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Chapter Text

It should have been raining.

Rain would have been…appropriate, under the circumstances.

At the very least it would have made it feel like the universe was empathizing with Obi-Wan Kenobi Jinn in some small way during this difficult time.

But no: the sun had been shining all day, from the moment they arrived at the funeral service to the long drive to the Coruscant crematorium, so clearly the universe was as indifferent to his plight as everyone else seemed to be, as he was forced to stand in this hellish room and watch his father’s final wishes for his remains be fulfilled.

Granted, Obi-Wan wasn’t sure he would have been any more pleased to see them lowered into the ground, but at this moment, standing and watching as the hungry flames started licking the sides of the coffin…something about the process felt particularly ghoulish.

The only thing still holding him here was the underfed, tow-headed boy standing at his side, with one tiny hand clutched in his.

“I’m going to pick up some final things for Anakin.  Do you want to come with me?”

Obi-Wan’s gaze remained fixed on the stewpot, his fingers clenching slightly around the spoon at the mention of the boy’s name.  “I need to make sure this doesn’t boil over.”

A long, tense pause, before Dad murmured softly, “…All right.”

Obi-Wan stirred the pot with far more intensity than truly necessary, making some of it slosh over the rim and down the side with a sizzle, trying to pretend that he wasn’t fighting with his father over his decision to take in a small child without even talking to him about it first.  He wasn’t upset, or being selfish or unreasonable about this.  He wasn’t.

He heard Dad slowly walk to the doorway to grab his hat and coat, and then pause; the floor creaked as he turned back to face him.

“I know you’re upset, but…Anakin has nowhere else to go, and I can’t just let him wind up in the system.  He needs someone to look after him, and we’re all he has left.”

We.  As if Obi-Wan had had any say in the matter.

…But Dad was trying to offer him an olive branch.

Obi-Wan hesitated, then finally sighed and glanced back over his shoulder at him.  “I know.  It’s okay.”

It wasn’t, but it was worth seeing his dad’s lined face finally relax into a warm smile.

“We’ll talk more about it when I get back, okay?”

“Okay.”

He really had meant to talk things out when he got back.  He’d wanted to understand why his father had chosen now, of all times, to take in another foster kid-in the middle of a big case, no less-and he was going to do his best to get along with his new little brother before going back to school.

…He hadn’t been prepared at all for the phone call that came an hour later from the cops.

Three gunshots.

The first one to the stomach, followed swiftly by two to the heart.

It helped, a little, that in addition to some of Dad’s old army buddies and…another group of people who Obi-Wan was trying not to look at, Feemor had managed to get the shore leave to attend the funeral; they’d never been overly close thanks to the age gap, but it was good to see him just the same, to have him standing close to him and Anakin.

It would have just been a normal convenience store holdup, probably with no one getting hurt at all, if Dad hadn’t tried to step in and protect a little girl who the robber had tried to grab as a hostage.

But of course he had.

He’d never let a helpless person get hurt if he was nearby to stop it.

Xanatos hadn’t even bothered to show up-not that Obi-Wan had been surprised.  Disappointed, certainly.  But not the least bit surprised.

The culprit had gotten away before anyone could move, barely stayed long enough for them to notice that he had strange red and black face tattoos under his hood.

They thought he might be a gangster, but nobody knew which gang he was from, and the ones they’d questioned weren’t talking.

He’d ended up disappearing into the streets of Coruscant without a trace.

What did surprise Obi-Wan was that his grandfather had come.

It wasn’t that Dooku hadn’t cared for Dad, but…Obi-Wan hadn’t seen much of him since he was a preteen, before he’d moved away from Coruscant and gone back to his family estate.

He looked even graver than usual as he watched the coffin disappearing into the furnace.

Obi-Wan was beginning to feel like he was about to throw up, and could only pray that he would avoid doing so in front of Dooku; the last thing he needed right now was that particular look of bemused disapproval that cut right to the bone every single time, silently asking why out of all the children in the world Qui-Gon had had to adopt him-

There was a tiny sniffle from down by his ribs, reminding him that there was yet another reason why he needed to keep it together.  He swallowed down bile and gave the hand in his a brief reassuring squeeze.

The worst part of the whole process, Obi-Wan decided once it was finally done and he was allowed to leave the crematorium, was the smell.

It was, he mused as they walked out into the horrible mocking sunlight (which was surprisingly more welcome than before, after where they’d just been), probably what a concentration camp smelled like, and he never wanted to smell it again.

He wondered what had ever possessed Dad into choosing it as preferred method of internment.

It didn’t help that Dooku already had an urn prepared to collect the ashes-a really fancy one too, decorated with golden spirals and flowers and things against a jet black background.  It looked far too stiff and ornamental to be holding all that was left of the warm, chaotic man who’d raised him.

“My poor boy,” Dooku murmured as he lifted the urn and cradled it in the crook of his arm, running his fingers gently along the fancy etchings as if Qui-Gon belonged to him and no one else.  “This never should have happened.”

He wasn’t even looking at Obi-Wan, but the words still cut him right to the heart.

If I’d just gone with him…

Obi-Wan was startled out of his latest wave of self-pity by the feeling of a warm hand landing on his shoulder.

“How are you holding up?” Feemor asked gently.

Obi-Wan swallowed and somehow managed to meet his gaze.  “…Fine.”

It wasn’t his best lie ever; fortunately Feemor seemed to understand enough not to call him out on it.  He just squeezed his shoulder again, then crouched down to Anakin’s eye level.  “Hey there.  I’m Feemor.  I…guess I’m basically your oldest brother.”

Anakin gave him a shy look, then glanced up at Obi-Wan; at his encouraging nod, he allowed Feemor to take his tiny hand and give it a gentle shake.

“…Hey.”

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Anakin,” Feemor said with a gentle smile.  “Obi-Wan has my number-if either of you need help with anything while I’m on shore leave, don’t hesitate to call me, okay?”

Anakin’s chin dipped in a tiny nod.

“That goes for you too.”  Feemor straightened up and gave Obi-Wan a look.  “You can call me, day or night, for anything at all.”

Obi-Wan didn’t trust himself to speak, not even to thank his brother for an offer they both knew he’d probably never take him up on; he just nodded once and then dug his hand into his pocket, fumbling for his keys.  He couldn’t stay here any longer, and he needed to get home so he could start…taking care of things.

Anakin needed to finish moving in (would they even be able to keep the apartment?), and…at some point he would most likely have to start cleaning out Dad’s office, figuring out which cases he’d be able to complete in his name and which he might have to leave unsolved-

He stopped the train of thought in its tracks when his eyes started stinging in earnest, and focused on the feeling of Anakin’s hand in his own to ground himself as they walked back to the car.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan had been having a beautiful dream about being back at Mandalore University, and the feeling of a warm, slender hand in his as he and its owner crossed campus playfully debating the pros and cons of pacifism, when she suddenly reached over, cupped his face in her free hand…and started licking his ear.

It wasn’t like her to be quite so forward, and he was taken aback, to say the least.

Not that he was objecting, per se, but he didn’t exactly-

Obi-Wan’s eyes flew open, and he was staring up at the cracked ceiling of his bedroom, in his shabby four-room apartment.

And even though both college and Satine had not been in his life for longer than he wanted to think about, his ear was still being licked.

…Clarity dawned.

“Get off,” Obi-Wan groaned, shoving to one side and receiving an indignant yelp in response.

Anakin had been the one to find the spindly, dirty gold greyhound puppy digging around in the trash when he was ten, and immediately fell in love with the little beast, begging Obi-Wan for them to please please please keep him.  Obi-Wan had done his best to explain that he absolutely did not under any circumstances have the funds, time or patience to take care of a dog…only for his foster brother to look up at him with big blue eyes and say plaintively as he cuddled the puppy, “But he’s all alone, Obi!  And Mom always said the biggest problem with this world is that nobody helps each other.”

…Against his better judgement, common sense, and the fact that there were technically no pets allowed in their apartment, Obi-Wan had folded like a damp paper towel, with only the caveat that Threepio, as he came to be known, was Anakin’s dog, and therefore his responsibility alone.  So, naturally, this meant that by now he would regularly take the beast on walks, make sure his water dish was full…and occasionally be woken up by his early-morning tongue assault.

“If you must give someone a bath first thing in the morning, go lick Anakin.  You’re his dog,” he grumbled at Threepio, who just tilted his head inquiringly so that his ears flopped from side to side, before leaning in and licking his cheek.

Obi-Wan resigned himself to the fact that he wasn’t going to get any more sleep, and reluctantly sat up; his back uttered a series of cracks and pops as he did that were nothing short of alarming for someone who hadn’t even hit thirty yet, and so did his neck when he tilted it from one side to the other.  Threepio gave him a look that almost seemed worried as he straightened up himself, into what Anakin called his ‘butler pose’: paws in front of him, head erect, ears folded neatly back.  When combined with the little circles of dark gold that ringed both eyes and gave him a permanent startled stare, it was enough to make even Obi-Wan smile a little bit.

He sighed and ran his hand through his hair as he swung his legs out of bed, noting internally that it might be about time he got it cut properly.  He’d allowed personal grooming to fall somewhat by the wayside ever since…ever since, and while he’d decided he could live with keeping the beard (in part because it made him look older, and therefore more likely to be taken seriously by his clients), the long hair was becoming a bit more of a challenge to keep tidy.

I probably need to start cleaning this place better too.  Mr. Windu could come to check on us any day now, and the last thing I need is another lecture on maintaining a proper environment for raising a child.

Trying to argue that it was mostly Anakin’s mess had not done him any favors.

Seeing that Threepio was starting to whine and sidestep nervously, Obi-Wan crossed the hall to Anakin’s room and cracked open the door.

As per usual, all he could see of his little brother was a tuft of golden-brown hair poking out of the pile of blankets he’d cocooned himself in, since he’d never properly adjusted to moving out of the desert.  He had to nudge aside the blankets until he could get a good look at Anakin’s face, which was far more relaxed than the usual frantic energy it held whenever he was awake.  Occasionally when he exhaled a few stray wisps of hair would get blown back and forth over his eyes like dandelion fluff.

For a moment Obi-Wan just stood there and watched him sleep; then he picked up Threepio, who had followed him into the room, and dropped him gently right over where he thought Anakin’s midriff was.

He knew he’d guessed right at the indignant squawk given in response, along with the way Anakin popped up like a jack-in-the-box and nearly collided his forehead with his dog’s nose.

“Good morning.  It’s your turn to take Threepio out,” Obi-Wan said pleasantly.

He waited out the groan of visceral anguish, then asked with a raised eyebrow, “Do you remember our deal?”

“Yes,” Anakin muttered sullenly.

Thankfully Obi-Wan didn’t have to push (this time); Anakin was already shoving back the blankets with one hand, while the other snatched up Threepio’s leash from amongst the pile of disassembled radio parts on his bedside table.  “C’mon, buddy.”

Threepio barked happily before allowing him to attach the leash to his collar.  Anakin, who didn’t even bother to change out of his Gray Ghost pajamas first (hopefully it wasn’t raining, because even if it was he wouldn’t have the common sense to remember an umbrella), stopped and listened for a moment once they reached the front door, then slowly cracked it open and peeked; after confirming that the coast was clear, boy and dog slipped out into the hall.

Plo Koon, or Mister Plo as everyone called him, was an excellent landlord by almost anyone’s standards.

He’d been an old army buddy of Qui-Gon’s, and was more than happy to allow his sons to live in his building without too high of a rent in exchange for their doing occasional odd jobs around the place, such as replacing wiring, fixing burst pipes, and so on.

However, he was also highly allergic to dogs, a condition exacerbated by the injuries he’d received in the war which required him to constantly wear dark glasses and an oxygen mask.

This meant, firstly, that they had to groom Threepio as often as possible to avoid spreading dander, and secondly that his presence, if not his very existence, needed to be kept an absolute secret to anyone in the building.  And also that Obi-Wan was saving up as much money as he could to eventually get their own place.  In addition to the money he was trying to save up for Anakin’s college fund, so they could buy a better car, so they could-

Well.  The list went on for quite a while.

Once he was alone in the apartment, Obi-Wan wasted no time getting started with his routine for the day.

