathe. To meditate. He curls his fingers into the scorched grass, feeling the way it crumbles against his palm, grieving that and so much else– 

A stray thought flickers at the corner of his awareness.

He doesn’t remember introducing himself.

But the Commander had called him Jinn.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan blinks.

Touch. The first to return.

Hands on his face, warm, familiar– he blinks again–

Sound, next–

“Good catch, Stitch. Welcome back, sir, can you tell me my name?”

Then, finally, sight returns at last. He blinks a third time as his vision swims back into focus.

Crouched in front of him, cupping his face in his hands–

“‘lix,” he croaks.

Relief blooms in dark eyes.

“There you go,” Helix says, a ragged grin unfurling like a sail. “I wanted you to see me first. Now, do you know where you are?”

His thoughts scatter like stars, but he pulls them back into orbit– there’s something–

(important)

There’s something–

(Master?)

There’s something–

(help)

“Medbay.”

“More than that.”

“Negotiator. Coruscant.”

Then, from ten feet away, leaning over another bed–

“Hi, sir!”

He forces a sluggish hand into motion and manages a stilted wave–

And realization slams into him like a freighter.

“How long?”

“Four minutes twenty, sir,” Stitch says, and smiles encouragingly. “Still better than pre-dying.”

Pre-dying. Force bless him.

Obi-Wan nods. Okay. Okay. That tracks–

Something cool presses into his hands.

“Drink.”

As he does–

“The kid’s unconscious, but as stable as we’re gonna get him right now,” Helix says, quick and quiet and even. “If you’re steady enough now, you need to grab him. We’ll have to intubate if his oxygen levels drop any further.”

“I can handle it,” Obi-Wan says immediately, and almost believes it himself.

(He knows it’s bad when Helix doesn’t call him on it.)

He staggers to his feet with Helix’s help and stumbles forward, next to the bed, not looking down– someone slides a chair over just in time–

His fingers curl into the fabric of his tunic.

He inhales.

It smells like ozone.

“The two of you need to leave,” he says.

(The echo of emptiness–)

He doesn’t need to look at Helix’s face to feel the flare of indignation in the Force, Stitch’s shuddering concern–

(All the lights gone out–)

“Like hell.”

“Helix.”

“You’re thirty seconds out of the lightning and the kid’s two drops short of critical, and you want me to–”

“It’s like– before,” Obi-Wan says haltingly, breathing out the now familiar twist of frustration with his tangled tongue. “It’s– if he lashes out, and catches you, you’ll be– gone.”

Helix’s eyes narrow, and he turns to Stitch and jerks his head towards the door. “Stitch. Out.”

Stitch’s gaze flickers between the two of them–

“If you’re staying,” he says carefully, “then I’m staying, because that means it’s not too dangerous.”

Obi-Wan carefully doesn’t smirk. Helix’s expression twists.

“Sir. If he lashed out– you’d be able to catch it.”

Obi-Wan closes his eyes. 

The faith they have in him–

He reaches out and catches Helix’s hand in his.

“Don’t ask me to try,” he says quietly. Stripped of all pretense, born of everything they’ve been working on, the two of them, for years– exasperation blooming into functional comprehension and then, at last, true understanding– 

“I don’t know if I could, right now. Please don’t ask me to try.”

A beat passes–

Helix squeezes his hand. The lines around his eyes soften– not with approval, but with resignation. “How long do you need?”

“You’d dislike it if I shrugged.”

“I would.”

Obi-Wan grins at him.

Helix sighs, and points a threatening finger in his direction.

“One hour. One. We can remotely monitor his vitals, and I won’t ask to hook anything to you, but you call me as soon as you’re awake, you hear me?”

“I hear you.”

Helix nods at last, curt and quick, tension writ large in every line of his body. He rests a hand on the back of Obi-Wan’s neck, presses their foreheads together–

“Pull him back,” he says quietly. “Bring him back, bring him back whole, and then you and I are going to have a chat about the definition of medical leave, idiot. Anything less is unacceptable. We just got you back, and I’m not attending your funeral again. Got it?”

“I’d hate to waste your time,” Obi-Wan murmurs, smiling, and Helix shakes him gently before stepping back.

“Good luck,” he says wryly, and hauls a nervous-looking Stitch out behind him.

Then the door slides shut, and Obi-Wan is alone.

Except for–

He looks down.

After Melidaan, he’d avoided mirrors for months until he’d put some weight on. Until his cheekbones weren’t quite so prominent. Until the starburst-scar was no longer an angry red. 

Until he could feel like Obi-Wan again, instead of Ben.

Even now, he knows, he tends toward a very–

(His mind shies away from the word clinical–)

Practical. Yes.

A very practical approach to personal grooming.

(He hadn’t realized he had quite so many freckles.)

He’s stalling. He knows he’s stalling.

(The glimpse he’d gotten–)

He closes his eyes. Breathes in.

He doesn’t have to face this alone.

(He won’t be facing this alone.)

“Foolish,” he murmurs, and laughs, a bit wetly.

“You never had to face any of it alone.”

He reaches out, rests a hand on Ben’s forehead–

“You’ll learn.”

His people fan out in the Force– Jedi and clone alike, glittering like stars, and he reaches out, holds on–

And s t e p s–

Ben thinks that he’s doing quite all right for himself.

He’s tucked himself down and away, out of reach of the grasping storm on the horizon, and carefully doesn’t think about the meaning of the starless sky.

If he does, then he will have to bear it, and he doesn’t want to.

(He’s tired.)

He will sit here, small and hidden, and wait for something to happen.

(He’s tired.)

If nothing happens, then he will keep sitting here until something does.

(He’s so tired.)

It’s safe. He’s safe. And he’s tired of fighting.

He wants to rest.

So he imagines himself a corner and stops thinking about things for a bit.

There’s a lot he could be thinking about.

The lightning. Who had come out of it. What that means now.

But the sky is dark and cold and empty, and in the face of that–

He doesn’t really want to think about anything, anymore.

So he doesn’t.

He drifts.

He doesn’t know for how long.

It’s very cold, but that’s okay. 

He’s gotten good at tolerating that.

(He’s so tired.)

Then–

Something shudders.

Ben stirs.

There’s someone here.

There’s someone here.

He feels something unfurl, questing, reaching, and reacts instinctively–

It comes on fast. Dozens, hundreds of shouted orders, overlapping–

Get up! Get up! Get–

Going, get going, if we don’t move fast–

A phantom grip wraps around his neck, hoisted into the air– ocean spray scatters against his face, legs kicking, eyes empty of mercy–

One life for many, stone and time closing in– a skinny hand raises to the detonator–

“Ben.”

A whisper, almost, that drops straight into his brain–

“That’s not how it ended, is it?”

“No!”

Warm eyes, steady hands, safe harbor.

“Are you alright? Obi-Wan, are you alright?”

Bombs disarmed, futures regained, planets rescued.

“Padawan– Padawan, let’s go home, let’s get you–”

Stepping out from the darkness, blinking in the sun, and the world reasserts itself at last.

Ben freezes.

“How did you–” he whispers– “how did you have that?”

Silence.

Again, a hand extends, reaching for him, and again, instinct takes over–

The screaming is the worst of it.

Noise drilling into the center of his brain, because they’re screaming for him, about him, and he can’t do a damn thing about it, only feeling–

Hollow. Like he was losing himself, everything spilling out.

Hands, pushing down, looking down–

Red and white caving under dark fingers–

The warmth of the blood. Like dishwater. 

The best thing about dying is that very little keeps mattering, and wouldn’t that be easier, after all? Let it drift, let it burn, there will be peace and you are so very insignificant, aren’t you? Just follow into the dark, feel yourself unravel, and there will be–

A ripple of quiet amusement echoes in the dark.

Again, seeming to skip his ears entirely–

“We don’t die that easy, do we?”

Dry mouth, chapped lips, raw throat.

Waking up. 

Crusty eyes, all aches, the sick-sweet taste of bacta.

Waking up.

Starched-fresh sheets. Warm blankets. White walls.

Waking up.

“Padawan.”

As if from a nightmare. A bad dream.

Waking up.

Ben sits up.

“How’d you do that?” he demands of the darkness.

For a third time, he feels someone reaching, and for the first time, recognition twinges in the back of his mind.

This time, he doesn’t try to run.

He simply folds himself down, draws his knees up to his chest, and waits.

Eventually, someone sits down next to him.

“Hi, Ben,” Obi-Wan says quietly.

It had been easier than expected to make his way in. 

Whatever it was that Sidious had set up, the barbed wire was curving inwards. So Obi-Wan had side-slipped in, along the edges of the fog, smelling smoke and tasting blood–

And behind him, the doors of the trap had slammed shut like a mausoleum.

So he’d kept walking forward, searching in the dark.

He thinks, in another world, he may have ended up walking forever.

But then he’d felt the echo of saltwater spray on his face and a lance of fire curl around his arm, and thought–

Found you.

It had been impressive work. 

He’d never been on the receiving end of his own shielding before.

Right now, admittedly, it’s rather slipshod– relying mostly on instinct than any sort of structure– 

But brutally, guttingly effective.

And if he hadn’t had the other halves–

Well.

Now, Ben is staring at him.

“It’s really you.”

Obi-Wan smoothes his hands against the rough-spun fabric of his cloak.

Amazing, the tangibility of it– even here, in the dark.

“Yes,” he says.

Silence.

“It doesn’t get better, does it?”

Obi-Wan sighs. 

“It does.”

“I saw you.”

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t go away.”

“Yes.”

He watches the dull gaze slide away from his face, and adds–

“But we do learn.”

“Does it still burn?”

Obi-Wan hesitates.

“Less so,” he says finally.

Skinny shoulders rise and fall in a half-hearted shrug, and silence descends once more.

Obi-Wan studies him.

“What’s your plan?” he asks, after some time has passed.

(How much, who knows, he could have sworn he’d been walking for days–)

“I think,” Ben says listlessly, “I’m just going to stay here.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to be alone.”

“Seems rather lonely to me, down here,” Obi-Wan ventures.

“Yeah,” Ben says quietly. “But at least I don’t have to do anything.”

“Why do you think you’ll be alone out there, Ben?”

At last, flat eyes turn back to him.

“They’re all gone,” he says. “Can’t you feel it?”

Obi-Wan stares at him.

They’re not. They are most certainly not. He can feel them. Muted, this far in, certainly, like distant stars– but still very much alive.

“I– cannot,” he says carefully. “May I look?”

A sluggish nod is his only answer. Obi-Wan carefully, carefully, slips ever so slightly–

Ugly shock shudders all the way down his spine.

He’d caught– glimpses of it, before. The sickening emptiness. But seeing it like this– a lightless, lifeless sky fanning out before them, utterly terrifying in its deserted desolation– bonds snapped and shattered, pieces scattered haphazardly across the barren waste– 

Never in his life has he felt a sky so dark.

The Jedi are not the only ones who shine so brightly in the Force, of course. They carry an odd sort of melody with them, a responsiveness, an awareness– but the Force glitters with life wherever it finds it, sparking with sound and song and lights of a thousand different colors. On Melidaan, even, far from home– Cerasi’s warm purple interwoven with echos of singing, Nield’s lively, rippling green tinged with the smell of fresh soap, Clasby’s marigold-orange bubbling with a rhythmic stomping–

Gone. Snuffed out.

“Ben,” he says helplessly, reeling, knowing even as he says it that it won’t be enough– “it’s not real.”

Again, that blank, empty gaze–

“I don’t believe you.”

“We killed the Sith,” Obi-Wan says. “Do you remember?”

He offers Ben a smile that is not returned.

“Too late, though,” Ben says dully. “Don’t you see?”

The trap.

It’s this, then, Obi-Wan realizes at last. The looming, writhing storm that surrounds them, impassable, impossible–

Sidious had trapped Ben in his victory, and now Obi-Wan is in here with him.

In this little pocket that Ben had carved out. Hiding.

(No way out but through.)

Obi-Wan exhales, long and slow, and regathers himself.

Ben cannot feel them.

But he can.

(All the little lights–)

“It’s not real,” he repeats. “We killed the Sith. We won. It’s a trap, Ben, I promise you–”

But Ben’s shaking his head.

“What motive would I have to lie?” Obi-Wan asks.

Ben shrugs.

“Dunno. But if I were you, I wouldn’t want to be alone out there either.”

This stops him in his tracks.

He can imagine it all too well–

Too good at surviving, and left alone for it.

A small hand pats him gently on the knee.

“We can stay here together, if you’d like.”

Obi-Wan folds one hand over Ben’s. He sees his shoulders shudder–

Then he shuffles the slightest bit closer, until their knees are brushing.

“We cannot,” he says quietly. “We’ve got people waiting for us, Ben, even if you don’t believe it, and I promised I’d bring you home.”

“People,” Ben echoes, and his gaze flits downwards, to Obi-Wan’s forearms–

“You had vambraces on.”

Obi-Wan closes his eyes.

He knows exactly where this is going.

How could he not?

It’s exactly what he’d thought too, at first.

“Yes,” he says.

“Armor.”

“Yes.”

“Like a soldier.”

“Yes.”

A beat passes.

“We go back to war, don’t we?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

It’s a tiny, dead sound.

“I don’t want to go back to war.”

“With any luck,” Obi-Wan says quietly, “you won’t. We have a chance to change things, Ben, do you understand?”

But he can feel Ben’s awareness slipping through his fingers like water.

“I’m tired, Obi-Wan.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to fight anymore.”

“I know.”

“I don’t feel like me anymore, either.”

“I know.”

Obi-Wan scoots a bit closer and holds out an arm. An open invitation.

Ben takes it.

He tucks himself up against Obi-Wan’s side, and Obi-Wan drapes the edge of his cloak around his shoulders. Enveloping him. Shield and safety.

“I know,” he repeats, “but I promise you, it’s worth it.”

“They’re all gone,” Ben echoes faintly. “How could it–”

“Melidaan turns green again.”

Oh, that gets his attention, alright. 

There is nothing Obi-Wan can say right now that will convince him of the truth in the face of the Sith’s lies. That they were not too late. That the war– he hardly dares to think it– may be won. That the Jedi still live, bright and vibrant and gloriously alive–

But he can tell him this.

“Green,” he repeats. “Poplar trees all along the streets. That was Denal’s idea, to facilitate agricultural development. It worked beautifully.”

Ben’s gone very still against his side.

“Poppies in the graveyards, too. All sorts of flowers. They scatter seeds on the graves, and those that aren’t picked off by birds bloom. Bursts of color.”

“Out of the river,” Ben murmurs, sounding stunned.

(Too many of the gravestones don’t have bodies underneath. They rolled their dead into the grey and rushing river that swept through the pipes– better the water take them than the rats–)

Sometimes, when rations got too low, they’d leave the bodies out as bait.

“And the lights are on, too. Like the footprints of a giant, I thought, when we came out of orbit– clusters of them, spreading out like capillaries. Greenhouses over trenches, full of all sorts– a lot of mushrooms, at first, while the poplars did their work in the soil. But now– eggplants, dragonfruit, strawberries and tomatoes, and the fields– Ben, the whole planet is breathing again.”

Ben’s own breathing hitches.

Obi-Wan squeezes his shoulder.

“Make it out with me,” he says quietly, “and we will visit. Peace suits them well. And I would like to show you the hospital.”

Ben squeezes his eyes shut and presses his hands hard against his face. Obi-Wan politely looks away.

Please. Please. Please. 

Thin and reedy and resigned–

“I’m tired, Obi-Wan.”

He knows. He knows this all too well. He remembers the thoughts that would drift into his head like dandelion seeds, some floating through, some setting down roots. Dangerous thoughts. Terrible thoughts.

Thoughts about survival, and what it is and isn’t worth.

He rises to his feet.

Ben stares at him.

“Watch yourself,” Obi-Wan says mildly, and scoops him up without ceremony.

He expects some form of protest.

But what he gets is only a short, huffy exhale, before skinny arms wrap around his neck and Ben goes utterly limp against him.

(He’s been very tired, Obi-Wan remembers. For a very long time.)

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

A plan:

Ben will cover his ears, squeeze his eyes shut, and tuck his face into Obi-Wan’s shoulder. He can’t block out the whole world, but he can try his best. Obi-Wan’s voice can fill in the cracks.

Because there’s no way out but through, here, and someone has to witness–

But it doesn’t have to be Ben.

And then, as insurance–

Obi-Wan shares a map. 

Something he’s done and received a thousand times before. Maps of hunger, of exhaustion, of broken bones and stomach aches, of migraines and panic attacks–

Except this time, it’s a map of people.

Ben can’t see them for himself. Not through the dark. But maybe, maybe, he can see what Obi-Wan shows him.

His signature shies away from the other Jedi, apparently without conscious effort– but Obi-Wan had expected this. With what Sidious had woven– he’d paid particular attention, it seems, to extinguishing the Jedi. He doubts Ben will recognize the truth of their survival until they’re out.

But Sidious had always thought the clones beneath his notice. 

Tethers. Anchors. Distant, down here, through the trap–

But still, as always, resoundingly brilliant.

“Oh,” Ben breathes. “Who are they?”

And Obi-Wan tells him, then, about [lighthouse] and [prismatic burst of colors] and [hummingbird in flight].

He tells him about [sudden burst of sunlight] and [warmth of fresh earth] and [mouthful of cinnamon].

He tells him about [asterisk of starlight] and [sting of moonshine] and [engine-whine of a starfighter].

He tells him about [bloody hands] and [fogged edge of dawn] and [breeze-ruffled sunflowers], about [cracked knuckles] and [murmur turned to melody] and [sweet-swindling voice], about [sketched curses] and [star-spiked constellations] and [spiral of sky on fire]–

He tells him, in short, about some of the best men he’s ever known.

Ben listens, wide-eyed, and Obi-Wan sees something spark in that hollow gaze–

“I tell you this,” Obi-Wan says quietly, “because I think it’s going to be very dark in there. I don’t think I’ll be able to feel them anymore. So this is a reminder. For both of us. Of who’s waiting.”

The walls of their little pocket begin to crack as the noise of the storm grows louder.

(It had been content to hold its distance when the thought of escape had not even kindled in Ben’s mind. But now– now–)

Ben curls against him as the fear slams in once more.

“I don’t–”

His voice strangles into silence. Obi-Wan runs a hand down the knobby line of his spine, considering.

It had been Mel, walking backwards, unsteady but uncaring, who’d told him about the story Clasby had passed onto her. Night after night, when the vast and empty weight of the sky above them had kept her tunnel-raised instincts alert and uncertain. He’d told her who it came from, she’d said, beaming, and had he really told them stories in the pipes? Because she thought she remembered, sometimes, the echo of his voice, but what she remembered didn’t quite match up with what Clasby had sung her to sleep with–

Obi-Wan had asked what he’d woven, and she, in turn, had returned the story to him.

About a boy named Jaesh who’d shouldered the weight of the sky.

About a boy who’d asked for help.

About a boy who, as it turned out, had never needed to do it alone.

He presses Ben’s head gently into his shoulder. Reminds him to close his eyes. Makes sure he’s covering his ears.

And as he walks forward, as their little pocket dissolves around them, as the storm and the fog and the fire surge forward and the trap snaps shut around them–

“Ben,” he says, “let me tell you a story.”

There’s no rhyme or reason to the path that opens up before them.

The smoke dissolves into the gardens. The Room of a Thousand Fountains.

Foliage scorched down to the roots. Stone walls stained black with smoke.

He thinks it’s ash, at first, that clogs the air–

Then he hears the buzzing.

He turns. Looks down.

Ah. 

Of course.

He must witness, to make it out.

And Sidious had wanted to make sure he’d see the dead.

Obi-Wan steps over open hands and broken hands and hands with nothing else attached. He steps over scorched robes and torn robes and bloodied robes. He steps over dropped sabers and padawan braids and faces that he cannot look at too closely.

He walks forward.

And as he does, he curls a hand over the back of Ben’s head to ward off the flies, and talks.

Jaesh, his father asked, why do you stay?

I must help them, Jaesh said. If I leave they will be crushed.

Why must you be the one who holds the sky? his father asked.

Will you help me hold the sky? Jaesh asked.

And his father said yes, for your hands begin to shake.

And so he shared the weight.

It’s not real, he reminds himself, in every step and burning breath.

It’s not real.

Their footsteps are already mapped out, and the trail must be followed. The darkness twists, leading them into the western refectory.

Spilt trays. Scorch marks on the walls. Vent covers in the back wall, half-pried open.

Not fast enough. The evidence lies under them.

Most of the bodies are closer to the entrance. Masters and knights both. Defending those who could not yet defend themselves.

(They had pushed over tables, it looks like, in a last-ditch effort at a barricade.)

From there, into-

The Archives.

He walks. Inwards and onwards. The skin on his face and hands begins to blister and peel away–

It’s a small comfort, knowing that Jocasta would have set this fire herself if it would keep their knowledge out of Sith hands.

The bodies he steps over are too charred to recognize.

Small blessings.

Jaesh, his mother asked, why do you stay?

I must help them, Jaesh said. If I leave they will be crushed.

Why must you be the one who holds the sky? his mother asked.

Will you help me hold the sky? Jaesh asked.

And his mother said yes, for your legs begin to fold.

And so she shared the weight.

From the Archives, the trail leads them towards the Halls of Healing.

The patients would have been among the first to be evacuated down to the Memory. The safest place in the Temple, and the easiest to defend.

It’s not real.

The evacuation had been interrupted.

In the hallway outside–

Overturned stretchers. Crumpled bodies. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Obi-Wan glimpses– a pink, webbed hand–

It’s not real.

He moves forward.

In the doorway–

Oh, these were her Halls. This was her domain. 

To the death.

He steps over the body. The twin stumps of her lekku.

It’s not real.

The patients in the beds–

Execution-style. 

They hadn’t stood a chance.

Jaesh, his brother asked, why do you stay?

I must help them, Jaesh said. If I leave they will be crushed.

Why must you be the one who holds the sky? his brother asked.

Will you help me hold the sky? Jaesh asked.

And his brother said yes, for your spine begins to break.

And so he shared the weight.

From the Halls, into winding, endless hallways–

Heading downwards.

The way grows clogged with bodies.

There– Quinlan, tribal tattoo neatly bisected, half his face peeling open– two steps behind him, Aayla, one lekku severed at the base–

It’s not real.

There– Yaddle and Tholme, they’d always been favored dueling partners–

(Twin trails of blood and brain on the floor.)

It’s not real.

Around the corner–

Plo. Antiox mask cracked, one bloodshot eye staring blankly upwards–

Folded around a smaller figure.

A flash of a blue and white montral–

A familiar hilt under his boot–

It’s not–

Jaesh, his sister asked, why do you stay?

I must help them, Jaesh said. If I leave they will be crushed.

Why must you be the one who holds the sky? his sister asked.

Will you help me hold the sky? Jaesh asked.

And his sister said yes, for your tears begin to spill.

And so she shared the weight.

Down, down, down, ever further–

The air grows cold, and patches of moss curl soft and springy under his boots.

Squelching.

They would not have retreated any further, here.

Because beyond them would be their children.

He walks past Kit, bloody stones visible through the hole in his abdomen.

He walks past Ki-Adi, and then, a bit further on, walks past his legs.

He walks past Depa, and the small body she curls over.

He walks, and he talks, and the darkness slips behind his eyes and into his throat and down his spine until his hands are numb and his face is wet–

Then–

Mace.

Mace. 

Mace.

He doesn’t realize he’s stopped walking.

He doesn’t realize his hand has fallen from the back of Ben’s head.

He doesn’t realize the weight on his shoulder is lifting.

Then–

He realizes only when a low moan breaks through the ringing in his ears.

“No,” Ben whispers, and Obi-Wan jerks sideways to see him staring, staring, staring– “No–”

“Don’t look,” he croaks, although in that instant, he can’t think of why he would say such a thing– it’s only polite to the dead, isn’t it? To witness? To remember? And if he’s the last one–

If they’re the last–

Someone has to.

“Then why are you?”

It’s this question that saves them both.

Because slowly, as if through syrup, Obi-Wan remembers–

Because it’s a trap.

The trap requires a witness to move forward.

That’s why he looks.

A trap means that there is some distant place that is– out of the trap.

Yes.

That’s why.

Because he has to get them out.

People are waiting for them.

“Because it’s not real,” he says, and then again, stronger– “It’s not real.”

He tucks Ben’s head back into the crook of his shoulder, pulls up his hood–

“It’s not real.”

When Obi-Wan had been fourteen and afraid, he had hidden under a pile of bodies.

Now, he is thirty-four, and climbing over them.

To get inside a graveyard.

Jaesh, the people asked, why do you stay?

I must help you, Jaesh said. If I leave, you will be crushed.

Why are you the one who holds the sky? the people asked.

Will you help me hold the sky? Jaesh asked.

The children.

The children.

And the people said yes.

Scattered between columns of light–

There will be no Memories for them.

No one is left to build them.

Because the burden you carry is not one of your making.

And no home left to hold them, either.

The Temple strains, struggles, fights–

But the Jedi are its lifeblood, and the Jedi are dead.

The great beast shudders and stills at last, and in its last breath is the death of thousands–

Because peace made for all must be made by all.

One by one, the Memories are going out.

Obi-Wan forces himself to his feet.

(Funny, isn’t it? He doesn’t even remember falling–)

Faces the onrushing tidal wave of darkness–

(It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real–)

And steps forward.

Because you chose to stay.

What greets him, in the dark, is this:

1. The echo of fire.
2. A voice, screaming.
3. A hatred so heavy that his knees fold under him.

He hits the ground hard, darkness made solid under him– but Ben– good lad, good lad– still doesn’t look up, even as his breathing shudders, jagged and uneven, even as he staggers back to his feet-

“Obi-Wan?”

“You’re doing so well, Ben,” he murmurs, swaying slightly. “We’re almost there.”

He doesn’t move.

The pieces fall into place with a thunder like blast doors.

He cannot move.

Saber burns on the dead.

And.

Always the Chancellor’s favorite.

And.

Children dead on the sands of Tatooine.

And.

This is how you would have it end.

Foolish. Foolish to think they could have made it out. Foolish to think Sidious would have left them an escape.

He would have seen him dead either way.

Maybe Ben never would have attempted to flee. Hemmed in by the weight of extinction and the vast emptiness of the sky. 

That would be a slow death. Maybe they would have intubated him. Set up a feeding tube. Keep the lungs breathing and the body functioning, while they tried to get through, tried to pull him out of his own head–

A slow death, yes, but a death nonetheless.

Or maybe he would have tried, eventually. Maybe he fights and fights and wades through the dead that pile waist-deep in the halls like snowdrifts, hoping, trusting–

And he reaches– 

Here.

The path is already mapped out. Impossible to step off, impossible to divert.

And the ending is his old Padawan’s blade.

How would that manifest in the corpse?

Cardiac arrest, maybe. Or perhaps a mysterious burn.

Or just– stopping.

Echoes of that same screaming voice roll overhead like thunder, and Ben stirs against his shoulder.

“Who’s that?”

Obi-Wan closes his eyes.

“My Padawan,” he says eventually. “Anakin Skywalker.”

A beat passes.

“Oh.”

Yes. This would have been a death sentence either way, any way–

But Sidious hadn’t counted on him. 

Hadn’t counted on an Obi-Wan who’d already died once.

Hadn’t counted on an Obi-Wan who knew how to come back.

If the path ends on Anakin’s blade–

Then there will be a moment– one split-second, solitary moment– between the path’s end and theirs.

So.

“Ben,” he says quietly, “we will have to time this very carefully.”

He sets him down and drops a hand to his saber.

It’s not real, he tells himself. It’s not real. It’s not real.

(It could have been. It could have been. So easily, it could have been–)

He still can’t move.

He stares ahead, instead. Into the dark, into the echoes of red and spitting orange, into the weight of the hate and the mistakes–

Someone tugs on his arm.

“You didn’t finish the story.”

“Hm?”

“You didn’t finish it,” Ben repeats. “How does it end?”

Obi-Wan bites back an inappropriate bubble of laughter.

That’s the question, isn’t it?

“And so they shared the weight,” he says.

He remembers Mel’s lilting voice, the way she’d told it like a song–

“And Jaesh rested at last.”

Ben hums.

“Do you promise?”

Obi-Wan breathes in. Feels the burning in his lungs, the pressure against his ribs, acid smoke and iron blood and the taste of salt on his tongue–

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says. “But maybe we’ll find out, hm?”

A small, skinny hand slips into his.

He glances down. Ben meets his gaze and offers him a ragged smile.

They step forward together.

The fight is mapped out already.

Every step, every leap, every clash of blades decided for them–

But this hardly makes it easier.

Because still, they must meet them.

But it’s the two of them together, now, and when Obi-Wan’s blade falters at the hatred in the yellow eyes, it’s Ben that catches the downward slash, shoving him back, dragging them forward–

And when his knees buckle under the force of the next blow, Obi-Wan yanks him backwards, parrying once, twice, three times–

Through the hallway– more bodies– sparks flying–

The groaning of metal, the pop-pop-pop of rivets giving way–

The world dissolves into a blaze.

They will die at the end of this, but if Sidious wants a fight then they will give him a fight–

(For the Force is with him always, even here, even in the dark–)

One step. After another.

Anakin’s shouting something, but Obi-Wan refuses to hear it–

Ben at his side with embers in his hair, fire in his eyes and crawling up towards them–

That’s the spirit, Obi-Wan thinks, and laughs– in this madness, under an empty sky, the shell of his boy– still surviving, how could they not–

A haze of heat clouds his vision– his palms grow soaked with sweat, and the metal hilt of his saber–

Oh, come on now, really?

Seems quite the indignity to drop it like this.

But the end approaches at speed– the conclusion unfurling–

(Worth it, for sunlight–)

The path tugs at him and Obi-Wan listens–

(For he’s no stranger to this type of death–)

And when Anakin’s blow comes down, he lets his grip give way to the force of it–

(The smile will haunt him for some time–)

Anakin pivots– stabs forward–

And here, here, as the burning lodges in his chest and spirals outwards, lighting his spine on fire– 

The path ends.

But he hasn’t. Not yet.

He staggers backwards as the molten scene dissolves back into darkness, and in this singular instant between one death and another he seizes Ben’s hand–

And s t e p s–

Golden sunlight, cool air shuddering into intact lungs– the familiar weight of his cloak across his shoulders, of his comm in his palm–

Under his hand, a jolting– a thin, choking inhale, rasping–

“There you are,” Obi-Wan croaks.

Blue eyes meet his, staring, wild and frightened–

Alive. Alive. Alive.

Obi-Wan rises unsteadily, collapsing onto the side of the bed, and when Ben reaches for him he reaches back, clinging, careful of the clean bandages wrapped around his chest– feeling him shudder– a low, keening sob–

“We made it,” he says, and laughs– and maybe it’s a little shrill, but to hell with it, he deserves it– because he can feel them, he can feel them–

“See?” he says, and laughs again, almost dizzy with delirious delight–

He pulls Ben with him as he reaches, upwards and outwards, into the starry sky.

Chapter Text

Their gods got bigger.

This is the only explanation Cody can come up with for how things go as smoothly as they do, in the immediate aftermath.

What else but a miracle could have them all landing on their feet, despite the– hasty nature of their departure?

What else but a miracle could keep the reporters at bay, even as camera flashes and shouting voices bloom into blinding supernovas behind his eyes?

What else but a miracle could keep Cody’s legs steady under him, even as his head feels like it’s vibrating out of tune with the rest of him?

He owes Waxer and Boil a drink. Several drinks. Drinks for the rest of their lives, maybe, because it’s only their comforting weight at his shoulders that keeps him moving forward, and it’s only Waxer’s subtle nudge that stops him from walking right past Windu.

He thinks there’s talking.

Adrenaline turns the world crystal around the edges. The sharp cut of the yellow sky. Like an infection. The stinging smell of burnt rubber. A dug-deep furrow across Windu’s brow. Pressure on his shoulder, burning like a brand.

(He wants to go home.)

Steady now. Claw it back. 

Dull pain throbs at the base of his skull. Rhythmic like a heartbeat, a steady drumming underlying the ringing in his ears.

“Execute Order 66–”

They would have killed him.

If it hadn’t been for his first war– his first peace–

Cody would have killed him.

Windu’s boots, stained with ash. His own, stained with mud. Cracked cobblestones under both. The pinch of his gloves against empty, shaking hands. Blue blooming under his knuckles.

A hand at his elbow. Careful. Steering him away. The scorch marks under his feet vanish. Turning down one street, then another–

Someone says, “Commander?”

(Commander. He is a commander. He is needed. He needs to–)

“Boil.”

He barely recognizes the sound of his own voice.

“We’re heading back to the Negotiator, sir. Body’s getting dumped at the Temple, into Drallig’s custody. You’re officially on medical leave, thanks to Windu.”

Cody blinks at him. “Am not.”

“Take it up with Helix,” Waxer says cheerfully. “I’ve already commed him. He’s waiting for us on the ship.”

“Hm,” Cody says intelligently.

Then–

“This is mutiny.”

“It’s really not, sir,” Boil sighs, and the world goes blurry again.

Helix is waiting on the ramp by the time the three of them make it back.

He’d been ready since Needle’s last series of comms, arriving in rapid succession:

medicneedle212: cmdr’s concussed

medicneedle212: don’t tell him to lie down or he’ll kill u

medicneedle212: or look at u like he wants to anyway

medicneedle212: (you’ve still got the best glare dw <3)

medicneedle212: AND CHECK OUT HIS NEW SCAR HAHAHAAAAAA

And then Waxer had commed him twenty minutes later.

They’d made it in and out again.

They’d retrieved the body.

And the Commander had–

Well.

He has a lot he could say about that. A lot he wants to say.

But battle shock is a hell of a drug, and Cody’s gaze is light-years away when he steps into the landing bay.

And Helix is an excellent medic.

So he doesn’t say a damn thing about the new scar that carves its way down across Cody’s cheek as he bullies him gently into the fresher. He bites back the entirely un-medic-like glee as he palpates his right hand, looking for shifting that should not be shifting and finding nothing except blossoming bruises. He answers every question asked of him and carefully blanks his expression when Cody finally glances in the mirror.

The look on his face–

He hasn’t quite managed to pack it away by the time he turns back to Helix, who suddenly finds it very hard to make eye contact.

“Go on,” he says tiredly. “I know you’re dying to say something.”

Helix sighs, breathes out every bit of snarky commentary crowding the front of his brain, and squeezes Cody’s arm.

“He’ll be fine,” he says quietly. “You know he will.”

Cody exhales, long and slow. Nods.

He turns back towards the sink, splashes water on his face, and Helix looks away politely as he scrubs roughly at his eyes.

“Right,” he says hoarsely. “Bridge, then?”

Bed would be better, Helix thinks snidely, but resigns himself to the reality of the situation and presses a stim into his hand instead.

“Lead the way, sir,” he sighs, and falls into step at his shoulder, eyeing his shaking hands suspiciously.

Stitch will meet them there, and he might have more luck in getting their idiot commander to at least sit down.

(He’s still got Cody’s guilty conscience on his side, after all.)

Mace’s headache is not doing him any favors.

He’d thought it couldn’t get any worse. The Force is scraped raw and bleeding, a gaping gash of a wound, and the weight of a dozen different spiderweb-shatterpoints drives a knife into his temple–

Calls coming in from a dozen different directions– the Temple’s locked down, battalions on deployment are seeking answers– 

Obi-Wan, scrabbling for footing– reaching out, holding on– and three minutes ago he’d felt a ripple of reassurance and a sour sting of gritted-teeth anticipation before the bond had gone– dark. Like a jump into hyperspace. Muted, distant–

(But not dead.)

And then a gaggle of gold had plunged into the rift and back out again, carrying a dead Sith with them, coming to a halt in front of Mace–

As it turns out, his headache can get worse. 

So much worse.

A temporal rift.

The Sith had torn a hole in the Force. With a target in mind.

Padawan Kenobi.

Injured. How badly, none of them know. Obi-Wan had pulled him through.

Fourteen. Jinn had told them so. 

Fourteen. After Melidaan.

Fourteen. After the lightning.

(Qui-Gon. Force, he needs to talk to Obi-Wan– both of them–)

Then Cody–

The man is a consummate professional. He would not have let his feelings get in the way of his job.

He is also badly concussed.

And Qui-Gon was his friend. A talented diplomat.

But Mace can imagine all too well the worry– not knowing who, or where, or why–

Driving him to, perhaps, do something stupid.

One thing at a time. 

Cody seems– largely unaware. His words are stilted, his eyes unfocused, his signature gone shatter-shock still–

It’s not all the concussion. Battle shock has a distinctive flavor in the Force. Like nails on a chalkboard. 

(Qui-Gon, for the love of the Force, why would you–?)

A sunburst of relief blooms in the Force when he asks Waxer and Boil to see Cody back to the ship. 

Medical leave.

Boil asks if the situation’s under control here.

He reassures them that it is. Watches them go.

He hadn’t lied. The Guard runs like a well-oiled machine. After those first few desperate minutes of chaos– it’s not every day that the person you’re supposed to answer to is revealed to be a Sith in quite possibly the most dramatic scenario imaginable, honestly, Obi-Wan– Commander Fox had ordered all other troopers out of the disaster zone. They had their system; they knew where they had to be and what they had to do, and other units operating on their own were getting in the way. The only outside personnel that had been pulled in were the Jedi and the medics.

What remains of the Rotunda resembles nothing less than a beating heart. Flooded with red, troopers moving to a practiced rhythm. Spots of spare color as the medics join the melody. A quiet, confident pride suffuses the Force– training in lifesaving, put to use at last.

(A welcome blessing to muffle the drumming behind his eyes.)

And Mace–

(Obi-Wan, still, dull and dark and distant–)

Does the job that’s in front of him.

Rubble to be lifted. Survivors to be pulled out. No corpses yet, thank the Force– lives burn hot and bright under the debris. Some are duller, flickering, and it’s those that Mace brings to the Guard’s attention first. 

It’s a difficult operation. The structural complexity means that each shifted piece risks causing a cave-in a hundred feet to the left. Each rescue complicates the ones to come twice over. 

So. The Jedi go where they’re needed. Holding unseen debris in place just long enough for a survivor to wriggle out between the cracks. Easing the way for a trooper to slip into a pocket for an unconscious staffer. Containing gas leaks and burst pipes until the system can be turned off. It’s hard work. Exhausting work.

(Good work.)

So Mace does what he can. As he always has. He goes where he’s called, holds what he has to, and his headache dulls with every ash-stained ghost that scrambles out, blinking in the sunlight. 

Then he hears someone call his name.

Ace is heading up a search in the remains of the east wing. 

The last remains of the turbolift shaft had given way at last, and he’d thought they’d gotten out all the civilians, but then Quark had told him one of the scout droids was still picking up vital signs, and Ace, well–

What else could he do, really?

He peers down, his helm light reflecting off steel beams bent like butter and scattering among shattered glass ground into sand along the floor.

“Hello?”

A faint groaning sound– could be the building itself, but maybe– hidden underneath–

“Try again!”

He clambers down a little further– squeezes between two enormous chunks of rubble, his kit digging uncomfortably into the base of his spine– the light catches on a glimpse of white–

“Hey–”

The figure shifts slowly, looks up–

Ace swears.

“Rude,” Needle says blearily, blood smeared thickly across his face, ash clinging to the sticky mess. His bucket is cracked, discarded two feet to his left– “What would Helix say?”

“Helix,” Ace grunts, shifting– there’s a good twenty feet of rock separating the two of them, and he needs to get in there– “is going to skin me alive if I get you back hurt. Can you reach me?”

“Not– really.”

When he peers a bit closer, he realizes– 

Under the blood, Needle’s pallor has gone gray. And his arm–

Ace bites down hard on his tongue.

He pokes at his comm, once, twice–

“Commander Fox.”

“Got one,” he says quickly, scrambling into a low-ceilinged passageway. “But pull one of the Jedi. We’re gonna have to do this real carefully. You got my location?”

A moment’s pause, the sound of tapping–

“Clear. What are we looking at?”

“Okay. Fifteen feet north, got a medic pinned. Needle, 212th. The piece he’s caught under is supporting the entire arch. I’ll stay, you’ll need eyes here to tell you if it’s shifting.”

“You can’t drop a comm to him?”

Ace considers this, and then swears again when he moves to stand too soon and slams his head against the low roof of the makeshift tunnel.

It’s standard practice, after all, to evacuate the area as best you can. One more person down here means one more fragile organic sack that a Jedi has to maneuver around. One more fleshy construct that has all the structural resilience of a water balloon. The same piece of rubble that may just chip off a piece of a broken pipe could turn a clone into a faint reddish smear across the stone.

It would be the safest thing to pull back.

The most sensible thing.

He’s lost line of sight briefly, but–

“Needle?”

Faint shifting, a hiss of pain that echoes off the walls–

“Yeah?”

“How are you doing?”

Thin and reedy, a whistling exhale through clenched teeth–

“Oh, just dandy.”

Hm.

He turns back to his comm. 

“No.”

A loud groan crackles over the connection, and Ace quirks a grin in the darkness.

“Thought so,” Fox sighs. “You’re just scared of Helix.”

“Aren’t you?”

“I fear nothing. Quark’s pulled Windu, I see them. I’ll patch him through to your connection.”

“You’re a filthy liar,” Ace says, with all the cheer of a man who knows there’s about eight stories of rubble between him and the wrath of the Guard’s Commander, and drops his medkit down the last crevice that’s separating him and Needle before wriggling after it.

“Watch it,” Fox warns. “I’ll leave you down there.”

“You won’t.”

“Awfully confident for a man who’s stuck under a building.”

“Because then you’d have to answer to Helix.”

The crunch of broken glass under his feet as he drops into the little cavern that Needle’s holed up in is the only interruption to the static.

Needle is staring at him with the vaguely puzzled gaze of the severely concussed, and Ace winks at him.

“He’s definitely scared of Helix,” he hisses, pitching his voice just a bit louder than secrecy would necessitate, settling down next to him and running a hand over his shoulder. Needle grins, teeth gleaming in the darkness. 

“Anyone sensible is– ghk–”

“A warning would have made it worse,” Ace mutters, releasing the relocated joint and pulling out a penlight. “Eyes on me.”

“Helix is right. You are a bastard.”

(Uneven pupils, scalp wound– there’s blood on the edge of a rock two feet away–)

“I’m the oldest, he hates me on principle. Definitely concussed. What kind of break are we looking at?”

“Oh, a revelation,” Needle snarks. “Concussed, never would’ve guessed that–”

“Take the damn painkillers,” Ace says, pressing two tabs into the younger medic’s good hand. “You know, the way Helix talks about you, I thought you’d be nicer.”

(Shaking, shocky– how much farther can adrenaline carry him–?)

Needle tosses them back and accepts the proffered hydropack. “Dunno what you’re talking about. I’m a ray of sunshine.”

“A shining light indeed,” agrees the bastard. “Never said a mean word about anyone.”

He flattens himself against the ground and peers into the scant few inches between the rock and the– well. Not the floor. More rock.

“I can’t see bone, at least.”

“Can you see anything?”

“Where’s your optimism, kid?”

“Consumed by the fact that my arm got crushed for Burtoni,” Needle mutters, scowling at nothing in particular. “Did she get out, at least?”

“Saw her in the med-tent.” Ace sits up, narrows his eyes– “Did she know you got hit?”

“I was right behind her– helped her get out. It came down right after.” 

A beat passes. Needle’s expression crumples.

“Dunno. Maybe she didn’t see me.”

Ace sighs, long and slow, and breathes out the familiar sour bitterness climbing up his throat.

“She’s fully conscious, putting up a fuss in the med-tent, and didn’t say a damn thing about anyone left behind,” he says heavily. “You should have let her get crushed.”

It’s a nice fantasy.

He gets to indulge in the image of that skinny neck snapped like a toothpick for less than eight seconds before his comm crackles back to life.

This voice is much more welcome.

“Ace?” his general asks. “What do we have?”

“Steady now,” Ace mutters, squeezing Needle’s good arm and lifting his comm. The ash-stained face offers him a wry grin. “Ten minutes and we’re out. Think of embarrassing stories to tell me about Helix in the meantime.”

Mace carefully eases the last piece of rubble to the side and holds it steady as Ace scrambles out, hauling a filthy-looking Needle behind him.

“Thanks, sir,” he mutters, and holds out a hand.

Mace glances at Needle’s gray face and the way his arm is tucked gingerly against his chest, and hands his cloak over without further remark. 

Needle blinks at him, and after a moment’s silence broken only by the sound of yet another robe meeting its demise at the hands of battlefield necessity, jabs a finger in his direction.

“Your medic,” he announces, “is a bastard.”

“Oh, I know,” Mace says, “but I’m quite fond of him anyway, really.”

Needle scoffs. 

Ace flashes him a grin. “You flatter me, sir.” 

He ties the two ends of the makeshift sling together and pats Needle gently on the back. “Helix will gut me like a fish if I bring one of his kids back hurt, but he likes you better. Mind dropping him off for me?”

Needle is beginning to list heavily against Ace’s side, but at this, he rouses. 

“Can still help.”

“The fuck you can.”

“Can too.”

“Stand up straight?”

Needle, scowling at him, pushes himself up–

It’s like watching a capsizing ship. Mace, his lips twitching, catches him.

“I will refrain from luxuriating in my accurate assessment,” Ace says, deadpan. Needle flips him off and mashes his face into Mace’s shoulder with an incoherent grumble.

“You’re sure I’m not needed here?”

Ace points at the rift. “Force banthashit.” 

Then back at him. “Bloody nose. Is this a shatterpoint?”

“Not exactly, but–”

He crosses his arms. “So it’s unknown. I don’t like unknown things; they give me ulcers. I’d rather have you out of here until I can reassure myself that you’re not going to have an aneurysm.” He grins, then, sharp and sudden. “We’ve spent so long breaking you in, after all– I’d hate to start all over again with a new general. We’d have to fight the 381st for Billaba.”

“How eager you are to replace me.”

“Practically-minded,” Ace says cheerfully. “Tell Helix it’s a concussion and a compound fracture in the right radius. And monitor for CS in the same arm– I don’t know how long he was pinned for. Gave him two percocets so he’d stay conscious for the extraction, so he’ll be a bit loopy. Repeat?”

