Work Text:
By the time Anakin is twenty, the easy frequency with which he says “I love you” to Obi-Wan is almost a joke. Everyone certainly takes it as one, not paying them any attention.
Anakin bows with exaggerated drama, winks at Obi-Wan, and then strides away to join Ahsoka by the lifts. They’re scheduled to do a reconnaissance run of the Corellian circuit as a training exercise with Galla’s 91st Mobile Reconnaissance Corps, then be on standby until new orders come in. This means they won’t see each other for weeks, perhaps even months.
Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, playing into the farce. If he doesn’t, then equilibrium will be lost. "Anakin! No cavorting with smugglers this time!" he calls out to his one-time Padawan, only to get an insultingly dismissive wave, less of an "I heard you" and more of a "sure, old man."
Ahsoka says something to her master, hands akimbo on her hips. They’re too far away for Obi-Wan to catch it, but he does hear Anakin’s answering laugh.
He watches them depart—two of the most important people in his life, off to fight a war that neither should be involved with. If life were fair, Anakin would still be a Padawan, not a knight and master, much less a general.
If life were fair, Anakin also wouldn’t be in love with him.
—
Anakin presented three weeks after his fifteenth life day. A little later than the average for humans, but not extraordinarily so. And, unlike what some on the Council had theorized, his incredibly high midichlorian count did not cause any side effects. No biological abnormalities were found, Healer Vokara reported.
What did surprise the High Council—what surprised most people— was that Anakin presented as an omega.
Not Obi-Wan. How could he be surprised? He lived with the boy, knew him intimately, his quirks, his follies, his innate qualities. While others saw a moody, often off-putting child of prophecy, Obi-Wan got to see the real Anakin.
Who was still all of that—emphasis on the moody. But he was also sweet, and attentive, and although Obi-Wan disliked placing stock in antiquated gender stereotypes, Anakin was… almost a textbook example of an omega long before his status was confirmed.
He cleaned obsessively, as if he expected to find sand hidden underneath the furniture or in the ceiling corners, and he couldn’t stand the thought. If Obi-Wan returned to their apartment with pheromones on him, no matter what kind, Anakin would reel back and cover his nose, brows pinched with disgust. Obi-Wan would then be sent off to freshen up until the offensive smell was dealt with.
Anakin was aggressive about what and who could be allowed into their apartment. While alphas could be territorial, people too often forgot the savagery omegas were capable of when defending their homes and families. The pretty, docile omegas depicted in fiction rarely matched reality.
Not that Anakin wasn’t pretty. Though he’d shot up in height overnight and grew lean with muscle, shoulders broadening, those weren’t the only changes puberty had brought. His eyelashes were long enough to cast shadows on his high cheekbones, and his scowls often emphasized the sullen pout of his mouth, rather than detracted from it.
(Obi-Wan did his best to objectively categorize these qualities. They were facts to be considered and weighed because there were scumbags out there, scum that they often dealt with, who would not be objective about Anakin’s beauty.)
Proud to a fault, Anakin was equally confident in his cooking abilities. He had banished Obi-Wan from the kitchen once he realized that Obi-Wan had no instinct for the craft. "Bland," Anakin had declared with a sneer, pointing at the somewhat soggy baked Hoth tubers that Obi-Wan had prepared during their first week as master and apprentice.
Obi-Wan had been insulted and mortified. Because, yes, the meal was bland, but it was what he and Qui-Gon had eaten all the time, not particularly caring what they put into their bodies as long as it met their calorie requirements. So he hadn’t given it much thought, not until a tiny boy scrunched his mouth up in distaste and flayed him with the most scathingly judgmental look Obi-Wan had ever received.
“Well, you do better,” Obi-Wan had retorted, still raw from Qui-Gon’s death, and raw from his changed life circumstances, raw with exhaustion, exposed and wounded and tired.
Anakin immediately rose, dragged a chair into the kitchen to reach the stove, and fried the tubers until they were tender, seasoning them liberally. Then he tossed them into an egg batter along with cheese and onions, standing guard over the pan with arms crossed, spatula in hand.
Obi-Wan had intended to pick Anakin up and put him down on the floor where he belonged, to take over the preparation of their dinner like an adult should, like a master should, but the Force had urged him to be still, to let Anakin do this.
He had stopped resisting when he saw Anakin wasn’t fidgeting. No low hum of anxiety distorted his signature while he cooked.
Obi-Wan learned two things that day: Anakin could cook (though he went heavy on the spice), and Anakin liked to take care of people.
Certain people, anyway.
