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When Obi-Wan Kenobi was twenty-five, he became an orphan and a father all at once. He wasn’t sure how he had survived those first few weeks after the bond snapped and was replaced with something far more golden and precious. Anakin had a habit of tugging on their mental connection in the same way he tugged on the beginnings of his braid, and it may have been the only thing that kept Obi-Wan afloat. In those days Obi-Wan was drowning because he’d failed Qui-Gon and well, it wouldn’t be long before Obi-Wan destroyed Anakin.
Bandomeer. Melida/Daan. Mandalore. Naboo. The four cornerstones of Obi-Wan Kenobi set and cemented in blood and death. He would ruin Anakin, he knew it, he didn’t deserve the boy in any way, and it would have been better if Obi-Wan had of died that day.
But in the end, it was Anakin who destroyed Obi-Wan. He cut him deep with fear and anger and a sense of wrongness. Anakin was scared and skittish, and when he wasn’t, he was silent and meek. It wasn’t how he was in the quarters, because when they were alone Anakin wouldn’t shut up: Droids, his mother, the way Qui-Gon had bought him…
It had taken Obi-Wan half a minute after Anakin revealed that Qui-Gon had bought him, and left his mother, and that yes master, we were slaves, for his mouth to close. It hadn’t been closed long. Not when Obi-Wan plucked little Anakin into his arms, carried him down the corridor to where his best-friend resided with his own Padawan, and then deposited Anakin there like an errant Tooka.
He had spent several long moments reassuring Anakin that no dearheart, you’ve done nothing wrong. Shush. Play with Aayla, I’ll be back before dinner.
That was when Obi-Wan Kenobi decided to live for his Padawan because nothing would hurt him like that again.
Then Obi-Wan had screamed at the Council. He had cursed his dead Master with creative insults and had even re-potted Qui-Gon’s favourite Aloe into a pot that Qui-Gon disliked only because it had been a gift from his own Master. In the reaches of the Force, Qui-Gon Jinn grimaced and knew that when his Padawan came to him many, many decades into the future, he’d be subjected to a Fate worse than being shishkebabed by a Sith.
Obi-Wan’s disappointment.
(Three days later, Quinlan Vos, Shadow extraordinaire, had left Obi-Wan with custody of their kids before he set off on a very important mission, which ended when Shmi Skywalker hugged her son in the middle of Dex’s safe and more importantly, Free.)
But that had been years ago. That had been when Anakin was a little barnacle, nine-years old and cuddly. Now he was fourteen and filled with teenage angst and messy, messy hormones. He was growing like a weed, an insatiable appetite that caused Obi-Wan to deposited nuts and berries and chocolate into Anakin’s hand whenever their paths crossed.
Obi-Wan had done everything he could, and even on those nights when Anakin was off sneaking with Aayla and their friends, he relaxed with a nice cup of tea and lamented the entirety of Anakin Skywalker. He loved the boy, he did, there was no doubt about that, but sometimes he was just a little bit too much, not that Obi-Wan would ever tell him that.
Then Anakin started to withdraw. He hid in his room, tinkering and barely ate. He argued with his classmates and talked back in a way that had once been endearing but was now cutting. He was moody and messy and arrogant.
Ah the joys of puberty. Such a nebulous time of conflicted confusion and angst. Anakin’s foray into the annoyance of it all was much better than Obi-Wan’s… considering Anakin wasn’t leading an army of child soldiers, or letting other children fall to their death because their crazy padawan brother (who had kidnapped him and set a bomb collar around his neck for the sheer fuckery of it all) it wasn’t too bad. No Anakin just had a penchant for illegal street racing and gods how many times had Quinlan brought him back scruffed like an errant pup?
Anakin, for his part in saving Naboo, had once been invited to a Senate luncheon, as had Obi-Wan way back when. There had been tea and pleasant conversation and questions. Then it happened again. And again. And then the invitation stopped coming for Obi-Wan, and Anakin, eleven years of age had begged to go because he felt sorry was the Chancellor of the Republic.
Come on Master, he’s an old man, he’s lonely. This way, we get out of each other’s hair for a while.
