Chapter Text
At some point, Obi-Wan thinks, you have to give up the ghost and capitulate. There are bills to pay, and empty cupboards, and worst of all, a dearth of jobs that will pay only half as well as this ad claims it is willing. The problem is that the universe is simply full of writers, and they saturate the market like flies on rotting flesh. It’s every man for himself these days, with the boat sinking fast and everyone and their mum jostling the other for the big, fat pay check.
Thing is, no one is hiring. Least of all someone as impressive as Obi-Wan whose mile-long credentials ought to have put him on a map. It’s a phrase he’s heard since graduate school, worn over with tide and time: your writing is remarkable, even impressive, but we can only pay you minimum wage. Omegas can’t have equal rights after all. Obi-Wan is good enough to have his articles put in magazines, blog posts, and endless anthologies, but not worth the extra zero his alpha contemporaries would have been given if they churned out even a quarter of his body of work.
Such is life in this society.
So Obi-Wan answers the ad. It seems harmless enough. They seem like good people, and it beats working at a sex hotline where his mother used to joke he’d end up in if he didn’t find himself an alpha soon enough. Well, that ship’s sailed long ago, and he is what people would call ‘past his prime’, though Obi-Wan would argue he’s remained in great shape despite only a passing interest in working out to ‘attract suitors’. He looks good for forty-one. There are barely any greys in his hairline, his body not besieged with phantom aches and pains. He still gets the occasional look on the street, though most of them are ones of deep annoyance when he asserts himself in a crowd, or complains about getting shortchanged in the shops. He’s never been the type to take anything lying down, not even knots--not that he has had the opportunity to take any, but the sentiment still applies.
Obi-Wan Kenobi was not a pushover.
The ad is as straightforward as can be, though Obi-Wan can read between the lines enough: Looking for a mature omega to help our alpha son come out of his shell. Mature, of course, can mean a lot of things, but so can come out of his shell which is an interesting turn of phrase.
One look at his bank account however, and Obi-Wan swallows what little is left of his pride and puts on his big-boy trousers, and goes. He goes: calls the number on the ad and a woman with a wavering voice answers on the third ring, quiet like a mouse. She gives him an address, after a fifteen minute conversation during which she asks him a series of questions that seem rattled off a list (how old is he, is he single, why answer this ad at all). Obi-Wan answers as honestly as he can without revealing the extent of his own desperation (forty-one, and yes madame he happens to be, through no fault of his own, single, though not currently looking to mingle, ha, and it’s been two whole months since his last freelancing gig, so right now he’s dipping his toes in unchartered waters, so to speak—he likes to test his mettle in other ways).
In the end, the address takes him to a gated community where a security guard hands him a visitor’s pass after giving him a rough pat down and then mumbling something unintelligible into his radio. Then he gives Obi-Wan a once-over and snorts. Really uncalled for: probably an alpha. They tend to hold these sorts of jobs. “All clear. It’s the house to the left.”
Right, then. Obi-Wan goes on his way after a muttered thanks.
The house is a two-storey gun-metal grey building with clean symmetrical lines and reflective floor-to-ceiling windows. Modern. That’s the word for it. The grass is neatly trimmed. Two sleek cars sit side by side in the open-garage, black and gleaming. Obi-Wan won’t be surprised if the owners employed a driver that chauffeured them around the city instead of getting behind the wheel themselves. There’s a man clipping the hedges on the front lawn in worker’s overalls who points him to the front door when Obi-Wan asks whether this is the Skywalker residence.
It only takes one ring of the doorbell before a woman emerges from the other end of the door. She’s dressed in a loose caftan, gold bangles ribbing her wrist, though her ears and neck and hands remain bare of jewelry. Her hair is tied into a loose bun at the base of her neck. She smiles at him, warmly. It uncoils the knot in his stomach, but doesn’t relax him entirely.
“You’re right on time,” she says, and steps away from the door to let him inside.
*
Like the exterior of the house, the interior is also modern, and so cavernous that their footfalls echo against the marble tiling and then bounce off the high ceilings. The furniture is sparse, but there are art pieces on the walls that look authentic, limned in natural lighting spilling brightly through the skylights. Obi-Wan makes himself comfortable on the long, boxy sofa while Shmi, as she’d introduced herself, sits across from him with her neatly-manicured hands folded in her lap.