So yes, suspecting that Anakin would be an omega, he’d accordingly made plans. If Anakin presented as an alpha or beta, then it was no harm done; all would go on as usual.
Obi-Wan hadn’t particularly cared what Anakin was in the end. Not really. It had no bearing on his respect and affection for Anakin. Or on his promise to train Anakin as a Jedi. Within the Temple walls, there were no distinctions made between secondary genders.
Except under one specific set of circumstances.
When Anakin stumbled into his room in the middle of the night, cold sweating, eyes glassy, Obi-Wan was ready. With Vokara by his side and assessments written up by two outside medical specialists, he presented the evidence to the Council that same morning, running off no sleep.
“I am an incomplete alpha,” he had told them bluntly, arguing his case with a cool head. “As my medical records from the time will attest, I fell into the 15% margin of alphas who do not completely present. Here are the results of three independent examinations of my current status as incomplete.”
Embarrassment had slowly faded over the years as Obi-Wan considered his options; he had known it would come to this. So he folded his hands together and impassively waited as the thorough flimsi reports were skimmed by various Council members present.
Ki-Adi-Mundi, whose species had diverged in evolution and did not manifest secondary genders, oddly remained the most neutral on the topic. He asked Obi-Wan pertinent questions while the others looked on, troubled.
Obi-Wan answered plainly. “I am celibate by choice, and I vow to the Council that while Anakin is my Padawan, I will remain so. At my age, there is no danger of accidentally triggering a full presentation. As the results indicate, I successfully underwent a battery of tests.” The doctors had, in fact, been baffled by his indifference to being doused in omegan pheromones. “I pose no danger to my Padawan’s well-being. Anakin is safe with me.”
When Anakin had been released from the Hall of Healing into his care, the boy had thrown himself at Obi-Wan, bitterly sobbing; he hadn’t wanted to be an omega. He’d wanted to be anything but an omega, including nothing at all. Awkwardly, Obi-Wan had hugged him, unable to deny his Padawan when he exuded such misery. He’d buried his face into Anakin’s hair and inhaled Anakin’s new scent.
Back then, Obi-Wan hadn't known what that elusively bright, tart smell was, only that he was deeply grateful it wasn’t cloying, like so many omega scents were.
It wasn't until he visited a greenhouse specializing in desert botany and discovered a yellow flower specimen called a sand poppy, which had once thrived on Tatooine but now survived due to cross-breeding preservation efforts, that he could put a name to the fragrance.
A year later, during a conflict between two militia groups, Obi-Wan was wounded. Spitting curses, Anakin had dragged him into the safety of a nearby cavern to lay low while their distress signal summoned the local peacekeepers.
The cursing hadn’t stopped until Anakin pressed their foreheads together with bloody hands framing Obi-Wan’s face. “I love you, Master. You can’t die,” he’d whispered, his eyes dark with anguish. Even dizzy from blood loss and shock, Obi-Wan reacted quickly enough to push Anakin away before their lips met. Before a line was crossed that couldn’t be walked back. Good gods.
Anakin landed painfully on the cavern floor, wincing from the impact. He then glared stubbornly at Obi-Wan. “I love you,” he said succinctly, defiantly. “And you can tell me not to, but you can’t make me stop.”
—
“Good morning. I love you. Where did you hide the salt shaker?”
Obi-Wan sighs and flicks a finger to summon the salt shaker from the kitchen cupboard where it belongs, setting it on the table where Anakin is eating breakfast.
“Master!” Anakin gasps, scandalized. There’s egg yolk smeared on the corner of his mouth. “Inappropriate use of the Force!”
“Anakin, please.” Obi-Wan has a headache. He can’t deal with this so early in the morning; he hasn’t even brushed his teeth. He squints down at the other Jedi. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be stationed as auxiliary for the 13th Battalion. I should know because I assigned you there.”
“Implant malfunction,” says Anakin, matter-of-fact, as if he’s not dropping a bomb. He scoops up more egg with toast, liberally dusting salt over the bite.
Obi-Wan sits heavily. His blood slugs through his vein like ice water. “That’s the second failure.” He studies Anakin for signs of—yes, there it is. An ever-so-faint flush to Anakin’s skin, a sheen to his eyes; his lips are plumper, though still chapped and dry. And if Obi-Wan breathes in deep, he can detect that citrusy scent of blooming sand poppies. Even though the implant is defective, it’s still working to some capacity, just not enough.
“Yup.” Anakin eats, unbothered. “So I got sent back as a medical emergency. Wasn’t useful up in the frontlines anyway. Vokara wants to poke and prod at me for a while, then I’ll have to be locked up again. Gonna karking suck.”