Mace does. Ace nods, satisfied.

“Keep him talking, will you? I’ve had to endure twenty minutes’ scolding about how subpar my tender ministrations are to Helix’s innumerable talents.”

“‘m right, though.”

“Duly noted,” Mace says, grinning, and eases Needle’s good arm over his shoulder. “All right, Needle. What stories do you have for me?”

As it turns out–

A lot of them.

“Y’know, there’s a rumor– that Helix– that he yelled a shiny back to life. But. Got a secret. He didn’t really.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. ‘s not true. He very quietly cussed the shiny back to life. I was there.”

“You were?”

“Mhm. Kid got bit by a– a thing. Big pincers. Lotta legs. Was asfix– aspit– not breathing. And ‘lix was swearing and swearing and swearing at him and then the kid came back.”

“Impressive.”

“Jabbed him with a needle of non-contraindicated antivenom, too. Hm. Maybe that was what did it.”

“Maybe so.”

“But if anyone could cuss someone back to life, ‘s Helix.”

“I can believe that.”

“He tells us stories, sometimes, when– on bad nights, y’know? When Stitch has– the things. The bad– the scary– the things.”

“Nightmares?”

“Yeah, yeah– those things. And they’re good stories, too. And you can’t– don’t tell anyone, but sometimes I– I don’t have nightmares, right? Never have. But sometimes I pretend I did. So then it’s me ‘n Stitch ‘n Helix and I get to listen to the stories too.”

“Oh, really?”

“Mhm. But you can’t tell anyone.”

“Of course, Needle.”

“Shhhh.”

“Of course, Needle.”

“And you know– sometimes he calls me sweetheart? Don’t tell him, but– I like it when he calls me that. Makes me feel– all important. Like he wouldn’t ever trade me in. But he only– only does that in the bad situations. Like when I’d taken a shot to the leg and it was– it was an artery hit, and I remember– I looked at him, and I think– I don’t think I was smiling, I think I must’ve looked something awful, because then his expression kinda caved in and he was all warm and he said, don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ve got you, and I remember that all the time, you know? He’s always got us. He’s Helix. I don’t like it when he’s worried. He worries all the time. Wants to make sure we’re okay.”

“I think that’s because he loves you, Needle.”

“Mhm. Love him too. So much.”

“And one time– one time– Helix complains a lot, sometimes. You have to, about the little things, or the big things make your head explode. And he always grumbles ‘bout his old bones this and his old bones that, and I– I know he’s not serious, right? But Stitch didn’t. Doesn’t, sometimes. And then– one time, he was complaining again, and Stitch– Stitch asked him if he wanted a painkiller. His expression– his face–”

“I can imagine.”

“And then– and then– he went– all gooey, a little bit. Just kinda– melted, all over, and he told Stitch that he wasn’t really in that much pain, and explained how it makes him feel better to complain about the little things– and then he let Stitch run a physical anyway. Because he was worried, and Helix doesn’t like it when we worry. He tries to do all the worrying himself, y’know?”

“I think I do, yes.”

“But Helix– he’s soft all over. He likes to go bleeeaaargh a lot and pretend he’s not jelly on the inside, but he is. Like his– he really likes the little jelly candies, too. Like those. On the inside. He likes biting the heads off.”

“Oh, does he?”

“Yeah. Stress relief. Hey– hey, we should– we should get him some–”

“Needle, you need to lie down.”

“But–”

“I will make sure he gets some.”

“...Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Ugh. Fine.”

“And one time, me ‘n Stitch were talking, about after the war– about what we wanna do– and we were thinking ‘bout what Helix might want, right?”

“Right.”

“And we decided– good food. Best med journals. Fancy caff. And just gotta– bundle him up in all the blankets. Like a burrito. With all his stuff. And get him to stay still. Rest for a bit, y’know?”

“I do.”

“And then we asked, later, and he said– good whiskey. And a nap. So we were mostly right.”

“You were.”

“Don’ tell him, but– me n’ Stitch, we’re saving credits. To get him the– the good stuff. For the nap. After the war.”

“I think that’s very kind of you.”

“You can’t tell him.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

“And Helix wrote the– the flag memo.”

“The flag memo?”

“Yeah. The– green flags. Red flags. Whole shebang. We didn’t know shit about how to– things. Wrap it before you stick it, right? And ‘lix was gettin’ real tired of troopers coming in with– fungi down there and shit, so he– wrote a pamphlet. Ha. Love ‘im so much. A pamphlet. He’s so good.”

“Did it work?”

“Less dicks falling off.”

“That is good news.”

…

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“You’re a general.”

“I am.”

“Hm. Should’ve drowned in my tube.”

By the time they reach the landing bay, Mace is laughing out loud, and Needle is looking very pleased with himself.

“Heeeeeeelix,” he croons. “Wanna see my brother. Best brother. And other best brother. Baby Stitch. Baby boy. Love love love Stitch. Stitch,” he announces, flopping backwards against Mace and beaming up at him, “wriggles right into your chest. Like a little worm. Nestles all up in your heart and makes it do funny things. My little heartworm. Where are my brothers?”

“I’ll comm them,” Mace says, smiling. It’s almost impossible not to– Needle ripples in the Force like an underwater star, blurred and bright. “Do you have anything else to tell me in the meantime?”

“He has really nice hair,” Needle confides, grinning at him. “Got Auks to lend us some conditioner. Convinced him to try it. All soft. N’ bouncy.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. Where’d your hair go?”

Helix hits the landing bay at a run.

His gaze lands on Needle first, right arm in a hastily tied sling, strapped awkwardly across his chest, dried blood clotting his curls, and his heart skips a beat– in four long strides he’s in front of him, catching him easily as he staggers forward, and something in his chest clicks back into place. 

“Needle– Needle, hey– what happened to you? Can’t let you go anywhere on your own, can I?”

Needle beams at him and squishes his face into the crook of his neck. 

“Sorry, ‘lix,” he hums, his words slurring into each other like water. Helix cups the back of his head and reminds himself to breathe. 

“A compound fracture in the right radius and a concussion,” Mace says quietly, and Helix blinks at him. He hadn’t even realized he was there, but– yes. Of course. He’d commed him, after all–

“Ace told me to pass that on. And to monitor for– CS? In the same arm?”

“Compartment syndrome,” Helix says absently. “Due to–”

He stops.

“Needle, did you get pinned?”

“Didn’t mean to,” comes the slightly sulky reply.

“From what Ace said,” Mace says, “he got caught under the turbolift shaft when it gave way. He was working the evacuation.”

His voice has gone– gentle.

It’s the same sort of gentle that– the first night after Iwanaga. The kindness that had kept Helix from retreating into some deep, dark corner of his mind. The type of warmth that had kept him anchored in his own head, safe from the white and the bright and the cold.

Helix realizes, very suddenly, that his hands are shaking. 

Gods. He knows– he knows they could’ve died at any point. Really. They’re at war, they’re soldiers, and his kids medics are stupidly, brilliantly brave, but–

They’re on Coruscant. 

They’re supposed to be safe.

“Idiot,” he mutters.

He tightens his grip, drops a kiss into Needle’s hair–

“Proud of you.”

A free hand pats him gently on the back. “Love you. Love you soooooooo much.”

“Stop moving,” Helix scolds, catching his hand and tucking it against his chest instinctively. A burst of muffled giggling is his only response.

“And,” Mace adds, a smile in his voice, “Ace told me to tell you that he gave him two percocets during the extraction.”

Helix can read between the lines easily enough. Blacking out from the pain is always a risk, and he has a head injury– Ace would’ve tried to keep him conscious–

He cards a hand through Needle’s hair, breathes out, reassuring himself–

“Those always make you ramble,” he grumbles. “What did you tell him, hm?”

Needle hums something incomprehensible. He’s gone nearly completely limp against Helix, now, quietly, entirely content.

“Hm?”

“Where’s Stitch?”

“He’s on the bridge,” Helix says gently. “Keeping an eye on our idiot commander. I told him to come down when he got him to sit down.”

“Eh. Want Stitch.”

“You and me both, sweetheart,” he sighs. He wants– if he could just have eyes on everyone he cares about– at all times–

Needle squeaks. Wheels around to point at Mace.

“See?”

“I do,” Mace says, smiling faintly. Helix narrows his eyes, gestures between the two of them–

“This? Not encouraging. Not a fan. What sort of plotting–”

“Good plottin’,” Needle reassures him. “Promise. Gonna get you– candy things. Decan– decap– tear the heads off. Stress relief. You’re always so scowly, ‘lix. Gotta get you some more. Shredding things.”

Helix jabs a finger at Mace. “You’re laughing.”

“He’s very funny,” Mace says, his expression appropriately solemn. 

“Laughing on the inside, don’t think that fools me–”

Then Mace glances up, towards the door, and half a second later Helix hears running footsteps.

Stitch skids into the landing bay, and Helix suddenly finds his arms empty as Needle peels himself away, eyeing his new target.

“‘Lo, heartworm,” he croons, and promptly flops forward. “Love you. Looooooove you. Bestest, bestest, bestest brother.”

Stitch catches him instinctively, peering helplessly up at the two of them. 

“Why am I a heartworm?” he asks plaintively. “I don’t want to be a heartworm. Those are parasites.” 

“Okay,” Needle says amiably. “Not a heartworm. Bug.”

“I’m not a bug either, Needle.”

“Baby bug.”

“Not a baby, Needle.”

“Infant.”

“I’m nine, Needle.”

“Toddler.”

“I am a combat medic, Needle.”

“Combat medic with a squishy baby face–”

“You shouldn’t be moving your arm so much, Needle–”

“Ow.”

“I told you.”

“Ooooh, didn’t call me Needle that time–”

Helix sighs, checking his datapad once more. Vitals are steady. Of course they are. It hadn’t beeped.

(And yet–)

“The agony of abandonment,” he deadpans, tucking it back into his belt.

“The trials and tribulations of parenthood,” Mace says, nodding sympathetically. 

His lips are twitching upwards at the corners. Traitor.

“You,” Helix hisses, “are not escaping me. Nosebleed? Do you need observation?”

Mace shakes his head. “Not at all. It happens, sometimes, with strong shatterpoints.” 

Helix studies him suspiciously. “Do I need to comm Ace?”

“If it would make you feel better,” Mace says easily. “But I think having Obi-Wan as your general may have warped your view of how willing most of us are to accept medical treatment.”

That– disarms him.

Fair enough.

Speaking of which–

“How much did the others tell you?”

“Hardly enough,” Mace says drily. “But I don’t think anything would have been enough.” 

Helix nods. Once, twice, jerkily–

“Well,” he says. He stops. Coughs. Clears his throat.

“They’re both. Yeah. Two of them. In the medbay. The Sith– did something to him. To the kid. Trapped him in his own head, that’s what Obi-Wan said. He’s pulling him out.”

It is suddenly vitally important that Mace knows he didn’t just– 

“He told me to leave,” he adds hastily. “He mentioned a risk of psychic backlash, like what happened at the– we’re monitoring vitals remotely, and I gave him an hour– I wouldn’t have abandoned him, otherwise, I didn’t want to, but–”

“You know,” Mace interrupts gently, “I’d hoped we’d reached a point where you didn’t feel like you had to explain yourself to me. I’d be more inclined to believe you were lying if you said you did abandon him.”

Oh. Well. That’s– nice.

“And he’s gone– distant, in the Force. I rather assumed something of the sort. How much longer–?”

“Six minutes,” Stitch announces. “Twenty-four seconds and counting. We should start walking. Needle needs to lie down.”

He gives Mace a slightly suspicious look.

“But I don’t think you should come, sir,” he adds bluntly. “I think– we’re force-null, so I don’t think we’ll scare him like that, if he’s coming out of a trap. Decker called us dense as rocks. But you can go all–” he gestures, stretching his hands out, as much as he can with an armful of Needle– “bright in the Force. You can use it. You won’t hurt him, but he might think you would. And that’s important. So. Not until he says okay, I think.”

Not even considering that Obi-Wan might not succeed. That things might get– complicated. That maybe–

Damnit. Helix actually agrees with him.

He nods reluctantly. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Stitch is right, though. Unknown quantities. I mean– you’re not unknown, but just– right now–”

Mace nods. “I understand. It makes sense.”

He smiles, slight and sincere–

“Helix, I trust you. I know they’re in good hands. And–”

His gaze flickers to where Needle has wound himself around Stitch like an octopus, and the faint smile broadens. 

“Needle is too.”

Helix sighs. Scrubs a hand across his face.

“What exactly did he tell you?”

“Oh, nothing I didn’t know already,” Mace says mildly.

A beat–

“Except– I’m afraid I have to ask. How often do you really say bleeaaargh?”

Helix stares at him. Mace meets his gaze with a calm equilibrium.

But he can tell–

He jabs a finger at the ramp. 

“Get out.”

The sound of Mace’s laughter follows the three of them out of the landing bay and into the warren of sunlit hallways, and Helix finds that his breathing is coming rather more easily for it.

Stitch has Needle’s good arm over his shoulder, and he ducks in and wraps an arm around his waist. He glances down at the datapad in his other hand.

Three minutes and counting.

Come on. Come on.

Mace appears to have more faith in Helix himself than he thinks is strictly warranted.

(Two minutes.)

But he’ll take it.

(One minute thirty.)

Because then he’s got extra.

(One minute.)

His General’s pulled off the impossible before.

(Thirty seconds.)

But a little extra faith never hurts, right?

His comm beeps. 

He looks down.

“You dramatic motherfucker,” he mutters, and Needle starts giggling all over again at Stitch’s scandalized look.

ALIVE.

the truth of it this cataclysmic collision

(steady, star-bright)

disbelieving adrenaline
          dervishing

empty wind-damaged plain
dissolves

(a voice like rancid butter)
          unreal
                    not real

(are you sure?)

yes look at the

starlight

(defining, dispelling)       

the truth of it–

ALIVE.

like starlight 

(a desert of bones underfoot)

sky rent with forks of white lightning  
                                   (i don’t want–)

no drifting not now steady find your

anchors?
(like starlight)

razor-whipped by comet tails, bleeding
starlight

(i’m scared)

(scared together it’s okay)

so i am still (myself, twice over)

(so we are still ourselves)

ben and and and where’s–

whetted edge pare the skin and see

light’s underside, see? all

ALIVE.

(twitching like a voltage wire)

trailing bloody starlight in the
          (river?)

sword-sharp grieving
cradling little lights like–

home built
                    twice over
and rebuilt

like living marrow, all of it

pressing transmutational weight

a giant breathing

a last exhale

(with no dominion)
adamant eloquence pulled back

scattered starlight
your name

our name
say it

alive?

promise
(not afraid)

(am too)

(it’s okay)

(obi-wan?)

(it’s okay)

(obi-wan?)

(it’s okay)

(you’re hurt.)

And in one shuddering gasp, they’re back, the two of them– the flex of his hands against Ben’s scrubs, the weight of his comm in his palm, and Obi-Wan twitches, presses down, hears something beep, hopes he got it right–

(Balances and counterweights, that’s what Master Yoda had called them–)

And now, even now, he clings to them– in the aftermath of their desperate flight, reaching, regaining what was never lost– worry blooming in flurries of sour marigolds– and then, awareness snagging on the little light he cradled, half-hidden, wholly frightened– jagged shock, cliff-edges of disbelief softening into reaching reassurance, warm greetings–

But, oh, Ben– the fear still has a stranglehold on him, and he’d retreated, an instinctive flinch– a nightmare of remembered absence and grief beyond compare written on the inside of his bones– 

But it’s okay. All of it. Because he’s awake. And it will dissolve soon enough, as all bad dreams do– in the starlight, in the sunlight–

But now– Ben– a bundle of anguished desperation in the Force, a blur of [spilling blood] and [tightened tourniquet] and [too late], and Obi-Wan reaches for him, tries to steady him–

“You’re hurt.”

Thin. Rasping. Real.

Again.

“You’re hurt.” 

And Obi-Wan realizes–

That desperate terror–

It’s for him.

Because that trap– oh, that trap had teeth.

Ben had made it out largely unscathed, because Obi-Wan had folded over him and walked them through it–

But the shield is always the bigger target. 

He’s trailing blood in the Force. And if the whip-sharp concern of the others is any judge, his hasty, instinctive patch job had not done much to hide it.

It’s nothing he hasn’t dealt with before– comparatively minor wounds, all things considered–

But Ben doesn’t know that.

Obi-Wan opens his mouth, intending– to clarify, to reassure, maybe–

But nothing comes out.

The words lodge like a bone caught in his throat. He swallows once, twice, annoyance spiking, and pushes it through the Force instead– a gentle warmth, an easy flaring, a promise of life–

But the terror engulfing the entirety of Ben’s signature only tightens its grip. He curls his hands into the front of Obi-Wan’s robe– clinging, hoping, needing–

Then. Awareness flares.

Approaching at speed, and the flood of relief turns his legs to jelly even as Ben flattens himself against him–

The door slides open.

For a moment, a frozen tableau:

Helix, one arm wrapped around Needle’s waist, Stitch supporting him from the other side– injured?– but he’s grinning, broad and alive, and then his gaze drops down and his mouth drops open–

Then Obi-Wan looks down.

Ben’s staring, wide-eyed, at the three of them, except– no, that’s not quite right, is it?

He’s staring at Helix.

And Obi-Wan realizes, very suddenly–

Because he’d– he’d told him, hadn’t he? Told him that [lighthouse] means safety, that [steady hands] fixes everything, fixes them–

“He’s hurt.”

Hoarse and quiet and alive.

“You have to– you have to fix him.”

His hands twist in Obi-Wan’s robe, his voice cracks–

“Help him.”

Obi-Wan blinks, once, twice, against the spots clouding his vision.

Foolish. Foolish. Why is he reacting like this? He’s safe. They’re safe. The Force is a storm, yes, but it’s one of energy, of movement, of shifting ground– not of pain. It’s like his body is reacting on its–

On its own.

The body remembers what the mind forgets.

The medbay.

From the look on Helix’s face, he’s realized exactly the same thing.

He tucks his comm into his belt, taps Stitch’s arm, and nods towards the nearest bed. Stitch obligingly shifts Needle’s weight fully across his shoulders and tugs him forward, hushing the plaintive questioning–

“Why’s there another baby in the medbay?”

“Needle–”

“Thought you were the medbay baby, Stitch–”

“Still not a baby–”

“Do we get two–?”

“Let me see your arm, Needle–”

Ben’s gaze follows them before flickering back to Helix.

All the while, he flurries around Obi-Wan in the Force, made clumsy by barely-leashed panic– awkwardly trying to patch the slow-bleeding wounds, bursting with anxiety– wondering– hurt and fix and need?–

Obi-Wan draws up his shields as hurriedly as he can without kicking Ben out entirely. A sudden shock of sword-sharp dread shudders through him at the thought of letting– certain memories– leak through to him.

But he’s not quite fast enough.

“You need to– leave?”

A flush of bafflement, at first– then a flash of freezing fear, hastily shoved down, breathed out, and his grip on Obi-Wan’s tunic spasms before dropping away.

“You need to leave,” he repeats. More sure of it this time. Curling in on himself as he says it– his shields are a mess, disjointed, discombobulated, and Obi-Wan can feel how the dismay curls through him–

(But he’s gotten very good at this by now, even so early–)

“You can leave. If you have to. It’s okay.”

Obi-Wan catches his hands and squeezes, hating himself.

“Are you okay with it?” Helix asks quietly. He’s taken a step closer, hands by his side, palms open, and Ben shrinks in on himself momentarily before nodding.

“But you have to make sure he’s okay,” he says, rallying. “You have to.”

Obi-Wan cannot let himself think about this. About any of this. About the conversation. About who’s talking.

He unfolds himself. Rises to his feet.

Ben’s staring at him. Again, a graceless attempt at soothing skates across his shields– Obi-Wan catches it and offers up a flurry of thanks and a promise of return. He plucks and discards some of the dark cobweb-strands of the nightmare that still clings to the edges of Ben’s signature, sees his shoulders relax and feels faintly pleased with himself–

Then there’s a hand at his elbow, steering him forward, through the door–

And all of a sudden, the pressure on his lungs releases at once.

He presses his hands against his eyes and leans backwards against the wall.

After a moment, he slumps all the way down until he’s sitting on the floor. Helix follows him, a long line of warmth against his side.

“He said you were hurt,” he says quietly. “The other– Obi-Wan. What happened?”

Obi-Wan bites down hard on his tongue to stop himself from saying anything stupid.

Start with what’s– simplest. Easier.

“Ben,” he croaks. He coughs once, twice, clears his throat, tries again– “Ben. He. It took me– us– him– a few months, after– to feel like. Obi-Wan. Again. He’s still– Ben is. Better.”

“Okay,” Helix agrees. “Easy enough. Now you. It was the medbay, wasn’t it?”

Obi-Wan nods. He’s holding himself so tightly his muscles are beginning to cramp.

“The lighting helped,” he manages. “I think it’s the only reason I didn’t– go– immediately. It was– good.”

He squeezes Helix’s hand, offers him a cracked smile–

“Thank you.”

Helix returns the squeeze. “Good try. Still didn’t answer my question.”

Damn.

“A nightmare,” he says at last. “It was just– it was just a nightmare. A trap. It had teeth, but– minor wounds. I think he was mostly picking up on the– the medbay.”

“Okay.”

“There were some– I kept him safe from it. So he didn’t have to– see.”

“See…?”

“All the emptiness.” 

He sways forward, feels himself flicker–

“All the bodies. And I couldn’t find you.”

(Dark and empty and cold and alone–)

A hand lands on the back of his neck.

“Mace dropped Needle off twenty minutes ago. I saw him. Talked to him.”

Helix is– warm. His hand is– warm. 

“A lot of the Jedi are at the Senate right now. Helping with evacuation efforts.”

And all around him– lights. Like stars.

“The Temple’s locked down. Troopers are backing up the guards. But there’ve been no reports of an attempted attack, and Cody’s coordinating. It’s just for safety’s sake.”

Cody–

Cody?

He can feel–

Someone’s coming. A burst of sunlight. Down the hallways. Nearly running–

He glances sideways. Helix grins at him.

“He– Ben asked me to make sure you were okay, right?” he says. “And Cody could use you as well. He’s running on stims. Make sure he sits down and stays sitting, okay?”

He unfolds himself and helps Obi-Wan to his feet.

“You good until he gets here? I should–”

“He’s about thirty seconds away,” Obi-Wan murmurs, feeling almost drunk. “I’m–”

“Don’t you dare say it.”

“Acceptably grounded.”

“I’ll take it.”

Helix squeezes his shoulder. His hand drops away. 

The door slides open. A moment passes. Voices swell.

The door slides shut.

Obi-Wan stares at the opposite wall. His vision grows blurry.

When he scrubs a hand across his face, it comes away wet.

One staggering step forward. Then another. And another– slow, at first, until he can feel his feet again, and then he breaks into a run– tearing around one, two, three corners, sunlight growing brighter and brighter until he’s nearly blinded by it, and he hits the next corner–

And, immediately after, Cody.

Cody.

Obi-Wan slams into him nearly at a sprint. He feels him stumble backwards and opens his mouth to apologize but he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe through the tears clogging his throat, so instead he simply pulls him forward and hugs him tight, clinging to him– a tether, a lifeline, Cody who is sunlight and safety and alive–

He hears a punched-out little noise before arms wrap around his shoulders in return, tugging him closer, and Cody says, his voice thick–

“Obi-Wan?”

In the Force, he can feel– the sunlit signature is smeared, blurry with a dull ache. He pulls back, presses a hand to the base of his skull, seeking– there, and it’s the work of a moment to draw that out into the Force.

Cody sighs, long and slow and easy, and Obi-Wan presses his face into the crook of his neck and tries and fails to stop the tears from spilling over.

He can’t breathe. 

The hollow emptiness– the darkness filling up his lungs, slipping behind his eyes, forcing open all the cracks he’d tried so desperately to patch up, cracking him clean open until there was nothing left at all– all the lights gone out, all the warmth gone cold–

And now Cody is here.

And it’s Cody who’s pulling back, Cody’s hands cupping his face, Cody’s fingers swiping gently under his eyes, Cody’s voice saying his name, telling him he’s okay, they’re okay, they’re all okay–

He raises a hand to his cheek, blinks once, twice, three times through the tears– 

And freezes.

The cut on Cody’s face had carved upwards across his cheek, ending just under his left eye where his visor had cracked. He hadn’t even been thinking, really, when he’d reached for him on that rooftop– the lightning had been pulling him forward, upwards and onwards, but it had been Cody and he will always, always come back for Cody–

And he’d raised a hand– had cupped his face, just so, because Cody was his sunlight and Cody had been hurt–

And he’d thought, heal–

And the Force had answered.

Arcing up and across his cheek, sealing the cut shut, sharp and jagged and bright–

A thin white line.

Almost like lightning.

He can’t stop staring.

Cody tilts his head, catching his gaze.

“Obi-Wan?”

“I–”

He stops. Clears his throat.

“Sorry. About the– I didn’t mean–”

But Cody lifts his hand and folds it over Obi-Wan’s.

“Don’t be,” he says. The scar crinkles when he smiles, a jagged furrow along the edge of their overlapping palms. “Now we match.”

Something in Obi-Wan’s chest caves in.

Cody curls a hand over the back of his head and laughs, low and quiet and immeasurably fond, and when he presses their foreheads together Obi-Wan can feel the warmth of it and never wants to feel anything else again.

For a moment, he doesn’t think of who he left in the medbay. He doesn’t think of the rift, and who’s waiting on the other side of it. He doesn’t think of the Senate, or the war, or what’s ahead of them at all.

Because the Force is full of sunlight. And Cody is alive. 

They– both are.

(The cracks don’t feel that big anymore.)

“Want to come see what’s going on?” Cody asks at last. “Helix said you need to sit down.”

Obi-Wan blinks.

“Funny,” he says slowly. “He said exactly the same thing about you.”

Cody’s eyes widen, and a slow grin unfurls across his face. “I think we’ve been outmaneuvered.”

“Oh, terribly so,” Obi-Wan agrees. “I’d hate to disappoint him.”

“I’m scared to disappoint him,” Cody says drily. “Shall we?”

Obi-Wan laces their fingers together, laughing, and the last of the trap’s clinging cobwebs dissolve in the sunlight. 

“Lead the way.”

(Cody realizes, a few moments later, that his hands have stopped shaking at last.)

Chapter Text

Needle is having an excellent day.

Yes, his head hurts. Yes, his arm hurts. Yes, he may or may not have spilled his deepest darkest secrets to General Windu– his memory’s a bit fuzzy, just like everything else at the moment–

But Helix had called him sweetheart.

And there’s a baby in the medbay.

Stitch pulls the needle out of his arm, nods approvingly, and tells him to stay still before disappearing into the supply closet.

Needle issues a mental correction, grinning at the ceiling.

Another baby.

Who’s currently staring at the door.

Aw. He looks like somebody’s killed his tooka.

Can’t have that.

Needle considers for a moment and decides to start simple.

“Hi.”

The kid’s gaze flickers to him.

Ha. Red hair, skinny face– he looks kinda like a baby General.

“What’s your name?”

A moment of silence, and then a whisper so faint Needle has to fold himself up into something tiny to hear it–

“Ben.”

“Ben,” he repeats, testing it, and nods approvingly. “Good name. Lots of potential for variety!” 

He beams. 

Ben stares at him.

That’s okay. Bafflement is better than the someone-tore-away-everything-I’ve-ever-loved-and-I-don’t-know-what-to-do expression he’d had on earlier. 

“How’d you get here?”

Ben looks back at the door.

“Obi-Wan,” he says quietly. “I think.”

Ah. Needle nods sagely. “He brings a lot of us here,” he says, because it’s true. He does. He’s always dropping them off or dragging them back, because he brings them home. Because he’s awesome.

Oh. Wait. But if he’s here–

“You’re hurt?”

Babies shouldn’t be hurt. Whenever Stitch gets hurt, something terrible coils around his heart and all the way up his throat, and it doesn’t ever go away– it just gets absorbed, so he remembers–

Ben’s expression crumples. 

He nods.

“Don’t worry,” Needle says, grinning at him.  “We’re good at that. Not being hurt. But that too, maybe. But. But. Good at being medics. At fixing things–”

“You,” Stitch says, “need to be fixed first. Arm, please.”

Needle blinks at him. When had he gotten back?

“Sneaky,” he tells him approvingly, but props up his arm obligingly anyway. Stitch, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth– because he is adorable and also a baby– rolls the stockinette neatly up his arm. 

“I want glitter.”

“We don’t have glitter.”

“Can we get glitter?”

“I don’t know where to get it.”

“If we did, could we?”

Stitch’s expression says enough for him as he starts to wrap the liner, and Needle cackles. 

“I think– I think I have a good case.”

“I don’t.”

“No, no, listen.”

“Okay.”

(“Sorry. Didn’t know the best way to let you know I was here.”)

Needle spreads his free arm wide and clears his throat.

“Colors.”

“Hm.”

(“‘s okay.”)

Needle scowls at him. “Be impressed,” he says, wriggling his fingers threateningly. 

The intimidation factor is neatly decimated when Stitch gently pushes his arm upwards and starts wrapping the final layer. He can’t wriggle his fingers threateningly at the ceiling.

(“Obi-Wan’s gonna be fine. And he’s not alone. Someone will comm me if I’m needed.”)

“Stitch,” he tries–

“No.”

(“Okay.”)

There are voices to his left, but Needle is on a mission.

“General says I feel like colors.”

“So?”

“I deserve colors.”

“We could draw.”

“Messy colors.”

“We could draw messily.”

(“Would it be better if I checked on Needle first, and then came back to you?”)

“Draw on you messily,” Needle says sulkily, flattening himself against his pillow. “I want messy colors.”

A hand lands on his forehead, and he nearly shrieks before realizing–

“Why are we talking about messy colors?” Helix asks, smiling tiredly.

“Glitter,” Needle says emphatically.

“Absolutely not.”

He scowls. “You’re no fun.”

“You’re a terror,” Helix says, and his smile is soft and warm and he’d called him sweetheart and Needle loves him so much he thinks he might burst with the force of it–

“Can’t be,” he says triumphantly. “We already have a Terror.”

(And he’d preferred being sweetheart anyway–)

“Okay, got me there,” Helix sighs. “Stitch, can you give me the rundown?”

“Okay, Helix,” Stitch says, rocking back on his heels. “I checked Needle for CS and all readings are normal–”

Kid’s been real quiet.

“I just finished wrapping his arm–”

He glances over. Meets Ben’s wide-eyed gaze. Wriggles his fingers non-threateningly, this time.

And Ben– Ben smiles, a tiny little thing, and Needle has half a second to feel immensely proud of himself before Stitch says–

“And Obi-Wan has a fourth-degree burn on his chest–”

The smile vanishes.

Needle narrows his eyes. A thought dances in the corner of his mind, but it keeps slipping through his fingers whenever he reaches for it.

Fourth degree- then he should be here, shouldn’t he–?

“But I used two sheets of the stem cell grafts–” 

Ben’s gone all mayonnaise-y.

That’s– not great.

“And there’s trauma to the pectoralis major, partially severed on the–”

The thought lands in his grasp at last.

Ben. That’s what they called him, on–

And the red hair– the Sith had–

The hole in the sky–

Oh.

Oh.

Oh, and Stitch had called him Obi-Wan, but he– he’d said Ben, when Needle had asked his name–

He pushes himself up, opens his mouth, but Helix– because he’s Helix and therefore awesome– has already caught on.

“Let’s do this in my office, okay, Stitch?” he says quietly.

The sound of footsteps. A door opens. Closes with a click.

See–

Needle, of all people, knows the importance of names.

And he knows, all the way down in his bones, the feeling of everyone looking at you and expecting someone else.

Someone who knows what to do.

Someone who’s known.

Ben’s curled in on himself, shoulders drawn up to his ears, staring at the folds of his blanket.

Needle hears a tiny little sniffle.

Well, he thinks. Fuck that.

He blinks. Musters important thoughts.

If they’ve put him in the same bed–

He fumbles for the pillowcase, reaches inside, hears something crinkle–

Ha. 

“Hey.”

No reaction.

“Ben.”

That gets him to look up.

Needle pulls out the sheaf of flimsi and waves it at him.

“They always put me in this bed,” he whispers, grinning. The office is soundproofed, and the door’s closed, but whispering’s fun. Feels all secret. “Dunno why. But it means I can stash supplies. See that, up there?”

He points upwards, and Ben’s gaze follows his finger to a small yellow bird nestled between two binders.

“That’s my handiwork.”

It hasn’t been discovered yet. He thinks maybe it’s the only one that hasn’t been discovered yet. He’s been meaning to restock for a while now, but, well– they’ve been busy. 

And now is as good a time as any.

Yes, he only has one functional hand–

But.

He gives Ben a considering look.

Standing may be a bit beyond him right now. If he moves his head too quickly, the gravity turns off.

But there are alternative modes of transportation.

He winks at Ben and promptly rolls off the bed. 

Ah. Ow. Okay. Maybe not the smartest decision he’s ever made.

But hey, it worked– and now Ben’s peering over the edge, startled away from the brink of tears, so all in all Needle is going to count this as a win.

He offers him a thumbs up from where he’s starfished on the floor between their beds.

“Two out of ten for disembarkment, ouch, would not recommend it.” he wheezes, hauling himself up into a sitting position with his good hand. “But effective! Did it look good?”

Ben scowls at him. “No. What’d you do that for?”

Needle grins. “Hey, personality! Good question. Gimme a sec to remember– ah, yes, here we go–”

He fumbles for the flimsi. Holds it up.

“I,” he announces, “make them. The birds, I mean. I like making them very much. Keeping hands– busy hands– keeping hands busy is a good thing, because sometimes you feel like peeling off your skin, but then you can make birds instead.”

He clears his throat. This is a tragedy of epic proportions, and requires a suitably dramatic announcement.

“They require two hands. I only have the one.”

He waves it helpfully.

“For now,” he adds. “I’ll get it back, of course. But you have two hands. Wanna help me?”

Ben stares at him.

“You only gotta put a finger on the fold,” he says hopefully. “I can do the folding.”

“You rolled out of the bed for that?”

Spiky, spiky personality!

“Helix is gonna love you,” Needle says, grinning. “He’s also a cactus.”

“Not a cactus.”

“Methamorphologically.”

“Metaphorically.”

Needle beams at him. “Painkillers killed my brain cells, sorry. And my pain. But mostly my bin. Brain. Thinking thing. You can be my extra brain cell. And my extra hand. Please?”

And finally, finally, finally–

A smile flickers across Ben’s face.

Needle whoops. Quietly. Can’t let Stitch or Helix hear. And he doesn’t want to scare Ben. He’s got important things to say, first.

They work in silence for a bit. 

Mostly. 

Well. Not talking, at least. 

Or, well– Ben doesn’t talk. 

Needle doesn’t do very well with silence. He likes making noise. But he can be quiet for Stitch, when he needs to be. So he hums under his breath, and tells Ben where to move his hand when he has to, and keeps an eye on him to make sure that this isn’t like when he needs to be quiet for Stitch, and when Ben starts looking more interested in the way the bird’s taking shape, Needle tells him how the folding works, and when he judges the moment to be safe he says, very quietly– 

“You can still be Ben, you know.”

The hand on the flimsi spasms.

“It’s the name you gave me,” Needle continues, carefully not looking up as he finishes the fold. “And I know Stitch didn’t mean to call you the wrong name. Helix is probably making sure he knows now. For the future. And we already have an Obi-Wan, anyway.”

Quiet, wobbly–

“Is he a good general?”

Oh, Needle doesn’t even need to think about that one.

“‘Course,” he says easily. “He’s the best.”

“Oh.”

He chances a glance up.

Oh. Oh, no. He’s gone and fucked it up again–

“Ben?” he says helplessly, half-reaching out before remembering himself. “Ben? Please don’t cry–”

“‘Not crying.”

“You are.”

“Am not. I’m fine.”

A spare thought drifts between scattered puzzle pieces.

It’s– probably frowned upon to call a baby a liar, right?

He fumbles for a moment, and then, in a fit of inspiration–

“You’re only allowed to be here if you’re not fine, though,” he declares. “And you still have to be here. Are here. So this is a not-feeling-fine zone. Whole medbay is, in fact. Because Helix hates himself a little bit and Stitch is the only one left and I’m left over, so you can’t be fine because that’ll throw the whole thing off. But Stitch calls us Helix-and-Needle-and-Stitch and it’s better when it’s like that, but– you definitely can’t be fine when you’re on your own. Sorry. Rules are rules.”

“Oh,” Ben says faintly. “Okay.”

And Needle– Needle is not entirely sure if this is a victory or not, because–

Despite the warning signs–

Despite the tightness in his throat–

Despite the cold and miserable thing curling behind his ribs ever since he’d watched the door slide shut behind Obi-Wan and [lighthouse] Helix–

He still doesn’t manage to stop the first sob.

And he’d– he thought he’d been doing so well, too. 

Even when Obi-Wan had left– because he was hurt, because he’d carried Ben out through the cold and the dark and the empty and he’d done it alone until he hadn’t and Ben couldn’t help until he could and now he was hurt and it was his fault–

He hadn’t cried. 

Even when he realized how much his chest hurt– like someone peeled him open, stuffed coals inside, and sewed him back up– even when something deep inside his heart curled up and screamed when he realized his Padawan tunic was gone, replaced with thin and flimsy white scrubs that didn't make him a Jedi at all–

He hadn’t cried. 

Even when Helix had returned alone, and had been looking at him and looking at him and looking at him– 

He still hadn’t cried.

Because Needle– Needle who's like a firework, a whole cluster of them– Needle who likes glitter and messy colors– Needle who is so colorful as to be blinding and all open–

(Needle who cannot hurt anyone right now, look at him–)

Needle had asked him what his name was, and he got to say Ben.

(You can be Ben, Obi-Wan had told him, smiling– does he get good at that? Smiling? I remember. It’s okay to just be Ben.)

Because Ben doesn’t have to be anything but alive. Ben can be tired and Ben can be scared and Ben can be quiet and no one will expect him to be anyone else. And [all the colors] had smiled at him and told him that it was a good name, had told him it was okay because they were medics and good at being medics, and Ben had let himself breathe a little bit–

And then Stitch– Stitch with the bloody hands who had put him back together, who had put Needle back together too–

Stitch had called him Obi-Wan.

He doesn’t want to be Obi-Wan. He just wants to be Ben.

And then Stitch had gone away and Helix had gone away and he couldn’t look at Needle because Needle was going to want Obi-Wan–

And then he hadn’t.

He’d asked Ben to help him. He’d shown Ben how to make the little birds out of flimsi. And he’d told Ben that he could still be Ben as long as he wanted to be, and then he’d said that Obi-Wan was the best general–

(And he had tried. He’d tried so hard to breathe through it, tried to marshal his thoughts into some sort of order, tried to keep an even keel–)

Then Needle had looked at him and said that they weren’t allowed to be fine in the medbay. Any of them. And even though he’s mostly sure that he’d just made that up on the spot, something in his chest had cracked open anyway–

And now he’s crying, and he can’t stop.

It starts somewhere deep behind his ribs, crawling all the way up a raw throat, and it– it hurts. Rattling up his spine, scraping charred skin, and the sheer, miserable agony drags out a second wheezing sob- and it blooms into a feedback loop of pain and terror, each ragged cry dragging a new one from between clenched teeth, and– it’s painful and pathetic and embarrassing and he can’t stop but he has to, he has to because Obi-Wan’s a good general and he– he–

He wants Obi-Wan.

He wants Obi-Wan to explain how they get better.

He wants Obi-Wan to be Obi-Wan so he doesn’t have to.

He wants Obi-Wan to come back but he can't because he's hurt and it was his fault–

He tries to breathe– tries to inhale, tries to regain control, but every time he takes a breath his chest ignites all over again and he would scream if he had enough breath for it– and in his blurry periphery he sees a hand, outstretched, waiting– hears a voice coming through in pieces, like a bad connection–

(And he can feel the lightning humming sharp and bright under his skin and sour bile in his throat– he can’t go, not now, not ever again–)

(And Obi-Wan had said– anchor and ally–)

He reaches, feels the bed dip, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder, careful and grounding– and he’s so warm and he can’t– he can’t– he can’t move, he can’t curl up in a ball like he wants to and he can’t run like he wants to and he hurts but he has to be quiet otherwise they’ll be found–

A gentle hand tugs him a bit closer, further into the warmth, and he turns his face into Needle’s shirt and tries so hard not to scream but he doesn’t think he manages– and someone’s saying something and he can’t–

He can’t–

“Your name is Ben, yeah?”

He gasps, shuddering, and his chest burns–

“You’re a bit cactus-prickly.”

His hair is soaked with sweat and he can’t breathe–

“And you’re really good at helping me make the birds.”

A hand rubs his back even as the tears come thick and fast–

“I’m sure I’ll learn more later.”

He doesn’t know how long it takes for his body to wear itself out.

The world’s smeared. Like watercolors. 

He slumps into Needle’s side, shivering faintly.

The hand leaves his back, fumbling for a moment–

Then a blanket is draped carefully over his shoulders.

“Hey, Ben.”

He thinks maybe he should move. 

He is also very tired.

He doesn’t move.

“You want me to go?”

A slow shake of the head.

“Okay.”

The hand on his back has returned. Rubbing slow circles along his spine.

“Not a youngling,” he mutters. He feels like he should.

“Okay,” Needle says amiably. “Ben. Cactus-prickly. Good at folding. Not a youngling.”

Nothing in there about Obi-Wan.

Nothing at all.

He hiccups.

He doesn’t know what to say.

But–

Needle doesn’t seem to be expecting him to do– anything, really.

He just– breathes, for a moment, and focuses on being Ben.

Cactus-prickly. Good at folding. Not a youngling.

“Okay if I tell Stitch and Helix they can come back?”

He nods. Then stops.

“Aren’t they talking?”

Needle hums. “Told them to stay there for a bit.”

Oh.

That–

“Sometimes Stitch doesn’t do too well with a lot of people around,” he continues absentmindedly. “Thought you might like a bit of privacy too. I know I don’t like a lot of people around when my brain feels all scrambled-egg-y.”

When Ben peels his eyes open, he sees Needle tapping awkwardly, one-handed, at the datapad propped up on his knee. 

“Scrambled-egg-y?”

"Mhm. All jumbled up. Thoughts in all the wrong places, y’know?”

Ben sniffles. Nods. Closes his eyes.

He’s so tired.

Needle doesn’t move. Neither does he.

The door swings open.

“We put you in that bed,” Helix’s voice says drily, “so I have a direct line of sight from my office. Why are you incapable of staying in bed, Needle?”

“Work to do!” Needle sings out. “Important work. Making my birds! And making friends with babies.”

“Not a baby.”

“He calls everyone a baby.”

That’s– Stitch’s voice. 

“This is true,” Needle says, grinning down at him when Ben peers up. “Like Helix– Helix is also a baby, in my heart. But you can’t ever tell him that.”

Helix sighs, rolls his eyes, but–

In the Force–

“Think we can get you into–?”

He stops. Looks down to where Ben’s hand is tangled in the hem of Needle’s scrubs. Looks at Ben.

“Scratch that,” he says easily, before Ben even has a chance to realize that maybe he should have let go, and sits down on the edge of what’s apparently Needle’s bed even when Needle isn’t in it.

Stitch settles next to him, plucking at the edge of his sleeve.

“Ben?” he says quietly. “I’m sorry for calling you the wrong name. Helix told me. I didn’t mean to.”

“‘s okay.”

And it is. Because now he’s not doing it anymore. Because he’d called it the wrong name.

And all the blood is peeling away. Like washing your hands, and really scrubbing, and watching the suds turn pink. Underneath, it’s just– warmth. A solid warmth. A real warmth. Like a weighted blanket. 

It’s– nice.

“And for telling Helix what was going on before I told you. Sometimes I talk too fast. But you were conscious, and it wasn’t an emergency, and you should have known first. I’m sorry.”

“‘s okay.”

It doesn’t feel much like his own body anymore, after all. 

(But Obi-Wan had said it would get better. So maybe– maybe it will. Eventually.)

A beat of silence.

Helix leans forward.

“Would you like to know now, Ben?” he asks gently. “Or would you like to sleep?”

Ben blinks, trying to clear his blurry vision.

He’s only partially successful.

(He’s so tired.)

“Now, please.”

Helix nods. “Okay. I’ll just stick with the most important things for now, and then you can get some rest. We can cover everything else later.”

Ben curls a little more into the blanket and a little further against Needle. Watching.

“You’ve got a bad burn on your chest,” he says. Warm and steady and there. “It cut pretty deep through the muscle, so you might find it hard to move your arms for a bit while that heals up. But it will heal.”

He smiles, crooked and kind. “What you were doing with Needle just now? The birds? That was very good. Keeping your hands moving without adding too much strain.”

Needle squeezes his shoulder. “See?” he says, grinning. “I knew what I was doing all along.”

Helix is looking at him very carefully. 

“You’ve got a whole lot of people really worried about you.” 

Ben shrinks back at that.

“I told Mace– General– Master Windu what happened.”

He hadn’t meant to.

“I know he’d like to see you, if–”

No–

“Helix.”

That’s–

That’s Needle’s voice.

Silence.

Only breathing.

Ben squeezes his eyes shut and tries to do the same.

Helix exhales. Shifts.

“Ben.”

No.

“Obi-Wan told me what happened.”

No.

“He said it was like a nightmare.”

No.

“Ben, you know they’re alive, don’t you?”

No–

Well.

That’s the question, isn’t it?

He– does. Yes. He’d felt them, when Obi-Wan had pulled him out.

But–

But.

The emptiness had sunk all the way down into his bones, in the dark. Hollowing him out until there was nothing else. Until he couldn’t feel his own heartbeat, or hear his own breathing, or think his own thoughts. The dark had crawled into every crack and crevice and peeled him open, and he’d done nothing to stop it, because there was nothing left of anything at all–

Including him.

And that– that’s not there anymore.

The sky’s back.

And all the stars.

So he knows they’re alive.

He does.

(But.)

“Sometimes I get nightmares too,” Stitch says quietly. “Ones where Helix and Needle are dead, and I couldn’t do anything to stop it. Or where they’re dead, and I could have done something, and I didn’t. Really bad ones.”