First to the kitchen, where he set a saucepan of water on the stove and dropped in four eggs-two for each of them-then threw together a couple of sandwiches, stuffing them into brown paper bags along with an apple and some carrot sticks (which he suspected Anakin would throw away if he could get away with it, but hope sprang eternal that the boy would at least consider eating his vegetables once in a while).

Then, while the eggs were still boiling, he crossed the hall to the bathroom, quickly showering and dressing for the day; as he squinted at his face in the still-foggy mirror he concluded that yes, he definitely needed to get a haircut.  Maybe with the money from his next paycheck…

He had just pulled his suspenders up over his shoulders and was tying his tie when the egg timer dinged, so Obi-Wan quickly crossed the hall back to the kitchen to first turn off the stove, and then move the saucepan to the back burner in a single fluid motion, before spinning around to put the last slices of bread in the toaster and then get out the butter and jam.

Breakfast: check.

Lunch: check.

Dog: check.

Dressed: …Half-check.  Need Anakin to get back in before that can be finished.

Still, not a bad record for the morning so far.

Now for the best part: tea.

One benefit to having a foster brother who was a chronic tinkerer was that they almost never needed to call a repairman.  Either he could fix whatever broke, or would cobble together various odds and ends and remake it into something even better.

Exhibit A: the electric tea kettle he’d built himself, out of the cannibalized remains of a toaster and a fan, among other things.  It was slightly terrifying to look at, but Obi-Wan had to admit that the tea it produced was an absolute delight.

Anakin had also done numerous repairs to the vacuum, the stove, and even the microwave, with a gift for machinery that mechanics twice his age would give their right arms to have.

It was what had made him valuable to the people Qui-Gon rescued him from.

The downside to this arrangement was having a brother who also tended to leave tools and half-finished projects lying around-though after an incident where Obi-Wan had accidentally stepped on one of them in the dark and ended up giving Anakin an impromptu lesson in the more colorful side of Coruscanti slang, he had at least gotten better at remembering to keep them off the floor.  Obi-Wan hadn’t pushed much beyond that, having learned that when it came to raising a child, sometimes it was best to know when to pick your battles.

Speak of the devil, just as he finished filling his mug and began doctoring it with sugar and a small splash of milk, the front door burst open, and in came boy and dog.

Just as Obi-Wan had feared, Anakin’s shoulders and the top of his magnificent bed head were now damp with raindrop spatters, and the bottoms of his bare feet left a slightly muddy trail as he padded towards the kitchen, where he filled Threepio’s food and water dishes and petted the dog as he daintily nibbled his kibble.

“Better hurry and get ready,” Obi-Wan warned as he scooped the eggs out of the now-cooled water and dried them off before sticking them in their lunch bags.  “Have you showered in recent memory?”

Anakin made a face.  “Showering’s a waste of time.  I’m a busy guy.”

“You’re also a very smelly guy.”  Obi-Wan made an imperious gesture towards the washroom, and Anakin rolled his eyes to heaven but obeyed his request.

…Hopefully that didn’t come off as too authoritarian.  I don’t want him to start thinking it’s a chore just to stay clean, but if he goes to school seeming like he’s not properly groomed…

He tried to put it out of his mind as he finally got a proper sip of tea.

To his relief, Obi-Wan managed to get Anakin to school on time for once.

“Have a good time,” he said as he pulled up outside the gates.

Anakin wrinkled his nose and swung his backpack onto his shoulder.  “Fat chance, but thanks for the sentiment.”  He paused long enough to give Threepio, who was sitting in the back with him, an affectionate ear rub.  “Don’t forget to take our attack dog to work.”

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes, even as he smiled a little; they both knew perfectly well that in spite of Anakin’s attempts at training him otherwise, Threepio was essentially useless in any kind of physical conflict, as he was more likely to run away yelping and hide behind the nearest object.  He did, however, have a decent sense of smell, which occasionally came in handy in Obi-Wan’s line of work.

Anakin climbed out of the car, but then hesitated with the door still open, oblivious to the pointed glare Obi-Wan directed towards the seats or the rain now pattering on them and damaging the material.

“We’re still going to Padmé’s for dinner, right?”

Obi-Wan’s hands clenched just the tiniest bit around the steering wheel.  Blast it all, was it Thursday already?

Mentally he went over the contents of the refrigerator for leftovers that desperately needed to be eaten up…and was betrayed by its general emptiness.

“...Yes, I believe so.”

Anakin beamed, the little traitor, and bounced on the soles of his sneakers for a few seconds.

“Okay, see you later!”

And he barely remembered to slam the door behind him before running off into the herd of students.

Obi-Wan groaned, and leaned his head against the wheel, until he felt Threepio snuffling enquiringly at his shirt collar; he shooed him off, and turned on the ignition with a little more ferocity than necessary.

…It wasn’t that he had a problem with the Naberries.

They were an extremely kind, generous family, and he tried not to resent their youngest daughter-no, no, there was no need to try, because he didn’t resent Padmé.

He harbored absolutely no negative emotions towards her whatsoever.

Not when her only crimes were sneaking out of the house as an eleven-year-old to use some of her hard-earned allowance money to buy candy for one of her nieces, and choosing to do her shopping at a convenience store where a few minutes after her arrival a gun-wielding maniac had burst in and shouted for everyone to get on the floor.

It wasn’t her fault that said maniac had tried to take her hostage on his way out, only for an older man to bravely step between them and refuse to budge.

And it certainly wasn’t her fault that in the aftermath of the…incident, some well-meaning photographer had gotten a picture for the front page of the Coruscant Chronicle of her crouching next to where Qui-Gon’s body had lain, tiny hands still covered in blood from when she’d made a noble, if futile, attempt at putting pressure on the wounds, big brown eyes swollen and damp as if it was her father who’d died trying to protect her instead of-

Well.

As he said, Obi-Wan had no reason at all to resent her or be uncomfortable in her presence.

He knew she still felt terrible about what happened, as did her parents and sister.

They’d gone out of their way to be kind to him and Anakin afterwards-heck, more than kind.  When they’d had to move out of their old apartment because the lease ran out, before Mister Plo had reached out to them with his offer, the Naberries had insisted on allowing the two boys to move in with them for a few weeks.  And despite Obi-Wan’s protestations of not wanting to impose, that they didn’t owe them anything for what happened, somehow he and Anakin had ended up in their guest room.

And even after they’d managed to secure a new apartment for themselves, the Naberries insisted on inviting them over for dinner at least once a week, which resulted every time in Mrs. Naberrie sending them home with at least two tupperware containers full of leftovers that Obi-Wan wanted to be too proud to accept, but the fact was that having them was infinitely kinder to their budget.

With the benefit of hindsight, Obi-Wan could admit that having this family in their lives had probably been the best thing for both of them: he’d needed some time to process things before he could even begin to start putting his life back together, and Anakin had needed to make new friends and get that reassurance that not everything in this strange new city he’d so suddenly moved to would be terrible.

More than a friend, in fact: the first time he’d met Padmé he’d asked in an awed voice, “Are you an angel?” (making Obi-Wan, even in the middle of the numbness he’d been experiencing those first few days, sigh at the fact that apparently his new kid brother had better pickup lines than he did), before quickly developing the world’s least subtle crush on her that somehow she still seemed to have no idea about.

…a.k.a. yet another reason why Obi-Wan couldn’t be angry at her-to say nothing of the fact that aside from her being as much of a chaos gremlin as Anakin, she was a genuinely nice, compassionate person who had looked up at him with big teary eyes and told him how sorry she was for what had happened to Qui-Gon.

To feel any sort of negative emotions towards her after that would be worse than irrational-it was downright cruel.

It would have been easier for him, if there had been a legitimate reason to dislike her or her family.

Obi-Wan shook his head, pushing away all these unhealthy negative thoughts that he definitely didn’t have, and turned on the radio the rest of the way downtown.

Chapter Text

The car’s destination was a building that had probably been here since the days when Coruscant was still a small collection of mostly log cabins under the control of the ever-feuding Taung and Zhell families, if its appearance was anything to go by: sagging at the corners of the roof, walls constructed from old, crumbling bricks in constant need of upkeep that would never be properly given, occasionally sprayed with graffiti that always took hours to scrub off.  It sat in the middle of Tython Street, which neatly separated the main sector where city hall, the banks, the courthouse, and most of the wealthy businesses and people resided from…the rest.

The areas where the gangs constantly roamed and feuded, and everyone else either joined them or tried to stay out of their way as best they could.

The outer circle.

The riffraff.

Call them what you would, Dad had done his best for any clients who came to him looking for help, regardless of what part of the city they were from.

We’re servants of Coruscant, Obi-Wan, not just of the people who can pay more.  And the best way to show them that is by being accessible to anyone who needs us.

Obi-Wan could hardly argue with his logic…but he was still grateful, every time he traveled through this neighborhood or got a particularly shady-looking client, for the self-defense classes Dad had signed him up for since he was twelve.  Not to mention the .45 automatic on his hip, the crowbar he kept in the trunk, and the pair of brass knuckles in the pockets of his coat.

JINN & SON DETECTIVE AGENCY

OPEN MONDAY-FRIDAY, 8-3

SATURDAY, 10-5

NO CASE TOO SMALL

The golden nameplate had hung outside the office door ever since Obi-Wan’s thirteenth birthday, when Dad had brought him here for the first time.  He’d been a little flustered and overwhelmed, tried to protest that he hadn’t earned it yet, but Dad just patted his shoulder and told him he’d already earned it from their first case together (which had led to his adoption in the first place) and not to worry about that.

Considering how old and scuffed and scratched up it had become since then, replacing it was…yet another addition to the list of things he’d been meaning to do and just hadn’t gotten around to yet.

Obi-Wan took a moment to try and polish it with his coat sleeve while unlocking the door with his free hand.

The office was as small and shabby as the building, with two large desks in the middle (both kept scrupulously dusted, but the one on the right remained otherwise untouched), two bookshelves against the walls that had only in the last three years started having their contents placed in tidy alphabetical order, and a set of file cabinets that had undergone the same transformation as the bookshelves.

There had once been a small jungle of houseplants decorating the windows too, but…Obi-Wan did not possess the green thumb his father had.

Once he was inside properly, he removed Threepio’s leash and let him settle in his basket under the desk while Obi-Wan turned the sign around, indicating that they were open for the day, followed by a number of other little chores while he waited for potential clients.

And waited.

And waited.

By eleven o’clock, Obi-Wan was beginning to suspect that he would have to pick up some shifts at Dex’s over the weekend if he wanted to be able to manage any of the bills he’d been needing to pay this month.

He sighed and rubbed his temples…and then glanced at his desk drawer.

He shouldn’t do it.

He knew he shouldn’t.

It would just leave him even more frustrated and heavy and tired for the rest of the day, and it wouldn’t do for him to be feeling like that when it was time to go to the Naberries.

…His hand moved almost of its own accord, pulling open the drawer and lifting out the files.

There were two of them, each with the name of the client and the date of the case’s opening written on the side in his own neat hand.

One was for Finis Valorum, former CEO of Naboo Enterprises, regarding a case of what he had claimed to be a hostile corporate takeover carried out by Nute Gunray of Neimoidia LTD.

The file was filled with papers: recorded minutes of meetings that had taken place three years ago, lists of finances and shareholders, and even a few photos of what could have been a secret meeting being held in the slums of Tatooine Flats.

Just as it had three years ago, the evidence here boiled down to what was a severe case of bad business etiquette, but none of which was technically illegal.  But Mr. Valorum had been adamant when he came to them that there had been more to the whole thing than just one company wishing to take control of another-that someone else was behind the forced merger-and after some investigation Qui-Gon had suspected that their client was right.

He’d still been trying to figure out who it was when…

Obi-Wan opened the other folder, the one with the name Qui-Gon Jinn written on the side.

It contained a collection of newspaper clippings, a coroner’s report, a list of gun shops in Coruscant, and a sketch of an eyewitness’s description of the shooter.

Obi-Wan had been tempted, on many a bad day, to pick up a pencil and gouge out the eyes glaring at him from under the dark hood.  However, he had resisted, not wanting to potentially ruin any chance he might have of recognizing the man someday.  Not that those weird tattoos didn’t already make him very distinctive, but…still.

Now he pulled a fresh handful of newspaper clippings from his coat and spread them out next to the old evidence, and settled down in his chair to go over them again, with a notebook open in front of him, a pen in his hand, and a glass of whiskey at his elbow (he didn’t drink much nowadays, not with a child and a dog in the house, but…sometimes a man just needed a drink).