But Obi-Wan had refused. Because what man, what powerful old man would want to spend his little free time with a malleable young soul? A fucking creep, that’s who. Anakin had fought it in the beginning, of course he had, because the Chancellor had made him feel grown up and not like the child Anakin should have been, the child that Tatooine and slavery had ribbed him of no matter how hard Shmi tried to keep it alive.
Then, one day, fourteen years of age and skittish as though the shadows would devour him, Anakin appeared from his room. There was grease and oil staining his fingers, his hair finally growing out from the incident with Quinlan’s clippers and Aayla’s snapgum.
His Force signature, blinding and bright like the heart of a star was twisting in the face of phantom stellar winds. Obi-Wan, attuned to all of this over the years, placed his cup of tea on the counter after dribbling some of it into Master Qui-Gon’s favourite (and somehow remarkably still alive) plant and opened his arms.
Anakin, no longer fourteen and full of I don’t need you attitude, reverted back to being a little limpet and Obi-Wan rued the day his little weed would grow taller than him. Anakin sniffed and he buried his head into the soft gauze of Obi-Wan’s earthen robes. His words were unintelligible, broken and whispered but the shame was overwhelming. Obi-Wan closed his eyes.
“Can you repeat that, dearheart?”
“I don’t like how Chancellor Palpatine looks at me.”
“When did you last see the Chancellor, Anakin?” Obi-Wan asked gently.
“Please. Please don’t be mad at me.” Anakin was trembling against him. “He, he wanted me to go for tea. Like we did before. Except, except he was drinking some wine, and he offered me some. And I took it. Please, Obi please don’t be mad at me.”
“Shush, dear one, I’m not angry at you. But I need you to look at me, can you do tha,t Ani?” Watery blue irises blinked up at Obi-Wan when Anakin shifted ever-so-slightly. “Can you tell me what you mean by how he looks at you?”
“He looks like they did. Like he wants something.”
“When did Chancellor Palpatine begin his correspondence with you?”
Oh no, oh the negotiator has made an appearance. Anakin has never seen it before, I hope it does it does not cause Anakin concern…. Master Qui-Gon always said it was my most terrifying aspect.
“After I turned fourteen. It was just, lunches to begin with, he wanted to know about my classes, about me. It, it felt nice at the beginning, because he was treating me like an adult, ya know? But then, then he looked like them and nothing good ever came from that.” Anakin’s voice was low, burning with shame and fear. “Am I in trouble?”
“No, Ani, you’re not. You’ve done nothing wrong, and I am so proud of you for telling me that you felt uncomfortable.” Obi-Wan petted his head. “You will never have to see him again. If Sheev Palpatine or any of his associates ever try to contact you, you call for me as loud as you can and I will come, dearheart, even if I am half a Galaxy away. Do you understand?”
“I understand.” Anakin hummed; fingers fisted into the throw that was balled by Obi-Wan’s side. “Nothing will happen to him. He’s the Chancellor and well, I’m just a slave and a Jedi.”
“You are not just anything. You are Anakin Skywalker, the son of Shmi, mine own Padawan. You are the future of the Jedi and I see it every day: You are kind, you are compassionate and you are good, Anakin. So, so good.”
“And I’m free.” Anakin whispered.
“And you’re free.” Obi-Wan repeated, arms tightening.
Sheev Palpatine made a mistake. He wanted Anakin for something, and Obi-Wan’s mind had seen too many horrors to imagine anything but the worst-case scenario. His mistake was a simple one, committed by slaver scum across the Galaxy who wanted the Force’s chosen children as their pets:
If you want the Padawan, make sure the Master was dead. And unfortunately for Sheev Palpatine, Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic, Obi-Wan Kenobi was very much alive.
**
“I need to murder a man.” Obi-Wan said without hesitation as he popped open a bottle of wine.
Quinlan, who was sitting across from him, shrugged and took a swig from his own bottle. The kids were, blessedly, absent and under the unscrupulous eye of one Bant Eerin who was definitely ruining Obi-Wan and Quinlan’s reputations in their Padawan’s eyes.
“Who?”
“Sheev Palpatine.”
“Huh. Risky business assassinating a member of the Senate, let alone the fucking Chancellor, but you’ve always been an overachiever.” Quin shrugged. “We got anybody to pin it on?”
