Summary: Anakin and Obi-Wan finally deal with the aftermath of Obi-Wan's deception. Spoilers for episode 4x15 through 4x18 of Star Wars: The Clone Wars. Rated M-ish for some softcore Anakin/Obi-Wan bonin', and warning for, er, dub-con-y elements, I guess? Title is from Toto's "Africa." Yeah, yeah.
I Seek to Cure What's Deep Inside (Frightened of this Thing that I've Become)
It surprises Obi-Wan to hear Anakin stomping through their shared quarters at the current hour; both his body clock and the chrono on the end table adjacent indicate that it's quite early for his nocturnal former Padawan to tuck in. Then again, judging by the heavy imprints that his boots are making with each leaden footstep, to say nothing of the anger emanating from him through the Force like so much static, going straight to sleep is almost certainly not Anakin's intention.
"Good evening," Obi-Wan greets, Anakin's journey to his small bedroom necessitating a trip through the sitting area. Curiosity and relief betray what Obi-Wan assumes is a staunch resolve to ignore him. Hungrily, Anakin's eyes rove over his face, Anakin's set jaw warring with a quickly softening gaze as he drinks in the familiarity of Obi-Wan once again looking like himself. The transformation back had been only slightly painful - the facial tattoo was the worst part, though the hair growth had taken longer. Even now, the recent follicle stimulation on his head and the lower half of his face is making his head itch; he resists the urge to scratch, focusing instead on the room's other occupant. "You're back early," he comments, when Anakin continues to idle in the room. "Surely, you'd have rather attended the banquet on Naboo."
"Wasn't intended for me, or I would have been invited." Anakin's gaze is tired, but his eyes still flash with hurt. "Seems to be happening a lot lately," he adds pointedly, and Obi-Wan sighs and nods. He expects that to be the end of it for now, but Anakin still has yet to storm off. Their budding confrontation seems to be the most constructive use for all that bottled up anger; Obi-Wan tries to baby step them into it nonetheless.
"I thought you should know," he offers blandly, Anakin continuing to loom in the doorway. "It turns out that Dooku had surveillance planted in Hardeen's equipment; I suspect he learned early on that it was me, and used the opportunity to spy on Jedi affairs." Anakin's eyes darken. "So you were right," Obi-Wan continues. "There was more going on than we had anticipated."
"How interesting," Anakin says dully. "So even without me around to screw up your undercover mission, it still wasn't foolproof."
"Nothing's ever foolproof, Anakin."
"Okay," Anakin says stonily, and Obi-Wan knows it's anything but, because Anakin never forfeits an argument. Still, they're both too weary to acknowledge this, and when Anakin finally, silently slips through the doorway and disappears from view (though his emotions still bubble, loudly and unhappily, in the Force), Obi-Wan's shoulders slump a little in relief. It doesn't take him long afterwards to retire himself; and if his gut niggles him for only allowing himself to go to bed once he's sure that Anakin is there, if not okay, then at least home(?), he's trained his emotions far too well not to do anything more than disregard it as the idle thought of an overextended mind.
He sleeps, hard and without anything to remember it by, and then suddenly, he's awake. It's earlier even than he usually rises, and the slow haze of consciousness is pushed aside only gradually, first by the dull roar of Anakin's own mental awareness, and then, considerably more firmly, by the hand (artificial, yet coated in soft, pliable leather) snaking around his waist.
"Anakin," Obi-Wan sighs, at once defeated and accepting. The warm weight pressing against his back is simultaneously not unwelcome, though, as if on cue, he still makes a show of protesting it, the same way he remembers protesting waking up on his back some years ago, straddled by a tipsy fifteen-year-old Padawan, his face flushed and curious, the end of his braid hanging down and tickling Obi-Wan's cheek. The circumstances are different; though in retrospect, Anakin did used to have some fanciful notions of trading the consequences of his breaking curfew and cutting class for favors showcasing his burgeoning talents, with some awkwardly mixed results, no less. This was hardly the first time his pain and anger had given way to bare lust and emotional need. Anakin had grown a bit since then, in several ways, but the way his breath hitched in Obi-Wan's ear now was tinged with the same kind of interest. It was flattering, Obi-Wan thought, if not a bit questionable by the Council's rather orthodox standards.
"Master," Anakin murmurs. He's clothed, Obi-Wan can tell, but the garments are thin, just sleep pants and minus a shirt. He has an erection. Anakin's mind is all muted agonies, and Obi-Wan decides that he must be projecting some sort of concern over all of this, because Anakin snorts into his neck. "Couldn't feel you in the Force," he rumbles softly, and plants kisses along Obi-Wan's newly-scruffy jaw from behind; his hand drifts purposefully. When he speaks again, His voice is heavy, his ministrations not at all subtle: "It felt bad. I missed you," he breathes.
"I missed you, too," Obi-Wan admits. Taking himself out of the Force had been the worst part of the whole mission; it had been incredibly isolating, mentally and in every other way that mattered, and he had wondered more than once whether he would survive the separation. Back, now, he runs through the usual catalogue of admonishments that rarely make any sort of a difference anyway. Out loud, he musters a whispered, broken, "I'm sorry," and then pliably allows himself to be rolled onto his back. Anakin isn't knobby-kneed or awkward with his hands anymore, even his artificial one, and it's not long before they're both stripped and sweaty and panting. In other instances, Obi-Wan might have demanded that Anakin cede control, might have smiled while listening to Anakin's gasps and curses as Obi-Wan patiently worked his fingers up and into him, dark blond locks bobbing and eyes furiously glinting. Tonight, he lets Anakin build them both up and then bring them down again, not entirely without risk, but not enough for Obi-Wan to push him away; not yet.
Anakin stays curled around him afterwards, uncomfortably close until Obi-Wan swats at him and grunts a little, demanding space. Even then, Anakin cannot seem to resist brushing stray strands out of Obi-Wan's eyes, or running the pads of his remaining real fingers along the bottom half of his Master's face; the itchiness of the new beard growth has mostly dissipated now. A few minutes later, the petting drops off, and he can hear Anakin snoring shallowly; his mind still roils, but Obi-Wan doubts that's something, like puberty, or losing his lightsaber every other day, that Anakin will be able to outgrow. He stares at the ceiling, hands clasped atop the sheet draped across his chest, and listens to Anakin sleep and breathe and think, until dawn begins to break, and it's time to leave all of this buried in the shadows and the warm, tangled sheets of Obi-Wan's sparsely blanketed bed.