Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Feedback: If you'd be so kind as to leave some, I'll do my best to reply.
Notes: ROTS AU.
sitara-asha: I agree that Anakin's emotion is preferable to the coldness of Dooku or even Yoda, but in this case, he doesn't believe the Jedi Order betrayed him. He believes the clones betrayed the Jedi Order. You're also quite right about Dooku and Obi-Wan. I'd love to see Anakin punch Dooku in the face too, I have to say.
ElNino9: I have to admit, I love the injured/protective dynamic as well.
Maddie Rose: Anakin is just the means to manipulate Obi-Wan in Dooku's eyes. Thanks for the PM, too—I'm going to do my best to answer very soon. This update interrupted that, though.
ThoseWereTheDays: No, I don't mind telling you. :) Padme will definitely make an appearance. It won't be for a little while, but when she does, she'll play a large part. I enjoy her character too much to leave her out entirely.
REV042175: Methinks you're very right. And Padme will show up eventually, at which point her whereabouts will be explained. I'm mum until then. :)
Estora: Oh, don't worry. I've had that happen too. Actually, I always copy my reviews before I click submit. Haha, sorry that I got to that idea first. It's certainly not exclusive, though—feel free to use it. If it's all in the name of good stories, you'll never see me complaining about my ideas overlapping with those of others. For all I know, you could have come up with it first.
pronker: That's a big key to Obi-Wan's state of mind. The idea that he's not betraying an active cause is a pretty big rationale for him. Poor guy is only human, after all.
The Jedi Temple is a scene of complete slaughter. By all appearances, it is an elegant battlefield with victims scattered haphazardly among the towering pillars and across the well-kept carpets. Blood stains dot the floors, scattered like a gruesome mosaic, and still fresh enough that the color is red and not the dried crusty brown that it fades to in the days following a battle. Even the scorch marks on the walls, the results of blaster shots that went wide, decry the violence that desecrated the Jedi Temple.
It is the Clone Wars finally culminating in the home of the only people who would have had a hope of ever stopping it.
Dooku stands at the end of the hallway, taking in the scene. He feels oddly detached at the sight of so many bodies. It's certainly not pleasant, but it was simply necessary, and he is a man who is strong enough to do what needs to be done. The galaxy will be better for it.
Beside him, he can hear Kenobi's harsh intake of breath, sharp, an almost unspoken accusation that hasn't yet found a voice. Dooku certainly doesn't need to look to know that he'll find horror on the other man's face. These people were his friends—the only family he'd ever known. Dooku understands. Once, he felt the same.
But sacrifices had to be made.
The Jedi served a corrupt Senate and Republic and, in some ways, they were becoming stagnant themselves. When Dooku left their ranks, he had truly believed he was doing the right thing, and he does not regret that decision. Neither does he regret the loss of life before him. It was necessary. Not pleasant or desirable, but necessary.
Taking a deep breath, Dooku attempts to ignore the beginning stench of death. He'll have the bodies cleared soon.
"Is this proof enough for you?" he asks, glancing over at the man in the hoverchair next to him. Kenobi has paled to the point where his skin is a dull cream, but beyond that, there is nothing on his face to indicate that he is not in control of himself—not yet.
That comes a moment later.
"How can you do this?" Kenobi murmurs, disgust coloring his voice. "These were your friends, just as much as they were mine. And the younglings…"
Interesting, Dooku thinks, digging his fingers lightly into his elbows. For Kenobi, that is as close to an outburst as is likely to occur at this point. How strange that this notion causes a small bubble of pride to bloom in Dooku's own chest, expanding slowly until it rises up to his face and morphs into a smug quirking of his lips. Kenobi is not his student, but he cannot deny the satisfaction that the man's control brings him. It's merely more proof that Sidious was incorrect in his choice of apprentice. More importantly, it's also a fine testament to Dooku's legacy. He chose well in sparing Kenobi's life. This man is too unique to cast aside.
"The Order could not be allowed to survive. It is regrettable, but necessary." Pausing, he turns his back to the bodies, shifting into Kenobi's line of sight until he's sure that he's blocked the view of the corpses. "Now, since you've been given the opportunity to ascertain the veracity of my claims, I wish for an answer: where are the base locations?"
The answer is, as he suspected, not immediately forthcoming. That's loyalty, and he respects that, almost to the point where he regrets that he will have to break it.