“Would you like some refreshments, Mr Kenobi?” She conjures a silver bell from her side.
Obi-Wan blinks at her and waves a hand. So this is an upstairs and downstairs kind of household: good to know some things never change. “No, thank you. I’m really quite all right.”
Shmi nods and puts the bell down on the coffee table, before resuming her earlier position. She seems kind: it’s all in the eyes. Almost as if she were incapable of guile. Almost, because what she’s asking can be considered dodgy, even for the right amount of money. Obi-Wan had heard her voice on the phone, her every word laced with worry for her son. This is a woman who is willing to do whatever it takes to help her boy through whatever his current affliction is: that she failed to disclose it on the phone speaks volumes.
“As you know, my husband and I—he’s away on a business trip at the moment—have put out an ad, seeking external assistance for our ah,,…rather anti-social son.”
Anti-social, Obi-Wan can work with. He used to babysit kids as a teenager. “Anti-social, you say.”
“Yes, well.” Shmi seems rather embarrassed, and she purses her lips together before speaking once more. “He hardly ever leaves his room anymore. He’s eighteen, you know. Nineteen in the fall. He’s going off to college soon, we’re so proud of him. Coruscant University, on an engineering degree.”
“Right,” Obi-Wan says, nodding. “Congratulations.”
Shmi huffs out a self-deprecating laugh. “He’s an intelligent young man, you have to understand. But he lacks social skills and seems largely uninterested in anything besides playing video games. At eighteen.”
Obi-Wan has heard of this phenomenon before. Spoiled rich alphas. Their parents let them get away with everything, and now it falls into society’s hands to keep them in line. Now it becomes everyone’s problem. He nods at Shmi to continue.
She hesitates visibly, her gaze trained to a framed photo on the geometrical side-table flanking her seat. It’s a picture of her family, taken at least a decade ago. One of those formal portraits done at a studio, her son wearing a little bowtie, sandwiched between her and her husband, smiling with gap-toothed glee. He looks sweet.
“His rut is soon,” Shmi adds, as if in afterthought, catching Obi-Wan’s gaze as they both turn their attention away from the photograph. “We’ve consulted therapists, professionals. But he turned them all away. Every last one. Absolutely abhorred them. My husband thinks all he needs is a friend to help him through this delicate time. I had my misgivings, but I think it’s worth trying. After all, we’ve tried everyone, and who’s it going to hurt?”
That’s a good question, Obi-Wan thinks, because the answer is probably Obi-Wan, but what he says instead is this: “What exactly do you want me to do, Mrs Skywalker?”
Shmi looks at him with conviction. “I want you to date my son.”
“Date him,” Obi-Wan repeats. “Date him, as in—”
Shmi nods along with him. “Date him,” she echoes back, more firmly than Obi-Wan is expecting from someone so meek like her. There is a strong emphasis on date. “Surely, you’ve ah—you’ve dated people before, Mr Kenobi? You said you were forty-one.”
Forty-two, actually, in three weeks, but Shmi does not need to know that. Obi-Wan e-mailed her his CV: it’s all the information she needs. “Yes, of course, I have. But this may be a little more challenging considering your son’s age and inexperience.”
“There’s money in it for you. My husband can be so generous,” Shmi says, raising her eyebrows meaningfully. Then her shoulders deflate and her expression dims once she sees Obi-Wan starting to look around for the exit. “I know it sounds like I’ve gone crazy, but you have to understand, Mr Kenobi: he’s my only boy. And I want him to…experience things. Experience life.”
Like the touch of an omega, Obi-Wan supposes, and clears his throat on an aborted chuckle. He has to remind himself that this month’s rent is hinging on this bizarre job, one he’s not even sure he’s qualified to do: he’s never provided this type of service before. He’s not an escort, nor does he possess years of experience dating alphas. He’s slept with a good handful of betas and some alphas before, but not enough to have refined any technique whatsoever. He’s painfully, dreadfully middling in every regard except for his writing which is the only thing that brings him joy two days out of the week. Still: he needs to put food on the table. Fast. And won’t stoop so low as to beg his mother for help. He’s desperate, but not stupid. The ad had not specified any other requirement other than a college degree and a clean bill of health. He loses nothing by trying his luck.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking, Mrs Skywalker, but why not hire a…professional specialising in the…sexual arts?”
