Back for the trope mash-up I did a royal au/flirting under fire, which was a lot of fun. I got a bit stuck with the private eye au (apparently writing a nod to the noir genre requires you to write a mystery who knew), and so I thought I’d play with this idea a bit. As always I have no idea where this is going.
This was how Obi-Wan remembered Satine, always: armor scorched and battered, family crest nigh unrecognizable from a blaster bolt that nearly took her heart, her head held high and her chin set in that stubborn, fighter’s jut as she strode across what remained of the final battle, silence ringing hollow in her footsteps as she came before the clan heads, her dark skin smeared with blood and ash and dust.
“No more killing,” she said, pale hair lying tangled about her face. “No more dying. Now we live, for Mandalore.”
“For Mandalore,” the clan heads echoed, fists clenched over their hearts as they gave the loyalty to Satine Kryze, the Duchess of Mandalore.
A retelling of Finn and Rey’s Epic Reunion Hug™. Written for @finnreyfridays:
*
Rey hears fear resonating through the Force as soon as the Millennium Falcon enters Crait’s atmo. She reaches out and follows the threads of fear, telling Chewie where to go, until they see the source of the conflict: a battle, raging in front of a giant steel door.
On one side, Rey can feel the hatred and vitriol of Kylo Ren, and on the other – just beyond that door – the fear of a group of people who are trapped.
For a panicked moment, Rey doesn’t know what to do. Then she hears Finn’s voice in her head, cutting through the static.
Rey? Is that you? Are you really here?
I’m here, Rey sends, her heart leaping at the sound of Finn’s voice.
Jango sighs, the sound of the ship landing on one of Kamino’s landing pads had been audible even through the pouring rain and seeing the way the Kaminoans were scurrying about—well, as much as tall ass aliens that look like white seaweed with faces could scurry—he figures that things are gonna be coming to a head soon enough. Seems like his little holiday is about to come to an abrupt, Jedi-induced end.
He smirks suddenly. Might as well go say hello to the guy at least.
Seeing this Kenobi – really does the universe hate him? He knows who this guy is the grand-padawan of gods be damned—with that mane of hair and sharp chips of blue eyes had been a surprise. The polite and frankly viciously cool voice had been entertaining.
This one was definitely a firecracker. A pretty tough one too. All heart. Jango could respect that.
Out on the landing strip, Boba in his ship while Jango works to distract the Jedi, he kinda wants to curse himself for finding the damned fucker so entertaining even as he refuses to just. Give. Up!
Honestly, some Jedi are very inconsiderate to the work of bounty hunters.
Later, as Jango literally goes flying across the fucking pad after an annoyingly well-timed force push from the Jedi he thinks this is pretty much the icing on the proverbial ‘fuck you’ cake from the galaxy at large. The fact that the bastard actually fucking laughs—laughs with a loud boom and a giant grin and sparkling eyes even as he’s sopping fucking wet in the rain of Kamino—is just additional sprinkles of an additional ‘fuck you’ variety on said cake.
What makes it worse though, a true act of karma by the galaxy is Jango’s instinctive response to hearing—to seeing—that Jedi laughing at his ungraceful flying act.
He’s adorable. Fuck.
Jango honestly hates everything right now. Absolutely everything.
Especially the totally-not-adorable Jedi left hanging off the landing pad as he and Boba escape.
OH MY GOD OK, I have a LOT of feelings about Obi-Wan and Baby Luke on that initial trip to Tatooine. Like…how long did it take? Did they have to take the equivalent of Space Bus transportation so as not to arouse suspicion? How the hell did Obi-Wan hold it together?
This combined with the above is killing me. Poor Broken Obi-Wan and teeny newborn Luke. They are all the other has right now, and Obi-Wan knows next to nothing about newborns (even if he has met tiny kids at the Temple before, they’re not day-old babies which are a WHOLE different world.)
And Luke is SUPER hungry and he hasn’t been sleeping and he’s really, really, fussy. And Obi-Wan is exhausted and traumatized, and worried all this crying is going to attract attention. And then Obi-Wan notices some mother on the Space Bus sing-songily calming her baby and he’s like…well, maybe I can try that. I’ve heard people singing before on various planets. He knows some traditional Mandalorian songs, maybe.
