Work Text:
1. The Proposal
The tea was, Obi-Wan reflected, perfectly dreadful.
He set the cup down gently, having attended far too many tedious functions and learned to suffer in silence. The porcelain clinked against the saucer. Across from him, Lord Palpatine smiled. The man seemed to believe himself to be the cleverest person in the room.
Perhaps he was. Obi-Wan had yet to decide.
“I do hope you’re enjoying your tea,” Palpatine said, steepling his fingers. “Imported especially. I find that the finer things in life deserve… care.”
“Exquisite,” Obi-Wan lied smoothly. “You are far too generous, my lord.”
Palpatine waved a hand, dismissing the compliment. “Nonsense. I know how busy you are, Duke Kenobi. The responsibilities of your estate, the demands of the Crown, the endless parade of matchmaking mamas—” He chuckled, a dry, papery sound. “I imagine you hardly have a moment to yourself.”
Obi-Wan’s smile remained fixed. And here it comes.
“You’ve been remarkably resistant to marriage,” Palpatine continued, leaning forward. “A duke of your standing, your connections—why, the ladies of the ton must be positively desperate to secure your hand. And yet you remain stubbornly, admirably single.”
“Call it a personal failing,” Obi-Wan said. “I find that one’s freedom is rather precious. And I have yet to meet anyone who made me wish to part with it.”
Palpatine’s eyes glittered. “Ah, yes. Well.” He paused, drawing out the moment like a particularly tedious minuet. “I may have a solution to that particular… impasse.”
Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow, playing along. “Oh?”
“I have a ward,” Palpatine said, as if he were offering a particularly fine vintage. “A young man of excellent breeding. Quite handsome, if that’s what you’re looking for—though I admit he has a certain… fire to his temperament. A wildness, perhaps. But I’m told such qualities can be… tamed. With the right company.”
“An intriguing offer,” he said cautiously. “But I confess, my lord, I don’t quite understand. You’re proposing a marriage? To a man I’ve never met?”
“Youth is so easily corrected,” Palpatine said, waving his hand again. “And think of the advantages. A handsome spouse to grace your arm at functions. A warm companion for your… quieter evenings. And, of course, the political benefits of our alliance would be—”
“Substantial,” Obi-Wan finished dryly. “Yes. I’d gathered as much.”
Palpatine beamed, mistaking Obi-Wan’s neutrality for acceptance. “Excellent! I knew you were a man of sense, Your Grace. Now, if you’ll allow me, I’ll summon the boy. He’s been waiting in the next room.”
Before Obi-Wan could protest—not that he would have; he was far too curious, something his Uncle Qui-Gon constantly chided him for—Palpatine rang a small bell. The door to the study swung open, and a servant gestured for someone to enter.
Obi-Wan had been prepared for a nervous youth. A shy creature, perhaps, tugged along by Palpatine’s machinations. A pretty, docile thing who would simper and blush and do exactly as he was told.
He was not prepared for this.
The young man who stalked into the room was magnificent. Tall and lean, with a jaw set like granite and eyes that burned almost cobalt. His clothes were fine—Palpatine had clearly dressed him for this occasion—but they sat on him like a cage. His hair was a wild tumble of gold, and his hands, Obi-Wan noticed, were clenched into fists at his sides.
He looked like a hurricane in human form. He looked like he was three seconds away from setting the entire room on fire.
The composure that Obi-Wan prided himself on, held a kingdom up on, wavered for just a fraction of a second.
Oh, he thought, with a strange, fluttering sensation in his chest. Oh, he’s going to be the death of me.
“Lord Palpatine,” the young man said, his voice tight with barely suppressed rage. “You said there was a matter of importance to discuss.”
Palpatine smiled, utterly unbothered by the venom in his ward’s tone. “Anakin, my boy. Come, come—no need to be so formal. Duke Kenobi, may I present my ward, Anakin Skywalker.”
Anakin’s gaze snapped to Obi-Wan, his expressive face flickering between several emotions—surprise, suspicion, horror.
“The Duke has graciously agreed to consider a union,” Palpatine was saying. “A marriage of mutual benefit. Isn’t that wonderful, Anakin? You could be his consort.”
Anakin went still. “His what?”
“A consort,” Palpatine repeated. “I’ve arranged for you to marry the Duke. He’s an excellent match—wealthy, well-connected—I’m sure you’ll agree.”
A deafening silence followed.
Anakin turned to Obi-Wan. “Is this true?” Anakin demanded. “You’re buying me? Like livestock?”
Obi-Wan, to his credit, did not flinch. He set down his teacup calmly. “I assure you, Anakin, I don’t purchase people. I was merely… presented with the opportunity.”
“Opportunity?” Anakin scoffed. “You—”
“Anakin,” Palpatine said. “You will control yourself.”
Anakin turned on him, practically vibrating with rage. “You sold me!”
“I provided you with a future,” Palpatine said. “A future far grander than anything you could have achieved on your own.”
Obi-Wan watched the exchange with growing fascination. This was not a negotiation. This was a verdict. Palpatine had already made the decision; he was merely informing Anakin of his duty.
And Anakin—beautiful, furious Anakin—was fighting a battle he’d already lost.
“Lord Palpatine,” Obi-Wan said, his voice cutting through the tension. “Might I have a moment with my… intended?”