Ben chances a glance up. Stitch is leaning forward, elbows on his knees, looking at him very carefully.

“And then I wake up. And I think they’re alive. I know they’re alive. Because I can see the medbay ceiling, and I can hear them breathing. But I’m still scared to check. Because what if they’re not? And the not-knowing is better than knowing, if the thing I’m knowing is that they’re dead after all.”

Ben swallows.

“I looked,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to. Obi-Wan was telling me not to look. But then I did. And–”

All the bodies.

“It got really hard to remember it wasn’t real.”

Stitch nods. “So checking is too much, because then you’ll know, and you’re scared you’ll know the wrong thing.”

Ben stares.

He’s all dandelion-soft in the Force. And he’d– he’d gotten it exactly right, even though Ben hadn’t known how to straighten out the tangle in his chest. 

But– now that he’s hearing it out loud–

“It’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” Stitch counters immediately. “They’re just– Needle calls them surviving thoughts, right? When you have to narrow your whole self down to the next second. Like if I found out Helix or Needle was dead, I wouldn’t– I wouldn’t be able to do anything at all. So I make sure I don’t think about it. So I can keep moving. And sometimes I need help to stop thinking surviving thoughts and start thinking normal thoughts again, like when Needle comes over and puts a hand on my shoulder so I know he’s alive for real and I don’t have to check, but that’s okay. And sometimes they’re not useful but that doesn’t mean they’re stupid. It just means they’re habit, and that’s okay too.”

A beat. Stitch falters.

“At least,” he mutters, “that’s what Needle says.”

“And Needle is right,” Helix says wryly. “As he often is.”

“I think,” Needle announces, “that you mean always.”

Helix sighs. “Remind me, how much damage have you done to my reputation today?”

“Enhancing your reputation, thank you very much,” Needle says cheerfully. “Jelly babies and antivenom and burrito-blankets and stories and everything. You’re welcome.”

“Not right about everything,” Ben murmurs. The world’s gone all soft and fuzzy around the edges. Not in a scary way, though. More like a sunset. “You rolled off the bed. Shouldn’t have done that.”

Helix straightens.

“Needle.”

“If you hadn’t kept turning the gravity off when I tried to stand up,” Needle says sulkily, “I wouldn’t have had to.”

“Amazing, what you think I'm capable of,” Helix says, straight-faced. “Arm, please.”

“I didn’t land on it, I’m not stupid,” Needle says indignantly, but he lets Helix probe the cast carefully anyway.

“How’s your head?”

Needle blows a raspberry.

Helix sighs, leans back, looks at Ben, and when he smiles, it’s all– warm. 

And tired. 

But mostly warm. 

“As you may have noticed,” he says, dry as a desert, “Needle is as horrible a patient as he is an excellent medic. Thank you very much for your help.”

“Betrayed,” Needle mutters. “By a baby.”

But he squishes Ben very gently when he says it, so he– probably doesn’t mean it.

“I know how to make turtles,” Ben offers sleepily. “Does that help?”

Needle brightens immediately, all slights forgotten. 

“Deal.”

Stitch slides off the bed and settles cross-legged on the floor.

“Can I help?” he asks. “Needle taught me how to make the birds, too. So I can help with that as well.”

He pauses, and then, very earnestly–

“But it’s okay if not. If you want me to leave, you can say no, and I will. Because that means something, that’s what Helix and Needle say.”

He sounds like he’s parroting something. A lesson he’s trying to remember.

“You can stay,” Ben says, blinking. The Force is singing safety and the rest of them are warm, and he doesn’t feel quite as cored-out empty as he did.

Helix unfolds himself carefully, ruffling Stitch’s hair as he steps over him. 

“You don’t need to sleep, Ben,” he says gently, “but just try and get some rest, okay? Even if it’s just thinking about breathing. Small steps forward, okay?”

Ben nods.

He breathes. And he doesn’t think about anything except being Ben.

Cactus-prickly. Good at folding. Not a youngling.

(And maybe– maybe not fine, either.)

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan’s grip on his hand is white-knuckled.

In place of the pain that he’d had drawn out, a dull, aching exhaustion seems to have settled into every bone.

They walk together, the two of them, through the winding, sunlit hallways, and Cody–

Cody can’t stop looking at him.

Hurried, sideways glances, because he thinks that if he looks away from his feet too long they might betray him– but–

His robe is singed. Scorch marks. All the way across– and a chunk’s been taken out of the sleeve, the edges still blackened. 

His hair’s a mess, too, the braid coming undone. The same braid that Cody had done, what– four, five hours ago, maybe?– and he nearly laughs, remembering–

Because Obi-Wan had had an early appointment, and they’d walked to the gardens together, just like they’d done for three weeks running, and Cody had considered going down to the Archives to pick up another book, because he’d had time, they all had, and then he’d come across Needle and Stitch sitting at the edge of the lake and decided the Archives could wait–

Because Needle was swinging his legs in the water with a bag of birdseed in one hand, humming to himself, and Stitch was sitting very still and quiet and Cody had nearly asked what was wrong before he’d noticed something moving in his hair, and a duckling had shaken out its wings before resettling in the mop of curls, and Stitch had smiled and told him that Needle had coaxed it up and he quite liked it there, so please don’t scare it, and he was going to ask Obi-Wan if anyone had already named the ducklings because if not then maybe he could–

And Cody had sat down and kicked off his own boots and rolled up his pant legs and joined Needle, and had listened to his humming and Stitch talking about the ducks with his face tilted towards the rising sun and the not-quite-peach smell of the asmonthus trees’ last blossoms in every breath he took, and eventually he’d sensed movement before Obi-Wan sat down next to him, entwining their fingers, looking tired in the way he always did afterwards–

And Cody had shifted and carefully pulled his hair together into a loose plait as Stitch, having received the answer he wanted, thought for a moment and announced names for each and every one of the twenty-four ducklings who’d been lured into view with Needle’s birdseed, ending with the one that had fallen asleep in his hair, getting periodically interrupted by increasingly outrageous suggestions from a grinning Needle until Stitch informed him that he would have pushed him into the water already were it not for the ducks, and Obi-Wan had laughed, bright and loud, the tension easing from his shoulders and around his eyes, and Stitch had looked very pleased with himself and Cody had thought, very suddenly, that if he could just have this for the rest of his life–

And then.

The Senate.

The Sith.

And a nightmare he cannot seem to shake.

(“A chip embedded here could essentially override your free will–”)

Would he have been trapped inside his own head? Made to witness?

Or would he have just been– gone?

Obi-Wan trusts him, and he would have–

He would have–

Because, see– if there’s one thing he knows, one thing he’s ever known, it’s that he would not raise a hand against his Jedi.

First, on Kamino, it had been a lesson learned. The Jedi would lead them, and it was their job to protect them. To wage war for them. To keep them safe.

It had been a warning, then. You will not raise a hand against your Jedi.

And then he’d met his Jedi, and it had not taken long at all for an instruction to become a choice.

When his Jedi had become Obi-Wan.

He would not raise a hand against his Jedi.

He would not raise a hand against Obi-Wan.

And now–

He should. Tell him.

Yes.

Because– are they sure? Are they absolutely sure that there was nothing left? That they got everything? What if– the Kaminoans were scientists, engineers, who knows what they’d done, who knows what was left unseen–

His comm buzzes.

He doesn’t realize what it is, at first, until Obi-Wan stops, says his name, questioning, and he fumbles for it with his free hand–

“Cody here,” he croaks.

“You looked like banthashit when you came out,” Fox says, clipped and grumpy. “You alive?”

For a moment, the static eating every thought settles and stills. Fox is Fox and always has been– solid and stubborn and wielding his worry like a club.

Inhale. Exhale.

Breathe.

“Yeah,” he says, after a moment, and Obi-Wan squeezes his hand. “Back on the Negotiator. How’s–?”

“Evac’s complete, we’re running demolition checks now– the sooner we can get this thing down, the better. Hound, you’re on perimeter, I want at least eight on the rift– Quark says the structure’s too compromised to rebuild as is, and no one’s arguing with him–”

Cody grins at that. In chaos like this, no one’s going to stop someone who seems to have a handle on things, and he knows Fox has always wanted to–

“But I can’t believe your idiot boyfriend beat me to it– hey, respectfully, sir, back the fuck up, behind the tape– if anyone should’ve gotten to blow that shithole up, it should have been ME–”

Obi-Wan leans over.

“My apologies, Commander,” he says, dry as a bone, and Cody bites the inside of his cheek. “I’ll leave the domestic terrorism to you in the future, shall I?”

A moment of utter silence–

“Much appreciated, sir,” Fox says gleefully. “Do me a favor and stay out of here for a few days, will you? Some of the bastards are looking for someone to blame, and you’re a hell of a target–”

“Of course I am,” Obi-Wan says wryly, and a burst of hysterical laughter crawls its way up Cody’s throat and he absolutely cannot open his mouth right now, not under any circumstances, no matter how much he wants to warn his brother to keep his mouth shut–

But the call shuts off when someone shouts Fox’s name, and then it’s just the two of them once more, standing together in the hallway.

A distant part of Cody’s brain thwacks him on the head and calls him a gormless fool, what with the way he’s staring, open-mouthed, but the rest of him is more preoccupied with the way the golden light settles in Obi-Wan’s hair, and the way the lines around Obi-Wan’s eyes crinkle with the echoes of laughter, and the warmth of Obi-Wan’s hand in his, and he opens his mouth to say– something intelligent, surely–

(But the same hand that’s holding Obi-Wan’s would have drawn a blaster and shot him in the head and it only would have taken an order because good soldiers follow orders and something else entirely crawls out of his mouth–)

“I would’ve killed you.”

(Obi-Wan, half-laughing, accepting his lightsaber from Cody’s outstretched hand–)

“We would have–”

(Obi-Wan, lines of exhaustion softening into a smile as Cody presses a mug of tea into his hands–)

“The– the chips. Cerasi called. They cracked them. They were– control chips. Built with orders. And one of them– Order 66–”

(Obi-Wan, leaning against him, comfortable, half-asleep, trusting–)

“It was an execution order. For the Jedi. We would have killed you.”

Speaking it into existence, as it turns out, does not lessen the crushing weight on his lungs one bit.

Obi-Wan blinks at him, uncomprehending, for one blissful moment–

Then all the color in his face vanishes at once.

He drops Cody’s hand and reaches up, cradling his face, stepping closer– closer until Cody’s back is against the wall, closer until all Cody can see is his cored-out expression, wide-eyed, frightened–

(Hunted–)

"Execution-style,” he breathes, and he’s looking right past Cody into a nightmare and Cody wants nothing more than to reach for him but his hands won’t move because they were the same hands that would have killed him–

Then.

Obi-Wan blinks.

His gaze refocuses. Looking at Cody, instead of through him.

“Cody,” he says, and there’s no hesitation to it. “Is this okay?”

He nods. His voice has deserted him.

Obi-Wan’s expression softens. He tugs him closer, rests their foreheads together, and the next words are spoken only into the space between them.

“Cody,” he repeats. “Cody. Cody. Did you know you drool in your sleep?”

Cody blinks at him, the sheer incongruity of the statement a verbal defibrillator. 

“What?”

“And you always rock back on your left heel when you’re pretending not to be bored,” Obi-Wan continues, tension easing from the set of his shoulders with every word.

Something warm kindles in Cody’s chest. It flares even brighter when Obi-Wan takes his hand once more, because no blaster pack has ever slotted into place as neatly as Obi-Wan’s hand does in his.

“You chew on the end of your pens. You double-tape boxes during inventory and it drives Rag mad because you always end up stealing his rolls.

“I–”

“You bought a lamp for the carnation plant in your office that Wooley got you because you didn’t want to disappoint him.”

“It was practical–”

“You–” and here, he runs his thumb across the back of Cody’s hand, smiling faintly– “keep punching droids even when you have a blaster in hand, and I suspect you do it because you find Helix’s constipated expression somewhat entertaining.”

“Slander,” Cody says, strangled. “Stop this immediately.”

He does not.

“You hide under the blanket when you’re not fully awake yet,” he says, and laughs, low and fond, at Cody’s horrified look. “You are responsible for at least three of Terror’s aprons. You hate the kelp ration bars because you think they taste like antifreeze. You are a better dancer than you like to think and you smile with your eyes first and I think I fell in love with you when I watched you pour salt into your caff and down the whole mug without flinching.”

Every thought in Cody’s head disintegrates at once.

“Oh,” he says intelligently. “I don’t– remember that.”

“I know,” Obi-Wan says, his eyes crinkling. “I don’t think you realized.”

It’s only the warmth of his hands that stop Cody’s own from shaking.

“It’s gone,” he says, and the statement tilts upwards at the end, as if–

“It is,” Obi-Wan agrees, and one hand finds its way to the nearly invisible scar that runs in a thin line along the left side of his head.

All that’s left of CC-2224.

“It is.”

Cody nods. Squeezes his eyes shut. Feels the warmth of Obi-Wan’s hand against his face, their fingers entwined, his steady breathing–

“We’re alive,” he says. Disbelieving and hating it.

“We are,” Obi-Wan agrees, and Cody squeezes his hand and cannot begin to imagine ever letting go again.

He swallows once, twice, clears his throat–

“You’re in– a lot of trouble on Melidaan, you know.”

Obi-Wan laughs, ducks his head, and in this moment Cody can’t quite remember when he’d first fallen in love in return– 

Only that somehow, he keeps doing it, over and over again.

“I’m sure,” he says wryly. “At least I won’t be facing them alone, hm?”

And right now–

Right now, he cannot find it in himself to joke. To say that they were right, that Obi-Wan had, in fact, been extraordinarily, ridiculously stupid, that he will absolutely step aside and let them yell at him until their voices go hoarse–

“No,” he says instead. “Of course not.”

Obi-Wan’s smile softens, opens, and the chill of the nightmare that had breezed so close begins to disintegrate at last.

Onto the bridge, then. And into the future.

Helix is faffing about. 

He knows he’s faffing about.

Needle, were he in top form, would absolutely call him out.

But Needle is not, in fact, in top form. Needle is dealing with head trauma and a broken arm and is currently engaged in an enthusiastic debate about whether or not their newest flimsi creations are turtles or tortoises.

(He is far and away the most enthusiastic debater, even if he can’t seem to decide which side he’s on.)

But Ben’s talking, and Stitch is talking, even if they’re both being very quiet, so that’s– good. 

He blinks at the open binder he’s holding, and realizes he’s holding it upside-down. 

He sighs. Flips it over and back to the beginning. Stares at the page. Listens to the quiet chatter behind him.

He’s sitting on the edge of a bed at the far end of the medbay. Facing away from their little huddle, towards the door. Because Ben may have asked him for help with Obi-Wan, but his gaze is wary and afraid even if he doesn’t seem to realize it himself and he watches Helix whenever he gets close, so–

So.

Helix still doesn’t want to leave them alone.

Exhaustion folds around the kid like a cloak, but the odds are low that he’ll actually give into it. They all know the feeling. The hypervigilance on a new planet, a new campaign, when your assessment of what lurks beyond the perimeter is full of holes that haven’t yet been patched– that prickly wariness that sings along every nerve and doesn’t quite get rid of the exhaustion as much as it weaves through it. He wonders, maybe, if they–

His comm buzzes.

Okay. Whatever that is, it’s probably news that should be dealt with in private. 

He snaps the binder shut. Places it back on the shelf. Rises to his feet.

Ben’s gaze follows him as he makes his way back to the office.

He leaves the door cracked open, in case one of them needs him, and, reassured by the steady hum of low chatter, settles into his chair.

Oh. 

That’s– that’s a lot more than one message, waiting for him.

A comm from Wooley informs him that the Senate’s lumbering bureaucratic mechanisms are already grinding into motion. Nominations for an Interim Chancellor are flooding in, with Organa as the frontrunner; being leaderless at war is something no one wants. 

Someone had, apparently, put forward Obi-Wan’s name. 

Obi-Wan, when he’d heard, had informed Organa that if he didn’t put a stop to that, then their next problem would be him.

The 584th has entered atmo on Melidaan. Sauro’s one of the younger commanders, but he’s got a good head on his shoulders. Trapper’s deadpan missive informs him that he absolutely worships Cody and wonders why this doesn’t translate to better exchange rates on the GAR’s black market.

Helix wonders if he could curb their Commander’s clanker-punching habits if he told him that he was setting a bad example.

Eh. Probably not.

And then–

Grievous is dead. 

The 501st had been dispatched to Utapau, where he’d last been sighted, and according to Waxer’s breathless message–

Hardcase, the brilliant bastard, had proved himself in a dogfighter at last. He’d lured Grievous into a dive, coming so close to the ground that the drag from his wingtip when he’d pulled up had carved a six-foot-deep furrow into the dusty ground.

Just deep enough for Grievous’ grave, when he hadn’t been quick enough to follow.

Helix puts the pad down and presses his hands to his mouth.

(They’d only been able to retrieve half of Kane.)

(Mick hadn’t understood what was happening. He’d kept trying to stuff his intestines back in.)

(Decker had choked on his own blood and had died laughing anyway.)

“For you,” he breathes. “That’s for all of you.”

And here, in the quiet, under his breath, he rattles off the names that live on the inside of his ribs. Giving them up, once more, to those he knows will carry them.

Jess confirms the beginnings of the transfers to and from Haven. Supplies going on the ship, people coming off. All available surgical facilities are being mobilized, she tells him, including the ship’s medbays. 

They’ll make do.

Helix looks suspiciously at her placid expression and informs her that she cannot kidnap the 584th’s medics.

Jess proposes a consensual kidnapping.

Helix says absolutely not.

Jess tells him to watch her.

And then–

A comm from Boil.

When Helix picks up–

“You alone?”

Oh, great. That’s not a great sign.

“Yes,” Helix says warily.

“Sitting down?”

“I am now.”

“Right. Dooku’s dead.”

It goes like this:

Quinlan knows the Dark. He’s breathed it in and choked on it, leaned on it even as it turned his feet to stone– he dragged himself out of it, fought his way free, walked the path out but still he knows it, knows the gutters it carves into your thoughts, the river gullies, the canyons, the way it inclines you to fight or flee and makes you forget what it means to be forgiven–

So he knows, then, when the sky cracks open and the shatterpoint breaks, what Dooku will try to do.

The cell block will be empty of Guards. The lockdown– their younglings– will take priority, and the Temple can seal it off. 

But.

Their home is on his side, regardless, because the hallway unfurls before him, twisting downwards, hurrying him along, and he runs a hand along the wall and hears it singing and laughs, bright and Light–

And as he runs, he comms his old Master. Because Tholme has walked in the Dark all the same but has never once turned towards it. Because Tholme walked in and pulled him out with him. Because Tholme taught him to walk the wire and dusted him off when he fell and has never once abandoned him for it–

And Tholme trusts him.

May the Force be with you, Padawan, he says, and it is, it is, it folds around him like a cloak as he flies around the last corner into the cell block, and because he knows the way the Dark bends and sneaks and breaks he is ready when Dooku’s door slides open.

Dooku, he thinks, is surprised to see him.

His gaze lands on the point of the green blade leveled at his chest. Follows the hissing plasma up to Quinlan’s face.

His expression reveals nothing.

Quinlan has been offered a choice. He has offered a choice himself. And he has chosen, time and time again. 

Sometimes he chose wrong.

He is trying, every day, to choose better.

And it’s with this truth tucked behind his ribs that he does what he does next.

He offers Dooku the same gift that Obi-Wan had offered him, what seems like a lifetime ago. 

“Step back into the cell,” he says, “and close the door behind you.”

Because he knows those yellow eyes.

“The path is long and dark and winding, but it’s there. It always is. Always has been.”

(Obi-Wan’s hands shake, now, sporadically.)

“And I will walk it with you, because I’ve done it before, and I know the way.”

(Scarring webs its way along his back and up his throat.)

“I don’t think you’re brave enough, Dooku. I don’t. But I would love nothing more than to be proven wrong.”

(Sometimes, the look on his face resembles that of a child, afraid of the dark, staring into the empty blackness of night.)

“Step back,” Quinlan says, and the Force curls around his shoulders, turning the whole world crystal–

“Walk the path. Make it out.”

Filling him up with every breath–

“Or don’t.”

Clearing his mind, welcoming him home–

“But either way, I will not let you hurt him again.”

At that, something glitters in those cracked-yellow eyes.

Not something of the Jedi. No. That man is long gone.

But, maybe, something that remembers what it was like to be one.

And Dooku–

Steps forward.

Onto Quinlan’s blade.

He deactivates it in an instant, the blade extinguishing with a hiss–

But it’s too late.

The body folds neatly onto the floor, the edges of the neat hole in his chest still smoldering.

For a moment, there is nothing but silence.

Quinlan stares.

A brief flicker of a thought drifts into his mind. 

This was too quick for him, the flicker says. Too good. Too easy, for what he’s done. 

He takes the thought in hand, examines it, and breathes it out carefully.

He is not that kind of man anymore, and he refuses to be so again.

But.

Helix knows none of this.

He knows only what he hears from Boil.

“He tried to make a run for it.”

Through the ringing in his ears– his hands spasm, imagining–

“Vos got him.”

Vos.

Obi-Wan’s brother. The Shadow.

Helix will have to buy him a drink.

He blinks at the wall. 

“Helix?”

“Yeah?”

(Dead.)

He breathes in. Deeper than he has in months.

“You good?”

The filtered air tastes oddly fresh.

Dead.

“Yeah,” he says, and means it.

Dead.

“Are Obi-Wan and–?”

“Sitting, yes, we know, we do our jobs,” Boil says grumpily. “One second.”

A rustle, a clicking sound–

An image pops up in his messages.

It’s Cody and Obi-Wan, curled together on one of the padded benches that get pulled down from the walls for rough landings. Obi-Wan’s wrapped an arm around Cody, tucking him against his side, under his cloak–

Cody doesn’t appear too upset about it, with the way his head is resting on Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

“I’ll do you one better,” Boil says smugly. “They’re sleeping, too. Have been for a whole ten minutes. Won’t keep them down for long, but– how’s that for efficiency?”

“You have my undying gratitude,” Helix says, dry as a desert, and Boil barks a laugh before sobering.

“It’s true, then?”

Helix sighs.

“If by true, you’re referring to the traumatized kid in my medbay who’s fresh out of a different war and went toe-to-toe with a Sith approximately three hours ago and who also happens to be–”

He stops himself. 

(The shuddering, hiccuping sobs–)

“Ben,” he finishes lamely, remembering, “then yes.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah.”

“How is he?”

“Scared. Exhausted.”

“Unsurprising.”

“Right. At least he’s talking.”

“He knows who you are?”

“Yeah. Not sure how much Obi-Wan told him, but. He knows us.”

“Weird.”

That startles a laugh out of him. Because that’s the weirdest bit of all of this, sure.

“You’re telling me.”

A beat of silence, then Boil sighs.

“Keep us updated.”

“Sure,” Helix says tiredly, and the call clicks off.

After a moment, he slides off the chair, onto the floor, and leans against the wall, blinking in the golden light.

He buries his head in his hands and lets out–

Not entirely a sob. Not entirely a laugh, either. Something ragged and hurting and relieved.

Dooku’s dead.

Okay. That next one was a sob.

Dooku’s dead.

He definitely has to buy Vos a drink.

Dooku’s dead.

“Thank you,” he breathes. 

He leans back, resting his head against the wall.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

He sits there, in the silence, and focuses on breathing.

And as he does–

A slow realization creeps up. Rolling along the slope of his thoughts like syrup. Unfurling like a blanket. 

Because–

The Separatist military leadership has been decapitated in one fell swoop, and if Helix knows anything about propaganda, that information is flying across the Holonet. He considers checking to see how many people had seen Organa’s livestream, how far the holos of Sidious’s decapitated body have spread, but decides against it. For now. He’ll let the others handle that.

If the Chancellor was a Sith, then– their intel had been bad so many times. Mistakes. Leaks. Sidious, in the seat of power, would have been feeding everything he had to the Seppies. Would have been leading them. With him dead–

They’ll have nothing.

And if Organa wins the Chancellorship– he’s not one of the warhawks. He’s intelligent, kind, a cosponsor of the CRA– if the Separatists sue for–

For–

He’ll listen. He’ll talk with them. 

Thoughts are drifting at the edge of his consciousness that he has never really allowed himself to entertain. 

Dangerous thoughts.

He scrubs roughly at his face, laughs again, disbelieving, and sets them carefully to the side. Fragile as glass.

He’ll focus on what’s in front of him, for now. 

And what’s in front of him is–

Silence.

He scrambles to his feet. Then he gently pushes the door open, peering out.

The very first thing he notices is that the bed’s empty.

Both of them. 

Again.

But the panic doesn’t have a chance to crawl up his throat before he glances down and sees–

Oh. Wow. Okay.

They’ve pulled the mattresses of the two nearest beds onto the floor between them. Brought the blankets and pillows with them, too, and now Stitch is sitting at the foot of their– is it still a bed?– raft, maybe, studying a half-folded turtle. Tortoise. Needle is propped up against the wall, looking very pleased with himself–

And Ben’s tucked against his side.

Asleep at last.

The band of steel around his ribs begins to loosen. 

“Hey, you two,” he whispers, shutting the door behind him. “What’s all this, then?”

“Stitch’s idea,” Needle says quietly, beaming at him. “Isn’t he just the smartest?”

“He is,” Helix agrees, warmth curling through him when Stitch ducks his head. “Care to tell me what I’m looking at, Stitch? I’m not angry,” he adds hastily. “Just curious.”

Stitch doesn’t look at him. His fingers taptaptap against the floor.

“It’s– smaller spaces are safer, sometimes,” he whispers. “And I thought, maybe– the medbay’s big, when you’re on a bed. And open. It has to be. But I thought– if we could build a smaller space for him–”

He stops.

Needle gives him a sideways glance, but picks up the thread without commenting. “Smaller space, yes! Pulled mattresses off the bed– Stitch helped me lift him down, don’t worry– and now the beds are like walls, a little bit, and he’s still got line of sight–” he gestures under the beds, to the open space, where one could, if they were at that level, see all the way through to the door– “and an extra exit, if he needs it–” his hand taps the vent in the wall behind them, half-hidden under the bed– “and it’s all small, and close, and pretty feckin’ comfy, and he said we could stay, and now he’s asleep so I think it worked.”

“‘Feckin’?” Helix echoes, raising an eyebrow.

“Creative genius,” Needle says gleefully, waggling his eyebrows. “Gotta watch the language! We got another baby here, now.”

Helix decides not to point out that this baby has been leading an army of his own for the past year, and can probably swear with the best of them. The way things are going, that might actually make Needle cry, and he’s–

Turning green.

Helix lunges for a bucket, but Stitch beats him to it, seizing the one under the bed and shoving it into Needle’s lap. Needle twists as far away from Ben as he can manage without dislodging him before the nausea catches up with him.

Stitch scoots sideways and puts a careful hand on Needle’s back. Helix glances at Ben, who seems entirely undisturbed by the retching going on next to him.

(Come to think of it, he’s probably used to sleeping through that as well.)

A pale-faced Needle surfaces, swiping at his mouth. Helix wordlessly hands him a tissue.

“Thanks, ‘lix,” he mutters. “Sorry.”

“None of that, now,” Helix sighs. “I’m impressed you held it in that long, honestly.”

“Couldn’t disturb the baby,” Needle says insistently. “He’s hurt.”

“So are you, you silly bugger,” Helix says exasperatedly, and Needle’s offended gasp turns into a jaw-cracking yawn on the inhale.

“...’m not a silly bugger,” he manages eventually. “Stitch is my bug.”

“Not a bug,” Stitch mutters, but–

His heart doesn’t really seem to be in it.

“Stitch?” Helix asks carefully. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Taptaptaptaptaptap–

Finally, Stitch looks up.

“I hurt him,” he says plaintively. “I hurt him, Helix. I didn’t mean to. And I called him the–” 

His gaze flickers sideways to Needle, and he lowers his voice, looking distraught.

“I called him the wrong name. I didn’t mean to do that either, but I did, and I hurt him.”

“You did,” Helix says patiently, “but it wasn’t on purpose. And then you apologized, too, didn’t you?”

Stitch’s gaze skitters away.

He nods.

“And he accepted it, didn’t he?”

He nods again.

“And did he ask you to leave?”

Stitch shakes his head, shrinking in on himself. “But what if he didn’t just because he was scared, Helix? He’s really scared. About everything, and it’s all bone-deep. I could tell. And what if he was scared of me? I don’t want him to be scared of me.”

Okay. Enough of that.

Helix beckons him over. Stitch unfolds himself, shuffling out of the little– the nest, yes, that’s the word he was searching for– and coming to a stop in front of him, looking absolutely miserable. Helix, his heart aching, reaches for him and draws him in easily.

“Hey, Stitch,” he says gently, “you’re getting a bit too deep in your head, yeah?”

Very quietly–

“Maybe.”

Helix nods, feeling encouraged. He knows that Stitch knows what to do for this. They’ve practiced, after all.

“And what do we do with that?”

“We stretch our legs,” Stitch mutters eventually, and Helix bites back a grin at the sulky tone. “And get some air.”

“Good,” Helix says, pleased. He pulls back, shakes him gently, and then, in a flash of inspiration– 

“Actually,” he asks casually, “can you update the Jedi? About how Ben’s doing? If he doesn’t want to see them– I know Mace will be worried.”

(He cannot think of anyone better to send him to than Mace.)

Stitch blinks at him.

“Oh,” he says hesitantly. “O-okay.”

“Thank you,” Helix says, pride blooming bright behind his ribs. “Well done. And–” he adds belatedly, “then you come back here, right?”

Stitch’s nod is more certain, this time. That’s good. Sometimes he needs the reminder.

Behind them, Needle stirs. 

“You goin’ somewhere, bug?”

“Going to update the Jedi,” Stitch says quietly, and Needle nods.

“C’mere, then,” he says, fond exasperation suffusing every word. “Gotta squish you first. To say bye for a bit.”

A smile flickers across Stitch’s face.

He steps carefully across the blankets and bends down obligingly next to Needle, who hugs him as tightly as he can with one arm and plants a smacking kiss on his forehead.

Stitch wrinkles his nose. “Your breath smells like puke,” he informs him, and Needle scoffs, grinning.

“Be safe, bugaboo,” he says cheerfully. “Be brave, love you lots, come back soon, and so on!”

“Okay, Needle,” Stitch says, and he’s smiling properly now, much better, excellent– “And I’m not a bugaboo, either.”

“You totally are,” Needle croons. “My little bugaboo. Look in the dictionary, ‘s there, your picture, right under it–”

“I’m going to check when I get back,” Stitch tells him, and Needle beams.

Helix watches him until the door slides shut before turning back to Needle.

“‘Bugaboo?’” he asks, and then holds up a hand when Needle opens his mouth. “Yeah, yeah, my bad, creative genius, sorry.”

“That’s right,” Needle says, jabbing a finger in his direction. “And don’t you forget it. Hey– hey, do we have a dictionary to put Stitch’s picture in?”

“I don’t think so,” Helix sighs, plucking another pillow and blanket from the next bed down. 

“Can we get one?”

“I don’t think the Senate would approve the funds for that, Needle.”

“Because they’re a bunch of bastards,” Needle sing-songs, and Helix snorts a laugh.

He unfolds the blanket, fluffs the pillow, and carefully makes his way to Needle’s side.

Needle blinks at him. “Ben’s leanin’ on me,” he says indignantly. “I’m a good pillow. I don’t need help being a pillow.”

“I’m sure you are,” Helix says patiently. “This is not for Ben, sweetheart, this is for you. Do you think you can lean forward without throwing up again?”

Needle considers this.

“Maybe,” he decides eventually. “Let’s see.”

Alright, then. Helix crouches next to him, helps him ease forward, and slides the pillow neatly behind his back. He shakes out the blanket before tucking it carefully around Needle’s shoulders.

He hesitates for a moment, and then gently drapes the rest of it over Ben–

Who shifts.

Helix freezes.

But he only turns a little further into Needle, snuffling gently before settling into the new warmth. 

“I like him,” Needle says sleepily. “Can we keep him?”

Helix’s hands still.

That’s– certainly a question.

There are a lot of other questions that have to be answered before they can get to that one.

He opens his mouth, looks up–

But Needle, with characteristically impeccable timing, is already asleep.

Helix breathes out. Carefully tucks all those questions away for later consideration.

He rises to his feet, carefully slides the bucket out of Needle’s slack grip, and makes his way towards the fresher to clean it out.

As it had dawned on Helix, the same, slow realization now sweeps across the crowded bridge, leaving silence in its wake. 

Reports from other battalions lighting up the console like stars. Retreats coordinated. Victories won. Surrenders accepted.

The news spreads like wildfire across the Holonet. The footage. The holos.

(They’re accepting– a lot of surrenders–)

Cautious glances sideways. Shoulders brushing. Squeezed hands. 

It’s Wooley, in the end, young and brave and impossibly hopeful, who’s the first to speak the dangerous thoughts into existence.

“Did we–” he starts.

He stops. Swallows.

Into the crowded silence–

“Did we win?”

Chapter Text

Stitch slows to a walk as he nears the crackling rift, scanning the perimeter for a Guard he knows.

His fingers tap a steady beat along his vambrace.

He likes tapping. The rhythm rolls like a drum, and it makes a good kind of noise on his armor. Tapping puts things all in order again. 

And there have been a lot of things to put in order.

First stop had been the bridge. 

He had checked that the General and Commander were still alive– 

(They were–)

And had told Crys to wake them up in twenty-seven minutes, please, because that would mark the end of a REM cycle so they wouldn’t wake up groggy. Any longer and they should be lying flat. In a bed. 

Especially the Commander. 

Crys had tossed him a beacon, too, with an amplified signal– he’d never tried trans-dimensional communication before, he’d said, and he’d like to try and catch a signal, because if he could then he’d know how to calibrate a comm–

Stitch had recognized the live-wire look in his eyes and had hooked the small disc onto his belt without comment.

Second stop– a shop. 

Unplanned. 

Stitch does not usually like unplanned things.

But he does love his brother.

So.

Next stop, then, is the rift. 

Or– through the rift. Update the Jedi.

Then update their Jedi. 

He likes General Windu. He’d brought Needle home. And Helix likes him. So he doesn’t want him– either of them, even if the other General Windu isn’t a General yet– to be worried for longer than they have to be.

Yes.

He doesn't have to talk to Jinn. General Windu had been there. The Commander had said so. So he can just– talk to him.

Because Stitch knows he cares about Ben. He may not be their General Windu, but their General Windu used to be him, and their General Windu cares about General Kenobi very much, and General Kenobi used to be Ben– even though Ben is not General Kenobi, that's important– 

So.

Yes.

General Windu will listen.

He– doesn’t know if Jinn will.

His thoughts are derailed by a shrill whistle, and he turns–

“Hi, Hound,” he says, beaming. “Hi, Grizzer.”

His second-favorite non-brother species is working. That means no petting, and no distractions, but Hound had said it was okay if he said hello if he didn’t say it in a distracting way, so he doesn’t. He says it directly to Hound’s face, instead.

“Hi, Stitch,” Hound says, grinning at him. “From both of us. What brings you here?”

Stitch points at the rift. “Traveling,” he says, and then adds, “Helix’s orders.”

Hound nods, taps at his datapad–

“Right,” he says at last. “We’re logging travelers. If you’re not back in twenty minutes, your superior officer or officers will be notified, and a recall will be put into effect. Repeat?”

“Twenty minute deadline, if exceeded, superior officers will be notified, recall will be enacted,” Stitch rattles off obediently, and then, curious– “What do recall protocols look like for this?”

“Good question,” Hound says drily. “We’re figuring it out as we go. And– tell them that if anyone comes through we didn’t see go in, orders are to shoot on sight, yeah?”

“To stun or to kill?”

“Depends on if we recognize them or not.”

Stitch nods. Sensible. Hound nods back, looking pleased, and waves him through.

He walks all the way up to the edge, slow and steady, counting his steps–

And stops.

It’s a lot louder up close.

He thinks fleetingly that he should have brought his headphones.

But– no. Because what if he lost them? Going through? The General always said he wanted to make sure he pulled all of them out– and Cody had come through with all his organs in place, at least according to the bioscan Stitch had hastily run on the bridge, but his headphones aren’t a part of him no matter how much he sometimes wishes they were, so– yes. Probably for the best.

He does remove his bucket, though. Because these Jedi aren’t used to being soldiers yet. 

The rift is big and bright and loud.

(But then again, so is Needle. And there's nothing in the whole galaxy that could make him be afraid of Needle.)

What does the General always say–?

Oh. Yes.

“May the Force be with me, please,” he says politely.

And then, under his breath, as befits their own–

“And bring me home safe,” he whispers. “Please. I know that’s a big ask, but I’m good at being small, so I won’t be too much to carry.”

He doesn’t give himself time to think himself into a tangle again.

He takes a deep breath, holds on tight to himself–

And s t e p s–

And Qui-Gon lurches to his feet as a new figure materializes in front of him.

Instinctively, he reaches, tugging along bonds, a jumble of visitor and new and update? before his thoughts trip over themselves into a screeching halt.

Because this soldier is young.

The very first thing he notices, really. The disconcertingly boyish face, topped with a neat mop of curls– sixteen, maybe? And yet, still, gold-painted armor, just like the other three– a helmet cradled under one arm, the same hand clutching– are those glitter pens? So wildly conflicting with the blaster at his hip and the nervous expression on his face that laughter begins to bubble up in his throat–

“Um,” the boy says. “Hello.”

He catches himself just in time.

He’d not done himself any favors with his previous conduct, Qui-Gon knows. Laughing at a soldier– a medic, he realizes, seeing the symbol on his pauldron, and hope flares to life behind his sternum– would not help his case.

And besides–

As young as he appears, the boy has some of the best shielding he’s ever seen in a non-Force sensitive, dulling his signature into something so small as to be almost invisible. And while strong shielding can be taught with good mental discipline, even without the Force– meditation, organization, conscious awareness of your own thoughts– there are other catalysts for such defensiveness. Catalysts that are not as kind.

A faint, prickly sensation settles against his skin.

(A small signature, yes–) 

Itching like a sunburn.

(But not invisible.)

“Hello,” he says carefully. “My name is Qui-Gon Jinn.”

He leaves the end open, tilting upwards into a question, inviting reciprocation–

But the boy ignores him, looking around instead. 

“The Commander said there were other people here,” he says, a quiet desperation leaking into the edges of his words. 

Well. Yes. But.

The others had temporarily scattered. There’d been work to do. Always work to do. Although the external lockdown is still in place– and oh, the inquiries were already flooding in about that, and Qui-Gon had found the space within himself to be relieved that no one seemed willing or eager to disturb him– the Temple had already bent itself crooked in a self-imposed quarantine, and movement is slowly resuming within its walls. 

Qui-Gon had stayed. Resting on his heels, clearing away burnt stems that disintegrated between his fingers, staining his hands with dirt.

Meditating. Reaching, and finding nothing.

Nothing, that is, until maybe forty minutes ago, when something all around him had shuddered, twisted, shattered–

And the darkness clogging the bond had simply dissolved.

Crumbling into an ash so thick and choking that Qui-Gon had broken from his meditation, coughing violently in an attempt to dislodge a nonexistent obstruction.

But since then–

Only silence.

“Yes,” he says cautiously. “There were. But they had work to do elsewhere. They’ll be returning soon enough.”

“Oh,” the boy says. A scowl flickers across his face before his expression smooths out, settling into a wary watchfulness.

His fingers drum a steady beat on the top of his helmet.

Qui-Gon glances down. The boy follows his gaze, goes stiff, and hurriedly stills.

They look at each other.

After a moment, Qui-Gon, feeling slightly unnerved at the guarded silence, folds himself back onto the ground and gestures. 

“Join me?”

The boy’s throat bobs as he swallows.

But he does, eventually, edge forward, settling cross-legged onto the scorched earth. 

Still silent.

Okay. Start small.

“What’s your name?” 

The boy’s gaze flickers upwards, sideways, away again before settling somewhere in the vicinity of Qui-Gon’s left ear.

“Stitch.”

“Stitch,” Qui-Gon repeats, relief curling through him. He tries a smile. “A fitting name for– a medic, I’m assuming?”

“Yes.”

Okay. Medic. Yes. So.

“The Commander said someone would be coming through with an update?” he prompts, and relief flares sharp and bright when the– when Stitch’s eyes sharpen.

“Yes,” he says– firmer, this time, firmer and more confident. “Yes. But you have to promise to listen.”

Qui-Gon blinks.

“Of course,” he says slowly. “Of course I will.”

Silence.

Stitch is still looking at him. Waiting.

He reexamines his answer, hesitates, and adds–

“I promise.”

Stitch nods, sharp and quick, and straightens.

When he meets Qui-Gon’s gaze, this time, it’s almost impossible to see the boy under the medic.

Then he starts to talk.

Quick and clipped and coolly professional, even as nausea climbs heavy and sour up Qui-Gon’s throat.

A fourth degree burn. 

(The red saber, dipping downwards, under a flare of blue–)

Muscle damage– down to the bone–

(He’d reached for the stranger– not for him–)

No signs of infection, Stitch tells him, looking distinctly pleased even as Qui-Gon’s hands go numb–

(He’d only been out of the Halls for three weeks, and now–)

Awake and aware and afraid–

(But that’s– that’s not new, is it?)

It takes him a full three seconds to realize Stitch has stopped talking, and is now simply–

Looking at him.

“It’s good he’s with us,” he says, after a pause, and when a soft and clumsy eddy turns the Force dusty-warm , Qui-Gon realizes– 

He’s trying to reassure him.

“You need other people around who know what that fear’s like, when you’re that scared. Because they can help you build around it. I know what that’s like, because I’m still scared all the time even though I have room to feel other things too now. So I’ll help him, and so will Needle and Helix and all the rest of us.”

“I’m sure you will,” Qui-Gon manages, after a long moment, the list of questions he’d carefully assembled scattering haphazardly to the wind. “I–”

(Who are you? Where are you? When are you–?)

“When are you going to bring him back?”

The tentative warmth evaporates.

“You’re not listening,” Stitch says, scowling. “He’s safe with us.”

A terrible suspicion flares to life in the back of Qui-Gon’s mind, but before he can look at it too closely, Stitch’s gaze flickers behind him.

“Oh!” he says, and a smile blooms across his face even as his sunburn-prickly signature softens into a dandelion-like luminosity. “Hi, sir!”

Qui-Gon jerks when he feels Mace’s warm presence flare apologetically at his back, and Stitch scrambles to his feet.

“I– Ben’s awake, sir, and he’s going to be okay. He’s hurt, but we’re going to fix him, because we’re good at that, and he knows everyone else isn’t dead but he doesn’t know it yet, but we’ll fix that too because we’ve got our Jedi and our General is the best, and–”

“Ben?” Qui-Gon says faintly, only to be met with the sensation of stepping on a live wire.

“Don’t interrupt,” Stitch snaps. “That’s rude.”

“Quite right,” Mace murmurs. 

Qui-Gon shuts his mouth, swatting at the faint breeze of bewildered amusement that wafts through the Force even as he wonders at the revelation of this thorny courage from the boy who, five minutes ago, couldn’t even look him in the eyes. 

He thinks he may have failed some sort of test.

Stitch scowls at him once more before turning back to Mace.

“And,” he continues, “we know– we know what it’s like to be that scared, a little bit. And so– small spaces are safer spaces, sometimes, so we pushed two of the beds to the side and pulled the mattresses onto the floor, so he still has line of sight but also walls, and he’s with Needle–”

Oh, yes. He had mentioned Needle before, hadn’t he? Another medic?

“Because Needle is also the best–”

Probably.

“So he’s safe, and he’s scared, and he’s hurt, and he’s going to be okay. Now,” Stitch says, drawing himself up to his full height, and Qui-Gon is very suddenly reminded of a hissing, fluffed-up tooka–

“Any questions?”

Stitch thinks he’s doing a pretty good job, all things considered.

Yes, General Windu hadn’t been here at first. So he’d had to talk to Jinn. But he’d gotten through that all right, because he’s a good medic and he knows how to give reports. And then General Windu had arrived, and he’s pretty sure he'd be on his side if Jinn did something stupid because he’d said Stitch had been right when he told Jinn not to interrupt because that was rude. So now he’s been updated too, and Helix had specifically asked him to do that, so– that’s one out of two General Windus, which is good.

He could leave.

But the longer the signal stays on this side of the rift, the higher the chance Crys will be able to catch it.

And–

(Ben?)

He kind of wants to see if Jinn will ask the right questions. 

They’re both watching him.

“You mentioned Needle,” Jinn says slowly. “Is he another medic?”

Oh. Well. 

That’s not a wrong question.

“Yes,” he says warily, before brightening. He can’t not. Needle always makes him feel all lit up inside. “He’s my brother. I mean– technically they all are. But Needle– him and Helix– they’re really my brothers. Needle is loud and bright and folds paper birds and he’s really good at making people feel safe– and Ben fell asleep on him. So I think he’s done it again.”

Jinn and Windu look at each other. 

Something prickly-hot and sour bubbles in the pit of his stomach.

(Needle and Helix never do that, when they’re talking. They always make sure to say everything out loud, because they know that Stitch isn’t very good at picking up on the unspoken things, and they never try to leave him out–)

“He sounds like a good man,” Jinn says, smiling crookedly, and even though it’s Jinn, the prickly feeling dulls briefly. Because everyone should know that.

“He is,” Stitch says emphatically. 

Again, a long glance between the two of them–

“We know the boy you call Ben as Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Windu says slowly.

Something in his chest pulls taut and snaps.

Interrupting is rude.

But so is calling people the wrong name, and Ben can be their Ben just like Needle is their Needle and it doesn’t have to matter at all who other people think they are.

“He said his name was Ben,” Stitch says. 

(Maybe shouts.)

“And I know you use another name but he said Ben, not Obi-Wan, and that’s what matters. And I think– I think if he was too afraid to tell you that, then– then that’s what’s important, and you should be paying more attention, because–” he pivots to face Jinn, jabs a finger towards his chest– “you’re the reason why he’s scared all the time in the first place!”

