Chapter Text
Obi-Wan gasped desperately for air as he pushed past the foliage of the forest surrounding them. The sound of his heart thundering in his chest mixed with the sounds of his and his Master’s footsteps, echoing in his ears like some morbid drum beat, making it hard to hear how close their pursuers were; not helped by the beskar’gam they wore hiding their Force signatures. Slowing slightly, Obi-Wan listened to hear the sounds of jetpacks fading into the distance. That didn’t stop him from putting on one last burst of speed and stumbling into a small clearing behind his Master. Collapsing over with his hands on his knees, Obi-Wan felt the fire burning in his lungs finally dimming out and he spoke,
“I think we lost them, Master.” Obi-Wan winced at how his voice shook as he took deep steadying breaths.
“Yes,” was all Qui-Gon said in response, turning his attention away to observe the area around them. It was relatively clear with the exception of some small shrubbery scattered about. Trees encircled the clearing and a ways away, the ground sloped off into a shallow ravine that Obi-Wan suspected flowed heavily with runoff water during rainstorms. Looking back towards Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan berated himself as he still found himself breathing rather heavily while the older man was nothing if not the picturesque ideal of a calm Jedi Master.
“Satine will be at the rendezvous point soon, we should probably get moving,” Obi-Wan recommended, straightening up once more.
“Satine.” Qui-Gon echoed, a distant coldness seeping into his voice all the while still not looking at Obi-Wan.
“Yes... the dutchess?” Obi-Wan didn’t bother hiding the confusion in his voice. Qui-Gon snorted before turning to finally look at Obi-Wan with narrowed eyes. “Master?”
“You harbor feelings for her.” Qui-Gon stated matter of factly.
“No,” Obi-Wan answered honestly, if anything he found the dutchess rather abrasive, though she’d become more bearable the longer they were on the run.
“You’re destined to fall. I have seen it in you.” Something heavy settled in Obi-Wan’s stomach at Qui-Gon’s words.
“No! I won’t Master, I promise. Please,” believe me, hung unsaid in the air as Obi-Wan quickly let go of the fear wrapping around him. His biggest fear since the beginning of his apprenticeship had been repudiation, he’d thought he’d finally done it two years ago on Bandomeer. If it hadn’t been for Master Yoda, Obi-Wan doubted Qui-Gon would’ve even spared him a second thought. Ever since he’d been brought back to the temple their relationship had been far from smooth and his Master’s ire had never been hidden from him.
At first, it had manifested itself in short tones and clipped words before making itself more physically known. A cuff on the back of the head here when he didn’t perform quite as well as his Master had hoped, and a harsh warning of soon-to-be missed meals when Obi-Wan’s test scores didn’t meet Qui-Gon's high standards.
“Obi-Wan.” It was not meant as a statement of name, but rather a commandment that froze the padawan’s heart. “You have failed my teachings and will fail not only your trials but your oaths to the Order.” Obi-Wan could only shake his head silently, fighting back the tears that pressured behind his eyes. Qui-Gon pulled something from beneath his cloak and began to examine it in his hand.
“Tell me, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon was finally looking at the boy again, “which is better?” The force pulsed warningly around Obi-Wan, “to die a Jedi, or live and be killed as a Sith?” Obi-Wan looked at the item in his Master’s hands, stumbling back half a step more when he recognized it to be a vibroblade, its edges glinting dangerously in the low lighting of the forest canopy.
The tension in the force built.
And built.
Until it snapped.
Run.
Obi-Wan felt his feet slip on the fallen leaves that covered the forest floor as he ran. His lungs ached in protest at being forced to breathe heavily again. Qui-Gon was faster. He was more trained than Obi-Wan and had better endurance than the padawan, Obi-Wan realized as he cut between trees in a desperate bid to escape. Something caught his foot and before Obi-Wan could comprehend what was happening he found himself face first in dirt and half decomposed leaves. Clawing at the ground Obi-Wan tried to push himself back up but it was too late. Something grabbed him from behind and threw him over as if he weighed nothing more than a rag doll. Obi-Wan pulled at Qui-Gon’s robes and kicked out his legs trying to get loose from his Master’s strong grip all the while fighting to keep the knife away from him. Freeing one of his hands, Obi-Wan reached down to his belt for his saber only to find to his dismay that it wasn’t there. It must’ve fallen from his belt when he tripped.