“It…” Obi-Wan strives for something to say that isn’t idiotic. “It shouldn’t be so difficult on your body this time around,” is what he settles on.
Anakin’s smile is bitter. He doesn’t reply, just keeps eating, licking his fingers clean. Obi-Wan averts his eyes.
“Shall I accompany you to the Hall of Healing?”
“For what? You’re not gonna help.” Anakin waggles his eyebrows but even that gesture is forced, a thin veneer that’s all frustration underneath.
No. No, he’s not going to help. “You can request an alpha. We’ve been over this. Consider it, Anakin. You wouldn’t have to suffer like that again. It’s not—”
“And I’d get back on the field faster, yeah, I know,” Anakin brushes off the suggestion without batting an eye. “Sorry that I don’t feel like whoring myself out further for the good of the Republic.”
Obi-Wan is sick to his stomach. Bile climbs his throat. “I was going to say,” he starts, choking, “that we know the ATS is causing your body harm, suppressing your heats. Consider your options; this may have long-term effects—”
“Don’t care. Not gonna let some sleemo knot me full of cum.”
Obi-Wan abruptly stands. He feels his hackles lifting, tension clawing through him. He stares down at Anakin’s bent head, hating that Anakin is ignoring him, that Anakin technically isn’t wrong, that this is exactly what Obi-Wan is suggesting, if in cruder terms.
In more honest terms.
He imagines, vividly, how it would go. The most discreet and high-class studding service in Coruscant would be contacted, and the Order would receive a sampling of scents for Anakin to pick from. Then an NDA would be signed, Vokara would place a sturdy collar around Anakin’s neck to prevent a mating attempt, and then the alpha would be left with Anakin in the throes of a blistering heat…
To knot Anakin.
His gums peel back from his teeth. Obi-Wan catches himself before rending the air with a growl. “I’m taking a shower. Finish eating and go directly to the Halls of Healing, I can smell you.”
Anakin eyes him, distinctly unfriendly. He resembles a put-out loth-cat, tilting his head to the side, heavy-lidded. “Fine,” he capitulates, and then adds a surly, “I love you.”
Obi-Wan says “You have egg on your face,” and exits on that line while dodging the bread roll Anakin lobs at him.
—
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
There is no variation that Anakin doesn’t try, letting loose his confessions like arrows. The clones are used to it. Ahsoka is more than used to it, even joining in, making kissy faces at Anakin and clasping her hands together in a faux-swoon. “I love you too, Skyguy!”
Anakin pulls her under his arm and messes with her montrals, much to her squawked outrage.
Obi-Wan ignores them. He wishes that Anakin would stop digging fingernails under old scabs to keep the wounds fresh, but it’s been six years since that night in the cavern, and he shows no signs of relenting.
But if he’s stubborn, then so is Obi-Wan.
At least Anakin is wise enough that when it comes to the business of war—and it is a thriving business—he focuses on getting things done. Obi-Wan can trust him, insofar as Anakin’s usual egotistical shenanigans will allow. He’s too long used to being the most powerful sentient in any room, accustomed to the Force itself contorting to suit his needs, to being a prodigy. Inevitably, he does kark up, and Obi-Wan is there to save him from his follies.
Though in all fairness, not that Obi-Wan will easily admit it, but Anakin has rescued him in turn more than once or twice. That’s why they’re the Team; they cover each other’s backs.
“What would you have done if I was an alpha?” Ahsoka asks them one day, openly curious.
“Ignoring the fact that Togrutas don’t have secondary genders?” Obi-Wan glances across the ship’s cockpit at Anakin. “Well, there would have had to be… considerations, under normal circumstances,” he answers, since Anakin just lifts an eyebrow at him as if to say go on, then.
“Would I get separated from Skyguy? Really? They actually do that?” Ahsoka hangs over the back of their chairs, not having to stretch much to do so. The cockpit is cramped, built for utility, not comfort. “Why didn’t they separate you two?”
“You think they could have?” Anakin looks amused. “You think I woulda let them, Snips?”
“Dunno. Maybe?” Her head bobs back and forth, studying each of them. It isn’t like they’ve been hiding Anakin’s omega status from her, not with how routinely his implants malfunction, requiring emergency accommodations for all his suppressed heats striking at once, like a burst dam.
“We are an exception to the rule,” Obi-Wan informs her. “Or were, rather. It’s all a moot point by now.”