Shmi shakes her head. “He’ll know. That boy, he’s very sharp. We want someone unassuming. Ordinary. Someone who cleans up well and is a little on the…older side. My son has a strange fondness for older omegas, you see.” Her smile is brittle, devoid of mirth. Arctic winds would be warmer. “Which is why I had you send me a photograph beforehand. I had to make sure you were to his taste.”
“Of course,” says Obi-Wan stiffly, and he swallows and then swallows again. He pats his throat to ease the lump he can already feel forming. “I don’t suppose I can have that drink now?”
“Right, right—I’ll summon the maid, and we can agree on the terms of the contract afterwards.” Shmi’s tone turns immediately brisk and businesslike, Obi-Wan half-expects her to whip out a fountain pen and conjure a floating scroll so he may barter his soul in exchange for a month’s worth of groceries. “Would you like to be paid in lump sum or instalments?”
Obi-Wan didn’t even think he had options. He returns Shmi’s smile cordially, before leaning forward with his elbows on his knees: “Is it possible to be paid in advance?”
Shmi hums as she considers this request. “I can have that arranged,” she says, nodding, “But first I want you to do something for me.”
*
A compatibility test. That’s what Shmi said this is going to be. Nothing more. And if he fails, well, he still gets paid a generous sum for trying. A week after their first meeting, after the contract had been drafted and signed, the terms agreed upon, Obi-Wan paces his flat until he wears a groove in the tiny stretch of carpet covering his living room. Then he decides to hell with it, money is money, and takes the train to the other side of the city, past his stodgy neighbourhood banked by the river on either side, and low-income houses fringed with laundry crowding an endless row of washing lines. He shows up on the dot: four PM, as agreed.
The maid lets him in. Shmi had called beforehand with instructions. She would meet him at the house but happen to be stuck in a meeting. Her son would be home from school around this time. He goes to a special one: private and exclusive—alphas-only—a luxury afforded by those in a certain income bracket.
Obi-Wan offers the maid a smile, and she gives him a kind of pitying look that he recognises from his own mother who’d given him the same one after he’d announced he was going to write for a living and not bear some alpha’s children.
The maid leads him further inside the Skywalker manse: through a long sweeping corridor and towards a set of double doors with gold plated handles.
Obi-Wan put in a bit of effort today: showered, shaved, took his multi-vitamins, parted his hair to one side with a comb and made sure his grey hairs were out of the way, trimmed and neatened. He also wore his Sunday best: a wooly jumper, a pair of corduroy slacks—casual enough to appear effortless, but with an air of put-together-ness that would lend him the air of a man sure about his place in the universe, which is only half-true most days of the week, and less so on days he has to beg his landlord not to cut off the heating.
Also: leather loafers, buffed to a shine. He’d felt pleased about himself for a total of two hours, and then caught his reflection in a passing shop window, noting a curl of hair that absolutely refused to be patted down, and a noticeable roll above the cinch of his 32-inch waist trousers. The downswing in mood has followed him here, where he tries his best to affect a calmness he doesn’t feel and flatten his hair with discreet swipes of his palm while sucking in his gut.
The maid jerks her head in the direction of the double doors, unperturbed by his fussing. “Master Anakin will be home any minute,” she informs him. “Miss Shmi says to make yourself comfortable in his room.”
“Odd of her to suggest that, don’t you think,” Obi-Wan says, in attempt to engage the maid in some light conversation, but she simply shrugs at him in response and starts to walk away, leaving him standing there in sudden, confused silence.
Well, nothing to it.
