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Obi-Wan was used to a certain degree of disparaging comments being directed at Anakin. As his Master, he’d stood between the criticisms and the boy, sometimes unable to say anything at all back, as they too often came from the elders he had been raised to respect, to honor.
I’m too young to be a master, I don’t know enough had stood side by side with they don’t understand Anakin, he’s special, an eternal conflict of interest.
After a decade, he was rather used to turning a deaf ear as needed, because Anakin inevitably proved them wrong even if Obi-Wan did nothing, said nothing.
But for some strange reason, as the Reuan Senator sighed dismissively while staring at Anakin from across the room, he found his hands tightening where they rested behind his back.
“General Kenobi, your reputation is, of course, well-deserved,” Senator Siris said, swirling his drink. “The way you handled the coup was remarkable, we hardly lost any of our people to the plot. I confess that while I’d heard much of the Team, I had my doubts, considering Skywalker’s track record of impulsivity…”
Ah. The fighting was, without question, the worst thing about the war. The death and the misery, the violence—but it turned out that being forced to wear a uniform over bruises and a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes ranked dangerously high.
A massive chandelier glittered over his head, refracting the light in a way that made everyone look a little more heroic, a little less like they’d spent the previous day locked in a death-struggle. It was a neat trick; it made a convenient tableau for HoloNet reports.
“Track record?” Obi-Wan’s polite smile didn’t waver. “I’m not certain what you’ve heard, sir, but I thank you for your praise.”
Siris’s gaze flicked again to where Anakin stood, a golden boy with dark bags under his eyes and a glass flute pinched awkwardly between fingers that knew how to be delicate, how to solder infinitesimally tiny fragments, but who still had too many raw edges. He was surrounded by dignitaries, nodding along to their conversation with the air of someone who’d rather be anywhere else.
Most likely aboard the Resolute, passed out in his bunk. Obi-Wan watched as Anakin’s smile faltered, his shoulders slumping just a fraction.
“Ah, well,” Siris said, with the air of someone bemoaning an unfortunate fate that could not be changed. “I shan’t drag up the past, of course. He does wonders for the image of the army. The youth see him as quite heroic.” They don’t know any better was written in the contemplative, pitying mar of his brow. “Romantic, even. My daughter has a holoposter of him in her bedroom. I asked her to take it down, but you know how children are. The moment my back is turned, it’s on the wall again.”
Holoposter? Obi-Wan’s smile flickered, finally. “I wasn’t aware those were being made.”
“Not officially. The Senate is negotiating the branding, but there are always the unscrupulous out to make easy credits off the names and work of others. We are pushing for this to go through as quickly as possible, of course. Those credits rightfully belong in our funds. Even if Skywalker might be lacking in some areas, his popularity with the youth should be praised.”
“...Of course." Obi-Wan made a mental note to request from the Council a report on what, exactly, all this was about. Branding? The PR was bad enough—anything past that was exploitation, wasn’t it?
Sensing a sour note in the Force, Anakin looked up at him, and Obi-Wan felt the familiar, infuriating ache of wanting to shield him from everything—even the people who were supposed to be grateful. Especially them.
It was one thing for a single teenage girl to affectionately put up a holoposter again and again after being told to take it down. It was another entirely for politicians to eye Anakin up and down and weigh his value, overlooking how far from normal the weight of command was, how ill-prepared every Jedi was to deal with their new roles, none more so than the near-children they’d hastily knighted and sent out to kill, to be responsible for thousands of lives cheaply made to die for the cause.
Holoposters. Branding. The idea of Anakin being used as memorabilia by the Senate turned Obi-Wan’s stomach. That wasn’t admiration—it was consumption, as if they hadn’t already asked for enough, hadn’t taken enough.
Obi-Wan’s fingers twitched behind his back. He felt the phantom ache of his own bruises, the sting of blaster grazes, the mud under his fingernails that was buried too deep to be scrubbed off from the prior day’s battle. He thought about how they’d been strong-armed into staying on the planet for this celebration banquet while their men retired to the ships, wounded and weary.
“Senator, I’m afraid I must correct you.”
Siris blinked. “Oh?”
Obi-Wan let his smile widen, just a fraction. “The one who figured out the poisoning plot was a distraction while the terrorists sliced into your security system was General Skywalker. And if he hadn’t acted so… impulsively, as you mentioned, I rather doubt you would be alive to draw breath today, and Reuan would not be a Republican planet any longer.”
Siris stiffened.
From the other end of the room, Anakin was openly watching them now, frowning. Confusion pulsed through the Force, a vigilant what’s happening? Are we under attack?
Obi-Wan tilted his head, a no, and although Anakin relaxed, he remained hyperaware, glancing back at them, no longer pretending to be listening to the dignitaries.
Obi-Wan’s voice dropped into something soft. “When you were twenty, like General Skywalker is, you were a student. You were known to have intended to follow in your mother’s footsteps as a surgeon, but by then you’d already switched career tracks twice, which delayed your graduation by several years. Directly afterward, you married the daughter of the then-Reuan Senator and entered a career in politics by becoming his personal assistant. You never served in the military, never held a job until you were nearly thirty, and the job you did have came from nepotism.”
Siris opened his mouth, then closed it. His grip on his drink had tightened.
“Objectively speaking, it’s been a comfortable life,” Obi-Wan went on, still not raising his voice or sharpening his tone. “An unremarkable life, even. Would you like to know what my Padawan’s life was like by the age of ten? It wasn’t nearly so unremarkable.”
Wisely, sensing the conversation had long ago spun out of his control, Siris maintained a vaguely wounded silence.
“No? How about the age of fifteen? Would you like to hear how many times he’s persevered when others despaired? His achievements, perhaps? He built a fully functioning service droid that is still heads above what’s on the market at the moment, though I’m not sure if he did that when he was five or seven.” Obi-Wan paused. “But as he’s found the time, between skirmishes and sieges, to debug and reprogram the AI we use in our fleet to be twenty-seven percent more accurate and to process data forty-one percent faster, it’s not all that astonishing. It’s almost easy to take his aptitude for granted and forget what a prodigy he is.”
“General Kenobi—”
“But we do that, do we not? Take the impossible conveniently for granted. Just as how gratitude is quick to fade when the dust settles and the accolades are handed out.” Obi-Wan inclined his head in a civil nod—the perfect picture of Jedi decorum—and stepped away, leaving the senator standing there, flustered.
Halfway to the door, Anakin caught up with him, eyebrows raised high. “Are we leaving already?” He didn’t sound heartbroken. He hadn’t wanted to come, had argued against it. “What was that about?”
Obi-Wan exhaled, rolling the tension out of his shoulders. They’d reached the coat check. He slid their two tickets into the machine and waited as it whirled, sorting through the depository. “Nothing of importance.”
“Ooohh, the Senator did a bad thing,” Anakin said gleefully, grinning now, something real and warm, and a little bloodthirsty. “You only talk like that when someone karked up.”
“Language.”
“I’m right though, aren’t I?” Anakin obediently held his arms out when Obi-Wan took the black coat from the window that opened up, draping it over Anakin’s shoulders, brushing his hands down the curve of them. Still bony, but broadening, growing into an adult body.
“You are on occasion right,” Obi-Wan said, too fond, squeezing Anakin’s biceps before releasing him to get his own coat next.
Anakin laughed, and just like that, the strain in Obi-Wan’s chest eased.