“We won’t need to pin it on anybody.” Obi-Wan snorted. “Everybody will be claiming they did it, and well, we’re good little Jedi, we do what the Senate wants when they want it done.”
“Careful, Obes, you’re sounding like Dooku.” Quinlan teased.
“Maybe he was right.” Obi-Wan replied sullenly. “Do you think he’d send me Cassia tea? I do miss it.”
“Sure, if you can deal with Yoda’s twitchy ears that Dooku responded to you and not him.” Another drink and Obi-Wan had grabbed his datapad, messaging a man he had never met for tea. “Are we actually killing the Chancellor?”
“Well, I am.”
“Well I’m sure as shit not going to let you do it alone.” Quinlan snorted. “What did he do?”
And so Obi-Wan told him, told him his plan as well for good measure. Quinlan would understand. Quinlan always understood. Theirs was a bond so rarely seen in the past few centuries. Nothing at all like the fabled Dyad, but something built upon an unwavering trust and loyalty, where their kybers sang in complimentary tunes.
“Give me two weeks.”
“The Jedi have been invited to the five-year anniversary of the Naboo invasion: The Council will be going of course, but Palpatine has invited both Anakin and myself. I will be going, Anakin will unfortunately come down with the flu and Master Plo, immune, will be taking care of him.”
Master Plo, had of course, readily agreed. He wasn’t too fond of the Senate outings he was forced to endure as a member of the Council, and he did so adore Anakin, as did his Searched, a Togruta named Ahsoka Tano. He would Plonap the youngling and the padawan, and probably several others as he usually did.
If anybody was ever missing, the first port of call was usually Plo Koon who liked to shuffle them about in his robes.
“Killing him in front of the entire Senate is ballsey.” Quinlan hummed. “I approve. No offence, by nobody would suspect the Jedi, least of all you. But like Master Tholme says, ‘it’s always the quiet ones.’”
“If we’re caught, well, take the kids and run?”
“We won’t be caught, but yes. Take the kids and run to you rich as fuck grandfather who definitely didn’t murder his brother to become the Count of Serreno.”
“Qui-Gon always said I reminded him a bit too much of Dooku.” Obi-Wan mused.
(A very see-though and blue Qui-Gon Jinn shook his head, one hand on his hip as he stared down at his Padawan and his datapad with both fondness and incredulity. If he had of been there, a very nice, very murderous plant would have been delivered to the Chancellor and it would have strangled the life out of him. Another part of him was wondering if he could get some popcorn for the shit that was about to go down.)
**
“Oh dear, Master Kenobi.” Sheev greeted with a sombre smile, taking Obi-Wan’s hand in his. “I wasn’t sure you’d come. I cannot imagine how trying a day this must be for you.”
“My Master gave his life in service to the Force and the Republic, there is no better death than that, Chancellor.” Obi-Wan replied softly.
“Of course, of course.” The old man craned his neck, which was an impressive feat considering how thin it was and how large his forehead was. “I did not notice Anakin arrive. Is the boy well?”
“A touch of the flu.” Obi-Wan explained.
“A pity. Well, please excuse me, Master Jedi.”
Obi-Wan’s lips thinned as he removed his hand. He tightened it within the flowing sleeves of his robe and used the Force to remove the leftover resin strip. It wouldn’t so much to him, not with his constitution and the Force, but it would work. Especially with the glass of glittering, silver wine Palpatine was drinking. That wouldn’t be what killed him, no, it was simply a prelude to the main event. Obi-Wan watched over the course of the evening as it happened, as Palpatine became disorientated, his grating laughter loud and obnoxious. To most, he simply appeared drunk, nothing amiss.
The Jedi were not officially on guard duty, but well, they were never truly off duty either. They couldn’t very well let somebody assassinate the Chancellor on their watch, though Obi-Wan would find it humorous if somebody did try to kill the old man.
The opportunity for the actual murder presented itself much later into the evening. Palpatine was drunk, evidence by the way he was trying to dance with one of his aides who had no choice but to agree. Palpatine, however, spun much too quickly, and it was dear old Obi-Wan Kenobi who caught him. Who righted him.
Who drugged him.
Who killed him.