He lets himself inside the room without preamble: the smell hits him instantly—musty, like week-old laundry overlaid with a variety of other unpleasant odours he can’t pinpoint. He covers his nose with the sleeve of his jumper. The room is twice the size of his entire flat with wall to wall shelves crammed full of boyish knick-knacks— video games mostly, some collectibles still untouched in their boxes: action figures, scale model cars, a 1000 piece Lego set of an elaborate-looking space ship. There’s a circular desk outfitted with three wide monitors flashing ambient light while in sleep mode, and next to it a teetering stack of porn magazines, everything washed with a cold blue light. The blinds are open just a tiny sliver, enough to let a slice of late afternoon sun cut across the king-sized bed where the sheets are all heaped to one side, unmade.
Obi-Wan walks a circuit around the room, but touches nothing. He still isn’t quite sure what he’s supposed to be doing in the boy’s room. Spread his scent around? Possibly. Shmi said to test for compatibility, but had been vague on the specifics. At some point, he knows he’ll have to engage in some kind of sexual act, but he’d rather avoid it if possible and keep activities strictly above-the-waist. He’s neither modest, nor shy: he’s had his fair share of partners over the years, but he’d rather just not do it if he can help it, if only to preserve what dignity he has left. Bad enough that he’s considering dating someone to pay the rent. The least he can do is keep things family friendly for as long as he can.
Obi-Wan can barely remember the last time he’s had a regular heat, anyway. Months ago, perhaps close to a year. The room itself does little to inspire desire of any kind: the floor is laden with rustling bags of half-empty crisps, and over everything is that pervasive reek reminiscent of stale deodorant. He hasn’t even seen a picture of this kid, except the one in the living room taken years ago.
“Who’re you?”
Obi-Wan can sense aggression, palpable like heat. Almost immediately all the air in the room feels as though it’s been sucked out completely. The hair on his neck stands on end.
He pivots on his heel so fast he almost topples over a mountain of crusty laundry on the floor. Obi-Wan startles when he finds himself nose to nose with the boy. No: the young man. Anakin. The most piercing eyes he’s ever seen, and hair that could use a few passes of a comb. He’s not too tall: with only a few meager inches on Obi-Wan, and shoulders that would still broaden further as he got older. But there’s something in his energy Obi-Wan can’t write off as simply belonging to an alpha: it feels cold, almost menacing, a sense of suffocation like a steel-toothed pressure around his neck.
Obi-Wan takes a measured step backwards until his back hits the wall. “Oh, hello, there.” He clears his throat. “I’m Obi-Wan Kenobi.” He offers Anakin a bland smile that goes unreturned. The door has been left ajar. Mentally Obi-Wan calculates the number of steps it would take to bridge such a distance, as he weighs the question of risk.
The scowl he gets in response dims his smile, as Anakin simply stands there, staring at him without blinking. “You’re the omega,” he says, then, with an amused little huff. He shakes his head in disbelief. “My mom hired you, didn’t she?” He tosses his backpack on the floor before doffing his school jacket and flinging it unceremoniously on the bed. Obi-Wan spies the embroidered logo on the front pocket: St. Bart’s. A private school for Gifted and Talented alphas, or so their brochure claims. Anakin starts unfastening his clip-on tie, and that too goes sailing across the room to land on the floor.
Obi-Wan follows its trajectory before turning his attention back to Anakin. “Yes,” he says, clipped. “She’s told me all about you.”
Anakin snorts. “Has she?” He tilts his head to the side, openly appraising Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan would feel violated if he didn’t need the money so badly, so he bears with it and plasters on his most genial smile, even as Anakin stalks forward to stand mere inches away from him, looming, as it were. At least his smell isn’t as offensive as his room: Obi-Wan gets a whiff of clean sweat which he’s careful not to breathe in too deeply. It’s not completely unpleasant.
Anakin narrows his eyes at him, still with the same dark look warping his features. “You have an accent,” he points out.
“That I do,” Obi-Wan agrees.
Anakin hums. “My mom tell you I like them older?”
“I have no idea what that even means,” Obi-Wan says, not sure whether he should be offended.
“Don’t play stupid now,” says Anakin, with a smirk. “You’re not the first one she’s hired to befriend me. You’re what, the fifth person she’s hired? She thinks I need help with my upcoming rut. But what I really need is for people to leave me alone.”
“Right,” says Obi-Wan, and because he can’t help himself, he adds, “I do know what it’s like being your age, you know. Long ago that may have been for me.”
