Chapter Text
There’s something on the ceiling of Anakin’s bedroom. A speck of darker brown against the tan of the Temple’s stone walls. It’s too small and far away to see clearly from his position laying in bed.
It could be a bug. But it hasn’t moved in hours, not since he first noticed it. Maybe it’s a dead bug. It might just be a stain, though, or a speck of dirt. He’d have to get up to look closer, but he hasn’t. He isn’t going to.
It’s been three days since Anakin returned to the Temple after the first solo campaign he’s ever been assigned. The only times he’s left his bed in that period were to stumble to the ‘fresher to piss and drink some water from the tap. He has no appetite, no desire to do anything, not now. Everyone left.
He’s alone.
It was four months ago when everything started to go wrong.
He’d gone to visit Padmé after returning from a grueling extended campaign. She’d greeted him happily at the door, pulling him into a hug and leading him inside. But something had been…off.
They cooked a meal together, chatting about everything and nothing, and while the time was a balm to Anakin’s war-torn soul, he could still sense a tension in the air, just a hint of trepidation in the Force.
After they ate and cleaned up, Padmé took his hand and brought him to the plush couch in her living room. She sat down and he sat beside her, their hands intertwined, and then Padmé met his eyes with a very particular sad, rueful look. Anakin’s stomach dropped.
She broke up with him.
It had been a slap to the face. He hadn’t seen it coming at all, hadn’t suspected anything. He’d sat there in shock as she so gently, so kindly tore his heart out. The whole time she never let go of his hands, thumb rubbing gently over his flesh knuckles, gripping his prosthetic tight, the way that helped him feel grounded.
He’s sure they both thought he would have gotten angry, initially. He’s always so angry these days. But he hadn’t.
Instead he’d broken down, begged, pleaded with her to keep trying. That he would be better, that he would do anything she wanted, anything to make her happy.
She’d said that she was happy, most of the time. That she loved being around him and talking with him and doing things together. That the secrecy was hard, but she loved him enough to endure it.
No, it wasn’t anything to do with Anakin’s company that Padmé was unhappy with; it was their sex life. She explained that she didn’t blame him, that he was away on the fronts so often wasn’t his fault, but even when he was around, they almost never did anything. That in those few rare times that their schedules allowed them to spend a night together, she had to coax him into participating, and even then he didn't seem interested in anything beyond touching.
Horrible shame flooded him as his wife explained how unsatisfied she felt, that even the few times they did have sex, while it didn’t feel bad, it was still…unfulfilling. She’d said that she didn’t think he was happy with their bedroom habits, either, that he never initiated anything, that it seemed like he didn’t really like sex at all.
He didn’t like sex, actually, greatly preferring cuddling to anything else, but he’d repeated that he would do anything, whatever she wanted in bed, that he didn’t care and just wanted her to feel good and be happy with him.
And she’d just looked at him, with sadness, and that same love that she always had, too. But still with sadness. “Ani, you deserve someone who wants the same things as you. I don’t want you to feel like you have to do things you don’t want just to stay with me.
“And it isn’t about you, really, it’s…” She glanced away. “I’ve realized, only just this week. I think I’m…interested in women. Only women.”
He’d said, “Oh.”
She’d said, “I’m sorry, Ani,” and he could feel that she was.
He’d said, “It’s okay.”
It wasn’t.
He hadn’t felt like he could stand going back to the Temple that night, so he went out and found a cheap hotel room he could rent. He’d curled up in the cold, empty bed, sheets smelling like generic cleaning solution and nothing else, and cried for hours and hours.
(Padmé had said that she wanted them to remain friends, that she still loved him even if she wasn’t in love with him. He’d tried to make himself believe that was enough, but all he could think was that it wouldn’t last. That it would only be a matter of time before she wanted nothing to do with him at all, before she left him completely.
(Why does everyone always leave him? What’s so horrible and irredeemable about him that he’s always left so alone?))
Anakin spent the next few weeks barely holding himself together. He was surly and short-tempered all day, scowling and snapping at people. Then at night he would fall apart. Even when he wasn’t up half the night crying to himself, sleep still alluded him, misery sitting too heavy on his chest.
