#the extremely empty space next to him in bed is screaming with implications

[redstalkingdeath]

Show being insane again:

ANYONE seeing this scene out of context would absolutely think he just woke up to find his husband's side of the bed empty, and went looking for him to tell him to come back to bed👀

You can't convince me otherwise!

Censorship who?!

[statticscribbles]

Ghost

Summary: Kurtz/Reader Request: using the song Ghost by Jacob Lee

You nudge the window open, letting the sound of the rain offset the music you have faintly playing. You pull the book closer to you, balancing your notebook on the chairs arm as you scribble notes and quote ideas for your english essay. You frown when you smell smoke wrinkling your nose as you stand on the chair about to close the window. You hesitate when you hear talking, nervous about being spotted, you don’t think anyone who’s out back behind the school smoking wants some random person eavesdropping.

You catch the eye of the figure under the window, when you stick your arm out to close it. “Hey there.” You don’t say anything closing the window sharply; you can hear his laugh muffled now; your face heats up as you try to shake the thought of his smile. You focus back to your book not moving when the bell rings and ignoring the look from the librarian. You knows she won’t actually kick you out. You’re distracted, humming even though your playlist ended hours ago and you’re halfway through the last chapter when a hand nudges it out of your grip, folding over the corner. “Missing lunch isn’t healthy.” You freeze at the voice from the boy under the window.

“Kurtz.” He smiles again holding his hand out. You smile back shaking it. “This is where you tell me your name..” He nods and you jerk back as the Ghoulies pull him away from you. “Kurtz come on; Lance said the Serpent’s are itching for a fight. You can play later.” James, one of the head Ghoulies shoves him towards the door. He nods turning from you; you watch his smile replaced by a frown and brush it off as him being upset about however he was going to play, you shiver at the implication and tuck your book into your bag; deciding to take his advice and make your way to the lunch room. You settle for breezing by it, hearing the screaming and laughing; you know there’s at least one fight happening.

You keep your head down like usual. Staying in the library whenever you get the chance. You keep the window open where you sit; refusing to admit to yourself you’re hoping to hear more of Kurtz, to find an excuse to talk to him. You catch him smoking and each time he offers you a half smile rolling his eyes when you jerk the window closed. He’d been sick the past few days, or maybe the rain had been too heavy, whatever reason he wasn’t at his usual spot and you tried to mask your disappointment.

You watch a figure stumble in, soaked and dripping on the carpet you watch as they stagger towards the back, near the computer room. You think you can hear them muffle a scream. You stand and move towards the room they most likely went into. You step through the doors watching nervously as a figure slumped against one of the tables looks up. “Hey.” You frown at how his voice slurs, you wince as you notice the blood on the side of his cheek. “Don’t worry about it, from the fight in the cafeteria.” “That was weeks ago.” You speak and he smiles wincing as you can see the cut on his cheek reopens. “Kurtz, what happened?” “Nothing.” He leans forward, letting your hand brush against his cheek. “Let me help?” You half question, pulling a cloth out and wiping is carefully against his cheek. “Sorry it’s not the best, but that doesn’t look near as bad with that blood gone.” You assure him and he nods. “Thank you.”

“Y/n. Are you alright? I thought I heard you scream earlier, was that just the pain?” “Yeah pain.” He seems to tense, you can see it in his shoulders. You nod to him, trying to convey you wont talk more about it. “It’s nothing just a stupid Ghoul thing.” You hum slightly nodding for him to continue. “Part of being with them. Have to go against one of the higher members at random times. Lance thought it’d be funny to throw me against Shank.” “Shank?” “No one you should concern yourself with.” “Most would say the same about you, you know that right?” He laughs nodding. “You want me to look at that later today?” “You trying to ask to come over?” You look to the ground nodding. “If you want.” “We got partnered on that history project anyways.” “History project?” “Yeah if you ever went to class you’d know.” “I go to class, sometimes.” He laughs and you can’t help but smile with pride.

You’re standing by the flag pole nervously watching the group of Ghoulies, you can tell they’re waiting for someone, and when Kurtz steps out they straighten up. Seeing his back you manage to get a proper look at the jacket he sports, black leather all the way around, a few studs against the back, around the patch of a skull wrapped with chains. You frown at the Ghoul mark but wait wondering if he’s going to turn. He doesn’t but you can see him talking, pointing back towards the school. One of the ghouls nods towards you and you look away, you can see Kurtz look back at you and nod, the other Ghoulies shaking there heads and pulling him away. You can see him pull back from them and you try your best not to look to hopeful when he turns towards you. One of them reaches out and tugs him back, looping there arm around him and grinning darkly at you. You can feel a hand on your shoulder once Kurtz disappears from your vision. “He’s useless to concern yourself with.” Is hissed into your ear, by the time you turn to where the voice comes from you’re alone by the flag pole once more.