And he will break it.
Indecision swirls in Kenobi's gaze, and he clenches his jaw and grasps the arms of the hoverchair hard enough to whiten his grip. It's always the little things that give a man away. "You have access to everything in the Temple. Don't you already know?"
"As you are well aware, such information is attainable only to those on the Jedi Council. It is not as simple as gaining access to an emergency channel that is available to all Jedi."
There's passion in this man's demeanor. Dooku stands before him, holding a threat over a boy that he has no doubt Kenobi loves, and yet he meets the gaze focused on him with a strength few men will ever possess. It's impressive: Kenobi is a throwback to a more civilized age. Duty and honor are not just a code to him: they are his life.
"Then I'm sorry, Count, but you'll have to keep searching, because you won't gain answers from me."
It is not what Dooku expected. It was thinkable that Kenobi might protest a bit more before giving in, but this outright refusal is not planned for, and he can feel the skin around his mouth pulling as he thins his lips.
"Foolish, Master Kenobi. You have nothing to gain by withholding the information."
There is such steel in Kenobi's resolve: he holds himself tensely, every muscle coiled and ready to react to the consequences he clearly knows his adherence to duty will bring. He is entirely admirable and, as Dooku is beginning to realize, also still very exploitable. Duty will only get him so far. When that fails, where will he be?
It's only a matter of finding a way to make it fail.
Of course, there is the possibility of physically torturing Skywalker. It's what Kenobi is expecting, but both men have been trained to handle that. And Skywalker—he would endure any sort of physical torture: withstanding something of that nature could quite possibly allow him to come back stronger and more vindicated in his revulsion for Dooku. Instead, something more… subtle is needed. Skywalker's greatest sore spots are not physical; instead, as evidenced by his lack of control, they are mental. The boy is prideful. Where better to strike than the place where he has the greatest distance to fall? And when Skywalker does fall, Kenobi will be with him through every tumble, every scrape, and every skid, and that—that will play on his weakness. It will play on Kenobi's attachment.
Maybe then, he'll finally listen.
If not, then Dooku will keep pressing. It will take time, yes, but that, at least, is one thing he has. He can wait for Kenobi to break. The idea alone is enough to make something pleasant settle inside of him, easing along his nerves and promising the satisfaction that comes from future success. What a victory it will be to finally have this man taking orders from him. His grandson of sorts. His legacy. It's a somewhat strange idea of family, but the memory of Qui-Gon Jinn lingers in his mind, vaguely dredging up the notion of what it was to be something like a parent. It wasn't always pleasant, and it was seldom easy, but it was always worthwhile, and Kenobi is all that is left of that time of his life.
He will not allow this opportunity to slip away.
It's been three days. Three days of no human company, where water is delivered through a section in door, and the only bed provided is a slab of cold metal attached to the wall. Worse, with the lack of human contact, Anakin has gotten no word on Obi-Wan. The only thing he can do while he waits for an answer is to stare at the gray walls of his cell until they seem to bend inward, warping his vision to the point where he wants to clutch at the sides of his head and bash his own skull into the walls just to make the illusion stop. When he was a little boy on Tatooine, he'd sometimes gotten this feeling if he stared out toward where the sky met the dune sea: everything so far away had suddenly seemed to be bending toward him, compressing his world until he was sure that it would shrink to the point where there would soon be nothing left.
There's a reason Anakin always hated Tatooine.
The illusion of the walls finally irritates him to the point where he closes his eyes and lays back on the floor, kicking the metal barrier with the bottom of his foot. The rhythmic thumping breaks up some of the monotony, and before he really even thinks about what he's doing, he finds himself tapping out the rhythm of a song his mother sang to him when he was young and scared. Is it a manifestation of his mind's desire for comfort? Maybe. Probably. Either way, he doesn't care. It's not like there's anyone here to see him or to ask about his memories of his mother.
His mother always sang to him. She used melodies to soothe away the harsh reminders from other children that he was a slave, to comfort him after the sting of Watto's slaps, and even to chase away the nighttime fears and dreams that had often plagued him. He'd loved it, and so many times he'd fallen asleep in her lap with a sweet melody in his ear. The songs always made him feel safe.