And so he tries it. And he sounds like Obi-Wan McGregor. And Baby Luke is like 😲 followed by 😴.
Luke always likes hearing people sing after that. He’s not entirely sure why, but it’s always been soothing.
You know he’s going to bond with baby Luke, and he’s going to try not to notice that Luke has Anakin’s eyes and the two of them are going to fall asleep on the space bus together because Obi-Wan is JUST SO TIRED he hasn’t slept in days and and and someone STOP ME.
Ok, so I haven’t tried to write fic in nearly a decade, but I have Luke and Obi FEELS now, so apologies for the poor quality. Blame @forcearama
~~~~
The transport Bail arranged is a far cry from the military transports he is used to, but it is no less crowded. Obi-Wan braces against the bulkhead as yet another refugee pushes past him, attention focused upon the growing food line rather than the bedraggled figure hunched over his precious cargo. He only needs to endure this a few more days. That’s all. A few more days and they’ll be on Tatooine, and he can pass the boy (Luke, his name is Luke. His eyes are blue.) over to his new guardians and Obi-Wan will… He doesn’t know what he’ll do. He’s tired, he’s hurting, and the only thing that keeps him going is the knowledge that he has to keep the child, their last hope, safe (You failed, sings the voice in his head. Qui-Gon. Ahsoka. Satine. Padme. Anakin. You will fail this one too).
Involuntarily he clutches Luke closer. He knows it is for the best, that Luke needs a stable home, that it’s not safe, but the thought of giving up this last fragile piece of those he loved (loves, even now, even after everything is shattered. Loves) makes his heart ache. The sudden movement wakes the baby, and Obi-Wan grimaces as tiny features screw up in in the familiar expression of a Skywalker about to express his displeasure to the universe at large.
“Shh, easy there Little One. Nothing to worry about. Shh. Go back to sleep.” He coos, holding Luke against his chest and gently rocking them back and forth. Luke is not impressed. Of course. Obi-Wan sighs as the small whimpers begin to get louder.
“No, no. Shhh. No need to cry. Here, I’m right here. Shh.” The whimpers turn into wailing. A quick feel assures him that a change is not necessary, and a careful brush against the infant mind shows no sign of hunger. Sithspit. He rocks quicker and quicker, frantically trying to remember everything he knows about caring for young children. It isn’t much. As a Padawan he spent little time on creche duty, and Anakin (Brother. Child. Trait… Anakin) was well past the early stages of development when he became his charge. He hums as he thinks, and for a moment Luke’s crying eases.
Wait. He looks down at the baby. Luke looks back, mouth open mid cry. A memory arises, on Ryloth, a mother comforting her child by singing a song… Oh what was it? A lullaby of some sort. Obi-Wan cannot for the life of him recall how it went. No matter. If singing is what it will take to give Luke comfort then Obi-Wan will do what he can, however inadequate it may be ( there is little he would not do for this child).
He starts with a song he vaguely remembered from an early mission with his master, it’s soft melancholic air bringing back the memory of a peaceful village and a large hand ruffling his hair. In his arms Luke is peaceful. He gets halfway through the third verse before recalling that the song references the killing of children at the behest of a historic tyrant ( a flash of light, small forms discarded on the ground, the temple in flames, why? why? WHY?) and he abruptly switches to one of the jaunty tunes that he used to hear coming from the barracks during happier times. Waxer had always prided himself on being up to date on the latest songs, much to Book’s annoyance, and Cody would mutter about keeping up morale but Rex swore he’d heard him singing along to “Let go my Lekku” while in the fresher. The upbeat melodies don’t seem to disturb Luke, whose attention remains focused on the rise an fall of his voice, so Obi-Wan keeps going, running through his limited repertoire of drinking songs ( he ignores the slight pang as he trips over “Kayfoundo Naweea”, an old Tatooine standard).
A muffled laugh comes from the side and Obi-Wan looks up from his reverie to see that he appears to have attracted a small audience. The Rodian couple sitting across from him are listening intently, their Twileki companion smirking slightly and… Oh. Yes. Those lyrics probably aren’t exactly appropriate for children. His voice falters, but his listeners eagerly gesture for him to go on. Well. He’s not singing for them anyway. He’s doing this for Luke… Who is currently prodding the force as if trying to discover why his entertainment has stopped.