You watch Kurtz closer after that, you fingers drumming against the desk as you sit in the back of history, he nudges you when the bell rings and you walk slightly behind him as he makes his way to English, you’re surprised to see he shares it with you and the teacher seems even more surprised to see you sitting in your seat next to him. “Come over today.” He hums flicking through the copy of Brave New World. “I thought we were reading Fahrenheit 451.” “ That’s next semesters-“ The teacher rolls his eyes as you nudge the bookmark back in place, three chapters from finishing. “Brave New World it is. Yay orgies and drugs.” Kurtz snorts smiling at you. “Kurtz is there something you’d like to share about Mr. Huxley’s work?” “Yeah sounds like his idea of a utopia was just the Ghoul’s Friday night.” The teachers not impressed scowling and giving him detention.

“Sorry Y/N guess we have to postpone the history project again.” He laughs under his breath and you roll your eyes. “Well I’ll definitely have to come over Friday, can’t miss out on a real life Brave New World experience, you think I’ll get extra credit if I take pictures?” You wink and snicker, catching the teacher’s eyes in a glare. You try your best not to beam when he give you detention. “Well then Y/N don’t tell me I’m a bad influence on you.” “Not at all, if anything I’m a bad influence on you; making you miss Ghoul meeting and-“ “SHIT!” Kurtz slams his fist onto the table and the teacher looks unimpressed. “Kurtz what have-“

“Fuck off.” He hisses standing and walking out of the room, you watch as the teacher doesn’t look up as you move to follow him. “Kurtz?” “They told me if I missed one I was out.” “Well that doesn’t seem anything like a decent gang.” “What?” “I mean if they’re going to kick you out cause you don’t show for one meeting seems a little extreme, plus they’d have less members if that was an actual rule.” “I know but I can’t-“

“Cant what? They need you more that you need them.” “No I’m; I’m nothing without them.” “So you just came into being with a little leather jacket? An undying sense of loyalty to a gang you met when you started high school? It’s been years with you in them; you really think they’re going to throw you out cause you miss one meeting?” He nods feverishly and shoves his bag into your hands. “Can you meet me in the library? After this meeting.” “Of course.” You turn starting for the library, no point in going to class when there’s only one left.

You’re sitting in your usual spot watching the door. You don’t mean to snoop but when you shift moving Kurtz’s bag next to yours you can see the bright cover of the sketchbook. You assume the meeting has just started so you pull it out carefully opening it. You skim through the pages, mostly half finished sketches, and colour combinations; you laugh at the sketch, clearly done form his point of view, your arm reaching out to close the window, the top of your head just visible. You turn the page watching and the sketches end up more finished but almost an unrecognisable style; the bright colours are what throw you off the most, before it have been almost completely pencils and now it was neon in comparrision, paints and chalk colour faces and clothes outlandishly bright. You note in place of a signature all that’s written is a squashed ‘jangle 2 ½ tubes; twenty minutes.’ You try your best not to think about this being the day of the fight; how the serpents have neon blues and greens dripping from their faces and the knife one of the Ghouls has drips the same.

Kurtz doesn’t say anything and you debating telling him you looked through his sketchbook but decide against it for the moment. He’s brought you back to his house, pulling his books out gives you the excuse you need. “What’s that?” “Sketchbook, mostly empty, ghouls don’t like me doing art, says it distracts from the gang.” You nod but he laughs catching you frowning. “Don’t agree with them?” “If they think you drawing is distracting what on earth do they have to say about me?”

“Well they don’t like me socializing outside of the gang and the thought of me dating outside of it isn’t something they consider.” You swallow leaning closer to him. “If you’re already distracted by art;” You nudge the sketchbook from where it sits between you on the bed scooting into the space made by it. “Why shouldn’t you be distracted by something more enjoyable?”

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[stattic-writes]

Ghost

https://statticscribbles.tumblr.com/post/639099629845233664/masterlist

Support My Writing?

[objectsdeconstructed]

Tales Of War: “104.”

TRIGGER WARNING: Object War Violence, Object Body Horror, Object Death, Regeneration Horror.

Reading of this particular story is optional.

_____________________________________________

104.

Lawrence awoke with a start. He panicked as he felt his own face, body, and limbs, confusion setting in as he realized that they were, in fact, still there. The panic diminished when he finally remembered what exactly had happened to him. He realized that he was getting sick of this.

He was sitting on what seemed to be a slightly modified hospital bed, in a strangely quiet barrack building, wearing a loose undershirt, and a pair of boxers. Confused and agitated voices whispered all around him, from all the other objects in the room. Most of the inhabitants in the room were unconscious, smouldering, while being treated by field nurses and doctors. To his left, a worn-out looking pair of stethoscope was cauterizing a very large wound on an unconscious glass jar’s body - melting the glass and sealing it shut again. Lawrence watched on, slightly repulsed - yet intrigued, by the process. Rubbing his temples as he turned away, he heard a voice.

“Rough go, Larry?”

Lawrence turned his thin, wooden body to stare at the piece of coal to his right. They were part of the same squad, and they’d been through this way too many times to care anymore.

“Yeah, Joe. Just like last time, and the time before that.”

“God, I don’t think I’m ever getting used to this.” Joe chuckled, examining his limbs: Larry could see large patches of what appeared to be some kind of adhesive binding his arms and legs together. A familiar sight nowadays. “I mean, I know the tingling wears off, but still, it feels kinda…”

Joe closed his left hand. Bits of coal falls off his body. Then, eventually his fist, then his arm, then, his entire shoulder.