It was different when he came to live with Obi-Wan. It took weeks before Obi-Wan would even let him sit on his lap without tensing. Now, Anakin understands that his master didn't want to get too close—not after Qui-Gon—but as a small child, he felt inadequate and, until about six months after he came to live with Obi-Wan, unwanted. He'd certainly never been comfortable enough to ask Obi-Wan to sing.
Obi-Wan only sang to him once, and that was the time which finally convinced Anakin that Obi-Wan's reservations had not so much to do with not wanting Anakin, but everything to do with Obi-Wan's fear of caring for another person like he'd cared for Qui-Gon. Anakin hadn't really understood that at the time, but while wrapped in the delirium of a severe fever brought on by an insect bite that occurred on a mission, he'd shivered and sweated until his clothes and hair were sticking to his skin and he had nothing else to seek comfort in beyond the sound of Obi-Wan's lilting voice as he explained his actions of the past six months to a boy that he didn't think was well enough to hear or understand. But Anakin did hear, and more importantly, he recalls those words. He remembers, even in the throes of a fever, feeling comforted by his master's soft murmuring; by the feeling of being rocked by strong arms, so unlike his mother's, but comforting; and then later during the night, by a quiet song that sounded as haunting as the wind whipping along the dunes of the desert. It sounded like home, and for a sick, lonely little boy, it was exactly what he'd needed.
That was the day he started loving his master, he's pretty sure, and it's stuck ever since, through all the fights and bitterness, through the lies of his marriage, and entwined throughout the friendship that developed between them when Anakin grew older. He and Obi-Wan have always been close, and after Padme, there is no person that he cares for more. The fact that there is a difference between the love he has for the man who is the closest thing he will ever have to a father and that which he has for his wife is irrelevant. It is still love. It still makes him fear loss. Most hauntingly, it pulls up the memory of his mother's face as she slipped away from life.
"Stay with me, Mom."
"I llo—I—I love—"
Anakin's eyes snap open.
Even the institutional gray of the walls is preferable to the pasty pale that his mother was in death. It is preferable to everything about his memory of her death.
Even now, he has to choke down the pain that memory brings.
Kneeling in the dim light of the tent, he recalls how her face looked cast in the glow of a cooking fire. It had been littered with cuts and bruises, and when he'd held her, she'd been so emaciated that it seemed as though she'd disintegrate in his hands. He could hardly fathom how she'd once clutched him tightly to her chest, keeping him safe from the whole world. He'd wondered about that as she'd looked up at him with glassy eyes, and he'd known right then, even if he hadn't admitted it to himself, that there was nothing he could do, but he'd tried, he'd begged, and she'd died anyway.
Blinking furiously, he rakes a hand through his hair and shakes his head to clear the memory. He saw it once in reality. He sees it so often in his nightmares. He doesn't need to relive it now, too.
The floor beneath him feels cold, though that might simply be his body: the memory has left him shaken, and as he digs his fingers hard into his knees, fighting for some semblance of control, he works to take deep breaths in protest against the vice grip that seems to have grabbed hold of his chest. The sound of his harsh intakes of air is enough to distract him, and it takes him a moment to realize that he's still tapping a rhythm.
It's not a random rhythm.
It's the one song Obi-Wan ever sung to him.
The moment he realizes what he's doing, Anakin flips over onto his stomach and slams a fist into the floor. A sharp bolt of discomfort shoots up his hand and wrist, but he ignores it. This is insane. He shouldn't be feeling like this, tormenting himself with things he can't change and demons from his past. Out on the battlefield, he knows what he's doing, but here in the quiet spaces, he's more at war than he ever is when facing a barrage of blaster shots. As a Jedi, he should be calm, accepting of whatever Obi-Wan's fate is. If he were the Jedi he should be, that's what he'd do, but he's not. He's not the Jedi he should be, and he's worried. He wants to know that his master is all right, and the fear that he's not eats at his mind like acid, leaking down to his heart and damaging every bit of control and calm that he should possess. Maybe he never even had that control to begin with.
Thoughts like that tear at his mind, and he pushes past the urge to let a cry bubble up past his lips. He won't give that up. He'll control himself. He's Anakin Skywalker, the Chosen One. How can he save everyone else if he can't even save himself? It's an absurd thought. He has a duty, and he won't give into this thing that's pulling him down.
For how long he can keep that promise, he's not sure. The silence is just so loud.
And, then, it's not.
