Star Wars work in progress You Became to Me

[polgarawolf]

Seventy-fifth part of a WiP
Title: You Became to Me (as suggested by avari_maethor)
*Pairing: Mainly Anakin/Obi-Wan with some mention of Padmé
Rating: R because of most of the last scene (?)
Disclaimer: Same as previous ones!
Summary: Same as previous ones!
*Author’s Note: Again, please see most of the previous notes!


The Grand Masters don’t seem particularly pleased with the news that another mysterious young man has been in contact with them. Dooku seems slightly taken aback by the proposition that Xanatos could have been meant to be his Padawan and Qui-Gon surprises them all first by admitting that one of the reasons he took Xanatos on as his Padawan was because of the way that the feel of the boy in the Force reminded him of his former Master and then by informing them that, even though he has come to believe that Xanatos may have indeed been meant for Dooku, he genuinely felt a connection with Xanatos and never experienced any warning from the Force against taking him on as his apprentice. The admission of possible guilt seems to mollify Anakin, who promptly declares that it’s not Qui-Gon’s fault if the Force didn’t make its will clear enough for either Qui-Gon or Dooku or even Xanatos himself to realize what it wanted, and in the end the four of them decide to regard the mysterious teenager’s message as suspect, despite the fact that Dooku is able to confirm both the existence of Jenna Zan Arbor’s two children (Morana and Valdis) by Granta Omega and the fact that she has been working for Sidious for the past several years. Still, despite their misgivings, the Grand Masters promise to see what else they can do to help speed the collection and perusal of Sidious’ records and the actual search of both his known (and revealed) retreats and the underlevels of Coruscant, if for no other reason than to hopefully finally help clear out those dangerous and essentially lawless lower levels, making them safe and practical for habitation. They’ve essentially said all that they need to and are about to make their farewells when the two men suddenly sense, through the Force, the nearness and approach of two already very familiar and well-loved presences. The Grand Masters smile at them when they announce the imminent arrival of the twins, (in that moment more closely resembling doting grandparents than Force spirits and Jedi Masters) and wave them along good-naturedly, with a promise to comm if anything truly important should surface, either in the examination of Sidious’ records or the search through Coruscant’s seedy underbelly.

They make it down to the landing pads adjoining the Palace grounds minutes before the sleek little corvette (the rather whimsical name emblazoned across its hull in an oddly delicate, flowing script, Leaf on the Wind, making Obi-Wan start slightly and drawing an amused smile from Anakin) touches down, and are waiting when the hatch opens and the gangway lowers itself, revealing, to their surprise, none other than Mon Mothma, dressed in a pair of comfortable looking blue trousers with low brown boots and a loosely belted sleeveless tunic the same light gray-green color of new spring leaves (in places where the flora is predominantly green, anyway), with a sling of some sort fitted over her shoulders to let her safely cradle both twins in the crooks of her arms. The former Chandrilan Senator for the Bormea Sector and now junior Consul for the New Alliance of the Republic sends them an almost blindingly bright smile, inclining her head towards them deeply enough to make a few bright strands of her unbound red hair slide forward across her forehead and into her light blue eyes. “Master Kenobi, Master Skywalker!” she calls out as she makes her way down from the ship. “I thought you might come down to meet the ship. The Grand Masters said you would be missing these two little ones.”

Obi-Wan recovers from the surprise first, offering a gallant bow as he replies. “Consul Mothma! It is a pleasure to see you again, milady, though I wish we were meeting under more happy circumstances.”

“The situation is indeed regretful, Master Kenobi, but I believe, under the circumstances, that you may both call me Mon. How is Bail?” she asks, not bothering to hide her concern.

“He is doing much better now and is getting some much-needed sleep,” Obi-Wan replies, his warm surety melting the concern from her face and rekindling her smile. “But milady are you quite sure - ?”

“Quite sure, Master Kenobi. Please. I should be honored,” Mon Mothma insists, again bowing her head to them and causing her hair to fan forward, into her eyes. Tossing her head to get it out of the way as she looks back up, she smiles with such pure pleasure that even Anakin finds himself grinning back at her, even though he barely knows the woman. “I imagine I’ll be the one working the most closely with the New Jedi Bendu Order, at least for the coming year. Senior Consuls Meena Tills and Fang Zar have asked if I would be willing to act as an informal liaison between the Jedi Bendu and the consulship, until the rest of the galaxy has had enough time to adjust to the notion that the Jedi Bendu will not as distant from the everyday goings on and concerns of the galaxy sufficiently to accept the presence of individual Jedi Bendu within the government, and my fellow junior Consul, Grebleips, has seconded the request, on the grounds that, of the four of us, I have the most direct experience with Jedi Bendu. I must admit I was a bit surprised to learn that I am considered to be such an expert, in regards to the Order, but I must admit that I am more than willing to do whatever is necessary to be worthy of such an opinion.”

“It will be both an honor and a pleasure to work with you, Mon,” Obi-Wan smiles at her sincerely, touched by both her earnestness and slightly bemused at the way the color rises in her face at the compliment.

Another casualty of the Kenobi charm, Anakin notes, laughing in silent delight along the bond. It’s probably a good thing you were essentially asexual, before, or else the galaxy would be overrun with Force-sensitive children with red hair or dimples or those extraordinary blue eyes of yours, if not all three at once, by now!

Don’t be ridiculous, Anakin! She can’t possibly -

Oh, I’m sure it’s just a little crush, with some hero-worship thrown in to keep things interesting. Don’t worry, Master. You’ll get used to this kind of thing. Eventually, anyway. Obi-Wan is about to protest when Anakin steps forward, smiling, and tells Mon, “I also look forward to getting to know you better. Padmé always spoke very highly of you.”

Hesitantly, she begins to say, “Master Skywalker - ”

“Anakin, please. It’s only fair.”

Solemnly, she inclines her head. “Anakin. I know I said so during the funeral, but I truly am deeply sorry for what happened to Padmé. I wish I could have done more for her.”

“You were there for her when her body was failing, Mon, and you kept your promise to her. I’m not the only one who owes you a debt of gratitude, for that. The whole galaxy owes you, for that. I don’t think we would’ve found out who Sidious was in time to keep him from sending out a confirmation of Order Sixty-Six to all of the clone troopers instead of just some of the ones on Coruscant and then declaring his Empire, if not for what you did. Thank you for that,” Anakin replies, matching her solemnity for a few moment. Then, with a disarming grin, he adds, “I’d try to shake your hand, but they both look pretty full. Do you want us to take them?”