“Oh, dear.” Lawrence said.

“Numb, I guess.”, Joe finished, rather lamely. “Uh, doc? My left arm’s out again.”

The stethoscope fixing up the glass jar stopped, and turned back, slightly annoyed. “Mr. Coalman, you’ve been advised to not move around so much after the procedure. Respectfully, I cannot attend to you right now.”

“Yeah, thanks, ma'am.” Joe winked at the stethoscope, who simply groaned and went back to her job. “Wouldn’t wanna waste ya’ time.”

Lawrence looked down at his hands, noticing the same adhesive stains on Joe. Being slightly weirded out at the sight: His body looked like a teddy bear, with adhesive stains lining parts of him, newer, more distinct stains, below which older, faded stains could be seen.

He stared mesmerized at his own wooden flesh, and felt himself being lost in the stains, pondering the implications of his actions.

An official looking stopwatch came into the room, and clapped his hands: “Listen up! It’s time you useless God-forsaken shit-stains get to work, again!”

Several objects in the room groaned. Lawrence snapped out of his trance. The room had become a bit livelier now - most of the objects were up already. The glass jar fella next to him was the last to regain consciousness. At once, everyone stood up, walked to the entrance of the barrack, large clotheslines were lined the entrance hall. Lawrence and others put on their heavily stained uniforms, riddled helmets, and loaded up worn out guns. Nothing out of the ordinary for an army barrack.

What WAS exclusive to this particular barrack was the appearance of a group of heavily armed, heavily armored objects, standing lined up beside the entrance door. After Lawrence got dressed, one of these objects slipped a ring on him - a tiny machine that he was supposed to wear at all time on the field.

They had gotten used to the routine. Lawrence, his squad, and everyone else in base save the nurses, doctors, and the stopwatch marched out of the barrack and into the dark.

Lawrence’s base had been located deep inside a cave entrance. By now, he had gotten so used to the dark here that he had no trouble navigating the layout at all, save for a few occasional bumps from his peers. Seeing the lights at the end of the tunnel, he sped up, and charged out of the cave.

The sunlight blinded him momentarily. Joe emerged moments from him, panting heavily, arm fixed with some more of the adhesive. Lawrence’s eyes adjusted, and he launched himself, once again, into war. He had plotted everything out - he had an extremely efficient route to get to.

He and Joe rushed down a path, marked by bullets and spent rounds, gunfire, explosions, and screams all around them. Lawrence was half-way to his usual look-out area when a shot rang out.

Lawrence and Joe looked up to see a terrified young paddle-ball racquet standing above them on a sand dune, aiming right down at them.

“No! NO! HOW!? WHY ARE YOU-”

A shot rang out, Lawrence looked to his right, and saw Joe holding a smoking pistol, frantically reloading it after, it seems, he expended its last bullet. Lawrence looked back up, the paddle-ball racquet wasn’t up on the dune anymore, Lawrence saw his shattered corpse tumbling down the sand dune, landing at their feet. The paddle-ball racquet, now that he had a closer look, looked barely older than his own kid by a year or two.

Joe poked at the paddle-ball racquet’s ruined face, making it cave in even more. The paddle-ball had that fearful expression frozen on it’s face. Joe then raised his foot and stomped the paddle-ball racquet’s face in, crushing his face into smaller shards, his empty eyes gazing back at space from a mess of cracked plastic.

“How’s this, you piece of shit? That’ll teach you not to kill a man tw-”

Lawrence was staring at Joe. Joe must’ve seen Lawrence’s appalled and disgusted face, as he simply looked back down darkly, and whispered, quite redundantly: “Just makin’ sure if he’s dead.”

Lawrence continued on the path, Joe by his side. He was making jokes like nothing had happened. The situation seemed too familiar and Lawrence was zoning out again, and he was distracted.

Joe started calling out from behind him - It seems that Lawrence was walking too fast, and was attracting a bit too much attention from enemy units. But Lawrence wasn’t listening. He was thinking. Reminiscing.

A gust of wind shot past Lawrence, and then did he look back. When he did, he was nearly blinded by the pressure and light from an explosion, occurring exactly where Joe had been just seconds earlier. The pressure knocked Lawrence on his back, and as he got up, he saw bits and pieces of Joe, burning up in the wind. Eyes popped out of his crumbling sockets, arms and legs twitching, still. His mouth was 3 feet away from his torso, frozen in a silent scream.

Lawrence dived behind a nearby rock, and pointed his guns at the air. Sirens blaring in his mind. Shadows crept behind the dunes. Lawrence found a clear shot, and was about to take it, when he went blind in one eye.

He stumbled forward, collapsing, feeling the hole in his face. A round had taken most of the left side. The world begins to fade. The pain hasn’t yet, due to the shock he was experiencing. His other eye registered something moving behind him.

Lawrence wished he was unconscious for what would undoubtedly came next, yet his mind was still miraculously hanging on. Unnaturally, even. For he was not dead. Even though he’d like to be.