With a smile Obi-Wan continues on. He runs through “The Ballad of Nomi Sunrider” and into a credible rendition of “Stark Memory”. He starts on “All Stars Burn As One” but the Republic anthem’s familiar lyrics taste like ash in his mouth. A cheeky Gungan counting song distracts him, but soon his memory starts to fail. Luke is still attentive, but he can feel the infant tiring. One last song then. A special one, from a time before everything began to fall apart. He’d first heard the old Mandalorian ballad during that first frantic mission protecting Satine. He’d wondered at its bittersweet tone, and asked her about it as they huddled together in their hiding place for the night. She’d smiled, looking him deep in the eye, and told him the tale of the youth who journeyed far and wide seeking wisdom, whose greatest lesson was simply the importance of love. And oh how he understands it now. For all that it has hurt him ( for all that it may have doomed the galaxy) Obi-Wan cannot regret his love, only that he could not find a way to show it.
He starts the song with feeling, forgetting the strangers who surround him, forgetting the uncertain future that awaits them and focusing only on the boy cradled in his arms. He pours his heart into the music, all the hope and wonder he feels looking into that small face flowing into the Force and wrapping around them like a cocoon. Here and now there is only Luke. And Luke is loved. Whatever happens, Luke will know he is loved.
The song ends, and Luke is sleeping happily, surrounded by an aura of warmth. Obi-Wan is exhausted, but more content than he has been in what feels like a millenia. As such, it takes him a moment to register the unnatural silence. His performance has not gone unnoticed, and what seems like every face in the room is turned towards him, more than a few brimming with unsure tears. A few people move as if to start applauding, only to stop at his pointed look towards the baby he carries. Embarrassed, Obi-Wan searches for a place to retreat only to find himself shuffled into a corner, the Twilek from before handing him a blanket while her friends shoo away the onlookers. “A good performance! Now rest. You will need all your energy when your son wakes up.” Obi-Wan is startled, but the weariness is growing stronger, and all he can think to say is “My nephew. He’s my nephew.” “Ah, and a lucky boy he is to have such an uncle. Rest. No-one here will harm you. Not after that show!” It seems reasonable. And he so tired. At last, holding hope in his hands, Obi-Wan Kenobi sits down, and allows sleep to claim him.
~~~~ Named songs courtesy of Wookieepedia, other references are Coventry Carol and Nature Boy. For some reason they got stuck in my head while writing this so in they went.
Sometimes I just get the itch to reblog this, because IT IS STILL A FAVORITE OF MINE AND KILLS ME EVERY TIME.
So in my choice to do
my introduction the way I did I immediately fucked my pacing. However I liked
my dumb introduction too much to redo it. And thus it has a scene-cut. Also I
don’t think it could have great pacing without being a summary fic (which I try
and avoid doing) or having like ~4000 more words. So not that mad
Forever and a day ago, I took a few angsty, QuiObi dialogue prompts (too lazy to find the post), then my work schedule went bananas, and they got moved to the back-burner. But here’s one! For @meggory84: “I didn’t mean to love you this much,” with specific instructions to Bring the Pain. Standard disclaimers: not beta’d or super heavily proofread.
…But we all know what flower petals mean!!
It takes six weeks for Obi-Wan to remember he’d actually seen it. Somewhere between killing the Sith, the smell of burnt flesh and ozone, and curling himself around Qui-Gon Jinn’s mostly dead body on the floor of Theed’s power generator. He’d seen and registered one inky-blue petal crushed beneath his knee, thought vaguely what a strange thing that was, and then forgotten it completely as the medics descended on them.
It wasn’t his fault he didn’t know what it meant at the time. Couldn’t have known.