He and Obi-Wan got into a nasty fight, right before being redeployed. It was some small, stupid thing, but he was cranky and miserable, and he’d blown up at his Master over it. (Stars, why does he always have to be such a terrible Jedi? He can’t do anything right, such a useless, overemotional failure.)
It was during that mission that it happened.
They hadn’t spoken since their fight, partially because they were just too busy. Anakin could feel Obi-Wan on the opposite side of the battlefield, was keeping a stray mental eye on him, just like always when in combat, regardless of their argument. Everything was as normal as it ever was while fighting for their lives, and then he’d felt an abrupt flare of alarm from the older Jedi, immediately followed by nothing, the sensation of the person on the other end of his bond dropping unconscious without warning.
Anakin had just enough time to turn towards the direction he had felt Obi-Wan vanish before something slammed into the back of his head, knocking him out cold.
He woke again hours later, in The Resolute’s medbay, to the news that Obi-Wan was missing.
Anakin hadn’t fallen completely into panic, at first. Of course he was worried, but they’d both been captured any number of times before, and things had always worked out. There wasn’t any reason for this to be different.
But time wore on, and there was no sign of him. No communications from the Separatists, no demands, no gloating, nothing. Obi-Wan was still alive, Anakin could feel it, even if his location and state was beyond his ability to sense, their bond stretched too thin to communicate over.
Slowly, his confidence began to wear away, cracks forming in his facade of security. His Master was alive, yes, but anything could be happening to him in the meantime. Anakin had to find him, and every day that went by with Obi-Wan still missing was another nail in the coffin of his failures.
His anxiety and fear for Obi-Wan at least pushed his heartbreak over his broken marriage out of his mind. (It isn’t worth it, though. He’d give anything for Obi-Wan to be back with him, safe and whole.)
He kept having to turn down social appointments with the Chancellor when the man would ask for him. He felt terrible for pulling away from his friend, but he was just too busy. He was spending his every waking moment searching, especially once the Council started redirecting resources back into the primary war effort instead of looking for Obi-Wan.
(How could they? Anakin has long been aware of the Council’s propensity to give up on missing Jedi, but Obi-Wan isn’t just another Jedi, he’s a councilmember himself, a High General, ‘The Negotiator’, essentially the face of the Jedi in the eyes of the public. He’s possibly the single most important being in the GAR, and they’re just—)
Anakin’s fraying mood continued to destabilize. The one thing he was really able to hold himself together for had been Ahsoka. His resilient, spitfire padawan, the one bright spot in this galaxy overrun by violence. He had to keep himself strong, for her.
She shouldn’t have had to grow up in this Force-damned war, but she had, and he couldn’t have been prouder of the woman she was growing into. They had become each others’ anchors in the dark storm they’d been left in in the wake of Obi-Wan’s disappearance.
But then there was the bombing.
It still steals his breath away, every time he remembers. The anger (how willing the Jedi were to just throw her away), the fear (he almost lost her, the Republic they’ve spent their lives serving nearly killed her). The shame (he was able to save her, but maybe if he’d been faster, stronger better, maybe she would have stayed).
She’d left, and every piece of his heart longed to leave with her, but he couldn’t. Not yet. Leaving would mean no longer having access to the Order’s resources, resources he needed to find Obi-Wan.
It’s been a month. Anakin hasn’t heard from her, only knows she’s alive because of their bond. (But it’s starting to fade now, not nearly as strong as his bond with Obi-Wan, having had only three years to build it. One day he’s going to lose her entirely.)
He was living in a daze for a few weeks, throwing himself into the search for Obi-Wan with everything he had left. The Council let him, not assigning him to any missions during that time. (Maybe as some sort of apology for what happened? He tries not to think about this possibility, doesn't want to get angry. It’s so exhausting to be angry, nowadays.) But last week, he was sent on his first deployment since Ahsoka left.
It went about as poorly as it could have.
