Work Text:
In the quiet of his cramped office on The Negotiator, Obi-Wan places his seventh datapad of the evening on his plasteel desk and has to struggle to suppress a jaw-cracking yawn. It's not late, not yet at least, but the weeks of fighting, and sleep snatched only in minute lulls, and relentless mud-soaked fighting have taken their toll — at this stage he wants nothing more than a full night's sleep.
Fighting had ended that morning, the Separatist government surrendering to the Republic after the last of their droids were disabled, and Obi-Wan had been herded directly to his office and put right back to work. He's not even had time to properly shower in the aftermath, and despite his clean robes he feels dirty in a way that's sunk into his skin — into his hair, and under his nails, and caked into every crevice of his body.
As a general, a leader, he knows his men come first. So he weathers the discomfort, his fatigue, until the work of resupply and after-action reporting have been done and all relevant matters have been seen to. Then he can rest.
There's just so much paperwork vying for attention, and all of it needing to be done yesterday. Not to mention the slew of meetings that have appeared in his calendar and seem to show no signs of slowing until they were scheduled to be back in active combat.
Perched on a spindly chair on the other side of the desk, his Clone Commander for this latest operation, Alpha-17, glances up from his own stack of datapads before grunting in approval and fishing a new one from a teetering pile which he hands to Obi-Wan with a short nod. His voice is gruff with fatigue of his own when he speaks — it's already become clear that for all the paperwork Obi-Wan has to grapple, he has twice the load.
"Last thing is the casualty numbers. These are preliminary, medics are still working on a few, but it's close enough."
Obi-Wan nods, looking down with no small amount of trepidation, and has to suppress a sudden wave of nausea at what stares up at him from the display. The dead are neatly tallied in one column, the injured sorted further by severity of injury, and the numbers—
They swim in front of his eyes, so much greater than even his worst fears. He has seen war before, of course — his life is pockmarked with them worse than a field post artillery barrage — but never at this scale, and never when he's been the sole general commanding this many soldiers.
All these men were under my command, he can't help but think, numb with shock, eyes fixed on the screen as if he can burn the contents into his retinas. It was me who failed to protect them, whose choices killed them. I don't have to notify their families because they've never had them. All they've known is war, and I've killed them before they could learn anything else.
He'd seen death on the ground, of course he had. Fi — a name shared with him in a furtive whisper on the dropship down — who'd bled out as they held position, shrapnel insufficient to stop the rhythmic pulse of arterial blood. Rho, who'd not cleared a detonator charge in time and had survived the initial blast only to collapse hours later. All the others, whose names he had been yet to learn, snuffed out like candles guttering in the dark.
He feels heavy and hollow and bounded on all sides by grief.
It's good to feel, he reminds himself, even as his breath catches in his throat. Better he feel than not. To feel this pain, it means he cares. He's not treating these men like droids, to be discarded at will or because of convenience. It means keeping the men entrusting him with their lives alive. But how that care burns.
That's the struggle and the trick of it, somehow he always manages to forget. The razor-thin line he has to walk. He can't let himself get too close, lest he compromise himself and his command decisions, but equally he cannot — cannot — let himself become too far removed from the men under his command. That way lies a slaughterhouse. For all his care burns, the enforced distance curdles and chills against his insides. It's not the Jedi way, to distance yourself from suffering, but without some distance he'll drown.
He must have been silent for too long, because Alpha-17 startles him with a queried, "Sir?"
Obi-Wan pulls himself together with effort. Yes, he can't forget, can't let himself forget — for all the dead may haunt him, he still has a duty to the living.
"Apologies, Commander," he responds with a strained smile. "It's been a long day. A long month, really. Do you have any thoughts on these numbers?"
His commander blinks, radiating a vague sense of disapproval that makes Obi-Wan wonder what test he's just failed in the man's eyes. In their brief time together, it's not the first instance of the man's displeasure leaking through his veneer of professionalism, and he expects it won't be the last. He simply wished Alpha-17 trusted him enough to tell him what he could do better. For his men, he wants to be better.
When the answer to his question finally comes, it's blunt and about as kind as a knee to the gut.
"I'd prefer we didn't have to train new men."
Obi-Wan closes his eyes for a moment, suppressing a flinch, trying not to react to the statement. It seems so callous, coming from a man who'd grown and trained amongst these men. Who must be a brother to them in all but name. But then — there's always been an iron core to these too-young soldiers, from the moment he'd met them. A certainty surrounding death that had unsettled Obi-Wan. He wonders, not for the first time, just what training on Kamino entails.
"Yes, that would be ideal," he gets out. "However I'd prefer something actionable at this time."
He's hoping for an explanation of the numbers, a breakdown of where the highest casualties occurred on the battlefield so he can try to adjust his strategies to reduce further loss. Some way to shield these men — his men — from a too-early death.
He does not get that.
"Stop throwing yourself in front of enemy fire. Actionable enough?" Alpha-17 doesn't even do him the courtesy of looking apologetic at the blunt reprimand.
"Regarding the casualty numbers specifically, Commander." His hands don't tremble on the datapad, but he has to concentrate to ensure it remains that way. He places it down on his lap so he can hide his hands in his sleeves before they give him away.
Alpha-17 finally puts his own datapad down, looking Obi-Wan in the eye. His shoulders have begun to slump ever so slightly with his own fatigue, invisible to anyone who hadn't been tuned to the slightest hint of body language for the past few weeks. Obi-Wan reminds himself, not for the first time, that Alpha-17 is simply trying to help him become a better general. A better leader for his brothers-in-arms. Obi-Wan is willing to hurt, to keep these men alive.
With his arms crossed, Alpha-17 faintly resembles Qui-Gon in a way that's utterly disconcerting to Obi-Wan's tired mind. Annoyance begins to creep into the man's voice as he tells Obi-Wan, "Our fatalities are very low, our injuries high. Men get injured trying to keep you covered. Men die trying to keep up with the stunts you pull. You use yourself as a meat shield, which as our general is utter stupidity. We can't take orders from a corpse."
The riposte leaves his mouth before he can think better of it. "Equally, I cannot lead an army of dead men."
With difficulty, he draws himself together, holding up a hand to stymie any response Alpha-17 may choose to make. It's clear that Alpha-17 is only humouring him by waiting, his face a picture of tired indulgence but he appreciates the tact nonetheless.
"My apologies, that was thoughtless of me. I'll… I'll think on what you've said."
Alpha-17 nods, setting his own datapad aside. "Good. Sign off on that, and pack it in. You look like shit."
That startles a laugh from him, shockingly loud in the small space. He does as he's told and picks up his datapad again, signing off at the bottom of the screen before handing it back to his commander.
As he stands, a thought comes to him, and he can't help but ask, "What do you do with the bodies?"
"Don't worry yourself, we'll take care of that." Alpha-17 doesn't even look up, scribbling away at something else as he continues to drudge inexorably through the after-action reports.
Obi-Wan hesitates a moment more, hand on the release for the door. But what good would it do, for him to know? To insert himself where he's neither wanted nor needed simply to assuage his own guilt.
"Of course." He nods, finally opening the door to a gust of chilled air that makes him shiver in his robes. "Whatever you think is best."
Behind him, he can hear his commander sigh, the clacking of plastoid on metal. Obi-Wan steps into the corridor.
Alpha-17's voice, gravel-rough but gentled into something almost comforting, follows him out. "Get some sleep, sir. Tomorrow's another day."