After Naboo, Obi-Wan spends two weeks at his comatose master’s bedside, a persistent irritation at the back of his throat, before he’s deployed on his first solo mission; it takes four weeks for a councilwoman on Setti-IV to overhear his stifled coughing fit, look at him with sad eyes and say, bafflingly, It’s a noble death, Knight Kenobi; five weeks when he thinks he’s choking on a piece of muja, only to spit back up a mass of blue petals onto his breakfast plate. Five weeks and three hours when he’s taken off active field duty, indefinitely, and admitted to the Halls of Healing, also indefinitely.
Hanahaki. Hanahaki.
“It’s Qui-Gon,” Obi-Wan tells Vokara, voice flat, hands folded primly in his lap where he’s seated on the exam table. Her composure wavers the moment it takes for the implications of that to set in, and he sees her swallow. “Quite,” he agrees with a faint, wry smile.
Obi-Wan’s affliction seems to know it’s been acknowledged, and progresses rapidly after that. His cough grows wetter, the clumps of petals thicker, bigger, his throat perpetually raw from his reflexive swallowing against it all.
Qui-Gon’s condition stays the same.
At six weeks, Obi-Wan collects his growing pile of crumpled flower petals and leaves his med room for Qui-Gon’s. He settles into the visitor’s chair with an extra blanket, a mug of hot frostmint tea meant to soothe the pain, and pulls up the Archive’s botanical database on his reader. “Asmeru Indigo Laceleaf,”he reads aloud, then gets to the next sentence down and barks out a laugh with a sharp, almost manic edge to it. “With—thorns?” he huffs, eyes beginning to sting, throat tightening in some automatic, defensive response to the idea of that. “Honestly, Qui-Gon, that’s rather much, even for you.”
Hanahaki is an excruciating death, thorns or no. It’s a slow-motion suffocation that will shred his lung tissue and throat and leave him choking on his own love and blood. Unless…
Unless.
Bant begs him to get it removed. Have the affliction surgically cut out of him. And along with it, every mote of joy, of love and pride and adoration he’s ever felt—or would feel—for Qui-Gon Jinn. The number of patients who lose their ability to feel anything at all, for the rest of their lives, is small but statistically significant. Empty people with empty eyes living empty lives.
No. That won’t do, he decides. Obi-Wan had fought too long and hard for all those pieces of Qui-Gon Jinn, just to have them cut right back out of him. He says as much, and it almost does the disease’s work for it, to sit there and watch her cry and beg for him to spare his life from himself.
I’ll be dead either way. Don’t you understand that?
Bant doesn’t. He tries comfort her, but only makes it worse when he smiles and doesn’t realize he has blood in his teeth.
Master Windu is a surprise, though.
It’s a privilege afforded to few of us, to die on our own terms, and for those whom we love most. You won’t be alone with this, Knight Kenobi.
It’s a gross lapse of decorum for Obi-Wan to stare the way he does, slack-jawed in the face of Mace’s quiet understanding and lack of judgment. The moment really goes to pot after that, though, when Obi-Wan cracks and devolves into uncontrollable, ugly sobbing—into hoarse coughing spasms—into vomiting globs of slimy, bloody laceleaf petals all over the Council member’s sleeve.
At four months in, Obi-Wan can feel the leaceleaf’s stems every waking minute, lodged in his ribcage and creeping up his throat like spindly fingers—the terror of that keeps him awake at night, makes him want to claw his chest open and crawl out of his own skin. He can bear it during the daylight and with enough distraction, but with the darkness and silence of night, he can’t escape it. Obi-Wan endures this alone until one of the healers finds him screaming his horror and panic at what he’s becoming into the pillow, shaking hard enough to rattle the bed frame. It’s the first night they sedate him.
Vokara chides Obi-Wan gently, advances her prognosis by two months, and moves him into Qui-Gon’s room. Permanently.
“Hello there,” Obi-Wan whispers into Qui-Gon’s ear one night, curled fetal under the thin blanket with him, his own bed empty and cold. “I love you. I’m in love with you. Please wake up, so I can tell you.” Unspoken, don’t leave me to die like this. Please wake up—please wake up.
Qui-Gon doesn’t.