Palpatine blinked, then smiled. "Of course. I'll leave you to get acquainted." He rose, his joints cracking slightly, and glided toward the door. Before he left, he paused, placing a hand on Anakin's shoulder. "Be pleasant, Anakin. I won't have you ruining this."
He left, closing the door softly behind him.
Obi-Wan studied Anakin—the tension in his shoulders, the white-knuckled grip of his hands, the wild, trapped look in his eyes. He looked like a cornered animal.
He rose from his chair gracefully, moving to the sideboard to pour himself another cup of tea. “You’ll forgive the intrusion,” he said mildly. “I assure you, I had no idea you were being… volunteered. I was simply invited for tea.”
Anakin stared at him, uncomprehending. “What?”
Obi-Wan shrugged. “It seems we’re both victims of Lord Palpatine’s machinations. Though I have to say—” He turned, cup in hand, and offered Anakin a small, genuine smile. “He could have chosen a far less interesting companion.”
Anakin blinked. "I—what?"
"You're angry," Obi-Wan observed. "Rightfully so. I would be too. But I find that getting angry at the wrong person rarely solves anything." He held out the teacup. "Tea? It's dreadful, but it's something to do with one's hands."
Anakin stared at the cup like it might bite him. Then, reluctantly, he took it. His fingers brushed Obi-Wan's. The contact was brief, but Obi-Wan felt a spark.
Interesting.
Obi-Wan studied the furious young man before him, the teacup trembling slightly in Anakin’s grip. The porcelain would likely shatter if he held it much longer.
“Lord Palpatine does not offer choices,” Obi-Wan said quietly. “He offers verdicts. You know this as well as I do.”
Anakin’s jaw tightened. “So you expect me to be grateful that he offered me to you instead of someone worse?”
“No.” Obi-Wan held his gaze. “I expect you to be realistic.”
He set down his own cup and crossed to the window, giving Anakin space. The gardens below were immaculate—Palpatine’s gardens always were. Perfectly controlled. Perfectly arranged.
“Let me paint you a picture,” Obi-Wan continued. “You refuse this arrangement. You storm out of the room, humiliate Palpatine in front of a duke, and make your feelings abundantly clear. What happens next?”
Anakin said nothing.
Obi-Wan turned. “He finds you a different match. Someone less patient than I am. Someone who won’t offer you tea, or conversation, or the dignity of a choice.”
“You mean the illusion of one?”
“Touché. As I was saying, he might marry you to a man twice your age—”
“Aren’t you twi—”
Obi-Wan didn’t take the bait. “—who expects… services. Or he might simply decide you’re more trouble than you’re worth and dispose of you in a way that leaves no scandal attached to his name.”
Anakin’s face had gone pale, but his eyes still burned. “You don’t know that.”
“I know him. I’ve sat in this very room a dozen times, watching him arrange people like chess pieces. And I’ve learned that the only way to survive Palpatine’s games is to appear to play along while quietly changing the rules.”
Anakin laughed bitterly after a long silence. “So you’re saying I should marry you to save myself? How noble of you.”
“Not noble,” Obi-Wan said. “Pragmatic. I don’t want to be Palpatine’s pawn any more than you do. But I do want to see what he’s building, and I can’t do that if I alienate him. A marriage to you gives me access to his inner circle. It also gives you…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “It gives you a shield.”
Anakin’s grip on the teacup loosened, just slightly. “A shield.”
“Palpatine’s control over you ends the moment you’re under my protection. You would belong to me. You would have status, resources, and distance from him. And I would make no demands on you beyond the public performance.”
Anakin stared at him. “You expect me to believe you’d just… leave me alone?”
“I expect you to decide whether you trust me enough to find out.”
The teacup was set down on the sideboard carefully. Anakin’s hands were steadier now, his expression still guarded, but the wild, trapped look had softened into something more calculating.
"If I agree to this," Anakin said slowly, "you will give me your word. Here. Now. That you won't touch me. That you won't try to control me. That this is a partnership, not a prison."
Obi-Wan met his gaze without flinching. "You have my word. As a gentleman, and as a duke, and as a man who despises Palpatine as much as you do. This is a marriage of convenience. Nothing more."
“One year,” Anakin said. “I’ll give you one year. And then I’m gone.”
Obi-Wan nodded. “One year. And if at the end of that year you wish to leave, I will not stop you.”
Anakin extended his hand. Obi-Wan took it, the spark returning.
“Good,” Obi-Wan said quietly. “Then we have an accord.”
***
2. The Engagement Ball
The ballroom of Lord Palpatine’s townhouse was a masterwork of calculated excess. Crystal chandeliers dripped with candles, casting warm light over silk gowns and diamond-studded cravats. The cream of London society had turned out in force, not because they loved Palpatine—no one loved Palpatine—but because the announcement of the elusive Duke of Stewjon’s engagement was too delicious to miss.
Obi-Wan stood near the refreshment table, a glass of champagne in hand, watching the crowd with his practiced detachment. He smiled, nodded, and kept an eye on the doors.
Where is he?
Palpatine had promised Anakin would be ready in time. Obi-Wan had his doubts. The young man had looked ready to commit murder when they’d parted ways after the study; dressing him up and parading him before the ton seemed like a recipe for disaster.