Anakin throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, please, spare me the sympathy. I don’t need it. Did she want to do a compatibility test too?”
Oh god, Obi-Wan thinks. Shmi has done this before. So he really isn’t the first. Damn her and her kind eyes. She probably isn’t even in a meeting, is she. That could have been a lie too.
“Do you want me to leave?” Obi-Wan asks, embarrassed not only for himself but for Anakin too.
Anakin lifts a hand to stop him before he’s able to make it to the door. “I didn’t say I wanted you gone, did I? We can still have some fun together.”
Fun. There’s something about the way Anakin drawls the word that has Obi-Wan immediately gauging whether he has enough upper body strength to overpower him should things get hairy which is looking like a real possibility at the moment. Obi-Wan used to be on the track and field team in his early years, but he’s never had to outrun an alpha before, much less a younger one in their prime. Anakin is lean, with enough muscle to suggest a certain level of strength, but Obi-Wan is still broader in some places, like in his thighs and shoulders both of which possess a kind of doughy but hardy firmness that lends him the greater bulk. Perhaps there is hope for him yet.
Obi-Wan forces a laugh, even if the back of his neck is already pebbling in nervous sweat. “Fun?” he says. “What do you have in mind?”
Anakin shrugs one shoulder, a careless gesture, but also a bad sign, especially when coupled with that inscrutable look on his face. He takes a step forward, and then another, until he’s crowded Obi-Wan completely into a corner, not just in the figurative sense but the literal too, his arms braced on either side of him, his smirk reappearing with full vengeance.
“What are you doing?” Obi-Wan asks, seconds before Anakin starts nosing his cheek—and sniffing him.
Obi-Wan shivers, recoiling instinctively, but Anakin’s hands fly down to grip his forearms with surprising strength before he resumes his sniffing. Obi-Wan has no choice but to endure it—it seems rather benign considering Anakin could do much worse as an alpha, highly uncivilised this practice may be. But the boy goes to St. Bart’s which explains this behaviour because education there is still largely controversially traditional, in the sense that unwitting young alphas are made to believe that all omegas would simply lie there and happily take it: knots, injustice, the indignity of begging to be mated.
Obi-Wan is modern in all things and turns his nose up at such arcane customs. This may explain his current predicament, because part of the reason he is unemployed is his refusal to be paid less than his alpha counterparts who could barely run a spell check on their work.
Anakin drags his nose down Obi-Wan’s jaw, then to his pulse point behind his ear where he lingers the longest, breathing audibly and making Obi-Wan shudder when a reverberation starts up low in the boy’s throat. He’s growling. But then Obi-Wan realises to his horror that those low-voiced growls are actually purrs, and yes, there is a difference, not just in cadence and frequency, but in purpose as well. It can only mean one thing: the boy is pleased by him. The boy, no, the alpha likes him, or at the very least tolerates him. Obi-Wan had forgotten to spritz on cologne earlier today, but Anakin seems to be appreciative of his natural smell if his noises are anything to go by: deep, rhythmic, and there’s a brush of lips feathering the side of Obi-Wan’s neck where Obi-Wan’s mating gland is, a sly suggestion of teeth—too forward, too soon even if Obi-Wan is getting paid for this kind of indignity. He gives Anakin a firm shove, elbowing himself out of his grip and perhaps employing too much force as Anakin staggers back with a surprised grunt, narrowly avoiding a wayward elbow.
Anakin blinks back heavy-lidded eyes. Then he sniffs the air and wrinkles his nose, scrubbing a hand over his face as the dreaminess overlaying his expression starts to sharpen into seriousness. He gives Obi-Wan an annoyed look, but annoyed is always so much better than enamoured at least when it comes to alphas. Obi-Wan would not have known what to do should Anakin have started humping his leg, which he seemed seconds from doing, with their bodies dangerously close and pressed hip to hip and Anakin’s breath getting choppier.