She hums, unconvinced. So does Anakin, slanting a sideways look in his direction. Obi-Wan isn’t ashamed of his status as an incomplete alpha, it’s a choice that he made for himself, however unconventional. But he’s never told Anakin exactly how he persuaded the Council to let an alpha master and omega Padawan remain together.
It would lead them down a road they have no business traveling.
—
Deep in thought, Obi-Wan gazes out at the vast expanse of stars, oblivious to their beauty. He’s troubled. Morale among the troops is low, a weight cast by recent heavy losses. The Separatists now control a significant swath of manufacturing planets—nothing immediately dire, but repercussions loom on the horizon like the distant rumble of an approaching quake.
The lost planets hold minimal strategic importance, churning out frivolous goods and low-priority optional medical devices, shortages which might only become urgent if the war drags on long enough to deplete stockpiles. But the problem is the public. The flow of commodities that the Republic enjoys has halted, and Obi-Wan fears pressure will be placed on the Senate to direct the GAR to retake these planets, even though their focus would be better served elsewhere. The attempt might even end in failure.
Political interests. His mouth twists bitterly. He despises the machinations of the wealthy, their greedy fingers pulling strings from the shadows, prioritizing their gains over the greater good. If it isn’t the Sith, it seems, then it’s the many who are happily ignorant to how shaky the Republic is, how easily it could topple.
The general public, too, is guilty of this. They don’t view the clones as worthy of respect, don’t hold their lives as sacrosanct, despite the efforts of a few Senators fighting for their rights. Coruscant and the rest of the Inner Core worlds are too safe in their cocoons to fear the encroaching flames of war. To them, it’s a distant issue, white noise in the background as they go about their lives.
The stars outside the plastisteel remain blind to his turmoil. They make a poor audience for his unspoken grievances.
His commlink pings. A text message. From Anakin. Obi-Wan rubs his temples and then opens it, unsure of what to expect.
I can feel you brooding all the way over here. Cheer up. Just give me three days and a squadron, I can retake Polin.
Obi-Wan rolls his eyes but takes the hint to draw his shields firmer around himself. Both the Negotiator and the Resolute drift side by side, two halves of a whole, anchored under the shadow of a rogue moon, using it as protection.
Another ping. You can even come along, if you want. Let’s do it, master. Like the old days. Don’t need the squadron if it’s me and you.
It’s worrying how good Anakin is at offering up the most hackneyed, brutal, potentially illegal solution when restlessness has gnawed at Obi-Wan just enough to be tempted to take him up on that ridiculous suggestion.
He hits the call button.
"Anakin," Obi-Wan begins.
"Yeah, Master?" Anakin responds innocently.
"Please tell me you’re not in the hangar climbing into a fighter.”
Anakin’s chuckle is breathy, sheepish. “No, actually, I’m disassembling my arm. Servos took some hits when we were evacuating. Stings like hell. Ahsoka yelled at me that she could smell the plastic burning.”
"Next time we have leave, you’re building yourself a spare. We can’t afford to lose you because of an ill-timed malfunction.”
There’s a pause, and then Anakin clears his throat, a hint of vulnerability creeping in. "I know, Master. It's just... sometimes it's hard to remember to take care of myself when there's so much going on."
Obi-Wan closes his eyes for a moment. He can picture Anakin clearly, hunched over his mechanical arm, glove peeled off, gears and wires exposed. "You have Ahsoka, and you have me. Lean on us."
"Yeah, I know. But you're not much help if you're brooding in your cabin."
Obi-Wan snorts. He fiddles with the sleeve of his jacket, realizing that it’s late and he hasn’t even removed his uniform. He gets so few hours of sleep at night as is, wasting them is a crime. "Fair point. I'll try to be less… broody.” Or at the very least, he plans to shield better.
"Good. Because I need you, Master. We all do."
Obi-Wan's chest goes tight. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
There’s a brief silence like both of them are holding their breath, unsure of how to move on. Finally, Anakin lets out a soft huff. “We’re a mess as generals.”
Isn’t that the truth? The irony is not lost on Obi-Wan. “And yet we make an impressive team.”
Anakin’s smile is audible. "We make the Team.” There’s a pneumatic hiss like a valve releasing; he’s still working on his arm. "Now go to karking sleep.”
A sense of peace settles over Obi-Wan. As if, given permission, he can finally rest. "Goodnight, Anakin. And... thank you."
“Mn? What for?”
"For the reminder that neither of us is alone.”
—
Several minutes after the call disconnects, Anakin sends Obi-Wan another message. It’s only pixels on the screen, yet it’s accompanied by a distant glow in the Force that tastes like wistfulness.
I love you.