Jinn takes a step back, his eyes going wide, and the prickly feeling crawls all the way up his back and into his throat and behind his eyes and takes hold of all the thoughts crowding on his tongue and says out–

“Because you left him behind!” 

Oh, he’s definitely shouting now, yes–

“And I was trying– I was trying all the way here to figure out why! I was trying to imagine what would’ve made Helix take my blaster and tell me I’m not his brother anymore and leave me behind and I couldn’t!”

Because Helix would never leave him behind if there was any other option, not ever–

And neither would Needle, or any of his brothers, or General Kenobi, or the other Jedi, because you don’t leave people behind, not when you could save them instead–

(So what does that make Jinn?)

“And I told you he’s scared all the time and I told you he needs people who know it but you don’t understand and I know you don’t understand because you grabbed the Commander! You don’t grab people! And if you do that then I think you probably do it to Ben too because you don’t know! And– and–”

(And Stitch knows triage because he is a medic, he flattens himself out and pulls ‘81 back on like a worn sweater and picks and saves and condemns– limited supplies and even more limited time, sometimes they have to make choices with no right answer– but Jinn had done triage all wrong, because he’d seen, in the Memory– he’d just left, and hadn’t saved anyone else instead–)

Jinn opens his mouth and fury blazes all the way up Stitch’s spine because hadn’t he just said–?

Then all the fire crystallizes at once.

Because Jinn–

Bows.

Sweeps so low his hair brushes the floor, bringing ash with it when he rises. 

“You make some– interesting points,” he says. “But there’s only one of them I can address now.”

He’s gone very pale.

“I was wrong to react the way I did. I knew better than to grab an injured man– from behind, no less– but I let my fear for my Padawan blind me.”

Stitch blinks.

Fear– why would he have been afraid?

Worried, yes, but– they weren’t going to hurt him. Obviously. After all, it had been General Kenobi who’d gone through, and who’d brought him back, and–

Wait.

Had Jinn not–?

Oh.

Oh, no.

“I acted thoughtlessly, and in doing so caused harm that I never intended.”

But Stitch had recognized him on sight. Why would Jinn not have–?

Maybe, a more charitable part of his brain suggests, they had been moving fast. Duelling, after all. Or the lightning– because the lightning can blur the edges of things, Stitch knows, and sometimes it makes the General look like something not-quite-human when it pulls him down–

But.

He’d still been his Padawan.

And that small part of him that’s more inclined to mercy is growing more and more quiet in the shadow of Ben’s fear.

“Will you do me the favor of conveying my apologies to the Commander?”

Stitch does his best to pack the weight of a hundred thousand of Helix’s scowls into the look he now aims at Jinn, and feels a flicker of satisfaction when the other Jedi recoils.

He’s not Helix. But he’s learned a lot.

“Fine,” he says at last. “But it’s his choice whether he accepts it.”

Jinn inclines his head.

Stitch kind of wants to hit him.

Because the prickly feeling has turned into burning, now, and he doesn’t want to cry– not here, not in front of them.

He wishes he’d put his bucket on after all. He wants to go home, even though now he thinks maybe he’ll get in trouble for shouting at Jedi. 

Windu clears his throat.

“Stitch–”

Then he stops. Both of them glance towards the hallway.

Stitch takes the opportunity to reach up and scrub roughly at his eyes, and half a second later he hears footsteps–

He looks up–

“Oh,” he says, brightening despite himself. “Hi, General Ti.”

Hound watches Stitch hesitate for a moment, sees his lips move, glances down out of an instinctive respect for privacy–

And it’s in the half-second he’s looking away that he hears the steady humming surge into a brief crackle. 

When he looks up, the kid’s gone.

He’s… kind of surprised Helix sent him through.

Yeah, sure, there’s a twisted sort of logic there, but not one he particularly likes, and certainly not one he thinks the 212th’s medics subscribe to.

Because–

He’d met Stitch when Needle had brought him along to assist Screech with routine physicals during a leave. He’d brought Grizzer with to his appointment slot– sue him, she didn’t get a lot of time to visit places when she wasn’t working, and he’s a bit of a soft touch– and it had taken less than half a minute for her to flatten Stitch against the floor and declare him her new best friend.

(Hound had felt, however briefly, slightly abandoned.)

But that had faded soon enough at the sound of the kid’s muffled giggling under Grizzer’s enthusiastic, slobbering affection.

It had taken him about another thirty seconds after that to realize exactly why Stitch had held himself so tightly in check.

He’d looked at Needle. 

Needle had been watching Stitch, fondness written all over his face, grinning broadly as a hand fought its way out from under the massiff’s weight only to start scratching gently between her spines.

Then he’d met Hound’s gaze–

And that had been that, really.

He remembers the look in Needle’s eyes and reaches for his comm.

No harm in double-checking, right?

Chapter Text

Shaak unfolds herself from the Memory’s mossy floor.

The Temple’s song has shifted at last, away from the shrieking siren of distress that had ricocheted through the walls as their home contorted itself– both to isolate the threat and to protect its people. Now, a high flute of piping curiosity curls through the Force, poking gently at a new– young?– spark.

The lockdown has largely been lifted. But still, out of an abundance of caution, their younglings will remain in the Memory until they can ascertain the truth of what lies through the rift. 

Curiosity drives her upwards, but she’s no fool. No one travels through the Temple alone, not right now. 

She turns, reaching out–

Hm. Well. If the Temple thinks their newest visitor to be young, then maybe a suitable companion might be in order. 

(Even though young is to be, perhaps, taken with a grain of salt. The Temple still calls her a youngling sometimes, after all, vast and ancient as it is.)

Shrieking laughter echoes among the pillars. An enormous figure stomps out from the shadows, roaring dramatically–

She clears her throat.

The tableau in front of her freezes.

Pong Krell gives her a guilty look.

The younglings dangling from each arm beam at her.

“Would you do me the favor of accompanying me upstairs, Knight Krell?” she asks politely. “I believe we have a new guest, and I would quite like to meet them face-to-face.”

A chorus of protests arise from the group. Her friend appears to be barely restraining himself from joining them.

“Aw, Master Ti!”

“We were practicing!”

“Yeah, tackle takedowns!”

“And some other things!”

Pong clears his throat.

“And you’re very good at it,” he says patiently. “And you’ve gotten better! We can practice more later.”

With the reassurances of his continued company, his companions disentangle themselves with only minimal grumbling. A chorus of goodbyes follow them towards the entrance, tinged with poorly-concealed giggling–

Ah.

Shaak slows her steps. Her companion follows obligingly.

“You know,” she says, raising her voice slightly, “as Jedi, we must always remember to be observant of our surroundings.”

“Of course, Master Ti,” Pong says, inclining his head respectfully.

“Aware both in the Force and with every sense.”

“Indeed.”

Shaak gives him a sideways look, amusement flaring bright. Pong stares straight ahead even as one trunk-like leg begins to giggle.

“My goodness,” she says. “Knight Krell, your left leg appears to be developing an independent sense of humor.”

Pong grins at her. “Not a very good one.”

“Hey!” the leg exclaims.

“Have you gotten that checked out?” Shaak asks, ignoring it.

“Oh, yes,” he says, sighing hugely. “Master Che says I have a terrible case of youngling-itis. Terminal and everything. Comes with an enormous and annoying tumor.”

“I’m not a tumor,” his leg says indignantly.

“Prove it,” Pong says cheerfully. “Detach.”

And suddenly, in a flurry of flickering scales, a youngling stands where there was a second earlier an empty patch of moss. Beetle-like wings fold neatly behind her back even as she spreads her arms wide.

“See?” she says, beaming, and then squeaks as four arms scoop her up.

“Master Ti, I have excellent news,” Pong says brightly. “I’m cured!”

“Excellent news indeed,” Shaak says, laughing. “Hello, Initiate.”

The young Caricatus waves at her. “Hi, Master Ti!”

Pong pokes her gently in the stomach. “That was pretty good, Delphi! You’ve got your camouflage down pat– ask Master Arconi to help you with your shielding next.”

Multi-faceted eyes blink guilelessly at him. “Will you help me?”

Like wet flimsi, Shaak thinks, grinning, as her friend folds immediately. 

“Later, though,” he says halfheartedly.

“Okay!” Delphi chirps. “Bye, Master!”

“So,” Shaak says quietly, as Delphi’s triumphant return is greeted with cheers from her compatriots, “Master?”

A dull red flush crawls up Pong’s face as the two of them resume their walk.

“Don’t you start.”

The Memory warps obligingly as they approach the entrance, and the next step under Shaak’s feet is stone.

“I had Vida over for tea last Taungsday,” she continues blithely. “She mentioned you’d been visiting the creche quite often lately.”

In truth, she’d talked about nothing else. It was always worthy of celebration when a master took on a padawan, and her friend was always delightfully forthcoming with the–

“Gossip,” Pong grumbles, but the red hasn’t faded. He clears his throat. “Besides, she’s far too young to take on.”

“She does have a few more years before she’s ready, certainly,” Shaak agrees easily. “Just enough time, for, say, a fairly recent knight to find his footing?”

“Menace.”

“Curious,” she corrects, smiling faintly, but lets the matter drop. “Bad molt?”

Pong drops his hand from where he’d been scratching absently at his forearm, sighing. “Eh. Not fun.”

She winces sympathetically. “No. I imagine not.”

“I’m hoping for darker colors this time around, though,” he says, brightening. “Orange? Not really where it’s at for me.”

Shaak hums encouragingly, noting with some satisfaction that the scratching has not resumed.

“Delphi thinks I should hope for magenta.”

“Oh, she does, does she?” she says mildly, and bears the subsequent scowl with all the grace and composure that is expected of a Jedi Master of her stature.

If she has to catch her laughter behind her teeth, well– no one but herself has to know.

Pong falls back to her shoulder as they approach what’s left of the entrance to the garden, and Shaak hears him draw in a sharp breath.

She sympathizes.

The destruction is drawn in tight, but within its borders– all-consuming. Crumbling walls, stained with soot, jagged pieces of stone scattered across the walkway– even now, a charred smell still lingers in the area, sour acridity blooming on her tongue.

And the lingering scraps of heavy Dark– pockmarked scars in the Force like shrapnel in stone–

Hm.

They step forward.

Oh. Oh. 

The Temple, as it turns out, had been entirely correct.

He is young. Young, and distinctly hedgehog-prickly in the Force, his signature interwoven with an irate thorniness aimed at– 

She nudges Qui-Gon chidingly in the Force, only to be met with bewilderingly sore bafflement. 

Ah. So he doesn’t know either, does he?

And then the boy sees her, and the Force flares bright.

With–

Recognition.

What on earth–?

He knows her.

It’s impossible to deny it.

There’s familiarity there.

And then–

He calls her by name.

He calls her General.

And in the Force–

Like a sunflower, she will think later.

(Heralding a storm.)

Stitch has never met General Ti face-to-face before.

But he likes her very much anyways. Because the decommissionings had stopped, when she arrived, even though he hadn’t believed it until later. The decommissionings had stopped, and the long-necks had hated her.

That was enough for him.

And she’s smiling at him, now, and he rocks back on his heels, beaming, because now he’s definitely safe. He knows it for certain. Because she may not be their General Ti yet, but she’ll still have the beginnings of her, and he’s heard a lot and he thinks no one with even a little bit of General Ti in them will ever let any trooper get hurt.

“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” she says, and Stitch stops rocking and straightens. Right. Yes. 

“My name’s Stitch,” he informs her, like a professional, even though he doesn’t stop grinning.

“Hello, Stitch,” she says, and she’s still smiling and she’s so nice and this is kind of awesome, actually– “Have we met?”

“We have now,” Stitch says, and only after does he realize that that was– probably not what she was asking. He corrects himself hurriedly. “Not face-to-face, I mean. Before this. But I knew you. You stopped the decommissionings, on Kamino.”

General Ti blinks at him. “Decommissionings?”

Stitch nods, hesitating. 

“My General calls them murders,” he says slowly. “He says– he says they were murders, but I can’t think of them like that. Murders are big things, you know? And if– if they were murders, then that’s– that’s too much. Decommissioning is smaller. So it’s easier. Only nat-borns get murdered. Clones get decommed. If we’re not made right.”

General Ti is staring at him.

Stitch kind of wants to kick himself.

He hadn’t meant to upset her. He’d only meant to tell her how important she was. Because the long-necks had hated her. He’d thought the long-necks weren’t scared of anything. But then, when she’d arrived– he’d heard–

“They were scared of you,” he adds. “The long-necks, I mean. I didn’t think they were scared of anything. I didn’t think they could be scared of anything. But they were scared of you.”

She’s still looking at him.

He wishes she wasn’t.

The prickliness is crawling all the way up his back again. The itchy feeling that makes him want to peel off his skin. Or crawl under a blanket and never come out.

Then she smiles. Again. And even though there’s something in her expression that he can’t pin down, he doesn’t think it’s directed at him, because her smile is softer, this time, and gentler, and her gaze shifts to his left and carefully doesn’t land back on him.

“I’m glad they were,” she says. “I would not have them think they didn’t need to be.”

Stitch breathes in and breathes out again, just like General Kenobi always says, and carefully finds his balance.

“I know,” he says, and smiles back at her. “I got sent out two weeks after you arrived. So we never met in person. But everyone who came after wasn’t afraid to use their names anymore, even though clones aren’t supposed to have names. So. Thank you for that.”

“You’re a clone?” Jinn says faintly.

“Yes,” Stitch informs him.

Then he stops.

There’s so much they don’t know. Can’t know. If they didn’t recognize General Kenobi– 

They won’t know any of it. 

And they’re going to have questions for him. Questions about all of it. 

That’s– a lot.

He doesn’t want to be here.

He fumbles for the transponder Crys had given him and studies it carefully. So he doesn’t have to look back at them looking at each other.

No sign of an incoming signal.

He knows he could go back without establishing a line.

But.

A slow stirring of robes and voices–

“How old are you?”

That’s Jinn. And that’s– an easier question, too.

“Nine,” he says distractedly, tapping at the transponder. “Why?”

Silence.

He looks up.

Why do they all look like that?

Nausea roils hot and heavy in Qui-Gon’s stomach. 

Every word out of Stitch’s mouth has thrown him further off-balance.

First– his Padawan, Obi-Wan, burned to the bone–

And afraid.

Safe with us, Stitch had informed him, and had stopped himself there– but in his eyes–

(Not with you.)

And– and–

He knows everyone else isn’t dead–

He remembers, then, that quiet, hopeless question– a tiny, ragged voice, overlaying the smell of burning flesh–

“Not even the younglings?”

And every word after that, when the Force had pulled taut and scorching– Obi-Wan had given them another name, Stitch had told them, and– the memory flickers– Nield, eyes full of distaste bleeding into hatred, calling back– “Hey, Ben, dealing with some company out here–”

Now, his Padawan is back among soldiers.

And he’d told them his name was Ben.

As well as– quite a bit more, apparently.

Each and every one of Qui-Gon’s sins, laid out in the plain and simple language of a boy trying to make sense of the nonsensical. Is this why Obi-Wan had told him? Had he looked at him and seen someone who might be able to begin to understand in a way that Qui-Gon couldn’t hope to? 

Someone who might be angry for him?

And then–

Recognition.

He’d known Master Ti.

He’d called her General.

And he’d told them of–

Decommissionings, he’d called them. Murders. And the way he’d spoken of it– so casually, as if it was formalized, institutionalized– to be decommissioned, as if a life could be broken down like a speeder engine–

The Force had reverberated with an echo of grief that was and was not its own, as he’d spoken. An emptiness made all the more noticeable for the lights that should have filled it.

Clones. Clones. 

As hard as he tries, he cannot recall any mention of clones in– in any past wars.

(He’ll be safer with us than he’ll ever be with you, Jinn, the Commander hisses, alight with fury and absent any introduction– recognition and acknowledgement and you stopped the decommissionings and–)

He cannot think about the implications of that. 

(Red hair.)

Not right now.

(Blue saber.)

And in a concerted effort to continue not thinking about it, he’d asked– 

It was supposed to be a simple question.

Nine.

Nine.

“You’re a child.”

He doesn’t realize the words have come out of his mouth until Stitch looks up.

At him.

“I am not,” he says. 

His voice is flat and cold and the Force is turning crystal–

“And don’t say that again.”

The transponder’s casing begins to creak.

“Needle’s the only one who gets to call me that. And that’s because I love him. I don’t even like you.”

Yes. You’ve made that abundantly clear, haven’t you?

The disgust he’d seen in Nield’s eyes has found a mirror.

Stitch relaxes his grip on the transponder and pries open the back.

“And besides,” he adds, not quite absentmindedly– 

“I thought you were okay with child soldiers?”

Pong hisses under his breath, half-admiring, half-astonished.

Like adding water to a grease fire. An eruption that’ll take your eyebrows off, along with half your face if you’re not careful.

And Jinn had been standing too close.

He looks like he’s been sucker-punched.

Pong bites back a grin and steps forward, scratching absentmindedly at his wrist.

The world’s just gotten a whole lot bigger, after all.

The kid– Stitch– had recognized Master Ti. Had called her General. And if he knew her, knew Jinn, then that implies– 

Maybe they’d been looking in the wrong direction.

But that’s for later. Something for a Master to deal with. 

Right now, the kid’s radiating discomfort in the Force. A tight, snarled bundle of prickly wariness and vomit-stained hurt. 

He knows now why Shaak had chosen him to accompany her. 

He’s good with kids, as much as he might bluster and protest and grumble otherwise. He likes them. They’re bright and funny and blunt as all hell, and yes, this one might be a prickly grease fire of a medic–

But.

There are stickers on his armor.

Stickers he recognizes.

He clears his throat. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says easily. “But I like your stickers. Cyanosaur, right? I don’t recognize the other one.”

Stitch stares at him.

“Yes,” he says slowly. His eyes narrow suspiciously, but Pong can feel the way he turns sunny in the Force. “The other one’s an apatosaurus. Even though it’s not entirely anatomically correct.”

“Too yellow?” Pong asks encouragingly, and the kid nods seriously. 

“Yes. But it matches my armor, so I’m not upset about that. But the tail should be longer, too. Did you know they could crack it like a whip?”

“I did not.”

“They could. And there’s some evidence that they might have used it as a sensory organ, too. Did you know that?”

“Nope.”

“But I’m not too upset about that, either. Because my brother got them for me.” Stitch rocks back on his heels, a shy smile flickering across his face. “He’s the best.”

“From the natural history museum?” Pong prompts. The kid’s relaxing, now, bristling hostility dulling at the edges. “I supervised a field trip there last week.”

Shaak’s approval flares beside him even as the kid brightens, nodding.

“Our general supervised us,” he says. “On shore leave. I didn’t need it. But some of the others probably did.”

Pong snorts a laugh. That is the exasperation of a younger brother, right there. He sketches a quick bow, rises–

“I think I failed to introduce myself,” he says, grinning, and is delighted to see the kid offer a tentative smile back. “I am Jedi Knight Pong Krell. You know Master Ti, right? Do you–?”

His voice dies in his throat.

Several things happen in quick succession.

First.

Stitch’s signature collapses in on itself like a dying star. 

His smile flattens and vanishes. His eyes go cold. All of that sunshine, all of that warmth– packed away into something so small and shadowed as to be nearly invisible–

Second.

Shaak’s mint-sweet signature sharpens and turns bitter with alarm, and when he glances down he sees a packet of pens hit the ground as the kid’s hand flies to his hip– to his blaster?

Third.

The rift behind him sharpens, crackles, stretches–

Helix cleans out the bucket. Disinfects it twice, just to be safe.

Then he tucks it back under the bed, close enough that Needle will be able to reach it if– when– he needs it again.

Then he simply– stands there, for a moment. Looking at them.

He… can’t quite remember the last time he’d seen Needle sleep. Really, properly sleep, that is, not just catching a catnap on a free cot or dozing on a transport seat. He exists in perpetual motion. Oh, he’ll curl up with them easily enough– tugging Stitch against his chest or sprawling on top of Helix in a poorly-disguised attempt to stop him from getting up again– but he never quite goes still. 

As he watches, Needle hums, nuzzles into the blanket, and yawns hugely before settling again.

Helix suddenly realizes he’s smiling, and quashes it mercilessly.

And Ben–

The kid’s huddled up against Needle’s side, tucked under his one good arm. He half looks like he’s trying to crawl behind his ribs, curled as tightly as he is. Occasionally, a faint snuffling sound emerges from where his face is pressed against Needle’s shirt. 

Helix quietly clicks his tongue at the shallow movement of his chest. Of course. He’s going to be hurting. He’s on a low ketamine drip for the procedural pain– Stitch hadn’t wanted to risk conflict with any psychic injury, and Helix had backed his call without hesitation. But now that he’s out–

He sits down on a bed and pulls up Obi-Wan’s file.

Obi-Wan had sent him an unredacted copy, after the truth about Melidaan had come out. Helix, after some obligatory grumbling in his general direction about how useful this would’ve been earlier, when they’d still been working things out between the two of them, had used it very, very carefully. He’d been well aware of the trust it implied. 

(He’d been particularly glad to have it after–)

Well.

Its value has unexpectedly skyrocketed.

He scrolls all the way back to the post-Melidaan treatment plan.

Starvation, yes, of course there’s a plan for that in place– hm. Ben’s already on a nutrient drip, dextrose is good, but he’ll need to make sure he knows where their snacks are. Maybe get a few boxes of ration bars and other sealed non-perishables– juice boxes, maybe? Some more pudding cups– put them under the bed so they’re within easy reach while his movement’s limited. Maybe in the vent, so he knows they’re his. Have to talk with him about a meal plan, yes, good, add that to the list. Physical therapy– okay, looks like he hasn’t been cleared to start saber training yet, but he– doesn’t seem to be on a formalized regimen at the moment. He’ll have to check with him about any stretches he’s been doing on a regular basis–

Aha. Here it is.

High pain tolerance. Yes. Noted. He’s well aware of that. And the maintenance dose he would’ve been on, a month after the injury–

Okay. Pretty low, at this point, as he’d expected. Opiates have already been tapered off, and Helix chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment as he considers his options. 

Gabapentin should be safe. Dronabinol, too. Ben will probably want to avoid any sedatives, but they can talk that through together. They should– do they have methocarbamol? No need for that now, but during–

Oh, there’s a lot to do. 

He’s not quite sure how much time passes as his list of notes grows ever longer. Ducking in and out of the supply closet, checking inventories, pulling selections–

He’s fumbling with a box on the top shelf when he hears someone call his name.

Awareness arrives in a burst of panic.

First–

His own.

His chest burns. That’s the first thing. A low, simmering ache. Ben scrabbles for that and holds on tight as he tries to reorient himself.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. That was dangerous. He’d done what Helix asked and had focused on breathing– not meditation, he skitters around the Force nowadays, too scared of drowning– and then– his memory’s blurry, but Needle and Stitch had shuffled him onto the floor and everything had felt much safer all at once–

And now he’s waking up. With no memory of falling asleep at all.

Okay. Careful. Careful.

The medbay. On the ship. Not the Temple. Not Melida/Daan. 

Melidaan. They’d won. Obi-Wan had said so.

Obi-Wan. 

Yes. 

He pokes carefully at that thought.

Should he be– more afraid?

He thinks he should be.

Afraid. Confused, maybe. Or curious.

But.

The– future. Yes. Another war. But–

There’s an Obi-Wan. Who’s not afraid anymore. Who wears armor. Who’s still a Jedi. 

Who got better.

He examines that thought for a bit longer.

Who can teach him to get better.

That’s–

That’s good. 

(They get better.)

And the Force is singing safe and it’s a warm kind of safe, a familiar kind of safe–

Careful. Exhaustion drags at every thought. 

Next.

Two lights. Breathing. Not dead. 

(No rats.) 

Next to him–

A slow wash of watercolors, soft and undisturbed in sleep.

Needle.

That’s right.

Needle is safe.

(And safe.)

Further off–

[lighthouse]. Who’s also safe. Who– fixes them.

Helix. Yes.

He pries his eyes open.

Not here. 

But there’s movement behind a nearby door, accompanied by the occasional quiet grumble.

Okay.

He curls into the blanket draped over him, soothed despite himself–

And stops.

The– blanket?

His gaze follows it all the way up to where it’s tucked behind Needle’s shoulder.

Who–?

Did Helix–?

His thoughts are interrupted when a shockwave of panic that’s not his own scythes through the Force like a mortar blast.

Every instinct he’d let tentatively settle shrieks to life at once. Nowhere to run– no way to run, his body brutally reminds him, as fire lances all the way up his chest, splitting open his throat and bringing up bile, but– Needle–

Is–

Awake.

Staring at the opposite wall, shuddering breath stilling in his lungs. 

He glances down. Ben stills. For one horrible, frozen moment, there’s no recognition in his eyes at all.

Then there is. All at once. Warmth kindles, spreads, and it’s Needle looking down at him, instead of that gaping emptiness. It’s Needle breathing out, lips twitching into a smile, and it’s Needle who brightens, who says–

“So I didn’t imagine you!”

Ben stares at him. 

“Hi,” he croaks. “Are you okay?”

Needle blinks. His smile softens. “I’m fine, Ben.”

Well. That’s a lie if he’s ever heard one, and inspiration strikes with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. 

“You–”

His voice catches in his throat. He grits his teeth against the blaze that ignites behind his ribs, and tries again.

“Not-feeling-fine zone,” he manages hoarsely. “You said.”

Needle stares at him, uncomprehending, for a long moment, and Ben feels himself shrinking backwards–

Then a slow smile blooms across his face.

“Sneaky,” he says approvingly. “You and Stitch both. Terribly sneaky babies.”

“Still not a baby,” Ben informs him. 

Needle squishes him gently. Ben lets it happen. 

It’s– nice. 

“Baby to me. Tiny little squirt. Shrimp. Fish food.”

“I’m not fish food.”

“Good thing, too,” Needle says agreeably. “You’d probably taste awful.”

Ben opens his mouth–

And stops.

“You’re trying to distract me.”

“Was I? I didn’t mean to. Is it working?”

“No.”

“Interesting.”

“Needle.”

“You,” Needle says, his smile full to bursting with fireworks, “are like if someone took a little bit of Helix and a little bit of Stitch and gave it red hair. And fish food. Baby.”

Ben stares. 

Needle beams at him before his expression settles into something more pensieve. “No, no, okay. You asked.”

He pauses, but Ben knows enough to recognize– this is a thinking kind of pause. Trying to pick out the right words. 

So he waits.

“I didn’t… mean to fall asleep,” Needle says slowly. “I don’t like sleeping very much. I never know if I’m going to be the same person when I wake up, you know?”

Ben doesn’t. Not really. He doesn’t like sleeping because he doesn’t know if he will wake up. Or now– reality blurs around the edges, dangerously slippery, and it might slip out of his grasp entirely–

But that’s okay. They’re allowed to be not-fine in different ways. And Needle still feels a little foggy at the edges, so he doesn’t ask anything else. He doesn’t want Needle to tell him something he doesn’t mean to tell him.

“You feel like the same person you were earlier,” he offers. “In the Force, I mean. If that helps.”

Needle blinks. “You–”

He stops. Something shifts in the Force. Like cracking open the night sky with a paring knife.

“Really?"

Ben nods mutely, and clears his throat. “If that helps.”

This time, when Needle smiles, his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“More than you know,” he says fondly, and Ben knows he means it. 

“I changed my mind,” he adds, grinning. “You’re not sneaky anymore. You’re nice. Most babies are nice. Like Stitch. Except when he’s not. Like when he denies me glitter.”

He stops. His brow furrows, and he raises his voice.

“Helix?”

Helix shoves the uncooperative box back onto the shelf, cursing under his breath, before he gathers himself and pushes the door open.

They’re both awake. Damn. Well, a little bit of sleep is better than nothing.

He steps out, closing the door gently behind him. “Hey, you two. What’s going on?”

“Where’s Stitch?” Needle demands. Right. He’s still bleary-eyed. Helix isn’t surprised in the least that he’s having recall issues. 

“I just sent him to talk to Mace,” he says. “Kid was getting a little too far into his own head.”

“Oh, it’s Mace, now, is it?”

“Brat. Don’t try me.”

“You’d get bored if I didn’t.”

“I could do with some boredom.”

“You’d get bored of the boredom.”

“But I’d enjoy it immensely anyway.”

Needle, beaming, abandons his next retort in favor of blowing him a kiss. Helix, his lips twitching, determinedly ignores it. 

He settles onto a nearby bed and casts an assessing eye over the two of them. Needle– too soon to give him another dose, but he seems steady enough. 

Or, well– Needle enough, at any rate.

Ben, though– there’s tension in every line of his body, poor kid.

Hm. How to start?

Small, maybe.

“How are you feeling, Ben?”

“Fine,” comes the immediate response, and yeah, all right, Helix should’ve expected that–

Needle coughs.

Ben scowls, sinking a little further into the blanket. “I am.”

Needle coughs again, loud and pointed.

Helix looks between the two of them, well-honed instincts keeping his mouth shut.

“Hurts,” Ben mutters eventually. “But not a lot.”

Helix stares. How did he–?

Needle smiles sunnily, undeterred by Ben’s increasingly dark glare. “Scale of one to ten? Minimum of six if it hurts to breathe!”

“...Six, then."

Needle catches Helix’s disbelieving gaze and beams at him.

“We made a deal!” he sings out. “This is a not-feeling-fine zone, so designated by mutual agreement of all parties involved, by which I mean me and Ben, because I started it but then Ben made me tell the truth by invoking said zoning laws, so that constitutes contractual agreement and that constitutes the fact that I am awesome and right in all things, so there, can I get glitter now?”

“No,” Helix says automatically, the rest of his brain preoccupied with sorting through everything else. 

Contractual agreement?

He sighs. “You break rules I never knew existed.”

Needle jabs a finger at him. “Slander and libel and other untrue things, Helix, I have never even bent a rule in my life–”

“Libel means in print,” Ben pipes up. “So it’s not libel. Yet. But it can still be slander, though.”

Needle doesn’t miss a beat. “You would tarnish my reputation in front of the baby, Helix? Look at him! Look at me, I don’t deserve this– hey, have you considered writing it down, though? You should. More effective tarnishing.” He glances down at Ben, grinning wildly. “We could get him for libel then, couldn’t we?”

Ben nods. He has the somewhat shell-shocked expression that Helix has come to associate with newcomers who get caught up in Needle’s wake.

“All right, yes, thank you,” he grumbles, settling onto the floor in front of the entrance to the little nest that his boys had cooked up.

“Thanks for telling me, Ben,” he says gently. “You’re definitely on a much lower dose of painkillers than I’d like, right now. We didn’t want to risk complicating anything. Is gabapentin alright? We’ve got plenty of it, and it’s one of the medications you’ve been taking already.”

Ben won’t meet his gaze.

“Yeah.”

Something nudges at the back of his mind.

Helix pauses, and ducks his head to catch the kid’s eyes.

“Ben,” he says slowly. “If you really don’t want it, you can say no.”

Ben blinks at him.

“I’d be really worried. And I’d want to address any concerns you might have. But you can still say no.”

After a moment of silence during which the kid appears to shrink before his eyes–

“I don’t want to fall asleep.”

Helix nods. That’s fair. If he was fresh out from a nightmare imposed by a Sith Lord and struggling to discern what was real, he wouldn’t want to sleep either. 

“Well, gabapentin isn’t a sedative,” he says. “So it won’t make you sleepier. The only reason you might fall asleep is because–”

Ah.

Because the pain wouldn’t be keeping him awake anymore.

Ben’s gaze skitters sideways.

“Okay,” Helix says. He extends a hand, gentles his voice– “Okay. I’ll make you a deal. If you start falling asleep, and you don’t want to, then we can reduce the dose. Whenever you want. And we can help keep you awake, too. I have a whole bunch of embarrassing stories about Needle to share. Sounds good?”

Ben's eyes narrow. Helix meets his gaze steadily.

This is a test, he knows. He and Obi-Wan- they’ve worked hard to get to where they are now. A hard-won trust born of trial and error, of talking and trying again– and Obi-Wan had clearly told Ben enough that the kid had trusted Helix with him–

But Ben is not their Obi-Wan. 

Well. From the ground up, then.

So when the kid nods, Helix nods back. He unfolds himself and plucks a pair of gloves and one of the bags he’d already pulled from the bed, double-checking the label before stepping carefully over tangled blankets to Ben’s IV stand.

“You have nothing on me,” Needle grumbles.

“Really?” Helix says, raising an eyebrow at the wall as he snaps on the gloves. “So you always stay in your bed when you’re sick or injured, right? Like a responsible medic?”

“Hey–”

Spike the bag, prime the tubing–

“And you definitely never wandered down to the kitchens with a bad case of the flu, right?”

“Wait–”

Check for air bubbles–

“And I never got a comm from Terror telling me to come down and fetch my idiot medic before, and I quote, I turn him into tomorrow’s breakfast, right?”

“Terror is the worst.”

“Terror,” Helix says, adjusting the clamp with one hand and flicking Needle gently on the forehead with the other, “was defending his domain from a highly infectious disease vector.”

“He didn’t have to do it with a broom.”

“Would you have preferred he use the flamethrower?” 

Needle mutters something incoherent. Helix glances down at a wide-eyed Ben and offers him a wry smile. “Terror’s our head cook. He takes his work very seriously. You’ll like him.”

“He’s a bastard,” Needle adds helpfully.

“You were on top of his cabinets and refusing to come down,” Helix retorts, hooking up the tubing to the port. Ben makes a small noise, and Helix, operating on sheer, thoughtless instinct, reaches down and tugs the blanket a little further up around his shoulders. 

When he realizes exactly what he’s doing, he freezes for a single moment, glancing down–

And Ben lets out a little sigh, shifts, and rests his head against his leg. 

You are a soft touch, Helix tells himself helplessly. Cody was right. You’re fucked.

“He was poking me. With a broom,” Needle repeats indignantly. 

Helix clears his throat. 

“We had to get Stitch to get him down,” he tells Ben. “I hauled him back to the medbay over my shoulder. Like a sack of potatoes. An extremely chatty one.”

“Aw, did you really?” Needle asks, brightening immediately. He nudges Ben. “See? Couldn’t bring himself to leave me to Terror’s mercy. He’s a big softy, really.”

“Like nougat,” Ben agrees quietly, shy smile broadening. “I can feel it.”

“Like nougat!” Needle repeats, delighted, and bursts out laughing. “Perfect!”

“Soft has nothing to do with it, we were already understaffed,” Helix grumbles, smiling despite himself. “I wasn’t about to lose a good–”

He stops. 

His comm is vibrating. 

“One second,” he says, and accepts the call.

Obi-Wan, despite himself, awakens slowly.

The noise around him is vast and familiar and home, all sparking lights and a radiant, sharp-edged glee. 

He leans into it, and feels the weight against his shoulder.

Cody.

Safe.

(It really is that simple, after all.)

He doesn’t have to think about anything– anyone– else, right now.

So, for one brief, shining moment, he doesn’t.

His focus narrows to Cody’s head on his shoulder. The slow, warm puffs of breath against his neck. Callused fingers entwined with his, secure even in sleep.

Thoughts begin to churn into motion. Flickers of hazy recollection, blurred by an all-consuming, dizzying exhaustion. 

But.

He remembers–

Raucous cheering, when they’d stepped in. Something about elections. The Chancellor–? Yes. Bail. Thank the Force.

He remembers–

Plo, shouting to be heard over the celebration. Behind him, Rex, with Ahsoka on his shoulders–

Grievous. Dead.

(He remembers, also, a cracked anti-ox mask and a dropped lightsaber. He tries not to.)

Swaying on his feet. Cody at his side.

He remembers–

Relief blooming across Cerasi’s face. Summoning Clasby. A rather extensive period of shouting. Cody next to him, doing a very bad job of disguising his laughter, whistling through his teeth at the occasional especially inspired profanity.

Obi-Wan had muted the comm after a particularly good one that involved pronunciations human vocal cords were not designed to imitate.

“I know you can do worse.”

Cody’d snorted. “Sure. But I have standards.”

“Oh, really?”

“Marshall Commander, you know. I can’t go around cursing all the time.”

(Cody, Obi-Wan knows, can swear in seventeen languages, and keeps a notebook for his favorites.)

“If I remember correctly,” he’d said placidly, “Clasby is the leader of a planet.”

A smile had cracked Cody’s expression like an egg. “Mhm. Unmute him, quick, before he realizes. This is cathartic.”

Then. Nield.

“What happened?”

He remembers–

Speaking the truth of it into existence for the very first time.

The boy who now resided in the medbay. The injury. The rift, and what lay beyond it.

(He’d caught the nightmare tight behind his teeth and kept it there.)

Silence, unfurling like a bomb, all across the bridge. All eyes turning towards him as he spoke.

But his focus had narrowed to the three blue figures in front of him. 

Nield’s wide eyes. Clasby’s clenched jaw. Cerasi’s fingers, drumming on an unseen table.

The four of them, looking at each other.

Crow’s feet. Dustings of stubble. The first hints of ash-gray hairs.

Then Cerasi had rapped her knuckles twice on the table, quick and sharp.

“Soon as you can, Ben. Yeah?”

Yes. Yes. 

(Come home. Bring him home.)

He remembers, too, the breaking point. A comm from Quinlan.

Dooku had–

Dooku was–

His knees had buckled under him, then, and– hands reaching for him, and– someone pulling down a padded bench, and–

Cody, Cody, and he’d fumbled with his cloak, wrapped them both in its warmth, and Cody had let out a little sigh, and the lines between sleep and unconsciousness are not so well-defined, really–

And now he’s awake.

He lifts a hand and scrubs roughly at his eyes, blinking away the remnants of sleep only to see Wooley, straddling a chair, staring at him with a set expression. Auks is at his shoulder, watching eagerly.

“Hello there,” he croaks. “Can I help you?”

Auks whoops. “It worked!”

Wooley beams. “Didn’t want to get too close, sir, but we figured maybe if we thought at you really hard, then you’d pick it up–”

“Wait, wait–” Auks shakes his shoulder, jittery with excitement– “does this mean you’re Force-sensitive?”

Wooley pivots, excitement lighting his face. “Shit, sir, am I?”

“Quick, try to levitate–”

Auks scans the room. His gaze lands on Cody. A broad grin splits his face, and he opens his mouth–

“If anyone tries to levitate me,” Cody announces, eyes still closed, “they will be scrubbing the sonics until they wear through the floor.”

“–the chair, sir, I was going to say, we wouldn’t dare disturb you–”

“You do nothing but disturb me.”

“Yes, sir,” Wooley says immediately, grinning, “but first–”

He offers up a datapad.

Obi-Wan accepts it, eyebrows raised. Cody leans over his shoulder.

“What is this?” he says slowly, scrolling down.

“Locations of surrendered Separatist forces, sir,” Auks says. 

He appears to be vibrating.

“Keep scrolling,” Wooley adds needlessly. “Oh, and– emergency elections went through. Organa won handily. Five of the other nominees dropped out as soon as the news started spreading. No one wants to deal with that shit.”

Auks mutters something uncomplimentary under his breath. Cody glares at him.

“Back to work.”

“Yes sir, sorry sir!”

It’s a long, long list.

“The Senate can move fast when it wants to,” Obi-Wan says at last, dry as a bone. 

“Like a rat,” Cody mutters, but Obi-Wan can feel his dawning disbelief.

They look at each other.

Then Cody rolls his eyes, drops his head back onto Obi-Wan’s shoulder, and sighs. “We really do have to get up, don’t we?”

“Unfortunately,” Obi-Wan agrees morosely. 

Neither of them move. Wooley and Auks have scattered in the face of Cody’s glare. No one, at the moment, is looking at them.

It’s a nice feeling.

A rare feeling. 

So it’s at that precise moment, of course, that his comm beeps.

Obi-Wan looks down.

Mace.

(Blank eyes staring upwards. A slow dissolution.)

A nightmare. Only a nightmare. He just needs to answer the–

“Obi-Wan?”

He blinks. Cody’s sitting up, looking at him carefully.

“It’s Mace,” he says steadily. “I think I need to take this. I’ll just– step outside.”

(Blaster fire and a forced march and a dark and empty sky–)

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” he lies. Pastes on a smile. “Just outside.”

Cody looks like he’s about to say something, and then sighs. “Just outside.”

He unfolds himself. Obi-Wan stands with him.

When the warmth of his hand drops away, the chill that sweeps through him in its place is shocking in its strength, and he nearly sways before–

“If I step out, and you’re not there,” Cody says, enunciating every word with deliberate care, “I am going to be furious with you.”

Obi-Wan snorts a laugh. “I would expect nothing less.”

Yes.

(Bad things happen when they’re apart.)

He’s faintly aware of voices. 

Cody’s. 

His own.

And then the door slides shut, and he’s staring at the wall, and the space at his side is empty.

The noise behind him is very suddenly muffled.

Nothing at all, really, compared to the rising tidal wave inside his own head.

His comm beeps.

He looks down.

Right. Yes. 

Mace.

(–is dead, you foolish boy–)

A nightmare. Only a nightmare. Look up, look out, look inwards–

(Can’t you see the starry sky, Ben?)

Another beep.

(All the constellated connections?)

Mace.

(Can’t you see them?)

Yes. 

He doesn’t feel very well.

He–

(Helix?)

Is busy. 

With Ben.

(Wait, pleads the dead man– wait, we have healers–)

Another beep.

(He loved you dearly, says–)

Mace.

He doesn’t remember pressing anything at all, but suddenly Mace’s voice fills the empty hallway.

“Obi-Wan! Obi-Wan, can you hear me?”

He doesn’t remember sitting down, either, but his legs are tucked under him and his back is pressed against the wall.

“Yes,” he says. Or tries to. He clears his throat, tries again–

“I hear you.”

“Where are you?”

He unsticks his jaw once more.

“Just off the bridge.”

Cody. Cody. 

He wants–

(You were his pride and joy.)

He is thirty-four years old. He cannot stand on his own.

“Obi-Wan.”

Mace.

(Is–)

“Yes?”

“I’m on my way. Can you talk to me, please?”

Why does he sound like that? So worried? 

Ben’s in the medbay. He’s fourteen. He needs help. Needed help.

(He couldn’t stand on his own then, either.)

The sheer absurdity of the situation drags a laugh from deep in his chest. 

Somewhere in the middle of his throat, it twists into a sob. 

By the time it hits the tip of his tongue, it’s turned into something else entirely.

“He was right there.”

Dead men walking.

Like Master, like Padawan, he thinks suddenly, and presses a hand hard against his mouth.

“We fought. Together.”

And for a moment it had been like a dream, hadn’t it? Hadn’t he imagined what it would be like, to fight alongside him as an equal? Hadn’t he trained and fought and loved–

Until the dream had lost all hope behind it, and a new light had ignited in the Memory.

“He, ah– he cut Sidious’s arm off. He–”

Had looked exactly how Obi-Wan remembered.

His hair a little darker, perhaps. His nose unbroken. But still–

(He was right there.)

“He was calling for– for Obi-Wan. For Ben. Called him Padawan.”

And what wouldn’t he have given, a thousand times over, to hear that again? 

He keeps talking. He thinks he does, at least, because Mace doesn’t say his name again, but he would be hard-pressed to recall a single word that comes out of his mouth. 

The boy in his arms had been drowning, and Obi-Wan had reached for him even as the waves had swept over his own head. Scattered, static– he’d tried to explain, he thinks, although he’s not sure he’d done a very good job of it.

No. He knows he hadn’t done a good job of it, because a flare of green had ignited and the word Master had died on his tongue.

He wants to go back.

He wants to do anything else but go back.

He wants–

The shadow of Qui-Gon’s cloak. Bedding in the bathtub. A warm mug pressed into shaking hands.

(He wants–)

Then. Broad hands on his shoulders. A voice.

He blinks.

Mace crouches in front of him. He has a bag slung over one shoulder, and his tunics are stained with ash. 

He’s here. 

“You’re– not dead,” he says numbly.

Which– he’d known. He’d known that. Mace was alive. He’d felt him, reached for him–

Why had he forgotten that?

“I’m not,” Mace agrees easily. 

“Everyone was dead.”

“So you said.”

Oh, had he? 

That’s good.

He’s glad he doesn’t have to remember explaining that all over again.

Mace is looking at him very carefully.

“You, on the other hand– you look terrible.”

Obi-Wan means to make a quip. Means to say thank you, to tell him you’re so kind, to call him flatterer– to say something, anything, that will remind him of who he tries to be–

What comes out of his mouth instead is this:

“I don’t think he recognized me.”

His lungs are full of shattered glass.

“Mace,” he repeats helplessly, unmoored, splintering– 

“He was right there.”

He’s– not entirely sure what happens next.

Only that there’s a hand on the back of his neck, and the sensation of falling forwards, and the warmth of arms around him, and–

Oh. 

Mace is hugging him.

A ragged little noise tears out of him, then, and he tangles his fingers into the back of his robe and bites back the howl that claws its way up his throat.

There’s so much to do. A war to end. A boy to care for. Important things. Vital things. They don’t have time– he doesn’t have time for–

The look on Qui-Gon’s face.

And the flash of green.

No. Qui-Gon hadn’t recognized him. 

It’s unfair to have expected him to, he knows. They’d been– moving fast. Busy. And it was… hardly a likely answer.

But. Also.

He never wanted you to be a soldier, whispers a treacherous little voice in the back of his head. He never wanted you to be good at war. And now look at you–

His eyes begin to burn.

It’s no wonder he didn’t recognize you. 

Every scrap of fear and insecurity he’d breathed out after Qui-Gon’s death is surging forward at once. Because at least–

(Will he be proud of me?)

At least a dead man couldn’t confirm them.

(Can he please be proud of me?)

And now– now–

(I want him to be proud of me–)

He realizes too late that his shielding is shot. 

“Obi-Wan,” Mace says. His sigh rumbles in his chest. “He would be a fool not to be.”

He bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, unthinking, and tastes iron.

He was a foolish man, sometimes.

The thought arrives unbidden, and he shakes his head reflexively, presses his face into Mace’s shoulder–

His vision blurs.

No. No. They don’t have time.

Shock, he knows. Academically speaking. Delayed, extraordinarily so– with the duel, and the Dark, and the rescue– but shock nonetheless.

He feels scraped raw. Hollowed out.

You could drift . 

The thought bobs to the surface of his mind. Innocuous as an iceberg.