Obi-Wan reached for the force to aid him but the fear pulsing through him made the force feel slippery and hard to latch onto. Using all his strength, Obi-Wan moved to reach for the force once again but was stopped by a punch to his chest that stole his breath, it was only when Obi-Wan managed to clumsily gasp again he registered something warm spilling across his chest. Qui-Gon moved again and the pain returned stronger, and someone was crying out. The fog in Obi-Wan’s head finally cleared and reality came crashing in. Qui-Gon, his mentor, his Master, for all intents and purposes the only father he’d ever known, was stabbing him. Obi-Wan realized he was the one who was yelling. Squeezing his eyes shut against the pain and clawing desperately at his Master’s sleeves, Obi-Wan gasped as the pain ripped through him again and again, choking as a coppery liquid filled his mouth. Blood, something said in the back of his mind.
It was over as soon as it began and Obi-Wan found himself laying back in the dirt, tears and something thicker trailing down his face. Sputtering pathetically, Obi-Wan stared pleadingly up at his Master’s blurred form above him. Qui-Gon disappeared altogether from his line of sight and Obi-Wan could feel the man stripping him of his no doubt bloodied cloak.
His neck and chest felt sticky, and Obi-Wan hated it. It hurt. Everywhere. Obi-Wan’s ankle twinged in pain, he must’ve sprained it when he fell. Funny, he thought, how when one was literally bleeding out on the ground after being stabbed multiple times in the chest, it was his ankle that had caught his attention. Until his body grew tired of the shallow fast breaths he was taking and forced him to heave in a deeper breath, lighting up his chest with pain once again.
Qui-Gon reappeared in Obi-Wan’s vision once again before the padawan felt a swift kick hit his side, sending him rolling over and down. It was then he remembered the ravine. He had run for it in hope of using the force to jump across and put distance between himself and his master. Obi-Wan grunted as he tumbled down, finally coming to a halt on his front. Weakly, he fought to pick himself up, but the movement only served to anger his wounds more. A defeated noise escaped him as he collapsed back onto the ground, coughing weakly.
The hours passed like minutes and the minutes like hours as he lay shivering on the ground. The sun would be going down soon and the night setting in. Obi-Wan didn’t care much. He’d closed his eyes already a while ago, despite knowing if he did so he might not have the strength to open them again. He could feel whatever little grasp he’d had on the living force pulling away from him. Breathing was becoming harder and every breath felt like breathing through a wet sponge. His chest had dulled down to only a slight ache with every breath. Obi-Wan didn’t want to die, but he took comfort in knowing it would all be over soon and he’d finally be one with the force.
The sound of voices reached his ears and vaguely Obi-Wan wondered if he might be imagining things. Until he heard the sound of jet packs descending down into where he lay. Death Watch must’ve finally caught up with him. Perhaps, if they were kind, they would simply put the abandoned padawan out of his misery. If not, well Obi-Wan knew he wouldn’t last too long in his current condition if they decided to torture him.
He could hear footsteps hurrying closer before someone took hold of his shoulders and turned him over.
“Alor! Kaysh’s oyayc! He’s breathing!”
Obi-Wan groaned as the movement reawakened the pain in his chest. He could sense someone dropping to the ground above him.
“Osik!”
Obi-Wan felt someone gently lift his head and settle it into their lap. Obi-Wan found himself grateful at the new position, despite the pain settling itself back into his chest, it was far easier to breathe like this. The people were talking above him once again, Obi-Wan only able to pick up a word or two of their Mando'a. There was some shuffling before a firm pressure was applied to his chest and the pain returned in full force. He didn't realize he was crying again until he felt something wipe at his face.