Into his view came a paddle-ball racquet, slightly older and bigger than the one that Joe had killed. His eyes never betrayed any emotions. The paddle-ball racquet retrieved a can of something from his back pack, and poured it all over Lawrence.

“Oh, great”, Lawrence thought. “He’s pouring piss on me. For something Joe did.”

But then the paddle-ball racquet retrieved a thin stick, and Lawrence started to panic.

It wasn’t piss at all. As Lawrence registered the smell of the fluid on him, he realized it was something much worse.

Lighter fluid.

Lawrence screamed as the racquet tossed the lit match onto him.

Lawrence screamed as he felt his body erupt into flames and burn.

Lawrence screamed as he felt his remaining eye liquefy into goo.

Lawrence only stopped screaming when his vocal cords were reduced to dust.

But Lawrence didn’t die. He was still holding on. He outlasted the flames.

Lawrence had wished the flames went on a little longer, long enough to burn up something vital.

He lied there: Blind. In pain. Yet he could still hear noises. He tried to crawl to them, but his strength gave out.

He heard the racquet coming near him, before suddenly stopping.

Shouting.

He heard more bullets. He heard something falling on to the sand. A soft thud.

Voices. Some familiar, some not.

He could make out what they were saying.

“I found Lawrence Plankpine. He’s a mess.”

“He dead, or what?”

“No, but he’s nearly there. Looks like he got burned. Should we-”

“-What?”

“Should we kill him, now?”

“Yes.” Lawrence thought. “Please. Do it. It hurts. So badly.”

“No. Keep him alive. It’s easier that way.”

Lawrence screamed out protests in his head.

Lawrence felt himself being lifted up by hard, cold metal hands, and placed on rough, itchy wool stretchers.

He felt himself carried over bumpy hills and sand. He felt the harsh sunlight disappear as his skin felt the familiar coolness of the cave.

He felt himself placed on a medical table.

“My God. Did you kill him yet?”

“No. But, he’s going to-”

“Good. The process is much easier if we kill him right on the operating table. Time messes with this kinda stuff. Too many variables.”

Lawrence felt pins digging into body. It was agonizing.

“Restrain him, we really don’t need to deal with his squirming.”

“He’s in terrible pain. Doctor, I truly recommend anesthetic.”

“No anesthetic. Those don’t grow on trees.”

“Of course. God dammit. Of course there’s no anesthetic. There’s never any anesthetic.” Lawrence thought.

“How about a quicker death?”

“Almost done. Just-”

Lawrence tried to scream as the pins pump him full of viscous, burning fluids.

“-a little longer-”

Lawrence tried to scream as he felt every single cell in his body breaking down.

“-Now.”

An electric jolt shocked through his body, obliterating most of his brain in the process, and Lawrence was no more.

_____________________________________________

105.

Lawrence awoke with a start.

[bewareofchris]

The Coffin Maker and the Fed (the modern version) | PG-13 | language, themes, some violence?

last one.  This is where i just stopped writing it.  :/

Clarence kept a blog about all of the many semi-fabulous things that happened to him.  He’d started it in the cavernous depths of his teenage bedroom while he was all but drowning in spite for his Mother and his useless Father.  He’d kept it through all the milestones of his life, his first (gay) date, his first kiss, his first time having sex, his first rejection-and-acceptance letters to college, his first apartment, his first car, his first (and most embarrassing) celebrity crush(es).  He’d mutated it from a soap box where he stood and bitched about how terrible his parents were into a platform where he exalted in all the temporary, earthly pleasures of his current life.  (Meaning, of course, all he did was talk about dick and movie stars.)

         The emergency room they found themselves in was Strafberg General and the lovely night nurses regarded the pair of them with a long-familiar tsk of disapproval.  Clarence sat in the easily cleaned and therefore uncomfortable chairs in the waiting room next to Elias and watched after midnight infomercials with the other uninspired occupants.  One or two of them had nodded off to sleep while they were waiting and Elias had broken into a yawn or three in the hour that they’d spent waiting.

         There was one of those posted, ‘Please Turn off Your Cell Phone’ signs by the doors that led back to the actual Emergency Room so he figured that as long as he was waiting (in pain), he could use his phone.  He thumb-typed with his right hand (and cursed how unfortunate it was to be left handed).

         ‘At the emergency room with hot-ass, I’ve got a broken hand and he’s got a bruised face. All of your conclusions are wrong, don’t be so predictable.’  

         It was another half-hour after that before he was called back and had to elbow Elias out of the snooze he’d fallen into while the enthusiastic announcer on the TV extolled the virtues of the five pound vacuum with eternal sucking power.  They shuffled and limped their way back to the rooms, pausing only so Clarence could get his vitals taken before he was installed in the lowest triage room available. It had a TV still playing the same infomercial and a spare chair that Elias sat in and stretched his legs out in front of him.  The nurse eyed Elias’ face and his bruised and scraped-raw knuckles before looking at him.

         “We got in a fight,” Clarence said, “not with each other.”

         It was a flimsy story but it was one that she was willing to accept and must have heard a few more times than she ever needed to if that look on her face was anything to go by.  He flopped back on the examining table and put his good arm behind his head for cushion.  

