Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ewan didn’t mind being out of his depth when it came to parenting. That was part of the charm.

But being bombarded by Clone Wars character analysis over dinner? That was new.

"You don't understand, Papa," Esther insisted, arms flailing with the intensity of a Padawan mid-debate. “The Rako Hardeen arc is, like, a psychological WAR CRIME.”

“It’s literally one of the reasons Anakin turns into Darth Vader,” Clara added, utterly scandalized that their father—Obi-Wan Kenobi himself—had never seen that arc.

Ewan leaned back on the couch, sipping his tea and squinting at the animated version of himself on the TV. “I fake my death? And no one tells Anakin?”

“Exactly!” both girls chorused.

He winced, visibly. “Well, no wonder he turned into a bloody menace. That’s… that’s horrid.”

Three nights of this. Three nights of rewinding, pausing, yelling, tears, and laughter over Obi-Wan’s life like it was a long-running drama where the fandom still fought over the character arcs.

And Ewan loved every second of it.

If relearning who Obi-Wan was meant long chats with his daughters, analyzing morals and trauma and brotherhood until midnight, then he was in. Fully in. He hadn’t realized how much of Obi-Wan had changed—expanded—since the prequels. Not just in canon, but in the hearts of fans. In the way people viewed him. In the way his daughters saw him.

They wanted him to understand. To be ready for the new series. To reconnect. It was more than a role now.

It was a responsibility.

So when he finally fell asleep that night, somewhere between tired and emotionally wrung out, he didn’t question the vividness of the dream. He didn’t question the Temple halls, or the weight of Jedi robes on his shoulders.

Most dreams were slippery, patchy—memory soup. But this?

This had texture.

He could feel the smooth grain of the Temple walls as he ran his hand along them, the cool marble-veined stone warmed faintly by Coruscant’s filtered light. He could smell incense, something like rosemary and desert dust. He could hear—Maker, he could hear the rustling of robes, the light tapping of boots, the hum of distant conversation in languages that didn’t exist on Earth.

He was in the Jedi Temple.

And he was Obi-Wan.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, blinking around.

An Ithorian Jedi passed by, nodding politely. A Togruta youngling giggled, chasing a floating training remote down a hallway.

Ewan’s jaw slackened slightly. “Oh my god.”

He turned a slow circle, robe swishing. He’d filmed on a dozen Temple sets, walked down green screen corridors, read pages of exposition—but this wasn’t a script. This wasn’t pretend.

This was real.

He could feel it in his bones. Not just the structure around him, but something beneath it. Something alive.

The Force.

It was like breathing in sunlight. Like someone had turned up the volume on existence. Every color was more vibrant. Every sound more musical. Every emotion—oh, Force—every feeling in the air was a living current. Ewan stood in the corridor, stunned, as the Temple’s ambient life washed over him.

Joy. Peace. A murmur of focused minds. A flicker of worry. Curiosity. Stillness.

He felt like he was swimming in something vast and warm. His whole chest ached with how right it felt.

So this is what it means to be a Jedi, he thought. Not just robes and speeches. It was this. This harmony.

It was beautiful.

He was grinning, which he only realized when someone—a Knight?—gave him an amused glance as they passed.

He beamed right back at them. He didn’t care. How could he?

There were aliens everywhere. Real ones. Ones that breathed. A Duros leaned against the archway ahead, meditating. A Nautolan flicked their head-tails in rhythm with the cadence of a distant chime. A Mirialan youngling bumped into his side and gasped, and he instinctively knelt and said, “You’re alright, little one,” and the child bowed and ran off squealing.

He wanted to laugh.

He wanted to explore every single room.

He was halfway through planning how to sneak into the Archives to high-five Jocasta Nu when he felt it.

A pulse. A shift. A ripple.

Someone approaching.

Ewan turned—

—and saw Anakin.

Or no. Not Anakin. Hayden, no—no, it was Anakin. Tall, tense, already frowning slightly, like he was trying to decide if he needed to be worried.

Oh.

That was why.

Ewan could feel it. His emotions—open, excited, content—were leaking everywhere like light from a broken lamp. And Anakin—sharp, stormy, always attuned to shifts—had felt it like a beacon.

Of course he had.

“Master?” Anakin’s voice came, cautious. “Are you… alright?”

Oh dear.

Ewan tried to school his expression. He knew Jedi were supposed to be emotionally disciplined. “Yes, yes,” he said quickly. “Sorry, sorry, I was just—walking. Feeling. Breathing.”

Anakin blinked at him like he had never heard that sentence before.

Ewan cleared his throat. Time to act more Jedi-like. He drew in his presence, tugged the joy back inward like a silk curtain folding shut. He remembered what his daughters had said. ‘They always say he shields himself so well. Like, too well.’

He tried.

And—click. There it was. Like drawing blinds down in his mind. A sudden soft quietness. A shield.

Anakin stepped back slightly, brow furrowing. “You just—changed,” Anakin said. “You were so... open. You never feel like that. Not around me.”