Some of the information he’d collected over the years was genuine, or at least appeared genuine.  Usually it turned out to be baseless rumors, or led to the wrong person, or just to nowhere at all.  But no matter what, Obi-Wan had not stopped collecting and searching and using whatever informants he could.

He didn’t care if he was still in Coruscant, or had fled to Tatooine Flats, or Mandalore Heights, or even as far away as Mount Mustafar-whoever the tattooed man was, wherever he was, Obi-Wan was going to find him if it killed him.

Chapter Text

“Hey, it’s Annie!  Look, guys!  It’s Little Orphan Annie, the boy who can’t read!”

“Oh, ha ha ha, never heard that one before!  And I can too read, sleemo.”

The boy in the stupid orange vest sneered smugly at having already managed to get a rise out of him.  “Ah, don’t be like that, Annie!  After all…” he paused, and then began to sing mockingly, “the sun’ll come out tomorrow…”

Anakin gritted his teeth and stalked towards his desk, reminding himself that the last thing they needed right now was for Obi-Wan to get called into another parent-teacher conference.

A little part of him constantly wanted to argue against being forced to go to school at all; he’d done just fine without it for the first nine years of his life, with Mom teaching him to read and write whenever she had the time, and he knew way more about math and engineering than anyone else his age.  Besides, other kids could be jerks, making him long for his old friends Kitster and Wald.

But Obi-Wan had said that the law said he had to get a proper education, and that he wouldn’t be able to give him that and work at the same time, so either Anakin could go to school or they could move out of their apartment and spend the next nine years living in the car while Obi-Wan homeschooled him.

He hadn’t been amused when Anakin had to think about it.

At least Obi-Wan had tried to help with the bullying, talking to his teachers and looking into hiring a private tutor for the subjects Anakin still struggled with (and, when he’d been forced to choose between that and allowing both of them to eat that month, finally stopped being stupid and accepted Mr. Naberrie’s offer to tutor Anakin in exchange for them fixing a few things around the house-which incidentally gave him more opportunities to see Padmé, so he didn’t understand why Obi-Wan hadn’t agreed to it sooner).

But he hadn’t been able to stop jerks like Greedo from just not making fun of him in front of teachers, especially when they knew Anakin wasn’t going to be a snitch about it.  And he tried to remember what Qui-Gon (he couldn’t quite think of the man he’d only known for a few weeks as ‘Dad’ the way Obi-Wan did) had said the one time he’d caught him getting in a fight, that sometimes you just have to tolerate other people’s opinions and that beating them up wouldn’t change them…but it felt like it’d be a lot easier if he just pounded them into the ground until they stopped having those kinds of opinions about him.

Greedo was still singing that stupid song, just loud enough that Anakin couldn’t tune it out.  He could feel his fists already starting to clench, and it was becoming harder by the second to stay in his seat.

He took a deep breath in through his nose, and out through his mouth.

Flashback flashback flashback flashback

“Ignoring him doesn’t do anything, it just makes him do it more!”

“I wasn’t going to tell you to ignore him, Anakin, I know that never works.”

“...Really?”

An awkward cough, and then Obi-Wan was pretending to be hyper-focused on his cup of tea all of a sudden.

“Oh, no, you don’t get to say stuff like that and not elaborate!  You got bullied too?”

“...I…may have been given an insulting nickname by a couple of my peers.”

Despite the wide bruise coating the left side of his face, Anakin grinned.  “Okay, now you gotta tell me.”

“No, actually, I don’t have to tell you anything, on the grounds that it’s not really your business.”

“Aw, c’mon!  It can’t be worse than Little Orphan Annie!”

Obi-Wan froze with his cup half-raised.  “...That’s what he’s been calling you?”

“...Yeah.”  Anakin hadn’t meant to actually say it aloud; he scuffed his shoe against the floor, flexing his still-swollen right hand while using the other to hold the bag of frozen peas against his cheek.

A long silence before Obi-Wan spoke again.

“...And you only gave him a black eye?  I would’ve broken his nose.”

Hearing that had helped.  A little.

And while Obi-Wan had still been annoying and refused to tell Anakin what his bullies called him as a kid, he did outline some potential strategies for dealing with the jerks in the future.

End of flashback end of flashback end of flashback end of flashback

First step was supposed to be not to give them an emotional reaction-which, unfortunately, Anakin had already ruined for himself.

But maybe he could still save this with the next step.

He gave Greedo an unimpressed look.

“You need singing lessons, stat.”

One of Greedo’s flunkies snickered, and Greedo glared at him over his shoulder before turning back to Anakin.

Something about the look in his eyes gave Anakin the feeling that he was about to say something particularly cutting-and if it was one more crack about his mother or the fact that he was from the slummiest part of the desert, he didn’t care about the consequences, he was gonna take him down (sorry, Obi).

But before he could do more than open his mouth, a voice from the doorway said, “Yeah, Anakin’s right, Greedo-you sound like you’ve been gargling with razor blades.”

And there’s step three.

It was another boy, a little shorter and stockier than Anakin, with dark brown skin that clashed kinda weirdly with the bleached blond of his hair, and a dark blue and white windbreaker that he always wore no matter what time of year it was.

Greedo actually went a little pale when he whipped his head around and realized who was standing there; as big of a meathead as he was, even he wasn’t stupid enough to pick a fight with one of the Fett boys.

Everyone at school knew that even though nothing had officially been proven, Jango Fett was a hitman for one of the biggest gangs in Coruscant.  No one knew for sure which one, and his sons weren’t talking, but they did know that Jango was training all six of them (Wolffe, Cody, Rex, Echo, Fives, and Boba) in hand-to-hand combat and how to fire a gun better than most adults.  And anyone who was a friend of theirs got teased in their presence at the bully’s peril.

Greedo and his cronies quickly turned away as Rex strolled over and slid into the desk next to Anakin’s, just before the rest of the stampede of students came into the classroom.

Anakin took advantage of the distraction to dig a piece of hard candy out of his pocket and slide it onto Rex’s desk; his friend smiled a tiny bit, and expertly palmed it just before Mr. Mundi came in.

…Okay, so there was at least one good thing about going to school.

Chapter Text

In a seedy-looking bar on Weequay Street (which didn’t exactly narrow down which bar, but oh well), there was a sudden CRASH and a shower of glass as Obi-Wan dove out the window.

The only thing that saved him from a more painful landing was all the lessons he’d had from Dad and Master Yoda (the owner of the dojo where he’d taken self-defense classes), enabling him to roll and absorb the impact with the concrete as best he could.  He managed to lurch to his feet, and took only a moment to regain his balance before rushing off down the street as fast as he could limp.

His temple and shoulder and cheek and one of his hands were now bleeding, there were multiple tears in his clothes, he had bruises on top of bruises seemingly everywhere at once, and behind him there came the loud clomping of pursuit.

From a certain point of view, his day had become considerably better, because all this meant he was on a case.

Even better, it was a relatively open and shut case: a local thug, one Turk Falso, had been blackmailing a local tradesman into letting him and his cronies take whatever they wanted from his store whenever they wanted it, and after almost a month of enduring it Mr. Kharrus had finally worked up the courage to hire Obi-Wan to sneak into Falso’s favorite watering hole and recover the incriminating photos he’d been keeping to ensure his cooperation.

While it felt a little degrading to agree to such a job, a paycheck was a paycheck.

Getting in had turned out to be surprisingly easy; he’d managed to stagger inside in the middle of the day, buy a pint, and pretend he needed the bathroom afterwards before sneaking upstairs, where a few minutes of snooping had uncovered the requested photos in a plain brown envelope.

It was just Obi-Wan’s bad luck that as he was sneaking back down, he’d stepped on the tail of a scrawny, half-bald cat (at least he assumed that was what it was-it looked like it could also have been a shaved monkey, or an unusually hairy lizard, or some kind of weird hybrid monkey-lizard) that appeared to be sleeping on the stairs for the sheer purpose of making his life more difficult, and though he’d tried to spin a story to Falso when he came to investigate, and then fight him and his cronies off when they guessed at what he was doing and tried to stop him, ultimately the only way out had been via self-defenestration.

So now he was actively racing down the street, dodging bullets that whistled in the air around him and trying not to feel like a coward for not staying to fight it out.

“Dignity is an important thing, Obi-Wan, but there are going to be times when you have to choose between it and your life.  And when that happens, I would personally prefer it if you always opted for the former, and lived to fight another day.”

You’re the boss, Dad.

Obi-Wan glanced around, frantically assessing his options.

Ideally he would be able to reach the end of Weequay Street, where he’d come in, and escape from there into the Coruscanti underworld, but that was probably no longer an option since he had caught some of Falso’s men running ahead of him to block it off.

No police stations in this part of town (because of course not), and even if there were he couldn’t always rely on them for assistance.

Instead he was surrounded by bars, pubs, a tavern just to spice things up, some gambling dens, and a few, ahem, houses of ill repute.

…He decided to duck into one of the bars, and see if it had a back door that he could escape through.

Thankfully the lighting inside was dim and smoky, and the crowd of barflies were in varied stages of slovenly and unkempt, so he didn’t stand out too much.

And, because this was on Weequay Street, Obi-Wan had the feeling that unless he’d come in wielding a bazooka, playing the cymbals and yelling at the top of his lungs, this was a part of Coruscant where no matter what his condition when he entered, the majority of them would have classified the situation as “not my problem” and gone on with their drinking until and unless circumstances dictated otherwise.

With a flicker of tentative hope he adjusted his clothes, turning up his coat collar and tucking his hat (both articles of clothing still damp from the morning’s rain) down over his face, and forced his breathing back under control as he sidled between tables, acting like he was looking for a place to make himself comfortable before ordering.  Not a moment too soon: the door burst open a few seconds later, and in came some of his new friends.  He made sure to give them a cursory glance, and then looked away as if they were nothing of interest.

There was a corridor in the back of the room, presumably leading to where the bathrooms were; if push came to shove, Obi-Wan was willing to break a window.

He casually leaned against a table and glanced at the television screen, where some kind of sport was being played, and pretended to be interested in the game.

Frankly, he’d be surprised if there weren’t some windows back there that were already broken, just looking at the state of this place and feeling the cloying stickiness of the wood under his palm.

Obi-Wan grimaced, made a mental note to thoroughly wash his hands at the first opportunity, and sidled on when the group around him started cheering.

He’d actually thought he’d be able to get away with it.

He’d been keeping half an eye on the thugs, and while they were certainly doing a good job of fanning out and searching the patrons, none of them had looked his way yet, and he was just inches away from the corridor-

When a lithe figure, wearing a bright yellow bandanna with a red star around his forehead, sauntered out of one of the bathrooms into the corridor, with something black and shiny swinging casually from his hand.

“There you are,” he purred.  “I was beginning to wonder what was keeping you.”

Obi-Wan gritted his teeth, even as he felt a thick cylinder of metal pressing into his back, and allowed himself to be shoved to another sticky table and his gun swiped.

Falso sat down across from him, smirking, and began fumbling in his pockets until he drew out a dirty packet of cigarettes.

“You’re that snoop, right?” he asked as he extracted a cigarette.  “Something, something, Kenobi.”

“Jinn.”  Obi-Wan’s voice came out sharper than he meant it to.

Falso waved dismissively, and gestured to the table.  “We don’t serve drinks to snoops.  How about you hand over what you stole from me, and maybe I’ll let you live.”

So much for the casual small talk.

Obi-Wan leaned back in his chair.  “What makes you think I’ve stolen anything?”

Falso glared.  “Why else would you run?”

“What else was I supposed to do, just stand there and get shot?”

Think of a plan, think of a plan…got it.

Falso clenched his fingers around his cigarette, accidentally crushing it.  He swore, and fumbled out another.  “Don’t play games, Kenobi.”

The cylinder, which was now behind his head, clicked.

For a horrible moment, Obi-Wan imagined someone having to pick Anakin up from school and explain why he wasn’t coming home.  He swallowed, and slowly reached into his coat, drawing out the envelope and placing it on the table.  But just as Falso started to reach, he put his hand on top of it.

“My client would like me to negotiate on his behalf.”

Falso blinked as he finally stuck the cigarette in his mouth.

“Negotiate?  What does that little weasel have to negotiate with?”