A quick hiss of air startles him out of his revere of self-pity, and he glances up. That's not silence. That's something. At this point, anything is welcome, and he's never been so thankful to see an enemy as a moment later when the door shoots open in a rush of air that smoothes over his face and down his arms. The air is processed and stale, but after three days in a confined room, any new air at all is welcome.
More importantly, with the coming of noise, he finds that he's not so cold anymore.
Immediately, he sits up back against the wall, pushing his hair out of his eyes and suspiciously eyeing the six clones who enter. He's poised to make a smart comment, hopefully as biting and angry as he feels, but he stops at the last moment, the words morphing into something else, something happier, and he shoves himself to his feet, trying not to show the relief he's feeling.
"Obi-Wan!"
At least Obi-Wan is walking, and while his steps aren't as firm and sure as Anakin would like, it's a relief just to see him on his feet. His skin is slightly pale, but his eyes are bright, and though the fact that his beard hasn't been trimmed makes him look a bit haggard, nothing seems to be seriously wrong. He's healed well.
"Master!"
Obi-Wan meets his eyes, and that is when Anakin realizes that he was wrong. Dead wrong. Obi-Wan's eyes are bright, but it's not the brightness of health—it's a look of pain and stress, still controlled, but present nonetheless. Something is very wrong.
"Are you all right, Anakin?" he asks quietly.
He wants to demand more answers from Obi-Wan, but something in his master's face stops him, and instead he just nods. Why isn't his master saying more? Or, more importantly, why does he seem so tired, as if his whole world has just collapsed? He's only ever seen Obi-Wan like this after losses—bad losses—and he immediately wants answers.
"And, Master Kenobi, if you so choose, he can remain that way."
Obi-Wan stiffens nearly unperceivably, but Anakin notices, and he bristles angrily as Dooku steps in through the door. Everything about the man reeks of arrogance. Many times Anakin has been accused of that himself, but Dooku's brand of that particular quality is entirely different. It's not just a faith in his own skills—though he clearly possess that—but something almost aristocratic, as though the rest of the world ought to serve him simply because of his place in existence, which he held from birth. All the good manners and civilized talk in the world—which Dooku is a master at—can't disguise an attitude like that.
That's especially true when the person before him is Anakin, whose own arrogance was partially born out of the desire to insure that he would never be viewed as an inferior being again.
Anakin has amazing gifts. He knows it. He wants others to know it too, because never again does he want to be seen as worthless. He isn't a slave—not anymore—and he craves the recognition of just how good he is, because that will prove just how incapable he is not.
That is his arrogance.
It is not the same kind as Dooku's.
Obi-Wan's hand on his arm prompts Anakin to take a step back, falling in beside his former master. Even in his clearly less-than-healthy condition, Obi-Wan's grip is firm and offers no room for argument.
"I won't give you the base locations," Obi-Wan says, a strong current of stubbornness running through his voice.
Dooku's upper lip curls in a sneer. "I'll kill him."
Anakin hardly feels anything. He should. Maybe once that promise sinks in he will, but right now all he can feel is his absolute disdain for the man before him. Dooku is a monster hiding behind impeccable manners and gentility. That front is how he got others to follow him—how he started this war—but the darkness hiding behind the front is more important—it is why he started the war.
Obi-Wan's fingers flex against Anakin's arm.
"It's your decision, Master Kenobi. Is your padawan's life worth the locations of bases for a cause that no longer exists?"
A slight tremor shakes Obi-Wan's hand, running into Anakin's own arm… or possibly it's the other way around and coming from Anakin instead. Maybe that's why Obi-Wan is glancing over at him, his gaze running up and down Anakin's body as if he's picturing just how he'll look on a funeral pyre—if Dooku even allows that honor. He probably wouldn't, not that it would make a difference, really. Death is death, and the idea of Anakin's is probably what accounts for the haunted, almost displaced look in Obi-Wan's eyes. It's possible that he even felt the tremor that Anakin has to admit probably came from himself and not from Obi-Wan. Stupid. He shouldn't be reacting like that. Both of them know what decision Obi-Wan should make, and Anakin's emotions will not help him to do what duty requires.
"You've seen the proof yourself," Dooku continues. "The cause you fought for no longer exists."
"It's not dead yet," Obi-Wan murmurs. "It won't be, as long as there are people willing to fight for it."