Sensing his previous assumption that it was Death Watch who had found him might be wrong, Obi-Wan forced his eyes open to try and see just who was above him. Obi-Wan despaired at only being able to see blurred outlines, but the hands on his face moved up into his hair and, oh. Oh, that felt nice. Whoever was above him was running their fingers through his hair soothingly, as if to distract him from the pain. Obi-Wan keened when he was shifted again and something tightened around his chest. There was more movement before something warm and heavy settled over him. He cried out again when he was lifted from the ground and into somebody's arms but soon found his drowsiness returning and settled into the blanket wrapped around him, resting his head on their armor.
"Stay awake for me, Adika." Obi-Wan heard someone saying, but it hurt so bad and he just wanted to go to sleep. Unable to fight it any longer, Obi-Wan surrendered to the irresistible pull of sleep.
----
Jaster sighed as the coms message ended and the figure cast in blue light in front of him disappeared, surveying the area around them through his HUD. He and his squadron had been tracking Kyr’tsad activity through the area for some time. Someone had certainly been in the clearing at some point, as was evident from the fresh scuff marks in the soil.
“Alor!” One of the commandos caught his attention. “Look,” Jaster stepped over to where the man was pointing towards the ground. The forest floor had been disturbed greatly as if a struggle of sorts had taken place, and- “Blood?” Jaster knelt down to examine the ground.
“Elek.” He confirmed. “Zephra!” Jaster called out and waved over the chief baar’ur on the mission.
“A struggle of some sort?” Zephra’s voice came through the sound piece in his helmet. “Kyr’tsad?”
“Perhaps.” Jaster breathed as he stood once more. It was very likely Kyr’tsad, but something felt off and far too easy about the explanation. Something had been pulling him to this place all day, and it wasn’t his finessed tracking skills. He began moving around, searching for something. Turning back to the disturbed patch of land, Jaster stopped. There, how had he missed it? Invisible to an untrained eye, but there clear as day to a trained tracker like Jaster, next to the scattered leaves and dirt was a scuff mark.
Dropping back down, he traced his fingers lightly over the scar in the dirt. It had been made by a sturdy heeled shoe of some sort. Standing back up, he began to try and piece what he was looking at together. Blood, a disturbed patch of dirt and leaves, and a scuff mark. The small size of the mark implied that it was not a slip and the starkness of it revealed the force behind it. Whoever had made it had done it intentionally. As if they were kicking something low to the ground. No, not something, someone. Someone had been bleeding and another person had kicked them. Turning on his heel, Jaster spun around to peer at the small ravine behind him.
“Alor!” Zephra had seen it too. There lying listlessly in the dirt was a figure. The sound of a jet pack firing up disturbed Jaster from his trance and he quickly followed after Zephra, the leaves under his boots crunching as he landed.
“Alor, he’s alive! He’s breathing!” The medic had dropped down onto her knees by the body, Jaster quickly following suit and kneeling down by their head. Manda, he would remember thinking later, he’s just an ad. The boy was covered in blood, and a pained groan fell from his lips as Zephra began to investigate his wounds.
“Osik!” Jaster let loose a curse and gently as he could, lifted the ad’s head into his lap.
“He’s just a child.” Zephra echoed his earlier thoughts as he pressed down in an attempt to slow the already sluggish bleeding.
“He’s so pale.” Jaster realized aloud. While he could imagine the child being a paler shade than most while healthy, his coppery hair attested to that, the boy in front of him was a deathly white. Most likely-
“The blood loss.” Zephra confirmed. “He’ll need a transfusion when we get back.”
“Will he make it back?” Jaster looked back down to see fresh tears trailing down his face.
Without thinking he had removed his gloves and was wiping the tears away all while mumbling soft assurances, his previous question quickly forgotten. The ad’s face scrunched before he forced his eyes open for only a split second revealing pain too deep for one so young before falling shut again. Jaster moved his hands up to the boy’s hair to try and soothe away what pain he could. Every time he closed his eyes to blink the too-thin red-haired ad became his own dark-haired Jango, lying helpless and bleeding.
The ad let out a pained gasp as Zephra tightened a makeshift binding around his bloodied chest. “We need to get him back to base.”