—
The rugged terrain of Vortia III reverberates with blaster fire and shouts. Sweat trickles down Obi-Wan's temples, his arms stiff from overuse as he deflects another barrage of pulse shots with his lightsaber. What should have been a straightforward victory has turned into a chaotic struggle since the arrival of armored walkers, and although they are pushing back the Separatists, every inch gained comes at a steep cost in lives.
Behind him, the crackle of ongoing communications blends with the din of battle. The governing body of Vortia insists on their neutrality, repeatedly urging them to leave as if they were unwelcome guests overstaying their welcome rather than the planet's only defenders.
He wonders if the Separatists are receiving similar complaints. It's a rare moment of kinship with the enemy.
The Force nudges at him, a persistent unease deeper than the immediate violence. There's a tug in his gut, a sensation he typically associates with—
Anakin.
His Padawan is engaged along with the 501st Legion, disrupting enemy supply lines and providing flank support. The last report from Anakin had come nearly an hour ago—too long ago for comfort.
Obi-Wan falls back, letting three clone troopers take his place. They cover him as he navigates toward an ad hoc command center amidst the chaos. He doesn't inquire about the 501st's status from his men; instead, he reaches out directly to Anakin via commlink.
"Anakin," he calls out, his voice steady amid the chaos. "Anakin, do you read me?"
A burst of static precedes Anakin's response. “Sorry master, kinda busy!”
True, Obi-Wan thinks, but concern creases his brow nonetheless. “Anakin, something feels wrong. Can you sense it?”
"No," Anakin says curtly. "I don't sense anything."
Before Obi-Wan can probe further, the communication abruptly cuts off. He stares at his commlink, a sense of disquiet settling over him like a shroud.
That... is not Anakin’s typical response.
“General! The Vartian president is requesting aid; a Separatist ship exploded over the city!”
Damn. Obi-Wan redirects his focus, switching to aid and rescue mode. “Commander, take over for me,” he orders, and contacts Ahsoka, who’d been trapped in the capitol when the city had gone into lockdown.
“Master Kenobi! Did you see that? Was that us? Did we bring it down?” she shouts at him; she’s clearly already on her way to ground zero.
“I don’t know,” he answers tersely. They have no fighters up in the air due to Vartia’s threat to launch missiles if GAR violated their airspace. If anyone is to blame for this disaster, it's likely the Vartians themselves, but that offers little solace to the wounded civilians.
In the grueling hours that follow, as they assist local emergency services, navigating through blazing buildings and dispatching surviving droids, Obi-Wan's thoughts keep returning to Anakin. The undercurrent of unease from the Force persists like a toothache, yet Anakin's shields are drawn tightly around him; nothing gets through.
Later, when Obi-Wan finally finds a moment to rest, he calls Anakin who is still out in the field, but their conversation is brusque with updates on casualties and deciding how to secure perimeters, when to initiate the next phase of operations. By the time Obi-Wan can finally close his eyes and sleep in his own bed, he’s been awake for 93 hours, and he’s too exhausted to listen to the Force’s low murmurs.
—
When he wakes up, it’s to Ahsoka shaking him hard enough that she’s almost pushing him off the cot. “Master Kenobi! Master Kenobi!”
He snaps to, all the drowsiness of slumber banished in an instant. Ahsoka isn’t the only one upset; the Force is groaning in distress, and despite the wall that’s been erected in their frayed training bond, he senses Anakin’s pain.
“Where is he?” He jerks his boots on. “How bad are his injuries?” Sithspit, he should have known, he should have pressed, should have insisted Anakin come see him in person instead of avoiding him. Or gone to him—except he couldn’t have shirked his responsibilities, not as a Jedi, not as the damned general he’s been forced to play.
“I don’t know!” Misery roughens her voice. “Skyguy won’t let anyone near him. He bit Kix. He just keeps yelling at us to stay back. He locked himself up in his cabin and won’t come out.”
That jerks him to a stop.
“He… bit someone?” Obi-Wan scans her for signs of a lie, not because he thinks she’s lying so much as hoping she is. “Did you—”
He cuts himself off. Togruta don’t have secondary genders. Neither do the clones; that part of their genetics was removed. The only person who can verify if Anakin is lapsing into heat by smell alone is him.
“Stay here,” he tells Ahsoka, distracted, and runs for the hangar.
“Anakin, I’m coming in.”
In the tense corridor of the Resolute, Obi-Wan's command cuts through the urgency like a surgeon's scalpel.
“No!”