Drift and drown and let someone else take care of it.

But Mace’s breathing is a lighthouse on a cliff-edged coastline, and Obi-Wan anchors himself to it and glares the current into submission.

A shudder tears through him. The arms around him tighten.

He–

He’s so tired.

“You’d gone very still in the Force,” Mace says quietly. “Retreating. It was… concerning.”

“Sorry,” Obi-Wan mutters.

Inhale. Exhale. Match the beat.

He leans back, scrubbing roughly at his eyes.

“What’s–”

He stops. Clears his throat. 

“What’s in the bag?”

Mace hesitates for a moment, eyeing him carefully, but whatever he sees must be enough to convince him that Obi-Wan is not in immediate danger of passing out.

That’s good. At least one of them thinks so.

He shifts to sit next to him, leaning against the wall, and slides the bag off his shoulder.

Obi-Wan peers in.

It takes him a moment to realize what he’s looking at. He reaches in and runs a hand over the fabric, disbelieving.

Familiar brown robes. Loose-fitting trousers.

And tunics. 

Padawan tunics.

“Medbay scrubs aren’t the most comfortable, are they?” Mace says. “I thought he might prefer these.”

But Obi-Wan hears what goes unspoken. 

The thought had nearly torn him in half, back before the rest of them had tasted war as well. The agonizing knowledge that Jedi weren’t soldiers, overlaying the truth that had settled deep in his bones– that he was one regardless, and didn’t know how to stop.

This is a message for Ben, then. Telling him that he doesn’t have to.

He squeezes his eyes shut. Inhales, deliberate and shaking.

“He’s so scared.”

When he opens his eyes again, Mace has busied himself with refolding one of the tunics.

“I’m not surprised,” he says quietly. Dark eyes meet his for a brief second. “I remember.”

Yes. Of course he does. 

He’d been there for all of it. His return, and everything that came with it. The fear, and the fury, and the fighting–

And what they’d managed to rebuild, afterwards.

He hesitates for a moment.

“You said,” he says haltingly, “on the way back from– from– you said that Qui-Gon–”

“I meant it,” Mace says immediately. “Every word.”

Obi-Wan leans back against the wall, blinking rapidly at the ceiling.

Okay.

Well.

At least there’s that.

Cody works, and carefully doesn’t think about the emptiness at his side. 

One step after another. Handle the problems and the questions as they come. Do not think about the implications. Protect your brothers. One step after another.

(News headlines lighting up across the galaxy–)

He knows they can’t cling to each other. He knows. No matter how much he might want to. No matter how cozy he might have been, bundled up in Obi-Wan’s robe. No matter how warm he’d been, reminded of survival with every breath. No matter how much he’d–

No.

Stop it.

But Obi-Wan had looked– ill. Shadows blooming behind his eyes. The occasional tremor tearing through him, even though he hadn’t seemed to notice.

And Cody knows, as much as it stings, that there are some things he can’t help with.

Obi-Wan had only ever called it drowning once. Four months into the war, after Zylon and the neutron bomb, when a pale-faced Helix had lifted the quarantine at last and Cody had been the first in line–

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan had told him. Bright-eyed and unfiltered, stripped of his silver tongue by an unholy cocktail of painkillers and an anti-radiation treatment that glowed a disconcerting green in its bag. “I didn’t want to drown.”

Cody had never heard that again. It became drifting, after that, but–

Well.

Drowning means something very different to them, after all. And like hell were they going to let him go under.

But sometimes you need someone who can swim in the same waters. 

So when Windu comms, Cody wrestles down all of his worst instincts and refuses to indulge the flare of panic that accompanies the prospect of Obi-Wan leaving his line of sight. He lets him go, watches the door slide shut behind him, and turns back to work.

There’s a lot to do, after all, and it’s– fine. It’s work. He doesn’t let himself think about the implications of it. He does the job that’s in front of him.

Then his comm beeps with an incoming call from Fox.

He doesn’t even manage to get a word out before–

“Did you mean to send the kid through?”

Cody blinks. “What?”

“Helix’s kid. The–” Fox cuts himself off. Even now, old instincts prevail– crooked is a death sentence of a designation; it does not get spoken aloud. “Hound commed. Kid went through about five minutes ago, said it was on Helix’s orders. Calling to confirm. So?”

It takes him a moment to parse out exactly what Fox is telling him.

Helix? Send Stitch through?

Alone?

Like hell he did.

Right. Right. Okay.

Not smart to send a member of the Guard through. They don’t know the lightning, not like Cody and the others do. Better not to run the risk.

“Keep your men planetside,” he snaps out, waving Waxer over. “I’ll handle it. Give Hound a promotion.”

Yours, he signs, and Waxer nods, stepping forward into his spot.

“Like hell–”

He snaps the comm shut before Fox can really get going, and makes a break for the door.

Stitch doesn’t lie– he wouldn’t lie, not to Hound, not to go through.

But, Cody knows, he does tend to take things… as spoken.

The thought of Helix sending Stitch through– alone, no less– is laughable. But if Helix had, maybe, asked him to update the Jedi–

He nearly trips straight over Obi-Wan.

Windu’s next to him, Cody notes, even as he reaches out a hand to help Obi-Wan to his feet. Good. Good. 

“Cody–?”

“Stitch went through the rift,” he says quickly, squeezing Obi-Wan’s hand as his eyes go wide. “Miscommunication between him and Helix. Waxer’s got the bridge. I’m heading over there now.”

“I’ll come with you–”

(A hell of a target–)

“Fox asked you to stay away,” Cody says, and okay, maybe he’s bordering on pleading, but he thinks he has a pretty damn good reason for it– the last time Obi-Wan had gone within thirty feet of the Senate Plaza–

He shuts that thought down fast, but not before Obi-Wan’s expression flickers in the way Cody’s come to know means that he’s picked something up he didn’t mean to. 

“I am sorry, you know,” he says quietly.

But you’d do it again anyway. A hundred times over. 

Cody shakes himself. “I know. It’s okay. Trust me? Please?”

A muscle jumps in Obi-Wan’s jaw, but after a moment, his eyes soften, and he lifts a hand to Cody’s cheek. “That’s hardly playing fair. You know I do.”

Something luminous blooms behind his ribs.

“I do,” he agrees, grinning. “In and out, I promise. Helix’ll kill me if I don’t get Stitch out quick.”

“Can’t have that,” Obi-Wan sighs, the same warmth Cody feels in his chest reflected in his eyes. “Alright. Be safe.”

Later, Cody will wonder what possessed him to do what he does next.

But now–

He folds his hand over Obi-Wan’s, turns his head to the left, and presses his lips to the palm of his hand.

Obi-Wan’s mouth snaps shut. His eyes go wide.

And Cody- quiet, thoughtless, and meaning it–

“I’ll put salt in my caff for the rest of my life.”

A flare-bright flush crawls all the way up Obi-Wan’s face, and Cody, laughing, drops his hand and breaks into a run.

Work to do. Little brothers to retrieve. And maybe, just maybe, a war to end after all.

(A thousand different ways, right?)

Two minutes later, he remembers, and reaches for his comm.

It’s a quick call. Confirmation, for him. 

(Commotion, as it turns out, for everyone else.)

Helix snaps the comm shut before Cody can think about doing anything else that isn’t running.

Stupid. Stupid.

“Go update the Jedi,” he’d said–

And he knows Stitch thinks in straight lines, of course he would’ve–

He glances down. Sees sharp eyes glinting in a pale face.

Needle had made it halfway to his feet before the realization had hit– that standing up would require dislodging Ben, who’d bitten clean through his lip at the sudden movement, and he’d hesitated just long enough for Helix to push him back down–

“I’m on my way,” Cody had said–

The world’s gone sharp and crystal around the edges.

“Helix?”

Ben.

“Helix, they’re not gonna hurt him!”

He pries his mouth open.

“What?”

“They’re not gonna hurt him,” Ben repeats. Quieter, this time, and frightened– empath, Helix remembers–

“They’re my Jedi, Helix. They’re not gonna hurt him.”

Helix breathes in. Forces his thoughts into some sort of order.

They– they are Jedi. Sure. That’s right.

But they’re not his Jedi.

And Stitch is–

“I know,” he hears himself say. “I know.”

Cody’s half-convinced that his feet don’t touch the ground the whole way between the ship and what’s left of the Rotunda.

The perimeter’s expanded, engulfing the area beyond the rift all the way to the edges of the plaza. A hasty barrier has been erected around the rift itself– sealing off any point of access other than the well-guarded chokepoint. 

“Thorn and Nestle are double-checking the charges,” Hound informs him. “Evac’s complete and the med-tent’s been relocated. We’re looking at full demolition in less than ten minutes.”

Cody is faintly impressed, and says so.

Hound grins at him. “Quark’s had the plans drawn up for two years, sir. We never thought we’d actually be able to do it.”

“Plausible deniability, Sergeant, please,” Cody says drily, and Hound waves him off.

“Just a hypothetical thought exercise, of course. Now, sir,” he drawls, “keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times, someone’ll come fetch you if you’re not back in twenty minutes, don’t do anything stupid, and so on–”

“I’m sure I used to get more respect around here.”

“Commander Fox tells stories when he’s drunk, sir. Good luck!”

Cody does not give himself the time to consider the full horror of that.

He shakes himself. Rolls back his shoulders.

Readjust, reframe, recalibrate. They’re still Jedi. This isn’t hostile territory.

He takes a deep breath, lets it settle–

And s t e p s–

Stitch’s hand is on his blaster.

That’s the first thing he notices, and it stops him cold.

It takes a lot for a medic to draw on someone. The medics use a different set of tools with a different set of aims. Their hands stitch and staunch and steady. A blaster in hand means their capabilities are halved, and so they draw only as a very last resort. For Stitch to be this close–

Cody doesn’t think he can be blamed for following suit.

He scans the room instinctively, tallying combatants Jedi, assessing exactly what–

Windu and Jinn, okay, at least that hadn’t changed– Ti, excellent, but then why– and then, in front of her–

He stares. 

It can’t be. 

Stitch’s hand closes tight around his wrist. 

“It’s Krell, Commander,” he says, quiet and flat.

Something frigid trickles down his spine.

Of course. Of course it is. Twenty years ago– Krell had been a Jedi. He’d been trusted. Trusted enough to give him a battalion, trusted enough to give him–

(The way Rex had shaken, afterwards. Unaware, unnoticing, with nothing behind his eyes.)

For one brief, unthinking moment, the temptation is real and there. 

Then Ti steps in front of Krell. Eyes wide, palms open. 

Shaak Ti.

Protecting Krell.  

She’s protecting him, against them, and it’s this that snaps him back into himself.

“Stitch,” Cody says, very quietly, “you weren’t supposed to come through.”

Stitch doesn’t even look at him. “Helix said so.”

“There was a miscommunication. Let’s go.”

“You can go, sir.”

(The way Rex had folded up, had folded into him–)

“Come on, now. That’s an order.”

“He tried to kill Needle.”

“Needle’s alive, nearly fought his way out of the medbay when I commed–”

“I don’t want him to kill Needle,” Stitch says, and his hand has not dropped away, and something behind his eyes flattens and vanishes, and Cody knows–

It goes against every instinct he has to turn his back. But it’s Shaak Ti who stands between them, and that’s enough to let him push past it.

(In the back of his mind, he notes absently that Rex is going to kill him for putting himself between a blaster and Krell.)

He seizes Stitch’s arms, ducks his head, forces eye contact–

“Listen to me,” he says firmly. “We do not kill people for crimes they haven’t committed yet. He tries again, we’ll get him. But this– this is not how we do things. We’ve made ourselves into more than that, haven’t we? We can do better than killing.”

“Not this time,” Stitch says, still in that flat, cool voice, and Cody realizes suddenly–

He doesn’t care.

Of course he doesn’t.

Trying to kill Needle– past, present or future–

He draws himself up. 

He’d never wanted Stitch to be afraid of him.

But he knows he is, now– he knows that threats are not easily forgotten, that he has a power he’d never wanted, that he’d never intended to use– and if it comes down to this, to avoid an interdimensional war–

“Trooper,” he snaps, and jabs a finger at the rift– “Go.”

For half a second, he thinks Stitch is going to go for it anyway, and braces himself–

But Stitch’s gaze skitters away. His throat bobs as he swallows. 

He nods, turns– 

And is gone.

Cody closes his eyes. Breathes out.

And turns.

“Sorry about that,” he says lamely.

They’re all staring.

But he wants to get back. Has to get back, he’s itching with it– if he knows Stitch at all, he’s probably standing right outside the rift, waiting for him, and he has to get him back to–

“He shouldn’t have come through. There was a misunderstanding. Someone else will come through soon, with a proper update. If you’ll excuse me–”

“Your General will, I hope?”

Something in Jinn’s voice is cracked right down the middle.

Cody looks at him.

The world’s sharper, now. Clean and crisp and realigned. It’s a little bit easier to sympathize. The panic, and the worry–

But. 

He’s held himself in check for long enough. He deserves a treat.

“Maybe,” he says, a little meanly. “He’s a bit busy at the moment. Ending the war, and all that.”

The first time he’s spoken the words out loud.

Ending the war.

They taste sweeter than he ever could have imagined.

He nods at them, turns to go–

“Commander.”

(“Clone–”)

He pivots.

Krell’s stepped out from behind Ti.

Gods. He can’t blame Stitch at all. The besalisk is a towering figure– must already be a knight, at least, and–

Well.

It had been Needle who’d accompanied Obi-Wan’s squad to the airfield, after the capital had been secured. With the rumors trickling in– they’d decided a primary would be needed. And he’d seen the helmet footage, afterwards. The way Krell had started using troopers as a distraction, because Obi-Wan never fought only to protect himself. The way he’d lifted, and yanked, and the lightsabers had blurred– 

When he’d gone to fetch Needle for debrief, Helix had met him at the door, thin-lipped and pale.

Tomorrow? he’d asked, and Cody had agreed, even though it hadn’t really been a question at all, because he’d caught a glimpse over his shoulder– 

Needle, blank-faced, sitting cross-legged on a bed, a blanket tucked around his shoulders and a steaming mug in his hands. Stitch, sitting opposite him, talking very quietly with his hands folded over Needle’s. 

(Sometimes it’s hard to find yourself in the emptiness. Sometimes you need someone else to chase it away for you.)

And Krell–

Is–

Holding something.

Two somethings.

Stitch’s helmet.

And–

Glitter pens?

“He dropped these,” he says. Very quietly. His shoulders are hunched, and when he offers them up he does so slowly, and–

Cody realizes with a shock that he’s trying to make himself appear non-threatening.

You tried to kill my brother. Thousands trusted you and died for it.

Is this why the Jedi had trusted him?

He–

He really had been one of them, hadn’t he?

He reaches out. Takes the helmet carefully. Tucks the packet of pens into his belt.

“Thank you,” he manages. “You–”

(What had happened?)

“Don’t be here next time someone comes through.”

Krell looks very pale. 

He nods, steps back, and Cody steps backward through the rift without hesitation.

(The thought of turning his back again is a bit more than he can handle.)

“He tries to kill Needle.”

Stitch, just as he’d thought, had only moved far enough away to give Cody room to step out without knocking them both over. 

“He hasn’t yet,” Cody snaps, pulling out his comm. He taps a quick message to Helix– got him. all good.

(He’ll save the whole Krell fiasco for later.)

A distant part of his mind wonders why he’s fighting so much.

Because– Krell had tried to kill Needle. Had tried to kill all of them. That’s indisputable. Rex’s cracked-open expression, and Needle’s empty eyes, and the way Boil hadn’t been more than a step behind Waxer for the next three days–

And the lists. The numbers had seemed to go on for miles, afterwards.

A holler from beyond the barricade–

“Demolition set! Final check!”

“He tries to kill Needle,” Stitch repeats, and his voice has gone sharp and shrill, and his eyes are just a bit too wide–

Maybe, when it comes down to it, Cody decides, he’d like the chance to be forgiven for the unforgivable as well.

The chips. The orders. The future that had come too close.

If they’d gone through, and someone had come back, afterwards, to him now–

He’d like to think they’d tell him. Instead of shooting him in the head.

“Three!”

Cody sighs. The kid’s clearly a bit shocky, and he opens his mouth–

“Two!”

A flicker of recognition enters Stitch’s eyes.

“What’s that?” he asks, and Cody remembers– bucket and headphones and crooked–

“One!”

Fuck. 

“Down!” he snaps, and because Stitch is a damn good trooper he drops immediately, and in the same moment Cody lunges forward, seizes him, and bundles him forward, folding over him, pressing his hands over his ears–

He’s not worried about the explosion itself. Quark’s a talented engineer with a particular fondness for demolitions– he’ll fold it inwards, keep it contained, and besides, the rift is blocked off. The blast itself poses no risk to them–

But the noise sweeps over them like a tsunami.

A thunderous, deafening roar, overlaid by the screeching of rending metal that makes Cody’s teeth shudder and jump in his skull. Stitch has gone absolutely rigid, and in the next moment Cody feels a pair of smaller hands cover his own.

It won’t do much good, he knows. Fuck. Fuck.

Maybe he should’ve pulled Helix after all.

“It’s okay,” he says helplessly. “It’s okay. We’re gonna wait it out, then we’re gonna go home. Okay? It’s okay.”

Stitch is beginning to shake.

Cody catches a stream of curses behind his teeth, sighs, and tucks Stitch’s head under his chin.

Their crooked, murderous kid. He’d checked Stitch’s file, the evening after he’d first arrived in armor two sizes smaller than the rest of the shuttle’s shinies. But there’d been nothing of note. Nothing to explain why they’d been sent a medic still tube-wet, as Helix had dubbed him in a series of outraged, rapid-fire texts. 

He’d gone looking for his batchmates on a whim. A potential source of answers, maybe– from them or any commanders who took them on, if they weren’t still back on Kamino. 

And he had found answers, in the form of eleven retired numbers.

The remnants of his anger slip between his fingers like water. 

Hound jogs around the corner with Grizzer at his side. “Alright, Commander? Did you get–”

He stops.

“Wasn’t prepared for the detonation,” Cody mutters.

Hound winces. “Sorry. Hadn’t realized you were already back through.”

He moves closer, blocking them from the view of any enterprising snoops. “Hey. Sir. Budge up a little.”

Cody glances up at him, fully intending to tell him to fuck off–

Then a wet nose nudges his shoulder.

“I’ve been training her,” Hound says quietly. “I had a batcher– Twig used to throw fights just so he’d get some pressure on top of him. He said it helped keep him in his own body.”

Oh. Right. Okay.

He shuffles back, creating a sliver of distance between himself and Stitch. Stitch makes a terrible little noise, leaning forward immediately, trying to bridge it–

Then Hound clicks his tongue, points, and Grizzer wriggles her way between the two of them and plops down across Stitch’s knees.

Stitch goes still.

Then, very carefully, he lets go of Cody’s hands, and starts scratching Grizzer gently between the bumps on her forehead instead.

Cody closes his eyes and breathes out, long and slow. 

“Thanks,” he says belatedly.

Hound waves him off, settling cross-legged next to the two of them. 

He has a very odd expression on his face.

“How’d he make it out?”

Cody shrugs.

He’d checked the shuttle’s passenger list later that night, and had found only that there’d been a last-minute adjustment in the roster. CT-1310 had reportedly been put into quarantine after a viral exposure. CT-4181 had gotten swapped in, so as not to waste a seat.

He could have chalked it up to a coincidence. An error in the system.

But it had all seemed the slightest bit too well-coordinated.

No. Someone had taken a risk. Someone had gotten him out.

Not a batcher. Couldn’t have been.

But they look out for each other, don’t they?

“Small mercies,” he mutters, and Hound hums in agreement.

Then, interrupting, small and quiet and sad–

“Sorry, sir.”

Cody gives him an assessing look. “You alright if I let go?”

“Yes, sir.”

Okay, then.

He settles back onto his heels, watching the two of them, and sighs. “You’re alright. You perceived a threat and reacted accordingly. You didn’t shoot. That’s what matters.”

Grizzer grumbles, pushing her head up, and a very faint smile flickers across Stitch’s face.

“You said I wasn’t supposed to go through.”

“Yeah. I talked to Helix.”

“Is he mad?”

Cody scoffs. “Only at himself. More worried than anything.”

“Are you sure?”

Cody shifts and settles against the makeshift wall, pressing their shoulders together. “Absolutely.”

“Oh,” Stitch says quietly. “Okay.”

Tentatively, he leans sideways, and drops his head onto Cody’s shoulder.

“Can we stay here for a bit?”

Cody tilts his head back against the wall, staring upwards. They haven’t moved far. Jagged lightning crackles at the edges of his vision.

Fucking Krell.

“Sure, Stitch.”

“I’m never getting her back, am I?” Hound says, deadpan.

“You will,” Stitch informs him. “Just– not yet.”

Eventually, they do have to go.

Stitch accepts his pens and helmet, and Cody tucks him against his side and hustles him forward. Back to the ship , back where they’re safe, and the war may be winding down but Cody thinks the Negotiator will never quite stop being home.  

Occasionally, Stitch stirs.

He says things like I didn’t catch a signal, sir, and Cody tells him that last he saw, Crys was on a call with Anders, so not to worry, they’re probably constructing some new technological abomination as he speaks.

Or Waxer and Boil need to report to the medbay, sir, I didn’t get to check them for ill effects, and Cody reaches for his comm and tells him that it’s alright, they’ll be there in a few minutes.

Or I didn’t get to update our General Windu, sir, and that’s what I was supposed to do in the first place, and Cody tells him it’s alright, they’ll catch him on the ship.

Or I’m a good soldier, sir, and Cody hears all of the fear underneath and tells him that yes, he is, of course he is–

And then, after a moment of hesitation, with a vast and improbable future all at once so much closer than he had ever imagined it to be, he adds–

“But just being Stitch is plenty good enough as well.”

“Oh,” Stitch says, and falls silent.

As luck would have it, they run into Windu in the landing bay.

He’s clearly on his way out, but Cody sees his shoulders relax when he catches sight of them, and next to him, Stitch straightens.

“Hi, sir. Ben’s safe, sir, just so you know. He’s still hurt, but he was aware and he was talking before he fell back asleep, and he was still asleep when I left, but a good kind of sleep, and he doesn’t want to see the Jedi because he’s scared he might end up knowing you’re dead even though he can tell you’re alive, but we can keep you updated until he can make room for other things that aren’t the fear. And I told the other General Windu everything about Ben as well, because I know you worry about General Kenobi a lot, so he was probably really worried about Ben. And I’m going to be a good big brother to him, sir, so even though I know you’re still going to worry about him, I hope maybe that helps you worry less. Me and Needle and Helix, I mean. All of us.”

Little fucking gods, Cody can’t wait for Obi-Wan to hear that.

And– it seems to work.

The stress lines around Windu’s eyes soften. A faint smile blooms across his face. 

“He will be very lucky to have you,” he says gently. His gaze flickers to Cody, and his smile broadens. “All of you.”

Ah. He’s not talking about Ben, there, is he?

“Yes, sir,” Stitch pipes up. Cody nods wordlessly, fighting the blush off his face, and pushes him forward before he can embarrass himself any further.

(Windu had been right there, damnit, what had he been thinking–)

But. The look on Obi-Wan’s face.

Maybe a little embarrassment was worth it. 

Helix is waiting for them at the door of the medbay.

Stitch face-plants into his chest when he opens his arms, and the clear-edged terror that’s been clawing at the inside of his ribs loosens its grip at last.

“Sorry,” comes the muffled voice. “Sorry, Helix. Are you mad?”

“Nah, kiddo,” he breathes, tightening his grip. “Not at you. I should’ve been more clear, that one’s on me. Give me a systems check, please.”

“No bruises, no bleeding, no broken bones,” Stitch rattles off. “I’m still a little bit scared, but not of the Commander anymore. So that’s okay.”

Helix’s eyebrows leap upwards.

Oh, really?

He glances up just in time to catch Cody’s look of slightly wobbly astonishment before he wipes his expression clean and clears his throat.

“Well. That’s– good. Glad to hear it. Helix, I’ll give you the full rundown later, but I have to go– Waxer and Boil will be down here in a bit, Stitch wanted to clear them both. I have to take the bridge back.”

“Understood,” Helix sighs. And then, meaning it more than he thinks he’s ever meant anything in his life– 

“Thanks, Cody.”

“Thanks, sir,” Stitch echos, and Cody’s expression softens all at once.

“You’re welcome, kid.”

Helix watches him jog back up the hallway until he vanishes around the corner before Stitch’s quiet voice draws his attention back.

“I am sorry, Helix. Cody said you were worried. I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

Helix closes his eyes and swallows around the lump in his throat. “I know you didn’t, sweetheart.”

“Thanks for never leaving me behind.”

Ah.

The fear had nearly throttled him, when Cody had commed, and it had grown so large and all-encompassing that there hadn’t been room for anything else–

But.

Now that Stitch is back, alive and in his arms–

His lips twitch upwards.

“Did you, perhaps,” he says patiently, “do some yelling?”

“Just a little bit,” Stitch grumbles. He tilts his head back, looking up at Helix with narrowed eyes. “Am I going to get in trouble for that?”

“No, Stitch.”

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure, yes.”

“Mhm. Okay. Where’s Needle?”

Helix breathes out and squeezes him once more before letting go and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Right where you left him, kiddo. Come on.”

As if on cue–

“Stitch–!”

Stitch does not even give him a chance to get started.

He walks over, cups his face, and carefully presses a kiss to his forehead. 

Needle blinks at him, temporarily speechless, and deflates like a punctured balloon. “I had a whole lecture planned,” he says weakly. “It was gonna be real good, too.”

“You can lecture me later,” Stitch says, carefully adjusting the blanket across his shoulders. “I promise.”

Needle looks at Helix, helplessly confused. Stitch gives the blanket one more tug, nods approvingly, and settles cross-legged in front of Ben.

“You know you’re safe here, right?” he says suddenly. “You don’t have to stop being scared. Being safe doesn’t mean you stop being scared. But you are safe here.”

Ben stares at him, open-mouthed–

Then he nods. 

Stitch nods back solemnly. “Good. Are you okay?”

A smile flickers across Ben’s face. “Needle keeps calling me fish food.”

“Needle,” Stitch says patiently, “stop calling him fish food.”

“You ruin my fun.”

“I will bet you a whole stop-calling-Ben-fish-food that I am very fun.”

“Prove it.”

“Okay,” Stitch says, and produces–

Oh no.

“You got me glitter!” 

“Pens,” Stitch interjects, glancing back at Helix. “No risk of contaminants.”

 “Okay, fine, Ben, you are released from the burden of my fantastic, excellent nicknames until I come up with a better one–” 

“I’ll last.”

“Cactus,” Needle sing-songs, and this time, Ben’s smile sticks.

“Keep it off the walls,” Helix sighs, trying and failing to muster up a veneer of irritation.

“The walls,” Needle scoffs. “Who do you think I am?”

“Do I need to remind you of the–”

“No, no, we’re fine, I was drunk and I definitely wasn’t here anyway–”

Ben’s looking very interested. Helix catches his eye and mouths later.

(He’d promised embarrassing stories, after all.)

Needle tips the package upside-down, eyeing the pens with interest. “Choices, choices… oooh, hey–” he nudges Ben companionably– “how about lightning? Like yours? Can’t wear my vambraces until this heals up, might as well–”

“What?”

Silence falls at Ben’s interjection.

Obi-Wan had said they were safe.

He’d said– 

Bright lights. Steady hands. Anchors, he’d called them, but Ben had thought– only in the Dark, not that they–

They knew?

“You know about that?”

They’d said the same thing, on Melidaan. That it had looked like lightning, eating him alive.

And of course– of course, if they went back to war, Obi-Wan would’ve– and they–

And there weren’t any other Jedi on the ship.

So he could’ve done it. And saved them. And stayed safe. And he said it got better, they got better at it– and if none of the Jedi knew, he could– he could still be a Jedi, so they wouldn’t know he was broken, and he would’ve still had people who would stop him from–

“You stop him from drowning,” Ben says slowly. He looks around at them, something kindling behind his eyes. “You– he said you were safe. You keep us safe. You stop him from drowning?”

Oh. Oh.

He hadn’t known. He hadn’t known who they were, not entirely, not what they were together, them and Obi-Wan–

And yet he’d trusted them anyway.

“Yeah,” Helix manages. “Of course we do.”

Something in Ben’s expression cracks open.

“I don’t want to drown,” he says faintly. “I thought– you know? You help him?”

“We talk a lot,” Needle offers. “That helps, he said. Provides a point of orientation. Something to grab onto.”

“And touch,” Stitch adds. “So he remembers where he begins.”

Helix leans forward. “No one drowns here, Ben.”

(Never again.)

“We help him. Of course we’ll help you.”

“Oh.”

He’s looking at them like they’re new people entirely.

“Who else–?”

They’re interrupted by a knock on the wall, and Helix looks up to see Boil by the door with Waxer peering eagerly over his shoulder.

“Bad time?” Boil says, and if Helix didn’t know better he’d swear that was anxiety– “Stitch said we should–”

Then his eyes go wide. 

Helix glances down–

A tuft of red hair pokes over the top of the bed.

“Do you also know?" Ben demands. "About the lightning?”

Boil looks at Helix. Helix shrugs, leaning back, grinning broadly– 

“Go on,” he says casually. “Kid asked you a question.”

“I– yeah,” Waxer says. “The– you mean the drifting, right? The way you– he– lets go?”

Boil seems to have cottoned on a bit faster.

“We know about it, kid,” he says. His gruff voice has gone gentle, and Helix nearly laughs out loud– something’s shifted, something’s changed, because Ben’s got a whole damn battalion to keep him from drowning and he’s only just realizing it–

“Oh,” Ben says. Bafflement bleeding into wonder.

Then he smiles. Small and crooked and shy, but Helix thinks it’s his favorite one yet, because–

Because this one’s got room for growth.

“We’re drawing terrible things on Needle’s cast. Want to help?”

Chapter Text

Boil hadn’t known quite what to expect, when he’d received Cody’s comm conveying Stitch’s orders for both of them to report to the medbay. 

Waxer had lit up with all the muffled subtlety of a flash grenade, bouncing all the way down the hallway. He, Boil knew, had been dying to see their newest guest ever since the news had broken.

But Boil–

Well.

Their General’s always been larger than life, hasn’t he? Splitting open earth and sky, catching explosions and tidal waves in the palms of his hands– all the more human for it, yes, but still–

Even after Iwanaga. Folded up, cracked open, losing himself without choosing to– but still with a spark behind his eyes that had forbidden surrender.

He’s their General.

And yes, Boil knows tubies exist, but, well– it had always been Waxer who was best with them, even back on Kamino. He’d somehow managed to stay soft, all the way through, and he always tried so damn hard to share a bit of that with the little ones. Boil knows he’s got sharper edges, and it’s the rare cadet who calls him anything other than sir.

(Rare, but not unheard of. A small and dog-eared Twi'leki phrasebook has taken up permanent residence in his bunk.)

And this isn’t even going to be a regular cadet. This is a mini General. A general in his own right already, really, and–

Scared, Helix had said. Exhausted.

He’s jolted out of his thoughts when Waxer’s pace starts to falter as they approach the medbay doors.

“Hey.” Boil elbows him. “You don’t get to drag me this far and stop now. What’s going on?”

“What if he’s scared of us?” Waxer says suddenly. The look in his eyes could make a Hutt weep. “I don’t want him to be scared of us. Should we go back, maybe? Give him some more time?”

Boil sighs. Looks like it’ll have to be him, then.

“If you remember,” he says drily, “we’re down here on Stitch’s orders.”

He’d seen Stitch glare the Commander himself into submission when he’d ‘forgotten’ his crutches after a compound ankle fracture. He’s smart enough to admit he’d enjoyed the sight of Cody folding in front of a kid a full head shorter than him, but there’s no way in hell he’s risking earning that ire himself.

“If the kid doesn’t want to talk, fine. We go in, get scanned, go out again.”

He palms open the door before Waxer can raise any more objections.

Oh, hell, they’ve walked right into the middle of a conversation. But. Stitch’s orders.

He knocks gently on the wall. “Bad time? Stitch said we should–”

And then. Well.

“Do you also know? About the lightning?”

Tiny.

That’s his first impression, upon seeing the tuft of red hair pop up over the edge of the bed. Small and skinny and fierce, like a puffed-up tooka, the sharp lines of his face revealing a history of gnawing hunger that Boil’s all too familiar with. Pale, too, and he glances at Helix, remembering Obi-Wan’s explanation and badly burned–

But Helix only grins. “Go on,” he drawls, and Boil barely resists the urge to flip him off. “Kid asked you a question.”

Right. He had, hadn’t he? And there’d been something in the demand– something in his tone–

Melidaan had been the first time, he knows. Clasby had told them– and they’d seen it, too, in the Memory. And Boil had been next to Cody on Zylon, close enough to see the dry smile on Obi-Wan’s face, close enough to hear don’t call home about this, Commander, before he’d closed his eyes and the sky had torn open an instant before the ground erupted–

He’d gained something on Melidaan. Lost something else, too, if Boil’s any judge, and he’d gone years without telling anyone.

And now he’s on a ship where everyone knows. All that determination to hide, all that reticent conviction–

Suddenly, entirely unneeded.

Waxer stammers something, but Boil disregards it. 

He’s not good at being gentle, not like Waxer is. He’s had to work at it.

But. Worth it, maybe, because the kid smiles when he confirms that tentative hope, and, well, that smile–

That smile is all their Obi-Wan.

So. That brings him here, now, lying on his stomach on a newly re-mattressed cot with a glitter pen in hand, listening to Needle and Waxer cheerfully snipe at each other and trying not to stare too much at the kid.

Helix had excused himself a few minutes ago, muttering something about a comm call. Even so, his reluctance to leave them was evident– he’d only settled far enough to render eavesdropping impossible. Boil had thought, initially, that he hadn’t trusted them not to set fire to his medbay, which, rude, he’d only forgotten to take the wrapping off a ration bar in the microwave once–

And then he’d realized that Ben’s gaze kept flickering upwards, looking behind him, and the fifth time it happened Boil had turned fast enough to see Helix look up from the comm and offer Ben a little wave, his expression softening into a smile.

When he’d looked back at Ben–

Hell. They’re adorable.

It’s sickening.

“Stop trying to draw dicks on my cast!”

Needle aims a kick at Waxer, who, cackling, rolls sideways to avoid it.

“I’m decorating–”

“You’re vandalizing,” Needle scoffs. “Banishment for the heathen, away with you–”

“Can’t,” Waxer says cheerfully. “We got summoned. For official medic business, can’t leave, sorry–”

“Then you are coming with me,” Stitch interrupts, patting Needle gently on his good arm and rising to his feet. “For your scan. Right? Medic business?”

Waxer blinks.

“This is banishment,” he says disbelievingly. “You’re banishing me. Doomed to social exile–”

Stitch scowls at him and hauls him up into a frog-march.

“To languish in a conversational desert–”

He’s promptly deposited onto a cot three beds down.

“An insurmountable distance–”

Stitch sighs. “Stay here,” he says patiently. “I’m going to fetch the scanner.”

Waxer flops backwards onto the bed agreeably, winking at Ben. “Can’t argue with the medics, right, kid?”

Ben looks up at Boil.

“Sorry,” he says, grinning. “Did you hear something?”

Waxer makes a noise not dissimilar to a squeaky toy getting stepped on.

“Must have been the wind,” Boil says sagely. 

“Over that insurmountable distance,” Ben agrees, nodding. 

“Bastards–”

“Stay still, please,” Stitch says, sounding exasperated. “Otherwise I’ll have to do it again, and you’ll have to stay here.”

“In exile,” Waxer moans. “Forever.”

Needle wheezes.

Mace only just makes it back to the safety of the Temple when his comm beeps.

When he picks up–

“I’m stealing your kid.”

Unbidden, he feels the tension in his shoulders evaporate.

“Hello to you too, Helix,” he says drily, smiling faintly. “Am I to assume that Stitch made it back safely?”

Helix’s smile is audible. “He did. I’m comming Cody right after you to find out what went down, but I figured you’d want an update first.”

Mace closes his eyes and lets the gratitude settle across his shoulders like a cloak.

He’d asked Obi-Wan about their newest guest, of course, once his friend hadn’t felt quite so shatterpoint-fragile in the Force. Obi-Wan had blinked at him, one hand clutching the bag’s strap and the other still tangled in Mace’s robe, and had told him he was with Helix.

And, well– that had been enough of an answer, hadn’t it?

“Stitch caught me on my way out,” he says. “I know Ben–”

(And hadn’t that been a blow, when Obi-Wan had told him, carefully, his gaze flickering sideways, that it had taken him so much longer to shed the soldier than any of them had known–?)

“–was asleep, but knowing him, would I be correct in guessing he is not any longer?”

“You would.”

“And he knows where he is, yes?”

“Knows who we are, too,” Helix says, and interwoven with every word is a quiet, glittering contentment. “Hang on. Be quiet, I’ll put you on speaker.”

Mace obligingly falls silent, and after a moment’s fumbling and a muffled curse, hears–

Waxer had, eventually, been released, after much complaining about exile and abandonment that Boil had cheerfully ignored. He thinks only part of it had been sincere, anyway.

(He’d seen Waxer’s face light up at Ben’s grin.)

He’s now doodling a tooka, unwilling to risk a second banishment. But Boil’s almost certain that he’s just waiting for Needle’s attention to wander so he can turn it into a dick without consequences.

The kid is eyeing Needle’s cast with interest. Stitch had quietly helped him fold his hand around a green pen earlier, and Boil had noted the clumsy grip, the tentative movements–

(Badly burned–)

“Hey, Ben?”

“Mm?”

“How’d you know our names?”

“Didn’t,” Ben says absently. “Not at first. But you hissed Waxer’s name when you elbowed him, and Helix said your name when you sat down. So then I could match you.”

“Match us?”

“Yes. To–”

Ben stops. Boil glances up from where he’d been doodling to see a dull flush crawl up his face, and Waxer grins.

“To dirt, maybe?” he says cheerfully, elbowing Boil. “Don’t worry–”

Ben bristles. “Not just dirt,” he says insistently. “Don’t be mean.”

Boil stomps down hard on the feeling of something puddling in his chest. “He’s not being mean, Ben, it’s okay. He’s just like that.”

A flicker of a memory occurs to him, and he looks at Ben with new interest. Obi-Wan had told them, hadn’t he, that they might feel differently to another Force-sensitive? And Ben– well, he’s not their General, but at one point, their General was him–

“What else, then? Other than dirt?”

Ben relaxes, considering. Curiosity has silenced the rest of the room. 

“Growing things,” he says slowly. “The– the way the worms inch along. And how the roots hum, all inwound. And how the flowers breathe differently but you can still feel the exhale. Like that. Dirt is where good things grow, and you feel like that part of it.”

Whatever’s melting behind his ribs is becoming a problem.

It’s hard to remember about growing things, sometimes. Most of the time, the natural flora is trying to kill them. Or the earth’s been scorched into submission, and, well, scorched earth is dead earth. Rag’s got his little garden down in the engine rooms, but he’d been fiercely territorial ever since Trigger had accidentally killed a hibiscus plant by cutting too low. And the General had tried his best to get greenery on the ship, but–

“I like knowing that I can be the growing thing, then,” he says, grinning when Ben brightens. “If there’s nothing else, at least there’s me, right?”

“The Worm Whisperer,” Waxer mutters, and Boil throws a pillow at him.

Mace doesn’t know when he’d stopped walking. 

But he’s standing in the middle of the empty hallway, now, quietly, utterly stunned.

He’d known, of course, of Ben’s presence here. He’d been impossible to miss, on that first mad dash through the Force, hidden though he was in Obi-Wan’s starlit wake.

But this–

“Boil has pushed Waxer off the cot,” Helix reports, and in the background, Mace can hear raucous laughter.

“He seems to be getting along well,” he murmurs.

“Oh, he’s well and truly latched onto Needle,” Helix sighs. “Mace, they’re going to be a nightmare.”

The exasperation in his voice, Mace thinks, is only partially genuine.

“I thought you’d be pleased someone’s keeping him there,” he says, smiling at the empty hallway. “I seem to recall something about his wandering tendencies?”

Helix snorts a laugh. “Oh, I am, don’t get me wrong. Did I tell you about–”

“The broom? Yes.”

A beat–

“Oh. What about–”

“The time he complicated a respiratory infection by falling asleep in a crate of toothpaste in the cargo hold? Yes.”

“Really? Huh. What about–”

“The time he got it in his head to clean up with an arterial wound and nearly bled out behind the washing machine? That too, I’m afraid.”

Silence for a moment, and then–

“I don’t like,” Helix says suspiciously, “that I’ve suddenly become predictable.”

“To be fair,” Mace says, “they were embarrassingly memorable stories.”

“Do they come anywhere close to what Needle told you?”

Mace pauses, considering.

The honest answer is no, if only because he’s almost certain that Needle lacks any sense of embarrassment whatsoever, and he thinks there’s nothing Helix could tell him that would even make a dent in Needle’s incorrigible grin. 

But then again–

A gusty sigh crackles through the comm. Apparently, his silence has been taken as enough of an answer.

“I’m going to gag him.”

“You could certainly try.”

“He’d probably chew through it.”

“Most likely, yes,” Mace agrees, very carefully not making a single sound that could possibly be construed as anything approaching a laugh. 

But he hadn’t gotten away with it when he’d dropped Needle off, and Helix is apparently cultivating a talent.

“You’re laughing.”

“I most certainly am not.”

“You think he’s hilarious.”

“I think no such thing.”

He’s not lying. Certainly not. He doesn’t think anything of the sort. 

The sound of Helix’s laughter on the other end of the line has absolutely nothing to do with it.

“Can you believe I used to think Jedi were all sanctimonious, austere bastards?”

“Quite the error.”

“Oh, sure. Now I know you’re just all completely insane.”

That, despite Mace’s best efforts, is enough to make him crack.

“A bit harsh, no?”

“Ace is my batcher and Obi-Wan’s my general,” Helix says, sounding immensely pleased with himself. “The stories I’ve heard, sir.”

“I’m sure Needle will have more for me.”

“You willing to bet on that?”

That gives him pause. 

He thinks he’s managed to avoid annoying Ace too much. 

Obi-Wan, on the other hand, would likely have no qualms whatsoever about sharing whatever Helix might ask of him.

Hm.

“Let me check with Obi-Wan,” he says at last, “and I’ll get back to you.”

“Fair enough,” Helix says. His grin is audible. “I’ll comm later with an update. Goodbye.”

The call cuts out, so typically abrupt, and Mace runs a hand down his face, laughing helplessly.

Ben’s in the best of hands, Obi-Wan had told him.

He cannot even begin to muster an argument.

Helix grins at the wall for a long, weightless moment, feeling something ease and unfurl in his chest.

He glances over. 

The little group has apparently moved on to roasting Boil for his culinary skills.

Or, well– tastes, at least. 

Skills might be stretching it.

He hears Needle scoff.

“I don’t care for the opinions of people who put butter in their coffee.”

Boil splutters. Waxer cackles. “I– it’s for the– Waxer told me about it!”

“Waxer doesn’t do it, though,” the man in question says cheerfully. “I see interesting things on the holonet, I share them, I can’t be held responsible for what happens next–”

“It’s gross,” Stitch says flatly. “You eat it with a spoon.”

“Culinary experimentation!”

“You’re banned from the kitchens for a reason.”

“That just means my resources are limited! I make do with what I’ve got, it’s good practice–”

And Ben’s grinning, too, when Helix glances over– the pen in his hand forgotten in favor of watching the show. 

Well. Can’t blame him.

He lets the quiet, burgeoning contentment settle, and comms Cody.

Cody rounds the corner into the last hallway before the bridge and skids to a stop.

When had this become their command center?

Obi-Wan looks up, a smile breaking across his face like a sunrise. Wooley’s sitting next to him, leaning against his shoulder and gesturing wildly at his datapad, and Auks has got his feet kicked up in his lap, badgering Crys as the other futilely tries to swat him away from his comm.

Cody picks his way carefully across the floor and levels a glare at Auks until he reluctantly shuffles sideways and drapes himself over Crys instead. Crys, in turn, turns his glare on Cody, who steadfastly ignores him as he settles next to Obi-Wan.

“Did we relocate?”

“Don’t ask me,” Obi-Wan says drily. “I’m not entirely sure how this happened.”

“I just came out to deliver a datapad,” Wooley says cheerfully. “Then I started talking with him and Windu. Not my fault that Auks came looking for me.”

“Without telling anyone where he was going,” Trapper adds, minimizing the holomap he’d been studying and tossing it over to Stats. “Looks good, by the way.”

“I’ve been ordered out of Senate affairs,” Obi-Wan says, and his scowl is enough to provoke a grin of Cody’s own. “Mace says I’m still on medical leave.” 

Cody carefully doesn’t voice his agreement with that statement. 

It was supposed to be a quick visit. A way to confirm the rumors of Obi-Wan’s survival. A meeting with a known ally. An hour at most, because Obi-Wan had very much still been on medical leave. They hadn’t even begun to discuss what the future might look like in terms of the war, because the 212th’s leave wouldn’t last forever, and Obi-Wan’s capabilities as a general had been– uncertain, to say the least–

And then.

Regardless, though, a simple Senate visit turning into a duel with a Sith Lord and subsequently tearing a hole in the fabric of the universe is not an excuse to end medical leave early.

In fact, Cody thinks, only a little grumpily, that’s probably an excellent reason to extend it.

But he doesn’t say any of this out loud. From the way Obi-Wan arches an eyebrow, he thinks he probably doesn’t have to. Instead, he reaches for his hand, and carefully files away the way Obi-Wan’s shoulders relax.

“Stitch is fine,” he says quietly. “I’ll give you the full run-down later, but everyone’s okay. What do we have?”

“Oh, Force,” Obi-Wan sighs. “Where to start?”

But his eyes crinkle when he smiles, and that, Cody thinks, is as good a place as any.

Crys goes haring off down the hallway, clutching his comm in his hand and shouting about blueprints, grinning like a fool.

Obi-Wan’s comm beeps with a message from Anders.

anders: your nerd’s cute.