“Elek.” Jaster agreed, removing his hands from the boy’s hair to pull at his cloak. After removing it from his shoulders he carefully laid it over the boy before scooping him into his arms to carry him, wincing at the pained cry that weakly left the ad’s lips. Looking down he could see his face relaxing and his eyes growing heavy. “Stay awake for me, adika.” Jaster begged.
-----
Jaster sighed and scrubbed his hands down his face, leaning back against the wall behind him. He’d been only slightly disappointed to find Jango had left on a hunt at some point during the time he’d been gone, and wouldn’t be back for some time. Jaster couldn’t fault him, Jango was twenty-two, a fully grown man and a damn good fighter, he was more than able to take care of himself.
Carefully he’d removed his beskar’gam before showering and changing into a lighter tunic, leaving his armor to be cleaned later, he had more pressing matters he wished to see too.
Entering the medical ward he moved straight to one of the private rooms to find Zephra tending to the ad. Picking up a bowl of warm water and a clean rag, Jaster approached them.
“What the hell happened to this kid?” He found himself asking.
“Believe me, I’d like to know just as much as you. When I get my hands on the demagolka who did this, I swear I’ll-” She stopped to take in a deep breath to reign herself in. “He was stabbed thirteen times in the chest. Sprained left ankle, collapsed lung, a decent concussion I’d reckon. Alor, he’s in bad shape.” The honesty in her eyes struck Jaster, and he suddenly found himself missing his buy’ce.
“Is he stable?” He asked.
“For now. He needs a bacta tank. I’ve done what I can with bacta gel, but the healing will be slow.” Zephra moved to fix the IV drip line. Not for the first time, Jaster mentally bemoaned the lack of running bacta tanks.
In lieu of anything else to do, he began to use the damp rag to wipe away the dried blood on the ad’s neck and chin. He’d been changed into a med tunic, and without the loose clothing hiding his form, Jaster could see just how small he was. He’d been light when Jaster had lifted him, but seeing how lithe, bordering underweight, he was was startling.
“There’s one other thing,” Zephra spoke, finally turning her attention back to the ad lying before them, pulling something from behind his ear.
“A jetti-ad?” Jaster sat the now bloodied cloth aside. “What about his jetti-buir?” Weren’t Jetti'ad's Buire supposed to be wildly protective of their ad, Jaster wondered.
“No one saw anything. But one of the comandos found this while we were out.” Zephra held out a jetti’kad, its hilt small in Jaster’s hand. He resolved to hold on to it for the ad, against his better Mandalorian instinct. This jetti was just a child after all, and no child could be held accountable for the actions and deeds of those who came before them.
“He’ll be out for a while, and foggy still for a short time after he wakes. Don’t expect him to be lucid right away.” Zephra warned, and Jaster nodded his assent and returned to the work of cleaning the dried blood away from the ad’s skin.
Surely enough, the first time the ad awoke Zephra commed Jaster down to the med wing in the middle of the night cycle after he’d instructed her to whenever the boy woke up. Rushing down, still in his sleep clothes, all of Jaster’s grogginess was chased away immediately at the sight that met him. The ad was writhing half-heartedly in his bed, low moans of pain escaping weakly.
“He’s in pain, I need to up the dosage, but it will take a few minutes to begin working.” Jaster rushed over to the boy’s bedside, inwardly amazed at how calm Zephra was keeping herself.
“Easy, easy,” Jaster found himself whispering to the child. “It’s going to be okay now, I promise.” Jaster’s heart nearly broke at how the ad leaned into his touch, quickly seeking what little comfort he could give. “Hurry, Zeph,” Jaster’s voice came out a pained whisper as he was quickly distracted by the way the ad’s hand began clutching at his sleeve. Kneeling down, Jaster gently held him still so Zephra could administer the correct dossage into the boy’s iv line.
“It’s okay, it’s alright. It’s okay, Ben,” Jaster said in lieu of knowing the ad’s name, “Your safe now, we’ve got you.”
“Please, Master please-” The pleas falling from Ben’s lips were barely audible, but Jaster heard them.
