Oblivion

ii. contrition

"You got the scissors from the drawer, you never dug so deep before.
If I stop trying, we start dying..."

The days blur together now.

It's been such a long year, and so tiring that Obi-Wan hardly knows to do with it. At the present moment, he's sitting inside a dark room, a single light flickering over his desk, skimming through files and police reports and- ah, yes, there it was.

He was an enigma, Anakin Skywalker, as much an enigma as Qui-Gon had been when Obi-Wan met him, many years earlier, so long it seems like a past life. He still has the nameplate he took from his office, sitting tucked away in a drawer so that whenever he opens it for a pen, he sees. And he remembers.

Obi-Wan remembers so much now, despite how many years have passed and how much space there was between it all. It had been a case, a single, trivial case that had ripped his life apart, made him nearly break from the uncertainty and the inevitability of the outcome. He could remember a voice, screaming, his hands fisting in a jumpsuit, pulling and shouting and clawing at skin, digging nails into dark arms and the eyes that followed him in amusement through it all… it made him sick, even now.

But he remembers. The only time he'd ever lost it.

And now, looking over Anakin's case file, he sees so many parallels it's terrifying. The loss of someone beloved to his client, more than anything, the attack on the police officers, the wrists he'd tried to slit in an act of despair, a melancholy so deep nothing could fix it. He sighs, for a moment, leaning back in his chair and stroking his beard, shaking his head in confusion before flipping the page.

And there it was, gory details in all their glory, details he hadn't yet asked for and wasn't prepared to think about. It struck questions in his head, nerves in his body- did Anakin remember? Was he the root of a tragedy or simply the affected?

In due time, Obi-Wan thinks. Nothing is ever certain without circumstantial proof.

It was little more than a jumbled mess anymore. If Obi-Wan could weed through his own head, perhaps he'd figure out where the obsequious nature of his insanity had started- even now, there was no way of verification, no way of determining the consequence of his instability, of his… selfishness.

He felt selfish. And perhaps that's what's had him staring blankly at a cup of black coffee sitting on the table before him, nearly taunting, untouched. He feels selfish for being out here, for being alive, when so many people are dying around him, when he has a client pleading innocence stuffed into a jail cell a few miles away.

It's unnerving to him- as inconsequential as it should be, there's a pang of something in his chest, something… morose. Almost dark. No matter how much he tries to purge himself of it, no matter how he tries to argue, it's still there, echoing like the beat of a drum that grates on one's nerves until their head is splitting from the sound.

He thinks of Anakin, thinks of what he'd said, spoken of, so haughty it was nearly mirthful when they'd seen each other. Two madmen in a room.

Two madmen.

Obi-Wan has never heard anything more true.

He looks at the chaos of the case and something in his chest flutters. Obi-Wan isn't sure of the last time he's felt such sympathy for a client- isn't sure of the last time he felt much of anything. Living has been more a handful than a blessing, with a chasm of blackness, a pit of apathy carved into his chest, right where his heart had been. Quinlan had called it his ' tin box', the thing he'd tried to replace his feelings with, seal them in so they couldn't escape.

And perhaps it isn't just the case- perhaps Anakin sparked something, but it's merely a twinge of empathic need. There is nothing really, nothing to say that the root of all this is a client pleading innocence, another one, one who could turn at any given instant, make him suffer like Maul did, make him lose his mind and slip into that grip of oblivion, dingy sorrow… no.

No, it's simply humanity. It's the nature of it, the human condition, that weighs Obi-Wan down and spreads the fog in his mind. Because he watches and he listens and he sees hopelessness, everywhere he looks. There's no escaping it.

The callousness disturbs him. But Obi-Wan shrugs it off. He tries to seal his disdain for the crime, the destruction and the aggression away, tries to focus on what he's best at- pretending it doesn't affect him. Taking it in one day at a time, enough to convince him that he's making some difference, that he's doing some good. Some sort of… action that's not made as a duty or a sacrifice, simply because.

He opens his case. There are papers, everywhere, organized into neat stacks, filed with dividers and held with paperclips, so close to obsessive-compulsive it's nearly inane. Things are repeatable, things are never different, shades of black and white and the thin veil of grey between them, the one he can somehow never wrap his head around as much as he tries.