         “How long does my obligation last?” Elias asked, “I mean, I get to leave after you get your fingers taped together?”

         “Why are you in such a hurry to leave?” Clarence asked, “do you have another fight to get to?  A girlfriend?  A dog?”

         “I have to work in the morning,” Elias said.  If he had a girlfriend or a dog he didn’t bother to acknowledge them and heaved a sigh as he scratched his thumb across the raw skin on the back of his hands.  Another ten minutes, another commercial interrupted the infomercial and Elias was still there, taking up space and exchanging oxygen for carbon dioxide with full self-righteous authority.  

         “Still here?” Clarence asked.

         “Shut up.”  Elias stood up and went over to the TV to switch through the channels until he found something less obnoxious than infomercials.  It was a late-night 80’s movie with a woman pealing a scream of terror out like church bells.  The grainy shadows were nearly as bad as the special effects but Elias deemed it worthy of watching and sat back down.  “I didn’t think you’d be the quiet type.”

         “I’m very vocal,” Clarence promised him and winked to cap it off. He meant it in a lewd-way but Elias shrugged the implication off without even considering it.  “So, do you get into a lot of bare-knuckle street fights for profit? Do you have any other hobbies?”

         Elias sighed out through his nose and picked at the dirt and fraying threads at the knees of his pants.  There was mud splattered half-way up to his knees from running through puddles and the spots of blood had faded from read to dark brown and were hardly distinguishable from dirt.  “I build furniture,” he said, “what about you?  What do you do besides go to illegal fights, bully men into waiting rooms with you and eating pancakes?”  He was studiously staring at the TV.  

         “I’m in an undergraduate program at the university,” he said, “I go to a lot of parties.  The street fighting is new but I have been known to strong arm men into my bedroom when I feel like it.”  He spread his sore hand on his chest and put his good arm over his eyes.  “What kind of furniture?”

         “Define ‘a lot’ of parties.  And whatever I feel like building.  Right now I’m doing a dresser but I’ve done chairs and shelves.”

         “Is this obsession you have with numbers indicative of a deeper mental problem?  I don’t know how many parties are considered a lot, if there’s a party and I know about it—I’ll probably be there.  Have you ever made a table to go with the chairs?”

         Elias snorted at him and shifted in his chair before pulling his feet in under the chair.  Whatever he might have said was cut off by the arrival of a man in scrubs that declared he was there to take Clarence to get X-rays and was extremely disgruntled to find that Clarence was still wearing his own clothes instead of those fabulous designer gowns they gave out.  The man said he’d give them a minute and he’d be back and then he threw a ghastly institution green gown at Clarence.  

         “How am I supposed to put this on with a broken hand?” Clarence demanded.  He stood up and tugged at the hem of his T-shirt with his right hand (awkward as it was to use his right hand) and managed to get it up to his arm-pits but not over his head.  

         Elias stood up, tall as fuck to go with all of those impressive muscles stretching the long-sleeve T-shirt out of shape, and caught the rolled up hem of Clarence’s shirt.  “Put your arms up,” he said.  Then he worked the shirt up and made sure to put it over his head and his good hand before slipping his hands into the sleeve and spreading it wide open to get Clarence’s left hand out.  He dropped the shirt on the exam table and then picked up the gown and helped him put it on (backward) and tied it in the back for him.  “Think you can take it from here?”

         “I’m good,” he said and then, like he couldn’t control himself, “are you gay?  Because you didn’t touch me and that usually means either you’re in the closet or you are offended by the idea of it and I’d really rather not keep you any longer if it’s the latter.”

         The man was back for the X-rays and Elias sat back down in the chair and waved him off.  He was still sitting there when Clarence came back with his hand throbbing.  It was enough of an answer for him.

 --

           In the morning, Clarence woke up in his own bed with those awkward metal casts on his middle and ring finger of his left hand.  There was the raw taste of cotton in his mouth, dry grit in his eyes and a pain in his lower back that had to have come for somehow managing to sleep on his stomach all night with a pillow wedged under his gut.  It took one-two-three attempts to get up before he managed to stumble upright and took a moment to really appreciate the strength of the pain medicine they’d given him at the ER before he headed for the bathroom.  His head was still sloshing around even after he’d made it to the relative steadiness of the toilet so he just put his head against the mirror on the back of the bathroom door and took a few breaths.  He wasn’t dizzy exactly, more like he had the worst case of vertigo of his entire life but it was easing at the edges by the time he pulled the door open again.  The hall to the living room smelled like coffee and fried eggs and he could hear the TV on when he didn’t remember turning it on or inviting over anyone that might have turned it on.  When he rounded the corner he found the room empty but the kitchen light was on and when he stumbled over to the open bar that looked into the kitchen he found Elias standing on the other side with a coffee mug in his hand.

         “Did I invite you here?” he asked.  There was nothing but a hole in his head where last night after the X-rays until this moment should have been.  For all he knew, he could have proposed marriage and passed out congratulatory blowjobs because he really didn’t have any idea how he came to be in his own apartment or how Elias came to be there with him.  “I didn’t mean that to sound so rude.”