“There,” Zephra straightened from where she’d be administering the medicine and turned to the pale boy lying beside her. “I’ve given you some medicine to help you.” She spoke softly to her patient despite knowing that he likely couldn’t comprehend most anything through the fog of pain.
“I’ll be good…” Jaster perked up at his muttered words, looking over to Zephra who had a pinched expression on her face. Looking back down Jaster could see Ben was relaxing again, his screwed up face falling back into the painless drowsy expression he recognized before falling back asleep.
“Zeph, earlier he was begging…” Jaster trailed off.
“I know. This is all painting a picture I don’t very much like.” Jaster could hear the barley there anger concealed by her bedside manner, and he couldn’t help but agree. This was all shaping up into something that turned the Alor’s stomach and broke the Buir’s heart. Children were to be protected at all costs. They were precious, they were the future. Jaster found himself, not for the first time, loath the leave and let the now sleeping ad out of his sight. Even if it was only for the night.
The next day passed easier, with Ben only waking for a few moments to look around bleary eyes before slipping back under the drug-induced haze. It was three more days before he woke again for more than a scarce minute, and Jaster was there.
He’d resorted to bringing the paperwork he usually did in his office down to the medical ward to complete in the chair by Ben’s bedside. While it was far from comfortable, Jaster reminded himself of why he was there, often placing aside his work in favour of glancing over the machines displaying the ad’s vitals before checking him over himself. It had been a spike in the heart monitor that had alerted Jaster from his work. Jumping up from his seat with all the grace of a three-legged half-drunken loth cat, he rushed over to the bedside, stopping to press a button that alerted Zephra.
-----
Pain. The pain was the only thing he could comprehend. It felt as though something was clawing its way out of his chest and kissing him with fire all the while. Something touched his arm and when that didn’t hurt he chased after it, desperately clutching as whatever it was, seeking that painless touch once more. After that there was a pressure draping across his chest, holding back whatever was clawing at him. Where was his Master? Where was Qui-Gon? He needed help. Please, Master please, help me, Obi-Wan thought, trying to reach for their bond only to have his head explode in pain. I’ll be the best padawan. I’ll be good, I promise, Obi-Wan sent for the bond again but despaired when the same pain blew through his mind again like a harsh wind carrying grains of sand that cut and scraped. Vaguely, he could feel the pain retreating, not lessening but simply getting farther and farther away.
It felt as though he were floating in a vacuum after that, with only the warm and dark. Every now and then a soft voice would filter through the void, Obi-Wan only able to pick up syllables rather than words more often than not, and Ben. Someone was talking about a Ben. Who was Ben? Obi-Wan couldn’t remember, but he felt something pulling at his soul when this someone said “Ben”. They must care for Ben an awful lot, Obi-Wan thought. Beyond the voice there were only a few flashes of something in the dark, and those were rare and all he ever got from those were flashes of light.
Obi-Wan didn’t know how long he was there in the not awareness, but eventually, the velvet began to peel away piece by piece and he became aware. First it was only of the dull ache that settled somewhere in his ribs. When the rest of the void fell away Obi-Wan found himself confused at the warmth and softness that still surrounded him. It was light, but still there nonetheless. The next thing he became aware of was the presence of someone else there with him. There was warmth and sincerity and a fierce protectiveness in their force signature that confused Obi-Wan. Whoever was there was not his Master, and Obi-Wan could not figure out who else would be there. When the last of the fog cleared Obi-Wan found himself finally able to peel his eyes open and froze at what he saw. There, directly in his line of vision was a Mandalorian, sanse helmet.