Delicious, glorious disaster.
“Your Grace.”
Obi-Wan turned to find Lady Satine Kryze at his elbow, her expression something between curiosity and amusement. She was one of the few people in London who could make him genuinely smile.
“Satine,” he said warmly. “I was wondering when you’d appear.”
“Appear?” She arched an elegant brow. “My dear Duke, I’ve been here for an hour. You were too busy charming Lady Ashworth to notice anyone else.”
“Lady Ashworth was telling me about her pug,” Obi-Wan said with a sigh. “I was merely being polite.”
“You were being strategic. I saw the way you angled her toward Lord Bering. Now she’s cornering him about breeding rights, and he looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole.”
Obi-Wan’s smile turned a shade more genuine. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“Of course you don’t.” Satine studied him with sharp eyes. “So. Are you going to tell me the truth about this engagement, or am I going to have to drag it out of you with a pair of tongs?”
Obi-Wan took a sip of his champagne. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Obi-Wan. We’ve known each other too long for that. You vanish from society for three months and return with the announcement that you’re marrying Palpatine’s ward, and you expect me to believe this is a love match?”
“People fall in love in mysterious ways.”
“People fall in love. You fall into arrangements. What’s the play?”
Obi-Wan hesitated. Satine was one of the few people he trusted—perhaps the only one, now that Qui-Gon was gone. But this was delicate. Palpatine had eyes everywhere.
“The play,” he said quietly. “Is survival. For both of us.”
Satine’s expression flickered with understanding. She squeezed his arm gently. “I’ll reserve judgment until I’ve met the boy. Where is he?”
Obi-Wan opened his mouth to reply, but just then the doors at the far end of the ballroom opened, and Obi-Wan choked.
Anakin Skywalker stood in the doorway.
Whoever had dressed him had done their job well. His coat was deep blue velvet, a perfect match for his eyes, tailored to emphasize the breadth of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist. His cravat was simple, his hair tamed into something that still managed to look artfully disheveled.
He looked like a prince.
He looked like he wanted to murder everyone in the room.
Obi-Wan’s breath caught. He covered it with another sip of champagne, but Satine noticed anyway.
“Ah,” she murmured. “I see why you said yes. You always were weak for a pretty face.”
Obi-Wan shot her a warning glance. “Satine.”
“I’m just saying. He’s beautiful. And he looks like he’s about to set fire to the curtains. I approve.”
“You approve of arson? Aren’t you famously a pacifist?”
“I approve of spirit.” She nudged him forward. “Go. Your future husband looks like he needs rescuing from Lady Ashworth. She’s already cornered him.”
Obi-Wan looked, and indeed, Lady Ashworth had descended upon Anakin like a particularly enthusiastic vulture. Anakin was staring at her blankly, lips pursed and arms stiff at his sides.
Rescue mission it is.
Obi-Wan crossed the room, ensuring his smile was firmly in place as he approached. “Anakin, my dear. There you are.” He slid his arm through Anakin’s, drawing him away from Lady Ashworth with a polite nod. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
Anakin shot him a look of pure venom. “Have you?”
“I have. Lady Ashworth, forgive us. We have a dance scheduled, and I’m afraid I’m quite possessive of my fiancé’s time.”
Lady Ashworth nodded and drifted away. Obi-Wan steered Anakin toward a quieter corner, maintaining his grip on his arm.
“Thank you,” Anakin muttered through gritted teeth. “She was telling me about her pug.”
“Consider it an initiation. She told me as well.”
“Do all your friends talk about pugs?”
“Only the ones who have nothing more interesting to discuss.” Obi-Wan glanced at him sideways. “You look well. Palpatine’s people did an excellent job.”
“I look like a doll dressed up for a party,” Anakin said flatly.
“You look like a duke’s consort. Which, I suppose, is the point.” Obi-Wan released his arm, stepping back just enough to give them both space. “I know this is difficult. But you’re doing remarkably well. I half expected you to throw something.”
“I’m saving it for later.”
“Excellent. I do appreciate a man with plans.” Obi-Wan glanced around, noting the curious glances they were attracting. “We should dance. It’ll make the engagement seem more… genuine.”
Anakin’s eyes widened. “Dance?”
“You do know how, I assume? If not, I’m happy to instruct you. I’m a very patient teacher.”
“I know how to dance. That’s not—” Anakin broke off, visibly frustrated. “Everyone’s watching.”
“Everyone’s always watching. That’s the point. If we don’t give them something to talk about, they’ll make up their own stories. Trust me, you’d rather be the subject of a romantic waltz than a scandalous rumor.” Obi-Wan extended his hand. “Shall we, darling?”
Anakin stared at his hand like it was a snake. Then, grudgingly, he took it.
They moved onto the floor as the orchestra struck up a waltz. Obi-Wan placed his hand on Anakin’s lower back, guiding him into the rhythm. Anakin was stiff at first, his steps mechanical, his gaze fixed somewhere over Obi-Wan’s shoulder.
“Relax,” Obi-Wan murmured. “You’re dancing like you’re attending a funeral.”
“Maybe I am,” Anakin muttered back. “The death of my freedom.”
Obi-Wan’s hand tightened slightly on his back. “We’ve had this conversation. You have my word.”