“How much is my mom paying you?” Anakin asks, as if he had not just been invading Obi-Wan’s personal space without permission. Obi-Wan is expecting some sort of apology to have prefaced that question, but he’s starting to realise this kid possesses no social graces whatsoever. Perhaps that had been the affliction vaguely alluded to in the ad: a staggering lack of spatial awareness and complete disregard for social cues. Money, after all, could buy many things, but not manners.
Obi-Wan gives Anakin a number. Shmi promised to wire the payment later this afternoon after this compatibility test. Obi-Wan makes a promise to himself that there will be Words later. Perhaps even a strongly inflected phrase bound to raise eyebrows.
“She paying you that much?” Anakin says, huffing in disbelief.
Obi-Wan flushes. Admittedly, it had been a little exorbitant, but he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. “She offered,” he says, starting to stammer. “I couldn’t exactly negotiate starting rates. I’m a writer by trade and this is all new to me. And what your mother is asking is a little unorthodox—“
“You should charge her more,” Anakin says, interrupting him. He walks over to his desk where he seats himself indolently on the swivel chair, the leather padding ripped and scratched in places, a jacket thrown across the seat. Anakin’s legs are spread lazily, his posture slouched so low Obi-Wan envies him silently for his youthful flexibility. Then Anakin starts tossing a stress ball from one hand to the other. The ball resembles a molecule. He squeezes it until it bulges into a pulp in his grip.
“You’re underselling yourself,” Anakin tells him.
“Thank you for the business advice,” Obi-Wan says drily. “I often hear the exact opposite, being an omega in my industry.” Obi-Wan chuckles, but Anakin simply looks at him, unblinking, intense and thoughtful. Obi-Wan used to babysit children when he was younger—betas, mostly, between the ages of five to ten, and occasionally pre-teen alphas; he remembers a few of them looking at him like that: as if he were a piece of string cheese and their parents had neglected to feed them before leaving them in his care.
“You smell nice,” Anakin states.
“Wish I could say the same for your room,” Obi-Wan mumbles, but he offers Anakin a breezy smile instead, tight-lipped.
“I think I like you,” Anakin says. “The others—” Another squeeze of the stress ball, his knuckles going white-tipped from the pressure. “They smelled funny. Rank. But you—”
“—I happen to have excellent hygiene—”
“—I think we’ll get along swimmingly,” Anakin fishes, before uncurling from his slouch and tossing the stress ball at Obi-Wan who catches it out of reflex and gives it an instinctive squeeze.
“Leave your sweater behind when you go,” Anakin tells him, jerking his chin at Obi-Wan’s jumper.
“Why? It’s merino wool—”
Anakin rolls his eyes. “I’m going to leave my scent on it.”
“Seems rather primeval, don’t you think?” Obi-Wan smooths a hand protectively over the sleeves. “Do alphas still do that? Leave their scents?”
Anakin growls and bares his teeth. Obi-Wan backs off but purposely does not whine like some Harlequin omega. Alpha posturing sets his teeth on edge—another reason he failed to fit into any workplace setting. He couldn’t stand the hierarchies, the ego, the overpowering scent of alphas trying to one up each other. But Anakin is looking rather murderous at the moment and Obi-Wan reminds himself there’s a hefty cheque at the end of all this, and so he relents: tugs his jumper off with all the enthusiasm of a man about to be hanged, before handing it over carefully with tense fingers.
Anakin makes a hasty grab for it and then shamelessly presses the material against his face, taking in large gulpfuls of Obi-Wan’s scent. His eyes roll back visibly. He even moans a little, which makes Obi-Wan stare in disbelief. Eventually, Anakin notices Obi-Wan watching him and clears his throat, turning away pink-cheeked to rummage through his closet.
“You’ll probably want something of mine,” he says, tossing one thing after another over his shoulder. His closet, like his room, is cluttered and disorganised, but spacious enough that Obi-Wan will have to walk several paces inside before ever hitting a wall. An old poster of a band Obi-Wan doesn’t recognise is taped to the inside wall, yellowed with age and curling at the edges. A hockey stick stands leaning against a mountain of boxes marked "old t-shirts".
Obi-Wan dodges a wayward sock that goes flying past his head. “You shouldn’t have bothered at all,” he says, when Anakin hands him a checkered scarf. The texture feels rather expensive, as if the tartan beige, black, and red pattern isn’t telling enough.