“Good,” Ewan muttered. “I mean—thank you.” He adjusted his robes unnecessarily. “That’s what I was going for.”

“You’ve never done that before.”

Ewan blinked again.

Hadn’t he? Huh. Must be one of those Jedi habits Obi-Wan was supposed to have, but never used quite like this. He offered a weak smile.

Anakin’s gaze didn’t waver. “Something’s wrong.”

And Force, wasn’t that true?

“Yes,” Ewan said finally. “Something is wrong. And I need to talk to you.”

He patted Anakin's back lightly and gestured down a hallway, and they walked in silence. The weight of the moment settled around them like falling snow.

When they reached a quiet alcove, Ewan turned to him, fidgeting just slightly. He reached up and brushed something imaginary off Anakin’s robe—a stall tactic, maybe, or just an excuse to touch him again.

“Anakin,” he said gently, and then sighed. “Anakin, I need to tell you something about the mission tomorrow.”

Anakin tensed. “What about it?”

Ewan rubbed the bridge of his nose. “There’s going to be an assassination attempt. The Council plans to fake my death and insert me undercover.”

Anakin froze.

“They weren’t going to tell you,” Ewan added, quieter now. “They said it was important for you to… believe it.”

“What?” Anakin’s voice came sharp and wounded. “Why? Why wouldn’t they—why wouldn’t you—”

Ewan held up a hand. “It was my idea.”

That made Anakin go still.

“I thought it would work best if you didn’t know,” Ewan continued, softer now. “I thought—as I always think—that shielding you from pain was the best path. That if I bore the burden of deception, it would spare you.”

He looked away for a moment. “And I regret it. The second I imagined your face at the funeral, I knew I’d made the wrong call.”

Anakin’s jaw clenched.

Ewan shifted closer. His hand found Anakin’s shoulder, squeezed. He gave a warm pat to his back. “But I can’t do it anymore.”

Anakin looked at him, startled.

“I’ve spent years trying to be the model Master. The pillar. The one who makes the hard calls.”

He laughed, soft and sad. “But the truth is... I only ever wanted to be someone you could trust. Not someone who protected you from the truth. Someone who gave it to you.”

His other hand reached up, brushed Anakin’s cheek lightly. An affectionate, fatherly touch.

“I don’t want to lie to you,” he said. “Not anymore. Not ever again.”

Anakin’s face was unreadable. Ewan forged ahead.

“You are the most important person in my life, Anakin. My Padawan. My brother. My—” he hesitated, “—my heart.”

He gripped both of Anakin’s arms now. “You’re strong enough to bear the truth. You always have been. It was my failing to think otherwise.”

He softened, forehead creasing. “I see now… You were always strong enough. I just didn’t want to let go of the illusion that I could still protect you.”

“You didn’t trust me,” Anakin said, voice tight.

“I didn’t trust myself,” Ewan admitted. “I feared what grief would do to you. But now I see... what not trusting you does instead.”

He squeezed again. “If you still want me to go through with the mission, I will. But only if you know the truth. Only if we’re in this together.”

Silence.

Then Anakin leaned forward suddenly, head bowed, eyes closed. Like the weight was too much.

Ewan pulled him into a hug.

Not the stiff, manly kind. A real one. One arm wrapped around Anakin’s shoulders, the other cradling the back of his head. Holding him like a father would. Then, because it felt right, he gave a small kiss to Anakin’s temple.

He felt Anakin inhale. Then tremble. Then, slowly, relax into it.

“I trust you,” Ewan whispered. “And I’m sorry it took me so long to say it.”

Anakin didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

The Force around them thrummed softly. Like a note of harmony struck in the middle of a dissonant song.

When Ewan finally pulled back, he rested his forehead briefly against Anakin’s, then gave his arms one final squeeze.

“Thank you for listening.”

Anakin gave a wordless nod.

And then—

The dream shattered like glass.

Ewan jerked awake, the light of dawn filtering through his curtains.

He sat up slowly, blinking. His chest felt like it was full of stars. Like his ribs had briefly held the entire galaxy.

He could still feel the warmth of Anakin’s shoulder under his palm.

The echo of “I love you” in his ears.

He smiled, slow and a little awed.

“Bloody hell,” he murmured to himself, rubbing his face. “That was… that was vivid.”

Then he chuckled. A little unsteady.

“If that’s what the Force feels like, no wonder people fall for it.”

Nothing changed in the real world.

But something had changed in him.

The dream hadn’t just entertained him—it had deepened something. Reignited something. He wasn’t just rereading lines now. He was inhabiting them. And for the first time in years, he felt excited—genuinely thrilled—to be Obi-Wan again.

As filming started, he toured the set with a reverence he hadn’t expected. He ran a hand along the edge of the costume rack, stopping in front of Obi-Wan’s robes.

They looked heavier now.

He touched the fabric carefully, reverently, like it might crumble.

And it hit him—how far this character had fallen. How small this place was, compared to the Temple. How cold.

He thought about the robes in his dream. The scent of incense. The harmony in the Force.

And now?