Auks leans over his shoulder and smirks. “Tell him he’s got poor taste, sir.”

bastard: auks would like me to inform you that you have terrible taste in men.

anders: this coming from the one who wants to fuck a bird?

anders: i don’t know, ben

anders: that kind of makes me like him more.

bastard: thank you, anders.

bastard: he’s crying into my shoulder.

bastard: also

bastard: what did you do to my username?

anders: i saw the footage

anders: you weren’t wearing my gloves

anders: it hurt my feelings

bastard: really?

bastard: is that all?

anders: no.

anders: you died and came back to life, dumbass.

anders: this is the least you deserve.

Sauro comms. 

He’d proposed cannibalizing parts of the Nova to start building rudimentary docking infrastructure big enough to support a Venator-class starship on Melidaan to General Sierran, he tells them, and the older Jedi had enthusiastically concurred. Anders’ voice is audible in the background.

Cody thinks, for a moment, about the fuss the Senate will kick up. About the signs of settlement on a non-Republic planet. About the misuse of property.

Then he thinks–

The ships? Or us?

“Well done,” he says, and Sauro’s eyes light up. “Keep up the good work.”

When Helix calls, Cody takes a moment to brace himself before picking up.

“The kids are occupied,” he says, and Cody carefully doesn’t mention the use of the kids or the way his voice sounds lighter than Cody thinks he’s ever heard it. “What happened?”

“You’ve got your eyes on them?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Right,” Cody says, exhaling. “Remember that. And don’t interrupt.”

Then he starts to talk.

The hallway falls dead silent as soon as he mentions Krell.

By the time he reaches the end, he can’t even hear Helix breathing.

Obi-Wan sighs, steady and sure. 

“No one,” he says, and his voice holds an undercurrent of durasteel– “is to go through without obtaining the explicit permission of either myself or Commander Cody. Is that understood?”

The hallway fills with affirmative mutters. 

“Helix?”

Silence.

“Helix.”

Then, slightly strangled–

“Yes, sir.”

The call cuts out before Cody can say anything else. 

Obi-Wan’s fingers curl around his own.

“Well done,” he says quietly. “And thank you.”

Helix sits on the cot for a long moment.

His ears are ringing.

Then, carefully and deliberately, he peels his fingers off the comm and drops it onto the mattress.

Krell.

Krell.

Oh, he remembers Umbara. He remembers the information trickling through, bits and pieces flurrying like snow, all coalescing into the general conclusion that shit was going to go down at the airfield, and it would likely be best for one of the primaries to be on hand.

He remembers drawing himself up tight. He remembers Stitch going very quiet. 

He remembers, too, the cold and creeping fear, as rumors born of bad comm connections and piecemeal news drifted on whispers around the campsite. Rumors of exactly what had gone down. Rumors of Krell going Dark. Rumors that he’d tried to take as many troopers down with him as he could.

And Stitch had–

He breathes in. Breathes out again.

Stitch had done exactly what Helix would’ve done, if he’d been in his place.

Cody’s the Marshal Commander. He can worry about the little things. Things like killing someone who hasn’t yet committed a crime. Things like maybe starting a trans-dimensional war over killing a Jedi.

But Helix–

Needle had told him, afterwards, when Stitch was asleep. Slow and halting, with his hands folded around the mug Helix had pushed forward. He’d told him about the sensation of being lifted, seized and slammed and strangled into inaction, and the way his vision had filled with a pair of blazing sabers as the air blurred around him. He’d told him about the feeling of being torn nearly in half as a new grip had pulled him downwards, so close he'd felt the heat of Krell's blades as Obi-Wan had yanked him underneath them like a rag doll, shoving him past the immediate danger and into the mud, out of range–

Well.

Helix has his priorities straight.

He knows brothers die in war. He accepts that. 

He knows his brothers could die.

He’d used to accept that, too.

But somewhere along the line, he’d stopped being able to.

A small, tentative realization knocks gently on the door of his conscious mind, and Helix, despite himself, thinks–

Maybe he doesn’t have to.

Oh, he knows that’s a dangerous thought. But it’s there, now, and the longer it stays, the bigger it grows, because– well–

Ace had told him, hadn’t he? With a certainty Helix hadn’t felt he deserved, he’d told him that they’d make it out.

And Helix had promised himself they would.

If they’ve won–

If they’ve won the war–

Maybe he was able to keep that promise after all.

Maybe he won’t have to swallow past the lump in his throat every time one of them vanishes from his line of sight, into the darkness or the fire or the shouting.

Maybe he won’t have to hold an earth-shattering grief in reserve anymore, waiting for the day he’ll need it.

Maybe–

He presses his hands hard against his eyes.

Maybe.

He rises, plucking the blanket from the cot and bundling it under one arm before making his way back to the little group.

He’s just in time to hear Needle interrupt himself halfway through a story, looking down at where Ben’s carefully outlining something green on his cast.

“Is that also a dick?” he asks suspiciously. “Fungal, maybe? It looks kind of dick-like– Waxer, you’re a terrible influence–”

“It’s not a dick!” Ben says indignantly. “It’s a cactus, see? Helix said it would be hard to move my hands for a bit. Not my fault it looks wrong.”

Needle tilts his head to the side before brightening. “Oooh, I see it, okay, you’re right! Waxer, you’re still a terrible influence, though–”

“Of course I’m right,” Ben grumbles. “I drew it. Wasn’t trying to draw a dick.”

“You’re right, you’re– Helix!”

“Hey,” he says hoarsely, and holds up the blanket. “I was–”

He stops.

They’re all looking at him.

“Did you want another blanket, Needle?”

He knows that Needle knows that the medbay is kept at a perfectly adequate temperature. 

But he also knows that Needle is startlingly, terrifyingly good at seeing right down into the core of him, so he proffers the blanket and hopes that, even when Needle is fogged to the nines with the brutal combination of percocet and a head injury, it still holds true.

And when Needle beams, spreading his good arm wide, Helix knows it does.

“All of the blankets!” he announces gleefully, and Waxer snorts a laugh. “I have just decided I’m freezing, actually, and require all the blankets, every blanket in the medbay and beyond before I go hypothermic– oooh, let’s make a fort–”

“One thing at a time,” Helix deadpans, and steps forward carefully to tuck the blanket around his shoulders before the stupidly enormous bloom of gratitude can choke him.

(And if his hands linger a little longer than they normally would, well– it’s been a day.)

Needle takes the opportunity to stretch upwards and plant a smacking kiss on Helix’s cheek.

“Thank you,” he says, grinning. “Now, chop chop, let’s go– I’m injured and a pillow, after all, can’t fetch them myself–”

“Brat,” Helix mutters, not even bothering to try and hide the fondness in his tone.

Needle beams at him. “Always.”

He hears Stitch scramble up behind him as he heads over to the supply closet, and slows his stride enough for him to catch up.

“Helix?”

“Yeah, kiddo?”

“Are you okay?”

“Better now,” Helix says, and is faintly surprised to find he means it. 

They step into the supply closet, and when the door shuts behind them, he turns to face Stitch properly. “I commed Cody. You did a bit more than yelling, didn’t you?”

Stitch’s gaze skitters sideways.

“Stitch.”

“You didn’t ask about that bit,” he mutters, and Helix, despite himself, feels his lips twitch upwards. “You only asked about the yelling.”

“That’s true.”

Stitch rocks back on his heels and glances up, stubbornness warring with something Helix can’t quite define. “And I don’t want Needle to die. Ever. I’m sorry for making you worry, but I’m not sorry about that.”

Helix raises an eyebrow. “What made you think I was expecting you to be sorry?”

Stitch hesitates. “Well,” he says, and stops. 

“Because I’m not,” Helix says patiently. “Expecting you to be sorry, that is.”

Stitch’s eyes go wide, and then his shoulders relax. “Oh.”

Helix sighs and opens his arms, and Stitch steps forward immediately.

“I would’ve done exactly the same thing, sweetheart,” he mutters. “Well done.”

He feels Stitch’s grip on the back of his scrubs tighten, hears a very faint sniffle, and then–

“I really don’t want Needle to die, Helix.”

Well.

What can Helix possibly say to that?

The only answer he could give, he thinks, would be the one and only time Needle had gone down under his watch. The way the blinding rain had plastered his hair to his forehead, and how he’d pried the mud out of Needle’s slack mouth by the handful, and the way his chest had cracked open even as four of Needle’s ribs had done the same under his hands, and how he’d made his denial mean something–

(And how, much, much later, with Needle asleep, safe and warm under crisp white blankets that held no mud whatsoever, he’d folded onto his knees and shaken apart as he’d tried to figure out how, despite all his best efforts, Needle had managed to become terrifyingly, frighteningly important.)

But that had been before Stitch had joined them. And Helix thinks that if he tried to put that into words, he’d just end up screaming.

“I know you don’t, Stitch,” he says quietly. “Come on. Give me a hand with the blankets.”

Eventually, Boil and Waxer make their way out. Waxer is complaining under his breath about shift changes and sleep schedules and how circadian rhythms are a lie, actually, despite muffling a yawn with every other word.

It’s getting late.

Helix carefully doesn’t look too long at that thought. If he thinks about exactly how much has happened in the space of a day–

Well. Anyways.

Ben’s blinking blearily as he leans against Needle’s side, the two of them cocooned in an unholy amount of blankets. Needle is preoccupied with making a sincere attempt to absorb Stitch into the pile as well.

The fort had, apparently, taken a backseat.

Helix would like nothing more than to let this take its natural course.

But. Well.

He had promised.

He makes his way over and crouches down, tapping gently on the ground and smiling when Ben’s blurry gaze focuses on him.

“Hey, Ben,” he says gently. “You look like you’re about to pass out. You want me to lower the dose, like we talked about? Or we could talk?”

Ben blinks at him, considering. Helix settles back onto his heels, content to wait.

Then he notices his hands.

The kid’s hands are clenched into fists. So tightly his knuckles have turned white, his nails digging into his palms. The tension is so at odds with the rest of him that Helix nearly says something–

And then he remembers the way Obi-Wan reaches, seeking anchors and reminders, and decides on a different approach.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says quietly, and, carefully telegraphing every movement, he reaches over and gently uncurls the stubborn grip.

He folds his own hands over Ben’s and turns his palms upwards for careful inspection, humming to himself. “You looked like you were gonna draw blood there, kiddo.”

He doesn’t ask outright. He knows that won’t get him anywhere. Instead, he lets the sentence trail off into something that might, if one was looking for it, bear a faint resemblance to a question, and lets Ben decide what he wants to do with it.

He’s not disappointed.

“Stops everything from getting too close,” Ben says sleepily. “Stops me from going all blurry.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm. Like bleeding. All the way through my skin. Have to stay put.”

He looks down at where Helix still hasn’t let go of his hands. “This is good, though. Helps.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah. Can’t go away if someone’s holding on.”

Then, before Helix has a chance to rectify the fact that his heart appears to have liquefied–

“Can’t reach too much, back home. Can’t let ‘em know something’s all wrong. But–” and here, Ben grins, broad and bright and too tired for inhibition, “you already know.”

“I do.”

“So it’s okay.”

“Of course it is.”

“So can you stay?”

That, Helix thinks helplessly, had never even been in question.

He shifts sideways and settles cross-legged on Ben’s other side, and after a moment, feels him settle against his shoulder.

“Better,” he sighs. “Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me for that,” Helix says, carefully boxing up the urge to march through the rift and pummel Jinn into the ground until he has the space to indulge it later. “Does this mean you’re okay with sleeping?”

A hum. “Been a long day.”

Helix snorts a laugh. “You’re not wrong.”

“You’re gonna stay?”

“Of course.”

“Not gonna drown.”

“No. I won’t let go. And I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

“Mmkay.”

Helix, despite himself, can’t quite bludgeon his own yawn into submission. “You got first shift, Stitch?”

“Yes, Helix,” Stitch says, folding himself down on Needle’s other side and pulling out his datapad. 

“Wake me up for second shift.”

“Probably not, Helix.”

“Third, then.”

“Maybe, Helix.”

Helix peels his eyes open– when had he closed them?– and levels a glare in his direction. 

Stitch blithely pretends not to notice.

And despite everything- despite the chaos, and the shouting, and the looming, ominous peace-

His kids are here. And safe. 

It's all too easy to fall asleep.

“We are not entirely incompetent, you know.”

Obi-Wan scowls at the comm. “Mace got to you, didn’t he?”

“Master Billaba did, actually,” the new interim Chancellor says, his smirk audible. “We had tea. And a lovely conversation. She made it quite clear that you have other priorities at the moment.”

Obi-Wan sighs. “This is–”

“Obi-Wan. I got your name pulled from the shortlist of candidates. If you wanted the job, that was the time. Do you really have so little faith in your colleagues?”

“Of course not–”

“Excellent. Glad we’re in agreement. If we run up against something that cannot do without your input, you have my word that I will comm you. Now stop trying to convince me you’re fine. Otherwise, I might start to believe you, and I don’t want to get on the wrong side of the entire Order this early on.”

Obi-Wan opens his mouth–

And sighs.

“Give my love to Breha.”

“Always,” Organa says, his voice warming. “Get some rest.”

Obi-Wan makes a face when the call ends, and Cody, laughing, makes an executive decision.

Across the galaxy, his brothers are stepping up and stepping forward. They don’t need him hovering over their shoulders. Here, the war has moved into corridors where Cody and his brothers have little insight and less power. For now, all they can do is wait.

And Cody has a better idea of how to spend his time.

He rises to his feet and offers Obi-Wan a hand up.

“Tea?”

That offer has come to mean a lot of things, between the two of them. 

Stained reports, for one, when one of them inevitably gestures too broadly or starts nodding off. Warmth, too, whether it be to stave off the chill of a battle or the chill of all its dead. A recentering and reordering. The relief of routine.

But mostly, it means a chance to rest, and quiet company. 

Obi-Wan accepts the proffered hand, smiling faintly, and lets Cody pull him up.

They pass a returning Waxer and Boil on their way down the hallway, and Obi-Wan laughs out loud at the clamor that ensues behind them.

“You guys were gone for ages–”

“You totally got to meet him, didn’t you?”

“What’s he like?”

Boil, trying and failing not to sound infinitely fond– “Smart. Sharp.”

Auks, almost whining– “Details, you bastards, give us details–”

“No,” Waxer says, inordinately smug. “You’ll have to find out for yourself.”

Trapper coughs unconvincingly. “Oh, no, I think I have– um–”

(“Scurvy,” Wooley whispers–)

“–yeah, scurvy, better go down to medbay–”

The sound of a solid kick landing followed by a muffled wheeze–

“He’ll be sleeping by now, idiot. You should be off shift too, by the way–”

“Yeah, also, let me comm Terror, tell him that his meal plans are so nutritionally deficient that they’ve given Trapper scurvy–”

“Give me that comm–”

The squabbling fades as they round the corner, and Cody grins at the exasperated affection written all over Obi-Wan’s face.

Then he notices the satchel slung over his shoulder, and nods towards it.

“What’s in the bag?”

“Hm?” Obi-Wan glances down. “Oh. Padawan tunics. For– for Ben. Mace dropped them off.”

Something odd twists his voice, and Cody decides against offering to stop by the medbay first. Instead, he lets Obi-Wan take the lead when they hit the fork, and doesn’t say a word when they turn towards his quarters instead.

They make their way back in a comfortable silence.

When the door slides open, Obi-Wan squeezes his hand before dropping it and kicking off his boots. Cody, grinning, follows suit.

It is, after all, a familiar routine.

Obi-Wan makes his way into the cramped kitchenette, reaching for the kettle and turning off the tap. Cody settles cross-legged onto the rug next to the ever-present meditation mat and sets about unbuckling his armor.

Normally, he would spread the pieces out before him, studying each stain and crack and splatter with a critical eye. Normally, he would reach for the cleaning kit he’d started keeping tucked against the sofa four months into the war. Normally, he would lose himself in the soothing repetition of cleaning and repairing, until the clattering in the kitchen ceased. Normally, he would look up just in time to receive a warm mug of caff and a warmer smile before Obi-Wan would settle next to him, cradling his own drink, their knees brushing together–

Normally.

But.

He eyes his armor as he sets the last piece down.

Nothing that won’t keep, and he’d already filed a request for a new bucket.

Before he can overthink it, he stacks his armor neatly to the side and pads over to where Obi-Wan’s rummaging in the cabinet. Obi-Wan spares him a smile before his focus returns to the business of tea selection.

His hands are occupied.

Pity.

(Cody likes holding his hand.)

But– maybe–

It’s been a day for breaking things, after all.

Maybe they can make room for softer things in the cracks.

Before he can think better of it, Cody edges a bit closer and tentatively wraps an arm around Obi-Wan’s waist.

It should feel like a tectonic shift. Like the birth of a new star. A new galaxy, maybe–

But it doesn’t feel like any of those things, when Obi-Wan leans into him.

It just feels–

Easy.

He doesn’t move, and Obi-Wan doesn’t comment. Instead, he plucks two boxes off the shelf, studying them carefully, and Cody tries and fails not to stare at the slow smile unfurling across his face.

Oh. Wait. He can do that now, can’t he?

“Honey lemon okay?”

Cody hums an affirmative.

He’d used to think that his affinity for sweeter flavors was a well-kept secret. Then Obi-Wan had started keeping syrup on hand for caff that he himself never drank, and Cody had decided to give up the ghost.

Making tea, he thinks, is to Obi-Wan what cleaning armor is to him. Soothing in its routine. Secure in the knowledge of what it takes to see the process through. Confident in your skill.

(An offering of protection and comfort in both, too.)

He rests his head on Obi-Wan’s shoulder and watches him work, something tight and strained behind his ribs relaxing at last. 

It would be easy to doze off, here, with Obi-Wan’s warmth against his side and the sweet smell of tempered lemon unfurling.

They got to blow up the Senate.

Everyone he loves is alive.

They may have just won the war.

And Obi-Wan’s shoulder is a shockingly comfortable pillow. 

Yeah. It would be really easy to doze off–

Were it not for the sporadic trembling that seizes Obi-Wan’s hands as he prepares the drinks, and the way he curls his fingers into his palms until the tremors pass.

So Cody stubbornly does not surrender to the encroaching exhaustion. 

Instead, he stays, and he waits, and he watches, and when he judges the moment to be right, he says–

“You don’t have to tell me.”

Obi-Wan’s hands still.

“But I know it was– bad.”

(Execution–style, he’d said, something hunted and hollow in his eyes–)

“If it would help, telling me– I’ll listen.”

Obi-Wan shifts. Cody lets him go, and accepts the hot mug that’s pressed into his hands a moment later.

“I– don’t think it would, at the moment,” he says quietly. “But I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“Okay.”

He hasn’t let go of the mug yet, and Cody folds his own hands over his. 

He hesitates for a moment, and then–

“Your hands were shaking.”

“They do that a lot, now, don’t they?”

Cody blinks. Obi-Wan looks equally startled, as if he hadn’t meant the words to leave the privacy of his own mind. As if the bitterness in the words had surprised him as much as it had Cody.

Then something in his expression gives way, and he ducks his head.

“I told him it got better.”

“Ben?”

“Yes. He would have fought me, otherwise. And neither of us would have made it out.”

“Okay.”

A slow, shuddering breath–

“I don’t know how to face him, now. Knowing what it becomes.”

And that’s when Cody remembers the conversation he’d overheard on the observation deck, on the way back from Iwanaga. Obi-Wan, straight-backed and still, recounting in slow and halting words–

“Okay,” he repeats. Quieter, this time, because he can feel Obi-Wan’s breathing hitch, and, well–

“It’s been a long day.”

“That’s true.”

“Come on.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t protest when Cody tugs him towards the sofa. He sets his own mug down on the small and rickety table before returning to the counter to fetch Obi-Wan’s.

It’s only once they’re both safely ensconced on the ragged, worn-out couch that he speaks again.

“Do you have to deal with that now?”

“What?”

“The kid’s safe. You know Helix will start another war if that’s what it takes to keep him that way. No one’s coming through the rift. If someone tries, the Guard will deal with them– Fox has been dying to shoot someone, but he’ll keep it nonlethal. So. Does that need dealing with now?”

“I suppose not.”

“So let’s give it a few days, then. Let him heal. We’ll figure it out.”

Obi-Wan’s smile is wry and soft and so unspeakably fond that Cody loses his train of thought entirely.

“What would I do without you, hm?”

“Let’s not find out,” Cody says, and realizes a split-second too late that the words had been far, far too sincere–

Obi-Wan’s hand curls around his wrist.

“Okay,” he says.

On the other hand, Cody decides, sincerity might be underrated.

The blossom of warmth unfurls all throughout his chest even before he takes a sip.

(After all, really, it had never been the tea.)

Stitch powers off his datapad and looks up once more.

Not even the first paleoneurological study of a sauropod can keep his attention. The tangled, prickly-hot knot in his chest refuses all attempts at pacification.

It only subsides when he double-checks that Needle’s still breathing.

He has a lot of nightmares about Needle’s breathing.

Namely, Needle not breathing anymore.

It would happen sometimes, back on Kamino. A recon– a reconditioned brother, Stitch reminds himself sternly, recon is short and mean and Needle is not a recon, he is Needle– would lie down in their bunk for the night, and then would not get up in the morning. 

Massive neurological trauma. The first forty-eight hours were always dangerous.

It was the only time apart from inspections that the long-necks came into the barracks. They would come in, and the body would go out again with them, and then the bunk was empty until it wasn’t anymore.

He thinks a lot of his being scared is being scared for Needle.

It’s easy to forget it, sometimes, because Needle’s really good at being alive. He’s loud and bright and colorful and is good at taking up space and being real, and Stitch has never met anyone else like him and he doesn’t think he ever will. 

But seeing Krell had made him remember exactly how much he’s scared for Needle. 

And now, when Needle’s asleep and not being loud and bright and colorful, it’s hard to forget again.

He thinks about Needle not waking up, even though he tries not to. He thinks about Needle not being found under a whole building, even though he tries not to. He thinks about Needle getting dragged forward and carved open, even though he tries not to, especially because he doesn’t think he was supposed to overhear that. 

And he thinks about Needle’s notes.

He hadn’t meant to find them. It had only been two weeks after finding out. He’d only been looking for bleach, under the sink in the fresher, and then he’d noticed one of the wall panels was loose, and he’d pried it out to try and refit it properly, and then he’d seen scraps of flimsi stuffed behind the wiring and he’d pulled it out because he’d thought it was debris at first and then he’d recognized the handwriting–

He hadn’t realized what they were, at first. 

Hot chocolate recipes. Diagrams of flimsi birds. Helix’s favorite sweets. The way Stitch liked his caff. Nearly a whole page on the appeal of glitter, and a lot more on their nightmares. Someone named Mimic who screamed a lot. The names of all of Stitch’s batchmates. The way Helix wanted someone to stay close but wouldn’t ask. The way Stitch needed a hand on his shoulder before he’d look up. The way Helix liked to spar and how Stitch liked to talk and how to tease without going too far and what questions to ask and what jokes to make–

And then he’d realized, all at once.

So he had folded up all the pages just like he’d found them, and had put them back exactly where he’d found them, and had put the loose panel back exactly how he’d found it, and then he’d gone and found Needle and had hugged him for a long, long time.

He hadn’t told him about finding his external backup. He thinks Needle likes to be okay, and he hadn’t wanted to remind him of– of something else.

Because Needle’s really good at being okay, except for all the bits of him that aren’t.

He thinks about all of these things, even though he’s trying really hard not to, but the thoughts grow bigger and sharper until even the fact that Needle is hurt and needs his sleep is not enough to stop him from whispering–

“Needle?”

And because Needle is Needle and Needle is brilliant–

“Hey, bug.” 

(He thinks maybe Needle hadn’t really been sleeping at all.)

“Something bothering you?”

“Yes,” Stitch says, and then stops. Because the main thing that’s bothering him is something that he thinks would bother Needle a lot too, and he doesn’t want to do that. But he also doesn’t want to lie.

It’s easy to find something else that’s bothering him.

“I heard the war’s maybe gonna be over.”

“Yeah?”

“And maybe we won.”

“Maybe.”

“What are we going to do?”

He feels bad for asking. The war ending would be a good thing, he knows. A great thing.

But peace is a word without meaning. Without structure. Peace is big and nebulous and undefined and he’s scared of not having the medbay to be a medic in anymore and he’s scared of not having the Negotiator be a home for them anymore and he’s scared of–

“Dunno,” Needle yawns. “I’d like to go to the museum again, though.”

Stitch stops.

“The museum?”

“Yeah. We could do that. You could tell me all about the terrasaurs again, because I know you’ve been reading a lot, so this time you’d know a lot more.”

“Oh.”

He considers this for a moment.

“That would be nice.”

“Right? We could do a bunch more things, too–”

“Could we do the museum first, though?”

The vast and ominous fog has gained the slightest bit of definition.

“Of course, bug.”

Needle’s hand is mostly encased in plaster. But his fingers are still free, so Stitch reaches over and carefully takes his hand as best he can.

“I’m really glad you’re here, Needle.”

A beat passes, and then Needle’s fingers curl clumsily around his own.

“You know,” he says, and Stitch can hear his smile– “I think I am, too.”

Later:

Waxer’s passed out in Boil’s bunk. He claims Boil’s snoring is like a lullaby. Boil would fight him on this, were he not also asleep.

Wooley dozes off by the laundry machines. The steady mechanical heartbeat reverberates through him, echoing the heartbeats of millions of brothers who are resoundingly, brilliantly alive.

Crys snores loudly enough that he doesn’t hear hands not his own clearing away the wiring tangled in his hair and the circuit boards that threaten to leave an imprint on his cheek. Auks sets the assorted electronics carefully to the side before bundling up a blanket to use as a pillow and leaning back in his chair.

Trapper is the only one of Ghost that Rag trusts alone in the engine room. He takes full advantage of this, and the long leaves of the selvion plant flutter upwards with every whistling exhale.

Cody and Obi-Wan sleep tangled up in each other on the threadbare sofa, half-empty mugs forgotten on the table.

Stitch looks down when his datapad buzzes.

The Separatist leadership has called for a ceasefire.

He stares at the headline, motionless, for some time.

(He thinks he’d like to go to the museum again.)

Chapter Text

Pong Krell is well-used to being hated.

Every Jedi is. They have to be. 

The galaxy is not, by and large, kind to Force-sensitives. Hated for who they are, that’s a common one. A lot of their younglings learn that far too soon and far too cruelly.

Some of them are diplomats, and diplomats cannot please everybody. Better that hatred is turned towards them than left to fester between planetary cohabitants. Hated because they are a safer target.

Sometimes they come to rescue, and sometimes they are too late. The hatred then is that of a grief that would swallow the galaxy whole. 

Hated because of who they are. Hated because of what they can do. Hated because it’s easier.

It’s never begrudged.

That, though–

(All that warmth and tentative friendliness, collapsing inwards at once.)

That was a scabbed-knuckled, vomit-soaked, blood-drenched kind of hatred. 

(Upon introduction.)

The kind of hatred you can only really build in the trenches.  

(He’d known him.)

The kind of hatred that digs claw marks into the inside of your ribs.

(And he’d been afraid.)

That hatred was personal.

Pong doesn’t know what to do.

That fire had left an afterimage on the inside of his eyelids, fission-bright and acid-sour, and he blinks once, twice, trying to clear it even as his eyes begin to burn–

Then.

Something cool sweeps across, like a wet washcloth to a fever. A familiar presence eases the stinging barbs out and sets them aside for later consideration, from a distance where they cannot cause undue harm. 

“Knight Krell.”

The use of his title is a welcome kindness. Master Ti’s dappled sunlight, even more so.

What hurt more, the hatred or the fear?

He steadies himself. Breathes in and breathes out again.

The hatred hurt.

But the fear–

He’d never wanted anyone to be afraid of him.

Fear is a learned instinct. A flinch from a raised hand comes from anticipation of a blow. Recoiling from the sound of screams is born of a time when the noise meant fast-approaching pain. When the context changes– when the raised hand precedes a gentle tackle, or the screams are those of laughter instead of agony– the fear may seem irrational in a new light.

But it always comes from somewhere.

That, then, is where the pain comes from. That someone would have reason– good reason– to fear him.

“Master Ti,” he says.

(Stitch hadn’t reacted to his voice. Nor to his appearance. It had only been his–)

Pong looks down at the peeling skin across his arms. 

If it had been two weeks later, would he even have bothered to give him a chance?

“Come,” Shaak says, so unerringly gentle, and steers him out of the scorched garden.

They walk in silence, Shaak’s shoulder brushing his own, until they reach the entrance to the Memory and she pulls him to a stop.

“We are all capable of monstrosities, Knight Krell,” she says gently. “The danger arises when we believe we are not, no?”

He swallows. His throat is very dry. “Capable, yes. But I–”

“You did nothing wrong,” Shaak says mildly. “You comforted a child. You recognized his stickers. You felt him relax, as did I. Do not lose sight of that.”

“He was afraid of me.”

(The kind of fear that breeds hatred, too, and isn’t that the worst kind–?)

“Of your name,” Shaak corrects. “Not of you.”

She turns to face him, rests a hand on his shoulder–

“Everyone is capable of choosing cruelty. We teach this. We are taught this. You have learned it, now, and so you are perhaps the most well-equipped to ensure you do not do so in the future. Go and join your protégé, Pong, and remember what keeps you here.”

When she leaves him, he does not move forward immediately.

Instead, he settles cross-legged by the entrance, and tries to recenter himself.

Shaak’s– not wrong, he knows. They all learn that lesson young, don’t they? It all comes down to choices, and everyone is capable of choosing wrong.

A different thing entirely, though, to reckon with it like that–

A brief humming of wings is the only warning he gets before a cool body settles tentatively on his shoulders, and segmented forearms come to rest on the top of his head.

He opens his eyes, only to be greeted with a pair of narrowed compound eyes.

“You feel icky,” Delphi announces. 

“Thank you,” Pong says drily.

She pokes him in the forehead. “Not the good type of icky, all slimy for molting. Silly. The sad kind. What happened?”

Pong lets out a slow whistle through his teeth. To his left, the Temple’s accompanying exhale sends a ripple of movement through a swirl of bioluminescent orchids.

Delphi waits, patiently.

“Someone was very frightened of me,” he says eventually. “I think I become someone to be afraid of, and I don’t want to.”

“Then don’t,” Delphi says, with a youngling’s easy certainty. 

“I’m not sure if it’s that easy.”

Delphi pulls back until all he can see are the very tips of her antennae. “It is,” she says stubbornly. “I’ll show you. I have a soft name. Soft name, hard shell, see?”

She flickers her wings in Pong’s periphery, gleaming blue elytra flashing back in an instant, and he nods obligingly.

“Master Vida says that’s balance, too. She says that everyone looks for balance in their own ways, and that’s part of how Caricati do it. You have a hard name.” 

She clicks once, twice, three times, a rapid-fire k-k-k–

“You don’t have a shell,” she says, sounding slightly disappointed. “So you just have to make sure to be soft on the inside. Can’t have a hard name and be hard on the inside. Then you forget how to be soft at all, and then people get scared of you.”

Pong hums. “Sound advice.”

“Thank you.”

She leans forward once more, blinking at him, his own reflection multiplied a thousand times over–

“And besides,” she says confidently, “I’m not even a little bit scared of you, and I’m really smart, so I would know if I should be. So they can’t have known you very well.”

Pong breathes out, scratching absently at his arm, and grins at her disappointed expression as she sees the faint, mottled blue peeking through the muted orange.

“You are smart,” he agrees at last. Her and Shaak both. 

His name does not make him. He does. 

Delphi brightens immediately. “Good,” she says. “You deserve a smart Padawan.”

“Presumptuous much?”

“What’s that mean?”

“Overconfident.”

“Oh. Then no. Because–” she beams at him– “I’m right.”

Back in the gardens:

Silence. Reeling.

Footsteps fading down the hallway.

The implications had been easier to ignore, in the moment.

But now–

The silence grows louder. 

His hands do not shake.

His hands are remarkably steady.

“Qui-Gon.”

Mace.

There’s something in his voice.

He suspects, and he hadn’t even seen–

Qui-Gon hadn’t– looked. Not properly. No time. They’d been moving fast, and every ounce of focus had been on his–

His–

His Padawan–

He’s looking now, though. Examining every fragment of blurred movement, every glimpse from the corner of his eye. 

The blue blade. 

(Oh, and he’d recognized that song, hadn’t he? The melody’s undercurrent? The dancing?)

The red hair.

(The braid, Force, the braid–)

A hunter’s smile.

(And oh, he is a fool, he is chief among them– the Sith had come hunting, had been looking for his–)

“Qui-Gon.”

More insistent, now, the slow dawning of realization–

Qui-Gon ignores him. He folds onto his knees in front of the rift. Rests his hands on his legs.

(The most familiar stranger he’d ever met–)

He closes his eyes. Breathes in, through the ash and the smoke and the ozone. Recalls, in fractured glances– the slope of his nose, the line of his jaw, the light in his eyes–

(He’d drawn his saber on his–)

He breathes out, and reaches. 

For his–

(Padawan.)

On the first night, Obi-Wan falls asleep in his arms.

His hands still clutch at Qui-Gon’s robe almost as tightly as Qui-Gon holds onto him.

He folds over the small body, curls a hand over the back of his head–

(Too late.)

Tears stain the front of his tunic.

“It’s all right,” he murmurs.

Obi-Wan doesn’t stir.

The knobby line of his spine is almost painfully sharp, and Qui-Gon swallows hard past the lump in his throat.

Obi-Wan. Padawan.

“It’s alright,” he repeats. 

It is not, he knows. It will not be for some time. To say so is a potholed statement– a promise bordering on the nonsensical, with all its many caveats. He would be a fool to think that the only scars Obi-Wan has brought home with him are physical.

But here, in the still, quiet darkness, feeling the warm puffs of Obi-Wan’s breathing, the hummingbird-fast heartbeat–

It’s easy to mean it.

He cannot stay for the whole of the next week, regardless of how much he might wish to. There is so much to do, now that Obi-Wan wants to stay.

He has not gone into Obi-Wan’s room since the boy had left– been left behind, Qui-Gon corrects himself; he’s done denying his own fault. He hadn’t even looked at the door, at first, cowering behind regret that had been too easily concealed behind a mask of indignation.

He had not behaved very much like a Jedi, then. But his gratitude is boundless to those who saw him home.

The sessions with Master Bombadil had been of particular use.

The mindhealer has a certain way about him. White-haired and twinkly-eyed, his genial affability disguises a dangerously sharp mind. He has a habit of leading Qui-Gon along thorny, tangled paths that he would have been too afraid to attempt alone, until he looks down and finds that he is standing in the middle of the answer.

And when he looks back, the way is clear every time.

He’d come to feel more himself than he had in years, during those appointments, and had cursed himself for letting the raw aftermath of Xanatos’s betrayal blind him to the possibility of healing.

When he’d told Master Bombadil as such, the man had simply nodded.

“Tempting to transfer the hurt, isn’t it?” he’d said understandingly. “But transferring is to letting go what arson is to a campfire. Shame is a guardrail, not a swamp, Master Jinn. Do not let it suck you down.”

Then he’d offered Qui-Gon a peppermint.

His affinity for childhood lessons alongside his fondness for forward momentum make the old healer a lethal force, and Qui-Gon finds that it’s exactly what he needs.

So, after his most recent appointment, it’s with a blooming, tentative hope that he steps into Obi-Wan’s room for the first time in nearly a year.

He changes the bedding. Launders and dries everything he can find, shakes out the blankets, fluffs the pillows. He dusts the desk and vacuums every square inch of the carpet, carefully scooping up a harvestman that had made its home under the bed and depositing it gently in a sheltered nook in the hallway. He props the door open to let the room air out, and, after some brief consideration, shifts some of the plants in from the kitchen. 

(Scorched, scarred earth–)

A small, yellow pebble plant makes its way onto Obi-Wan’s desk. He hefts a bird’s nest fern into the corner before realizing it needs repotting. He hesitates for a moment, and then thinks–

Maybe we could do that together?

The fern stays.

He hangs up the string-of-dolphins succulent on a hook on the outside of the closet door, then remembers that Obi-Wan would probably appreciate somewhere to hang his cloaks and spends the next ten minutes hammering a new hook in and cursing his lack of mechanical aptitude.

The next few plants he carries in are lighter, in deference to his bruised fingers.

He could, he knows, use the Force. Cart them in without stirring himself– or, at the very least, lightening the load.

He does not.

Somehow, it feels like cheating.

All the while, he keeps a metaphorical eye on the small, glittering light in the back of his mind.

His reluctance to leave his Padawan’s side for his appointment– deemed non-negotiable by Master Bombadil, and while Qui-Gon could recognize the wisdom in that, he didn’t have to like it– had only been partially soothed by Obi-Wan’s quiet acquiescence. He’d nodded when Qui-Gon had promised he’d return later in the afternoon, but there had been something– something in his eyes–

Well. 

He knows it will take time for his word to mean something again.

That’s alright.

And it had been good to talk to Master Bombadil, after all. Because he would never bring this up to Obi-Wan himself, but–

It almost hurts to feel him in the Force.

The little nova Qui-Gon had known has fractured. Frayed all throughout like a threadbare quilt, the edges sharpened to a point with a deeply-rooted wariness. His own self pared down, his defenses shored up– his starry luminosity has dulled into smoldering embers, shrinking from the Force itself, and Qui-Gon finds himself nearly crumpling under the weight of what has been–

“Not lost,” Master Bombadil tells him. “Padawan Kenobi has changed, of that I have no doubt– I’ve been assigned his file, and I look forward to speaking with him. But lost seems too permanent of a designation far too early, Master Jinn. Have hope. Healing can be full of surprises.”

He’d raised one bushy eyebrow, and Qui-Gon, half-laughing, had conceded the point.

He dusts his hands off, makes a note to vacuum again, and examines the results of his work.

Good, he thinks. 

Livable.

He turns to go–

His gaze snags on the bed.

Obi-Wan’s bed resides in the corner of the room, with just enough space between it and the wall for a small table that was, more often than not, piled high with datapads.

Something prickles at the back of his mind.

He shifts the little table out from behind the bed, moving it over to the other side, and pushes the bed backwards until it’s flush against the wall.

(No more claiming ignorance.)

He eyes the nightstand.

Clean of dust, now, but looking all the more empty for it.

A memory nudges tentatively at his train of thought, and he wanders back into the living room in search of a spare datapad.

He remembers, on the transport back from Bandomeer, the way Obi-Wan had folded against his side. Wracked with sporadic tremors from the aftereffects of the electro-whips, the bruises under his eyes so dark and purple that Qui-Gon had at first thought he’d been hit.

(He had been. But those bruises bloomed elsewhere. They simply had not let him sleep.)

The events of the past few weeks had edged his exhaustion with a sharp and manic awareness that forbade surrender, so Qui-Gon had wrapped an arm around his skinny shoulders and dug deep into his memory for a scrap of comfort that he’d once been so much better at offering.

And what he’d found had been a story.

An old story. All the way back to the creche. But he’d always liked the rhythm of it. The repetition. And the reassurance, most of all. That the Force is with them always, even when nothing else is.

He’d been so painfully proud, then. Proud and grieving and guilty and reluctantly, impossibly fond, the latter of which had only grown when Obi-Wan had let out a little sigh and squished his face into Qui-Gon’s tunic.

By the story’s end, his grip had grown slack. Qui-Gon had settled him down onto the cramped bed, curled around him, and had promptly passed out himself.

So now–

Now, he digs deep behind the sofa, and makes a satisfied noise when his hand catches the edge of a nearly-forgotten datapad. He powers it on, then promptly sets it to charge when it shuts down immediately afterward and goes to vacuum the bedroom again instead.

Twenty minutes later, armed with a fresh cup of tea, he sits down on the sofa and picks up the recalcitrant device.

“This is for Obi-Wan,” he informs it. “You will not have to deal with me for much longer if you cooperate.”

The datapad beeps.

“Do not get an attitude with me.”

The ominous silence only encourages his haste.

He makes it through a systems wipe without the pad exploding in his hands and hurriedly navigates to the Archives’ primary database.

Then he stops, staring at the screen.

A voice in the back of his head that sounds annoyingly like Mace informs him that had he been submitting reports like he was supposed to instead of inviting another Jedi over with a bottle of wine and setting his datapad to record for the next two hours, he would know exactly where to go next.

He eyes the tab at the top of the screen that promises tutorials, and resigns himself to surrendering his hard-won ignorance at last.

Half an hour later, with the copy safely downloaded, he rises to his feet, makes his way back into Obi-Wan’s room, and sets the datapad onto the little nightstand.

After a moment, he nudges it a little further towards the center.

He stands back, rests his hands on his hips, and surveys the room.

The nausea surprises him with the speed of its resurgence.

Even as he bends nearly double, resting his hands on his knees, forcing deep breaths through his nose, he knows–

Trying not to think about it only results in night terrors that leave him shaking and sweaty when he claws his way back to wakefulness, blinking in the faint blue glow of Obi-Wan’s bacta tank.

(The warmth of the blood on his hands. How it had flaked off, afterwards, staining the sink pink. The smell of copper and the stains on his tunic.)

Reaching for him. Finding only something faint and flickering, something that hadn’t reached back.

Qui-Gon closes his eyes, breathes in the clean carpet and the blooming plants and the smell dust leaves behind when it’s forced to evacuate, and breathes out the echoes.

Here and now, Obi-Wan is safe. His room is ready.

And soon enough, he will come home.

Qui-Gon turns, scoops up his bag, and makes his way out of the apartment.

He’s been gone long enough already.

He leaves his Padawan’s side more often than he would like, in that first week in the Halls. Cleaning to do. Flimsiwork to complete. Appointments to attend and recover from– sometimes they leave him raw and aching, and he refuses to let Obi-Wan bear the consequences of his ill temper.

But Obi-Wan is not left alone.

The first time, the signature curled around Obi-Wan’s gives Qui-Gon pause at the end of the hallway.

Steady, solid and gentle, deep earth under purple night–

Mace.

And Obi-Wan, small and sore and bruised with relief–

Qui-Gon finds it in himself to remember another bit of flimsiwork that needs doing.

Vokara takes the time to sit with him, too, after bandage changes and checkups– and hadn’t that stung, when he’d realized that those only took place in his absence? A sharp prickle of pain in his throat, hardly dulled by understanding. But he faces it, accepts it, and breathes it out– for if this is what safety means for Obi-Wan right now, then who is Qui-Gon to dispute it?

(The wound haunts him enough without seeing it again.)

His crechemates visit. The second evening, Qui-Gon returns to find Master Tholme scrolling placidly through a datapad. On the bed, his Padawan– Vos, Qui-Gon remembers belatedly– curls around Obi-Wan, only the tops of their heads visible from underneath a pile of blankets that seems to have tripled in size from what he remembers. 

Only one of them is asleep.

Tholme offers him a wry smile upon his entrance, and a blanket shifts enough to reveal a fragment of a face. Dark eyes glare at him, only disappearing when Obi-Wan makes a disgruntled noise at the crack in their fortress.

The most unexpected guest arrives on the evening of the third day, his presence only hinted at by a whiff of Deychin tea that lures Qui-Gon all the way down the hallway. 

When he opens the door, the sight before him stops him short.

Qui-Gon has not seen his old master in nearly a year. The last he’d heard, the older Jedi had been on Abregado, recovering a bled kyber crystal for treatment. Before that, he’d been on Kaa’rok, Jabiim, Aargonar– seeking out his own research on Darksider practices so as to best facilitate kyber recovery.

And now–

Dooku looks up at him from where he’s seated straight-backed on Qui-Gon’s chair, teacup raised to his lips.

A small kettle rests on a portable boilerplate that definitely hadn’t been there this morning.

Obi-Wan is sitting up, a small smile curling across his face, cradling a mug of his own in his hands.

“Padawan,” Dooku says blithely. “Welcome back. Tea?”

Qui-Gon stares.

Dooku raises an eyebrow, and an extra cup.

Qui-Gon sighs, resigned, and accepts the proffered drink, settling down on the edge of Obi-Wan’s bed.

“How on earth did you get this past Vokara?”

His old teacher sniffs. “I didn’t. I appealed to her sense of professionalism.”

“She never lets me bring my own tea into the Halls.”

“That is because you fancy yourself an amateur smuggler, and have never actually bothered to ask.”

Qui-Gon opens his mouth to retort, but a tiny, hiccuping laugh from the bed stops him short.

“Indeed,” Dooku continues, unruffled, “I am certain that she enjoys the additional challenge of having to wrangle a full-fledged Jedi Master. A Healer’s life is, as we all know, unerringly dull, and they spend most days staring at walls and waiting for something to happen. They certainly aren’t among the busiest members of our Order–”

“Yes, all right, thank you,” Qui-Gon mutters. He considers mustering up a protest, but Obi-Wan is grinning into his mug, and a faint smirk flickers across Dooku’s face, and, well–

He takes a sip.

It is good tea.

Later, after all cups have been emptied and Obi-Wan’s blinks are growing ever-slower, Dooku rises to his feet. 

“I am glad,” he says, his voice gentling, “that my fool of a Padawan has come to his senses at last.”

A slow, sleepy smile crawls across Obi-Wan’s face, and Dooku’s expression softens.

“Qui-Gon. A moment, if you would?”

When the door slides shut behind them, Qui-Gon braces himself for a tongue-lashing.

What he gets instead is Dooku’s steady gaze, and, eventually, a sigh. 

“I’m leaving again tomorrow,” he says quietly. 

“So soon?”

“Quite. I should return in a month or so, should all go according to plan.”

For a moment, silence falls.

“I’d expected… something else from you,” Qui-Gon ventures.

All things considered, the last time they’d spoken–

Dooku sighs, raising a pointed eyebrow. “And what good would that do? Your guilt will not absolve you, and I don’t find myself inclined to add to it.” 

Qui-Gon ducks his head, something sharp and sour prickling at the back of his throat– something that, if he were to give it the room to speak, would say, why not?

It has been a long time since he has been Dooku’s student, and he knows his shielding is solid. But, aggravatingly, the older Jedi’s lips quirk upwards into a faint smile regardless. 

“Perhaps that’s what I’ll permit for my anger, then. I will not let you find relief in it.”

He reaches out, drops a hand onto Qui-Gon’s shoulder–

“I meant what I said,” he says quietly. “I am glad to see you find yourself again. I have missed you.”