“If you’d like,” she offers shyly, inclining her head slightly and looking more than a little overwhelmed by Anakin’s gratitude, raising her arms carefully to offer them the drowsing twins. Obi-Wan automatically carefully reaches for Luke, even while Anakin carefully reaches for Leia, the bond humming at both ends with quiet joy at the sensation of holding those tiny warm bodies and inhaling the sweet baby scent of them. “They’re such good babies - always happy and even-tempered,” she sighs, smiling at them. “You’re very lucky to have them.”

“We know,” Anakin simply replies in absolute heartfelt agreement.

“Would you like to walk with us in the gardens or come inside and sit with us awhile, Mon? Or would you prefer some time to rest, after the trip?” Obi-Wan finally asks, remembering himself and their company after several long moments of simply quietly basking in the sensation of holding Luke again and the joy pouring from Anakin, as he brushes the pad of his left thumb caressingly across Leia’s plump little round cheeks while his other fingers slide lovingly across her baby-fine hair.

“Perhaps you and Anakin would like some time with the children first, Master Kenobi?” she asks back, gazing at him earnestly, considerately, as she shrugs out of the clever double-sling that had been helping her carry both twins at once, supporting their small forms and restraining them from any attempts to squirm away, out of her grasp.

“Obi-Wan,” he automatically corrects her, again feeling entirely bemused as Mon’s face and throat flushes slightly with color. “They are mostly asleep now, so this will likely be the best time to talk, for awhile. I’m sure there’s quite a bit more you can tell us, about what’s been going on in the Senate and the rest of the government, since we’ve been gone from Coruscant.”

And about potential allies with enough clout to get their homeworlds to agree to the idea of Jedi Bendu integration, if only we could find a way to ask her, without Bail here to run interference for us! Anakin laments silently, the bond practically vibrating with frustration. He looks slightly abashed afterwards, though, and it’s with a much greater show of good humor that he adds, Huh. On second thought, hours upon hours of parsing politics with a junior Consul isn’t exactly my idea of a fun day. And it would give Bail something else to focus on that can keep him too busy to brood. I vote we leave it up to him to approach her about all of that, after all!

Obi-Wan carefully avoids looking at him or reacting as he might like to, so that Mom Mothma won’t be confused or tempted to read anything into their interplay that might prove problematic later. He contents himself with noting, I wasn’t aware you were contemplating anything else, Anakin. I’m sure she has more than enough news from the capital to keep us busy, as it is. Just look at her! She’s so eager to speak to us that she’s practically bouncing in place.

In truth, the junior Consul is holding herself so still that she essentially appears to be vibrating, quivering lightly, like a plucked string on a musical instrument, and there is a sense of such expectant eagerness around her in the Force that her keen interest is practically palpable. Her voice, though, is nonetheless polite, calm, and perfectly even in tone as she replies, “The trip was entirely uneventful and easy. And it’s such a beautiful day out. I’d enjoy a stroll through some of the royal Alderaanian gardens. It’s been some time since my last visit. If you’re both sure it wouldn’t be an imposition . . . ?” she asks, her bright gaze taking in both men.

“Not at all, Mon,” Anakin promptly insists. “It’ll be good to finally get some real news. Naboo wasn’t the right place or time to really try to talk to anyone. And the Grand Masters are really too busy to spend their time filling us in on what we’ve missed, unless it’s something important enough that we really need to know right away.”

“I’m sure your people will be able to coordinate with the staff here, to see to it that your luggage is put away in the proper rooms. Ah - look, there’s Sheltay now, coming out to meet the ship,” Obi-Wan notes, nodding in the direction of the Palace and the slim figure heading towards the landing pad the corvette is resting on, her pace brisk but unhurried, as she strides along at the head of a small phalanx of servants, droids, and what looks like possible maintenance workers, for the ship. Absolutely certain of Sheltay’s ability to take charge of both the ship and its other passengers and crew and of the arrangements for those who have specifically come to Alderaan to be on hand for Breha’s funeral, Obi-Wan doesn’t hesitate even for a heartbeat before assuring Mon Mothma, “I’m certain she’ll be able to see to everything and everyone who may have come with you. And I’m sure she won’t mind, either. You’re all guests of the house.”

Mon’s considering gaze flickers towards Sheltay, but she doesn’t hesitate for more than a few heartbeats before inclining her head in polite agreement and acquiescence, noting, “Sheltay has long since proven the excellency of her organizational skills, and I trust implicitly in the good lady’s abilities to see to it that everything goes smoothly. If you’re certain you have the time to spare, I’d be honored to take a turn with you both around the gardens.”

“Quite sure,” Anakin instantly insists, smiling at the junior Consul again so she won’t think he’s becoming frustrated with her carefully polite attempts to allow them to duck out of the proposed stroll and implied discussion she so obviously wishes to have with them. Holding Luke carefully to keep from jostling him, Anakin sweeps her a little half bow, gesturing gallantly with his momentarily free left hand. “After you, Mon.”

The smile she gives him is almost mischievous - an expression somewhat startling in a woman known more for solemnity and calm than youthful fire or humor - peeling back a weight of presence and gravity that removes years from her, reminding Anakin with a sudden poignancy that the slender woman from Chandrila is nearly the same age that Padmé was (almost twenty-eight) and Sabé and the other former handmaidens remaining from Padmé’s first term as Queen basically are (ranging in age as they do from around twenty-seven to about thirty-one), meaning that she’s really not all that much older than Anakin himself and is, in a very real way, terribly young for the position she’s gained and the burden of responsibility and duty she’s shouldered. The realization surprises him so much that Obi-Wan has to give him a little bit of a mental nudge to get him to start moving, after Mon has begun striding towards the gardens and Obi-Wan has already started after her. Thankfully, the two fall in with her quickly enough that she doesn’t seem to notice the slight hesitation, though she does send Anakin a bit of a sidelong glance, something in his response having so obviously triggered a rush of thoughts that he can practically hear wheels turning in her head. They walk together in an oddly comfortable silence, though, until their path intersects Sheltay’s (at which point they pause long enough to trade a few pleasantries before continuing in their separate directions, Sheltay and her group towards the ship and Anakin, Obi-Wan, Mon, and the twins to the nearest section of the gardens), after which Mon notes, quietly, “I’m not sure if I should hope that whoever becomes the next senior Senator for Alderaan will keep Sheltay on as a personal aide or if I should be wishing her good luck in one of the new Jedi Bendu chapterhouses. If you wouldn’t mind sharing your thoughts on a related topic, I’d like to be able to ask you some questions about the future of the Order.”

“Bail has indicated that he’s discussed the need to integrate Jedi Bendu with the sentient beings of the galaxy with you, at least somewhat,” Obi-Wan replies, obliquely answering the question she’s so carefully skirted.

Mon gives a slight nod, immediately agreeing, “Your Padawan has spoken eloquently and persuasively of that need, yes. I agree with the idea, in principle. I would appreciate hearing more on the execution of this plan, though, if I may.”

