A/N: I am absolutely not giving up on my other fics, guys. But this thing has been stuck in my brain for WEEKS and it needed to get out, so it did, and here we go.
(Written to a never-ending loop of Dance Monkey, yes it attacked my brain and no I don't regret loosing three braincells for this)
[CROSS-POSTED ON AO3, MORE COMPLETE AND MUSICAL VERSION NOT AVAILABLE ON FFNET]
For once, the mission went smoothly.
No ill-timed Separatist intrusion, no nefarious plot to expose, no abducted Senators to rescue and no local dignitaries to appease afterwards.
Only three cargos of medical supplies to retrieve, check, load, a few technicalities to oversee, paperwork to sign and smiles to give, along with assurances that yes, it will be carried immediately to the station on Coruscant, no, they won't stop on the way and yes they know where the hospital is, thank you very much. Apart from that one accident with acid mud on the last hidden base that made a Corellian ambassador laugh about the quality of Jedi-issued boots, no complications arose. The Twilight was packed, prepped, and took off.
And just like that, it was done.
Easy as Jogan pie.
There was never any need for three Jedi to be dispatched on this mission, even if the Senate did suspect an attack, and certainly no need for the very famous and holovid-acclaimed Hero with No Fear, his Padawan, or his old, still-healing former Master.
A part of Obi-Wan suspects some Council members assigned them this mission on purpose. A smooth one, Mace had said. One that wouldn't end in tears and funerals. He had smiled, sure that his friend would eventually be proven wrong and that they would, once more, sow chaos and destruction in their wake. But maybe this time Obi-Wan was wrong. Maybe this time, it was simply easy.
He is also pretty sure that Ahsoka is going to be dispatched on her own soon, if the rumours about a huge conference being held on Mandalore are to be believed. This smooth mission might as well be the only reprieve they would get before going back to the front.
Force knows they need some rest. Specially after their ordeal on Kadavo.
But the ease of it all still baffles Obi-Wan.
He half expects some engine to blow up, the Twilight to be ejected out of hyperspace and the unusual tranquillity of their journey back to Coruscant to be suddenly and brutally interrupted.
He shouldn't. He should appreciate the calm while it lasts, not spend every minute worrying about its end.
What kind of Jedi is he, troubled by peace?
He sighs. Rubs two fingers against his temple and tries to dislodge the headache slowly creeping in.
"You're okay over there, old man?"
There is some genuine concern laced in his friend's voice, underneath the taunt, so Obi-Wan forces a smile to his lips and raises his head.
"Yes, Anakin, I am fine. I could use a drink, though."
"Pity we couldn't stop to get some of this fine Corellian wine you like so much."
Obi-Wan scoffs. Pity indeed.
"You're sure you don't want to play? I'm willing to bet good money that your report's already perfect as it is."
Anakin points to the general direction of the datapad hanging precariously on his former Master's thighs. Obi-Wan does need to proofread it one last time before sending it to the Council.
"He's right, Master", Ahsoka chimes in, gently, "you could use a break."
"And she's going to lose again in like, a minute."
"Hey! I'm not!"
"Oh, but you are, Snips. You are."
Obi-Wan stops listening to them a few seconds after that. He goes back to the mission report in front of him, as a matter of principle. But it is no use. He cannot find a position to read without his back hurting and his mind keeps drifting away. Back to the Zyggerian compound, back to the look in Rex's eyes, the buzz of the whip, the sound of the Togrutas' sobs, the smell of blood and dirt, the crushing sense of helplessness and back, back, back. He shakes his head, clears his mind, releases everything into the Force. This is over. The Togrutas are safe and sound on Kiros. His own wounds are healing. He is safe.
Is he?
What kind of Jedi is he, having allowed those horrors to happen?
What kind of Jedi is he?
Obi-Wan sighs again, locks one ankle over his other knee, and goes back to his report, determined not to let himself be distracted by his own thoughts. He leans back on his seat and ignores the burn of the healing scars between his shoulders. The wounds are one thing. Skin scars, but skin heals. Tissue grows back, tender, fresh, new, and erases the marks. Bacta truly does wonders on burns and scrapes.
But the cruellest reminder of his failure as a Jedi remains unseen. It slowly gnaws at his heart, whispers again and again, what kind of Jedi are you? How could you have let that happen? How can you sit here while it happens again, every day, elsewhere? Wherever he goes, the memory of the whip follows, along with the smell of dirt, the taste of helplessness on his tongue and that look in the slaver's eyes when he was first punished, trying to take the fall in somebody's place.