Before Obi-Wan could further assess his surroundings the light became too much for him and he was forced to close his eyes. Quickly he tried to rationalize everything. First and foremost, the elephant, er Mandalorian, in the room. Why was he here? Did he know that Obi-Wan was a Jedi? It was something they had been warned about before leaving for the mission, the Mandalorian’s apparent ire for Jedi. Not that Obi-Wan needed to be reminded, the famed armored warriors being a popular boogeyman passed around through stories told in the creche. Obi-Wan decided the Mandalorian must either not care about his status as a Jedi learner or simply did not know. He settled on the latter seeing as he was currently laying in a medbay. Obi-Wan knew those Force-forsaken fluorescent lights anywhere. And the likelihood of Mandalorians taking in an injured Padawan and patching him up seemed like too far a stretch. For the time being, Obi-Wan decided that keeping his relation to the Mandalorian’s age-old enemy hidden. The thought at what they might do to him if they discovered what he was apparently was enough to elevate his heart rate and alert the Mandalorian if the sound of clattering and muffled curses were anything to by. Deciding that now was as good a time as any Obi-Wan tried again at opening his eyes. This time the light was blocked by a figure standing over him. It took Obi-Wan a moment to realize the Mandalorian was speaking to him in accented basic mixed with Mando’a.
“Udesiir adika, easy. It’s alright. Take a deep breath, “ Obi-Wan carefully did as he was told, wincing as his chest ached, the pain stopping him short and causing him to couch roughly; the dryness in his throat making itself known. “Here,” Obi-Wan found himself being gently lifted and something pressed against his lips. “It’s water, drink.” Again, Obi-Wan obeyed and found himself greatly relieved as the blessed coldness spilled down his throat. He must’ve been thirstier than he originally thought as Obi-Wan found himself disappointed when the last of the water left the cup. “Easy, there’s plenty, let the Baar’ur look you over first.” Obi-Wan inferred that ‘Baar’ur’ must mean a doctor or healer of some sort and felt the familiar dread wash over him. It must’ve shown on his face because the Mandalorian chuckled lightly before placing a steadying hand on his shoulder and speaking once more, “Believe me, adika, I know the feeling. Between you and I, it’s far better if you just let Zeph look you over now than having her hunt you down later.”
“Already telling the ad stories I see. Don’t let him be dramatic. He’s a ik’aad when it comes to Baar’ur visits.”
“I don’t like healer’s wards either,” Obi-Wan spoke quietly to the newest Mandalorian that entered the room. He could only assume she was the Baar’ur the other Mando had been referring to.
“Don’t worry, we’ll make this fast.” She smiled down softly at him. “My name’s Zephra. Can you tell me your name?” Zephra asked as she shined a light around in Obi-Wan’s eyes.
“Ob-Obi-Wan.” Obi-Wan stuttered out.
“Well, Obi-Wan, it appears that your concussion is mostly healed, though I still recommend caution, head injuries like concussions can easily take a turn for the worst again if you’re not careful.” Zephra’s eyes shown with a deep seriousness while the rest of her face remained open and kind. Her expression didn’t come across as belittling but rather more caring. Obi-Wan appreciated that. “How does your chest feel?”
“It hurts.” Obi-Wan answered honestly, looking back to the other Mandalorian in the room. His face was drawn and furrowed and Obi-Wan could sense the displeasure permeating the force.
“Understandable.” Obi-Wan’s attention was drawn back to Zephra as she finally stopped fiddling with the wires attached to him and disconnecting some before sitting down on the bed next to him. “Obi-Wan, can you tell us what happened?”
Obi-Wan furrowed his brow. What happened? Tentatively, Obi-Wan reached for his training bond only for his breath to catch in his throat when he felt the withered frayed ends left behind. Qui-Gon had abandoned him. Qui-Gon had left him. Qui-Gon had finally deemed his padawanship and thus himself worthless. Qui-Gon had tried to kill him. And when he didn’t die immediately, left him for dead.
Tears prickled at his eyes and Obi-Wan immediately screwed them shut. He would not cry. He wasn’t a youngling anymore. Crying wouldn’t help or fix anything. But force help him if he didn’t want to though. Desperately.
“Obi-Wan?” Zephra prodded gently, to which he only shook his head. “Okay. That’s alright. Whenever you’re ready. I’d like to take a look at your ankle now.” Obi-Wan appreciated the change in topic and quickly stored his turbulent emotion away to examine and meditate on later; quickly distracted by the Baar’ur quietly narrating as she examined his ankle. “The bruising is mostly gone, though some of the swelling is still there. I like to also ask that you stay off of it for the time being.” Obi-Wan had easily recognized the sprained ankle once Zephra had drawn his attention to it. Sprained ankles were by far Obi-Wan’s least favorite injuries, not that he had a favorite, mind you.