“Does the word ‘benzoylmethylecgonine’ mean anything to you?”  Mentally he apologized to Mr. Kharrus, since he had seen no evidence that he was involved in any such thing.

Falso blinked.  “Whazzat?”  He started searching his pockets, then looked up.  “Anyone got a light?”

“Allow me.”  Obi-Wan didn’t smoke-didn’t even like the smell of death sticks-but he did always keep a book of matches on himself.  He drew it out now, struck a match, and held it out for Falso, who lit up with a smug grin.

Obi-Wan drew back-and dropped the match, just as it was starting to sting his fingers.

Right onto the envelope.

Considering the constitution of the substances that had made the tabletop so sticky, it didn’t stand a chance.

Even the most hardened of gunslingers is likely to have their concentration somewhat jostled by a table catching fire right in front of them.

Obi-Wan took advantage of the element of surprise to turn, throw the thug’s arm straight upward-there was a loud crack and a shower of splinters as a bullet hit the ceiling-and slam his other fist, brass knuckles securely in place, into his gut.

He went down with a groan, and Obi-Wan didn’t waste time checking his vitals.  He just ran for the exit.

Chaos broke out as circumstances very quickly started to dictate that this was, indeed, everyone’s problem.  People screamed, chairs were overturned, everyone began fighting to get out.

Obi-Wan wondered if he hadn’t been a bit hasty in his actions, as no one seemed to be making an effort to put out the flames, and while it was relatively easy to hide in the panicking crowd, they weren’t making it easy to get out either.

The fire was starting to spread from the table to the floor; if someone didn’t do something fast, this whole place was going to go up.

Obi-Wan’s stomach clenched guiltily; he saw an old lady nearby him fall over, and quickly pulled her up before she could get trampled.

He had definitely been too hasty-

There was a FWOOSH behind them, and the flames were suddenly being engulfed in a spray of white foam.

When it died down, it was to reveal a tall, dark man in a long red coat and dreadlocks, holding a fire extinguisher.

“What’s going on here?” he demanded.

Oh, great.  This is one of Hondo’s places.

It was difficult to classify Hondo Ohnaka.

He was a shameless criminal, yes, with his greedy fingers in just about every pie the Coruscanti underworld had to offer…but he had his own sense of honor as well, and at least he wasn’t a sadist like someone from the Hutt gang, for example.  He was just in it for the money, for the most part, and that made him comparatively…honest, for want of a better word.

Qui-Gon had gotten along with him well enough, and even occasionally used him as a source of information when he had sufficient credits or whiskey to offer in exchange.

Obi-Wan still shrank back into the crowd as Hondo’s dark eyes scanned the room.

They landed on Falso.

“Turk, my friend!” he crooned, striding over and sliding an arm around his shoulders, “Why have you been setting my bar on fire?  You know that’s bad business!”

“It wasn’t me, captain!” Falso snapped, pulling away, “I was trying to take care of a snoop, and he set the bar on fire!”

“A snoop?”  Hondo raised an eyebrow behind his glasses.

Obi-Wan, noticing that most of the crowd was settling, resumed slinking through them.

“Yeah.  Broke into the joint and stole something of mine, then when I tried to get it back from him, he went firebug on me!”

“How shocking!  Where is he now?”  Hondo’s eyes scanned the crowd again, and Obi-Wan quickly froze in place.

And then a voice behind him boomed, “Right here, captain!” as a hand landed on his shoulder.

Kriff.

The crowd parted like the Red Sea.

As soon as Hondo laid eyes on him, they widened.

“Do my eyes deceive me?”  He strode forward, tilting his head and gaping in wide-eyed, exaggerated incredulousness.  “It can’t be!  It’s the little Jinnling!”

Obi-Wan groaned inwardly; somehow he’d been under the misimpression that no longer being in his teens would absolve him from that particular nickname.

Outwardly he smiled, and gave a polite nod.  “Mister Ohnaka, always a pleasure to see you.”

Hondo sighed and shook his head.  “I only wish I could say the same, Jinnling.  But I must admit, I am very distressed to hear that you have been harassing my men and burning down my place of business!  I really thought Qui-Gon had raised you better than that!”

Obi-Wan waved a hand.  “Completely unintentional, I assure you.  If I’d known this was your bar, I would have tried to burn down the one across the street instead.”

Some of the crowd giggled nervously.

Hondo gave him a look.  “That is also my bar.”

Obi-Wan flinched.  “Of course it is.”

Hondo strode forward, coming to a stop only a few feet away from Obi-Wan.  He shook his head as if he were scolding a disappointing child.  “What did I ever do to you, Jinnling, that you should rob my men and damage my property?”

Falso smirked at Obi-Wan over Hondo’s shoulder, clearly expecting this to end with him getting shot or worse.

Oh, I don’t think so.

Obi-Wan reached into his coat.  Immediately he heard several clicks coming from multiple directions at once, and raised his free hand placatingly.

“I was in the middle of a job, and Mr. Falso decided to make things difficult for me.  He failed to mention that the item I took from him happened to be a collection of photos he was using to blackmail an innocent shopkeeper into giving him free goods.”

Slowly he drew out the photos.

The smirk dropped off Falso’s face like the peel of a banana.  “But-but I saw you burn those!” he spluttered out, before realizing too late that he’d incriminated himself.

“No, you saw me burn the envelope that used to contain them,” Obi-Wan pointed out with a small smile.  “That’s a very different thing.”  He raised an eyebrow at Hondo.  “I’m surprised you weren’t aware of this.  Surely he was acting under your orders.”

There was a moment of tense silence.  Then Hondo slowly turned towards Falso, who began looking more and more like a cornered rat.

“Let me get this straight,” he said, advancing on him.  “You’ve been running a blackmail scheme, stealing from an honest businessman and threatening him into cooperation-” his voice rose in outrage- “and you weren’t cutting me in on it?!”

Obi-Wan tipped his hat and slipped past the thug who’d been holding him, who made no attempt to stop him.  “I think I’ll leave you to sort out your internal affairs.”

Chapter Text

When Anakin opened the car door and clambered into the passenger seat, he didn’t notice at first that anything was off about his brother.

Yeah, the car smelled a little like smoke, but that happened sometimes since Anakin hadn’t finished figuring out the engine yet, because it was a different kind of car from the ones he used to fix up for Watto, and it drove him crazy that he not only couldn’t make the kind of adjustments he used to on those, but wasn’t even allowed to drive it because Obi-Wan said that was ‘illegal’ and that he ‘shouldn’t,’ even though that was a dumb reason and almost made him miss how Watto had not only allowed him to soup up his cars as much as he pleased, but to race them, and there was no feeling in the world that Anakin loved more than the feeling than driving as fast as he could down a long desert road.

…But that was the problem with Coruscant, he guessed: all the roads here were too thin and crowded.  There was nowhere to drive fast until you got to the highway out of town.

He still planned on taking the car out for a spin one day, once he figured out where Obi-Wan hid the keys whenever they got home.

He twisted around so he could hug Threepio and ruffle his ears, then remembered to put on his seatbelt when Obi-Wan cleared his throat.

“How was your day?” Obi-Wan asked as he finally pulled away from the curb.

“Pretty normal.  Me and Rex had a dirt clod throwing competition during lunch, and I totally won!”

“I would expect nothing less from you.”  A thoughtful pause.  “...You weren’t throwing them at anyone, were you?”

“Naaah, just at the fence.”  And maybe one that accidentally hit Greedo in the ear, but even the monitor on duty had been willing to accept that they hadn’t specifically been aiming at him, as far as anyone could prove.

Obi-Wan accepted that answer, and came to a stop at a red light; by now Anakin was used to him being so boring and law-abiding, so he only sighed a little internally.

“How’s the homework load?”

Anakin groaned.  “Too many reading comprehension questions.”

Obi-Wan huffed a soft laugh.  “Maybe Mr. Naberrie can help you work on them.”

The reminder of tonight’s dinner plans cheered Anakin right up, and he was just about to ask if they could please stay a little later than usual-when he finally got a good look at Obi-Wan’s hand.

“Whoa, what happened?” he asked, gaping at the reddened bandage clumsily wound around his knuckles.

Obi-Wan flinched-and wait a minute, were those bandages on his face too?!  “Nothing.  Just-work.”

“Uh-huh, and I’m a monkey’s uncle.”  Anakin turned to get a full look at him-and saw that his face and hand weren’t the only things that were all jacked up.

“...Obi?”

The nickname came out in way more of a frightened whisper than he’d meant it to.  While it definitely wasn’t the first time he’d seen his brother beaten up, it had been a while since he’d seen it this…much.  And that smoky smell was coming from him, he finally realized.

Obi-Wan tried to give him a reassuring smile, then flinched again when it stretched one of the cuts on his cheek.  “I’m fine,” he said anyway, “Like I said, I had a job today, and things got…a little out of hand.”

“A job doing what, digging important documents out of a paper shredder while it was turned on?”

“Close,” Obi-Wan admitted, “I had to jump out a window.  But it was on the ground floor this time.”

Anakin gave him a look.  “What’s that smell, then?”  Had he had to jump out of a burning building?

“I…may have also set a table on fire.”

There was a long silence.  Then Anakin slowly turned to face him again.

“...Move over.  I wanna drive.”

“What?!”

“I’m allowed to drive from now on.  And stay out past midnight if I wanna.”

Obi-Wan blinked, then frowned.  “How exactly did you come to that impressive leap in logic?”

Anakin tried to raise one eyebrow the way Obi-Wan did, but he wasn’t sure he did it right and just hoped he looked the right amount of scornful.  “Well, you don’t exactly have grounds to scold me for doing dangerous stuff anymore, if you’re gonna do it whenever you want.”

He reached for the ignition, and immediately had his hand slapped away.

“I was not doing dangerous things because I wanted to,” Obi-Wan said, voice automatically going into the special scolding pitch that thickened his accent, “I was doing them because I was getting paid to, and getting paid is what allows us to continue paying rent, eating food and paying for Threepio’s rabies shots.”

From the backseat, Threepio let out an uncomfortable whimper.

“You-” a thin finger reached out and prodded Anakin in the forehead- “want to do dangerous things because you are a reckless thrill-seeker.”

“That’s not the only reason!” Anakin protested, taking his turn at smacking his hand away.

“Because your friends dared you to still counts as reckless thrill-seeking.”

“No it doesn’t!”

“Yes it does.”

“Doesn’t!”

“Does!”

Before the argument could go any further, the blasts of multiple car horns behind them alerted them to the fact that the light was green, and Obi-Wan stepped on the gas.

Mom had taught Anakin how to take care of injuries since he was about six, maybe.

He wasn’t exactly an MD, but he could clean out a wound, wrap a broken bone, maybe give CPR if he had to (he hoped he never would; that sounded so, so scary).

As soon as they got inside, he insisted that Obi-Wan get cleaned up and then let him help see to his injuries properly.

“If you’re gonna freak out and put me on emergency medical leave every time I cut my finger, then you gotta let me do this,” he put his foot down when Obi-Wan tried to argue.

Obi-Wan gave a roll of his eyes that was downright nasty, but he did disappear down the hall, where a few minutes later the shower started running.

While he waited for him to come back, Anakin grabbed Obi-Wan’s coat off the peg where he’d hung it, then went and got his sewing kit.

He hadn’t told Rex that his mom had taught him to sew; while he didn’t think his friend would tease him for knowing how to do something so “girly,” it was a bad idea to give out potential ammunition to someone unless you knew for sure they wouldn’t use it against you.  But it did come in handy in making sure they didn’t need to spend money on clothes.

It took him a minute to find a thread that would blend relatively well with the fabric of the coat; when he did, he settled on the sofa with Threepio curled up at his side and, after sliding on his thimble, got to work.

He’d gotten some of the smallest tears fixed when he decided it was a little too quiet, so he got up and grabbed their radio, and, after some consideration, opened Obi-Wan’s collection of cassette tapes.

In addition to driving like an old lady, Obi-Wan had a regrettable bad habit of thinking classical music was great for casual listening even if there wasn’t a gun being pointed at your head, but he liked a few good bands too.  Anakin flipped through the options, trying to decide what he was in the mood for…and then his eyes landed on a tape at the very back of the box that he didn’t remember ever hearing.

The only clue about what it might be was that Obi-Wan had written “for the Duchess” on the box in black marker.