Obi-Wan ignores the cry from within. He sweeps a gaze over the troopers hanging in the hallway, their armor gleaming under the harsh lights, some of it still speckled with blood and mud. He signals for them to step back, knowing that Anakin is too overwhelmed to make much of a distinction between friend and foe at the moment, between danger and pack. A panicked omega strikes first and asks questions later.
Kix is present in the group, holding a large aid kit. His left hand is heavily bandaged up; blood seeps through anyway. “Sir,” he intones gravely, offering the kit to Obi-Wan before nodding and retreating a respectful distance away from the door. If there’s anyone on the Resolute who understands exactly what’s happening, it’s Anakin’s chief medic, who already has experience with the ATS implant failures.
“You are all dismissed. Kix, prepare the medbay.”
With a final nod, the troopers disperse, leaving Obi-Wan alone with the door barring him from Anakin. He hesitates only briefly before overriding the security protocols. It’s a move born of necessity. As High General of the 7th Sky Corps, he has authority over the ship's systems, yet this intrusion feels like a violation.
Anakin certainly will view it as one.
Doing this doesn’t make him feel good, no matter that it’s an emergency and that he’s sick with worry, that every atom that constitutes his being is straining at him to hurry up, Anakin is hurt, Anakin is in pain, Anakin needs you.
The door slides open, and it’s only Obi-Wan’s reflexes that save him from the tablet hurtling through the air. He ducks and the tablet crashes into the hallway wall behind him.
“Anakin!” Obi-Wan snaps, and then makes the fatal mistake of inhaling; the smell of the room hits him like a wave, drenching him in a shower of rain and sand poppies.
“Out!” Anakin snarls from the shadowy corner where he crouches, trying to make himself small, to vanish. His eyes are glittering, skin pallid save except for the feverish red blotches on his cheeks. When Obi-Wan doesn’t move, his extended canines flash. “Get out, Obi-Wan!”
Obi-Wan lurches inside, the door sealing them in. "Don’t be ridiculous," he bristles, ignoring the primal part of his brain screaming at him to soothe, to take care of his omega. "You need me."
The absurdity of the statement stuns Anakin into silence, a silence that’s broken only by the sizzle of the Force, snapping and crackling between them like live wires.
"I needed you years ago!" Anakin's voice is a raw, jagged thing, glass slashing through arteries. "I don't need you now!"
Obi-Wan flinches. The accusation is well-aimed, piercing right through to the core of him. He swallows hard and reminds himself that Anakin is in trouble, that he’s in pain, that he'll say anything to defend himself.
“Your implant is failing.” Obi-Wan places the aid kit on the floor, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. If he were wiser, more disciplined, he might regulate his breathing to function amidst Anakin's overwhelming pheromones. But he isn’t wise enough; it turns out he’s greedy; it turns out that Anakin smells good to him, like a peach he wants to tear into, lick open whole. "Let’s get you to medbay. It'll be easier on your body, you know this. Kix can help."
Why Anakin didn’t follow procedure as soon as he realized what was wrong is a question for another time. The blame game won’t get them out of this situation. Obi-Wan focuses on projecting calm, control, safety, as he takes a step forward.
A heartbreaking wail is wrenched from Anakin’s throat. ”No, he can't,” he gasps, scrubbing his face with fisted hands.
Obi-Wan pitches his voice low, using the timbre of his secondary gender deliberately. “Yes, he can,” he says, tone brooking no dissent. “He’ll access the implant and order it to inject the final dose, easing the pain, like always. You don’t h—”
Watery blue eyes glare up at him. “No, he can’t,” Anakin stresses, spitting the words out like blaster shots. His chest rises and falls erratically.
“Why not, dearheart?” The endearment slips out naturally; Obi-Wan doesn’t notice he uses it. He’s close enough now to almost touch the top of Anakin's head, close enough to feel the palpable heat rolling off him, to realize that the rainwater smell is slick.
His treasonous body reacts with a flash of visceral want. Obi-Wan recoils. This is alien to him, and now, of all times—
But it has to be now, doesn’t it? This is the first time that Obi-Wan isn’t repulsed by the pervasive, demanding siren’s call of an omega’s heat; his shock isn’t from the usual disgust of control of his body being wrenched from him, reduced to something ugly and bestial, feral; it’s from recognizing that of course this is what was missing all along. This is what he was waiting for, unconsciously.
For Anakin. Not an omega, just infuriating, funny, narcissistic Anakin.
Anakin has buried his face into his knees, impossibly wedging himself tighter in the corner. He mumbles something that Obi-Wan doesn’t catch.