Now Obi-Wan lived in sand and silence. In grief. In exile. Carrying Qui-Gon’s trauma like armor. Shackled by a Code that told him to never love, but never told him how to unlove.

The costume blurred in front of his eyes.

That night, he dreamed again.

This time, Anakin was laughing.

The world was murky at first, like the dream was trying to find its footing again. But there was a sound—hissing, mechanical, close to his ears. And a strange sense of... transformation.

Ewan blinked and looked down—his arms were different. Thicker. Bulkier. Not his own. Not Obi-Wan’s.

And then the image wavered.

He felt his bones rearranging, not in pain, but in an odd dreamlike fluidity, like clay being molded back into its proper shape. His face itched, buzzed, shifted —as though a mask were melting away. His hands flexed. Familiar now. Slender, precise.

And across from him stood Anakin, laughing.

"You're back!" Anakin said, clutching his stomach with one hand, grinning wildly. "You should’ve seen your face just now—it was still half-Hardeen! You looked like someone deep-fried a cantina bouncer."

Ewan blinked again, rubbing his cheek, and caught his reflection on a shiny panel beside them—yes, there he was. Obi-Wan’s face. Fully formed now. No more Hardeen. The nightmare was over.

Or rather—it had played out. And this was after.

“Wait,” Ewan said slowly. “Did we finish the mission?”

Anakin grinned. “Yeah. We did. Together.”

Of course.

That made sense. In this dream, Anakin knew. Ewan had told him the truth. And instead of unraveling, Anakin had helped. He’d been in on it. It had worked.

A relief so profound swept over Ewan that it nearly knocked him off his feet.

He could feel the laughter echoing in the Force—the joy, the victory, the togetherness. And for a brief moment, he let it soak into him, let himself float in it.

Anakin noticed his silence and tilted his head.

“Master?”

Ewan looked at him, then stepped forward with a grin.

He hugged Anakin, laughing.

The Force thrummed with delight. It wrapped around them, warm and golden.

Anakin froze for half a heartbeat, then gave in and laughed again, lifting Obi-Wan clear off the floor in a crushing bear hug.

“Anakin!” Ewan wheezed. “I’m not as young as you!”

“You’re lighter than you look,” Anakin teased.

Once back on the ground, Ewan cupped Anakin’s face in both hands, the way he often did with his daughters when they were younger. He kissed both cheeks.

“I love you,” he said plainly. “Like a son. Like a brother. And whatever the galaxy throws at us—so long as we’re together, we’ll win.”

Anakin looked utterly stunned.

So stunned, in fact, he didn’t even register the person behind him.

But Ewan did.

Ahsoka.

She stood there frozen, eyes wide, clearly trying to process the ocean of raw affection radiating from her former master and his—apparently deeply emotional—old teacher.

Ewan waved.

Ahsoka blinked. “Uh… hello?”

He grinned even wider, gently patting Anakin’s chest. “Hold that thought.”

He wiggled dramatically out of Anakin’s hold and dashed toward Ahsoka.

“Oh no,” Anakin muttered. “He’s loose.”

“Grandmaster Kenobi!” Ahsoka joked as he ran at her, arms open.

She had no time to prepare—Ewan swept her off the floor and spun her in a delighted circle.

“Ahsoka! You’re real!” he laughed. “You’re even better in person.”

She squealed and laughed, caught completely off guard but giggling as he set her down.

“You’ve definitely hit your head,” she said.

“Just on love,” Ewan said proudly.

He was just about to gush—about how much his daughters adored her, about how proud he was, about everything—

When he woke up.

The morning light was just starting to creep in.

Ewan lay there, blinking up at the ceiling.

The Force still hummed faintly in his chest.

And he smiled.

Chapter Text

—

Ewan McGregor was having a great time filming Kenobi.

The long days, the heat, the choreography—it was all exhausting, sure. But he was happy. Deeply, genuinely happy. And a great deal of that happiness came from the person walking beside him.

Hayden.

They’d reunited as if no time had passed. As if the decades since the prequels had only been a long pause in their friendship, one now resumed with ease and warmth. Ewan hadn’t realized just how much he’d missed Hayden’s quiet steadiness, the way he could listen with his whole presence, the way he could still light up with that youthful grin he used to wear under the glare of green screens.

And Hayden—he looked lighter now. There was a brightness in him again, a gentleness that hadn’t been dulled by time. Ewan saw it in the way he moved, in the way he spoke. He saw it in the way Hayden smiled after a good take and clapped him on the back like they were young again.

They had just wrapped filming the duel—the duel —the one between Obi-Wan and Vader, raw and ragged and filled with all the pain of the past decade. Ewan had put everything into the scene: the apology, the heartbreak, the love. And when the director called cut, there had been applause.

Actual applause.

The crew had clapped. Hayden—sweating inside the Vader suit—had lifted his helmet halfway and said, “That nearly made me cry, brother.”

Ewan had laughed it off, heart still pounding, and murmured something about good writing and muscle memory.

But it wasn’t just muscle memory anymore.

The dreams had changed everything.