The mark would be innocuous, a fine-tipped, trinium thing hardly thicker than a hair. It would leave no mark. The drug, a concentrated form of liquid imperius, a concoction that caused mind-numbing euphoria and suggestibility, something used by the cartels to control informants and the like, was not a death sentence by itself.
But mixed with the resin of a plant long dead, cultivated only in the blood-soaked sands of a cursed planet laden with tombs, well, death was assured. The tests had proved it. Palpatine’s heart would essentially burst in his chest, would blacken like the disease he was.
The perfect crime. After all, Obi-Wan had no motive, and while witnesses were abound, none would suspect a Jedi, let alone one like Obi-Wan.
Now Obi-Wan only had to wait. Palpatine would be dead soon, would keel over with the symptoms of a heart attack, and with the way the man over-indulged before them, the crowd would believe his own gluttony had caught up with him. He was, after all, a politician, and they did a great many illegal things.
“Padawan of my Padawan.” A deep voice called, breaking Obi-Wan’s musings.
“Master of my Master.” Obi-Wan replied with a dip of his head. “Hiding from Master Yoda?”
“He tried to bite me in the corridor.” Count Dooku huffed. “At least he does not have that wretched stick of his.”
“Master Yaddle made him leave it behind.” Obi-Wan explained, tone pensive as he looked out to the crowds. “I do wonder why the Count of Serrano would come to a gathering such as this. Last I heard you were dissatisfied with democracy.”
“Not democracy.” Dooku hummed, taking a sip of amber alcohol.
“And the Jedi.” Obi-Wan levelled him with a flat glare. “Why are you here?”
“Perhaps for the same reason you are.” Dooku replied lightly. “I brought tea.”
Are you here to kill him too? Why would you kill him? Unless... no. No you are not so bold, you, master of my master, are slow and creeping, like the strangling vines Qui-Gon so admired.
“You received my message then.”
“Of course I did.” Amusement coloured the old Count’s tone and suddenly Obi-Wan felt very uncomfortable, something which abated when Palpatine started swaying and singing. “You should be more careful, Obi-Wan, I thought you young ones were much better with technology.”
“Pardon?”
“The past has the answer as it so often does.” Dooku reminded.
And then his Grandmaster was gone in a flourish of ebony and crimson. Then Sheev Palpatine was tugging the collar of his garish robes, his eyes darting about. A thin sheen of sweat was pearlescent beneath the light. He staggered, clutching his chest. The guests screamed. Mace and Yoda were running forward.
But Obi-Wan only crossed to the room to where Padme Amidala, Queen of Naboo, was surrounded by her bodyguards. Her face was set in resolute horror has she watched her mentor die, and the fear that was there eased when she saw Obi-Wan.
The perfect witness.
“Come, your Highness, we must get you to safety.”
If the Chancellor was targeted at a memorial for the Invasion of Naboo, if he were killed at it, the only reasonable assumption to be had was that the attending Queen of Naboo would also be in danger. Obi-Wan led them out, following Captain Typho, his hand rested on his lightsaber.
No other threats would come, he knew. It did not matter that Palpatine was still writhing on the floor in agony as death rattled around in the Force. It was never about his suffering; it was never about his pain. It was never about power. It was about his death.
It was about love, unconditional and pure.
Days later, an investigation was opened into Chancellor Palpatine’s murder, and such an ugly word that, but Obi-Wan had nothing to do with it beyond giving a witness statement. He had been applauded for his quick thinking in removing another possible target and nobody suspected a thing. It was then that Obi-Wan finally heeded his grandmaster’s warning and looked at his datapad…
One outgoing call.
Fuck.
Obi-Wan wondered, alone and secure as he mediated, if that was how it started. If what he had done was the beginning of the Fall, if he would turn into a creature twisted by the Darkness like the Zabrak that killed his Master, or Xanatos. He wondered if he would infect Anakin, and Aayla, and Quinlan.
But the Force simply crooned, light and silken and that was that.
Then the doors to Obi-Wan’s quarters opened, and he expected to find Anakin, who upon hearing the news, had held onto Obi-Wan and though he did not say it, he knew, but he was mistaken. Dark bushy brows were raised, and there was a glimmer of longing when dark eyes found Qui-Gon’s favourite plant forever on the table.
“We have much to discuss, Padawan of my Padawan.” Count Dooku said with a smile.