Might not be too bad, as long as it’s not more Debussy.

Anakin slid the tape into the radio’s player, then hit play as he settled back down with the coat.

He didn’t know what he’d been expecting…but it definitely wasn’t the sound of his brother’s voice, warbling, “My gift is my song…and this one’s for you…”

It wasn’t like he hadn’t known that Obi-Wan could sing.

He didn’t do it that often, but a few times when Anakin was younger, still getting used to this strange new city and missing his mom late at night, Obi-Wan would sit next to his bed and sing to him until he fell asleep.

He’d certainly never heard him sing a sappy love song like this…but you know, he didn’t hate it.

“I hope you don’t mind

I hope you don’t mind

That I put down in words…

How wonderful life is

When you’re in the world!!!!”

…Which was the moment when the real Obi-Wan, wearing jeans and his undershirt and a horrified expression, came barreling into the living room and slammed his hand down on the stop button.

“That’s private!” he said quickly, ejecting the tape.  “You-weren’t supposed to listen to that!”

Anakin blinked; was he blushing?

“Why, does it have curse words in it or something?”  He set aside his sewing.  “Because I already know all of them.”  He’d heard them often enough in Tatooine Flats.

“No, I just-!”  Obi-Wan stammered, clenching the tape in his hand hard enough Anakin worried he was gonna crush it.  But instead he just snatched up its box and put it back inside.

“Who’s the Duchess?” Anakin asked.

“Not important.”  Oh, now he was definitely blushing.  Suddenly, Anakin understood.

“Wait, wait wait wait.  The Duchess is a girl, isn’t it?”

“That’s what the term ‘duchess’ generally refers to, Anakin.”  Obi-Wan tried to put the tape back in the box, only for Anakin to lunge forward and snatch it from him.

“Noooo, I mean this is for a special girl, like someone you liked!”  He grinned in gleeful excitement.  “What happened, did she not like it?”

“Give it back, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said warningly.

“Not until you tell me who the Duchess is,” Anakin singsonged, as he strategically navigated until the coffee table was between them.

“None of your business, that’s who.”  Obi-Wan just climbed up onto the coffee table and snatched at him; he barely dodged in time.

(Behind them Threepio, sensing impending conflict, retreated down the hall towards Anakin’s room, intending to hide under the bed until peace had returned to the apartment.)

“I’m not giving this back until you spill!” Anakin announced, holding the tape behind his back.

“Is that right,” Obi-Wan asked flatly.

…Seconds later, he lunged.

While Obi-Wan had an advantage of long legs and even longer arms, Anakin’s smaller size was made up for with an innate speed and quick reflexes, especially against a larger opponent, meaning he was able to lead him on quite a merry chase around the living room.

But just as he was about to escape down the hall and lock himself in the bathroom, Obi-Wan surprised him by taking him down with a full-on flying tackle that sent both of them to the floor.

(There was a knock at the door.  Neither of them heard it.)

“Give it up, Anakin!” Obi-Wan demanded, grabbing frantically at his arm.

“Never!!!!”  Anakin managed to use his foot to shove him off, and scrambled back up-only for Obi-Wan to grab his ankles and yank him to the floor again, dragging him until he was able to pin his legs.

And then, because he absolutely did not fight fair, Obi-Wan dug his fingers into Anakin’s armpit.

(There was another knock, a little more urgent; it was drowned out by the sound of highly ticklish squealing.)

Anakin thrashed and struggled, but there was no escape.

He was still struggling, still using what little vestiges of control he had left to not give in-

When a deep voice from the doorway asked, “Is this a bad time?”

Obi-Wan immediately jerked back, whipping his head around with an even more horrified look than when he’d realized what Anakin was listening to.

“Mister Windu!”

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan supposed that of all the social workers in Coruscant, Mace Windu was not the absolute worst.

After all, he had agreed to let Obi-Wan take custody of Anakin in the first place, when anyone else might have stated (accurately) that a grieving twenty-five-year-old college dropout was in no condition to care for a child, even if the reason why he’d dropped out of college in the first place was so he could care for said child.

He didn’t have to listen to the testimonies of the Naberries, Mister Plo, and Master Yoda when they had advocated for Obi-Wan, or accept that he was going to take over his father’s detective agency as a means of supporting both of them.

That didn’t change the fact that his visits were always as fraught with tension as those rare occasions in Obi-Wan’s childhood when Grandfather had come to visit, only now Dad wasn’t here to act as a shield.

No, the one who had to take on that responsibility now was the one who least wanted to do so.

Obi-Wan quickly got to his feet, straightening his undershirt and trying not to feel like a child who’d just gotten caught playing in the mud, especially when compared to Windu’s tailored brown suit and briefcase (the latter of which was an unusual shade of purple; Obi-Wan was unsure if that was due to some well-hidden expression of whimsy on the older man’s part or what, but somehow it made him even more intimidating that he didn’t seem to be the least bit self-conscious about it).

“I-sorry, I…didn’t remember that we were expecting you today.”

Kark it to all nine Corellian hells, did I forget to put it on the calendar, or have I simply not looked at the blasted thing in a while?  He cringed as he glanced at the mess they’d managed to make of the living room, and could only feel glad that there were no dishes currently in the sink, in case the social worker felt the need to check the kitchen.

Windu was giving him one of his Looks, but after a moment all he did was turn his gaze towards Anakin.

“Are you all right?”

“Y-yeah!” Anakin said, jumping up too.  “We were just roughhousing, that’s all!”  He abruptly wrapped both arms around Obi-Wan’s waist and leaned into his ribs, giving Windu his patented ‘cute’ smile.  “It’s our own special bonding ritual after he picks me up from school every day to help me decompress-” he nuzzled into his undershirt a little- “because he cares so much about my emotional well-being!”

Obi-Wan attempted something that looked like an amused smile, and gave Anakin a pat on the shoulder that he hoped conveyed the silent ‘dial it back, Ani.’

Windu’s expression continued to look like it’d been carved from granite.  But all he said was, “I hope this...bonding ritual doesn’t interfere with the completion of your homework.”

“Oh, no no no, he always makes sure I get it done by the end of the day, and I’m still getting private tutoring with Mr. Naberrie!”

The social worker stepped over to the couch, and after nudging aside Obi-Wan’s coat where Anakin had left it, sat down (inwardly Obi-Wan cringed; should he have already asked him if he’d like to sit?) and opened his briefcase.  “How has that been going?  Have you made any progress in those subjects you’re struggling with?”

“He has.”  Obi-Wan finally found his voice again-only for his blood to freeze at the faint sound of clicking from down the hallway.

The sort of clicking caused by greyhound toenails against a hardwood floor.

“Anakin,” he said quickly, “how about you bring Mr. Windu that essay from a few weeks ago, so he can see how well you’ve been improving?”

Luckily Anakin seemed to have heard Threepio too; he nodded quickly, then sprinted for his room.

Windu had by now pulled out their file, and was shuffling some papers.  He looked up from them, looking like he was about to say something to Obi-Wan-and then frowned.

“...You don’t happen to own a dog, do you?”

Kriff kriff kriff kriff karking KRIFF!

“...They’re not allowed in the apartment,” Obi-Wan said, hoping the way his mouth had gone dry was not audible.

Windu’s eyes narrowed.  “Then what is that doing here?”

For one horrible moment Obi-Wan thought that Threepio had somehow managed to get past Anakin-

But Windu wasn’t looking at the hallway, he was looking at the front door.

At the coat peg they’d put up.

…Which had Threepio’s leash hanging from one of the hooks.

Think, think think THINK what would Dad do-

“That’s-mine.”

…What?

Obi-Wan slid over and snatched the leash, balling it up in his hand, and already feeling a wave of heat spreading across his face that was probably turning it the color of his hair.

“It’s for…” he stammered a little, before spitting out, “personal reasons.”

Seriously?!  That’s what you’re going with?!

It’s better than him finding out we’re keeping a pet in violation of our lease!  …Possibly.

Fortunately, the amount of flustered embarrassment now radiating off him seemed to be adding to the veracity of his statement; the look Windu was giving him was not pleasant, per se, but at least it didn’t seem like he found it too implausible.

Obi-Wan’s mortification only rose when he rumbled after a moment, “...And do you indulge in these ‘personal reasons’ while Anakin is in the apartment with you?”

“Absolutely not.”  At least he could say that with one hundred percent honesty.

Windu was giving him another one of those intense looks.

Oh please don’t let him think-

He was finally saved from the conversation when Anakin swooped into the living room with essay in hand (and, as Obi-Wan saw through a cursory glance over his shoulder, the door to his room firmly shut), and allowed Windu to read Mr. Mundi’s comments on how he’d gotten better at organizing his thoughts on paper.

The visit only lasted for what had to be twenty minutes or so, but felt like hours.

Mr. Windu asked question after question: how were they eating, was Anakin making friends at school, did he feel safe here, was Obi-Wan making enough money to support them (it was with great relief that he was able to rummage in his coat and pull out the envelope of cash he’d been paid for this latest job as evidence of the last one).

…And then Windu asked if he could talk to Anakin alone for a moment, so Obi-Wan had no choice but to pad down the hall and slip into his room.

He leaned against the door after closing it, trying to pull himself back together and not worry too much about what the social worker must be asking Anakin right about now.

Wondering if he’d overlooked anything that might be viewed as a sign that he was an unfit guardian.

…Wait.  What if Windu thought-with the leash-he’d said he didn’t engage in those (nonexistent) activities with Anakin in the apartment, but what if he thought he was lying?  What if he assumed-please no not that-

There was a knock on the door.

“Obi?  Mister Windu’s getting ready to leave.”

Obi-Wan took a deep breath in through the nose, out through the mouth.

Anakin didn’t sound like he was about to be taken away for his own safety.

He wondered briefly if he should put on a shirt, but decided that at this point it would be too little, too late, and stepped back out to the living room.

Windu handed him a form to sign indicating that he had allowed him to conclude that month’s inspection of their home, and gave him a yellow copy for his records before the original disappeared into his briefcase with a soft click.

His mouth twisted in distaste as his eyes glanced over the scattered sewing materials on the sofa, the books stacked haphazardly on the bookshelf, and the shoeprint emblazoned on the wall thanks to Obi-Wan kicking a little too hard in an attempt to free his foot.

“The next time I visit, I expect you to have this place spotless,” he said, giving Obi-Wan a stern look over his shoulder.

Obi-Wan cringed, but nodded.  “Yes sir.”

He gave a final nod, and then he was gone.

As soon as the front door shut, Obi-Wan slid slowly down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, where he ran his hands through his hair and tried to think of how that visit could possibly have been more humiliating.

He came up empty.

After a moment he saw a pair of Batman socks with holes in the toes appear out of the corner of his eye, before Anakin sat down next to him.

For a moment he was quiet, before asking, “...What did he think you were using the leash for?”

“Please don’t ask,” Obi-Wan groaned.

“...Okay.”  His tone of voice indicated that he had some inkling of it being related to a weird grownup thing that he wasn’t ready to know about (mercifully, neither of them had felt the need to have ‘the talk’ just yet; though Obi-Wan realized ruefully that they would probably have to soon, since Anakin would be thirteen in August.  Great.  Something else wonderful to look forward to).

Another long silence passed, save for some faint shuffling coming from Anakin that usually signified he was working up the courage to say something.

Sure enough, he eventually asked, “...Did I get you in trouble with Mister Windu?”

Obi-Wan sighed, and shook his head.  “No, I…believe that for now there’s been a stay of execution.  But it could have gone better.”

“I’m sorry.”  Anakin’s bony shoulders hunched.  “I didn’t know he was coming, or I would’ve cleaned up a little.  And I wouldn’t’ve been a jerk about this.”  He pulled out the cassette tape they’d been fighting over and set it in Obi-Wan’s lap.

At the unspoken peace offering Obi-Wan smiled, and reached over to tousle his hair.  “I didn’t remember that he was coming either.  So don’t be too hard on yourself, all right?”

“Kay.”  Anakin smiled back, before frowning at one of the bruises on his arm.  “So you gonna let me fix you up now before we go to Padmé’s?”

Obi-Wan sighed, and gave a resigned nod.

“Very well.”

Chapter Text

The Naberries were not rich-or at least they claimed not to be.