Once more, Obi-Wan wills his mind back to the present.
It is over.
The three of them are on the Twilight's resting room, Anakin and Ahsoka playing sabacc on the table, a few feet away from him. So far, his former Padawan has managed to beat her twice and, by the looks of it, the third time is, indeed, coming in. She is scrunching her nose, trying to see the flaws in his game. It is no use. Anakin was scamming Watto's customers before she could even talk. But it is still adorable to see her try. And Obi-Wan has to admit that they paint quite a lovely picture, the two of them, playing cards without a care in the world.
From somewhere behind them, an old melo-emitter is playing whatever songs its owner stuffed in its memory bank a few decades ago.
It's distracting.
It's comforting.
Obi-Wan does not have the heart to ask them to turn the thing off. The music fills the ship with a strange completeness that does not only come from the songs. It feels out of time. He feels out of time. It is an illusion, it always is, but the domesticity of the scene in front of him soothes something deep inside him. Something of the burns bacta cannot reach.
There, relaxed, bantering and laughing, are two of the people he cherishes most in the universe.
Oh, what he would give to be able to offer them this, every evening. To replace every night spent in tears and blood with chuckles, light jokes and red fingers pushing at mechanic ones inside a bowl of sweets.
Both of them are in their socks. Ahsoka, because she stepped in some kind of acid by accident at the Corellian base, and the strange mud dissolved her boots. Anakin, on some feeble excuse about keeping her company he thought up on the spot when Obi-Wan asked him to put his ankles out of the table ten minutes ago. He expected him to take his feet off, not his boots, but… well.
Anakin Skywalker has never been one to properly listen to orders. Stars know he is not going to start now.
There is a hole on his left sock, by the big toe, a little bit of flesh visible at the end, and the sight of it makes Obi-Wan both frustrated and fond.
Across the table, in front of him, Ahsoka is sitting cross-legged, the white seams of her own socks turned slightly grey by the ship's floor. Her toes are trapped between her thighs and the chair. For a moment, Obi-Wan wonders if her feet may feel cold and plans on supplying them both with a warmer pair before exiting hyperspace. The Twilight has a good heating system, but space gets cold. And Anakin needs new ones, anyway.
"Aaaaand I won!" the Knight suddenly chirps.
Ahsoka grumbles. Throws her remaining cards on the table and crosses her arms on her chest. "You cheated again, that's what you did."
"Ah, but you can't prove that, my little Padawan."
"You might want to inspect his mechno-arm, Ahsoka," Obi-Wan supplies innocently from his seat.
The next second, she is on her feet, trying to get a view of his forearm, and he's cursing under his breath about Masters-traitors that he will never trust with any secret ever again. Ahsoka is still trying to understand how he could have folded so many cards into the wires without her noticing, and Obi-Wan smiles.
Those scenes should remind him of what he is fighting for. They should fill him with strength, not sorrow. But it always left him with a bittersweet aftertaste. As if those borrowed moments were only such; borrowed. Illicit.
What kind of Jedi is he, craving peace in the middle of a war he is supposed to fight?
What kind of general is he, if fleeing seems more accessible than winning?
What kind of peacekeeper is he, if he cannot imagine the war ending anymore?
What kind of Jedi is he, if he wants to take them both as far away as possible from the front, strand them on a very remote and verdant planet and bask in their laughs and smiles until the conflict ends without them?
He knows he would never pursue these impossible fantasies. His place is at the heart of it all, where things are shaped and the fate of the galaxy negotiated.
But the image remains.
Anakin, Ahsoka, maybe some of their men, a meadow, a forest, a plain, anything – not a beach, Anakin would sulk – or a lake, some interesting new species of flora to study and nothing else to do but rest.
They would bicker, for sure. As much as they do now, probably, with Ahsoka trying to drag Anakin into another game she is definitely going to lose.
Behind them, the melo-emitter suddenly begins playing a lively beat.
It curiously stops their squabbling for a second and lights up a dangerous glint in Ahsoka's eyes. Obi-Wan knows it better than anything else, knows where she learnt it. It is the exact same spark Anakin gets every time he thinks he figured out a flaw in their enemy's lines and is ready to exploit it mercilessly.
"At least, I know how to dance!"
Well, he must have missed quite a lot of that bickering if she considers this a good comeback. Strangely, it works; Anakin dramatically puts a hand on his heart, seeming mortally offended.
