Chapter 22
The beeping of monitors. The hushed, urgent voices of medical personnel. The bland white walls, and the bright, fluorescent lights of the Jedi Temple Medical Wing.
Obi-Wan hated it all.
Despised the sterile smell, the harsh lighting, the cold, clinical atmosphere.
He hated how detached it all felt—the white sheets and the machines and the tubes, the monitors, the endless array of equipment that was all keeping his precious little one alive.
He could hardly breathe in here.
He hated it—hated every moment he had to watch the monitors. Every moment he waited for the beeps and lines to remain steady.
He hated sitting in the uncomfortable chair. Hated the endless cups of stale, bitter caf from the machine down the hall.
He hated how helpless he felt, how he couldn't do a single thing but sit there and wait.
He hated the endless hours of waiting. He hated the way the hours ticked past, dragging on and on with no end in sight.
He hated the way he didn't know how long this nightmare would last.
As the rest of the hazmat-suit-clad Jedi Healers began to file out the room after the routine check, a soft knock on the med-suite door broke into the deathly still silence of the room.
"Obi-Wan?" Anakin called quietly, peeking his head in, having donned a protective suit of his own.
Obi-Wan swallowed the knot of emotion in his throat and forced himself to calm down, taking another deep breath. "Anakin." He could no longer deny the strain in his voice, especially after all the time he had spent hiding it. "I could use the help, my friend."
Anakin nodded and stepped into the room, his brow creased in concern as he glanced at the monitors by her bed, keeping an eye on her vital signs.
He stepped next to his former Master, reaching over to tightly grip his shoulder with a gloved hand. "What do you need, Master?" he asked quietly. "How can I help?"
"Just…sit with me," Obi-Wan whispered, his eyes never leaving his Padawan's form. "Sit with me, and keep me company."
His voice was strained, hoarse with restrained emotion. He felt beyond broken at this precise moment in time, but he'd be damned if he let that show.
Anakin's eyes flashed momentarily with concern as he took in the sight of his old Master. He was slumped in his seat, shoulders sagged, body hunched, his gaze focused solely on the unconscious fourteen year-old on the bed.
His face was deathly pale, a look of anguish etched into every single angle, and the haunted, devastated look in his eyes was something Anakin had become all too familiar with—in the very few times he'd seen it.
This wasn't the usual calm, confident Jedi Master, and General of the Republic.
This was Obi-Wan Kenobi. The man.
Anakin pulled up a chair and sank into it, resting a firm, yet gentle hand on his former mentor's back.
He was silent for a few moments, watching the rise and fall of the girl's chest, listening intently to the steady beep of the monitor. "She's strong, Obi-Wan," he said softly. "She has the will to fight. She'll beat this long enough for Master Che to find a cure."
A long, shaky breath escaped Obi-Wan's lips. If he had an ounce of strength left in him, he would've managed a weak chuckle. "She is strong," he murmured. "So incredibly strong."
But that was just it.
She was young. Small. Barely a teenager, beneath the diligent, selfless Jedi Padawan that she was. And even though he knew she was strong, he still couldn't shake the fear that gripped him.
"I can't lose her, Anakin," he whispered. "Not like this…"
"Obi-Wan." Anakin's expression hardened. "You're not going to lose her. She's going to be okay." He paused, squeezing his former Master's shoulder once more. "Do you want to know how I know that?"
Obi-Wan glanced up, meeting Anakin's gaze. The fire in his old Padawan's eyes was like an anchor, grounding him, keeping him afloat.
"Because she's yours," Anakin said dryly, a hint of the familiar glimmer of mischief in his eyes. "She's too stubborn to give up. You know it as well I do."
He gazed downwards at the little Padawan on the bed. He could almost hear that defiant, cheeky, chattery high-pitched voice of hers. "And I have no doubt that she'll pull through, just to come back and argue with either one of us."
Obi-Wan chuckled weakly in spite of himself.
He was right. Jaina was stubborn. And if there was one thing he knew about his stubborn little Padawan, it was that the little know-it-all would stop at virtually nothing to prove her point.
Anakin's smile softened, the humor slipping from his expression. "She's strong, and you know it. We've seen it. She'll fight for you, just as you fight for her."
Obi-Wan closed his eyes, savoring the words, letting them echo in his head. "I know," he eventually murmured, his voice shaking. "I know she will."