You want to explain our plans for Naboo and Alderaan, or should I? Anakin asks.

I’ll do it, love. I know you don’t particularly care for politics.

Anakin keeps from snorting, but only just barely. Like you enjoy them any more than I do.

Enjoy them, no. Devote enough time to understanding them to hopefully avoid ever being taken surprise by them, yes, Obi-Wan replies, clearly amused, before launching into what amounts to a rather more detailed version of the discussion he and Anakin had had with Keiana Apailana after arriving on Naboo and the discussion they’d had on Naboo with Bail, after separately convincing Sabé and Dormé that they would be the best choices for the next monarch of Naboo and senior Senator for the Chommell Sector.

Mon listens, nodding now and again with understanding or in agreement, occasionally asking highly (and increasingly unsurprisingly, given her obvious intelligence and patent interest in the subject) insightful questions on various subjects. The average amount of time necessary to train an apprentice and their best guesstimates as to how great a reduction in that amount of time will result from the recruitment of older, more mature, already well educated (or well on the way to becoming highly educated) individuals; the average amount of Force-sensitivity various kinds of beings generally possess and how much power that will translate to, in a galaxy without the taint that has been obscuring the Force and preventing even highly skilled and quite powerful trained Jedi from being able to access the Force as they should have been able to; the amount of Force-sensitivity the Jedi Bendu will actually require to accept a recruit as well as the possibility of accepting those who might not possess sufficient talent with the Force for such training for instruction in other fields; the ways in which they intend to reorganize the Order so that there will be both sufficient instructors to go around, for the various chapterhouses, and enough trained Jedi Bendu available for missions that they won’t have to worry about not being able to respond in a timely manner to any sudden crises that might happen to pop up somewhere in the galaxy where there isn’t a Jedi presence nearby: Mon asks after all of these things and more with such care and unfailing attention to details that Anakin finds himself increasingly impressed by the politician.

More than a little surprised by his response to this virtual stranger, Anakin finds himself reaching out into the Force to sense her presence, wondering if perhaps she might not be one of those people now able to qualify for Jedi Bendu training, despite the old Jedi Order’s apparent lack of interest in trying to train her. Yet, though she glows with the kind of charismatic radiance that makes her appear, in the Force, as a creature of brilliantly mesmeric light, she is not truly strong in the Force. The sensation of constant inviting warmth and charm shines like a beacon, but her charisma is like Padmé’s was, a combination of raw personal magnetism and unstinting care and concern for others that owes much more to strength of will and sheer, overwhelming personality - like a force of nature - rather than any talent granted by an affinity for the Force. He shocks himself, then, by regretting her lack of Force-sensitivity. He has a feeling, somehow, that she would have made a damn fine Jedi Bendu, if only she’d had enough talent for the training, even if, on second thought, it’s probably a good thing that she still can’t qualify for that kind of instruction, given how badly the traditionalists, those generally opposed to Jedi and the Force, and those inclined to panic and hysteria and the pursuit of conspiracy theories would likely react, were one of the four Consuls actually to seek to join the New Jedi Bendu Order. Still, it does seem a shame, and he finds himself agreeing that the New Jedi Bendu Order should be careful to try to offer certain kinds of instruction - in hand-to-hand combat, for example, or philosophy and ethics, or galactic history and culture - to those who might desire a different kind of education from the Jedi Bendu, if only because he finds himself wondering how much more formidable someone like Mon Mothma might be able to become if given the chance to grow up with all the considerable resources of the Jedi Archives and the accumulated centuries of Jedi wisdom and lore constantly at her fingertips.

Anakin isn’t at all surprised when Mon Mothma is the one to broach the subject of the similarities between her homeworld and Alderaan and the possibility, thus, of perhaps being able to do something for Chandrila similar to what’s been planned for Alderaan. Thoroughly engaged by the conversation, she doesn’t bother to hide her animation or growing excitement as she tells them, “Despite the space that divides us, Chandrila and Alderaan have often been named sibling systems, given the many commonalities in the philosophies our peoples embrace. There isn’t a Jedi chapterhouse on Chandrila, per se, but there is a goodly-sized, well-established enclave of Jedi Healers, not far from Lake Sah’ot and Hanna City, who often combine forces with our own medical research and teaching professionals. And Chandrila has a similar tradition regarding blade-dancing and, though we prefer debating to physical fighting, we embrace athleticism and good health as an essential part of a truly balanced lifestyle. If the higher than normal percentage of our population with greater than average Force-sensitivity is truly on a par with Alderaan’s, then perhaps I can help you see to it that a similar world-wide educational effort can also go into effect on Chandrila without attracting the attention of any outsiders who might take the knowledge amiss. There are individuals I can contact for you. The Healers’ enclave might not be as large as the Alderaanian chapterhouse, but my people have long honored the Jedi and we believe in developing ourselves and our talents and abilities to the fullest possible extent. I can guarantee a favorable reaction to the offer of training. And we know how to appreciate the value of a well-kept secret. A hidden talent is a tool that can be used to catch an opponent unawares and turn the tables in even the most unfavorable of matches,” she adds, flashing them a brilliant and surprisingly sharkish smile that reminds Anakin abruptly of the fact that Chandrilans are famous (some might even say infamous) for their unmitigated debating skills and Mon Mothma is famous even amongst her own people for her persuasive talent as a public speaker.

“We’ve been hoping for a response like this, Mon,” Obi-Wan only smiles back at her. “It will make our task that much easier, to essentially be able to add the populations of Alderaan and Chandrila both, as well as much of Naboo, to our ranks. The galaxy is wide, and there are many inhabited worlds and moons and planetoids and stations within it. If we want to truly reclaim and keep the territory once held by the old Republic, we will need as many Jedi Bendu as we can lay claim to in the years to come. It’s also reassuring to know that we won’t be leaving the Core Worlds entirely bereft of Jedi Bendu. I’m afraid that, aside from some of the Healers and the instructors and archivists of the various Temples and chapterhouses, most of the Jedi Bendu are going to be relocating to the outermost edges of the Colonies and Inner Rim and the sadly far too often neglected areas of the Expansion Region, Mid Rim, and even the Outer Rim Territories. Most of the missions that Jedi Bendu are going to be involved in over the next decade will most likely be in areas ravaged by the war, and the war consistently inflicted the most damage in areas from the Expansion Region on out. The survival of the New Alliance of the Republic is going to depend on the full, willing cooperation of all of its member states, so the democratically enabled establishment of stability and prosperity in and among the places and peoples most damaged by the war are going to have priority, even above the rebuilding of the Order, until such a time as the loyalty and satisfaction of such members to and with the underlying ideals and government of the New Alliance of the Republic begin to become manifest. Aside from some exceptions involving the ablest and most gifted instructors, it will mostly be initiates and Padawans too young to send into the field or Jedi Bendu too aged or too valuable to the Order to risk on such missions who will be remaining behind, in the more settled areas of the galaxy. Knowing that these individuals are going to have people they can work with people whom we can trust is immensely helpful.”

