Day 9: The Very Noisy Night | Sleeping in Shifts | Tossing and Turning

Anakin always woke at dawn.

It was a habit that caused Obi-Wan no small amount of distress when Anakin was a boy, when he would stay up at odd hours to finish whatever mechanical monstrosity of a project had caught and held his attention. Anakin still kept odd hours—such were the demands of war—but back then, during those first few months of his apprenticeship, he never seemed to sleep when Obi-Wan was awake, and never seemed tired enough to need it. It had baffled Obi-Wan, and it had worried him, because when Anakin did sleep, it seemed to be in snatches, no more than a handful of hours.

Granted, Obi-Wan couldn't recall much of those early days—the details slipped away from him, lost in the haze of grief and his duties and the Council's ceaseless demands—but he remembered waking in the night and finding Anakin on the floor next to his bed, sometimes tinkering with some droid or other, sometimes tossing and turning in his sleep. Anakin never slept well, even then. And still, like clockwork, he rose with the sun, waking when the first tinges of dawn touched the horizon.

But for now Sulorine's skies were still dark, and Anakin still slept, curled up on the leaf-littered ground. A true sleep, after he'd spent a wearying hour tangled in nightmares, whimpering in pain, clutching at his broken mechanical arm. Rest, at last, after their long trek through the shadowed forest. Their reconnaissance mission to the capital—where the planet's ruling noble families were reportedly being held hostage—had been compromised from the start. Somehow the Separatists had known they were coming, and Obi-Wan and Anakin had realized too late that they had walked into a trap. Their only hope now was to reach the rendezvous point before Grievous's forces could find them—it was still a long way away, even after an entire day of walking. Still more tracts of scraggled woodland to traverse, long stretches of riotously uneven ground standing between them and home.

Sulorine was as close to Coruscant as Obi-Wan and Anakin had been in almost four standard months, and the toll showed. In the flickering firelight, Anakin looked worn and gaunt. His face was bruised, his skin marred with blaster burns and ragged gashes caked with dried blood. He looked fragile. He looked young.

A startling reminder. Sometimes it was all too easy to forget how young Anakin truly was—that for all his unprecedented power, for all that his energy seemed boundless, not even Anakin Skywalker could subsist on mere stubbornness alone. He was barely twenty-two and already a Knight and a general with a legion of men at his command. Barely twenty-two, and already he'd had a Padawan he had loved and lost.

Obi-Wan himself had been a Padawan at twenty-two. He could not imagine himself at that age shouldering even half the burden, bearing even half the scars, that Anakin now did. He couldn't help but wonder if Anakin would still be a Padawan under Qui-Gon's tutelage—if it would have somehow shielded Anakin, at least a little, from the worst of the war. Qui-Gon had loved this boy, after all. Qui-Gon would have done everything in his power to protect him—doubtless he would have succeeded where Obi-Wan could never seem to.

These thoughts circled Obi-Wan's mind as he kept the campfire burning—as he kept watch over Anakin, who was so exhausted that now he barely stirred. They were supposed to sleep in shifts, but the agreed-upon one hour deadline was long behind them. Anakin would be furious, of course, but his temper Obi-Wan could live with. He would sooner bear the sight of Anakin burning with anger than the thought of Anakin burning in a pyre.

Sure enough, Anakin woke as the rim of the sun peeked up over the horizon. At once he uncurled himself and sat up as far as he could, heedless of his injuries, and whirled around to glower at Obi-Wan.

"Don't start," Obi-Wan said before he could argue. "We both know you needed it."

"I'm fine!"

"You are not," Obi-Wan sniffed. "You were practically swaying on your feet, don't bother denying it. I warned you from the outset, didn't I, that you'd be better off not accepting this assignment."

"I don't recall needing your permission," Anakin snapped.

"No, but you need the reminder. How long has it been since your last mission, Anakin? Since your last leave?"

Anakin's eyes narrowed. "Well, what about you?" he said stiffly. "Did you get any rest?"

Obi-Wan shrugged. He was exhausted, truthfully. Every muscle and bone felt burned and bruised. All the cuts and burns he had sustained in the firefight stung and shrieked each time he moved. His feet had blistered after walking for hour upon endless hour. But these injuries were no worse than Anakin's own. These were aches and pains he could ignore.

"I will manage," he said. "In any case, you're looking exceptionally well for being nearly dead. Are you?"

"Exceptionally well or nearly dead? Because I am feeling both."

Obi-Wan frowned at him. "Are you all right?"

Anakin snorted. "Take a look around, Obi-Wan. I think the answer is quite plain, don't you?"

Obi-Wan's worry rose. This was the closest Anakin had admitted to exhaustion lately. The past several weeks—the past months—he had been taking on mission after mission. Had brought the Republic victory after victory. All too easy to forget how young Anakin was, when he fought as though he was born in battle. As though he was bred in blood.

Perhaps he was. Obi-Wan didn't know. Obi-Wan would never know. Anakin had long since left Tatooine and its shadows behind—what good would it do to dredge up those memories now? Tatooine was in the past. Better to let those shadows lie where they belonged. Let those old wounds remain buried. Obi-Wan could do nothing for them now.

But here, in this moment, maybe he could do—something. He could try.

"Let me look at your injuries," Obi-Wan said.

Anakin's shoulders tightened. "I'm fine."

"So you have said. Repeatedly. No amount of saying it will make it so."