         Elias  quirked up something like a smile at one edge of his mouth and finished chewing up the eggs and bacon that were nothing more than messy streaks on his plate.  “You said you’d pay me twice what I made at Burger-Stop if I stayed at your place and babysat you today.”  He reached back into the pocket of his dirty jeans and pulled out a piece of paper, wiped the egg yolk onto the front of his thighs and then unfolded the paper and held it out to him.  It was written on his hospital release instructions and some of it looked like it was barely English but that was definitely Clarence’s signature. “I wasn’t going to hold you to it but I really didn’t feel like going to work anyway.”

         Clarence looked at the paper, then flipped it over and read his instructions, “did you check to make sure I was still breathing last night?”

         “Twice,” Elias said, “you sang me a song.  I don’t know what song it was but you sang it.  I made you breakfast, no pancakes, but there’s eggs and bacon and I can make you some toast.”  He wiped the crumbs off the countertop and dusted them into the trashcan before putting his plate in the sink and running water over it.  

         “How much do you make at Burger-Stop in a day?”

         “About sixty-four dollars,” Elias said, “and you told me that was pathetic and worthless and that you would pay me more to watch morning cartoons with you and drive you around.”  He filled a plate with eggs and bacon and put a clean fork on top and slid it across to him.  “I took a shower.”

         “Ok,” Clarence said.  He sat on the barstool on the living room side of the bar and tried to work out the mechanics of feeding himself with his broken hand or his right hand and then debated which would end with less mess.  Elias was busy making toast across the kitchen and missed his entire dilemma.  “I will pay you,” he said, “I mean, I clearly told you that I would.  You’ll just have to take me to the bank before you leave. Did I do anything stupid?”

         “You posted six entries to your blog from your phone while high on painkillers.  You wouldn’t let me read them but you were giggling the whole time.”

         Oh, that was just perfect.  The kind of above and beyond brilliance that Clarence expected from himself; he switched the fork to his right hand and resolved to eat before he went to find out what kind of stupid shit he’d posted online.

[voguewoozi]

College au? I'll let your creativity run free from there ;D (also what the heck, I'm planning on my major/minor to be English too?)

College Freshmen Are Loud

Read it on ao3!  & send in a prompt!

Summary: The noise in Dan’s dorm hall is cutting into his sleep. Phil provides a solution

Word Count: 1.9k

Notes: thank u, ryanne. I love college aus :(( (we should talk majors)