“Your word.” Anakin’s eyes finally met his, and there was something so pained in them that Obi-Wan’s chest ached in tandem. “I don’t know you. I don’t trust you. And everyone in this room is looking at me like I’m a prize.”
“You’re my prize,” Obi-Wan said brusquely. “And I tend to honor our agreement, regardless of what anyone in this room thinks.”
Anakin was silent for a long moment, the dance carrying them across the floor. Then, reluctantly, his posture loosened.
“You’re not what I expected,” Anakin admitted.
Obi-Wan’s lips twitched. “I rarely am.”
Anakin looked away. “You’re being… decent. About this. It’s confusing.”
“Apologies. I’ll try to be more monstrous next time.”
Despite everything, Anakin’s mouth twitched. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was close. “I hate you.”
“Noted.”
They finished the dance in silence, but something had changed. Anakin was still tense, still wary, but the walls had cracked just slightly. Obi-Wan gleefully catalogued the shift.
One year, he reminded himself. Just one year.
The thought was unexpectedly unpleasant.
***
3. The Wedding
The royal chapel was small, intimate, and utterly suffocating.
Obi-Wan stood at the altar, resplendent in deep grey silk, his cravat perfectly starched, his expression—if he did say so himself—breaking glass ceilings of composition and serenity. The pews behind him held a curated selection of guests. Palpatine, of course, was there, beaming like a spider who’d just caught a particularly fat fly; Satine, watching with sharp, knowing eyes; and a handful of other lords and ladies who had been invited more for the political usefulness than their personal connections.
The organ played. The doors opened.
And Anakin Skywalker walked down the aisle like a man approaching his own execution.
His coat was ivory—Palpatine’s choice, no doubt, meant to emphasize his youth and innocence. He wore a single sapphire at his throat, the same shade as his eyes. His hair had been tamed into soft waves, and his face was carefully, heartbreakingly blank.
But his hands were shaking.
Obi-Wan noticed. He noticed the tension in Anakin’s shoulders, the way his jaw was set so tight it must have ached, the barely suppressed rage in those brilliant blue eyes. He noticed, and something in his chest twisted.
I’m sorry, he thought. I’m sorry this is how it has to be.
Anakin reached the altar, and the priest began to speak. The words washed over Obi-Wan in a blur—duty, love, honor, commitment.
All the things he’d never expected to have, all the things he’d convinced himself he didn’t want.
“And do you, Anakin Skywalker, take this man to be your lawful husband?’
“I do,” Anakin whispered.
“And do you, Obi-Wan Kenobi, take this man to be your lawful husband?”
Obi-Wan looked at Anakin, at the fear and anger and fragility flickering behind those lovely eyes.
“I do,” Obi-Wan said, and meant it far more than he expected.
The rings were exchanged. The vows were spoken. The priest pronounced them husband and husband, and Obi-Wan leaned in to press a chaste kiss to Anakin’s lips.
It was brief, barely a brush of skin. But Anakin’s lips were soft and warm, and Obi-Wan felt the spark again.
He pulled back. Anakin’s eyes were wide, bewildered.
“You may kiss your groom,” the priest said again, misinterpreting the pause.
Obi-Wan’s composure cracked just slightly as he leaned in again. This time, Anakin met him halfway. It was still chaste, still proper. But there was something else there that sent Obi-Wan’s heart halfway past his ribs.
When they pulled apart, Anakin’s expression was different; something new had joined the mix.
Curiosity, Obi-Wan thought. That’s dangerous.
***
4. The Wedding Night
The carriage ride to Stewjon had been silent.
Anakin had pressed himself against the window, watching the London streets give way to countryside, his reflection a ghost in the glass. Obi-Wan had sat across from him, hands folded, reading the evening paper by the dim light of the carriage lamps. He’d offered conversation twice. Anakin had answered in monosyllables both times.
Now they stood in the master suite at Stewjon Manor, the door clicking shut behind them, and the silence was deafening.
Anakin stood rigid in the center of the room, his ivory coat still pristine, his hands clenched at his sides. He looked like a man bracing for an attack—shoulders hunched, jaw tight, eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape route.
The massive four-poster bed dominated the far wall. Draped in deep blue silk, it looked obscenely comfortable. And obscenely large.
Obi-Wan watched Anakin’s gaze land on the bed and linger. Watched his throat work as he swallowed.
He’s terrified, Obi-Wan realized. He’s genuinely terrified.
“Anakin,” he said gently.
Anakin flinched. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t—” Anakin’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat, trying again. “Don’t pretend to be kind. Don’t make this worse by pretending you’re not going to—” He broke off, gesturing wildly at the bed.
Obi-Wan followed his gesture, then looked back at Anakin’s face. The fear was so raw and so unmasked that something twisted excruciatingly in Obi-Wan’s chest.
“Anakin,” he said again, and this time his voice was softer. “I’m not going to touch you.”
Anakin stared at him. “What?”
“I’m not going to touch you,” Obi-Wan repeated. “Not tonight. Not ever, unless you ask me to.”
Anakin’s expression flickered between confusion, disbelief, and a desperate, fragile hope. “You—you’re lying. You’re just saying that so I’ll—”
“I don’t bed unwilling partners, Anakin.”
The words hung heavily, strangely.