“I’ll be happy to help you in any and every way I can, and I’m certain the other Consuls would support me in this,” Mon insists. “Is there anything else I can do?”

Obi-Wan and Anakin trade a look at that. Obi-Wan’s raised eyebrow prompts a shrug from Anakin, who, after taking a deep breath to steel himself for the task at hand, gamely replies, “On Naboo, our Padawan told us that he intended on speaking with you regarding certain lists of allies and potential allies that you helped him compile over the course of the war, in the event of an emergency of some sort related to the unreasonably high amount of power accruing to the Supreme Chancellor. Bail was of the opinion that some of these shared associates of yours might be able to help the New Jedi Bendu Order, if not precisely as you are, with Chandrila, then as Queen Apailana of Naboo is, by organizing their worlds or adopted homes and pointing them towards the goal of a new Jedi enclave or chapterhouse of their own. Is this a task we might ask for your assistance in completing?”

Anakin can’t quite read the look Mon directs towards Obi-Wan, then, other than to know that there is a jumble of surprise, pleasure, awkward self-consciousness, and something almost like triumph in her eyes as her head snaps around, away from Anakin and towards Obi-Wan. She stares at him for a moment, so pale that the thought crosses his mind that her distress might be due to an actual illness, but then her face and throat flush so violently with color that Anakin can practically feel the wave of warmth that surges up through her body and pours out of her skin, embarrassment and heat slamming into him like the solidly physical push of a body-blow. He’s still trying to gather up wits enough to frame a question around his own shock when she shocks him by crossing her arms over her chest, palms cupped flat against her shoulders, and sweeping Obi-Wan a bow so dangerously low that he has a hard time understanding how she manages to keep from overbalancing and falling on her face. “I am honored beyond words, Bendu Kenobi,” is Mon’s response, her voice oddly breathless and soft but somehow still gravely solemn with formality. “I accept the offer of alliance you and Bendu Skywalker offer me. I will not fail you, though this is a challenge that will take much effort and finesse to fulfill. If you will excuse me, I will go consult my notes and then return to you in the afternoon, with my preliminary findings.”

Obi-Wan feels almost as surprised as Anakin is by the sudden turn of events. What - ?

I’m not sure. Except that her response sounds as if she - oh. Oh! Oh, dear. Anakin, bow with me, as she has. Be sure to copy the positioning of her arms. Right must be over left, to avoid giving deadly insult. Obi-Wan’s mental voice somehow manages to sound even more breathy than Mon Mothma’s actual voice, and the sense of shell shock coming from him is so prominent that Anakin suddenly feels oddly disconnected from his surroundings and almost manages to stumble as he moves, woodenly, to let the cradle of Force energy he can feel forming, at Obi-Wan’s command, take Leia off of his hands even as Luke is shifted out of Obi-Wan’s arms, his empty hands allowing him to copy the gesture and bow in time with Obi-Wan. “Devotion to duty and loyalty to friends and family you have more than proven to have, Mon. We trust in your skills. You are more than worthy of this challenge.”

“Còardhail aontaicce.” Mon’s smile is blindingly brilliant as she bows again, impossibly even lower than before, a blaze of giddy happiness in the Force, before turning away from them, towards the Palace, and striding briskly off.

Anakin waits until he’s certain she’s out of hearing range, before asking, “And what in the seven hells of Ammuud was that all about?”

“Well.” Obi-Wan pauses, looking surprisingly flustered, and then sighs, his face flushing. “Anakin, you know how very important family is, on Naboo?”

Anakin gives him a slightly confused frown, not understanding what connection, if any, family values of Naboo have with the bizarre little scene he’s just witnessed. “Yeah . . . ”

“You know how family isn’t entirely defined in terms of blood relation there?” Obi-Wan only asks, wincing ever so slightly under the weight of Anakin’s puzzled and questioning gaze.

“Well, yeah,” he agrees, looking at Obi-Wan somewhat askance. “Naboo’s rather like Alderaan, in that respect. Dormé explained it to me once, when I asked what it was that made the handmaids so loyal to each other and so devoted to Padmé. She said they regard each other as sisters in a family who’ve been chosen to be fostered or adopted by Padmé Amidala. But what has this got to do with - ” Anakin flounders for a moment, waving his hand in an encompassing circle, before finally repeating the crossed-arms gesture “ - well, all of this?”

Obi-Wan hesitates a long time before answering, clearly embarrassed, the slight flush of color in his cheeks deepening to an almost painful looking shade of shockingly vivid red. Finally, dropping his eyes down to his tightly grasped hands, he blurts out, “I seem to have inadvertently offered Mon Mothma a task that would be regarded as a test of worth for a potential fosterling by the Chandrilans. If she answers the challenge satisfactorily, Chandrilan tradition holds that we should then adopt her in some manner, either as a mentor or guardian, a sibling, or a fosterling.”

“You mean like a child?” Anakin blinks, startled, and then stares at Obi-Wan blankly. “But we have children, Obi-Wan!” he protests, gesturing to the sleeping twins hovering in the air off to the side of them, still cradled securely and safely within a curl of energy from the Force. “Besides, Mon Mothma has parents. And she’s almost five and half years older than I am!”

“Which is to say about a decade younger than I am.”

“Obi-Wan. Seriously. You can’t be thinking - ”

Clearly, abashed, Obi-Wan cuts him off, insisting, “I hadn’t intended to word the request in a manner that could be taken as a kin challenge! I forgot the turn our last conversation took, before you and I returned so precipitously to Coruscant,” he adds, voice softening.

“Before - ? When did you ever talk to Mon Mothma that Bail or Padmé wouldn’t’ve been there?” Anakin asks, even more confused than before.

“Our last recall before assignment to the Outer Rim Sieges. You spent most of your time away from the Temple, Anakin, and I only saw Padmé briefly during our stay, though she did comm more than once. I was given to understand that she was working on a proposal to limit the power of COMPOR, given the increasing obviousness and violence of the organization’s bias against nonhumans. Bail was on Alderaan when we first arrived. I spoke with Mon Mothma three times before he made it back to Coruscant.”

“And?”