Something deep in Qui-Gon’s chest is aching like a bruise.

Nothing like a conversation with his old master to make him feel like a padawan again.

The hand on his shoulder squeezes before dropping away.

“Do take care of yourself, Padawan.”

No. There’s no shortage of visitors for Obi-Wan. But regardless, Qui-Gon never leaves for anything less than necessity, because–

Because–

(He’s been gone for long enough already, hasn’t he?)

And besides. 

Obi-Wan watches everything, now. Watches the door, watches the monitors– but most of all, he watches Qui-Gon. Sometimes his gaze is a wary one, and he watches Qui-Gon’s hands when he gestures as he speaks. But more often, he looks at him, his eyes soft with a quiet wonderment that Qui-Gon knows he does not deserve.

Qui-Gon talks a lot now, too. More than he ever has in his long career as a diplomat. He talks to inform, to anchor, to reassure. He talks of everything and nothing at all, and he watches Obi-Wan watching him and tells himself that the disbelief fades from his eyes more with every passing day.

He finds himself pulling pillow duty more often than not, as well. Obi-Wan’s body requires rest to heal, Vokara tells them both, and Qui-Gon carefully conceals his amusement at Obi-Wan’s disgruntled expression. As annoyed as he may be, though, he cannot dispute the facts, and sleep takes him often and unexpectedly. 

The camp bed stays, but it gets only sporadic use.

Because when he’s asleep, Obi-Wan clings.

At first, it’s only a reaching hand, tangled into Qui-Gon’s tunic when his injuries prevent further movement. As he heals, the shifting starts– kicking at the blankets and rolling over until he can press his face into Qui-Gon’s side. Only then does he fall still at last.

His grip isn’t strong. Qui-Gon could easily remove himself, if he wanted to lie down more comfortably.

He does not.

Instead, he rests a hand on Obi-Wan’s head, closes his eyes, and listens to his breathing.

Such contact is off the table when Obi-Wan is awake. He holds himself in a perpetual flinch, and Qui-Gon refuses to pretend ignorance as to why– he knows who Obi-Wan’s been fighting, and he’s painfully aware of his own stature. 

He forgets only once, when he cautiously offers to rebraid Obi-Wan’s hair. His boy almost glows with a tentative, flare-bright hope, and Qui-Gon only recognizes the sour insecurity when it begins to peel away, and it’s so easy to smile back, and raise a hand–

Master Che has to help him coax Obi-Wan back.

She checks his bandages. Scolds him gently for moving so quickly. Asks him, in a quiet voice not meant to be overheard, if he would like Qui-Gon to leave.

Qui-Gon can’t bring himself to be relieved when Obi-Wan shakes his head.

The door slides shut behind her.

Qui-Gon nearly reaches out before he thinks better of it.

“Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan squeezes his eyes shut.

“Padawan,” Qui-Gon tries–

Something occurs to him, then, and he rests his hand on the top of the bed, palm upturned.

“Padawan,” he repeats. “I’m sorry. I should not have moved so quickly.”

Obi-Wan’s hands curl into the blanket, and Qui-Gon swallows around the lump in his throat.

“A braid, a Padawan does not make,” he says gently. “Obi-Wan. Padawan. You will remain one regardless.”

He hesitates, considers, and then adds–

“You will remain mine regardless, unless you so choose otherwise.”

After a moment, very quietly–

“You sound like Master Yoda.”

Qui-Gon huffs a laugh. “Don’t tell him that.”

“M’kay.”

A small hand finds its way into Qui-Gon’s and holds on tight.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Still am.”

Qui-Gon considers this, and decides that they have time to work on that.

“If you want my forgiveness, then you have it,” he says quietly. “For anything you’re sorry for.”

Obi-Wan falls quiet, after that.

But that’s all right.

(He’s quiet a lot, nowadays.)

So. This is how things go, for that first uneasy week. Steps forward and steps back. Making mistakes and giving grace and taking space. 

(Watching.)

But they cannot stay in this limbo forever.

Obi-Wan rejects the hoverchair out of hand, and Vokara, in a move that raises Qui-Gon’s eyebrows, doesn’t push it. She kneels, tells him to be careful, tells him to eat his meals and take his medications, tells him that she will see him soon for a check-up, but not too soon– 

She tells him that she is glad to see him back.

At that, Obi-Wan smiles, small and shy, and Vokara smiles back before rising to her feet and bidding them both farewell.

It’s late evening by the time they leave the Halls, just as Qui-Gon had planned. Most of those in the Temple are at mealtime– latemeal for those who rise with the sun, and breakfast for their nocturnal counterparts– so the hallways are largely empty. 

But Obi-Wan’s prickling anxiety itches like a sunburn on the back of his neck, and after a moment, Qui-Gon lifts his cloak in silent invitation. 

Obi-Wan takes it.

This is how they make their way back, then– Qui-Gon drawing the Force around them, discouraging curious glances from the occasional passers-by, and Obi-Wan a small, indistinct lump under the vast swathes of his cloak.

He only emerges once the apartment door slides shut behind them, staring around the room with wide eyes.

Qui-Gon squeezes his shoulder before making his way over to the kitchen. Something to eat and drink, yes– it had been a long walk, and he’d slowed his own pace when he’d felt Obi-Wan faltering. He opens his mouth to ask Obi-Wan his preference, but the question withers on his tongue when he hears footsteps cross the room towards the bedroom door.

A moment’s silence. He can feel the weight of Obi-Wan’s anxiety, the tentative gaze studying the back of his neck– seeking permission, but too afraid to ask for it.

He doesn’t turn around. No sense in adding the pressure of his own scrutiny to Obi-Wan’s nerves. Instead, he busies himself with the kettle, humming under his breath, and smiles to himself when he hears the door slide open.

After a moment, he breathes out his own nerves, turns, and walks over to join Obi-Wan at the threshold.

“My interior decorating skills are not particularly highly-regarded,” he says eventually, when the silence draws on too long, “but I tried my best.”

He clears his throat. Obi-Wan hasn’t moved. 

“I thought– the plants can be moved, of course, if you would like them elsewhere. Or not at all.”

Staring. At the bed, at the plants, at the datapad–

“And– I changed the bedding, as well. There’s more in– well, you know where it is, if you would like some more, you’re free to take some–”

His hand, still resting on the wall, curls into a fist.

“Vokara gave me your meal plan, too. We can sit down at some point, look over that together– it doesn’t have to be now, though, I know it’s–”

“I thought I was gonna die.”

His next words trip over themselves and evaporate.

He looks down, sees the skinny shoulders curl inwards, shaking, sees Obi-Wan press his hands hard against his eyes–

“I thought I was gonna–”

The words choke off into a strangled noise, and Qui-Gon folds onto the floor in front of him even as Obi-Wan’s face crumples– caves in– collapses–

(For this is the first thing– the only thing, for some time– his Padawan tells him of his time on Melidaan, and the remembered conviction in his voice drives the knife ever deeper–)

“Padawan,” he says, and he says it again when Obi-Wan’s shoulders start to shake, and again when he steps forward, into Qui-Gon’s arms, and again when he feels fingers curl into the back of his tunic–

Qui-Gon hugs him tight and pulls sunlight over them both and does not let go. He hushes him, murmuring soothing nonsense over the shuddering sobs, rocking him as if he were a crecheling again– soldier and general and child, his bloodied, brilliant boy–

(I thought I was gonna–)

Had his chest stilled, between one stuttering breath and the stasis? Had his heart caved in on itself a second too late? He’d had no time for finesse, no time to consider the consequences– he’d simply reached, and grabbed, and pulled–

He does not say any of that. He does not think any of that. He keeps a hand on Obi-Wan’s back, tucks his head under his chin, and Obi-Wan comes without protest, huddling inwards– all reticence abandoned, at least for the moment.

Padawan. 

A funny word, that. 

Son and student and duty, and more besides.

He repeats it regardless, even as the exhaustion that dogs Obi-Wan’s heels wins its newest battle, and eventually he sits back against the wall, cradling him, and says it again.

He will grant the word conviction of its own if he must. A bulwark against being blindsided by survival.

(I thought I was gonna die, Obi-Wan says, and a shadow in his own heart rises to meet it and says with equal certainty, I thought you would, too.)

“You did not,” Qui-Gon says. He ducks his head, presses his lips to the messy hair– 

“You did not.”

His back will forgive him one more bad night.

The aftermath. 

Like picking through the rubble at a blast site.

Reassembling themselves.

And in doing so, Qui-Gon learns.

He learns how to manage the nightmares that come thick and fast in a furious flurry.

His first mistake owes nothing to thought and everything to instinct, when the flash of terror sears across the inside of his eyelids like a lightning strike. He’s on his feet in an instant, at Obi-Wan’s door in the next, flinging it open in search of the attacker–

Now, he does not intrude, when he wakes wild with panic not his own.

Instead, he makes tea.

He pulls his robe on, slides his feet into worn slippers, and steps out of his room. 

The light comes on at a glance. He fills the kettle, sets it on the stove-top, pulls out a box of tea from the upper cabinet– blueberry sage, best for sleepless nights. He measures out the leaves into the teapot with care and sets out a plate of gingersnaps. The kettle is deftly removed from the heat just before the whistle crests– he’d learned that, too– and he sets the tea to brew.

And all the while, he lets himself unfurl. Quiet and calm, beckoning but not pressuring, dusty sunlight and an offer of welcome. Reaching.

Sometimes, Obi-Wan’s door remains shut, and the second mug of tea is summarily disposed of down the sink.

But sometimes the door creaks open and footsteps pad out, socked feet scuffing gently across the wooden floor.

It takes longer some nights than others. Some nights, he only joins after the tea is poured and served, after Qui-Gon has settled himself on the sofa for several long minutes. He sits perched on the edge of the cushion as if poised to flee, his mug clutched tightly in a white-knuckled grip, and Qui-Gon reaches for that snarled knot of tangleweed in the Force and tugs gently at the edges until Obi-Wan’s shoulders lose their soldier’s rigidity. 

Other times, though, he emerges while the tea is still brewing, and makes his way to Qui-Gon’s side with a blanket trailing behind him. He watches Qui-Gon’s hands as he lifts the teapot, as he holds the lid in place, as he pours, and nods when Qui-Gon proffers the jar of honey in an unspoken question. He carries his own drink to the sofa, these nights, and doesn’t settle quite so far away.

Regardless, each night ends the same: with an empty mug eased from slackening hands and set gently onto the low table; with a small body slumping sideways, nearly into Qui-Gon’s lap; with thorny wariness easing into a blessedly empty sleep.

And, inevitably, with a reaching hand, snagging the edge of Qui-Gon’s robe and hugging it to his chest. As if it were some sort of talisman, warding off nightmares– memories– of abandonment.

On these nights, Qui-Gon curls a hand over the skinny shoulders and settles into a light meditation.

This, he will recognize long before he finds the words to articulate it: it is not the absence of threats that comforts Obi-Wan, but rather the knowledge that one will not catch him unawares. But there are no soldiers at the Temple to swap shifts with, no organized rota in their apartment, and it is a long watch to keep for a single boy. So he does what he can, on these nights– letting his awareness fan out into the surrounding hallways, bleeding into the humming walls of their home.

Keeping watch.

He learns how to ensure that Obi-Wan eats, at least a little bit.

One night, he wakes not to the shrill scrape of panic across his senses, but rather to the sound of something clattering in the kitchen.

He sits up in bed, listening.

After a moment, he hears footsteps. The sound of a stool being unfolded and set down. The faint rustling of fabric as someone scrambles up onto a counter, a cabinet opening, a moment's rummaging-

The cabinet door shuts.

The counter is abandoned.

Footsteps pad almost silently across the floor, and the door to Obi-Wan's room opens and shuts with barely a whisper. 

Qui-Gon sits there for some time, afterwards.

Thinking. 

The next day, when Obi-Wan is with Master Bombadil, he examines what remains in the cupboard.

A box of old ration bars is missing.

He shuts the cabinet and rests his forehead against the stained wood, permitting himself a half-second of self-recrimination.

He should have anticipated it. It makes sense. Shelf-stable, and stored–

“So,” he says out loud, sensing the swamp, reaching for the guardrail– “what do we do now?”

He checks the time. Forty minutes before he needs to be at the Halls.

(Technically, there’s nearly an hour left before Obi-Wan’s appointment is over. But he does not want to run the risk of being late.)

In the meantime, he goes hunting.

More ration bars, in as many flavors as he can find. Packets of nuts and freeze-dried fruit. Crackers. Juice boxes. Trail mix and rice cakes and applesauce.

The boxes are opened and their contents distributed evenly among several large bowls. One goes on the small table in front of the sofa. Another on the kitchen counter. A third is returned to the cabinet. 

Qui-Gon picks up the fourth, and, after a moment’s hesitation, makes his way into Obi-Wan’s room and sets it carefully on the desk in plain view. 

(The corner of a blanket peeks out from under the bed. The datapad on the nightstand appears untouched.)

But the plants are doing well.

In the Force– fresh and blooming. He makes a quick circuit, checks the soil, the water levels– all well within acceptable ranges.

Small steps, he reminds himself.

The snacks are an excellent start. Qui-Gon starts finding wrappers in the trash bins that he never tossed, and breathes a little easier for it. 

But they are still only snacks.

At first, Obi-Wan only picks at his meals, reluctant and watchful. But this cannot stand– Master Che will have no qualms about re-admitting him to the Halls, Qui-Gon knows, should his weight continue to be a matter of concern.

He knows as well that this will only send Obi-Wan spiraling once more.

It is his own idea to start cooking their meals together.

Qui-Gon is confident in only a single recipe- one his own Master had made for him, when Qui-Gon himself had been much younger and stricken with a case of Dantooine flu that rendered him incapable of doing anything other than lying in bed and feeling sorry for himself. 

The recipe had been the first thing he’d learned once he was back on his feet, and now, armed with Master Che’s approval, he teaches it to his Padawan.

They trade off dicing a rainbow of vegetables while the tomatoes roast, and when he catches Obi-Wan pressing at his chest, Qui-Gon parks him on a stool at the counter with instructions to mince the garlic while he assembles their spices. He lines up the array within Obi-Wan’s reach, and they decide on a blend together, taste-testing as they go. 

When it’s time to serve, Qui-Gon hesitates for a moment before pulling out a larger bowl. It holds nearly twice the amount of soup his meal plan recommends, but Obi-Wan seems to have developed a reluctance to finish what’s served to him.

(Saving some for children no longer here to take care of.)

Obi-Wan doesn’t quite finish half of what’s in the bowl, but it’s far more than he’s managed before– and far easier, as well. Qui-Gon tips his bowl to his lips to hide his smile, and feels even lighter when Obi-Wan glances up and his eyes widen.

“Is something the matter, Padawan?”

He shakes his head.

“You’re quite sure?”

Obi-Wan studies his soup, considering, and Qui-Gon takes another gulp to occupy himself before–

“Your mustache is orange.”

“Ah,” Qui-Gon says knowingly, setting down the bowl. “Yes. I hear dying them orange is all the rage nowadays.”

“Is not.”

“I was quite looking forward to showing it off at the council meeting this afternoon.”

“Gross.”

“I think Master Windu will be terribly jealous.”

“Master–”

(The moments like these are what he reaches for. The warm moments, the safe moments, the moments when Obi-Wan forgets to be afraid.)

For every recipe that comes after, they learn together.

He learns of his Padawan’s newfound fondness for green things.

Qui-Gon shows him how to rehome the bird’s nest fern. How to untangle the roots, how to mix and measure the soil, how to dig out a hole just deep enough for growth. Obi-Wan watches his hands attentively and combs out the roots with a narrow-eyed focus, but his shoulders relax with every bit of dirt he gets under his fingernails, and later he falls asleep curled like a tooka next to the large terracotta planter. 

There’s potting soil in his hair.

It’s with this memory in mind– the dusty sunlight, the dirty carpet– that Qui-Gon proposes a trip to the gardens.

Obi-Wan has barely left the apartment for anything other than appointments since he’d been discharged. He hardly seems eager to, either, after that first disastrous attempt to visit the eastern refectory. Qui-Gon himself had been doubtful of the wisdom of that decision, but Obi-Wan had asked, and Master Bombadil had said– choices–

Obi-Wan had frozen thirty feet from the entrance at the sound of rising chatter. 

He hadn’t emerged from his room for the rest of the day, after that.

(This is something else Qui-Gon will learn: that his Padawan will push himself too far, too fast. That he will show mercy to everyone but himself. That the dedication with which he cares for his plants far surpasses the care he takes with his own healing.)

But he’s hopeful for the gardens. He’d scoped them out before Obi-Wan’s release, and had tried his best to assess different spots through a soldier’s eyes. Settling into a mission’s mindset– if he were concerned about an ambush, where would he–?

It’s an ill-fitting approach to take in the safety of the Temple, but he tries anyway.

And it’s worth it, a thousand times over, because it works.

For the first time, Obi-Wan listens more than he watches. Something in him seems to settle when he curls his hands into the dirt, and the wariness in his eyes makes room for interest. He watches Qui-Gon’s hands and he watches Qui-Gon himself– but he asks questions now, too, and Qui-Gon answers them as best he can and saves those that stump him. On days when Obi-Wan’s gaze skitters sideways upon recognizing people in the garden, Qui-Gon directs him gently down to the Archives under the pretense of an unfinished report, and they spend some time researching the germination patterns of root vegetables or the reproductive patterns of earwigs. 

Sometimes he wants to ask.

He wants to ask about the emptiness of the earth under his feet. About scorched dirt, scarred with craters. He wants to ask about what he ate. When he ate. He wants to ask about where he sheltered, about how and who he fought.

He wants to ask about the hospital.

He does not.

He learns.

He learns that Obi-Wan is almost constantly primed to flee. He learns to leave space between himself and the door. He learns exactly how hard Obi-Wan can kick, and he learns to let him run.

He learns that the thoughtless touches of before– a ruffle of hair, a pat on the shoulder– are newly out of bounds. 

He learns to walk a fine line, for Obi-Wan will not stand for being coddled. He will barely tolerate being cared for. He insists that he is fine beyond the point of rationality, and any attempts to convince him otherwise are rebuffed with disproportionate force.

He learns, as well, that panic tears holes in Obi-Wan’s memories.

It is normal, Qui-Gon knows, to not remember nightmares. But Obi-Wan forgets more than half-formed fears. He does not remember how he’d knocked a glass of water to the floor at Padawan Eerin’s third insistence that he sit down, nor how his voice had cracked as he’d shouted that he was fine. He does not remember his own body rebelling in the early hours of the morning, forcing him into the fresher where he huddles against the toilet until his stomach is empty of everything he’d eaten the day before, nor does he remember the blankets that Qui-Gon tucks around his shoulders and the glasses of water he brings. He does not remember the mornings when he emerges from his room with blood under his nails and the skin on his arms scratched raw, nor the desperation with which Qui-Gon had all but begged to know what happened as he’d applied bacta with deliberately steady hands. 

Only rarely does he remember running.

So.

Qui-Gon learns how to care quietly, in the only way Obi-Wan will accept. He learns how to manage guests. He learns to carry snacks in his pockets and put pillows in the bathtub and make a production of picking up his saber. 

He learns, as well, that something is wrong.

Something beyond the fleeing and the flinching and the fear. 

In the Force, Obi-Wan resembles nothing less than a crowded cluster of sharp edges shielding scabbed-over wounds, flickers of feeling flaring bright and sharp and dizzying amidst a stormy sky.

It takes three weeks for him to even attempt meditation. If the Force is a river, then he will barely get his feet wet– a far cry from the boy Qui-Gon had known, who would swim far and deep into the vast melody. 

He reaches in his sleep with an unparalleled desperation, but recoils when he’s awake from every offered touch.

There’s something wrong.

And Qui-Gon asks. He asks in every outstretched hand, every mug of tea, every proffered blanket. He asks with every apology, every call to eat, every exhausted hug. He asks in every aftermath, too– of the nightmares, of the fleeing, of the attacks that give him no room to breathe, when he shakes so violently all Qui-Gon can do is bundle him up in a cloak and give him space to come back– 

He asks–

Tell me?

He’s met with silence.

And yet still, despite this– despite everything–

They’d been making progress.

Hadn’t they?

In the Force, the scabbed-over wounds begin to scar, and the storm loses its sharp edges.

In meditation, he steps from the shore into the shallows.

He answers when Qui-Gon asks what he wants to eat, and packs snacks of his own volition before leaving the apartment.

Small steps, halfway steps, sometimes going backwards– but progress, nonetheless–

And then–

And then.

Qui-Gon remembers all of this, as he kneels with dirt on his knees and ash in his hair.

He thinks about broken words and worse wounds and needing help he can’t get here.

He thinks about screaming and reaching and dead in thirty minutes, and– maybe me?

He thinks about the Sith and the hunt and the quiet reverence in the word General.

He kneels, and he reaches, and he wonders:

Obi-Wan had come home broken.

What would it have taken, then, to send his Padawan back to war?

Chapter Text

Ben wakes up three times before it sticks.

First–

To the echoes of marching blue. Fleeing from a nightmare. Away from the half-formed shadows that flickered at the edges of his awareness, drawing closer and closer until he’d wrenched himself awake, because it was either that or fleeing–

Deeper.

(He doesn’t want to go deeper.)

Something cold crawls up his spine, and he huddles a bit closer to the warmth next to him before peeling his eyes open.

The medbay’s dim darkness softens the room with shadows. A muffled, clicking hum is the only audible evidence of the ship’s HVAC system heaving its way through the night cycle, and the beds around them are empty.

A faint glow draws his gaze to the left.

The light from Stitch’s datapad illuminates his face. Brow furrowed, tongue poking out between his teeth, quiet fingers drumming absentmindedly on the casing.

But he doesn’t look– worried.

Doesn’t feel like it, either.

But the weight of his gaze must have been heavier than he’d thought, because Stitch glances up before Ben remembers to look away.

Silence, for a moment.

“Hi, Ben,” Stitch whispers.

“Hi, Stitch,” Ben whispers back.

“Nightmare?”

A beat passes.

“I think so.”

“Okay.”

He reaches over Needle’s leg and rests a hand on Ben’s knee.

“I’ve got the watch,” he says solemnly. “I promise.”

He does not say it’s okay. That, all on its own, is enough to let Ben smile.

“I know,” he whispers. “Thanks.”

The hand on his knee squeezes, and Stitch smiles back.

Second–

To humming. In the muffled darkness, an unfamiliar melody.

His eyes are heavy, but his hands are warm.

So’s the rest of him.

(Helix is snoring.)

Third–

To the warmth at his left shifting.

This is not enough to draw him to full wakefulness, not at first– not until the warmth vanishes, and Ben opens his eyes to see Needle’s silhouette leaning against the wall for a split second before making for the door.

A pneumatic hiss as the fresher door slides open–

“Where are you going?”

Needle freezes.

“Needle,” Stitch whispers, folding his arms, and Needle turns and offers up a winning smile.

“Breakfast.”

“It’s not even third shift.”

“Hungry.”

“We have ration bars.”

“Antsy.”

“And you have a head injury.”

“Ah, what’s one more–?”

“Needle.”

The gleam of Needle’s smile fades as Stitch’s shoulders fold forwards, and in three long strides he’s in front of Stitch, cupping his hands in his own.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “Sorry, bug. Not very funny, huh?”

“Not at all.”

“I really was just gonna go get breakfast.”

“But why?”

“Antsy,” Needle repeats, swaying from foot to foot in a broad, deliberate sweep of motion. “Ants crawling all the way up my pants, Stitch, itching and scratching and horrible–”

“That sounds like an infestation,” Stitch says, deadpan, “and will have to be treated accordingly.”

“Was that a joke?” Needle asks gleefully, and then apparently remembers to lower his voice– “That was a joke–”

“I don’t joke.”

“A pretty good one, too–”

“Insecticide in your pants,” Stitch says, raising a finger. Needle huffs a laugh, warm and delighted. 

“I require entertainment.”

“Head injury.”

“Ants in my pants, Stitch, otherwise I will go and annoy Terror and never see the light of day again–”

Stitch sighs. “What do you need?”

Needle leans forward, giggling, and tucks his face into the crook of Stitch’s neck. The next thing Ben hears is quiet enough that it would be easy to disbelieve if not for what comes after it.

“Remember Melidaan, Stitch?”

“Mhm.”

“And the dancing?”

“Yes.”

“That.”

“We don’t have music.”

“Music in our heads,” Needle says hopefully, folding Stitch’s fingers between his own. “Please?”

“Or a lot of room.”

“Don’t need it.”

“We kind of need it.”

“We can manage.”

“Head injury, Needle.”

“Which is why you gotta help me, Stitch, otherwise I will simply dissolve onto the floor–”

“No you won’t–”

“Into a puddle–”

“That’s not how that–”

“And you shall have to mop me up–”

“Needle–”

“And wring me out into a bucket–

“But–”

“And carry me around with you all day–”

“Fine.”

Needle whoops, very quietly, and without hesitation pulls Stitch into a clumsy spin across the floor of the darkened medbay. 

With one hand resting on his shoulder, dealing with the obstacle of a cast by ignoring the existence of right arms entirely, blooming sweet and sunny yellow in the Force– Stitch stumbling over his own feet, free hand flailing before tentatively settling at Needle’s elbow– 

Free of grief and rhythm both. Spinning for the joy of it. Needle laughing, soft and joyful, at Stitch’s stubborn silence, and Needle’s not Force-sensitive but Ben thinks suddenly that he must be able to tell the way Stitch kindles like a warm hearth at the sound of his laughter.

It’s easy to forget there’s not really any music.

Sleep comes easier, this time, and no nightmares await him.

Instead, he dreams of home. Of him and Quin and Bant and Lumi, back when they were younger, when the Force sang and they danced to it. Spinning around and into each other until they fell backwards into the grass, feeling the river between their fingers. Lifting them, buoyant, until the dancing felt like flying.

Back before he had to be afraid.

The fourth and final time he wakes up, exhaustion no longer threatens with such immediate intent. He’s warm all the way through, now– warm and comfortable, the whole world feeling soft and pink. 

Helix is still snoring.

He shifts, assessing. His fingers bend when he tells them to, and the ache in his chest is that of a bad bruise instead of yesterday’s scorching agony.

Helix had said. The painkillers.

Right?

Footsteps approach from the right, and he rolls his head to the side and blinks away the remnants of sleep.

Needle crouches in front of him, beaming, a steaming mug cupped in his good hand. “Hey, kiddo,” he whispers. “How are you feeling?”

Ben ponders this for a moment. “Better,” he decides, nodding firmly. 

It is. He is.

Needle’s smile brightens and softens all at once, and he nods in Helix’s direction. “Good. Manage to sleep through that all right?”

“Not the worst snoring I’ve ever heard,” Ben says loyally.

Needle clicks his tongue, eyes bright. “Ah, see, mistake there– that’s not actually snoring.”

Ben blinks at him, then up at Helix.

“Sounds like it.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Needle says airily. “A common mistake. But that’s actually Helix’s very extra-special kind of not-snoring. It’s just like regular snoring, but with a heaping helping of denial.” 

He shuffles sideways and waves the mug innocently under Helix’s nose. “Now. Watch this.”

Ben watches, fascinated, as Helix’s brow furrows. His nose wrinkles. His mouth opens the slightest bit.

Stitch, behind Needle, holds up three fingers, then two, then one–

“If that mug is not in my hand in three seconds,” a raspy voice announces, “I will walk out the airlock and see if the cold vacuum of space will be any more merciful.”

“And he calls me dramatic,” Needle mutters, grinning, but obligingly offers up the drink. “We’re docked, boss, but you’re welcome to lie down on the floor and hold your breath for a bit if you think it’d help–”

“Brat.”

Needle’s grin broadens when he looks over at Ben, sparking starspray-bright. “I’m actually his favorite,” he whispers loudly. “He’ll never admit it, he breaks out in hives if he gets within six feet of an emotion, but–”

“You got started early,” Helix grumbles, disentangling one hand and accepting the proffered mug. 

“Aw, Helix, I never stopped,” Needle says cheerfully. “You should know better by this point, really.”

Helix sighs, drains half his mug in one gulp, and glances down at Ben. His eyes soften, the warmth curling into something like a solar flare. “Morning, Ben. Sleep all right?”

Ben, flushing at the attention, nods.

“Sure about that?” Helix asks blithely, but when Ben looks up suspiciously, he realizes his eyes are dancing. “Because these two keep telling me I snore.”

Ben looks over at Needle, who winks. 

“I… don’t know what they’re talking about,” he says carefully. “You don’t snore.”

Helix gives Needle a triumphant look that disintegrates when Ben continues–

“You don’t snore really loudly.”

Needle nearly folds onto the floor with the force of his cackling, and Helix sighs.

“You,” he says, pointing at Needle, “are a terrible influence.”

“I’m an excellent influence, thank you very much,” Needle says cheerfully, swiping at his eyes. “Ah, Ben, you’re a wonder.”

And then, before Ben can even think to do anything at all, Needle leans down and drops a kiss into his hair before bouncing off, trailed by an exasperated-looking Stitch.

Helix glances down. “All right?” 

Ben hums an assent, staring after them. 

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” he says, something shy and warm kindling behind his sternum. Needle had just– done that. Like it was nothing. Quick and close and easy.

(He wonders, for a moment, if he could ask him to do it again.)

Because– his body acts without his consent, now, even outside of the drowning. Flinching from friendly hands. Fighting blurry figures with frantic desperation. Fear boiling upwards, snapping like a kraken, driving him to flee–

But Master Yoda had told him that the body learns its own lessons first, sometimes. Taking shortcuts. 

And Obi-Wan had all but folded him into his own mind to keep him safe. 

Borrowed trust. Borrowed faith. Borrowed certainty of safety– that Needle is all careful affectations of careless affection, that Stitch loves in straight lines with steady hands, and that there is no one in the galaxy more trustworthy than Helix.

He thinks that maybe these are… good shortcuts.

“I think he’s pretty cool.”

Helix smiles, faint and fond. “Don’t tell him that, kiddo. He’ll make trouble with that ego.” 

He takes another drink before setting the mug to the side as Stitch and Needle return with their own, Needle holding a hydropack awkwardly against his chest. “Now, about breakfast–”

But something else snags at the edge of Ben’s awareness– someone approaching, down the hallway. A rush of motion, a flutter of– feathers? 

“Someone’s coming.”

Stitch folds himself onto the floor, Needle right behind him. “Can you tell who?” he asks curiously. 

“...Birds?”

A moment of silence ensues.

Needle carefully sets his drink on the floor before collapsing backwards into Stitch’s lap, giggling uncontrollably.

Ben stares at him, nonplussed.

“Oh, he’s not going to like that one bit,” Helix sighs.

“He’ll like you plenty,” Stitch corrects patiently, glancing at Ben, “but he’ll probably throw something at Needle if he doesn’t stop laughing.”

Needle blithely ignores the unsubtle warning and raises his voice. “Hey, bird-brain!” he hollers. “All clear, come on in!”

The door obligingly slides open, and Ben peers over the edge of the bed.

The newcomer looks about Needle’s age, although exasperation carves new lines into his forehead. Under a flurry of curls are kind eyes and a wry grin, and he’s holding–

Ben’s stomach growls loudly enough that four pairs of startled eyes turn to him.

The newcomer grins, steps inside fully, and kicks the door shut behind him. “I’ll take that as clearance?”

Ben likes him immediately.

“Where’d you get the muffins, Auks?” Stitch asks, peering interestedly at the platter in his hands. 

“Made ‘em myself.”

“You did not,” Needle says cheerfully.

“Well, under Terror’s supervision,” Auks amends. “You know what he’s like. But he didn’t correct a thing, and coming from him–”

“Yeah, okay, passes muster,” Needle acknowledges, and reaches out. “Gimme.”

“Get more creative first,” Auks snarks. “Bird-brain, yeah, sure, never heard that before–”

“Since you asked,” Needle says, grinning broadly. He turns to Ben. “Ben, this is Auks, also known as the flock of birds you felt approaching, desired carnally by birds of paradise across the galaxy, in a star-crossed romance with one such ill-fated creature on Murata–”

A muffin flies at his head, and Needle catches it, tears it in half, and hands one piece to Ben with a wink. “Mission accomplished,” he announces. “Now eat up, otherwise you might just dry up and wither away, shrink down into something so tiny it would just be, oh, I don't know, sustenance for some small aquatic creature-"

It takes him a moment to work that one out.

“Still not fish food.”

“Not yet,” Needle says agreeably, and stuffs a third of his half into his mouth at once. 

Ben takes a smaller bite, and his eyes go wide.

It’s– good. Really good. Sweet and cinnamon-y, with– he chews a little more– chunks of jogan fruit, too, and he takes a bigger bite, then another–

Auks folds cross-legged onto the floor next to where Needle has sprawled comfortably across Stitch and sets the platter within easy reach. “Anyway,” he says, grinning. “Hi, Ben. Please ignore everything that was just said, I promise I’m actually very cool.”

Ben makes a mental note– not just birds. Feathers in sunny skies. The way the dust motes glow.

Needle mutters something about footage that earns him another muffin to the head– or would have, had it not been intercepted by Stitch. He dutifully passes the muffin down to Needle, and Ben suddenly finds himself with a second piece in hand.

“Now, I have to ask– fish food?”

“Needle’s really bad at nicknames,” Ben says, in between bites.

“Tell me about it,” Auks says commiseratingly. “He just called me bird-brain.”

“My talent is boundless and inimitable.”

“Aren’t nicknames supposed to be shorter than the original–?”

Needle levers himself up, looking indignant. “That,” he says, raising a finger, “is the view of uncreative dullards. Nicknames are a means of self-exploration, of creative expression, and what are you complaining about, anyway? Crys got it right, Auks already sounds like a bird’s cry–”

“Oh,” Stitch says suddenly, looking delighted. “I knew it sounded familiar! The gulls, right?”

A dull flush crawls up Auks’ face.

“The gulls?”

“On Kamino,” Helix adds, and Ben nearly jumps. “I’d nearly forgotten, but– they hung around on the catwalks sometimes, didn’t they?”

“They’re cool, okay?” Auks says defensively, and oh, yes, he’s definitely reddening– “They spend nearly their whole lives in flight, did you know that? Living off fish and the insects they catch in the air. With wingspans nearly the length of my arms– they’d ride the thermals so they didn’t waste energy, I just think–”

Needle raises his free hand in surrender, his smile going soft and a little bit sheepish. “Easy, Auks, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to poke fun.”

He pauses.

“Well. Not at that, at least.”

Auks stretches out and knocks his foot gently against Needle’s leg. “You’re fine. But that’s your one I got a building dropped on me excuse gone, so have fun with that.”

Needle makes a face at him, and Auks snorts, turning back–

But something catches at the edge of Ben’s awareness.

“Kamino,” he says slowly. “That’s– where you’re from?”

Auks pauses. His smile flickers before steadying. 

“Yeah.”

The name connects. Rain-soaked hair. An endless spiral of white hallways.

“Wet,” he says slowly. “And white. Right? It’s–”

The Force snaps a warning, bright and shrill, and he bites his tongue hard enough to taste blood. “Sorry.”

The others have gone brittle. He can’t feel Helix breathing. 

“Sorry,” he repeats helplessly, floundering. “I didn’t– mean to. I’m sorry.”

Auks’ smile turns crooked, and Needle opens his mouth–

“It’s okay,” Stitch says quietly. He glances at Helix, who exhales, long and slow. “Right? You said so. Sometimes we say the wrong thing. But it’s not on purpose. So it’s okay.”

He looks back at Ben, leans back on his hands, and nods firmly. “Kamino wasn’t safe. Here is. It’s okay.”

“Of course it is,” Helix says. He squeezes Ben’s hand, and in the Force, there’s not even the faintest twinge of irritation. 

Just an old, hoarse sadness.

(Helix hates himself a little bit, Needle had said–)

“I’m still sorry,” he says quietly. 

“It’s okay,” Stitch repeats. He smiles, bright and bruised, and Needle wraps an arm around his shoulders.

(And Stitch is the only one left–)

“We walk into bruises all the time,” Needle says easily. “Sore spots. You just breathe through it. Like when you’re sleep-deprived and slightly drunk and just trying to make your way to bed and evil, terrible bedposts sidle into your path–”

“That was entirely your fault, Needle,” Helix says, exasperated, and Ben breathes out. “What was it you said? Improving spatial awareness?”

“And my spatial awareness was definitely improved,” Needle says cheerfully, “so who’s the real winner here, Helix?”

“How long did it take for those bruises to fade?”

“Let’s go back to the gulls, I want to talk about the–”

“Enough about the gulls,” Auks mutters, rolling his eyes, but his crooked smile softens when he turns back to Ben. “I want to hear about what happened with you. A lot went down here– the Senate kind of blew up, and then the sky cracked open, and now everybody’s yelling and we maybe won the war. What happened on your end of things?”

He glances up at Helix and blanches. “Um. No pressure, though. If you’d rather not–”

“It’s okay,” Ben says, and reminds himself to breathe.

It is. 

It is. 

What had happened is all tangled up with the echoes in his head. Shadows cast by thoughts not (yet) his own. Scattered fragments of years’ worth of memories had left footprints behind, and it’s– 

Complicated.

Messy.

He’d avoided thinking too much about it. But that’s– that’s not what a Jedi does, right? It has to be parsed and sorted and processed.

And he’s safe here.

So.

“I was in the Chrysalis,” he says slowly. “With the butterflies. In the garden.”

Orange-smeared wings across his hand. So very careful. His hands shake, sometimes, and he’d been so scared of hurting it.

“Master Qui-Gon had gone for food. So it was just me.”

Qui-Gon has steady hands. Not like Ben, who shakes and shakes and shakes and can’t stop. Steady, holding hands.

(Just fog, now. Fog, along the other end–)

“Then it wasn’t.”

He doesn’t remember what they say about the sky splitting open. Nothing like that. He just remembers– 

“Is it still open?” he says suddenly. 

“Yes,” Stitch says quietly. They’re all watching him. “I went through. I told General– Master– I told Jinn that you were okay. That you were hurt, but you were with us, and you were going to be okay.”

He cocks his head, studying him– 

“He’s alive,” he adds. “I double-checked.”

Right. Yes. Ben hadn’t seen his body. So maybe Qui-Gon survived after all. So maybe he wouldn’t be left alone–

No. No. Stop it. It wasn’t real. It was a trick.

(They’d promised.)

“The Force was screaming. Shrieking. It– it hurt. Was hurt.”

Like a falling building. The screech of steel beams. Then, the pus-yellow eyes–

“Then the Sith was there. In my head. And everywhere else.”

Lightning cracking across the walls. Dry cocoons smoldering.

(He’d killed the butterflies.)

“He said– he said he’d make me witness. Before he killed me.”

A hand like a corpse’s. Paralyzed into stillness– but not silence, he’d– he’d screamed, hadn’t he?

And someone had heard him.

“Then Obi-Wan was there. He told me– said to hold on. Hold onto him. And I did. And then–”

The whole world shattering. Like a window. Everything after that– scattered and prismatic, jagged-edged, half-real.

“I think I killed him?”

A blade his-and-not-his, but the kyber had known him anyway. In the shuddering turmoil, a sudden warmth in his hand, and he’d–

“Then Obi-Wan did. Again, I think.”

His own lightsaber. Empty hands. Left behind.

Stupid.

“Everything was– after–”

Like walking through mirrors. Cracked and kaleidoscopic. Unreachable. Because the whole sky–

Empty. Open, dark and empty. 

“The whole sky was dark. And everyone was dead.”

(Except for Obi-Wan. Sun-bright, like a star.)

Ragged-edged bonds. Flailing like cut shiplines. Tension released, let loose, with no anchors on the other end. 

Just him left.

Just him, twice over.

“Everyone was–”

Hands over his ears, eyes squeezed shut. A hand on the back of his head, a warning–

“Had to witness. Obi-Wan did it for me, he told me not to– not to look–”

And you just couldn’t help yourself, could you? whispers an ugly little voice in the back of his mind. He tore himself bloody for you, and you went and looked anyway.

“He– we had to walk. All the way through.”

And the smells. 

The smells.

No stranger to it. Wet tunnels, after all. And above-ground, when the heat made the air shimmer– 

But still. Rotting. Feces, sour urine– underneath, the beginnings of putrefaction, of decomposing fruit. The stinging ash. The ozone. Plasma blades and blaster bolts, long-gone, long-dead.

“He carried me.”

And now he’s hurt– no. No, Helix said– he said–

“Then we– we fought. There was–”

His Padawan.

(He has a Padawan.)

“My– our– his Padawan. Obi-Wan said we had to fight.”

The end of the path, that’s what he’d said–

Someone says something, but Ben doesn’t think he could stop if he tried. The memories are unspooling quickly, now, untangling faster than he’d been prepared for, messy and vast and drowning, and his hands spasm–

“He hated us. And Obi-Wan was crying. And he was still crying when his Padawan killed us, and I saw it go all the way through him and I felt it and it hurt–”

His footing slips, a missed step in the storm, and he lurches forward–

Someone seizes his hands.

“Hey. Ben.”

He can’t remember when he’d closed his eyes, but he opens them to Needle. 

Helix is gone. He can’t hear Stitch or Auks, either, but Needle’s crouched in front of him– and they’re nearly nose-to-nose, so there’s nothing else to see–

That makes it easier, when Needle draws in an exaggerated breath, to follow him.

The ache across his ribs simmers and flares with each inhale, but he pushes through it. Needle takes his hand and presses it against his own chest, where Ben can feel his breathing, his heartbeat– warm hands, steady hands, and he breathes in and breathes out until he can feel his feet again.

“There you are,” Needle says. He smiles, his eyes crinkling, and Ben stares. Something’s prickling at the back of his mind, something Auks had said–

“You got a building dropped on you?”

That– that doesn’t make sense. That doesn’t– 

“But I caught it,” he says plaintively.

A moment of silence follows, and then Needle ducks his head, forcing eye contact. “You did,” he says quietly. “You did, and they lived. Different building, Ben. Coruscant, remember?”

Unimportant. Unimportant. More important–

“You’re okay?”

“Compound fracture in the right arm,” Needle says immediately, “and a mild concussion that Stitch keeps harping on about. But that’s it. Nothing that won’t heal.”

Warm hands. Steady hands.

“You’re okay.”

“Yes.”

“It was really heavy, Needle.”

“I know, Ben.”

“Couldn’t drop it.”

“And you didn’t.”

“But you still got–”

“I didn’t. Not there. You got everyone out, remember?”

“Everyone died.”

“Not this time.”

“But then where’s–?”

“Helix just stepped away,” Needle soothes. “Not even out. Just away. Your shields are shot to shit, Ben, and you had a bad reaction. He’s just making sure you don’t get hit again while you’re still vulnerable. He’ll be back real soon.”

Somewhere in the detritus of the flood, Ben remembers– a flare of fury–

“He was angry.”

“Not at you. Skywalker’s got a history with us, and Helix cares about you– both of you. What you said took us by surprise. He’s just cooling off.”

“Not at me.”

“Never at you.”

Okay. Okay. 

“And Stitch and–?”

“They were also both– a bit angry,” Needle says, and his smile turns wry. “Stitch is currently showing Auks where to find our extra-special-secret stash of the good tea that we definitely don’t use to bribe our general. I think he’s going to make you some. He’s turned into quite the connoisseur.”

Ben hums. He feels all– blurry, again, but he likes tea.

Better smells.

“You don’t feel angry.”

Needle squeezes his hands. “Because my head’s full of cotton balls and echoes, squirt. No room for grudges in here.”

“Okay.”

A beat passes–

“I slipped, Needle.”

Needle shifts until he’s sitting next to him and cracks open the hydropack. “And I caught you,” he says easily. He pushes it into Ben’s hands and folds his fingers around it. “Do you need help with the water?”

And I caught you.

As it turns out, he does not.

Needle trades him another muffin half for the empty bottle, and halfway through that, Stitch returns, a sorry-looking Auks trailing behind him. 

“I made you tea,” Stitch announces, looking immensely pleased with himself. “Also, Auks should never be allowed near a kettle again.”

“I’m telling you, I don’t know what I did wrong–”

“It looked like an oil slick,” Stitch informs them, and hands down the mug he’d carefully carried in. “But I prepared this one. Don’t drink it yet, it’s hot.”

Ben eagerly accepts the proffered drink, cradles it close, and carefully doesn’t think about broad hands and gingersnaps and the clearing of cloudy aftermaths. It’s easier, instead, to listen to Auks and Needle discuss the correct anatomical proportions of flimsi birds– and when Helix returns, damp-haired and red-eyed, Needle promptly accuses him of sticking his head in a toilet before dragging him into the argument as well.

Easy, too, to lean against Helix’s side when he sits back down, holding himself very carefully. Easy to take his hand again and squeeze. Easy, under the noise of Needle’s offended accusation that Auks lacks any sense of whimsy, to ask him if he’s okay.

Helix breathes out, looks down at him, and smiles. Two degrees left of sad.

“I will be,” he says. “Drink your tea.”

Ben does.

(It’s good tea.)

Eventually, once the plate is cleared and all mugs are empty, Auks takes his leave. Ben watches him go, with the plate under his arm and a grin on his face, and returns the wave before he vanishes out the door.

He feels quietly, entirely content. His stomach is full. His throat doesn’t hurt anymore. He is warmer than he can remember being in a long, long time.

(And Needle is not trapped underneath a building.)

“Ben?”

“I’m not tired,” he says immediately, looking up, and Helix blinks before a smile cracks across his face. 

“I don’t recall saying you were,” he says mildly. “I was just going to say that we do need to change your bandages at some point today. When is up to you, but I’d rather catch any signs of infection sooner rather than later.”

That– makes sense.

Ben kind of hates that it makes sense.

He wants– 

He wants it gone.

The burn and the ache and the shaking– he doesn’t want to go through the trouble of it going away.

He just wants it gone.

Helix quirks a smile before sighing, something sharp and sad flickering in the Force before being tucked away. “That’s not… entirely out of the range of possibility,” he says slowly, and Ben realizes suddenly that he’d said that last bit out loud. “I think– yeah, this would probably do it. Sidious did a number on you. How’s the burn feeling?”