He looked at the girl's face again. So peaceful in sleep, so still. There was no trace of the usual brightness in her features, no spark of life, no hint of the usual playful, sassy little attitude, or the cunning, calculating little glare.
She was simply still.
She didn't even look like a Jedi like this. She didn't look like a warrior. She just looked like…a child.
Obi-Wan swallowed harshly, disrupting his own train of thought. "How much longer do we have to wait? When will they have finished deciphering the data?"
Anakin's grip around Obi-Wan's shoulders softened, but his eyes still held that same compassionate, understanding expression as he spoke. "At the present rate? About twelve hours from now, give or take."
"Republic Intelligence is still examining all the files and samples she took. Along with GAR R&D Corps in parallel, the Kaminoan Medical Division, and Master Che and the other Healers upstairs, like you requested," he added, with a determined look on his face. "Someone is bound to find something. Twelve hours is already the worst case scenario. All teams are also working on prevention, and a vaccine."
Obi-Wan nodded wearily. Twelve hours was the worst case, yes, but still much longer than he would have wanted. She had already been out for three days.
He reached over the bed and squeezed her small hand, wanting nothing more than to see her bright, eager smile, to hear her snarky little voice, to watch her roll her eyes in the way that she always did when he made one of his sarcastic jokes.
To feel her soft, muss of curly hair brush against his chin, as she leaned her head on his shoulder.
But right now all he could do was wait.
Wait by her bedside, patiently.
Patience, Obi-Wan. Master Qui-Gon's voice echoed quietly in the back of his mind. Patience. Patience. Patience.
The faint sounds of beeping noises entered the edges of Jaina's consciousness.
Her entire body felt so...heavy.
So cold.
The first sense to return was sound.
Faint and distant as it began to come into focus. The consistent beeping. The quiet hiss of pressurized air. Soft, faint footsteps, muffled by soundproof walls.
Then came smell.
The stench of antiseptics, chemicals, and an almost sterile cleanliness that could only belong to a med bay.
Then taste.
The acrid feel of dry oxygen in her nostrils. The bitter taste of something unpleasant in her dry mouth. The faint, metallic tang of a medication lingering in the back of her throat.
And touch.
The sterile feel of cold sheets. The stiffness of an uncomfortable mattress. The dull throbbing of a migraine. And the steady feeling of fingers tangled with hers.
Fingers that felt firm, and strong, lined with a ridge of callouses that only came with decades of training, duty, and service.
Fingers that sent a wave of comfort washing over her, every time they stroked over her knuckles.
The quiet hum of the Force, thrumming warmly around them.
The sense of a presence that felt strong, protective, safe.
Home.
Jaina focused all her energy on curling her fingers.
The pressure of the steady hold grew firmer, tighter—but the warmth of it was still patient.
Suddenly, she felt the touch of a hand brushing against her forehead, the pads of warm fingers gently smoothing her hair away from her face, tucking the loose strands behind her ears and—
"…my little one?"
Jaina's heart skipped as the familiar, gentle baritone cut through the haze of her returning senses. It was quiet and soft, slightly raspier than she was used to, with a subtle tremble in the faint whisper.
There was a short pause.
Then, the fingers against her forehead stilled, the hand gently cupped her cheek, and the voice called again—a tad louder this time. "Jaina? Darling, can you hear me?"
Master.
The word came unbidden to her mind, even as her dry throat refused to cooperate and let her speak.
Jaina tried to open her mouth, tried to form words, but all that came out was a dry croak, which scratched at her throat.
"Easy, dearest." She felt the same, warm touch return to her hair, running through her tangled locks, still as gentle and as tender as before. "Don't try to talk just yet—your throat is probably sore from the breathing tube."
His hand shifted down, moving once again to her forehead, where he placed his palm against her skin. The touch was gentle, warm, and still so firm.
"You're still running a bit of a temperature," she heard him murmur, as the hand returned to her hair. "And your heart-rate is up. The medicine is helping a bit."
For the first time, Jaina tried to force her mind and body to cooperate, willing herself to crack open her eyes—to confirm that the voice was real, that he was real.
That she had survived.
She tried opening her eyes, only to screw them shut again to wave off the blinding pain that shot through her skull.
The white was blinding—the white of the walls, the white of the medical equipment, the white of her bedsheets, the white of the sterile blankets that—
There was the screech of a chair scraping softly against the floor as the firm hand around her face suddenly withdrew.
"Let me get a towel."