But anyone who owned a three story house on Amidala Boulevard, which had a massive yard with a swimming pool and practically an entire grove of trees and well-tended flower beds, was far from poor, and every time they drove here Obi-Wan felt painfully aware of that fact in his tattered trench coat (even moreso than usual after the day’s excursions, despite Anakin’s best efforts to patch it) and rusty, beat-up jalopy.

Anakin had no such self-consciousness, bouncing a little in his seat as they pulled up to the curb before snatching up the box of cookies he’d baked for the occasion.

In the backseat, Threepio whined with equal enthusiasm and pawed at the window, his skinny tail beating out a steady rhythm against the back of Anakin’s seat.  Obi-Wan rolled his eyes as he came around and clipped the leash to his collar.

“I’m surprised you’re so excited; didn’t your playmate pull out a tuft of fur last time?”

“He didn’t mean it,” Anakin said as he hopped out, half-bouncing down the walk towards the house.  “He was just playing.”

“Then why does it feel so much like they’re going to murder each other every time they meet?”

Before Anakin could answer, a high-pitched shriek split the evening air, and the object of discussion himself came leaping out of a nearby bush to pounce on Threepio: a tiny ball of feline menace with short white fur covered in blue-gray patches.

Don’t get me wrong, Obi-Wan liked cats well enough.

Heaven knew they were less high maintenance than dogs, especially ones as much of a neurotic mess as the one currently doing his best to break Obi-Wan’s legs as he wound his leash around them chasing and wrestling with his attacker.

However, there were times when he would be unable to look at Artoo, as the furry demon was called, without thinking what a lovely pair of mittens he would make.  In circumstances such as these, when the cat couldn’t even wait for them to get in the door without ambushing their-Anakin’s dog.

Over the sounds of yowling, yelping and Anakin trying to separate them (and making noises Obi-Wan suspected were barely-held-back laughter), he heard the sound of the door cracking open, and a horrified gasp.

“Artoo, no!  Bad cat!”

And then, just as Obi-Wan was at considerable risk of losing his balance altogether because Threepio had somehow managed to tie his left knee to his right ankle in the heat of battle, a petite figure in a fancy blue blouse and designer jeans rushed down the walk and scooped Artoo into the air.

“You know better than that!” she scolded Artoo, turning him around until he was facing her so she could shake her finger at him, in what was probably a futile endeavor at best.  “Look what you just did, you could’ve hurt one of our guests!”

She glanced up at Obi-Wan, looking very embarrassed as she cradled the disgraced cat in the crook of her arm.  “I’m sorry, I tried to keep him inside but he got away from me.  Are you okay?”

Obi-Wan used the fact that Anakin had let Threepio off his leash so he could start extricating himself as an excuse to not look at her for longer than he had to.  “I’m all right.  And don’t worry, I think we’ve all learned by now that there’s little point in trying to tell a cat what he can and can’t do.”

Her eyes darted over him, clearly alarmed as she took note of the places where Anakin had already bandaged him up.  But just as she was opening her mouth again, Anakin mercifully interrupted.

“Hey, Padmé.”  Even without seeing his face Obi-Wan could tell he was wearing that big, dorky grin he always got in her presence.  “Thanks for stepping in when you did, you just saved our lives.”

Obi-Wan felt his jaw clench seemingly of its own accord, and forced it to relax.

“The pleasure was all mine, Ani,” Padmé assured him with a warm, friendly smile of her own, then beckoned to both of them.  “C’mon, we just finished getting everything warmed up.”

Once they were actually inside, Obi-Wan allowed himself to, to some extent, relax.  Or at least to go on autopilot.

He let Mrs. Naberrie gasp and fuss over his injuries and reassure herself that they had been well treated, shook Mr. Naberrie’s hand and answered questions about how the detective business was going, and casually stepped over Artoo and Threepio when they started wrestling each other across the living room floor, all with the light, disarming smile he’d developed to reassure people that Everything Was Fine and no, he was not under an undue amount of stress.

Sola and her daughters would not be joining them tonight, Mrs. Naberrie informed him, on account of gymnastics practice.  That was a shame; he liked Ryoo and Pooja, and not just because they were the easiest members of the family for him to talk to (especially since they never looked at him with pity in their eyes).

Luckily, Anakin was more than happy to do the talking for both of them, all the way down the hall to the dining room.

As usual, everything in the Naberrie household looked like something out of a magazine: the fluffy white carpets were clean and vacuumed, the chandelier in the dining room and the nice wooden furniture all gleamed without so much as a speck of dust, the fine china set out on the table was all perfectly matched and free of chips and cracks.  And there was a bowl of freshly tossed salad, baked potatoes steaming in their aluminum foil wrappers, and a golden-brown roast chicken waiting for them that made Obi-Wan’s mouth water just looking at it.

Not rich, my foot.

Out of the corner of his ear he heard Anakin and Padmé getting into a playful argument about whether a republic was truly a better system of government than a dictatorship, since people spent so much time arguing with each other that Anakin thought it would be easier to just have one person in charge who could force them to all agree on something.  Padmé retaliated with an impassioned speech on the virtues of democracy and how dictatorships would never last as long as there were people willing to stand up against them that made Obi-Wan wonder if she’d started studying the French Revolution in her history class or something.

Mr. Naberrie chimed in with a dry comment on how they were called ‘revolutions’ because they always went around in circles, and how sometimes a government formed by revolutionaries could turn out even worse than the original, and visibly grinned at the betrayed look on his daughter’s face.

Obi-Wan actually felt the corner of his mouth quirking up for a moment as he watched them…

“Dad, do you really believe that or are you just arguing with me to be contrary?”

“I’m sorry, Obi-Wan, did you want to have a conversation or were you just expecting me to mindlessly agree with you?  I’m teaching you important critical thinking skills and how to provide convincing arguments.  You never know when you might need to persuade a jury, or talk a witness into telling you everything they know.”

“...Oh.”

“...And I’m doing it just to be contrary.”

“I knew it!”

A dry chuckle

A calloused hand unexpectedly ruffling his hair, making him squawk and swat at him while trying not to laugh himself because that would mean Dad had won

Obi-Wan swallowed hard, and fixed his gaze on the piece of chicken still on his fork until his vision felt a little less shiny.

By the time dinner was done and Anakin’s cookies were being served, Obi-Wan’s mood had calmed to some extent.

And, he noticed with a glance towards the living room, so had Threepio and Artoo, who were now curled up together on the rug and peacefully grooming each other as if they hadn’t been fighting like…well, you know, just an hour before.

Mr. Naberrie took the opportunity to ask Anakin if he needed any help with his homework, and while Anakin grabbed his backpack and pulled out the hated reading comprehension questions Obi-Wan began gathering the dishes and carrying them to the kitchen.

As usual, Mrs. Naberrie gave him a scolding look.  “You don’t have to do that, dear, you’re our guest.”

“It’s all right, you did all the work of preparing the meal for us so the least I can do is help clean it up,” he said, parrying her attempt to take the dishes from him.

“I can wash if you dry,” Padmé piped up.  “It’s supposed to be my job anyway.”

“...Fair enough.”  Obi-Wan obediently stepped to the side, allowing her to turn on the tap, and lost himself in the rhythm of the work.

It was all fine.

Just another normal, not-at-all uncomfortable dinner with the Naberries.

Obi-Wan didn’t like her.

He never said it, he was always perfectly polite to her and her family, but Padmé knew.

She could feel it, in the way he looked at her-or more like the way he didn’t look at her.

And it wasn’t like she blamed him-if someone got her father killed, she didn’t think she’d like them much either, no matter how sorry they were.

But Padmé didn’t know what she could do about it, or if there was anything she could do about it.

She just did her best not to do anything that would make him dislike her more, and prayed for a miracle.

For a chance to one day prove herself to him, and somehow make everything better for him and Anakin.

Chapter Text

This time, Obi-Wan couldn’t quite remember what he’d been dreaming about.

He thought maybe it was something to do with his old friend Bant trying to get him to eat a distinctly unappetizing cod sandwich, and scolding when he refused it that he needed the protein.

Before he could argue the point further, out of the blue something smashed him in the chest.

For a moment he thought Bant had smacked him with the sandwich and wondered what on earth she’d put in it to make it so heavy-until his eyes flew open and he found himself staring straight down a wet black nose.

“It’s your turn to take Threepio out,” Anakin spoke from his bedside, with far too much gleefulness for someone who wouldn’t get up before nine in the morning if he had his way.

Obi-Wan went with the only appropriate response, which was to fumble around until he found where his pillow had got to and then bean him in the head with it.

The rest of the day went much the same as the one before: getting ready for school and work, driving to the office, waiting for someone to come to him with a case.

The main difference was that he actually had a few clients show up today: a jogger who needed help tracking down a lost dog, an elderly lady who wanted him to find her missing bracelet that was a gift from her granddaughter (which turned out to be stuck in the bottom of her purse, and made Obi-Wan feel horribly guilty about accepting payment), and a man looking for a bar who’d misunderstood the nameplate by the door and had to be firmly ejected from the premises.

Between visitors, Obi-Wan went over the month’s budget, making sure he had enough to pay the bills and still put at least some of their newly acquired funds into Anakin’s future college fund, and then scanned the grocery store catalogs to see what items were on sale.

Occasionally he would use whichever hand was free to throw a small rubber ball for Threepio to chase around the room.

…Only because it kept the beast from bothering him, of course.  And to maintain his manual dexterity.

When he’d managed to organize the budget to a somewhat satisfying level, Obi-Wan finally rewarded his own patience and got the file back out of his drawer.

On top of it was a handful of newspaper clippings from the Daily Dathomirian that he’d managed to find on the library’s microfilm machine, after hearing from Dex that it could be a promising lead.  Clippings describing rumors of a gang who’d started roaming the streets of New Dathomir around ten years ago, who were known for their particularly effective, yet brutal, methods of killing whoever crossed them (with a few reports about their supposedly engaging in bloody ritual sacrifices of their victims, but those might just be even bigger rumors).  They’d gone by a variety of names: the Nightbrothers, the Nightsisters (perhaps different divisions of the same group?), the Zabraks…but their most distinctive identifying feature mentioned by eyewitnesses, the one that had attracted Obi-Wan’s attention, had been their tendency towards facial tattoos.

Distinctive red and black tattoos-sometimes covering their whole face, sometimes just a line of them under their eyes.  Always very vivid, and not easily replicated.

…Perhaps he should take a day trip out to New Dathomir or something, Obi-Wan mused, see if he could find out if they were still around.

And then what?  March right into their headquarters, should they turn out to actually exist, and say, Hello there, I’m frightfully sorry to interrupt your terrorizing of the local populace, but by chance did one of you visit Coruscant three years ago and kill my father in a convenience store?

It’s more of a lead than I’ve had in a long time, okay?

He could have Anakin and Threepio stay with the Naberries while he was gone, perhaps; he certainly doubted the boy would have any complaints about such an arrangement…

Obi-Wan stroked his beard thoughtfully as he contemplated whether they had enough spare money for a train ticket.

His musing was interrupted by the office door bursting open, and the boy in question bursting into the room.

“Anakin?!”

Obi-Wan startled, quickly slamming the folder closed, and whipped his head around to look at the clock; while it wouldn’t be the first time his brother had left school early, he thought he’d lectured him enough that he’d stopped-

It was almost three-thirty in the afternoon.

“...Oh.  Sorry.  I-must have lost track of time.”

“It’s okay.”  Anakin tossed his backpack on the floor and knelt down to hug Threepio, who indulged in a frenzy of joyful squirming and licking.

“How was your day?” Obi-Wan asked, sliding the file back into the drawer.

“It was okay.  Rex had to leave early cuz another kid bit Boba.”

“...What?”  Obi-Wan blinked, not certain he’d heard that correctly.

Anakin looked up from rubbing Threepio’s belly.  “During lunch, Boba got in a fight with another kid, and she bit him hard enough he was bleeding all over, so Rex took him home.”

“Oh my.”  While Obi-Wan had not spent extensive time in the company of the Fett boys, he was aware of their father’s reputation, and how it granted them at least some protection in the schoolyard food chain.  He couldn’t help feeling somewhat impressed at whoever had dared to perform such an open attack against one of them…as well as worried for her future safety.  “Is he going to be all right?”