“Better,” Ben replies promptly. “And my hands are working better, too.”

“Right,” Helix says, nodding, and again– that strange, sharp sadness, vanishing before Ben can get a closer look. “How about we take a look now, then? And depending on how you feel, we’ll go from there.”

“Okay.”

Helix pauses and gives him an assessing look before pulling a box out from under the bed. “Remember what I said, Ben?”

Ben blinks at him.

“You’re allowed to make stupid decisions,” Helix says patiently, rummaging through the box. “You’re allowed to say no. Remember? I meant what I said. The only time I will ever do anything without your explicit consent is if you are in active danger of dying if I do nothing. But other than that– you can tell me to stop. I’ll outline what’ll happen if the issue isn’t dealt with. I’ll try to find out what the problem is, and maybe try to convince you otherwise. I’ll probably think you’re being an idiot. But you’re allowed to be an idiot, okay?”

“He calls Obi-Wan that all the time,” Needle whispers loudly, and Helix throws a roll of bandages at him.

(And Ben remembers, then, in the dizzying current– the aftermath, before Helix had become Helix and at first he’d just been–)

“He said you’re safe,” he blurts out. “Obi-Wan did, I mean. He trusts you. More than anyone.”

A moment of stillness– Helix’s eyes grow wide–

Then he ducks his head, grumbling under his breath, and casts one more assessing look over the contents of the box before nodding to himself. “Okay, Ben. You want to talk? This might take a bit.”

His expression doesn’t reveal a thing, but it’s impossible to miss the way he flushes in the Force. Pink-proud and glowing, quietly pleased.

“Yes, please,” Ben says politely, carefully not smiling even a little bit– but Helix’s eyes narrow anyway.

“Kriffin’ Jedi,” he mutters, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “All right, then. What do you want to know?”

Ben hesitates.

Auks had asked him, though. So he gets to ask too.

“What happened?” he asks finally. “With– all of it?”

“You don’t do things by halves, at least,” Helix sighs. “Come on. Sit up with me, and I’ll tell you. But make sure to tell me if it hurts.”

After, Ben will not be able to recall at all if it had hurt. If it had, he knows at least that it had not been enough for him to ask Helix to stop.

Because–

Well.

There’s so much.

(And all the echoes underneath.)

He learns that Obi-Wan found an army on Kamino.

(Cold rain and twisting hallways. Three million dizzying lights. But he remembers the way the Force grew taut and brittle, so he shuts his mouth and does not mention the impression of a lot of empty spaces.)

He learns that he leads them to war.

(The thought of this does not distress him as much as it had. Maybe it should. But he has been to war before, and Needle said he was a good general.)

He learns that they fight against the Sith.

The Sith.

(Again, he cannot bring himself to react the way he thinks he should. Warmth and safety are a powerful drug, and he tries not to look too closely at the horrible thought that keeps bubbling to the surface– that if the war brought him to them, then maybe, maybe–)

And then the terrible, selfish thought is interrupted when he learns that this time, he is not the only one.

“What?”

“The whole Order,” Helix repeats, and Ben carefully keeps looking at him instead of down, because his chest feels weird and he can still smell the burning and he doesn’t want to look. “My batcher– Ace– is General Windu’s CMO.”

That gives him pause. His throat is very dry when he forces out–

“Even Master Qui-Gon?”

The thought hurts, even though he knows it’s not fair. Of course the Sith would be a bigger threat. They’d need everyone. Before, it had only been him asking. So it– makes sense–

Then Helix’s hands still. He looks up.

And Ben thinks–

Oh.

He knows. He can see it in Helix’s eyes. He doesn’t need him to say it, doesn’t want him to say it–

“He died over a decade ago, here,” Helix says. “Before the war ever started.”

His voice is quieter. Gentler.

It doesn’t help.

“Do you–”

He stops. Clears his throat.

“Do you know what happened?”

“I don’t, Ben. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.”

“I can ask Obi-Wan for you, if you’d like.”

And that’s when Ben abruptly realizes that Obi-Wan has not had a Master Qui-Gon for over a decade.

That hurts even worse than the burn.

The sky’s still open. Stitch had said so. He hopes Obi-Wan gets to go through again. He hopes Obi-Wan gets to talk to him. He hopes Obi-Wan gets to–

(You did not, Qui-Gon says, and his hug is full of sunlight.)

He hopes Obi-Wan gets that.

(And if there’s an awful little part of him that wants Master Qui-Gon to see Obi-Wan, who leads an army and is still a Jedi and who doesn’t flinch from the Force at every turn, to show him he’s worth keeping, well–)

He shakes himself. “No thank you. Obi-Wan’s okay, right?”

“He is,” Helix says, and then sighs. “If I had my way, he’d still be sleeping, but last I heard, he’s already on comms- and I know he’s got at least one Council meeting today.”

“...Is he in trouble?”

Helix gives him a questioning look, and then Needle lets out a little squeak of realization.

“Nah, squirt,” he says, beaming. “He’s on the Council. And winning a war’s a lot of work.”

“What?” 

“Yep,” Needle says, popping the p. “Lots of flimsiwork, more politicking, and he’s good at that even though his face goes all sour when senators are being idiots–”

“Not that. I– the Council– he’s not.”

“Which of us is gonna know better, hm?” Needle says, grinning. “He is too.”

“Is not.”

“Is too.”

“With Master Yoda?”

“The little tea-making gremlin? Yeah.”

“And Master Mace?”

“Him too.”

Ben subsides, letting that revelation settle.

Obi-Wan’s on the Council.

He’s on the Council.

(He really wants Master Qui-Gon to meet him.)

Helix tucks the end of the bandage in, secures it with a strip of tape, and rocks back on his heels. He feels all prickly in the Force, and Ben suddenly understands exactly what Needle had meant when he’d told him that Helix was also a cactus.

“Okay, Ben,” he says, and the prickliness smooths out into– he’s still sad, why is he still–?

“I had a theory, and it looks like it panned out. Obi-Wan has– there’s a level of– accelerated healing, I guess you could say. It… seems to only respond to traumatic injuries. And what you said about feeling better, being able to move your hands– the scarring’s a lot further along than I’d expect it to be in someone else.”

What?

“But I got shot,” Ben blurts out. And he knows full well there hadn’t been any accelerated healing helping with that– no, he’d done all of that on his own, had dealt with the bacta and the fever and the cramping that would seize his chest sporadically until he could hardly breathe from the force of it and the weakness in his hands that made them shake and shake and shake no matter how hard he tried to keep them still–

“You did,” Helix agrees, smiling faintly. “But this time, Obi-Wan carried you.”

Ben falls silent.

Obi-Wan had carried him. He’d picked him up and carried him out through the dark and empty, leaving echoes of memories like footprints in Ben’s own mind. He rides the lightning instead of drowning in it; he’d wrangled it into shape and knitted shut a wound that would’ve taken weeks to heal properly. He kills Sith and leads an army and is on the Council–

“He’s kind of awesome, isn’t he?”

Helix snorts. “He’s a pain in my ass, that’s what he is,” he says, but his hands are steady-steady-gentle as he helps Ben fit his arms through the sleeves of his tunic. “But I guess he can be a little bit awesome, too.”

In hindsight, Helix really should have expected Ben’s reaction to that particular piece of news.

Sometimes it’s easy to forget that he’s looking at the early stages of their Obi-Wan. Moments like these, though– the lurch towards motion, the bloody devaluation of resting–

He can hardly tell them apart.

But Ben is, admittedly, a fair bit more willing to listen. He settles when Helix asks him to, and listens as he patiently explains what he knows. The lightning has made him functional, regrowing the bulk of the muscle and beginning the more delicate work of repairing damaged nerves– 

(But Obi-Wan still walks with a limp, sometimes. Exhaustion dogs him constantly, as consistent as his own shadow. The nerve damage in his right hand will never go away, not completely, nor will the tremors that still seize him with sporadic suddenness. )

So. 

Functional, not healthy, he explains. Enough to fight off an attacker. Enough to let him run. But there is still healing that needs doing, understand? 

Ben nods. Quiet. Solemn. 

(Helix is largely unwilling to take that at face value. But he can hardly blame Ben for not appreciating the difference between the two, really. Not when it had taken him a good few years to internalize that lesson himself.)

There will likely be significant pain as the nerve regrowth progresses, he warns. He’d expect to see the same in most burn patients– but this is accelerated, and the lightning, he knows, cares more for functionality and not at all for pain. 

They will work it out together, he promises, and Ben nods.

More trusting, this time, and that throws him for a loop all over again, because he knows they haven’t earned that trust on their own. And Ben had said, hadn’t he–?

He trusts you. More than anyone.

He looks at them like he’s sorting through another person’s memories. Matching them up. Birds, he’d called Auks, and then, when the topic of Kamino had oh-so-briefly surfaced–

Wet and white, he’d blurted out, and Helix had nearly dropped his datapad. Ben had seemed half-surprised at himself, too– as if he hadn’t expected to know that. To have that.

(Bits and pieces.)

Well. Anyway. They work it out.

He asks Ben to tell him when it starts to hurt and runs him through a battery of stretches to evaluate how badly the rapid scabbing had affected his upper body mobility. He watches carefully, expecting reluctance, for a moment of hesitation, a wince, a hiccup in his breathing– only to be taken by surprise when Ben, upon raising his right arm above his head, informs him immediately that yes, that one hurt, before his elbow passed his shoulder.

Then he promptly looks to Needle, who gives him a thumbs up and a grin, and Helix remembers Needle’s cheerful announcement of a deal and ducks his head to hide his smile.

Apparently, though, exhaustion doesn’t fall under the umbrella of the not-feeling-fine zone, and Stitch loudly calls a halt to the run-through and announces it’s time for lunch when it becomes apparent that Ben’s stubbornness has far exceeded his common sense. 

Helix heads off to fetch it. Ben’s reaction to the muffins had been encouraging, and, as Terror keeps aggressively reminding them, they should always take advantage of fresh food when they have it. 

And, if he’s being entirely honest with himself, he needs a breather.

He can’t think too much about what the kid had told them. He’d guessed, from what Obi-Wan had said, because Cerasi had told them– Order 66, she’d said, and Helix had given himself thirty seconds to be grateful they’d dodged it before he’d forced himself to move on–

But now.

They’d had to witness. 

(And everyone was–)

He can put the pieces together. 

And Skywalker.

He hadn’t been prepared in the least for the kid to mention him. 

(And he was still crying when his Padawan–)

Right. 

Needle had handled that beautifully, though, smoothly giving Helix enough time to regather himself. And he had, for sure–

But if Skywalker shows his face around here again, Helix will not be held responsible for his actions.

He scans his messages as he walks. Breathes in. Reads the news. Breathes out. 

Obi-Wan’s up.

The Melidaan crew are busy. 

And the war is–

The urge to return to the medbay hits him so hard he nearly staggers. 

(He wants to go back. He wants to return to his place, where he can manage and help and heal, where the ground is steady under his feet and he knows where to find what he needs and his kids are safe and will they get to keep the ship? Will he get to keep the–?)

Food. 

Right.

It takes him a moment to get moving again. More messages to sort through. 

There are… quite a lot of complaints. Mild ones, mostly. Of headaches and congestion and aching joints, and Helix scrolls a bit further, frowning– they live in close quarters by design, and the ship necessarily has a closed HVAC system. If someone’s caught another virus strong enough to affect even their bioengineered immune systems, that’s going to result in even more work for him at a time when he wants nothing less. Everyone seems fairly certain they’re non-contagious, though, and if they could just stop by the medbay for a check-up–

It takes him a moment.

Idiots. 

He fires off a series of texts. 

helix: bring food.

helix: no more than two of you at a time. 

helix: no later than an hour before shift change. 

After a moment of consideration, he follows up with:

helix: anyone who wastes my time gets their visitation rights revoked.

For the remainder of his walk to the kitchens, there are no further complaints. 

The mess is busy when he steps in, but he summons his most fearsome glare and watches with some satisfaction as several troopers who had half-risen from their seats sink back down immediately. He takes his place in line, considering what’s on offer– what he knows about Ben’s dietary plan, about his preferences outside the plan– he knows Stitch avoids spices when he can afford to, and while Needle will vacuum up just about anything with enthusiasm, Helix is sure he’s seen him approach at least oatmeal with a hint of reluctance–

The trouble with trying to feed people who’ve been conditioned to eat anything, he considers grimly, is that they’re conditioned to eat anything.

Someone whistles, short and shrill, and when he looks up, Terror waves him behind the counter.

“Thought you’d be down,” he says briskly, and leads him into the kitchens. “Wooley already came by, snagged some sandwiches, but I figured you’d probably want something for dinner so you don’t need to leave again. Soup’s in the warmer, butternut squash and apple, appropriately agonizingly bland, you’re welcome– double everyone’s serving and the kid’ll be more likely to finish what he needs–”

“Butternut squash and apple?” Helix echoes, obligingly pulling open the warmer in question and removing the tray– oh, that does smell good– “That’s new. You’ve been busy.”

Terror waves him off. “Taking advantage of the markets while we’re docked. Oh–” he grabs a bag and hands it to Helix, who slings it over his shoulder– “take more apples, too. There was a sale, and apparently Trapper’s showing signs of scurvy, so eat the damn fruit. Cheaper than citrus, and still a good source of vitamin C.”

Helix frowns. “Scurvy? I’d have caught that.”

“That’s what I thought, too,” Terror admits, scowling. “I’m going back over my meal plans, but I don’t know where I could’ve fucked up badly enough for that kind of nutritional imbalance-”

Helix hefts the tray into his arms. “I’ll track him down if you want me to. I can check him over, let you know if you have to kill him or not.”

Terror grins. “Appreciate that, Helix. And before I forget–” he snags a bundle from the counter and tosses it onto the tray in Helix’s arms– “these are for Needle. Tell him thanks for the sabacc lessons, and if he climbs onto my cabinets again then I’m cooking him.”

“Sabacc lessons?”

“Where’d you think I got those orga roots from, standard ration deliveries? I diversify my sources. Never realized Waxer was such an easy mark.”

“Don’t tell me,” Helix grunts, adjusting his grip. “If I knew, I’d have to write you up.”

“You could try,” Terror says cheerfully, and shoves him unceremoniously out the door.

He can hear the chatter before he even steps in.

Wooley’s beat him back– along with Trapper, apparently, excellent. Helix ducks into his office, sliding the tray into their own small warmer and the little bag for Needle into his pocket before making his way back out to rejoin the group.

Ben beams when he sees him, and Helix grins back. Settling back down next to him is the easiest thing in the world, and he eyes the empty tray with satisfaction, reaches into his bag, pulls out an apple, a knife–

“Hey, Helix,” Trapper says cheerfully. “Where were you?”

“I thought I was getting lunch,” Helix says, raising an eyebrow. “Turned out I was getting dinner instead.”

“We saved you one,” Wooley pipes up, and Helix accepts the proffered sandwich with poor grace, eyeing Trapper carefully. No weight loss, no bruising– he tosses a slice of the apple over, and Trapper catches it, crunches it with no apparent difficulty–

Hm.

“Scurvy, huh?”

Both of them freeze at once. 

“Should’ve really come to see me earlier,” Helix says idly, handing another slice to Ben. “Strange how it can set in so quickly.”

A third slice goes to Needle.

Wooley rallies. “Just a joke, Helix. Didn’t realize it would spread.”

“Sure, sure,” Helix agrees. He hands the next slice to Stitch, wipes his fingers on his pants– “Just out of curiosity, how far do you think it got?”

Trapper blanches, and turns on Wooley immediately. “You said you wouldn’t comm him!”

“I didn’t–!”

“Terror’s going back over his meal plans trying to figure out where he fucked up,” Helix says mildly. He passes another slice to Ben, who accepts it easily, watching the byplay with interest. “Poor man. Panicking like that.”

Trapper drops his face into his hands and groans.

Helix tosses the last slice at him and the core into the trash bin. “Eat up,” he says cheerfully, pulling out his comm. “Cheap source of vitamin C.”

pHzero-helix212: clear to murder.

trial-and-terror: you’re my favorite.

“You’ve ruined my day,” Trapper mutters morosely. “We were having a lovely conversation before you got back.”

Helix stretches out, grinning, and reaches for another apple. “Don’t mind me. Just pretend I’m not here. What were you talking about?”

As it turns out–

Painting. 

Most brothers made use of paint, at the very least to mark themselves with their battalion’s colors. Helix himself had kept it minimal– he was in scrubs more often than not, anyway– but others, Needle and Stitch included, had gone further, broad brushstrokes and bold patterns making them easy to identify in the field.

Trapper, from the moment he picked up a paintbrush, had gotten hooked. 

He’d stolen a pail for himself to mess with, mixing in sand scraped from the bottom of his boots and baking soda stolen from the kitchens to experiment with texture. He’d begged samples from other battalions, too, and when their primary supplier’s components had changed enough that the color was noticeably off, he’d been the one who’d figured out the precise measurements necessary to mix their own. The splashes of color across the walls in the ship’s barracks had originated by Trapper’s bunk, and only once he’d gotten the General’s explicit approval were the others brave enough to follow. 

And it had been him, in the end, who’d put the lightning to armor.

Helix sets to work on the next apple as Ben turns to Needle and asks him with wide-eyed enthusiasm how he’d decided to paint his armor, and Needle promptly launches into a story that Helix knows by heart– embellishments included. 

Needle’s third engagement. Trapper with an arterial bleed. Needle straddling him, pressing down, fumbling as he reached for gauze–

“You should be thanking me for the inspiration.”

“In your dreams. You made a mess–”

The spray of blood all up and along his breastplate. Trapper’s gurgled scream. Shoving at him, scrabbling, mad with pain–

“Ben, I’ll have you know I was incredibly composed and stoic. Needle’s full of it.”

“I have never told a lie in my life–”

Needle’s laughter upon securing the tourniquet. Trapper’s muffled cursing. Scattered consciousness, a pat to the cheek– “rough luck, Trapper, you’ll live to fight another day–”

“Still can’t believe you laughed. I was in pain–”

“I like his laugh.”

“Take that, Trapper, the baby’s on my side–”

The aftermath. Needle’s considering look. Tracing around the bloody borders before scrubbing it clean. A pleading look to Helix, a proffered paintbrush–

“So it’s a bloodstain?”

“Eh. I see it like a saved life, squirt. A good reminder of what we do, yeah?”

“Oh. I like it.”

Ben has all but melted into Needle’s side by now, nibbling on another apple slice.

He looks… comfortable.

Helix can hazard a guess as to why. 

Talking about combat with non-military natborns always leaves a bad taste in his mouth. They never understand. They never could. Waxer had cracked a joke the evening after Lemon’s death– he’d stepped on a mine, ended up in pieces in the branches– within earshot of the Kaelian delegation they’d been tasked with escorting off the burning planet, and one of the delegates had nearly fainted.

Really. Swooning and everything. Just at the mention of a lemon tree.

They’d all been glad to see that lot off. It had taken a long time for the mockery to die down.

Sometimes it’s platitudes that hold no weight. Sometimes it’s sour fascination that scrapes across his senses like sandpaper. The conversations are minefields– forced to balance the interests of whatever delegation is visiting with their delicate sensibilities. It’s good to be around people who don’t see the whole of it as something unspeakable.

To be with people you can talk to.

Ben looks to Stitch, asks him how he painted his, and Stitch lights up, opens his mouth–

Then he glances over at Helix, and settles.

“Would you,” he asks carefully, “like to hear about terrasaurs? Because I painted mine after one of them. You don’t have to want to hear about them. But would you like to?”

“I like them,” Ben says, brightening. “You know the triceratops? Did you know their horns are made of keratin?”

(“But it would’ve been useless in a fight,” Obi-Wan says, grinning– “It’s made of keratin, just–”)

“Like fingernails?”

Stitch beams and pulls out his datapad. “Yes. Do you know about cyanosaurs?”

“No.”

“Would you like to?”

“Yes.”

The conversation blurs, after that– from the cyanosaur in the museum to the one on Stitch’s armor, broadening into stickers and taking a hard left into sabacc as a source of fundraising. Helix remembers the little bag in his pocket and tosses it to Needle, who catches it one handed, tears it open, and crows with delight– 

The Corellia chews are promptly distributed among the little group, Needle keeping only a few in reserve for later. Wooley swallows the last bite of his and asks Ben if he knows how to play sabacc. 

Ben says yes. 

Wooley asks him if he knows how to cheat at sabacc. 

Not as well as he would like to, Ben says.

Would he, Wooley asks, like to learn?

“Needle’s best at it,” he adds, shrugging. “But with his head–”

“It’s as good as pudding right now, I get it,” Needle says amiably, and nudges Ben gently. “Not to worry. Wooley’s an acceptable substitute, and I’ll teach you all the things he screws up later.”

Helix bows out, settling down to watch instead. He lets Needle handle their… nontraditional revenue sources, after all. He has neither the time nor the inclination to learn card tricks, and Stitch hates lying– but Needle’s got quick hands, a disarming smile, and a willingness to put both to use. 

This makes the subsequent games even more entertaining to witness.

The medbay grows loud with chatter. Stitch’s attempts at clarifying house rules, Needle’s cheerful rebuttals to Trapper’s accusations, Wooley’s patient explanations, Ben’s glee when he catches a cheat in progress– and if Helix helps him here, because he’s heard enough of Needle’s crowing victory speeches to have picked up on a few tells, well, no one else has to know.

They stay for the soup.

It’s only the arrival of shift change that gets the two interlopers out of his medbay. 

Wooley levers himself to his feet, dragging Trapper up with him. “Pleasure meeting you, Ben,” he yawns. “Nice play with that Crippled Onion.” 

“Thank you,” Ben says, grinning, and Wooley beams at him. “I had a good teacher.”

Trapper stretches until his back cracks in three places and taps at his vambrace. “We’ll have to get you a pair of these now, won’t we?” he says absentmindedly. “Stitch, you still got your old armor, right? Can I use the vambraces?”

Stitch gives Ben an assessing look. “I wasn’t that small.”

“You were,” Wooley says cheerfully. “You absolutely were.”

“Was not.”

“Baby.”

“You always say that, Needle–”

“Miniscule,” Wooley adds, eyes bright with mischief. “Shrimp.”

Stitch scowls, opens his mouth–

“Tiny,” Helix says blithely, and does not let even a flicker of a laugh escape at Stitch’s betrayed look. They’d had to rig up a whole other set of armor before he’d grown enough for the kit he’d arrived with to fit safely, and Needle had spent quite a few nights carefully hemming several pairs of scrubs with a needle and thread. 

…Come to think of it, is that what Ben’s in now–?

“Well, I wasn’t for very long,” Stitch sniffs. “Fine. But tomorrow.”

Trapper’s salute is only half-sarcastic. “Done deal, sir,” he says easily, winking at Ben on his way out the door. “Hardly needed a reason to come back and visit, after all. See you tomorrow, kid!”

Ben lifts a hand in response, staring after him. Something soft and bright and brilliantly hopeful is written all over his face, and Helix gives him a moment before clearing his throat.

“How’re you feeling, Ben?”

“Good,” Ben murmurs, still staring. “Real good. Not tired.”

The last bit of that statement is promptly belied by an enormous yawn, and Helix stifles a grin at the kid’s disgruntled expression in the aftermath.

“Sure about that, kiddo?”

“Doesn’t make sense for me to be tired,” Ben grumbles. “I slept for ages.”

“Still healing, Ben,” Helix reminds him gently. “Remember? Your body needs the energy.”

“You sound like Master Che.”

“I will take that as the compliment I’m sure it was intended as,” Helix says drily, and Ben glowers. 

“I can take a shift.”

“You’re exhausted.”

“I can.”

Helix opens his mouth–

But something stops him, and he takes a closer look.

Ben is exhausted– of that, there’s no doubt. But while the recalcitrant stubbornness is eerily familiar, there’s something else there, too…

Oh. He knows that desperation, doesn’t he?

“Okay, Ben,” he concedes, gentling his voice. “How’s this? You’re not a medic. It doesn’t make sense for you to take a shift on your own. But if you sleep for a few hours now, I’ll wake you for my shift, and we’ll take it together. Deal?”

Ben eyes him suspiciously. “But you think I should sleep.”

“I do,” Helix admits. “But I offered to keep you awake last night, didn’t I? If you want to take a shift with me, I’ll make that happen.”

“Promise you’ll wake me up?”

“I promise.”

“Mm. Okay.”

Ben settles quickly enough once the deal is struck. The prospect of sleep must’ve been more enticing than he’d let on. He shifts, twists, draws his feet up, and squishes his face into Stitch’s side before promptly going limp.

“Needle,” Helix says quietly, “can you come here real quick? I just want to check your head.”

Needle obligingly rises to his feet, settling onto the bed that he’s directed to. They’re both quiet as Helix pulls out his ophthalmoscope, checks his pupils, his pulse– so it’s easy to hear Ben’s voice, muffled though it is in Stitch’s shirt.

“Don’t wanna be tired.”

A sigh. Quiet. Understanding.

“I know. It’s terrible. But your body wants to rest when it’s safe.”

A beat–

“I was really tired when I first got here. For months.”

Fabric shifts, settles, as a blanket is pulled a bit higher–

“Because Kamino wasn’t safe.”

“Right.”

“Empty spaces.”

Quieter, this time, and faintly cracked–

“Yes.”

Silence. And then, a whisper, a secret to be kept safe–

“But I got my Needle and my Helix here.”

“So you could sleep.”

“Yes.”

“And here was safe.”

“Yes. I didn’t know it at first, but yes.”

“Oh.”

A moment of silence passes. A little sigh.

“Glad you’re safe, Stitch.”

Helix misses what Stitch says in response to that, because Needle’s fingers curl over his own and he realizes suddenly that he’s been taking his pulse for three minutes.

“Empty spaces,” Needle echoes. A faint smile flickers across his face before he sobers. “Wonder what else he picked up from our Obi-Wan.”

Helix shrugs, wordless.

Empty spaces. 

And from before, too– what should be strange made familiar–

“I’ll take first shift, Helix. You should get some sleep.”

“You’re injured,” Helix says waspishly.

“Stitch took all of last night,” Needle coaxes, “and you promised Ben you’d take yours with him. What’s the matter? I’ve pulled shifts in a hell of a worse state.”

But you don’t have to, now. You don’t have to. You won’t have to ever again–

“Fine. Three hours.”

“Done,” Needle says, grinning. “Ben would hate me if I made him miss his shift. I won’t pull anything, Helix, I promise.”

Helix stands, scowling with no heat. “I am doing this under duress. I want that noted.”

“Your sacrifice is appreciated,” Needle says, straight-faced, and Helix scoffs. “Now off to bed with you, boss. I’ll even tuck you in, if you want–”

“Clean the pot out,” Helix mutters, waving a hand. “No dirty dishes in my medbay. Don’t bother taking that shit back down, though. I’ll deal with that tomorrow.”

And as he settles down on Ben’s other side, pulls another blanket up, closes his eyes–

He can hear Needle humming.

Helix blinks awake three hours later to a gentle hand on his shoulder and Needle’s glittering grin. 

“You’re up, Helix,” he whispers, and tilts his head towards where Ben and Stitch are curled together like tooka kits. “Quiet shift. No messages. Want me to wake him?”

“I got him,” Helix yawns, shifting under the blanket. “Thanks, Needle.”

Needle waves him off, settling down against Stitch’s other side and pulling another blanket over his head. Obnoxiously loud snoring commences almost immediately.

“You’re going to choke on phlegm if you keep that up,” Helix says drily.

The snoring grows louder.

“You’re going to wake up Stitch.”

That gets him. The thunderous noise subsides almost immediately, and Helix grins, twisting around and grabbing his datapad off the nearest bed.

Then he turns back to Ben.

The kid’s drawn his legs up, curling into a ball against Stitch’s side. Stitch, meanwhile, is folded half over him, a protective arm resting across his shoulders, his chin propped on top of Ben’s head.

Damn medical ethics.

He’d promised.

He doesn’t touch him. Not like he’d wake up the other two. Ben may be clingy as all hell when he’s awake, but Helix knows all too well that instinct rules in the blurriness of waking. Instead–

“Hey, Ben,” he says quietly. “Shift’s up. Did you want to keep sleeping?”

Blue eyes flicker open immediately. Disorientation fogs his gaze for a brief moment before reality reasserts itself, and a slow, sleepy smile blooms across his face.

“You woke me up.”

“I did,” Helix confirms. “I promised, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Ben yawns, and Helix stifles a smile. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to keep sleeping?” he asks hopefully, but is not surprised in the least when Ben shakes his head. He shuffles out from under Stitch’s arm, moving a little closer to Helix and peering curiously at his datapad.

“What’s a shift look like?”

“One of the primaries always needs to be on call when we’re on duty,” Helix explains quietly, watching Stitch roll over and tuck himself against Needle. He’d roused briefly at Ben’s movement, but had settled as soon as he’d seen Helix. “The rules are less strict when we’re on leave– most troopers stay in the barracks on Coruscant, and they’ve got their own medical team. But still–” he shrugs, smiling wryly. “Old habits. It makes us feel better.”

“Old habits,” Ben echoes, nodding. “Someone always needs to keep the watch.”

He leans a little more against Helix’s side and yawns again, but this time, Helix doesn’t call him on it. How many shifts has the kid pulled on his own, now that he’d been back in the Temple? At least on Melidaan, he would’ve had the other Young–

“Right,” he says, and taps at his datapad, tilting the screen towards Ben. “We got our own channel, too– reserved for medical issues, because the general chat is full of idiots and I think I’d go insane if I had to read every message Crys sends accusing someone of stealing his hair dye. Someone gets injured, and they can’t make it here? They shoot us a message, and whoever’s on duty grabs their kit and goes to them.”

“Crys,” Ben says slowly. “Obi-Wan said– is he spiky?”

“Is he?”

“The bright kind. Like poking a constellation.”

“I could see it,” Helix says, grinning. “He’s brilliant with robotics– don’t tell him I said that– but kind of an idiot when it comes to other things.”

“Like Auks,” Ben says confidently, and Helix snorts a laugh. 

“Like Auks,” he agrees. “And you can tell him I said that bit. Now, for what it’s worth, I think we’re going to have a quiet one tonight. Needle didn’t get anything, and we’re on–”

He stops, considering.

Can they even call it shore leave, if the war’s–?

“Well, we’re not on active duty,” he finishes lamely. “So–”

The message pops up before he finishes his sentence.

gearshift: hey, needle?

Of course it’s Gearshift, Helix thinks, groaning internally. “Sorry, Ben. One second.”

helix: you got me.

gearshift: fuck

gearshift: can i wait for a nicer one?

helix: no. spill.

Ben’s watching his datapad with interest. 

“Needle tends to go a little easier on the idiots than Stitch and I do,” Helix explains, sighing.

“Is Gearshift an idiot?” Ben asks curiously.

“When it comes to sparring, absolutely,” Helix grumbles. “He’s one of Ghost, but he spends a lot of time with engineering as well, and sometimes he forgets to recalibrate for the material he’s working with. This would not be the first time he’s hit someone a bit too hard. Watch. I’d bet you anything–”

gearshift: me and longshot were sparring

gearshift: i caught his ankle wrong

“Told you.”

gearshift: we would’ve come to you

gearshift: but you always yell about not putting weight on injuries

gearshift: i mean

gearshift: you calmly lecture us about not putting weight on injuries

helix: correct.

helix: i’ll be there soon. tell him if he moves he’ll have more than his ankle to worry about.

Helix shifts, reaching for the kit he’d stashed under the bed, disgruntlement turning his expression sour. “Sorry, Ben. I’ll be back soon, okay?”

Ah, right, crutches. He hauls himself up and trudges into the supply closet. A pair’s propped neatly against the wall in the corner, and he folds them up and tucks them under his arm before turning–

“I’m coming,” Ben says, folding his arms, and Helix only just manages to bite back a stream of curses.

“Kriffing– warn a guy, Ben, I–”

He’s standing.

Standing.

Oh, for–

“Come on,” Helix mutters, shepherding him out of the supply closet and back towards the little nest in the corner with a hand hovering between his shoulder blades. “Kid, you need rest.”

“You said I could run. So I can definitely walk.”

“I said you could run if you had to.”

“I’m fine.”

Patently untrue. The kid’s unsteady on his feet, leaning backwards into Helix’s hand even as they cross the floor–

“Ben, any other case would’ve needed at least a week of bed rest,” he says patiently. “And that’s if we had access to a bacta tank.”

“But I’m not any other case. You said–”

“I said healing still needs doing, remember?”

“You let Needle take a shift. Even though he got a building dropped on him.”

“I didn’t want to, he volunteered–”

“So am I.”

“That injury has the potential for a lot to go wrong, Ben–”

“I don’t care.”

“And why not?”

“Bad things happen when we can’t find you!”

That stops him short.

He looks down.

Ben’s fists are clenched, nearly swallowed up by the too-long sleeves. He holds himself gingerly, with the caution that accompanies both the discovery of a pain-free position and the desperation to keep it. His brow is furrowed, his breathing shallow, his shoulders drawn up nearly to his ears–

But he meets Helix’s gaze without hesitation. Fierce and frightened both.

Obi-Wan had said, hadn’t he? Something behind his eyes cracked open, flickering in and out of consciousness, clinging to Helix’s hand so tightly he could feel the bones grinding together–

“And I couldn’t find you.”

The next thought bobs to the surface with barely a ripple. 

The warmth of Mace’s hand, back when he’d still been Windu. A proffered hydropack, a blurry exhaustion, an unmoored and aching grief.

(“He was looking for you.”)

And Ben had said we.

Helix breathes out, long and slow and steady, and folds himself down onto a nearby cot. He pats the spot next to him, and Ben, looking wary, sits down next to him.

He reaches without looking and plucks a gauze pad and a roll of fabric off the small table next to them. "Can I see your arm, please?"

Ben extends his arm obligingly, and Helix presses the pad down over the sluggishly-bleeding wound in the crook of his elbow and secures it neatly. He tears and tucks the edge of the roll, sets the rest to the side, and folds his hands together.

He doesn't like it.

But then again, he doesn't like a lot of things.

And Ben had torn the IV clean out of his arm in his haste to get to him.

“Needle said something about a contract?” he says at last.

“Yes,” Ben says cautiously.

“The not-feeling-fine zone, was it?” 

“Yes.”

“I’m bringing that zone with me,” Helix says, watching with some satisfaction as hope blooms across Ben’s face. “Thirty-foot radius. Full disclosure. Now, how are you feeling?”

Ben takes a moment to consider this. 

“It hurts,” he says slowly. “But like a bad bruise. Not like before.”

Helix nods. “Like a bad bruise, or bruised ribs?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Bruised ribs will hurt more when you’re breathing.”

“Bruised ribs, then.”

“Okay,” Helix says, smiling faintly. “Thank you. Now, you can come, but what I need from you is to tell me if that changes, okay? It doesn’t mean we’ll have to go back. Maybe we won’t have to do anything at all. But I can’t make a good judgment if I don’t know. Deal?”

Ben gives him an assessing look.

“What about you?”

Ah, damn. He should’ve expected that. 

But, all things considered, if this is what it takes to get Ben to be honest with him…

He gives the question more consideration than he has in some time. Rolls his shoulders, pops his knee, assessing all the little aches and pains that have accumulated over fourteen years of life–

“My shoulders ache,” he says eventually. “Not acutely. Too many nights spent sleeping upright. But that’s all, Ben, I promise you.”

“You should get a heat pad,” Ben informs him.

“I will when we get back,” Helix agrees. “Now, does this mean you’ll tell me if your Sith-inflicted lightsaber burn starts to bother you any more than it already is?”

The look on Ben’s face is one of immense exasperation, as if Helix putting the slightest bit more emphasis on a nearly-fatal wound is a completely irrational decision.

But regardless–

“Fine.”

“Fine,” Helix echos, and allows himself to grin. He unfolds himself and cracks his back. “Shall we, then?”

A warm hand slips into his.

“I can carry the crutches,” Ben offers.

“Don’t push your luck.”

Ben watches his own feet very carefully.

Walking is odd. He has to focus, well and truly, for there’s a– hiccup, almost, between his brain and the rest of him. Some little interrupting jolt that pushes him a half-inch behind his own body. But Helix had said– healing works differently, now. He said they’ll work it out together.

(And besides, Ben knows, he can ask Obi-Wan now, too, and something in his chest warms at the thought. Obi-Wan, who’s a general and a Jedi and a Councilor. Obi-Wan, who got better–)

But for now, he watches his feet and holds on tight to Helix’s hand and listens to his voice as he nods towards empty hallways that lead to deserted meeting rooms–

(Wooley snuck a tooka on board last year– named her Tricks, set up a nest in an unused conference room. Lasted for nearly a month before she got out and pissed in a delegate’s mug. He had to drop her off at the Temple after that.)

To the mess–

(I know we’ve got plenty of snacks, Ben, but if you ever want something more substantial–)

To the boiler rooms–

(Rag’s got nearly a full greenhouse growing down there. I think he siphons off some of the wastewater and uses canebreak to filter it. I know he trades Terror some of the greens–)

Ben finds himself nodding along, sometimes, pieces slotting into place. An eerie meowing in the vents. A raised spatula. A raised voice. The sharp cracking-open of sugar-snap peas.

The hallways are full of sunlight.

Then, around the next corner–

“–should just go, he never takes this long–”

“You know what he’s gonna say if I walk on it–”

“I’ll carry you–”

“Try it and perish–”

He slows, almost without noticing, and tilts his head to the side.

That strange sensation of a whisper, just out of earshot–

Helix looks down.

“Everything okay?”

Ben shakes his head, mute.

The hair on the back of his neck rises. He glances behind him, expecting to see– 

What? What, exactly? 

(His own shadow rising up to eat him?)

A frigid apprehension crackles up his spine. Foreign and familiar at once.

“Ben?”

The ground grows slippery under his feet.

He tries to shake it. 

Breathe in, breathe out.

But the cold sinks spidery legs into his brain. 

“Ben.”

Fear of shadows. Made of shadows. Fear that belongs in the trap. 

Why’s it here?

(There is an echo of marching, under the voices.)

“Ben.”  

A hand at his cheek, broad and warm, and he blinks back into himself and that’s Helix looking back at him and Helix isn’t marching, Helix is safe, Helix is crouched in front of him with worry written all over his face, and an entirely different kind of terror seizes him from the inside out but before he can give it voice–

“You didn’t slip,” Helix says. “You didn’t drown.”

Quiet and sure, and Ben draws in a shuddering breath, then another–

“You’re not going anywhere.”

His other hand comes to rest on Ben’s shoulder. Warm and steady, but Ben’s own are empty, now–

“Do you want to wait out here?”

The offer is sincere, of that there’s no doubt, but something in the back of Ben’s mind not entirely his own shrieks NO–

“I’ll be quick, it’s just a–”

He steps forward before he can think better of it.

Helix had said he wouldn’t let him drown. He’d promised. So Ben doesn’t let himself think about it, even a little bit. He just tangles his hands into Helix’s shirt, presses his face into his shoulder, and tries to remember how to breathe.

He hears a low noise of faint surprise.

Then an arm wraps around his shoulders, tugging him a bit closer. A hand comes to rest tentatively on the back of his head.

“Or we can do this,” Helix says quietly. “That’s also fine.”

Ben feels him shift onto his knees, leaning forward, and the– 

(The hug? Can he call it a hug? Is he hugging or hanging on?)

The hug. Yes. 

The hug tightens.

Ben curls in a little further in return. Helix is warm and real and not made of shadows, and he doesn’t move to leave or let go, and Ben can tell he’s watching, too, because the prickling along the back of his neck in the empty hallway dissolves.

A low, quiet sigh hums all the way through him.

“You’ve been hit with a lot, kiddo.”

It’s not a question. It doesn’t need an answer. Which is– good. Yes. Because Ben thinks that if he opens his mouth he will start crying again.

He does not sniffle into Helix’s shirt. 

He doesn’t.

“What caught you this time?”

The question is carefully, cautiously non-judgemental.

“I don’t know,” Ben mutters. The blaze of frustration burns the threatening tears to ash, and he disentangles one hand, swipes roughly at his face, scowls at the wet patch on Helix’s shirt– “Sorry.”

Helix rumbles when he laughs. All the way through.

“Only you, kiddo,” he says, pulling back just enough that Ben can see his smile. “Do you still want to come with me–?”

He stops. Tilts his head. His brow furrows.

Ben tries to figure out what he’s looking at– is his face doing something weird?– and then he glances down and realizes he’d taken a full step backwards.

Out of reach.

Stupid, stupid, stupid–

“I want to come.”

“Okay,” Helix agrees. But he’s still looking at him, and Ben hugs himself, scowling, feeling itchy all over and hating it–

“Can you feel them?”

“What?”

“Like you did with Auks,” Helix says patiently. “I’m kind of curious. Longshot and Gearshift– can you feel them?”

Oh.

Well–

No.

He’d pulled himself inwards. Tight and close and scared, because it’s safer to pull back instead of risking– 

Slipping.

But if Helix wants to know–

He shuffles a bit closer, uncertain of how to ask.

As it turns out, he doesn’t have to. Helix rests a hand on his shoulder as he stands, his knees cracking, and he doesn’t let go once he’s on his feet.

Ben closes his eyes, breathes in, and lets himself unfurl. Relaxing cramped muscles.

Oh.

Obi-Wan knew them. Knows them. He can recognize– 

But it’s not quite right. Not quite the same. Obi-Wan’s impression had been one of cracking knuckles, laughing readiness– Ben reaches and understands the satisfaction of landing a good hit. Obi-Wan had told him of the slow crystallizing of the sunrise, of fading fog– Ben finds the settling of a deep breath, but with that same underlying stillness.

He breathes out. Long and slow and careful.

When he opens his eyes, Helix is grinning at him.

Oh.

Oh.

“You did that on purpose,” Ben accuses.

Helix’s smile broadens.

“On purpose,” Ben repeats, and Helix huffs a laugh. He tucks the crutches under his arm, picks up his kit, reaches out–

“Feeling better?”

“Yes,” Ben says, and means it. Helix squeezes his hand.

“Come on, then,” he says. “Work to do.”

Longshot is not a coward.

He knows what gets said about snipers, sometimes. He’d be a fool not to. He listens and he watches and he stays alive, and some of what he catches–

He gets it. He does. Never mind that his kill count is over eight hundred strong. Sometimes your brothers come back in pieces, if they come back at all, and it can be hard to look at a brother who’d spent the battle perched on a cliff face or settled by the window of a ruined building and call him just as brave as the ones who don’t come back.

He doesn’t let it get to him. He’s had his fair share of close combat– and more besides, for a sniper’s role comes with its own set of risks. He has pulled the trigger knowing that doing so might kill him if he doesn’t move fast enough. He’s balanced on the rafters of bombed-out buildings for hours on end when what had been thought to be an empty building had turned out to be quite the opposite, relying only on luck and well-trained silence to keep those below him from looking up. He’d dangled one-handed from a ridge barely wide enough for his fingers when his harness had given way, caught between the wind and the rock until he’d managed to stabilize himself with a climbing cam.

(He’d still made his shot.)

All of this to say–

He is not a coward.

He is, however, fundamentally talented at risk assessment, and earning Helix’s ire for what would be an incredibly minor payoff does not make the cut. 

“We should just go,” Gearshift sighs, leaning back on his hands. “He never takes this long.”

“You know what he’s gonna say if I walk on it,” Longshot warns.

Gearshift is not what anyone would call gentle, either, not generally. He works with metal whenever he has a spare moment, and sometimes forgets that he stops. His fingers twitch and bounce and tremble almost constantly, and when he’s forced to sit still, the jittering only multiplies tenfold. He’s cracked jokes, before, about needing to chatter and fidget and eat enough for two. About having absorbed all of Longshot’s potential for absentminded movement.

Longshot is inordinately fond of him.

No. He’s not gentle. But he’s kind, and he tries. Longshot’s ankle has been dutifully elevated on a rolled up exercise mat, and while Gearshift hadn’t quite offered what most people would consider an apology, Longshot watches him pace and mutter and sigh, occasionally settling next to him before restlessness drives him up again, and accepts that as one anyway. 

“I’ll carry you,” Gearshift says, brightening.

“Try it and perish,” Longshot says easily. “You’re acting like I’ve been poisoned. I don’t think it’s anything more than a sprain. We can wait. You know he’s busy.”

Gearshift acknowledges that with a shrug, scowling at the wall, and Longshot grins. “He won’t go too hard on you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he needles. “I’ll step in for you–”

“You won’t.”

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t kill you, at least–”

He stops short.

Awareness honed over thousands of hours of stillness prickles.

Gearshift opens his mouth, but Longshot waves a hand at him, and he subsides. 

Someone’s speaking in the hallway.

He can’t quite make out the words. But the voice is familiar.

Helix. Arriving at last. 

Who’s he talking to, though? He wouldn’t have brought either of the other two down with him, not for something as minor as this, and he’s not one for idle company–

Then a second voice pipes up. Quiet. Younger.

His train of thought careens through several stations without stopping, arriving eventually at the following conclusion:

The General had not come back all right. But he’d come back patched up. 

The lightning’s good at that.

Helix’s voice solidifies with certainty, and Longshot straightens, eyeing the door with anticipation– Gearshift, watching him, follows suit–

“All right,” Helix announces, striding in, “who fucked up, and how badly?”

Longshot is not paying attention.

Someone’s trailing behind him. Holding onto his hand, half-hidden in his shadow, watching warily–

“Oh, holy shit,” Gearshift breathes. 

The others had not once shut up about their new addition. Smart and sharp and excellent at cheating, likes soup and glitter and Needle– 

But Longshot had tracked Auks down earlier in the afternoon, and he had been the only one who’d said scared.

The kid’s small. Skinny, too, and Auks had mentioned– the way he’d torn into the muffins Needle had handed over, after they’d been deemed safe– 

Yeah. Not surprising. 

He holds himself gingerly, too, sharp and careful, and it’s hard not to notice the way Helix’s gaze keeps flicking towards him. 

And the watching–

Oh, he knows that well enough, doesn’t he?

“Hey, Ben,” he says, grinning. “Nice to meet you. We’ve been hearing a lot.”

The kid studies him. “Hi, Longshot,” he says, after a moment, and ha, there, a little flicker of a smile– “Hi, Gearshift.”