“What was that?” Obi-Wan kneels down, tired of looming over Anakin. He places the tips of his fingers on Anakin’s boot, deeming it the safest place to initiate physical contact. “Can you repeat that again, please, dearheart?” This time he hears it, hears how tenderly his voice wraps around the vowels, how warm air flows across his tongue on dearheart, stripped of pretenses and distance.
Anakin's shoulders shake as he mutters again, the words clearer this time. "There’s no implant. It’s—" His voice cracks, a fault line splitting open. "It malfunctioned weeks ago, and I took it out. There aren’t any replacements. Not since we lost Polin and Sector A94.”
The shortage.
Obi-Wan shifts closer, hand still resting lightly on Anakin’s boot, a grounding touch. Anakin—Anakin’s been avoiding him lately, hasn’t he? Easy enough to do when the Republic is imploding around them and there’s too few Jedi Generals to go around. He just didn’t, until that very moment, realize that there might be something else to that.
I’m a fool. A fool that hadn’t looked closely enough at the manifests, hadn’t followed the logic that elective medical devices might also cover ATS implants. Now his foolishness has come home to roost, and Anakin has been fighting this battle by himself.
It’s not a pleasant realization to have.
“Since when?” Obi-Wan asks.
Anakin minutely shakes his head. His gilded mechanical fingers clutch at his sweat-soaked hair, fear and frustration souring the rainwater scent.
“Anakin, the only thing I care about right now is figuring out how to help you. Let me.”
“Long enough.”
The admission hangs in the air, heavy and laden with mortification. Without an implant, even a defective one, Anakin is completely at the mercy of his biology for the first time since his presentation, with nowhere to turn. What has he been doing all this time? How could he function like this? Has it been this bad all along?
Obi-Wan feels the crack in his own composure, the fissure where his feelings for Anakin seep through. He shifts to sit beside Anakin, shoulder to shoulder, the warmth of their bodies a fragile bridge. To his great relief, Anakin allows it without flinching away—although that might have something to do with how tightly he’s wedged against the wall.
He’d say he doesn’t know which of them needs the contact more, except Anakin only holds out for a few seconds before Obi-Wan suddenly is the one pinned to the wall. He’s not shoved away, he’s being pulled and pushed into position for Anakin to bury his face into his throat.
“Careful,” he starts to protest, and then falls mute at how hot Anakin’s skin is, how Anakin’s lips on his pulse feel like a brand—and also at the unhappy whine Anakin lets out, which has to be involuntary, too high-pitched and defenseless.
What in the world can he do in the face of that other than to tip his head back further and rub his hand down Anakin’s spine?
The sour note of unhappiness dissipates, flooding the room again with the bright, citrusy tang of sand poppies and freshwater rain. Anakin rubs his nose and cheeks against Obi-Wan’s throat, inevitably making his way to the sensitive mating gland that Obi-Wan has ignored all his life. It’s a barely-there bump underneath the skin, nothing remarkable about it to him, other than it hurts like blazes to get punched there.
The tip of Anakin's nose grazes over it and Obi-Wan’s hand spasms, fingers digging into Anakin’s hip as a sharp bolt of arousal rocks through him. He’s barely gathered his wits when Anakin follows up by sliding his lips across the mating gland, and then licks it with the flat of his tongue.
They both shudder and groan.
“Anakin—”
“Black sugar,” Anakin mutters, and swipes his tongue again, flat and searing, sending spikes through Obi-Wan’s skull, igniting fireworks behind his eyelids. “I always wondered—you never let me get close enough,” he continues, his voice dreamy, like a spice addict lost in fantasy.
And maybe it’s the power of suggestion, but Obi-Wan can smell it now, a dark, smoky sweetness. Anakin has fitted their bodies together like he’d long ago figured out the logistics of it, was waiting to put theory into practice, and every breath Obi-Wan takes is one Anakin exhales.
A distant part of his mind observes that if he has a scent, then it’s already too late. They might not be having sex in the clinical sense of it, but Obi-Wan can’t pretend that his gums aren’t itching, that his chest isn’t rumbling in contentment—a distinctly alpha purr that Anakin soaks up like a dry riverbank.
But he’s not mindless. He is a Jedi, he is Anakin’s master, his friend, and he isn’t Anakin’s alpha.
Not yet.
“Why did you never want me?” Anakin demands, following his train of thought. “I love you, I love you, how many times do I have to tell you?”
Horrifyingly, there’s a new wetness on Obi-Wan’s skin, dripping down into his collar. Anakin is crying, even as he rages, even as he continues nuzzling, rubbing up against Obi-Wan like—no, he is scent-marking.