“Yeah, I think so.”  Anakin slowly flopped onto the floor next to Threepio, who immediately rolled over and laid his head on his chest, staring at him with meaningful eyes until he started scratching his ears.  “Are you almost done?  I’m huuuungry.”

“Yes, of course.  Just give me a moment to-”

There was a knock at the door, which very quickly opened, as a tentative voice asked, “Is Mr. Jinn here?”

Obi-Wan looked up, quickly pasting on the welcoming expression he used for prospective clients-

His breath caught in his throat.

“Duchess?!”

Satine blinked, looking just as surprised as he was.  “Ben?”

A moment later his brain caught up with his mouth.

Kriff

Anakin’s here

Anakin heard that

Anakin is never going to allow me to live this down

Ever

Maybe I can still salvage this somehow

Just play it cool

Obi-Wan cleared his throat and stood up.  “...Satine.  It’s…good to see you.”

That was certainly true.  The last time he’d seen her was when he’d driven back to Mandalore to pack up his dorm room, and she and Quinlan had been nice enough to help him out with it before taking him out to dinner.  He hadn’t had much of an appetite, or been much of a conversationalist, but…it had helped.

Even if his last conversation with Satine had ended painfully for both of them.

She looked good: much less like a starving college student than he remembered, and more like the savvy politician she’d planned on becoming.  Her hair was pulled back into a sensible ponytail at the nape of her neck, and she was wearing a dark blue and purple blouse and skirt ensemble, with a clip shaped like a white lily pinning back a few stray bangs.  The look was completed with the attaché case at her side, and a pair of sensible dark heels.

Obi-Wan was suddenly very, very conscious of how tattered his coat was, and that there appeared to be a greasy stain on his collar from his lunch.  But if Satine saw them, she was kind enough not to take visible notice; she offered him a tentative smile and said softly, “It’s good to see you too.”  She slowly stepped the rest of the way into the office, barely avoiding treading on a skinny pale arm which moved in the nick of time, accompanied by an indignant squawk.

She looked down in surprise, before her features relaxed.  “And you must be Anakin.  I’ve heard a little about you, but haven’t had the chance to meet you in person.  I’m Satine Kryze.”  She offered a handshake, and after a moment Anakin sat up and accepted it.

“Yeah, I’m Anakin.  Hi.  Nice to meet you.”  Blue eyes darted briefly in Obi-Wan’s direction, before he started to ask with an innocent smile, “Do you happen to like music-”

“Ahem.”  Obi-Wan coughed into his fist, and had a brief second in which to glare at Anakin and draw his finger across his throat before Satine’s attention was back on him.  “Not that I’m not glad to see you here…in my office…but why exactly are you here?”

Why was she even in Coruscant?

Satine bit her lip, and nervously twisted the handle of her attaché case in her hands, before meeting his eyes.  “I think someone is trying to steal my company out from under me, and I want to hire you to find out who.”

Chapter Text

“Your-what company?”

Satine looked…uncharacteristically embarrassed, or perhaps even ashamed, for someone who usually tried so hard to be the height of unflappable elegance.  “I’ve been working for the past year to establish a series of homeless shelters and rehabilitation programs here in Coruscant.  It’s…a part of my campaign for city council.”

“...Oh.”

Obi-Wan didn’t have a right to feel like he’d been shot between the ribs.  He’d been the one to break up with her, after all.

…But that was because they would no longer be living in the same area, and he’d suddenly been put in the care of a small child and had to devote so much time to figuring out how to look after him properly and it wouldn’t have been fair to expect her to deal with his mess in addition to completing her schooling, and she was working in the same city where he lived for a year and hadn’t even bothered to tell him?!

The door swings both ways, Obi-Wan.  You could have tried to find out how she was doing, or at least asked Quinlan if he was still in contact with her so he could give you her number.

That would have to involve my still being in contact with Quinlan as well.

Good point.  Way to prove that you’re a horrible friend, in addition to being a horrible ex-boyfriend.

Would you just shut up?!

Obi-Wan shook his head in an attempt to jostle his thoughts back under control, and then asked aloud, “You’re running for city council?”

Satine nodded, wearing that little frown between her eyebrows he remembered so well.  “I told you that was one of my goals for the future.”

“So you did.”  She’d always been so vocal about how if any improvements were to be made in the way the world was run, someone would have to step up and make those improvements themselves.  He’d managed to get under her skin quite a few times by pointing out that that approach only worked so long as there were people actually willing to submit to it, since most societies could be incredibly resistant to change as a rule.

“And it was going well, at first.  People have been making donations, I’ve hired a number of volunteers to help out at the shelters, I’ve even managed to acquire some decent therapists specializing in treatment for PTSD and similar conditions.”  She finally stepped up to the desk, where she set down her attaché case and drew out a packet of papers.  “And then, about a month ago, some discrepancies started happening over and over.  Money would disappear and no one could account for where it had gone, orders for supplies would be delivered in incomplete amounts or made of different material than I’d signed off for, that sort of thing.  And I hate to say it,” she pursed her lips unhappily, “...but I’m beginning to suspect sabotage at work.”

Obi-Wan frowned thoughtfully as he accepted the packet and gave the first pages a small read-through.  “Have you notified the police?”

Satine grimaced.  “...I would prefer to avoid that if I possibly can.  The last thing I need right now is more bad press.”

Ah.  Of course.  Being a prospective councilwoman would force her to become a bit of a slave to PR.

Obi-Wan grimaced to himself as he shoved the uncharitable thought away.  “What is it exactly that you’re asking me to do?”

Satine reached into the attaché again, producing a thick envelope this time.  “Do you do any undercover work?”

After a moment, Anakin spoke up.  Which was only to be expected; he’d been quiet for far longer than was natural for him as it was.

“You want him to come in and pretend to be a homeless guy or something so he can spy on everyone?  That’d be so cool!”

“Anakin.”

Her lips twitched.  “Well, I was thinking it would work better if he came as a volunteer, so he could have a legitimate reason to visit the main office and such, but if he could manage-”

“Don’t encourage him, please.”  Obi-Wan clenched his fingers around the packet.

He didn’t have to ask if she was certain the company was being sabotaged; someone as meticulous and fair-minded as she was would never allow funds to go missing.  And it would definitely be a feather in his fedora if he was able to help her-it might even give his agency a hint of respectability.  And yet something in him balked-

“I’m willing to pay fifty dollars a day, plus expenses.”  The envelope was opened, revealing a veritable sea of green.

It was absolutely shameful the way part of him lit up hungrily at the sight.

Obi-Wan pushed it down as swiftly as it came, and swallowed hard.  “Satine-I-I can’t possibly-”

“I’m not going to require or accept any special treatment from you,” she retorted, setting the envelope down on the table with a firm thump.  “If you are willing to take my case, I will be your client, and will pay accordingly.”

That, in and of itself, was almost enough to make him refuse.  He knew that was unreasonable, perhaps even unkind of him, especially when she was coming to him for help, but he didn’t need-after what they’d been to each other, it didn’t feel-did she really think she could live in his city for a year without saying a word about it to him and then come waltzing into his office and try to give him money-

Anakin was standing next to his desk now, gaping at the envelope’s contents as if he’d never seen that much money all in one place.

Most likely because he hadn’t-at least not money that was for him.

And if she was going to pay this much every day he took the case…

…Little though he liked it, Obi-Wan knew that his brother’s welfare came before his own pride.  Every time.

He swallowed, straightening up to his full height, and nodded to Satine.  “Very well.  I would be happy to investigate.”

“Thank you.”  It seemed like a tiny bit of tension went out of her shoulders before she held out a hand to him; he took it, trying not to think how comfortably it still fit in his.

Then she was shutting her attaché and, after a friendly goodbye to Anakin and allowing Threepio to sniff her hand, she was gone.

“...Soooooo,” Anakin drawled as the sound of her footsteps receded down the hall, “that’s your Duchess.”

Obi-Wan glared at him, shoving the envelope and the packet of papers into his inner coat pockets, and began closing up the office for the day.

“I’m impressed, Obi,” Anakin went on as he and Threepio followed him out, “She seems like she’d be waaay outta your league.”

“Do you want to walk home?” Obi-Wan asked icily.

“Okay, okay.”

There was about ten seconds of merciful silence.

“...She’s kinda pretty, isn’t she?”

“ANAKIN.”

It had been both easier and harder than Satine had expected, seeing Obi-Wan again.

And not just because he appeared to have strapped a dead animal to his face since the last time she’d seen him-

She winced, pushing down the uncharitable thought as she made her way back to her car.

More than anything, he’d looked…tired.

I should have…checked up on him.  Even if he said he didn’t need me to.

Satine shook her head at herself and carefully sidestepped a puddle of unknown substance on the ground.  She wasn’t here to rekindle an old flame, she was here to get help preventing everything she’d worked so hard for from crumbling around her, and that was what she should be focusing on.

Being able to give her old love some money he clearly desperately needed in a way that he wouldn’t be able to reasonably refuse was just an additional bonus.

Chapter Text

“C’mon, Obi, stop being boring and tell me about your girlfriend!”

“Satine’s not my girlfriend!  Anymore.”

The final word looked like it had slipped out by accident, based on the way Obi-Wan’s eyes widened in horror for a second before he quickly focused them back on the road.

“Wait, really?  You guys actually dated?”  Yeah, Obi-Wan was one of the coolest people he knew, even if he was kind of a stuffed shirt around ninety percent of the time, but still-Anakin was impressed.  He hadn’t been kidding when he said that Satine seemed out of his league.

Obi-Wan sighed, and squeezed his hands around the steering wheel before loosening them again.  “We got to know each other when we were in a few classes together in college.  Things like speech and debate, and political science.”  Through the thick mane of his hair, he thought he saw the tips of his brother’s ears reddening a little.  “...And we may have joined drama club together.”

“No.  Way.”  Christmas had just come early in Anakin’s little world.  “You never told me you were a theater geek!”

Of course, that earned him another frigid glare.  “I’m not taking criticism from the boy who spent two weeks trying to rehearse the best possible way to tell Padmé ‘Your hair looks nice today’.”

“It was not two weeks!” Anakin squawked.

Obi-Wan’s eyebrow went up.  “Really?  It must have just felt that long.”

“Stop changing the subject!”  Anakin tried to push away the memory of his embarrassing ten-year-old self (he was a very mature twelve-year-old now, thank you, and knew Padmé well enough now to be able to say things like that to her without getting too weird about it), and poked Obi-Wan in the shoulder, remembering too late that that was one of the spots that was still bandaged when he flinched and hissed through his teeth.  “Sorry.  So why’d you break up?  You clearly still like her.”

He flinched again, even though he wasn’t being poked anymore.  “...It’s not important, Anakin.  Our lives were…going in separate directions, and-”  He cut himself off.  “Why am I even telling you this?!  It was a long time ago, and we’ve both moved on.”

“...Then why do you still have that tape with your nickname for her written on it?”

…Obi-Wan turned on the radio.

The parking around the apartment was terrible, as per usual, but eventually Obi-Wan found a spot in the general vicinity of their rooms.

He was almost to the door, waiting for Anakin and Threepio to catch up, when he heard a familiar voice call, “Obi-Wan, my boy!  Are you busy?”

Oh blast.

A frantic glance at the parking lot showed him that boy and dog were about ten feet away; another showed him the tall figure of their landlord approaching him through the corridor, out of their line of vision.

Abort mission, ABORT MISSION

“Mister Plo!” Obi-Wan said aloud, making sure to project his voice, “It’s always a pleasure to see you!”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Anakin stop short, then quickly grab Threepio and duck behind a nearby minivan with mere seconds to spare, and let out a soft breath of relief as Mister Plo came striding up.

The old man gave him a mildly scolding look as he leaned on his cane.  “I’m not deaf, young man, just a little sensitive to lights and loud noises.”

“Um, yes, of course.  My apologies.”  Obi-Wan smiled sheepishly.  “What can I do for you?”

Mister Plo sneezed, and pulled a handkerchief from his coat.  “Excuse me.  I was wondering if you or your brother were busy this weekend?”

“Busy?”  Had something new broken down?  He and Anakin had done their best to make repairs that would last for a long time, but it was shocking how careless the other tenants could be.  One time they’d even had to repair a hole someone had kicked straight through their wall.

“Yes.”  Mister Plo reached under his mask to blow his nose.  “I am in urgent need of a babysitter for my daughter for a couple of hours on Saturday.”