Obi-Wan’s eyes fall shut at that desperate demand for an explanation, too embarrassed to simply look away, long red-gold lashes trembling against his cheekbones, face pale and shuttered with pain, hands clasping at each other with anxious, desperate strength. Losing sight of Anakin, though, only prompts his mind more firmly along the path his thoughts have begun to take, pushing him to remember -

- exhaustion, both in body and spirit. The taste of ashes in his mouth when he bows and gives his agreement to the Grand Master and Mace, regarding an injunction not only to continue to foster good relations with those members of the Senate who seem to recall their duty to their people but, more troublesomely, to keep an eye on their activities and guide them away from any actions that might draw the suspicious attention of the Supreme Chancellor down on them. The request from the Chandrilan Senator of the Bormea Sector, waiting for him when he wakes on the first full day back at the Temple, ever so politely asking for a meeting - at half past eight in the evening, in a particular section of the Temple’s Bendu Remembrance Wheel, just off the Hall of Remembrance - in the name of Bail Organa of Alderaan. Surrendering and agreeing to the meeting, despite exhaustion, in order to obey the commands of the High Council. Light steps, rousing him from a state closer to sleep than to meditation, red hair muted by deep cowl of a heavy black cape, formal white gown flashing beneath like a ghost, carefully lowered and often averted blue eyes solemn, shy, voice softened to a hushed murmur by something feeling akin to awe, quietly speaking, in a roundabout manner, of necessity, of a need to recognize and make common cause among those whose lives are dedicated to doing what is necessary, not what they like or would wish to do, of commonality and concern about the shape of the future, a breathily winding whisper likely meant to gently and carefully sound out a possible ally but instead giving rise to an outright challenge. Fatigue like a leaden curtain draped across his mind, blotting out most of her words, leading him to snap, somewhat more sharply than intended, a demand that she stop trying to handle him and simply be honest with him about whatever it is that she wants of him. The paleness of her face, transparent with shock, as she stammers something to the effect that she is a politician not because she enjoys politicking but because necessity demands it of her, until he less than gently notes that he is a Jedi, not an audience to be swayed by appeals to his emotions or by clever attempts to carefully overwhelm logos with ethos and pathos. Her rather sharper reply, demanding to know when not announcing all of one’s abilities became a form of deception.

The argument, flowing from that point, centering around honesty and the fragility of ego, the needs of society for trust and self-restraint among its members versus the far too human tendency of so many sentient species towards deceit, especially self-deception, and the inevitably destructive impact of too much of such deceit on society, the reality of deceit and distrust as all too often overlooked forms of violence against society and the need for morality and trust and consensus in any society that wishes not only to advance but simply to survive. The following somewhat circuitous but passionate discourse about what they both seem to regard as an immutable law of responsibility, to which they both claim to adhere, unquestioningly, though they cannot seem to agree that the other has a right to such a claim. Obi-Wan insisting that the Jedi are not and can never be political, that the very Code that dictates and defines their duty to the Galactic Republic forbids them from becoming political, while Mon Mothma argues that he is either lying to her or deceived, that he is a politician already, that his answers to her reveal nothing and hint at everything. The night fleeing away before them. A second meeting agreed upon when a simultaneous yawn of exhaustion startles them out of their debate. Obi-Wan reckless with exhaustion, bestowing a compliment that skirts so near to the edge of insult that the lady Senator should, by all rights, draw away in fury. Mon Mothma instead paling once again, dropping him a curtsey so low that he reaches out and places a hand on her shoulder to keep her from toppling, her eyes darting up to his face, mouth parted slightly in shock, staring at him unabashedly, in stunned amazement, before finally managing to whisper (the words barely audible, half swallowed by her own disbelief) an acceptance that will not register as a formal acceptance of challenge until too long after the fact for the knowledge to be of much use to him, the true import of the words lost to his own surprise (and a slightly muzzy-headed observation that even her clothes are a political argument) as she turns aside, a swift swirl of flaring white formal skirts and black cape, all but running from him as she departs the room.

A second meeting, early the following afternoon, in a corner of the Temple gardens not often visited. The argument resumed roughly where they left off, Mon Mothma speaking again of the future, of necessity, of commonality, Obi-Wan consciously playing Sith’s advocate this time just to see how far she’ll chase the point, Mon Mothma catching on to the fact in less than an hour’s worth of debate, the look she gives him heated and heavy with something like anger and something like triumph as he smiles, telling her, almost gently, that he and the Jedi stand where they have always stood - for the Republic - and that their priorities are simple: the end of the war, the establishment of peace, the restoration of the Galactic Republic to that which it once was, her answering flash of teeth, as she laughs, blindingly bright and binding as a promise. A third meeting, exceedingly late that night, after an exhaustively long round of Council meetings, to which she shows promptly, escorted to Obi-Wan’s too empty suite in the Temple by one of Anakin’s old droids, entering to reveal unexpected finery hidden beneath a familiar black cape, the deep plush of the velvoid gown almost swallowing its color, the burgundy so dark it is almost the blackness of blood on a moonless night, startling on one so pale (the darkness burnishing her loose hair to a sullen glow, like the live embers at the heart of a blackened and smouldering log) and doubly startling given her well-known proclivity to white and shades of near-white. Her first words to him, aside from polite greetings and a grateful acceptance of an offering of tea, not a resumption of the argument, but rather an observation as to his state of mind and a concerned question (“You are troubled tonight. Why?”) that startles him to an unexpected confession about the futility of fighting battles that are not truly battles. His surprise, at her understanding and the warm hand on his shoulder, an offer of comfort that he does not instinctively shy away from, which turns his thoughts towards Anakin.

At the end of the night, when sunrise would be threatening on any world but Coruscant, the compliment he pays her is entirely heartfelt, and she does not surprise him when she presses a very Chandrilan kiss of peace to the center of his forehead before sweeping him yet another dangerously low curtsey, blue eyes locked on his face unwaveringly, as he half bows in return. It isn’t until late the next day, when Bail has arrived safely back on planet and they are having their second meeting and first real conversation of the day, over an excellent evening meal prepared by Bail’s people, and Bail happens to remark that Mon Mothma had been both shocked and honored by his challenge, that it occurs to him that he has, in his exhaustion and his frustration with her apparent politicking, apparently accidentally come across as offering her a deliberate formal challenge, Chandrilan style, in essence asking her to prove her worth to him not only as an ally, but as a friend. Only then does it occur that such challenges often presage an even more serious form of invitation, as successful alliances involving friendship are often taken, by Chandrilans, as a basis for familial alliance, a realization that startles him into noting that he must, in the future, be more careful, so that he cannot mistakenly say or do something that Mon Mothma, with her strong Chandrilan customs and culture, might mistake the meaning of -

- and winces, realizing that he’s been thinking of Mom Mothma not in terms of her being Chandrilan but rather as someone close to Padmé, as an honorary member of her handmaidens, as someone like family. Sighing, shoulders bracing against the argument that he’s sure is going to come, Obi-Wan replies by quietly telling Anakin, “And so I think we are about to gain a sister.”