"How dare you, Snips, I'm the best dancer on this ship!"
Very debatable, in Obi-Wan's experience.
"Oh, really? Then prove it, Skyguy."
With a swipe of the wrist, she raises the volume of the melo-emitter.
"Frivolous use of the Force", murmurs Obi-Wan, because someone needs to say it and it's not going to be Anakin. Anyway, it is to no avail. The music is loud enough that his words are drown by the melody. And Ahsoka is now wiggling playfully by the table, slowly grooving backwards, towards the window.
So, of course, never one to let a good challenge pass him by, Anakin follows.
Obi-Wan stops pretending he will be able to finish his report and watches them.
They spin and whirl in the middle of the room, surrounded by the stars and the mess of supplies, droid parts and clothes that always lie around the Twilight when the three of them travel together.
It looks more like a casting of limbs than a dance. Obi-Wan folds a hand over his lips, on his beard, to try and hide his smile. The song has a quick and lively tune, a rapid beat that they follow eagerly.
He does not know for sure when the challenge turns into something else. Probably when Ahsoka flashes Anakin a grin and their legs synchronise. Or maybe when he begins clicking his fingers to the beat, his mechno-arm making a strong, sharp clack that fills the ship and reverberates directly into Obi-Wan's bones, chants its way into his heart.
Their socks are silent on the durasteel floor. It is strange, seeing them jump without hearing anything else that the electronic drum, the nasal voice of the singer echoing onto the walls, above the roaring of the engines.
"What is that?" he hears Ahsoka laugh, breathless, nearly bent in half but still dancing, while looking at Anakin who is… Obi-Wan simply does not have a word for what Anakin is doing. Swimming vertically, maybe.
"Impersonating the fearless dune worm, Master?" she shouts.
"You're just afraid of not being able to keep up!" he yells back.
And Force helps him, Ahsoka takes the bait and begins mimicking the stupid disarticulate motions.
They are ridiculous.
Their silhouettes stand sharp against the background of stars behind the glass.
Somehow, it is beautiful.
Anakin is mouthing the lyrics. Ahsoka joins him and they are now engaged in a full lip-sync show. They seem to be intensely rehearsing a performance that would both grant them an holodrama award for overact.
The lyrics are insignificant. Mostly onomatopoeic, repetitive, with only one thing that seems to make sense; the injunction to dance. It perplexes Obi-Wan. He usually only deals with the well-crafted Stewjonian poetry, the intricate Bith operas where one could write essays on each word sung. He likes music like he likes art; complex, fascinating, made to expand well over itself.
He is not used to this kind of blank talk when it's not blank verse.
But there is an appeal, in those empty words. Something that tells him to fill the void they left in their wake with something else, accept the hand they raised and let this new flow guide his steps. Something that whispers to his bones rather than his head, his instincts rather than his brain.
It does not come naturally to him, the gestures. His world is made of words, not moves. He is, and with age becomes more and more, a man of words. He isn't nicknamed the Negotiator without reason.
But Anakin has never been a man of words. Anakin is a man of action. A man of movements, before and after all.
Maybe, Obi-Wan wonders, seeing him spinning around his own Padawan with ease and confidence, this is why they get along so well. Why they fit so perfectly with each other, in and out of battle and why Ahsoka feels so balanced in the Force, learning from both of them.
Maybe Anakin is right.
Maybe there are times when words need to stop meaning.
Maybe there are times when movements can become a language.
Times like this.
The Force feels electric around them. It radiates pure, candid joy, he realises. And Obi-Wan has never seen them so coordinated, not even in battle, not even in sparring. Ahsoka and Anakin do not share the easy, almost instinctive connection Anakin and Obi-Wan have. They work well together, as a Master and Padawan, yes, but not as a team.
They are synchronised, not attuned.
At least, they never were. Not like this.
Dancing barefoot on a spaceship, lost to the music, lost to everything, existing only in the rhythm and the beat that drive them. Reconciled and harmonised in the notes of some cheery, silly song.
Obi-Wan has not stopped smiling since they started dancing.
Anakin swirls. Ahsoka follows.
Obi-Wan is suddenly hit with a wave of affection so strong it makes him dizzy. But, this time, he does not release it to the Force and lets it grow a bit more, lets it expand, pull a laugh out of his throat and permeate the bonds he shares with them. With Anakin, it comes as easily as breathing, their old and never broken master and apprentice connection strengthened by time and turned into a bright, golden string that never stray far from his mind. But even through the timid, frail bond he has formed with Ahsoka a few months ago, the feeling blooms and travels effortlessly.