It's monotony. And Obi-Wan is finally growing sick of it.

He sucks his breath in, quell the nausea building in his chest, and clicks his pen open.

Regret. Regret and agony and self-flagellation, I have failed you, I have failed you, failed everyone, my losses are incomprehensible, I ruined you, killed you…

Murderer. Obi-Wan looks at the picture on his nightstand, him and a man, older, smiling with an arm around his shoulders, and feels only blankness. An empty slate, empty conscience, but suddenly it's flooded with guilt and it's sinking into him, dulling his senses, not a hint of anything vibrant, the flashes of black and white filling his eyes and his head and then he's falling and there's no resolution.

It's simply a devolution. Devolving into something he cannot put words to, can hardly fathom, the overwhelming thoughts from all the years past coming to fruition once more, like invisible hands around his throat, strangling the life from his body as they force the air from his lungs.

The void.

It opens up and he feels like he's drowning all over again, face slammed into the floor, uncomfortably pressed against wooden boards, hands lying at his sides, impuissant, before he's looking around and pulling his head up, and it's the moment of disgrace, the moment of truth, knowing he's little more than his own thoughts that gets to him.

It's impossibly distressing. But for once, Obi-Wan doesn't deny it. He sinks further, eyes slipping shut as the first few rivulets of pain slide over his cheeks.

For the first time in over a year, he cries.

"You look like shit," is the first thing out of Anakin's mouth as they sit down at the table again, this time a stark white counter, in a room that's bright with light instead of dull with shadows, his eyes glinting with a glassy quality that Obi-Wan can't place, and he shakes his head, turning away from the younger man to glance toward the window behind Anakin's head. There's a thin layer of glass separating them, hardly enough to prevent the stare they can level to each other, hardly enough to block out Anakin's speech.

"It's been a long week," he faintly chuckles, breathy, like a wisp of sound between them that dissipates in little more than a second. "I hear they gifted you with your window. Congratulations."

"It's called taking on the system and winning, friend."

"And I suppose you're a martyr, placed here to become the voice of reason for prisoners everywhere." It's nearly sarcastic, with the way Obi-Wan says it. Even teasing. Inappropriate- intolerable.

Anakin laughs and it brightens up the room in an instant. "Well I do have a rather devilish charm when I choose to put it into use."

There's a simple smile when Obi-Wan meets his eyes, a disbelieving gaze and a near amused slight from his lips betraying his thoughts on that remark, only causing Anakin to sneer and roll his eyes in indignation, jokingly punching the glass- and oh, the handcuffs have finally been removed, and Obi-Wan isn't entirely sure how to feel about that.

Yet for some reason he trusts Anakin. There's an unspoken agreement between them that prevents him from feeling fear, even anxiety. No, he feels inexplicably at ease with Anakin, and that's perhaps a bit of a conundrum in and of itself.

"Unfortunately, you can't simply rely on wit to save you during a trial, Anakin."

"Are you saying I need you?" a smirk.

"I'm saying you need to cooperate, young one. You know as well as anyone that wearing yourself thin won't be any condolence or positive reinforcement in a courtroom." His hand touches Anakin's through the small hole in the glass window, lightly asking permission to speak. "I'm sorry for all this. And I apologize for asking, but I'm here to collect an alibi."

Anakin's expression hardens, and Obi-Wan shakes his head. "Why don't we start somewhere else for the time being? Would you like to tell me about Padme?"

"She was…" Anakin's eyes glazed over, distant, before closing as though he was struggling to recall. His hands were clenching into tight fists, nails sinking into his palm as he continued. "She was beautiful… she had a way with words that only recently started to rub off on me. She always woke up early… she had a smile that outshone the sun. She was the best at offering advice, comfort… the type of person to hug you and send you reassuring messages all day. I… I love her. So much." He swallowed roughly, hand moving up to his throat, before looking away, back to the door, pained. "I'm sorry. I can't… I won't talk about her here. Not when they can hear…"

Obi-Wan glanced to the guard. "Can you talk to me?"

"Yes." Anakin replied firmly. "Surprisingly, yes."