Anakin scowled. "My injuries have not changed since the last time you checked," he bit out. "Unless you think I'm so incompetent that I've made them worse, when I have done nothing but waste an entire night—"

"Anakin," Obi-Wan sighed, resisting the urge to rub his temples. "I would hardly call a few hours rest a waste. I did not mean to—I'm not trying to imply—" He let out a breath. Grasped for something to say. "I only wish to see how your injuries are faring."

"I'm fine," Anakin said again, tightly. "My injuries are fine. That is how they are faring."

Obi-Wan felt his mouth thin. "All right. Very well. I'll take your word for it. But at least let me see to your arm."

Anakin huffed, glancing at his mechanical arm with a grimace. It had been hit by a blaster bolt during their disastrous escape from Sulorine's capital, and it had been crackling and sputtering since.

"What do you know about it?" he muttered. "You're hopeless at these things. You'll probably make it worse."

The words cut Obi-Wan to the quick, but they were nothing he himself hadn't thought of before. They were nothing new. They were simply the truth—that no matter what he did, he had never been able to do right by his Master, and he could never seem to do right by his Padawan.

"I'll have you know," Obi-Wan said, as mildly as he could, "that despite what you like to believe, I'm not so bad at machines."

"You are passable, I suppose," Anakin conceded.

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. "Passable, he says. That's rather high praise coming from you. I might just weep with joy. Be honest now, Anakin—how badly is it hurting? Your arm?"

Anakin's jaw clenched, his eyes sharp with temper. "I will manage."

"Anakin—"

"I've handled this before, Obi-Wan. I can bear it."

Obi-Wan's gaze flicked down to Anakin's arm, still hissing and flashing with sparks. But you shouldn't have to, he wanted to say. You are only forced to because I could not protect you. I am supposed to protect you, and even now, I keep failing.

"Don't do that," Anakin snapped. His scowl had deepened into something almost petulant. "Stop looking at me like I am—like I'm an invalid. I am not. I can take care of myself."

Obi-Wan's own temper stirred. With an effort he kept it leashed. This was the most aggravating thing about Anakin: his arrogance. The sheer nerve of him, to insist he was fine with such imperiousness, when he kept wincing in pain each time his prosthetic twitched. When he could barely sit upright without bracing against the gnarled tree trunk behind him. When he was looking at Obi-Wan now with sunken eyes and a bloodied, ashen face.

"I know you can," Obi-Wan said.

"You don't act it," Anakin growled. "You never do."

Obi-Wan blew out a hard breath, tempted to let his anger loose entirely. "How do you expect me to act when you have such abysmal habits. I told you, you weren't ready for another mission. You barely get any rest as it is—"

"Neither do you!" Anakin bellowed, his face twisting into a snarl. "So don't you lecture me about how I am—you are always doing this, about every little thing—as if you're any better. You are worse than I am, Master, so you can stop your blasted hovering. I don't need you looking over my shoulder all the damn time—I don't need it. I don't want it. If you didn't want to take this assignment, then you shouldn't have come at all."

These words cut deeper. They lodged in Obi-Wan's chest like a blade, piercing to the heart of him, twisting until he knew nothing but the ache and burn of them. To be told he wasn't needed, wasn't wanted—this was nothing new either, but it cut, still, to hear the words from Anakin. Anakin, who was the best parts of him—the brightest parts of him that he selfishly, shamefully could not bear to let go.

It was the most aggravating thing about Anakin—the most frightening. That Anakin fought, always, not because he was without limits, but because he didn't know when to stop. Perhaps he didn't know how. If the day came that Obi-Wan wasn't there to tell him so, to make him pause . . . Obi-Wan tried to imagine standing before the Council without Anakin at his side, or explaining to Rex and the 501st that he had been unable to protect Anakin, that Anakin had died on Sulorine. Tried to imagine telling Padmé or, worse, should their paths cross again, explaining it to Ahsoka. Or waking in the morning, knowing Qui-Gon had loved this boy and Obi-Wan had failed them both.

"You're tired," Obi-Wan said lamely, trying to calm the pounding in his chest. "We both are."

"Exactly!" Anakin said harshly. "We both are. We both are. But you trust me so little—you act like I'm the only one who can't handle it."

Obi-Wan shook his head, sighing. "Anakin, that is not what I'm saying at all—"

"That is what you do. That is what you say, every time you—"

Anakin stopped abruptly. Scrubbed his flesh hand over his face. His temper was not quite dulled when he lowered his hand, but he looked as though the fire had been drained out of him. Nothing on his face now but leaden exhaustion—and the effort it took to keep it masked.

"Forget it," he said roughly. "Just—forget it. We have to get back to the others."

Anakin clambered to his feet before Obi-Wan could reply. Slowly, carefully, ignoring the spit of sparks from his prosthetic, Anakin picked his way over the uneven ground, walking past what remained of their campfire. It had burned out without Obi-Wan noticing; billows of smoke now mingled with the early morning mist.

A moment's hesitation, and then Obi-Wan pushed untidily to his feet. He hurried after Anakin, feeling his muscles drag and protest with every step. Something deep in him wanted to stop in his tracks, to pull Anakin back to their camp, rendezvous be damned, so they could talk—properly talk, the way they hadn't since Ahsoka left. Since before that whole affair. It felt so long ago now, those days when talking to Anakin didn't feel like he was tiptoeing across a minefield.

But still Obi-Wan kept walking. His thoughts had collided and twisted into a confused knot, and he didn't know how to begin to untangle them. Didn't know if he had the right words underneath, even if he could. Didn't know what to say. He could never seem to find the right words to say.

Obi-Wan stayed silent—and this, too, was nothing new.