An hour and a half and what feels like half a thousand protests later, Anakin sighs, too, shoulders slumping, and finally simply asks, “Is it safe for a junior Consul of the New Alliance of the Republic who’s already thought of as being closely tied to the Jedi Bendu to be seen as the adoptive sister of Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker?”

“She’s already essentially been adopted as a little sister by our Padawan, Anakin. The galaxy knows she’s tied to us.”

“True. But they don’t know how close she is to the two of us, at least not yet. Won’t finding that out make the paranoiacs restive?”

“Who says they have to know how much the relationship has changed?”

“Master - ”

“Anakin. Think a moment. She’s already agreed to act as our leverage with Chandrila, to help them get into a position where the whole population will not only declare for the Jedi Bendu but will essentially become a part of our Order, one way or another. And she’s agreed to do this in a way that will keep outsiders from knowing what is happening,” Obi-Wan patiently explains. “That likely would not be possible if it were to become widely known that she has so proven her worth to us that she’s become a merit-based adoptive member of our family. Keeping that fact a secret known only to those who have need of and are worthy of the knowledge, though, will help her fulfill her promise. It will give those of her people whose cooperation she will most need to satisfy that oath another reason to support her decision, regarding such an alliance, and to keep both her new relationship with us and Chandrila’s new relationship with the New Jedi Bendu Order a secret. The combination of implicitly offered honor and challenge will act on her people as it has on her. Chandrilans don’t approve of violence, but they don’t believe in backing down from an honorable challenge, either. They believe that all challenges are meant to be risen to and either met or overcome, not turned aside from. They are much like you, in that regard,” he adds, smiling at Anakin with unabashed fondness despite the many troublesome situations he has, in the past, found himself in, along with Anakin, precisely because of that assumption.

Anakin scowls slightly at that, muttering under his breath, “Says the man who always manages either to be at the forefront or else to make himself over as an unavoidable target in every single blasted battle we’ve ever been in.” He seems more exasperated than truly offended or even very irritated by the claim, though, rolling his eyes almost theatrically as he adds, “That’s like a Talz calling a Wookiee furry, you know?”

“And does that somehow make the point less valid?”

Another dramatic rolling of eyes and long-suffering sigh, and then Anakin admits, “I suppose not, no.”

“Then why are we discussing this, when we still need to discuss the prospect of Mon Mothma proving herself a worthy sister?”

“What’s to discuss, if it’s not going to cause her trouble or hurt either the Order or the government in some way? You know I’ve always wanted a family, Obi-Wan,” Anakin shrugs, his apparent nonchalance belied by the wistfulness lurking at the back of his eyes. “Besides, Bail likes her. And Padmé liked her. And Dormé and Sabé are both pretty good friends of hers, from what I understand. She’s practically family already, given all that. Doesn’t she deserve it at least as much as Padmé’s other handmaids and the Naberrie clan do?”

Hesitantly, Obi-Wan starts to demur, saying, “If you’re sure - ”

Firmly, Anakin cuts him off, insisting, “I’m certain. Besides,” he adds with a teasing little smirk, “if she’s our sister, she can’t very well keep that crush on you, now can she?”

“Anakin!”

“What? Oh, wait, that’s right. Most of the handmaids from that first year of Padmé Amidala’s reign as Queen of Naboo still have a crush on you, don’t they?” Anakin only laughs.

“Anakin! I’m not - they don’t - you - !” Obi-Wan sputters, truly horrified at the thought.

“Hush,” Anakin only laughs, circling his left arm around Obi-Wan’s waist and placing his index finger gently across Obi-Wan’s lips. His delighted laughter turning to a deep, smouldering chuckle, he then leans in until he’s nose to nose with Obi-Wan, purring, “I take their preference for you as a sign of their exquisite taste, Master,” before sweeping in to press a long, loving kiss to Obi-Wan’s mouth.

A few minutes or a lifetime later, Anakin pulls away enough for Obi-Wan to ask, “So you’re sure you’re alright with this?”

“Positive.”

“Alright. Then we should take the twins in and call the Grand Masters again, to give them an update, so they’ll know we’re about to gain Alderaan and Chandrila both.”

“As long as we can get some lunch afterwards,” Anakin agrees, shrugging his shoulders easily. “Breakfast was a bit short and I’m starting to get hungry.”

“You’re always hungry, Anakin,” Obi-Wan smiles back, relaxed enough to allow himself a bit of teasing of his own. “I still don’t understand where you manage to put everything you eat, love, but I’m sure the Palace kitchens will be able to oblige. Come on,” he smiles, tilting his head towards the Palace and moving to retrieve Luke. “The sooner we see to these little ones, the sooner we’ll be able to comm the Temple, and the quicker we’ll be able to get you some lunch.”

Smiling, Anakin gives a slight tolerant shake of his head and then scoops Leia back into his arms, sets off with Obi-Wan back towards the Palace.

*********

The twins wake up soon after they’ve made it inside, cooing and gurgling at first sleepily but then with increasing energy as they’re directed by a polite protocol droid looking rather like Threepio (only smaller and silver colored, with a light, feminine voice) towards the kitchens, where Sheltay is supposed to be located. Sheltay, who’s apparently double-checking to see to it that the kitchen staff not only knows the species and identities of their latest guests (close to a hundred foreign dignitaries having arrived with Mon Mothma on the whimsically named Leaf on the Wind), but the favorite dishes of the more well-known guests, as well. She takes a break from that task long enough to exclaim over and make much of the twins, before informing them that the suite of rooms across the hall from theirs has already been prepared for the twins and that Threepio and Artoo are already there, overseeing the unpacking of the luggage, along with Kimeila Antilles Retrac (Raymus’ baby sister, a formidable young lady strikingly like their mother, with her same lovely skin, like caramelized honey, and the same riotously curly black hair and huge dark eyes, though with a sharply pointed and prominent chin inherited not from her mother but from her father’s mother), who’s volunteered to help keep an eye on the twins while they’re in residence in the Palace. Kimeila - a fiery young professor of classic galactic literature and art at nearby Alderaan University about a year and a half older than Anakin - is one of those wonderful beings who can charm and tame even the shyest or most rambunctious of children, and so they feel quite comfortable about handing the now happily wriggling twins over to her capable hands. And since Threepio is quite busy trying to direct the unpacking and putting away of the twins’ clothes and toys while Artoo is equally busy whistling and beeping sarcastic comments at Threepio, the two droids barely even bother to say hello, so Anakin and Obi-Wan actually manage to get back to their room in fairly good time after that.