Anakin’s composure wavered. “But—the marriage. Everyone expects—”
“Everyone expects a great many things,” Obi-Wan said calmly. “That doesn’t mean I have to give them what they want.” He crossed to the fireplace, adding another log, giving Anakin space. “I told you before. This is a partnership. Nothing more. I meant what I said.”
Anakin’s hands shook. “I don’t understand.”
“I'm not going to use you, Anakin. You're not a tool. You're not a pawn. You're not my property. Now,” Obi-Wan continued, his voice shifting to something more practical, “as for the sleeping arrangements. I've had the master suite prepared, but I'm aware that appearances must be maintained. We must share a room, at least for now.”
Anakin tensed. “I—”
"I can take the floor," Obi-Wan offered. "The rug is thick, and I've slept in far worse conditions. A few nights on the floor won't kill me."
Anakin blinked. "You—you'd sleep on the floor?"
"I've slept on the ground in the middle of a battlefield. A rug in a warm room is a luxury by comparison." Obi-Wan smiled, a little wry. "Though I should warn you, I do snore. It's terribly undignified."
Anakin's mouth opened, then closed. He looked genuinely thrown. "You'd really sleep on the floor? For me?”
"For appearances," Obi-Wan corrected. "And because I'd rather you felt safe than comfortable. The bed is yours, Anakin. I won't take it from you."
Anakin looked at the bed, then at Obi-Wan, then back at the bed. "That's—" He swallowed. "That's ridiculous."
"Perhaps."
"You're a duke."
"I'm aware."
"You could—" Anakin gestured vaguely. "You could order me to—to—"
"I could," Obi-Wan agreed. "But I won’t.”
Anakin looked up at him, his eyes shining. "You're a strange man."
"So I've been told."
"I don't understand you."
"Neither do I, most of the time." Obi-Wan smiled. "But we can figure it out together, can't we?”
Anakin's expression flickered, something vulnerable crossing his face before he looked away again.
"Perhaps," he said softly. "Perhaps we can."
Obi-Wan let the moment linger, then cleared his throat. "In the meantime, would you be comfortable sharing the room with me? I promise I'll keep to my side of the fire."
Anakin hesitated. Then, slowly, he nodded. "The floor is too cold," he said. "You'll catch a chill.”
Obi-Wan opened his mouth to protest.
"Don't argue," Anakin said, something almost like warmth in his voice. "You're a duke. You can't sleep on the floor. The staff would talk."
"I can tell them I'm being eccentric."
"You can tell them whatever you like." Anakin's lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. "But you're sleeping in the bed. Or I won't sleep at all."
Obi-Wan blinked. "That's—that's remarkably stubborn of you."
"I'm a remarkably stubborn person."
"I noticed."
They stood in silence for a moment, the tension easing into something almost comfortable.
"Very well," Obi-Wan relented. "We'll share the bed. But I'll sleep on the far side and keep to myself. If I so much as roll in your direction—”
“I'll push you off," Anakin said.
"Good. I'm glad we understand each other."
Anakin's lips curved—not quite a smile, but the closest he'd come all evening. "You're not what I expected,” he said, not for the first time.
"Should I take that as a compliment?"
"You should take it as the truth." Anakin paused. "I don't know what I think of you yet."
Obi-Wan inclined his head. "I can accept that. For now."
They prepared for bed in careful silence. Obi-Wan turned his back while Anakin changed, and Anakin did the same for him. The fire crackled softly, casting dancing shadows across the walls.
When they finally lay down—on opposite sides of the massive bed, a careful chasm of silk between them—Obi-Wan stared up at the canopy and listened to Anakin's breathing. It was uneven, trembling.
"You're not asleep," Obi-Wan said quietly.
"Neither are you."
"A fair point." Obi-Wan turned on his side, facing Anakin's silhouette. "Are you all right?"
Silence. Then he said, "I don't know."
"It's not a trick question."
"I know." Anakin's voice was muffled, his back still turned. "I just—I don't know how to answer. I'm not used to being asked.”
Obi-Wan’s chest ached. “Then let’s start small. Are you warm enough?”
A pause. “Yes.”
“Are you comfortable?”
A longer pause. “I think so?”
“Good. Then we’re making progress.” Obi-Wan smiled into the darkness. “One question at a time.”
Anakin was silent for a long moment before he replied, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For—” Anakin’s voice cracked. “For being kind. For not—for not being what I expected.”
“You don’t have to thank me for basic decency.”
A few more minutes of silence passed over them. Just as Obi-Wan’s eyes began to glaze over and his consciousness began to surrender to the land of the dreaming, Anakin’s voice piped up again.
“Obi-Wan?”
“Yes?”
“I’m glad you’re not a monster.”
Obi-Wan smiled in the darkness. “So am I.”
He heard Anakin’s breathing even out and knew the young man had finally fallen asleep.
Oh, Anakin, he thought. What have you done to me?
***
5. The Workshop
The first week at Stewjon passed in careful politeness.
Anakin was courteous but distant. He attended meals, made polite conversation when addressed, and retreated to his rooms the moment it was acceptable to do so. Obi-Wan gave him space, asking only that Anakin join him for dinner each evening—a small concession to appearances.
“You’re remarkably good at this,” Obi-Wan observed one evening, as Anakin pushed his food around his plate. “The distant spouse routine. Very convincing.”