Footsteps padded softly across the room. The sound of a faucet flicking to life, the rush of water as it filled, the soft drip-drip-drip of soaked fabric against tile—
Then, the footsteps returned, and there was the sound of something rustling and unfolding.
She felt the hand against her head again, the smooth texture of a damp cloth pressing over her eyelids, filtering away the harsh white glare, and soothing the pounding migraine.
She felt the bed dip subtly as her Master sat down right next to her, resting his hip beside her on the edge of the mattress.
Jaina exhaled softly against the cold fabric, her head tilting against the cool touch of the towel.
"Better?" There was another faint rustle of the covers, and she felt the same hand gently settle over hers once more, the familiar, strong fingers gently wrapping around her own.
Jaina nodded weakly, not quite trusting her voice to speak just yet.
"Easy, my little one," said her Master gently. "You don't need to speak right now. Just rest."
His free hand moved, and he gently adjusted the position of the towel, making sure it still shielded her sensitive eyes.
There was a moment of silence between the two of them, the only sounds being the quiet beeping and faint hiss of the life support equipment, and the faint swishing of the air through the ventilation system.
The fingers around her own had started to idly trace patterns over her knuckles, the calloused tips tracing little circles and shapes against her skin.
"You gave us quite the scare, you know," came his faint voice and she felt the bed dip again slightly, the covers shifting again as he leaned over her—probably to tuck the edges of the blanket more firmly around her body. "Nearly scared me to death, to be quite frank."
A small, dry chuckle escaped him, and she felt his thumb brush over her knuckles again, tracing little circles around her fingers. "And you'll probably have quite the migraine for the next few days. Probably the worst one you've ever had."
"You and that stubborn, stubborn head of yours." The gentle squeeze of his hand on hers was loving, affectionate, reprimanding. "Force, only you could've given me this many grey hairs in such a short period of time."
The edges of Jaina's lips curled into a small smile, as she forced herself to swallow, forced her voice to work. "...more than Anakin?"
There was a beat of silence, and she could practically hear the fond roll of her Master's bright eyes, even without seeing his face.
"… almost, little one."
She heard him chuckle quietly, and the hand around hers gave another firm squeeze. "That's a difficult bar to reach. But I'm pretty sure you could if you tried."
Obi-Wan gazed down at the bed silently, his eyes trailing over his little Padawan's face and taking in every detail, every little change in her expression.
His gaze flicked over the long lashes, the pale, round cheeks that hadn't quite lost their baby fat, the small, freckled nose, almost completely hidden by the large oxygen mask. The peaceful expression as she kept her eyes closed under the towel—
Just seeing her like this—being hooked to so many wires and tubes, looking so frail and small and young—caused him to hold back another flood of emotion.
"Jaina, do you remember anything?"
"I…" Her eyes fluttered open, lashes brushing against the damp towel. "…Wait…" she murmured.
Obi-Wan's hand stilled, his fingers tightening around her own.
He watched keenly as her blue eyes opened again, watching the way her lids fluttered weakly against the cool touch of the towel. "Slowly, my little one," he said quietly. "Nice and slow."
"Lanteeb—the-the data—the samples—the-the people being held captive—"
In a moment, Obi-Wan laid a tender hand atop the damp towel over her eyes, his frown deepening at the faint, raspy voice coming from her lips. "Easy, dear one."
He gently pressed his free hand against her shoulder. "You're still recovering. You need to rest. Everything is under control."
"…Please tell me it wasn't all for nothing," Jaina whispered shakily.
The Jedi Master's face softened as he gazed down at her, and his hand briefly squeezed hers—a quiet, reassuring response.
"It wasn't, darling," he said gently, his tone steady. "The data we retrieved is being analyzed as we speak, along with the samples. GAR R&D is on it, in parallel with the Republic Medical Corps, and some of the best Jedi Healers are reviewing them upstairs as well."
"And as for the civilians being held captive, and the other prototypes in the labs…" Obi-Wan paused, his eyes flicking over the various needles and tubes attached to his Padawan's thin arm—delivering a steady supply of medication, fluids, and nutrients into her bloodstream.
"Master Windu is personally leading five battle groups to Lanteeb," he continued quietly. "They deployed two days ago. The civilian prisoners will be saved, and the labs will be destroyed."
He shifted slightly beside her, tightening his grip on her hand. "Everything's going to be fine, my little one. I promise."