Two dreams. Connected. Powerful. Too vivid to dismiss.

He hadn’t told anyone about them—not even Hayden, though he’d almost blurted it out more than once. But those dreams had rewired something inside him. They weren’t just dreams; they were... experiences. Emotional truths. Something he carried with him now. The warmth of the Temple, the pulse of the Force, the way Anakin had looked at him when he told the truth for once.

And that feeling—it stayed. Even awake, even on Earth, it hummed in his chest like a second heartbeat. He joked to himself that maybe it was real. Maybe the Force had decided to adopt him.

He’d never played Obi-Wan like this before. Never been Obi-Wan like this before. And people noticed. The directors, the crew, even Deborah had told him, “You’re so grounded this time. It’s like the Force lives in you.”

He’d laughed, of course.

But deep down, something in him whispered: It kind of does.

—

He and Hayden were walking back to their trailers under the cooling light of the late afternoon.

“I’m telling you, though,” Hayden was saying, “I could feel you in that scene. Like—really feel it. You weren’t just acting.”

“I told you I was method now,” Ewan teased. “Had a spiritual awakening, moved into the Temple.”

Hayden snorted. “Yeah? You start wearing robes off set and I’m calling an intervention.”

Ewan laughed, but then—

Something shifted.

Mid-step, something invisible clamped around him. Not like pain. Not even like fear. More like pressure. Like being noticed. Grabbed. Summoned.

His body jolted faintly, and his breath caught in his throat.

“Ewan?” Hayden stopped, concerned. “You okay?”

It was like someone had grabbed his shoulders and shaken him—except the hands weren’t real. They were felt . The sense of someone calling him rippled through his bones. But they weren’t saying Ewan.

They were saying Obi-Wan.

He looked around wildly. “Did you hear that?”

Hayden frowned. “Hear what?”

The pressure faded, just slightly, like a ripple in the fabric of reality smoothing out.

Ewan laughed weakly, brushing it off. “Sorry. Long day. Guess the duel knocked something loose in my brain.”

“You sure?” Hayden’s eyes narrowed slightly, concerned.

“I’m fine, mate,” Ewan said, patting his back. “I just need a shower and some food. You’re coming by later?”

“Yeah,” Hayden said slowly. “I’ll bring food.”

“Perfect. See you then.”

They parted ways.

—

The water was hot and fast, and Ewan scrubbed the dust and sweat off his skin with a kind of single-minded determination. He wanted the weirdness gone. Wanted to wash off the Obi-Wan-ness still buzzing in his blood.

He barely made it to the bed.

In fact, he might not have made it at all. The moment he let himself fall, the world shifted again.

Not into black.

Into light.

—

“Hayden?” he asked, blinking up at a familiar face.

Except—no. Not Hayden.

Anakin.

Anakin Skywalker was crouched above him, looking pale and panicked.

“Who?” Anakin asked, blinking. “Master, are you alright? What’s happening to you?”

Ewan sat up—or tries to, head spinning. He looked around.

Temple floor.

Marble. Incense. Cloaks rustling.

He was back.

Oh. He was back.

Same Temple. Same robes. Same scene?

But this time, he was on the ground, and Ahsoka— Ahsoka —was beside him, red-eyed and trembling. Crying. Her cheeks wet.

Just like in the Clone Wars. Just like when Obi-Wan had faked his death.

“Oh dear,” Ewan muttered, instinctively wiping the tears on her face just like he did with his daughters. “Did I faint?”

His voice slid easily into Obi-Wan’s accent. It always did now.

“I’m sorry. Maybe I need a little rest.”

“A little?” Ahsoka choked out. “Grandmaster, you hugged me and then you collapsed like a puppet someone cut the strings on!”

Ewan blinked. “Oh, grandpadawan of mine, I’m so sorry. I’ll try not to do that anymore. Help me stand up?”

He knew Obi-Wan wasn’t this affectionate. He wasn’t supposed to be this casual. But Ahsoka—Ahsoka was his favorite character in the animated series. He adored her. And if this was a dream? He was going to enjoy it.

Ahsoka reached for him, still sniffling. But before she could help him fully—

Anakin’s arms tightened around his waist.

Ewan blinked down. He was—oh. He was sitting in Anakin’s lap. Properly. Cradled, like he’d passed out at the end of a long duel and Anakin had just caught him.

Fucking hell, he thought. He’s massive.

Even bigger than Hayden. Shoulders like armor plating. Arms like tree trunks. And yet—still Anakin. Still with those eyes.

“Anakin?” Ewan asked gently, half curious.

“I’m taking you to the medbay,” Anakin said flatly.

“Oh, that’s sweet, but really I’m fine—”

“No,” Anakin said, and began to rise, arms steady under him. “You just fainted. I’ll carry you.”

And he did.

Ewan’s arms automatically wrapped around Anakin’s neck for balance. The movement was natural. Reflexive.

But what came next wasn’t reflex. It was choice.

He leaned in.

He relaxed into the warmth.

He accepted the support.

And that? That made something in the air shimmer.