The affection feels right.
It feels warm, and light, and bright.
They turn towards him, these incredible idiots, pure mix of senseless movements. Two pairs of blue eyes find his, and smiles echo his own. He can feel their shields dropping at each end, and realises that their own bond with each other must have been open for a while.
Tendrils of respect, loyalty, fondness, affection and family echo in an endless loop in the triangle between them. Obi-Wan laughs, and feeds the circle another wave of affection, affection, affection, family, family, love.
And something snaps.
Love and joy explode all around them, making the three Force bonds sizzle and buzz, and the datapad on Obi-Wan's thigh fall from his lap. He doesn't move to retrieve it.
This stupid song got him anyway. His leg is bouncing on the floor and his head gently swaying left to right.
Anakin and Ahsoka are both lost in the music, elbows locked, jumping in rhythm, arms and legs going everywhere. His brown curls appear golden under the ship's artificial lights, bouncing on his shoulders like tiny little dancers of their own. Her lekku follow the same pattern, sliding on her back, probably overwhelmed by sound and vibration. He swirls. She twirls.
They are ridiculous.
Obi-Wan loves them.
They are singing openly now. His baritone voice melts with hers, sweet, high-pitched. They are nearly out of breath and words are cut off both by smiles and air. It is mesmerizing.
It should not be this endearing.
But oh, it is.
They are.
Obi-Wan is not sure when, but at one point, Anakin has taken one of her hands in his.
They are swinging, spinning, bouncing, singing, out of breath, their hands the only fixed point between them.
And suddenly, these silly, empty words climb to Obi-Wan's lips. He realises that his body follows the beat as well. It's stupid. Probably ridiculous.
But Ahsoka smiles. Sings.
And Anakin… Anakin shines.
So, Obi-Wan gives up. Allows his shoulders to loosen up, the tension fleeing his body like a tidal wave. He will never be as exuberant as them, but hey, he can dance. So he swings, softly, left to right, shoulders rolling, head rocking, attuned to the Force, to them, to this strange melody he now calls home.
Love the mundane, Qui-Gon used to say. Recognise its beauty, celebrate it before it fades. There is no point in trying to stabilise or fix things. They are not eternal. Nothing is. "Isn't the Force?" Obi-Wan had asked, young, bold and a tad impertinent, "Won't things be fixed, when they join the Force?" Qui-Gon had smiled, enigmatic, cryptic even, and simply said: "The Force is not a preservative agent, Padawan mine. Embrace the beauty you find here and now, not because it will disappear tomorrow, but because tomorrow you will have changed as well".
He does not know how or when he lost the ability to see beauty in the mundane. Maybe when mundane became synonymous with bacta patches, oozing wounds and the underlying stench of blood.
Maybe it never was an ability. Maybe it was a way of seeing things. And just like he sometimes wondered at moonlight-kissed flowers in the temple gardens, felt humbled by the peaceful breathings of a sleeping convor nursed back to health in his Master's arms, he marvels at the smiles that bloom on their faces, unabashed, unburdened.
This, he thinks, is what the poets write about.
This is what love feels like.
Love is a holed sock making hushed sounds on the durasteel floor of a freighter. Love is a journey to Coruscant, with music blasted way too loud on an old melo-emitter, with them dancing themselves stupid.
The Force feels whole.
Obi-Wan feels loved.
And for the first time since the war began years ago on Geonosis, Obi-Wan feels a bit more like himself. A bit less like a man dragged into war, battle strategies, forced to train and lead men created in laboratories just to be cannon fodder into meaningless battles. A bit more like the man he wants to be, the man meant for peace.
The man meant to cherish and love above all.
The man meant to dance, just for a moment, with them, in the intimacy of the Twilight, where no one else will see and no one else will hear. Where they can dance and sing and forget everything that is not the brightness of their bonds or the simple joy of being together, here, now, safe, healed, unburdened.
What kind of Jedi is he?
Well, he thinks blissfully, the ridiculous kind.
The kind they love.
It will not be enough forever. The moment will pass, the war will come back, and they will have to face it. But for now, in the safety of the interim, closely huddled together in the space between missions, they breathe again. The music goes on, Anakin and Ahsoka bump into each other, laugh, and disappear again into giddy moves. Behind them, the stars twinkle.
They are ridiculous.
But oh, how Obi-Wan loves them.