Dooku crosses his arms and taps a finger impatiently against his elbow. "Let me rephrase, then: the cause you fought for has become ineffective. Do you want to sacrifice your padawan for something that can no longer bring about change?"
There is no good answer for that. Anakin can see that truth on Obi-Wan's face, in the creases of his forehead and the sweat beading on his brow. It's not good for him to stand like this—not after how injured he was—Anakin thinks, though the thought is hazy, almost surreal. Anakin is possibly going to die very soon, but his mind lingers on Obi-Wan's condition in what he has to admit is quite likely an escape from his own anxieties. Focus on someone else so you won't have to focus on your own fear or pain. It's a very plausible avoidance tactic, and one that at least benefits others.
Frankly, it's probably a trait he picked up from Obi-Wan.
"Your time to decide has run out, Master Kenobi," Dooku announces coldly. There is no pity in his gaze, not even when he draws his lightsaber in an elegant flourish. At the movement, the clones spread around them in a circle and raise their blasters, training them on Anakin.
"I know you're getting old, Dooku," he snaps, not caring that it's in direct contradiction of good sense, "but your eyesight can't have possibly deteriorated to the point where you aren't able to see that if you fire on me, you're going to kill him too," he points out, jerking his head in Obi-Wan's direction.
Beyond the obvious distaste that Dooku regards him with, he seems unmoved. Why shouldn't he be? To this man, lives are as expendable as pieces on a game board. "And I know that you have no common sense, Skywalker, but surely you must have noticed that neither of you are in the position to prevent any series of events that I deem necessary." He gives a calm nod in the direction of one of the clones. "Remove Kenobi."
For Anakin, it's complete instinct to press back-to-back, guarding where Obi-Wan is most vulnerable. It's a seamless move that's almost second nature to both him and Obi-Wan, though in most situations, they aren't so completely unarmed. Here, they have no lightsabers—no weapons beyond the Force—and Anakin is aware that Obi-Wan knows just as well as he does that this fight will be over before it starts. That won't stop them from trying. They have never meekly accepted defeat.
Oddly, the shot, when it comes, is at Obi-Wan. It catches them both by surprise. It should have been at Anakin. He's the one Dooku wants to harm. That would have been the logical, obvious move.
That, Anakin knows, is exactly why Dooku ordered the opposite.
The shot catches Obi-Wan in the thigh, and while it was clearly with the intention to maim, not kill, the way he buckles, grunting in pain, is a vivid demonstration of how effective it still is. Dooku doesn't need to kill Obi-Wan—he clearly doesn't even want to. All he needs is exactly what he's just gotten: Obi-Wan out of the way and unable to interfere.
Anakin catches Obi-Wan as he begins to fall, helping him down to rest on the ground. His breathing is heavy, one hand pressed over the wound, but the set of his jaw is hard, and Anakin knows he's fighting against letting any weakness seep through. He'll be strong right up until the culmination—until Anakin's end… and it will be Anakin's end. There are still blasters trained on them, and staring into the barrel, Anakin just knows that he is looking his death in the face. Obi-Wan won't tell the locations—he won't ever betray the Republic. Anakin doesn't want him to. His life is not worth those of so many others.
He feels the heat at his neck almost before he hears the hum of a lightsaber. He should feel it slicing through him. Will it hurt? Will it take long? What will end first? Will his disembodied head still feel pain? Will his brain shut down as soon as it's severed from his body? What about his body? Will that still feel pain?
Why is he even able to still think about any of that?
He's still alive. That rush of beautiful realization surges through him, weakening every bit of him and leaving an unpleasant tingling in his extremities. Well, not entirely unpleasant. It means he's alive.
Using sheer force of will to pry open the eyes he hadn't realized he'd closed, he accepts the rush of light he shouldn't be seeing. He probably shouldn't have closed his eyes at all—enough time for that when he's dead—but no one wants to see their death. Who could truly blame him for being like everyone else in that respect? Though, if that was the course of action he wanted, he probably should have kept his eyes shut, because opening them to see the look of absolute pain on Obi-Wan's face is not something he wants imprinted in his mind. Obi-Wan is always strong, and Anakin needs him to be now.
And then Obi-Wan opens his mouth.