Anakin looked up sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” Obi-Wan smiled. “I’m simply impressed. Most people can’t maintain that level of aloofness for more than a few days. You’ve managed a week.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know when I decide.”
Anakin’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. He returned his attention to his plate, and Obi-Wan let the silence settle.
But he noticed things.
He noticed that Anakin never seemed to relax. His shoulders were always tense, his eyes always scanning. He moved through the manor like a guest rather than a resident. Polite, unobtrusive, waiting for someone to tell him what to do just so he could have the honor of disobeying.
He noticed that Anakin’s hands were always moving. Idly tapping the table, tracing the rim of his glass, twisting his napkin into knots. Restless energy that had nowhere to go.
He noticed that Anakin never smiled. There were small twitches and half-smiles, but never the real thing.
It bothered Obi-Wan more than he cared to admit.
***
Three weeks into their marriage, Obi-Wan set out to find Anakin.
It was late afternoon, the golden light spilling through the windows of Stewjon Manor. Anakin had missed breakfast—not unusual, he often ate in his rooms—but he’d also missed lunch. Obi-Wan had sent a servant to check on him, and the servant had returned with the news that Anakin wasn’t in his rooms.
Obi-Wan frowned. “Where is he, then?”
The servant had no idea.
Obi-Wan set out to search the manor himself. It was a sprawling estate, full of corridors and rooms that hadn’t been used in years. Anakin could be anywhere.
He checked the library. The music room. The conservatory. The kitchens. The gardens.
Nothing.
Finally, on a whim, he headed toward the eastern wing—the old servants’ quarters, long since abandoned in favor of more modern accommodations. The rooms there were dusty and forgotten, used only for storage.
He heard it before he saw it, a soft clinking sound, like metal on metal.
Obi-Wan followed the noise to a door at the end of the corridor. It was slightly ajar, a sliver of warm light spilling through the gap.
He pushed it open.
And stopped.
The room was a workshop. Old, dusty, cluttered, but clearly alive. Tools were scattered across every surface. Half-finished projects lined the shelves. Models, bits of metal and wood and wire. The windows were open, letting in the afternoon breeze.
And in the center of it all, completely covered in grime, was Anakin.
He was hunched over a workbench, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hair a wild mess. A pair of spectacles—Obi-Wan had no idea where he’d found them—were perched on his nose. He was muttering under his breath, his hands moving with a speed and precision that Obi-Wan found mesmerizing.
He was also, Obi-Wan realized, smiling.
It was a real smile, unlike the careful, almost-smiles he’d seen before. This one reached Anakin’s eyes, crinkling the corners. He looked younger and lighter and happy.
Obi-Wan’s heart flipped. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and watched. For a long moment, Anakin didn’t notice him; he was far too absorbed in whatever he was working on.
Then Anakin looked up, and his smile vanished.
“I—” Anakin straightened, the spectacles sliding down his nose. “I didn’t—this isn’t—”
"Don't stop." Obi-Wan's voice was gentle. "You were smiling. I haven't seen you smile before."
Anakin's cheeks flushed. "I wasn't—I was just—" He gestured vaguely at the workbench. "I found this room. I didn't think anyone would mind."
"Of course not." Obi-Wan stepped into the room, his eyes scanning the chaos. "This is—" He paused, picking up a delicate piece of clockwork. "Anakin, this is extraordinary."
Anakin shrugged. "It's nothing. Just tinkering."
"It's not nothing." Obi-Wan turned the piece over in his hands. "This level of craftsmanship—who taught you?"
Anakin's expression flickered. "No one. I taught myself."
"You taught yourself to do this?"
"I had a lot of time. Palpatine didn't care what I did as long as I stayed out of his way." Anakin's voice was carefully flat. "So I found things to occupy myself."
Obi-Wan set down the clockwork piece and looked around the room. The shelves were lined with projects—some complete, some abandoned. A mechanical bird with delicate copper wings. A miniature carriage with working wheels. A music box that, when he wound it, played a soft, haunting melody.
"This is incredible," Obi-Wan said quietly. "You're a craftsman."
"I'm a ward," Anakin said, his voice sharp. "I'm a decoration. A tool. That's what I am."
Obi-Wan turned to face him. "That's what Palpatine made you. It's not who you are."
Anakin's jaw tightened. "You don't know who I am."
"No," Obi-Wan agreed. "But I'd like to."
Anakin stared at him, bewildered. "Why? Why do you care?"
Obi-Wan considered the question. He could deflect. He could make a joke, change the subject. That was his usual defense.
But Anakin deserved better than that.
“You deserve to be happy,” he said. “You deserve to have a workshop full of your ideas. You deserve to smile like you were smiling just now.”
Anakin sighed. “Somehow I doubt that.”
Obi-Wan shook his head. “Let me give you a proper workshop.”
Anakin blinked. "What?"
"The old stable hand's quarters could be converted. It's larger and better lit. There's space for all your projects." Obi-Wan gestured around the dusty room. "This is too small. You deserve more."
Anakin looked up at him, and it seemed as though a wall fell. Or cracked, just a little.
Anakin leaned into him in something not quite a hug, but close. His forehead pressed against Obi-Wan, his breath warm. Obi-Wan stood preternaturally still, letting Anakin take what he needed.