Ahsoka’s eyes widened. Anakin froze for a heartbeat.

The Force itself tingled.

It rippled outward like a dropped stone in a pond. Surprise. Warmth. Joy. All three emotions danced in the air around them, brushing against Ewan’s skin like a kiss of sunlight.

He felt it.

Like the Force was happy.

And so was he.

He buried his face in Anakin’s shoulder and laughed softly.

“Oh,” he whispered. “I’m never waking up from this one, am I?”

Anakin glanced down, confused. “What?”

“Nothing,” Ewan said quickly. “Lead the way.”

And so Anakin did.

Carrying him like a hero from the holodramas.

And Ewan, still thinking it was all a dream, let himself believe—for just a little while longer—that love could rewrite the story.

—

The medbay was cool, clean, and humming with soft machinery. Healer Vokara Che looked up from her station as Anakin swept through the entrance like a whirlwind, Ahsoka trailing behind.

“Skywalker,” Che said warily. “What have you broken this time?”

“Not me,” Anakin said, lowering Ewan onto a bed. “Obi-Wan.”

Che’s brow rose high. “Master Kenobi let you carry him here?”

Ewan raised a hand weakly. “Only because I wanted to spare the floor another close inspection.”

Che narrowed her eyes. “You’re cooperating. ”

“A shocking development, I know,” Ewan said with a small smile.

Che came over, scanning him with a soft blue light. “Are you sick? Brain parasite? Sith influence?”

“I may have done something,” Ewan admitted.

Che raised an eyebrow. “Finally cracked under the pressure of holding the Order together with snark and self-sacrifice?”

“I made a mistake,” Ewan said, tone gentler now. “Not the kind that gets you expelled. The kind that gets you lost. ”

Che stilled, her amusement quieting.

“I thought love was something to fear,” Ewan said. “I believed what we were taught—that attachment is dangerous, that emotion leads to chaos. And maybe that’s true. Maybe it can. But hiding it? Pretending I don’t care deeply for the people in my life?”

He looked at Anakin. Then Ahsoka. His voice softened.

“That’s a worse kind of danger.”

Che watched him, silent.

“Love isn't the enemy,” Ewan continued. “Fear is. Fear of love, fear of showing it, fear of naming it. ‘Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself,’ doesn’t it? The more we avoid love, the more we let fear shape our choices. We fear falling to the dark side, so we avoid the very emotions that keep us in the light.”

He leaned back slightly. “But love doesn’t have to be possessive or selfish. It can be generous. Patient. Kind. The kind of love I feel for Anakin, for Ahsoka—it’s not weakness. It’s strength. It’s what keeps me here. Anchored. Steady. Jedi think they must be untouched by love to remain balanced. But I think love is the balance.”

He looked down for a moment, gathering himself.

“I spent so long hiding it. Pretending I didn’t care as much as I do. I thought keeping silent was safer. But all I did was build a wall between myself and the people I love. All I did was teach them that they couldn’t trust me with their hearts.”

He met Che’s gaze. “I don’t want to live like that anymore.”

“And you think you can handle that truth without falling?” Che asked quietly, smiling like a teacher whose student had finally answered a difficult question.

Ewan looked across the medbay.

Anakin and Ahsoka were watching him like he’d grown wings.

He smiled.

“Well,” he said, “how can I fall when I have them as my anchor in the light?”

Che smiled, soft and genuine. “Well said.”

And in the quiet that followed, the Force sang.

Then Ewan woke up.

Not jolting upright this time. Not gasping.

Just... waking. Slowly. Softly.

The early evening sun was spilling through the tiny trailer window. His skin was warm. His head was full of cotton. He lay there a moment, blinking at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the glow still in his chest.

That dream had been longer. More detailed. More real.

And yet, something was off. Not wrong exactly. But strange. Like a question hovering just behind his thoughts.

He couldn’t name it. But something wasn’t right.

He exhaled slowly and rubbed his hands over his face.

“I need to stop eating burritos before bed,” he muttered. “Or maybe I need a priest.”

Still—he was smiling. Because that Force-light still lingered. And in his heart, he felt at peace.

For now.

—

In the dream world, Obi-Wan Kenobi fainted again.

One moment, he was smiling at Anakin and Ahsoka. The next, his eyes rolled back and he slumped sideways off the medbay bed.

“Master!” Anakin shouted, lunging forward to catch him.

Ahsoka was already moving. “Master Che!”

Che snapped into action, hands glowing, reaching for her instruments.

The Force screamed.

And in that moment, the Temple trembled.

Chapter Text

The knock came at precisely 7:02 a.m.

“Ewan! Ewan, come on—open up! I brought food, don’t make me eat all of it!”

It was Hayden.

Ewan stirred slowly, head heavy against the pillow, eyes still adjusting to the sunlight creeping in from the trailer’s window. He’d meant to wake earlier. He always woke earlier. But his limbs were lead, his thoughts thick, as if he’d just surfaced from something far deeper than sleep.

Another dream.

He rubbed his face, groaning faintly, as Hayden continued his relentless knocking.