The Grand Masters, though, aren’t available to talk when they try to comm. A brief but exquisitely polite message recorded by Dooku informs them that they are currently in a meeting with their allies in the new government and to please leave a message or else comm back later. So, shrugging, Obi-Wan and Anakin do their best to cram as much pertinent information as they can into a five-minute recording. Anakin surprises him afterwards, when the comm’s been put away, by leaning in for a kiss, and for an instant he considers drawing back and asking Anakin what he thinks he’s doing (and isn’t he still hungry?), but the kiss is so perfect that Obi-Wan doesn’t have the heart to protest, and after only a heartbeat or so of hesitation his hands come up, latching onto Anakin’s tunics near his waist. When the kiss deepens, mouths open and the touch of tongues, one hand automatically rises to Anakin’s hair, fingers threading through loose golden curls, and Anakin obligingly tilts his head down more, harder against Obi-Wan’s mouth, body pressing closer to the other hand, still tangled up in cloth. When the kiss ends, they remain close enough together to keep breathing the same air, and Obi-Wan breathlessly murmurs something about this not exactly being what he thought Anakin had in mind, when he spoke of hunger, and Anakin laughs easily, whispers back that he’s always up for some more Obi-Wan, and from there they end up moving together, naturally, back across the room, until they can sprawl out over the bed, side by side, and kiss until all Anakin can taste is blood under skin, all he can taste is kissing and the flush that colors Obi-Wan’s cheeks pink and makes his eyes bright and blue enough to seem sightless and more than slightly unreal, that much saturation of color seeming somehow unnatural. Or it would, except that it’s Obi-Wan, and Anakin is beginning to learn all the colors of his eyes over again, now that passion has been added to their repertoire of shared emotions.

They crumple towards disheveled and half-undressed, slowly but surely, as Obi-Wan’s eyes grow darker and bluer, Obi-Wan’s hands against Anakin’s ribs and clutching at the collar of his last layer of shirt as Anakin slithers his way down the mattress, tugging Obi-Wan’s boots off, mouth pressed against the arch of first one foot and then the other until Obi-Wan’s entire body is an arch somehow hanging from the anchor of his feet, senses whiting out around the edges, body flushed with electricity, and the afterimage from that flash blinds Anakin with the sight of that perfect arc as he shrugs out of his shirt and then works his way back up, by touch, until he can find and strip away Obi-Wan’s pants, not particularly caring, yet, that the upper half of his body is still clothed. Anakin doesn’t wait for sight to return, finds hardness to lave with his tongue and then opens his mouth wide to receive him. Obi-Wan half screams, his body arching again, and in the blood-tinged darkness behind his closed eyes Anakin can still see the arcing power, whiteness flashing like an explosion, even though he’s barely swallowed once and that hardness is still in him, solid enough to choke given even a moment’s inattention. Anakin comes away, exhaling a laugh, and Obi-Wan hisses and bucks, body pushing upward into Anakin’s already curving hand. Anakin laughs again, pleased, and Obi-Wan exhales something that sounds so much like a curse in Huttese that it shocks Anakin still for an instant, the heartbeat Obi-Wan needs to move, to reach down and hook his hands around Anakin’s shoulders and pull, until Anakin comes away from him and comes up to him, mouths colliding, Obi-Wan’s tunics rubbing distractingly against Anakin’s bare chest, the slide of material across Obi-Wan rough enough that it feels like a form of torture. They reach for each other, hands grasping hastily at cloth, roll together in a tumble that peels Obi-Wan of his first tunic and nearly rips the waistband off of Anakin’s pants, roll again, Anakin arcing his hips to help ease the passage of suddenly too coarse and too tight material, and then roll again, until Anakin can set his fingernails against the skin of Obi-Wan’s shoulders.

And then Obi-Wan’s fingertips are skimming across delicate skin, peeling him back, his palm curling against the pulsing of one long, blue, snaking vein, his thumb resting just under the crown, his other hand pressing firm fingers into Anakin’s right shoulder, his name on Obi-Wan’s lips, and the perfection of it all makes him arch, arc, blinding power, sublime emotion, mouths finding each other in spite of the harshness of the light, sealing upon screams. Anakin pushes back, when their mouths finally break apart, the need for air interfering with the need for kisses, Obi-Wan tumbling down against the mattress violently enough to pull Anakin down over him, and all it takes is a shimmy of motion, a surge of movement, and he’s sliding down over Obi-Wan, slick and hot and smooth, Obi-Wan entering him in a long, wet slide that stretches him and makes him ache and shiver in his own skin, shaken and shaking, the sensation familiar enough by now despite its impossibility that Anakin no longer even stops to think about it, only takes it in, greedy as a man in a desert slaking his thirst after nearly perishing for lack of water, body bending like a drawn bow as he lifts himself up and lowers himself down again, taking Obi-Wan within him until he’s resting on Obi-Wan’s thighs, filled to perfection, and can lean down to kiss Obi-Wan, to taste that gasping, sweat-salty mouth, plumb those widened lips again, kissing once again as necessary as breathing, until the next point of fracture, bodies dumbly demanding oxygen, ripping mouths made for each other apart once again. But that’s alright, that’s grand, that gives him the excuse to brace both of his hands on Obi-Wan’s chest and undulates in slow, breath-shuddering circles, letting his head fall forward until those loose golden curls partially obscure his sight, at least until Obi-Wan’s hand finds him, fitting to the curve of his cheekbone, warm and moist, palm cupping his face, fingertips stroking the loose hair away until it finally catches, obediently, behind the sea-shell curve of an ear. Obi-Wan is trembling beneath him, a long, pale expanse of glistening skin, and the sight of it, the mere sight of it, of him, is enough to make Anakin quiver with pleasure, body poised on the edge of arching, arcing, again, already skating the edge of too much power and emotion, love and the Force sparking in him like flame in dry tinder.

And oh, he loves the way Obi-Wan says his name, all quiet, sobbing desperation, loves the way that Obi-Wan is so manifestly made for this, for him, and oh he fits inside Anakin, he fits to Anakin, so perfectly, so beautifully! What need is there for sight, when touch is still present to anchor them together? Even when Obi-Wan’s hands find his hips, his grasp keeping Aankin from picking up the pace, it’s still perfection, because he loves how Obi-Wan loves to savor this, take it slow, even though with his last clear look before that blinding light comes he’s able to see that Obi-Wan’s pale face is already flushed a painful red with need, his long red hair tangled and darkened with sweat. It’s so easy to move up and down, a slow rise and fall as gentle as breath and as painful as its lack, Obi-Wan leaving him just long enough to make Anakin a bit desperate, to make him push back just a little bit harder than necessary, shoving down firmly, sparking an extra little flash of heat. Perfect. Perfect. Perfection. Yes, fill me. Force! And Anakin smiles against the darkness, moving carefully, lifting himself only a very little and then letting Obi-Wan’s hands pull him down again. He doesn’t need to see to be able to circle both palms over Obi-Wan’s already pebble-hard nipples (though a part of him aches, fiercely missing the sight of those blindingly blue eyes), catching them between his fingers and tugging, feeling the skin tightening further, smiling when Obi-Wan moans and arches his hips, pushing up into him and quickening the pace of their dance ever so slightly. Eventually, though, one of Obi-Wan’s hands shift away from Anakin’s hips, moving to the root of him, the first brush of Obi-Wan’s palm against him more than enough to make Anakin buck and shiver, his body tightening as his eyes fly open and he can see, against the fading afterimage of glare, Obi-Wan watching him, eyes lit with heat and a desperate hunger, that hand moving over him even as his hips continue to rise and fall, fingers moving back and forth, stroking him, palm curled to make a channel and thumb pressed flat to skate across the damp head before the whole curved hand slicks back down again, slow, twisting, with little turns of the wrist that finally make Anakin’s whole body clench again, muscles spasming around Obi-Wan, so that Obi-Wan finally breaks and surges up - O, Force! - up, up, up, lifting both of them clear of the mattress in a wave of scalding heat, mouths lunging after one another to seal back the shriek of pleasure, locking together blindly, instinctively.