"Don't—" Anakin chokes out, flinching when the lightsaber moves a fraction of an inch closer. He can feel the heat. It's blistering the skin of his throat, though he hardly notices. All he can concentrate on is the way Obi-Wan is staring at Dooku with indecision in his eyes.
He can't let Obi-Wan do what he knows he's about to. Maybe if he just leaned into the lightsaber? Yes. Yes. He doesn't want to kill himself, but he has a duty to the Republic, and he knows, even if Obi-Wan will never admit it, that he is the only one in the galaxy Obi-Wan would do this for. It's his fault Obi-Wan has attachment in the first place. That makes this his responsibility.
So, he will do what he must.
Or, rather, he tries.
When he makes the attempt, he's pulled up short by the hand that shoves into his hair, yanking him up on his knees. His scalp burns, like fire, but with so much pressure. He's had worse, but it still hurts, and Force, he really hates Dooku…
Anakin twists, but he's held tight, so taunt that he can hardly draw a breath. "I think not, Skywalker," Dooku comments dryly, completely unimpressed. "Self-sacrifice doesn't become you. That is Kenobi's role, I'm afraid."
Obi-Wan blinks, still resistant, but so, so conflicted. Anakin can hear it in his voice when he speaks. "You won't go through with it." He doesn't tremble or stutter, but he knows his master when he's acting, and he's doing it now.
Anakin hardly dares to breathe. There's a blade a fraction of an inch from his throat, and Dooku won't let him die of his own volition, he knows. Trying to breathe into the blade is only going to get him a very painful and pointless injury.
Dooku has him cornered, and he knows it.
Both him and Obi-Wan know it.
"Really, Kenobi, you make a poor master if this is what you allow to happen to your student."
"It is my duty as a master and a Jedi to put others before my own personal attachments," Obi-Wan replies through gritted teeth. "One life is not worth hundreds."
Dooku pulls back a little harder, until Anakin hisses in pain. He hates himself for making any noise, but the tension of waiting for a final decision seems to forcibly press the air up into his throat until all it takes to draw it out is the pain. "Your duty as a master?" he asks, his tone smothered in condescension. "Very well, allow me to rephrase: you make a poor father if this is what you allow to happen to the child you raised."
Obi-Wan's exhales harshly, and, for a moment, Anakin has to wonder if he'll even take another breath. It seems to be an effort for Obi-Wan, as though someone has punched him hard in the gut.
Some part of Anakin is surprised the words reached his master so deeply, but even with a blade at his throat, he craves hearing that confession, even if it comes only in the form of a small breath. He's always wanted that admission.
"I am not—"
"You are. You only lie to yourself if you deny it."
"It doesn't change anything."
A pause.
Anakin waits.
Then, "Very well." His tone is almost regretful, though probably more for the fact that he'll lose his leverage over Obi-Wan than that Anakin will lose his life.
He doesn't seem to care about the later consequence in the slightest.
Dooku isn't quick about delivering death. He works the blade in slowly, letting it sizzle against the skin, slowly burning the layers away. Anakin can smell his own skin immolating. It's nauseating, and the smell, more than the feel, starts his stomach rolling. He won't have time to throw up. He'll be dead before then. Won't he? Or will Dooku really draw this out so far? Oh, Force, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts…
He's crying out. He can't hear himself—his mind is blacking out—but he can feel it in his throat. Or maybe he can hear himself. Someone is yelling. Someone. Just someone.
And then the heat is gone, and something strikes his head.
Metal is cold. The floor is cold. Everything is cold, and the heat at his neck is gone, and he's never been so happy to feel so cold.
"If I tell you, you'll let him go."
It's not a question. It's a demand.
Surprisingly, Dooku addresses it.
"If I like your information."
"That's subjective."
"I'm a man of my word, and I promise you that if your information is good, he'll walk out of this cell."
Anakin's eyelids flutter open, but everything is still too hazy for him to raise his head from the floor. Right now, that doesn't matter so much. He knows Obi-Wan is bargaining, just as he knows that while he may be known as the "negotiator," there's nothing to negotiate in this situation. It's all a power play for Dooku, and no one, not even Obi-Wan, is skilled enough to change that.
"Don'… tell 'im," Anakin mutters, cheek still pressed to the floor. The world is tilting so fast. He can't hold himself, no matter how hard he tries—and he is trying. He fights for breath as he flexes his fingers against the metal under him, trying so hard to gain a hold on the spinning world around him.
