Work Text:
He watches her dress in silence. Always in silence. Always she leaves the bed when he's asleep. He wonder if she knows how light of a sleeper he truly is. If she does, she gives no indication of it. She simply locates her clothes from where they'd been thrown or collected in a neat pile (depending on the level of impatience or urgency) and covers her body. There's always a small, selfish part of him that mourns the loss of the sight of her flesh. He shoves it down every time.
She turns back to the bed after cinching her belt around her hips. He keeps his eyes mostly closed, but there is a thin line of vision that lets him see her hesitate. Normally this is the time when she would reach for her lightsabers, carefully laid on the nightstand next to his, and make her silent exit. But this time she pauses.
He keeps his features lax and neutral to keep up the illusion of slumber, though curiosity and an instinctive flash of wariness that borders on distrust both burn in his brain. If she want to kill him, she's had plenty of opportunities in the recent past. He feels no malice or hatred from her through the Force. But what is she up to?
She steps towards the bed but doesn't touch the mattress. He is long-familiar with the weight of her gaze, and he feels it on him now. All he can see without giving himself away is the circular buckle of her belt and an inch or so above and below. He wonders what expression she wears now. Is she smiling? Frowning? Asking herself whether she wants to leave right this moment, or if she can spare five more minutes? Is she plotting his death after all?
The buzzing of his thoughts comes to a sudden halt at the touch of something light to his hair. In any other situation it could be the wind, a springtime breeze flirting with the loose strands that have fallen over his forehead. It takes him a moment before he realizes the touch is her fingers. Not enough to be called 'combing', but...a caress. That's the word. Asajj Ventress did not show gentility often, and the times she did it was a precursor to something more fierce and demanding. But not this time.
He reaches out with the barest effort to try to sense a deeper motivation in the Force. Sure enough, there is tenderness, but also a swirl of confusion, sadness, regret, wistfulness, and...shame. It's that last emotion that drives a blade into his heart. He wants very badly to take her in his arms and keep her there until there is only contentment and peace. But to do so, especially now, would only do more damage than good.
So he stays quiet. Quiet and still, enjoying the featherlight caress (he likes that word in conjunction with her) of her fingertips through his bangs while he can. Without warning, her touch stops. He almost sighs in disappointment when something firmer and softer brushes against his forehead. Once again, he doesn't realize what it is until it's gone: a kiss. This time he does sigh, unable to stop it. Thankfully, she doesn't seem to think anything of it; she says nothing and makes no sudden movements.
Her fingers linger a moment more, then they, too, are gone. He misses her touch immediately, desperately. For the first time, he doesn't want this to be goodbye. For the first time, he wants her to stay. For the first time, he wants to be selfish, and damn the consequences. But he can't. He has to let her say farewell in her own way, and pray that this won't be the last time. So far, it never has been, but this time it's different. And he doesn't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing.
He opens his eyes all the way to watch her walk towards the door, her hips swaying with that natural, hypnotic grace, and her lightsabers crossed at her lower back. She takes her cloak from the chair it had been thrown across, wraps it around her shoulders, and draws the over-large hood up. She hesitates again, her hand poised over the entry pad. Is she having second thoughts? Is it a sign that he should say something after all? He loathes indecision at all times, even more so at this very moment.
He doesn't get to break his indecision on his own: the door suddenly slides open, and like a wraith, she is gone.
Obi-Wan mentally kicks himself for the choices he didn't make but should have. Logically, he knows that the most likely result of anything he should have done would be resistance, agitation, and the shattering of the fragile trust that had grown between them these past months. His mind tells him what he knows to be true, and now his heart wants a say.
He's too late to catch her by now, so he calls his secret weapon into his hand with the Force. It's not a long message, nor an overly personal one, but it gets his point across just the same. He only wishes that he could see her reaction when she listens to it: “Goodbye, my sweet...for now.”