“I need to examine your chest now, Obi-Wan.” Zephra’s voice pulled Obi-Wan from his thoughts, her voice leaving no room for arguing. Still, Obi-Wan reluctantly swallowed before nodding stiffly.
“Here,” The other Mandalorian stepped over moving to help Obi-Wan sit up so that Zephra had better access to his bandages. Obi-Wan realized that the man had yet to introduce himself. Either way, he could feel the sincerity radiating from him in the force and let him help. Gentle but firm hands helped him into an upright position and guided Obi-Wan to lift his arms slightly to allow the bandages covering his chest to fall away. A wave of childish denial washed over Obi-Wan and he squeezed his eyes shut, refusing the acknowledge the truth of what had happened. He could feel the Mandalorian healer gently prodding at his chest here and there, apologizing softly as Obi-Wan winced and hissed softly each time a tender area was touched. A cool ointment, most likely an anti-bacterial and bacta mix, was applied to his chest before the bandages and wrappings were re-applied. Something in the back of Obi-Wan’s mind whispered that if he couldn’t see it, then it wasn’t real, prompting him to keep his eyes closed for a moment longer.
Finally, as Zephra stepped away, Obi-Wan forced his eyes open. A warm blush quickly spread across his face as he realized that sometime during his chest being examined he’d collapsed in the Mandalorian holding him, his head coming to rest on an armored shoulder, the cool beskar plate feeling pleasant against the blush quickly spreading across his cheeks and to his ears. The Mandalorian didn’t seem to mind though, his thumb rubbing circles into Obi-Wan’s arm where his hand rested. The same voice that had first prompted Obi-Wan to close his eyes before yelled to stay where he was, that he was safe here. Obi-Wan thought it sounded suspiciously like himself back during his days in the creche before Qui-Gon had taken him on as a Padawan learner. Before- Obi-Wan forced himself to stop that train of thought, but it was too late. Against his will, his eyes began to water as the feeling of betrayal-nevergoodenough-why-I’llbegood-please-justloveme made itself known again.
A shuddering breath wracked through his chest mixed with the pain it caused had Obi-Wan choking out a gasped sob. He ached for the withered training bond, even if it had only caused him naught but pain. Why couldn’t he have been good enough? The thought only urged his tears on despite his growing embarrassment. He’d tried and tried and tried, only for what? Harsh words, missed meals, and even harsher hands. He’d cried, starved, and suffered for what? You deserved it. You deserved it and so much more. This voice sounded more like him, and to his dismay, he felt the creche-ling part of him push through to the surface crying harder.
Distantly, Obi-Wan could feel something tightening its hold on him, pulling him in tighter to its embrace, and unlike the strangling choking feeling inside of him, this embrace held nothing but comfort and safety and belonging. And if he focussed on that enough he could feel more than hear a voice speaking to him in soft tones. As Obi-Wan surfaced from his haze, he found himself tucked carefully into the Mandalorian’s chest. Unable to stop himself, Obi-Wan grasped at the Mandalorian’s back and folded further into the hug, clutching to the embrace like a lifeline. Obi-Wan couldn’t remember the last time he’d been touched with the purpose of comfort, let alone held like this. He supposed he’d probably never been hugged like this. Growing up in the creche at the temple he’d known that none of the creche masters were his parents, they owed him nothing and he’d never asked. He’d been given one-armed side hugs by his friends and he’d seen other Masters embrace their Padawans, but never had he received anything like this.
It took Obi-Wan a moment more to realize that the rumbling voice he heard was not speaking but singing softly in a soothing tone. He figured it must be a lullaby of sorts and that he should care that he was far too old for such codling, but for some reason, he didn’t really mind. He was warm and his eyes felt heavy. He found he didn’t even mind the hard edges of beskar-gam pressing into him. His last coherent thought before sleep claimed him was that Zephra must’ve left as he couldn’t sense her presence nearby anymore.