A hand closes around his own.
"Well, Master Kenobi?"
"I'll give you one location. A good one."
"One location? That's hardly enough to tempt me to let such a dangerous prisoner go."
What's that against his palm? What's Obi-Wan doing? Consciousness is still half evading him, but he needs it now, because if Obi-Wan is taking the time to do this, it's important.
"I'll give you one with a database that has coded information on parts of our most important intel. Numbers, figures, strategies…"
Obi-Wan's fingers brush over the underside of Anakin's palm again. He's going slowly now, but the touch is very deliberate and too precise for Anakin to discount it as a nervous twitch. Obi-Wan doesn't do that, anyhow.
But Obi-Wan does think under pressure.
His breath catches in his chest in realization. That—Obi-Wan's calm under pressure—is the hint he needs. He knows what Obi-Wan would logically do in this situation. That's where knowledge of his teammate makes everything so much easier.
It may have saved them here.
What Obi-Wan's doing—it's a coded sign. He and Obi-Wan developed them toward the onset of the war, numbers one through ten and the letters of the alphabet, that could be communicated by signs both physical and verbal. The trick of it is that it's a code all their own, and whether it be in meetings or when facing the enemy, it's quite convenient to be able to speak confidentially while in public. That's never been more beneficial than now.
Taking a deep breath, Anakin touches back, letting Obi-Wan know he recognizes what he's doing… and gets another number.
"And if your information fails to check out?" Dooku asks.
Obi-Wan pauses, and then starts tracing a pattern again. "I guess you'll just have to trust that I'm a man of my word, just as much as you are."
A final tap. He's done. Whatever the numbers represent, Anakin is sure it's vital. But what do they represent, exactly? C'mon, Obi-Wan, he thinks a little desperately, just a little more…
Irritation is again blooming on Dooku's face, almost visibly etching the lines of his wrinkles more deeply into his skin. "Perhaps you could simply give me the clearance code for the information."
"I'm sorry," Obi-Wan replies, sharp and hard, "but I only give that to people I trust."
That's all it takes. Anakin knows. He knows what Obi-Wan has just given him.
He's just been given access to all the Republic's base locations.
This is the information he wouldn't have gotten until he was a master and on the council. Only those privileged few have it, but Obi-Wan has given it to him, clearly with the intention of letting him use it when he gets free. He'll have to find an escape, insert the code into the database, find out where the locations were, and clear them of information. It's clearly what Obi-Wan intends, and it's a good plan—a solid plan—and the only way that is going to stop Dooku from eventually getting that information, because Obi-Wan is only buying time by not telling. Dooku will find out. If he has this much control, he'll find what he needs, even if it takes years.
"That's my final offer," Obi-Wan murmurs.
Dooku is silent, giving no answer for such an extended period of time that Anakin is almost certain he'll say no. Why wouldn't he? It's not a good trade—not for him, and certainly not when he's got such leverage over Obi-Wan.
"All right."
What? That's enough to give Anakin the energy he needs to roll his head to the side, just so he can have some clue as to what Dooku could possibly be thinking.
He gets his clues, though not from Dooku, and not in the way he thought he would.
Obi-Wan is on the ground, staring up at Dooku from under a mess of hair that's fallen into his eyes. He's clutching his new wound, but his face is hard and set, as stalwart as Anakin has ever seen it. Dooku may be agreeing based on that glimpse alone. Anakin might have. He knows Obi-Wan well enough to know that expression brokers no argument and no compromise. If Dooku chooses to refuse now, his only choice will be to kill Anakin… and that's the downfall of blackmail. Once it's been used, it becomes useless.
If he kills Anakin, he loses his hold over Obi-Wan.
"If you keep your word, Master Kenobi, I'll keep mine," Dooku replies finally, putting his lightsaber back onto his belt and tucking his arms under his cape. He may not have obtained the deal he wanted, but there's still satisfaction in his eyes, so like that of a man who knows he's won.
Anakin would like Obi-Wan to say something else—something more insulting. He wants him to say anything to wipe that victorious look off Dooku's face and to remind him that he didn't get what he wanted, or at least not completely. But Obi-Wan doesn't. He doesn't push his luck like Anakin would have. He doesn't try Dooku further.
Obi-Wan just nods.