He’s scent-marking them both.
All Obi-Wan can say is, “I was waiting.”
He hadn’t realized he was.
“Anakin—”
“I love you.”
“I know.” Obi-Wan shudders, his cock hard against his thigh, thrilled at the constant friction of Anakin’s restless squirming. There’s a new kind of distress now intertwining with their scents, more rainwater, like the world is flooding, and he can feel how much pain Anakin is in, how the emptiness between his legs gnaws at him, how bitterly he takes Obi-Wan’s perceived rejection but is too far gone to pull away. “I know; let me help you.”
Anakin freezes. “What?” He draws back far enough to blink at Obi-Wan, lips parted in surprise.
“I—we must talk,” Obi-Wan explains in a rush. Saying 'I love you' like this, for him, will come off forced, unnatural; he needs to think, to digest, to fit this new piece of information about himself into the jigsaw of Obi-Wan Kenobi that he thought had long ago been completed. “Later. We must talk later. But you need me right now.” Obi-Wan frames Anakin’s cheek with his free hand, and the other leans into it, shivering. “I can ease the pain.”
“Will you knot me?” Anakin’s stare is dark, the blue nearly swallowed up by his pupils.
Obi-Wan shakes his head. He’s never even popped a knot before, and now isn’t the time for that, either. His thumb rubs along the edge of Anakin’s cheekbone. “Be patient with me. I’ll make it worth your while,” he promises, and isn’t surprised when Anakin scoffs in disgust and throws his arms around Obi-Wan’s neck, slamming their mouths together.
It’s an aggravated, long-denied kiss that screams that Anakin has been patient for years already, are you serious, the Force is vibrating with Anakin’s exasperation and longing, and Obi-Wan can’t deny that he might be asking too much, but he means it; he’s going to make it worth Anakin’s while.
He gentles the kiss by stroking Anakin’s hair, his nape, massaging the tense muscles of his shoulders, and eventually Anakin yields to pleasure rather than irritation, though Obi-Wan’s lips and tongue sting from sharp nips by the time they pause for air, foreheads pressed together.
“Let me,” Obi-Wan says, for the sake of saying something, and Anakin nods, then bites his lip to stifle a cry when Obi-Wan slides a hand into his trousers, plotting out the easiest route past the layers Anakin is still wearing.
Anakin is soaked with slick and sweat, his thighs slippery, everything hot and soft except for his cock, which Obi-Wan rubs appreciatively, running his fingers down the length, learning the shape that he can’t see. There’s a steady stream of husky moans now at his ear as Anakin can’t make up his mind whether to hide his face and nuzzle Obi-Wan or let his back arch, hips thrusting up into the touch.
Obi-Wan follows his instincts. He knows how to pleasure himself, after all, and Anakin is an open book, his breaths stuttering and picking up as Obi-Wan slides his other hand in from behind. While his right strokes and pulls, the left delves into the blazing inferno at Anakin’s core without resistance.
“That’s it, let me take care of you,” he cajoles, testing a second finger, and then a third when there’s little resistance. That’s enough, he hopes, as a temporary substitute for a knot. He curls his fingers upwards, and it’s for the best that he wasn’t expecting a reply from Anakin, because he goes rigid under Obi-Wan’s ministration, mouth parted in a soundless cry.
Obi-Wan is a quick learner when it comes to all things Anakin. He curls his fingers again in the exact same way, and Anakin jerks back to life, panting and riding his lap, mechanical and flesh hands alike clutching Obi-Wan’s shoulders. Every thrust forward is a wet slide against Obi-Wan’s palm, and every thrust back is a grind against his calloused fingers. Anakin’s eyelashes flutter shut, cheeks colored pink, and he’s the most beautiful sight Obi-Wan has ever seen.
When he bucks and gasps, clenching down on Obi-Wan’s fingers, it’s almost anticlimactic, the way he buries his face into the crook of Obi-Wan’s shoulder, hiding his expression, except Obi-Wan is humming reassurance, purring with his whole chest in a strange flare of pride bordering on smugness. He did that.
He made Anakin come.
The room is saturated with their scents, no doubt stained into the sheets and their clothing; nothing is spared. No fresher will remove evidence of what they’ve done, and perhaps he’ll be concerned about that later, when he also has the capacity to consider solutions and plans of action.
For now, Obi-Wan continues lazily stroking and stimulating Anakin, fingers idly toying with his rim, easing him down from the peak only to get him halfway there again before he realizes what’s happening.
There’s a lot that Obi-Wan intends to make up for.