“Ewan, I swear to God, I stood out here for thirty minutes last night knocking like an idiot. Thought you’d died or something.”

Ewan chuckled hoarsely, finally swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “I’m up, I’m up, stop shouting.”

Hayden’s grumbling was audible even through the door. “I’m not shouting. I am annoyed though. Big difference.”

When Ewan finally opened the door, Hayden stood there holding two large takeout bags and a coffee tray like a disgruntled brother. “Some Jedi Master you are. Slept through a siege.”

“Sorry,” Ewan said, stepping aside to let him in. “I think I’ve become one with the mattress.”

They settled in the small dinette, unwrapping breakfast sandwiches and pouring coffee like it was a ritual. The trailer was quiet but cozy, and the smell of bacon and eggs helped chase away the lingering fog of dream logic.

Hayden took a bite, then gestured with a fork. “You okay? You look like you were out drinking with the Sith.”

Ewan grinned. “Just vivid dreams, that’s all.”

“Dreams?”, Hayden arched an eyebrow. “Wanna share?”

Ewan didn’t answer.

Instead, they fell into conversation about the day’s scenes. To Hayden’s mild dismay, they didn’t have any scenes together to shoot.

“Seriously?” Hayden frowned over his coffee. “We’ve got all this history and they keep splitting us up?”

“Come now,” Ewan teased. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Anakin .”

“Don’t ‘Anakin’ me.” But Hayden’s expression was already softening, amused. “It’s just—this is the good stuff, you know? The character work. The connection. I want to act beside you again.”

Ewan understood. Of course he did. Hayden wore his heart like armor—on display and yet always trying to protect what was underneath. It made Ewan ache sometimes, how easy Hayden was to read. He was like Anakin that way. And yet, not.

Hayden’s eyes had light in them.

Anakin’s—Anakin’s burned.

Later, on set, Ewan stood alone in the dunes. The sun hung low, casting long shadows across the sand.

This was that scene. The one from the first episode.

Alone. Watching. Mourning. Obi-Wan in exile.

Ewan inhaled, let the desert air sear his lungs.

He had only needed one take.

The sadness, the guilt—it had come easy. Too easy. All he had to do was remember what he had seen in his dreams. The halls of the Temple. The laughter of younglings. Ahsoka’s unguarded grin. Anakin’s warmth like sunlight in human form.

And the knowledge that he would lose it all.

He channeled it. Let it bleed through his expression, his body, his silence. He became Obi-Wan.

When the director finally called, “Cut,” there was a hush on set. Then slow applause. Muted, respectful.

Someone said, “That was beautiful.”

Ewan nodded, barely hearing them.

He was exhausted.

His trailer was blissfully quiet. The sand still clung to his boots when he stepped inside. He didn’t bother changing right away—just sat down, blinked, and tried to gather his bearings.

But something was wrong.

That feeling again. Like walking in two worlds.

The trailer, Earth, this reality—everything was steady. Tangible. But beneath it, like a shadow flickering in his peripheral vision, there was something else.

Method acting, he thought. Bloody dangerous.

He stood to shower, tried to rinse off the lingering film of grief and Force and sand. But by the time he’s rinsing himself, he could barely focus. Something inside him was pulling.

It wasn’t pain. Not exactly.

It was like breathing underwater—possible, but wrong. Like he was slipping through a crack in the universe, and gravity was trying to decide which world he belonged in.

Then came the voice.

Obi-Wan!

He froze.

Not his name. Not Ewan.

Obi-Wan!

The room wavered. The air thickened.

A hand—not physical, not touchable, but present —closed over his shoulder.

He blinked.

The trailer was gone.

He was on a medbay bed.

Anakin’s face loomed over him, wild with fear.

“Master, please!” Anakin was shouting. His hands were on Ewan’s shoulders, shaking him. “Please, wake up—don’t do this—”

“I’m awake, I’m awake!” Ewan gasped, gripping Anakin’s arms. “Please stop shaking me!”

The shaking stopped, but Anakin didn’t let go. His hands moved up to cup Ewan’s face, tilting it toward his. “What’s happening to you? You were gone. Your pulse dropped, you weren’t breathing right—”

Ewan panted, chest rising and falling like a bellows. “I don’t—I don’t know. I think I’m—”

His eyes darted around the room.

Ahsoka stood behind Anakin, hands over her mouth. Her eyes were glassy, red.

Vokara Che hovered nearby, face tight with concern.

Ewan’s heart beat too fast. His thoughts blurred.

Is this a dream?

Is this real?

Am I going mad?

He clutched the sheet under him, trembling.

Che took one look at him and stepped in.

“Out,” she said firmly. “Both of you. Now.”

“But—” Anakin began.

“Out,” she repeated, already guiding them toward the door. “I’ll call you back in once he’s stable.”

The door hissed shut behind them.

She sat down beside the bed, calm but alert, lowering herself to his eye level.

“Obi-Wan,” she said. “What’s happening?”

Ewan couldn’t answer immediately.