They spent four days losing ground on some mudball in the Midrim whose only strategic value was how close it was to a minor hyperlane. Then Anakin caught a lucky shot that carved a chunk out of his thigh, and Rex had to call a full retreat. They lost the planetoid and Anakin was ordered a week of bedrest in the for his trouble, confined to the Temple like the useless fuck-up he is.
Now, in his bed in his quarters in the Temple, he stares determinedly at the spot on his ceiling, knowing that if he closes his eyes he’ll see all the death and devastation and suffering that is his fault. All the people he failed to save.
Twelve-hundred thirty-seven clones died last week. Twelve-hundred thirty-seven people he was responsible for, people who were depending on him, and he failed them. They were massacred under his watch, it’s all his fault.
The losses came from about an even split between the 501st and the 212th. Obi-Wan’s battalion had been temporarily reassigned to him after he disappeared. (Except as time goes on, it seems less and less temporary.) Anakin didn’t want that, but he hadn’t argued against it.
Cody definitely hates him. He hasn’t said anything, has been nothing but professional, but there’s no way he doesn’t despise Anakin, with how many of the clone's brothers he’s gotten killed by now, with his stupidity and incompetence.
And Rex. Force, Rex. Anakin can hardly bear to think about how much he’s failed his captain. Every time he’s so much as seen the man in these last few weeks, the guilt claws it’s way out of his chest to strangle him. He can barely stand to look him in the eyes after failing to save Fives.
He hasn’t dared check the man’s emotions through the Force, but he knows what must be happening. He can just tell that Rex resents him, at best.
And why shouldn’t he? Anakin is—is—
Some days he feels so dirty. The clones are slaves. He knows this, he’s always known it, and he’s led them into battle and given them their marching orders anyway because he was told he had to. That if he didn’t, they would be killed, or serving under crueler masters, or both. But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s—
His next breath shudders when the word bubbles up from the depths of his childhood.
(It feels like a brand on his soul, an inescapable rot.)
Rex should hate him, they all should, it's the only thing that makes sense.
(Would Mom hate him too? Would she be ashamed of what he’s done?)
Normally he could go to Padmé to talk these things over; she would help him figure out his feelings and what he should do. But he can’t do that anymore.
She said she wanted to remain friends after they split up, and Anakin also wants that too, at least in the abstract, but he’s started avoiding her. It just…hurt too much.
And then Obi-Wan went missing and he was dedicating every waking moment he could spare to the search, and then everything following the Temple bombing and the other Jedi turning on Ahsoka, and…
She’s under enough stress already, with her own part in trying to end this horrible war. He doesn’t need to pile onto that with his own problems.
He can’t even go to Palpatine about any of it.
The man had been so very supportive of his marriage, was ecstatic when Anakin first told him about it and always asked after how he and Padmé were doing during their talks. He couldn’t bear to see the disappointment Palpatine would show if he knew it had fallen apart (was afraid the man would confirm that it was his fault after all).
And then, the last time he’d stopped by to see the Chancellor after everything with Ahsoka, the man had made a small comment about Obi-Wan that had set him off. “My boy, your loyalty to your missing Master always astounds me, though it sometimes seems to me that it may be…undeserved.”
Anakin had been immediately overwhelmed by fury at the insinuation that he doesn’t owe everything that he has, everything that he is, to Obi-Wan. How could Palpatine think otherwise? Why would he say that Obi-Wan would be better off without him?
(…Would Obi-Wan be better off without him?)
At least, that’s what he’d thought the man meant at the time. Was he overreacting? It probably is his fault, he’s always misinterpreting things. He feels embarrassed now at blowing what was probably just a little innocent comment out of proportion, but he doesn't know how to drag up the motivation and willpower to apologize. (What if Palpatine also doesn’t want him around, now?)
Thank the Force, he had managed to retain enough shreds of common sense to not actually yell at the Supreme Chancellor, but he’d abruptly stood and left with some thin excuse, face twisted in an angry snarl that he just couldn’t suppress.
Anakin had been avoiding the man ever since, not taking his calls and leaving his messages unread. He knows its only a matter of time before he’s forced to meet with him again, if nothing else then because of his duty as a general, but he just…he just can’t.
So here he is, now. Alone.