And after that is nothing but whiteness and heat and ecstacy pressing in from all sides at once, explosion/implosion, absolute whiteout, flying to pieces together, into the Force, like so many shards of shattered glass, fragments mixing with such abandon that it’s a wonder they’re ever able to find their way back to their own separate bodies again.

They wake to themselves on the bed gradually, eventually, bodies seeming strange and new, tangled up together so close it takes a while to figure out who belongs to which parts and how to unravel the twined knot of flesh into two separate bodies. It takes even longer, this time, to sort out thoughts, emotions, draw back enough to become two minds (though really it’s a false division. There’s too much overlap, too much blurring of the edges, too many branching, knotted pathways, too many links among their bond to allow for true separation. Just room enough for a drawing away into two mostly separate halves of one) to go with those two bodies. In the end, gasping and lightheaded where he’s had to relearn how to breathe but didn’t quite manage to realize it before the blood could begin to starve for fresh oxygen, Anakin finally succeeds in focusing his eyes, only to note that the stone of the ceiling has been blasted clean, scoured by energy to a shine so bright and razor shape that it glints like the edge of a blade and sheens like a sheet of ice. Squinting against the glare, he turns his head (the muscles in his neck responding sluggishly, flopping his head awkward to the side, bonelessly as if his neck’s been broken), finds himself reflected in the depths of Obi-Wan’s eyes, and notes, his voice as halting and jumpy as a bad holorecording, “This is getting out of hand.”

Obi-Wan’s mouth twitches in what might’ve been an attempt at a smile or could have simply been the first sign of an attempt to reply. Eventually, his voice equally halting as well as oddly thready, as if coming from a great distance, he asks back, “Didn’t I say so on the ship?”

Anakin manages to frown on his third try. “There should be a way to avoid this.”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows remember their language of expression more quickly than the rest of either one of them does. An eyebrow cocks itself at him long before the mouth manages to shape a somewhat plaintive and slightly sarcastic inquiry of, “Any ideas, then?”

This time the frown comes automatically, without thinking about it. “No. Not yet. But there must be a way around this. To control it, or avoid that kind of reaction altogether.”

Another movement of eyebrows, both of them winging up towards Obi-Wan’s hairline, this time, almost mockingly. “You mean aside from - ?”

The scowl is instinctive, quick and deep, driving the words more quickly out before it. “Don’t say it. That’s not an option. I’m not going to give you up, just because of a light show.”

“It’s a bit more than a light show, now.”

“I don’t care! There has to be another way.”

Obi-Wan sighs, not bothering to argue the point. “We should ask the Grand Masters about this, Anakin. In case it’s something that Force spirits have learned to deal with.”

“I’m not sure I want them to know. I don’t think I trust them that much, anymore.”

Another eyebrow up, and this time the mouth quirks with it, into a wry half smile. “And what makes you think they don’t know already?”

Anakin flinches at the idea, aghast, and cries out, “That’s not a great help, Obi-Wan!”

“Sorry.” The face is blandly smooth, but the voice is obviously pained. “I’m just trying to be realistic about it. As much as I hate the notion of other people knowing our business, it’s hard to imagine that the Grand Masters don’t know about these occurrences or what triggers them. I imagine they impact the Force too strongly not to be noticed by entities of the Force.”

Genuinely upset, Anakin struggles until he manages to cross his arms defensively before him, his scowl slipping towards an expression of actual anguish as he insists, “I hate that, Obi-Wan! It’s like thinking that Bail could’ve been sensing everything we were doing, along the bond, the entire time, only worse, because we can at least shield Bail and keep other people from being able to spy on or overhear us. The Force, though . . . there’s no shielding from that. At least not anymore,” he adds, his voice suddenly very tied. “And that means that all of those blasted Force spirits and other beings made up of Force energy probably know everything we do.”

“I doubt very much if any of those entities would find us that interesting, Anakin. They’re probably all far too busy with their own concerns and with plumbing the depths of the Force to pay us any real mind at all. Besides, I’m sure there must be a way around this kind of reaction. It wasn’t like this, exactly, at first, after all, and the reaction’s not always exactly the same. That means that whatever it is that we’re doing, we just haven’t figured it out quite well enough to be able to control it, yet,” Obi-Wan replies, voice soft, soothingly, body recovered enough to allow him to touch Anakin’s face reassuringly, cradling him carefully, his thumb moving in sweeping arcs across Anakin’s left cheekbone.

Anakin leans into the touch, sighing all but soundlessly, reassured almost in spite of his himself. Determination growing with him, he nods once, in agreement (careful not to pull himself away from Obi-Wan’s hand), and promises Obi-Wan, “We will though.”

“Eventually, yes. But probably not today, love. Mon said she’d speak to us this afternoon, and you were hungry and wondering about lunch before we even came in here, remember?” Obi-Wan asks back, smiling at him gently.

“My stomach’s not growling yet. And Mon can always talk to us while we eat. We’ve still got some time. Come back over here, love. If we’re going to put on a show for the Force and everyone in it, we might as well give them an encore, right? Even if they are just ignoring us,” Anakin grins at him bravely, surprising him into a little laugh.

His first instinct is to flinch away, to refuse. But that would be an act of cowardice, and Obi-Wan is determined never to become a slave to his fears. So instead he holds himself still, eyes locked on Anakin’s, and asks, carefully, “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

With a mock sigh, Obi-Wan grumbles (his smile rather ruining the show of irritation), “The things I do for you!”

Laughing, the two tumble back together, Anakin turning his head to claim another kiss, love welling and flowing between them as if from a fount, infinite, never-ending, and unconditional, wrapping them both comfortably and comfortingly in its warmth.

*********