“Thank you,” Anakin whispered.
“Don’t thank me,” Obi-Wan admonished softly.
And as they stood there in the dusty workshop, the afternoon light spilling through the windows, Obi-Wan couldn’t help but feel something fragile and new work its way between them, something that felt terrifyingly like hope.
***
+1. Jealousy
Anakin had been counting down the days.
Three hundred and sixty-four of them, to be precise. Tomorrow marked the anniversary of the day he’d walked into Palpatine’s study and agreed to marry a stranger. Tomorrow marked the end of his “one year” promise.
Tomorrow, he was supposed to leave.
He’d spent the last hour telling himself he would. Telling himself it was the right thing to do. Telling himself that Obi-Wan didn’t really want him, that this was all an obligation, duty, kindness.
Kindness.
Anakin had learned, over the course of his life, that kindness was a lie. A weapon. A way to get what you wanted. Every kindness he’d ever received had come with a price—except Obi-Wan’s.
Obi-Wan's kindness had no price. No strings. No hidden agenda.
Obi-Wan's kindness had ruined him.
And now, as Anakin stood in the doorway of the Stewjon Manor library, watching Obi-Wan laugh with the visiting Lady Satine, he felt something ugly and hot twist in his chest.
Jealousy.
He knew it was irrational. Satine was an old friend—Obi-Wan had told him that, early on. She was married, she had her own life, she was nothing to worry about.
But Anakin didn’t care. All he saw was the way Obi-Wan’s face lit up when she spoke. The way he leaned in closer, his hand brushing her arm. The way he laughed in a way that was nothing short of genuine, so opposite the polite chuckle he used in public.
He wanted that laugh to be his.
“Ah, Anakin!” Satine spotted him first, her expression warm. “There you are. We were just discussing your husband’s terrible taste in cravats.”
Obi-Wan turned, and his expression softened when he saw Anakin.
"Anakin. I didn't know you'd finished with your workshop."
"I haven't," Anakin said flatly. "I came looking for you."
The words came out sharper than he'd intended. Obi-Wan's brow furrowed, concern flickering across his face.
"Is everything all right?"
"Fine." Anakin's jaw tightened. "I just—" He gestured vaguely. "I wanted to know if you were joining me for dinner. The staff were asking."
It was a lie. The staff never asked. They knew better than to interrupt the Duke and his husband’s separate routines.
Obi-Wan’s lips pursed. He knew it was a lie too, but he didn’t call Anakin on it. Instead, he smiled gently. “I’ll be there shortly. Satine was just leaving.”
Satine’s smile was far too knowing for Anakin’s comfort. “Yes, I should be going. I have a carriage waiting.” She rose, pressing a kiss to Obi-Wan’s cheek. “It was lovely to see you, old friend. We must do this again soon.”
Obi-Wan murmured something polite, and Satine swept past Anakin, pausing at the door to give him a long, appraising look.
“Take care of him,” she said softly. “He’s more fragile than he lets on.”
Anakin responded with a tight nod.
The door closed. They were alone.
Anakin stood in the doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight. Obi-Wan watched him with that patient and infuriating level of calm.
“Anakin,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
Anakin flinched. “I’m not—”
"You're a terrible liar," Obi-Wan said, crossing to him slowly. "You always get this little crease between your eyebrows. It's very endearing."
"There's no crease."
"There's definitely a crease." Obi-Wan stopped a few feet away, tilting his head. "Tell me what's bothering you."
Anakin's composure cracked. "Who is she?"
"Satine? She's an old friend. I've known her for years."
"I know that." Anakin's voice was sharp. "I know she's an old friend. I know she's married. I know she's nothing. But you—" He broke off, frustrated. "You look at her differently."
Obi-Wan's brow furrowed. "Differently how?"
"Like—like she matters. Like she's important. Like you would do anything for her." Anakin's voice cracked. "You never look at me that way."
Obi-Wan stared at him. "Anakin—"
"You're always kind," Anakin continued, the words tumbling out like a dam breaking. "You're always good to me. You gave me a workshop, and space, and freedom. You kept all your promises. But you never—" He gestured helplessly. "You never look at me like I'm someone you want. Like I'm—like I'm someone you'd choose, if you had a choice."
Obi-Wan’s expression darkened. “Anakin, you have no idea—”
“Don’t.” Anakin stepped back, his hands shaking. “Don’t pretend. I know this was an obligation for both of us. I know you’re just being kind. I know—”
“Anakin, stop.”
But Anakin couldn’t stop. The words were pouring out now, years of fear and resentment and desperate hope all tangled together.
“You think I don’t notice?” Anakin’s voice rose. "You think I don't see the way you look at her? The way you laugh with her? You never laugh like that with me. You never—" He broke off, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. "I'm just your project. Your charity case. The poor, broken ward you rescued from Palpatine."
“That is not—”
“Or worse.” Anakin laughed humorlessly. “I’m your convenience. Your shield. The man you married so that matchmaking mamas would finally leave you alone. So you could have peace.”
Obi-Wan’s eyes widened. “Least troublesome is the last descriptor I would use for you—do you really think I married you to get suitors to stop harassing me?”