“Thank you,” Obi-Wan says, awkwardly, not quite sure what to do with it. He rubs a thumb across the soft fringes. “Is this cashmere?”
Anakin rolls his eyes. “Burberry. I’ll want that back in a few days,” he says. “Then you can have your sweater. Bring it back smelling like you, or I’ll have my mom dock your pay.” He makes a vague gesture with his hand, a kind of dismissive, fleeting motion that makes Obi-Wan’s lip twitch in indignation. “You may go now.”
“Right, then.” Obi-Wan tamps down on the urge to huff. A lot of his life is spent suppressing some kind of emotion around alphas: they really are the bane of society, and the young ones tend to get on his nerves especially, with their over-confidence and posturing.
“I don’t suppose you have any further instructions for me, before I take my leave?” Obi-Wan asks, raising an eyebrow, because he’s the kind of man to always want to have the last word in, sometimes to his detriment.
“Not really,” Anakin says, as he returns to his computer station and thumbs open the first of three monitors. They flicker open, one after the other, one showing a screen full of code, another a half-finished set of schematics. The third one just opens to a video on pause that looks like a pixelated close-up of someone’s heaving chest covered in a suspiciously milky substance. After a long silence of watching Anakin click around on his keyboard and playing some music, Obi-Wan clears his throat. “I’ll be off then,” he announces.
Anakin hums noncommittally. “Sure. Unless you want to leave me your underwear too.” It’s a joke: it has to be. There’s an insolent smirk curling the edges of Anakin’s cherubic smile. He really is quite young, Obi-Wan thinks, with baby fat still padding his cheeks and soft, riotous curls. If only the outside matched the inside. Obi-Wan can tell the kid is going to be more than a handful, and not the least bit because he’s an alpha.
Obi-Wan doesn’t dignify that with a response and instead heads for the door, pausing in the corridor to fling a glance over his shoulder. He’s surprised to find Anakin watching him, his chair angled in Obi-Wan’s direction: nothing sinister in his expression, though the boy doesn’t seem to be blinking, or moving much at all; his fingers are steepled under his chin thoughtfully. His crisp, white school shirt is unbuttoned halfway down his chest, revealing a black shirt underneath with a print of a skull on fire. Oddly fitting.
“It was nice meeting you—” Obi-Wan says, when what he really wants to say is interesting. It was interesting meeting Anakin. Nice is for pleasant encounters with a coworker at the supermarket, and long balmy strolls in the park in the Spring. Finding a hidden bank note in between the sofa cushions, popsicles melting on the tongue in summertime.
Meeting Anakin is the opposite of that: it’s like balancing on a tightrope at the risk of a terrifying plunge. Into a pit of lava.
“—Anakin,” Anakin says, “Call me Anakin. But you probably already know that if you’ve spoken to my mom.”
“Well, I still appreciate being formally introduced.” Even if Anakin had sniffed him like a dog.
Anakin seems to be thinking the same thing. He’s rubbing his fingers absently over Obi-Wan’s jumper, which he’d bundled in his lap and started petting like a cat. “I’ll tell my mom to call you when she gets home. There’s a cheque for you in the foyer, by the way. The maid will show you where it is.”
And that, it seems, is that.
Obi-Wan nods at him, just the once, and shuts the door behind him, walking back where he came down the long and winding corridor. Sure enough, he finds a cheque with his name on it on the entry table in the foyer. The maid shows him to the door after giving his newly acquired scarf a knowing look, and he offers her a self-deprecating smile.
It’s a blustery day outside as Obi-Wan heads on foot to the train station, passing dog-walkers and pedestrians and restaurants starting to open their doors for the evening. He wraps Anakin’s scarf around his neck, fighting off a shiver, looping it twice like a noose as he waits for his train on the platform. Obi-Wan breathes in its earthy, musty smell that gives off the impression of having lived for years in the back of a closet, and yet never once being taken out of hiding. A metaphor? Perhaps. He finds he doesn’t mind the smell entirely.
It is, he thinks, as his fingers close over Anakin’s stress ball in his pocket that he’d failed to return, actually rather nice.