Dan wakes up to the sound of a chair hitting a wall at 2:47 am, and he’s fine until he hears giggles that eventually grow louder. This is the fourth time this week that people on his floor have come back drunk, and honestly, it was annoying the first time. Now it’s cutting into his sleep and he has early morning classes that he wants to be conscious for. He breathes out exasperatedly and clenches his bed sheets for a second before rolling onto his side and covering his ears with his pillow.                It’s pretty effective, but he has to hold it in place and his arms start cramping after a minute and a half. He doesn’t sleep for the rest of the night.—“Are you alright? You look terrible,” is the first thing Dan hears when he enters his 7:40 lecture. If it were anyone but Phil, he’d say it put him in an even worse mood. He manages a smile, despite his brain feeling ten times slower than usual, and slumps down into the chair beside Phil.“Thanks. I got no sleep last night because the assholes on my floor think it’s funny to be extremely loud during all hours of the fucking night,” Dan says, sighing a bit melodramatically. He can’t help it. It sucks and there’s nothing he can do. He’s already tried moving, but there’s no empty singles, and he doesn’t want to even briefly entertain the thought of moving in with someone else. He gets it, he totally does. The idea of having a roommate is exciting for a lot of people; it’s just not for him. At all. He’s having a difficult enough time dealing with having people rooms away from him.“What do they do? Is it really that bad?” Phil asks. He’s smirking but Dan literally doesn’t have enough energy to roll his eyes.“I’m pretty sure one of them broke a window last night,” Phil laughs at that, and the sound makes him smile for the first time that morning. He kinda hates the effect Phil has on him, but he usually just elects to ignore it. There’s no chance Phil likes him. And he’s graduating this year. Surely the age difference would be weird. Does Phil even like guys?He’s broken out of his thoughts by a nudge to his side and he jumps slightly, remembering where he is.“You might wanna start taking notes,” Phil whispers, lines of words already covering his page. Dan can’t stop himself from blushing, but Phil’s attention is back on the professor.Dan sits there for an hour and fifteen minutes, sporadically taking notes and daydreaming before he finally gets to pack up his stuff. He’s thinking about grabbing something to eat before his next class, when a hand comes down on his shoulder.“Hey, if your hall is too loud again tonight, you’re always welcome to stay in my room. My roommate’s never around.” Dan is taken aback by Phil’s offer; for a second he thinks his sleep-deprived brain made it up. He’s silent and slack-jawed for a few seconds too long, and Phil’s face begins to look unsure.“You don’t have to or anything, I was just-”“No, I want to!” Dan says quickly, awkwardly grabbing Phil’s wrist in the process. They both look down and Dan lets go immediately, bringing his hand to the back of his own neck.“I mean, yeah, if I can’t sleep, right, I’ll do that,” he does a vague finger gun motion and hates himself.“Okay, so I’ll see you later, maybe?” Phil asks, and his smile is back but Dan’s heart is still beating a mile a minute.“Yeah, I’ll text you,” Dan sounds breathless and that’s because he is, he just hopes Phil doesn’t notice. He wouldn’t point it out if he did.“Cool,” it’s the last thing Phil says before he turns with a small wave and walks in the opposite direction Dan’s going. Dan feels like his skin is burning off, but he can’t stop smiling.—                He listens closely. It’s a little after 11, and for once he can’t hear anyone screaming, and he thinks that it’s probably because the world hates him. The cutest guy Dan’s ever seen in his life invites him to his room and for the first time since he moved in, these assholes are what? Asleep at a decent hour?                He rolls over in his bed, and closes his eyes for exactly six seconds before he makes his decision. He stands up and packs a set of clothes, and the books he needs for class tomorrow, and steps outside into the cold air.                For as much determination that he had on the walk to Phil’s dorm, when he’s actually outside his door, he hesitates. He brings his hand up to knock a few times, even thinking about going back to his room and just going to sleep because it’s getting late and he needs a few hours, at least.                He finally does it, three quick taps and his heart rate accelerates as he waits for it to open.                “Hey,” Phil says, calmly, stepping out of the doorway and gesturing for Dan to enter. Dan has only been in Phil’s room once for a minute, so he’s never had the opportunity to really look around. His eyes roam over the insignificant details, and he doesn’t realize Phil’s talking to him until he’s halfway through his sentence.                “-never around, like I said. So, that’s a plus, I guess,” Dan blinks, but when he doesn’t respond, Phil turns to face him.                “Uh, sorry, I wasn’t listening,” Dan says, stuttering and blushing. He should probably just lie down and try to forget any of this happening.                “It’s so quiet here,” he says instead, putting his backpack down and attempting to relax. He has nothing to worry about. Everything will be fine.                “This must be a completely new experience for you. How’s it feel?” Phil asks. It seems like it doesn’t matter what Phil does, Dan finds himself completely enamored, which is putting him at a slight disadvantage. He doesn’t think that’s really fair.                “It’s… weird. I think it’s almost too quiet.” Dan had gotten so used the ambient noise of talking and laughing that the quiet was a bit confounding.                “Well that won’t be a problem for long. I’ve been told that I talk in my sleep.” Dan’s eyes widen at the admission and Phil continues, “Not that I would know for sure. It’s not like I’m there when it happens.” Dan laughs, and he has to stop doing that, it wasn’t that funny. But Phil smiles, and Dan forgets his impulses all at once.                “Speaking of sleep, you probably want to do that now. That’s why you’re here.” Phil’s cheeks go pink for a change, and for a moment, Dan thinks it’s refreshing, but then he’s smiling. He can’t seem to catch a break.                “So… what are the…” Dan searches for an appropriate term, but the best he can come up with in under three seconds is “sleeping arrangements”. He hadn’t thought about the implications of the night before going over, and what did he think would happen? Phil only has one bed. Mathematically, only one thing works.                “Sleeping on the floor is no big deal to me, really. It’s fine,” Dan fills in quickly before Phil can get a word.                “What? No, I invited you over so you could finally get a good night’s sleep. I’m not gonna make you sleep on the floor,” Phil says, strongly, not leaving any room for argument.                “Well, it’s your room, so I can’t make you sleep on the floor,” Dan counters. As the last word falls off of his tongue, he understands what he said, what it could be construed to mean.                “Are you suggesting that we share the bed?” Despite his earlier embarrassment and uncertainty, Phil says this with a hint of a smirk on his lips. Dan wants to stop existing, but he also really wants to sleep in the same tiny twin-sized bed as Phil Lester. He’s almost certain that he’s never wanted anything more in his life.                “I mean… what I meant to say was, I wouldn’t have a problem with it seeing as we both just want to sleep, and you know, back support is an important thing. Can’t get that from the floor…” Dan feels more self-conscious with every passing second as Phil’s smug grin reaches more parts of his face. Like his eyes.                “Yeah, I agree. Should we go to sleep then?” Without waiting for a reply, Phil hops into his bed and pats the space next to him. It’s not a very big space, and that makes Dan simultaneously excited and terrified. How were they supposed to negotiate this? There weren’t very many comfortable positions they could find this way. After a moment of fidgeting limbs and rustling bed sheets, Phil’s arm comes to rest around Dan’s waist. His fingers trace a small pattern, and then he tenses.                “Is this okay? It’s the only comfortable place for my arm.” Dan smiles at the concern in Phil’s voice but his heart beat is erratic, and he’s worried Phil can feel it.                “Yeah, it’s fine,” Dan manages, nearly choking on the first syllable. He can’t believe this is actually happening.                “Goodnight, Dan.”                “Yeah, goodnight…”—                When Dan’s alarm goes off in the morning, he attempts to turn over but is stopped. His eyes shoot open and he remembers that he’s not in his room. Phil’s arm is still draped over him, slightly tighter now that he’s tried to move. He wonders how to go about this without it being too awkward, grabbing Phil’s hand and attempting to move him carefully so he doesn’t wake up. But then Phil’s hand squeezes and he breathes in, stretches and freezes. His grip loosens and his breathing stops for a moment.                Maybe he doesn’t know Dan is awake yet. He can play it off like he’s just waking up now. He’s a pretty good actor, he could pull it off.                “You’re gonna be late to class,” Phil says. His sleep-muddled voice startles Dan, and Phil definitely knows he’s awake now.                “Well, maybe I wouldn’t if you let go of me.” Dan has no idea what made him so bold all of a sudden, but he bites his tongue and holds his breath, waiting for a response.                “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Phil says, moving his arm back to his side. Dan feels relieved and disappointed all at once, but he sits up anyway. He’s about to get up to change and then leave when Phil grabs his hand again. He looks back at Phil and his messy hair and his perfect lips.                “You should come back when your class is over. We could get lunch or something.” Dan smiles softly and Phil’ thumb traces nervous circles onto the back of his hand.                “Yeah, sure, that’d be great,” Dan can’t stop his smile from growing and he probably looks stupid, but he doesn’t care.                “I’ll see you later then,” Phil says, bringing Dan’s hand to his lips for a brief second and then letting him go.                Dan never sleeps in his own bed again.