(You did this to yourself, his mind keeps saying to him. You’re weak and useless and incompetent, something about you is wrong, is broken, and you failed everyone and drove them away.)
Force knows how long it will be until he can search for Obi-Wan again. As soon as he’s off medical leave, they’ll probably throw him right back onto the battlefield, just to get more people killed, to watch everyone around him scream and suffer, feel each and every one of their souls be snuffed out by the endless, endless violence.
(It hurts so much.)
More and more often, it feels like he nothing left to live for. (He already knows the Jedi would be better off without him. They never wanted him in the first place.)
The only reason he hasn’t…made plans is because Obi-Wan is still out there. He’s out there somewhere, alone, possibly hurt, waiting for Anakin to find him. He can’t give up while Obi-Wan needs him, he has to keep fighting. He has to.
So for now he’s just…stuck here. Waiting until the healers let him go back to searching for his Master, the only person out there who might still want him.
(He doesn’t want to think about what he’ll do if he finds out Obi-Wan is gone, too.)
⌘
He nearly collapses right there once he realizes that the duel is over, that he’s won.
Dooku survives for a few moments after taking the fatal blow. The strike had been sloppy from shaking hands—tremors from exhaustion, from nerves still healing after repeated electrocution—but it had still landed true, tearing through the old man’s throat.
The Sith’s head hasn’t fully separated from his body, his brainstem remaining intact. Lightsaber wounds generally cauterize, by virtue of their nature, but the carotid artery is so thick, vitality pumped through it with such force, situated as it is directly above the heart, that the seal formed by the burn bursts immediately.
So he gets to watch his grandmaster choke on his own blood for a minute before the man succumbs to hypoxia. He considers saying something, some snarky quip, some pithy absolution or final, bitter barb to the man who cost him so much.
But in the end, he says nothing, and the light leaves Dooku’s eyes without a word.
It was the Sith’s arrogance that led to his demise. He never considered that the newly-Fallen, newly-christened Darth Ardence could have even a chance at besting him in combat. Certainly not now, before he’s had any time to recover from the torture it took to turn him.
But, loathe as he is to admit it, he is far more suited to the Dark Side than his grandmaster ever had been, with his grand plans and lofty ideals.
No, he had something much more tangible to fight for, and his passion, finally unleashed, reached depths Dooku could not fathom. They both had the people of the galaxy, yes, their opposing ideas on how best to keep them secure, to bring about peace. But where Dooku set himself on a pedestal, above everyone and everything around him, he had so many people at his side. (He has so much more to lose.)
His friends, Bail, Satine, Quinlan. The many brave, loyal men under his command, Gregor, Waxer and Boil, Cody. His own grandpadawan, Ahsoka, a gleaming sprite of optimism. Anakin, his…everything.
And so the Dark had favored him in their duel, bolstering his energy, lending ferocity and speed unmatched by any previous battle he’s had, despite his body’s weakness after months of being broken down.
While the Count had size and experience and relative health in his favor, he had pure, unbridled desperation. And with both of them drawing from the Dark Side, from the universe’s chaos and passion and emotion, the strength of his love outmatched Dooku’s cold self-absorption by orders of magnitude.
He extinguishes his loaned lightsaber, his own destroyed long ago. Without the weapon’s scarlet glow, the cavernous dueling theater is lit only by the moonlight spilling in from the wide, arched windows. Stepping out of range of the pool of blood, he carefully, minding his injuries, lowers himself to the floor to sit and take stock.
He thinks on everything he’s learned since being captured, what Dooku told him of his plans to overthrow his own Sith Master with him as the man’s apprentice. He thinks of the truth behind the war, a conspiracy spanning decades, the ultimate goal the subjugation (for that’s what it would be) of the entire galaxy. He thinks of all the people falling victim to the plot, past and future, the clones and the Jedi and the ordinary people just trying to live their lives.
(He thinks of Anakin, of his undaunted compassion, of his firecracker spirit, of the bond sitting dormant in the back of his own head, his guiding light through these endless, pain-filled days.)
Obi-Wan allows himself only a short rest before wearily climbing back to his feet.
There is work to be done.