Jaina let out a long exhale of relief. "Thank the Force…"
She paused for a moment, her free hand drifting towards the damp towel over her eyes.
"Ah-ah," Obi-Wan chided, gently intercepting and lightly catching her wrist. "Leave it for now."
His fingers wrapped around her smaller ones, folding both of her hands securely in his own—a warm, yet firm touch—keeping them from moving. "I'd like you to keep the towel on for now. Just until you've rested a bit more."
"Hmph."
Obi-Wan smirked at her grumble, and lightly squeezed her hands.
"You'll live," he said with a hint of amusement. "I'm just trying to save you from a headache. And your own stubbornness."
"You're one to talk," Jaina quipped back.
The Jedi Master's lips twitched. "I'd give you an eye-roll for that comment," he retorted teasingly. "But unfortunately, you wouldn't be able to see it, so..."
There was a brief, amused pause, then he chuckled, his fingers lightly running over her knuckles. "She's back to her usual self again, it seems."
Jaina chuckled softly.
As she chuckled, he found himself smiling fondly, the sound of her laughter was still faintly hoarse, but it was music to his ears nonetheless. He reached out towards the side-table, and picked up a small cup of water, along with a straw.
"Think you can sit up a bit?"
Once he had helped her shift into a semi-upright position, with a few extra pillows supporting her back, he carefully removed the oxygen mask and pressed the end of the straw against her lips. "Small sips," he said softly.
As she sipped the water, he moved his free hand to her forehead, resting his palm against her brow as he monitored her expression, observing a few moments of silence.
Then, as the last drop of water dribbled into the straw, he took the cup and straw away, and carefully replaced the oxygen mask over her nose and mouth.
"I can breathe just fine on my own, you know."
"I know you can," he said, the gentle sternness returning to his voice. "But you need the extra oxygen to keep the headache down. Leave the mask until the doctors say you can remove it."
Jaina sighed, rubbing at her forehead through the towel and laying in silence for several moments.
The Jedi Master could tell she was itching for information, for news, to know what was happening…
He sighed softly. Oh, his little one was predictable at times. "How about a story?" he suggested, trying to distract her for a short while.
"Is it a story about how long I was out? Or what GAR R&D has come up with to counter the Defoliator? Or what the strange blue plants in Vindi's lab were? The Damotite? What's going on with my body?"
As expected, she wanted to know everything going on outside the room. All the events he had been trying to keep from her for the time being.
"None of those things, darling," he said gently. "You've only been out for a bit more than three days. Not enough time for any significant developments to happen."
Jaina groaned, wrinkling her nose and reaching upwards to finally tug the towel away from her—
"Don't." His hand darted instantly, gently catching her wrist before she could finish the movement. "Leave the towel alone, young one," he said firmly. "That's an order."
Jaina paused, her eyes slowly narrowing in suspicion beneath the damp towel. "…it's not about the light, or the headache, is it?" She said quietly. "There's something…you don't want me to see."
A long silence hung in the room as his hand still held her wrist firmly, preventing any movement. The light hum of beeping medical equipment filled the quietness between them.
And after a beat, the Jedi Master let out a resigned sigh. "No," he admitted quietly. "It's not just the headache, or the light. It's…something else. Something you shouldn't see."
Jaina's lips pursed. "…Master," she said steadily. "My eyes are adjusted enough."
His fingers shifted around her wrist, catching her in a light, but firm hold, the movement stilling her as his brow furrowed in warning.
"No, your eyes haven't fully dilated yet—" he protested, but she heard the slight hesitation in his tone, a slight pause in his order. "And I'm trying to help you keep your migraine down, and avoid looking at things you don't need to see. It's my job to know what's good for you, and what's not."
"I understand that," she shot back, tugging at her wrist, frustrated at her Master's stubbornness. "But we both know I'm going to find out what's going on sooner or later. So why not just rip off the bacta-patch and let me see now?"
Obi-Wan let out a frustrated exhale.
His little Padawan had a perpetually restless mind, a perceptive eye, and a sharp tongue. And she knew how to use all three when the occasion called for it.
Like right now.
He rubbed at his temple, thinking silently. He knew she wasn't going to give up until she got her way.
Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Jaina extended her fingers, Force-pulling the towel into her palm.
"Jaina—!"
Before Obi-Wan could even try to stop her, his little one had yanked the towel away from her face, her blue eyes growing wide at the sight.
A silent, stunned realization filled the room.