If there was one thing Mister Plo and Qui-Gon had had in common, it was a habit of “picking up strays,” as Xanatos had once bitterly put it.

Mister Plo’s stray was six years old, had a unique skin condition known as vitiligo that created unusual pale patches on her otherwise brown skin, and possessed the unique talent for raising Anakin’s blood pressure in much the same way that he regularly raised Obi-Wan’s.

Obi-Wan side-eyed the minivan, and noticed a pair of hands frantically waving out from the side in a “no” gesture.

“Um-would it just be keeping her at the apartment?” he asked.

Mister Plo nodded.  “If you’re otherwise occupied, I understand.”

“Well, I have a case that I need to start working on…” he side-eyed the minivan again, “...but I can talk to Anakin and see if he’s free.”  The hands began waving more frantically, and it took all his self-control to maintain an innocently serene expression.  “He has lots of homework to work on anyway, so he should be perfectly willing to stay with her for an hour or two.”

The hands jerked in a “WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME” gesture.

Obi-Wan remembered every lesson Dad had ever taught him in keeping up a poker face, and managed to suppress the small twitch his lips were longing to make.

“Thank you, Obi-Wan.”  Mister Plo smiled, and squeezed his shoulder.  “I know Ahsoka will be delighted if he can do it.”  He sneezed again, and shook his head.  “Goodness, my allergies always seem to act up when I’m close to you.”

“Heh.  Perhaps it’s some of the environments I visit when I’m working.”  Obi-Wan pushed down the guilt that had started clawing at his chest, and made a mental note that it was time to give Threepio another bath.

As Mister Plo hobbled away, Anakin came storming out from behind the van, Threepio trotting sheepishly in his wake.

“Why do you hate me?!” he demanded as Obi-Wan pulled out his key and fumbled with the lock.  “I have way better things to do with my life than babysit that snippy little-”

“Be nice to our landlord’s daughter,” Obi-Wan warned, opening the door.  “Besides, I’ll be at the shelter probably all day tomorrow, and I’ll be able to focus better on the case if I know the two of you will be keeping each other out of trouble.  Either that, or whatever trouble you get into won’t be solely my responsibility to take care of so it will hopefully give me less of an ulcer.”

“Ha ha, very funny.”

Obi-Wan decided to take pity on him after a moment, reflecting that even though he’d been planning on just making a chicken salad from the leftovers from the Naberries, it had been a long week, and they had a little extra cash now courtesy of Satine, so…

“...Want to make this a Dex night?”

The sullen hostility in Anakin’s face vanished as if it had never been.

“It’s over, Anakin!  I have the high ground!”

“You underestimate my power!!!!” Anakin howled, lurching under Obi-Wan’s arm and jerking the joystick back and forth manically, making his avatar leap onto the next solid surface just before the one he’d been standing on could be swallowed up by the lava.

The music crackling through the speakers, slightly tinny and pixelated though it was, only heightened the tension of the fight taking place on the screen.

It had been a Jinn family tradition that had apparently started when Feemor was still a child-that at least once a month, if they had the funds and some important event had occurred, or if they just needed to all get out of the house for a bit, they would go to Dex’s Diner for whatever fatty, greasy food they were in the mood for, and then use up five dollars worth of quarters playing whatever games in the arcade suited them.

Obi-Wan had done it what felt like hundreds of times with Dad, a few times with Feemor when he was in town on shore leave-even Xanatos had joined them once or twice, before everything went bad.

…And even if Dad was no longer here, Obi-Wan could still carry on the tradition with Anakin as best he could.

Dex was more than happy to offer a supply of bottomless steak-cut fries as they played (thanks to Anakin having helped repair a few malfunctioning games for him), and he also made the absolute best raspberry milkshakes in Coruscant, if not the world itself.

Somehow, even though it contained as many bittersweet memories as most of the other places he’d regularly frequented with Dad…Obi-Wan could feel himself almost completely relaxing whenever he was here.

On the screen of Battle of the Heroes, Obi-Wan’s avatar bounced patiently in place, wielding his glowing laser sword as Anakin’s avatar glided on another floating object towards the bank where he’d landed.

“Don’t try it,” Obi-Wan warned, seeing the way Anakin’s hand started to tense.  “It’s not going to work.”

“Oh yeah?” Anakin demanded, jerking feverishly, “Let’s see you handle this!”

His avatar leaped-

-just in time for Obi-Wan’s to casually slice through his arms and legs, allowing him to fall into the lava with a splash.

A few seconds later, “GAME OVER” appeared on the screen, announcing OB-WINS as, for the twenty-seventh time, the victor over SKYWARRIOR.

“Gah, I hate you!” Anakin snarled, slamming a frustrated fist against the console and scattering fries all over it.

Immediately his hands covered his mouth, and horrified blue eyes turned in Obi-Wan’s direction.

“I-I didn’t mean that!”

Obi-Wan recovered quickly, reminding himself that this kind of outburst was probably going to happen more often as his boy entered the teenage years, and smiled down at him.

“Oh, I’m aware.”  He put a hand on top of his head and ruffled his hair, grinning at the indignant look he received in retaliation.  “You’re just a very sore loser.”

Chapter Text

By the time they made it back to the apartment, both man and boy were both feeling rather bloated, in that way that one does after eating far too much greasy, sugary food in one go, but contented.

“Are you gonna disguise yourself as a homeless guy?” Anakin asked as they climbed out of the car.

“No, I’m going to volunteer at the shelter like a respectable, civilized person.”

“Wow, you’re really taking this undercover job seriously.”

“You’re hilarious.”  Obi-Wan grabbed one of the longer locks of hair at the back of Anakin’s head and gave it a playful tug.  “You should probably take Threepio out and make sure his bladder’s empty before bed.”

“Okay, okay.”  Anakin bounced on his toes impatiently as Obi-Wan dug the keys out of his pocket-and then his mouth suddenly twisted in a confused frown.  “When’d we get a package?”

Sure enough, there was a brown paper package tied up with string sitting right in front of the door.

But when Obi-Wan crouched down and saw that it was addressed in an untidy scrawl with the words: “For the Jinnlings,” he sincerely doubted it contained any of his favorite things.

“What is it?” Anakin asked, leaning over his arm.

Obi-Wan shushed him and listened for a moment.  When he confirmed that the package was not ticking, buzzing or making any other alarming sounds, and when Threepio seemed curious but not frightened by the strange object, he gingerly picked it up.

It was somewhat heavy…but at the same time at least part of the contents felt soft and squishy.  Odd.

“Stand back,” he warned Anakin as he carried the package inside and set it on the table.  He very carefully untied the string, then pulled back and waited a moment-

When nothing happened, he carefully pulled apart the paper.

Resting in the middle of it was his gun, which he’d all but forgotten was missing…with a strip of yellow fabric folded next to it.

Obi-Wan picked up the cloth, allowing it to unravel, revealing a large red star in the middle.

…Oh.

Turk Falso, smirking at him as he blocked his path, the brightly colored bandana around his forehead standing out against the darkness of the club

Is this meant to be a gift, or a threat?

…Knowing Hondo, it could go either way.

A cursory check revealed that his gun had been wiped clean of fingerprints-naturally.  Just in case, while Anakin and Threepio were outside Obi-Wan made sure it was both unloaded and had not been fired recently, then locked it up in the safe because he’d heard too many stories about people with curious children being careless with their guns.

He wasn’t sure what to do with the bandana, so he locked it up in the safe too, soothing Anakin’s questions about what it was by referring to it as a “work thing.”

Then he finally changed into a T-shirt and sweatpants and collapsed on the sofa like he’d been desperately longing to all day.

It wasn’t long before Anakin, similarly pajama-clad and dragging blanket, pillow and dog, came marching back down the hall and scrambled up next to him.

“Can we watch a movie?”

“...Just one,” Obi-Wan conceded.  “I need to get up early tomorrow.”

Anakin grinned, and reached for the remote.

They ended up finding a breathtakingly corny monster flick called The Zillo Beast Strikes Back, which appeared to be a knockoff of both Godzilla and King Kong but had decent enough special effects to be entertaining.

Anakin, sneaky little beggar that he was, waited until Obi-Wan was absorbed in the film to slowly scoot across the sofa…little by little…and then snuggle in under his arm.

By the time Obi-Wan realized he was there, the boy was already settled in, and the blanket had been draped over both of them, so there was no escape without making a scene.

Obi-Wan sighed, and stretched out resignedly, so he was pressed against the back of the sofa with Anakin tucked in against his chest, and Threepio draped over his legs.

Qui-Gon had not been an overly affectionate man.

No, no, that held too much negative connotation-he had never withheld affection from Obi-Wan.  He was simply…subdued about it, preferring a gentle shoulder squeeze or a playful hair ruffling to anything more overt.

And to twelve-year-old Obi-Wan, that had been perfectly acceptable.  He wasn’t that touchy-feely either, and he didn’t want to do anything that would push his new father’s boundaries and potentially make him send him back into the system.

Sometimes, when one or both of them were very upset about something, then there would be small hugs.  And once or twice after a dangerous case, Obi-Wan thought he might have fallen asleep on the sofa, with his head resting in the older man’s lap.  But on the whole, he had never asked for more than Qui-Gon seemed willing to give, and Qui-Gon had never offered more than Obi-Wan knew how to accept.

He didn’t know why the first time he’d seen Anakin, and Qui-Gon had been carrying him on his shoulder, smiling like such an action was the most natural thing in the world for him, it had caused such a strange, ugly feeling to arise in his chest.

…But since then, Obi-Wan rationalized that maybe Dad had just understood that Anakin had slightly different needs than either of them, and had been acting accordingly.

The boy was very tactile.  He would hold Obi-Wan’s hand when they were walking the streets of Coruscant (at least his nine-year-old self had, before he decided he was too big to need such a thing); he’d lean over Obi-Wan’s shoulder to see what he was doing when he was working on taxes or reading; during his first time experiencing one of Coruscant’s thunderstorms he’d run into his room and hid under his covers until Obi-Wan managed to calm him down, and even then he’d ended up falling asleep burrowed against him like a kitten.

Obi-Wan tolerated it as best he could…until he realized that he wasn’t just tolerating it.

He legitimately couldn’t remember the last time someone besides Anakin (or the Naberries, he supposed) had touched him with non-malicious intent, aside from the professional handshake he offered to clients and Satine and Quinlan when he was saying goodbye to them.

Maybe Feemor, at the funeral?

For some reason the thought had made a lump rise in his throat, and ever since then he had made less of an effort to fend Anakin off when he got all snuggly.

“Anakin.”

A muffled grumble.

“Anakin, the movie’s over.”

More grumbling, no signs of movement.

“Come on, get up.  You need to go to bed.”

“Nuh-uh.  Too cozy here.”  Tiny hands clung to his T-shirt.

“Anakin.”

“No.  Wanna stay.”

“We can’t sleep on the couch, Anakin.”

“You fall asleep on it all the time.”

“That’s different.”

“No’s not.”  Burrowing in.

“If you must smother yourself, use your pillow, not my T-shirt.  And go to your room first.”

The only response was a soft, sleepy sigh.

Obi-Wan groaned, looking for a solution-only to see Threepio still pinning his legs, looking at him with plaintive brown eyes when he tried to move them.

“Oh, don’t you start,” he scolded.  “You still owe me big time for not giving you away yesterday.”

The dog slowly tilted his head, allowing one ear to flop up and over as he rested his chin on Obi-Wan’s knee.

He fought for a minute not to melt…and lost.

“...One of these days, that’s not going to work anymore,” he scolded, before glancing down at the peacefully snoozing face half-squashed against his shirt.  “For either of you.”

He could have sworn the mutt actually smirked at him as he settled back down.

Obi-Wan sighed, and resigned himself to being used as a pillow for the next hour or two.

Just long enough for both boy and dog to fall into a deep enough sleep that they wouldn’t register him carrying them to their own room.

Until then he could appreciate the warmth and comfort of the sofa and blanket, and the soft pressure of warm, sleepy bodies against him.

He could spend this time thinking about how he was going to deal with Satine tomorrow…maybe rest his eyes a little.

Just…for…a minute…

Maybe it was a coincidence, but as a third voice joined the chorus of sleeping, one of Threepio’s paws managed to find the remote and jab at the off button, filling the living room with comfortable darkness.