He swallowed. Hard.

“I—I feel like nothing is real anymore.”

Che didn’t blink.

“I feel like I’m someone else but also still Obi-Wan. Like I’m not from here. But here is home. I feel like I’m drowning—but the water’s holding me like it loves me. And I—I think I’m going mad.”

His voice broke on the last word.

Che didn’t speak. She just watched him, studied him. Her silence was a balm, not a weight.

Finally, she asked, “Did you have a vision? A vision of the future?”

Ewan blinked rapidly.

“I don’t know.”

And then the world darkened again.

His body swayed.

He fell back.

And the dream faded to black.

When Ewan woke, the first thing he noticed was the light. Not the filtered, hazy sun that slanted in through his trailer curtains each morning. Not the warmth of studio lights. This light was brighter, clearer, and above him—not around. Like the world had decided to start from scratch and rebuild itself, sterile and humming.

Then came sound. A breath. A shift of weight. The subtle creak of someone adjusting on a chair.

He turned his head and—

Hayden.

Sitting at his side, worry carved into every line of his face, holding a coffee cup between two trembling hands.

“You’re awake,” Hayden breathed. “Thank god.”

Ewan blinked slowly. “Where—?”

“My trailer,” Hayden answered. “I found you passed out in yours. Door was unlocked, shower still running. I thought—” He stopped himself. “I thought you’d hit your head. I didn’t know what the hell happened.”

Ewan pushed himself upright, only to realize how heavy his limbs felt. Like his bones were anchoring him to two different realities.

“What’s happening with you?” Hayden asked. “You’ve been off for days. You’re nailing every scene and then vanishing, like you’re not here. I thought—”

“You thought I was going mad,” Ewan finished quietly.

Hayden opened his mouth, then shut it. “No. I thought something was wrong. And I still do.”

Ewan let out a long breath and sat back fully. His eyes traced the floor. The old carpet. Hayden’s mismatched socks. The faint buzz of anxiety behind his ribs wasn’t going away. He was tired—past tired. Tired on a soul level.

And still—Hayden looked at him like he was something precious worth fixing.

“I need to tell you something,” Ewan said slowly. “And I’m scared that when I do… you’ll look at me differently.”

Hayden leaned forward. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

Ewan chuckled. A weak, grateful sound.

“It started with dreams,” he began. “They were just dreams at first. Beautiful. Strange. But they made sense. I was Obi-Wan—like, fully him. In the Jedi Temple. Feeling the Force. Talking to Anakin. Hugging Ahsoka.” He gave a breathless laugh. “I even met Master Che.”

Hayden’s brows drew together.

“And it kept happening,” Ewan continued. “Each dream picked up where the last one left off. It’s in chronological order. Clear. It was so real. At first I thought it was just my subconscious processing the role. Connecting with Obi-Wan.”

He looked at Hayden, searching for doubt, mockery—anything.

But Hayden only listened.

“But then it wasn’t just dreams anymore,” Ewan whispered. “I’d wake up and still feel the Force in my chest. I could still smell the incense. I still remembered the way Anakin’s voice cracked when he cried.”

He shook his head. “And now, it’s like I’m being dragged there. Like I fall asleep and return. Like I’m stepping into a second life.”

Hayden was silent.

He gave a sharp, panicked laugh. “I know my brain isn’t clever enough to invent this kind of emotional continuity, Hayden. I can’t write this stuff. I can’t even remember what I had for lunch yesterday, let alone build an entire emotional arc through twenty dreams in a row.”

He closed his eyes, trembling.

“I think I’m going mad,” he whispered.

There was a long pause. Ewan almost didn’t dare breathe.

Then he felt it.

Hayden’s hand closing gently over his.

Ewan opened his eyes.

Hayden’s expression was still worried—but soft. Present. Believing. It felt like someone finally lighting a candle in a room Ewan didn’t realize he’d been trapped inside.

“I don’t think you’re going mad,” Hayden said quietly. “I don’t know what this is. But it feels like… like something more.”

Ewan looked at him, stunned.

“You’ve been different,” Hayden added. “Even when we’re just running lines. Even when the cameras aren’t rolling. You move like Obi-Wan. You breathe like him. Like the role’s not something you’re playing anymore.”

Ewan let out a shaky breath, and Hayden lifted his hand, gently caressing Ewan’s knuckles with his thumb.

“You are Obi-Wan,” Hayden said. “Or maybe you always were. Maybe you’re finally meeting the part of yourself you forgot.”

Ewan laughed softly, blinking rapidly. “That sounds insane.”

“It does,” Hayden agreed. “But we’re actors in a galaxy with space wizards and laser swords. I think we’re past the point of sanity being a useful metric.”

That made Ewan laugh again, fuller this time.

Hayden smiled. “But for now… what I think you need is a proper rest. A real one. No lightsabers. No dreams.”

He gently pushed Ewan back into the pillows.

“Sleep, Ewan,” he said. “And if I think you’re dreaming again… I’ll wake you up.”

Ewan’s throat caught. “Thank you.”

“Always.”