At six months, the medical staff just push their beds together. It’s the least they can do—Obi-Wan’s a palliative patient now. He can’t sit up anymore; any movement could be the one that tears his lungs open. He hasn’t been able to eat solids for weeks, he’s lost any weight he could spare and is still losing it, and his breath bubbles in his mouth, popping and gurgling around petals that taste like iron. He rolls his head to the side and spits them up into a bucket next to his bed. A healer empties it twice a day. Obi-Wan stains his pillow pink when he wipes his cheek against it. He doesn’t talk much anymore, but he never lets go of Qui-Gon’s hand.
Seven months. Vokara’s got Obi-Wan on intravenous drips for saline, nutrients, mild sedatives, antibiotics. She’d settled for a nasal cannula after the full oxygen mask had just filled with gore and blood spatter to quickly to keep it clean. Once they finally, collectively accept that Obi-Wan won’t budge in his decision, the Healers rally around him, unified in their vow to give him the softest death they can.
Eight months, and it’s near now. Obi-Wan can feel it beyond just the physical. He shifts over in bed to close the space between his body and Qui-Gon’s, and gently arranges Qui-Gon’s limp arms around himself into the mimicry of a lover’s embrace; his head is tucked into his Master’s shoulder, Qui-Gon’s right arm pulled to rest over Obi-Wan’s waist. The irony isn’t lost on Obi-Wan, that he should want to die in Qui-Gon’s arms when he’d refused to let Qui-Gon die in his.
Speaking hurts, he stopped bothering a long time ago, but Obi-Wan thinks this is the sort of thing that should be said out loud. Blood speckles the sheets, smears down his chin when he does. “’m so sorry, Master,” he rasps, threading his fingers through Qui-Gon’s long hair. He strokes his thumb back and forth over one stark cheekbone, his expression soft with adoration, regret, and grief. Maybe even acceptance.
I didn’t mean to love you this much. You weren’t meant to be loved like this. Never like this.
He lets himself drift in Qui-Gon’s muted, still presence, shuts his eyes. Thinks this might be the day he’s too tired to open them again.
Obi-Wan.
Obi-Wan.
“Obi-Wan.”
THANK YOU THIS IS HORRIBLY DELIGHTFUL AND I’M SOBBING
So I’m not doing nano this year but my writing group’s doing weekly prompt challenges so here’s mine for the first one. Obikin. 1500 words. SW/Buffy (kinda) fusion AU.
Prompt: “Do you guys hear the demonic frat-chanting outside too?”
The blackout curtains are drawn in their bedroom, as usual, but Anakin doesn’t need to see the sky to know that it’s starting to lighten with the coming dawn by the time Obi-Wan climbs into bed next to him.
He groans, because this means he literally hasn’t slept at all tonight. Outside, the cause of his sleeplessness drones on: a group of drunk frat boys chanting in Latin.
“You’re still awake?” Obi-Wan asks, voice hushed.
Anakin barely waits for him to settle in before he turns over and drapes his arm across his chest and buries his nose in the crook of his shoulder. Obi-Wan’s perpetually colder body temperature doesn’t even phase him any more. “Yes, I am,” he moans pitifully and pouts against Obi-Wan’s skin. “Don’t you hear the demonic frat-chanting outside too?”
eddie starts doing his gonzo woke journalism thing again, but like, he and venom are also systematically working their way through eating millionaires, wall street bankers and politicians.
by day: earnest interview with protesters and heads of movements
by night: just straight up swallow a dude whole in his penthouse and then get fucked by venom on the plush bed nearby
im a movie genius
To scratch those particular itches, may I recommend the following fics:
Muckraker! by Orphan – case fic that follows an Eat the Rich plot, no actual smut but the plot and the social commentary and the understated romance is so good you don’t really miss it, also some very nice hurt/comfort thrown in for free
How to take care of your human and Understanding your Symbiote by Darke_Eco_Freak – I think the people that get eaten are a mob boss and a human trafficker but the cannibalism scenes are fantastically written and it’s very much date night for them including getting sloshed on the expensive booze their victims have lying around
Rousseau is Right by Skull_Bearer – a series of which I’ve admittedly only read the first work so far but that one was a lot of fun for just about 1000 words, so the rest can only get even better
Muckraker by Orphan is *bananas* it’s exactly what I want in a Venom fix and so beautifully written! Rex fucking seconded!
wrennette 