“If not that, then what?” Anakin demanded, his voice cracking for the umpteenth time. "What am I to you, Obi-Wan? Because I've spent a year trying to figure it out, and I still don't know. I still don't know if any of this is real, or if you're just—just tolerating me until I'm no longer your responsibility."
Obi-Wan's jaw tightened. "You think I tolerate you?"
"I don't know what to think!" Anakin's hands shook. "You're so—you're so perfect all the time. So controlled. So measured. You never lose your temper, you never raise your voice, you never—" He laughed, bitter and broken. "You never give me anything to hold onto. You're so busy being kind that I can't tell if you actually feel anything."
Obi-Wan's eyes flashed. "You really think I don't feel anything?"
"I think you're a damn good actor!" Anakin shot back. "I think you've been playing the role of the perfect husband so well that even you don't know where the performance ends and the truth begins!"
A deafening silence followed.
Obi-Wan’s expression had gone still with that controlled mask Anakin had come to hate. But his eyes were blazing.
“You want to know the truth?” Obi-Wan’s voice dropped dangerously low. “You want to know what I feel?”
"Yes," Anakin said, his voice trembling. "I want the truth. For once in your life, I want you to stop being kind and just—just tell me."
Obi-Wan stepped forward, and Anakin instinctively stepped back, but his back hit the bookshelf, trapping him.
"You want to know about Satine?" Obi-Wan's voice was tight. "Satine is my friend. She was my friend long before you came into my life. She's married to someone else, she lives in a different country, and she means absolutely nothing to me in the way you're implying."
"Then why—"
“Because she’s safe!” Obi-Wan's composure finally cracked. "Because with her, I don't have to pretend. I don't have to be careful. I don't have to watch every word I say, terrified that I'll say the wrong thing and push her further away!"
Anakin stared at him, stunned. "What?"
Obi-Wan laughed, a sharp, bitter sound that Anakin had never heard before. "You think you're the only one who's terrified? You think I don't lie awake at night, wondering if today's the day you'll finally decide to leave?"
"I—that's not—"
"You gave me one year, Anakin." Obi-Wan's voice was raw. "One year, and then you'd be gone. Do you have any idea what that's done to me? Do you have any idea how many nights I've spent staring at the ceiling, counting down the days, knowing that I was going to lose you?"
Anakin's breath caught. "Obi-Wan—"
"I've been in love with you since the moment you walked into Palpatine's study," Obi-Wan said, and his voice broke on the words. "I've been in love with you since you looked at me with that furious, beautiful fire in your eyes. I've been in love with you every single day since, and I've been terrified—absolutely terrified—that if I told you, you'd run."
Anakin's own composure shattered. "You—you love me?"
"I love you," Obi-Wan said, his voice fierce. "I love you so much it's destroying me. And I've been so careful, so controlled, because I didn't want to scare you away. I didn't want to be another person who wanted something from you. I just wanted—" He broke off, his eyes burning with passion. "I just wanted you to stay. Of your own free will. Because you wanted to. Not because I asked. Not because I demanded. Because you chose me."
Anakin's hands flew to Obi-Wan's face, cupping his jaw. "You absolute idiot."
Obi-Wan blinked. "I—"
"I've been in love with you since you gave me that workshop," Anakin said, his voice fierce and trembling. "I've been in love with you since you told me I deserved to be happy. I've been in love with you for months, and I thought—" He laughed. "I thought you were just being kind. I thought this was all just—just obligation."
"Obligation?" Obi-Wan's voice was incredulous. "You think I built you a workshop out of obligation?"
"I didn't know what to think!"
"You're impossible."
"I'm learning from you!"
They stared at each other, breathing hard.
Then Anakin let out a bright, watery laugh. “You love me.”
“Against all better judgment.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“That makes two of us.”
Anakin surged forward and kissed him.
Gentility gave way to desperation, which succumbed to relief, tinged with the feeling of finally. Obi-Wan’s hands fisted in Anakin’s coat, pulling him closer, and Anakin made a small, broken sound against his lips.
When they broke apart, gasping, Obi-Wan’s forehead pressed against Anakin’s.
“I thought you were going to leave,” Obi-Wan murmured. “I thought—tomorrow—”
"I'm not going anywhere," Anakin said fiercely. "I was never going anywhere. I only said that because I didn't think you'd actually—because I thought—" He shook his head. "I was scared."
"So was I."
"Then we're both idiots."
"Magnificent idiots," Obi-Wan corrected.
Anakin laughed again, pressing his face into Obi-Wan's shoulder. "I love you."
"I love you too."
"Promise?"
Obi-Wan pulled back, cupping Anakin's face in his hands. "I promise," he said softly. "I love you, Anakin Skywalker. I've loved you since the moment you threw that teacup at my head."
"I didn't throw it—"
"You thought about it."
"Fair point."
They kissed again, softer this time, and Anakin felt warmness, steadiness, rightness worm its way inside his wretched heart.
When they finally pulled apart, Anakin was smiling. It was a real smile, the kind that reached his eyes. And Obi-Wan’s expression was equally gleeful.
"So," he said, his voice a little rough. "Does this mean I get to move into the master suite?"
Obi-Wan's laugh was startled. "You've had a room in the master suite for a year."
"I mean the bed."
Obi-Wan's eyes softened. "I thought you'd never ask."
Anakin grinned, and for the first time in his life, he felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.