He closed his eyes.

When he woke up, it wasn’t to the familiar walls of his trailer or the smell of burnt coffee Hayden always seemed to bring in the morning. It wasn’t to the quiet, sleepy hum of a film set.

It was to sterility. Cold light. The clean antiseptic scent of a medical bay.

And to Anakin.

Ewan blinked against the brightness. The ceiling above him was smooth, white, unmarred. The sheets beneath him too stiff to be anything he’d personally chosen. The weight on his side was warm and slouched. Anakin Skywalker, slumped forward on a chair, looked like he hadn’t slept. Eyes half-lidded, skin too pale under the warm tone.

“Are you going to faint again, Obi-Wan?” Anakin asked without looking up, his voice hoarse and low—so low it could be mistaken for a growl. 

Ewan inhaled slowly.

“That’s not for me to answer, Anakin,” he said, sliding seamlessly into Obi-Wan’s cadence. “I do not control what happens to me.”

It came out steady.

Inside, he was breaking.

What the fuck is happening? His mind reeled. This wasn’t a dream. Not in the way the others were. There was weight to everything—the air, the silence, even the tension. And Anakin—Anakin was real. His presence was overwhelming. Hot and electric. Like a furnace of emotion burning through skin.

Quantum physics? Alternate realities? Was he hallucinating? Had someone drugged him?

Was he losing his fucking mind?

“Are you going to die?” Anakin asked again.

Ewan turned to him, startled. The question came out like a punch to the gut.

“Is that why you’ve been... different? Why you’ve shown so much... love?”

Anakin’s eyes were bloodshot. His mouth trembled around the words.

“You say you love me. And Ahsoka. You say it like it’s nothing. You declare it. You look at us like we’re precious to you. Like you’re not afraid anymore. Like the Code doesn’t matter.”

“Anakin,” Ewan tried gently.

“I heard Master Che,” Anakin snapped, gripping Ewan’s arm. “She said something about a vision. ”

Ewan tried to calm him, pried gently at the hands wrapped around his arm. One gloved. One mechanical. Both trembling.

“Anakin.”

“Please,” Anakin said, voice breaking. “Please, Master. What’s happening? Tell me what’s happening.”

Ewan opened his mouth—

“Who’s Hayden?”

And froze.

Oh. Shit.

He’d said that name before, hadn’t he? During the panic. While floating between realities. He’d said it and forgotten. Until now.

Ewan’s breath caught.

Anakin’s grip tightened, not cruelly—but tightly enough that Ewan’s pulse jumped. Panic sparked in his lungs.

He needed to think. He needed to lie.

“Anakin.”

“Who is he?”

“I—”

“Why do I feel so much from you when you think of him? So much love? ”

Ewan scrambled. The Force—it was the Force, it had to be—was screaming at him to deflect. To distract. To escape.

“Anakin, please, release me.”

“Who. Is. Hayden?” Anakin growled. His face was a mask of fury and confusion and desperation. “Obi-Wan. Answer me. ”

“ Knight Anakin! ”

The voice cracked like thunder.

Both of them turned.

Mace Windu stood at the doorway.

Ewan’s brain short-circuited.

No. No fucking way.

“If you would kindly remove your hands from Master Kenobi,” Mace said, his voice like stone, “and let him rest. ”

Anakin’s eyes burned, his jaw clenched. He looked back at Obi-Wan—at Ewan—with something possessive, something wounded, something wild.

“We’ll talk later,” he said flatly, and stalked out the door.

The moment Anakin left, it felt like the entire room exhaled.

Ewan nearly collapsed back onto the bed.

Mace crossed the room and took the chair Anakin had occupied. For a long, tense moment, he stared.

Then—

“Master Windu—”

“Oh, cut the crap.”

Mace leaned in, narrowed his eyes.

“Really? Ewan? ”

Ewan’s mouth fell open.

“What the fuck is happening here?”

For a moment, the words didn’t make sense.

And then—

Mace Windu grinned. Actually grinned.

“Motherfucker,” he muttered. “You’re as shocked as I was.”

Ewan just stared.

Mace— Samuel Jackson —burst out laughing.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said, waving a hand. “I’ve been playing this stoic bastard for hours, thinking I’m either dreaming or some Star Wars meth trip gone wrong. Then I hear the name of ‘ Hayden’ when the force urged me to go this way and I thought, fuck me, that’s real. ”

“Samuel?” Ewan whispered.

“Yeah, man,” Sam said, dragging a hand over his bald head. “Still sexy. Still confused. Very much in the body of a Jedi Master.”

Ewan blinked hard, and then—

He laughed.

Giddy. Terrified. Unhinged.

He laughed until his ribs hurt.

Sam laughed with him, tears in his eyes.

“Fuck,” Sam said, wiping his face. “You look like a fucking zombie.”

Ewan nodded. “I feel like one.”

And without warning, Sam reached over and hugged him.

Tightly. Warmly.

Ewan froze for a moment.

Then he melted into it.

Because whatever the hell this was—he wasn’t alone anymore.