[stonefreeak]

So I just finished reading all your SC!Obi-Wan fic, and I just want to know- do Anakin and Obi-Wan FINALLY talk after Anakin's panic attack? Even a little?? Also I absolutely love this series :D <3

Thank you! I’m so glad people are enjoying my stuff~

I didn’t think this would turn out as long as it did. asghjkl. SORRY FOR THE WAIT, Y’ALL! HERE, HAVE A 4.6k “FICLET”.

Anakin looks around the public office. His shoulders are slumped and Obi-Wan can tell that he’s exhausted. “Wow… It looks really different. Like a greenhouse,” Anakin finally says.

“Yes, I think the plants have done wonders for these rooms. There really was too much red before.”

Obi-Wan gently steers Anakin through the public office and the following antechamber until they reach the private office.

Anakin looks at the large couch and the pillow and blanket thrown haphazardly on it.

“Wait… Wait a minute here. Palpatine has mentioned these offices has a private room with a bed so he could still get some sleep when he was so busy he needed to stay the entire night at the office. Why have you been using the couch?”

Ah. Obi-Wan was hoping Anakin wouldn’t know that; he would rather prefer not to explain himself.

“Well… I find the thought of sleeping in Palpatine’s bed uncomfortable. As I haven’t had the time or inclination to ask for a new bed… Besides, the couch has worked excellently. It’s very comfortable.”

Anakin squints at him, but chooses not to say anything; instead he sits down on the couch and bounces a little—probably testing the softness.

“Take off your boots before you lie down, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says as he continues over to his desk.

“I know, I know,” Anakin grumbles and proceeds to do just that.

~~~~

The Living Force is practically singing in Anakin’s ears. He’s never felt this at ease in the Chancellor’s offices before. It’s only now he notices how tense he usually feels when he’s in them. 

He ponders that thought—anything to keep other, more distressing thoughts at bay—as he makes himself comfortable on the couch.

Obi-Wan was right, it really is comfortable. The pillow—definitely from the Temple—isn’t Anakin’s preferred type, but it’s good enough. He’s used to sleeping on this type too. It’s the one Obi-Wan favours, after all.

The blanket is soft and warm, but somehow light. It kind of reminds Anakin of a cloud. Not that Anakin actually knows what a cloud feels like, but anyway.

Anakin closes his eyes and lets the quiet sounds of the office wash over him: Obi-Wan’s breathing, the rustle of flimsi, the occasional clicking on a datapad.

He counts Obi-Wan’s calm and steady breathing, unconsciously mirrors it with his own, and soon falls asleep.

~~~~

The data Ellé has gathered is horrifying in its implications.

So many missions have been altered—and these are only the ones regarding specific Jedi. This denigun hole could go so much deeper than just “requesting a specific Jedi”.

For what purpose has Palpatine done this? And why has he done it so extremely often with Obi-Wan in particular? Why did Palpatine—and Obi-Wan has little doubt that it is, in fact, Palpatine who’s behind it—want Obi-Wan off Coruscant so often?

What could Palpatine gain from Obi-Wan being off-planet and having to leave his padawan… behind…

Obi-Wan stares at the sleeping form on his couch, his heartbeat thundering in his ears and his mouth going dry.

Anakin went to visit Palpatine a lot on his own, when Obi-Wan was on a mission. If Obi-Wan was on Coruscant, he’d chaperone the meetings. He never saw anything suspicious… But why would Palpatine want to see Anakin alone so much? Enough so that he would deliberately ensure it happened?

There are several possibilities and none of the ones he can think of are good or benign. If it had merely been the man wanting to show his gratitude to the boy who saved his planet, there would be absolutely no need to separate said boy from his guardian.

Obi-Wan feels ill. 

~~~~

Anakin feels a lot better when he wakes up. There’s a lingering sense of unease he tries to send into the Force—it keeps coming back—but aside from that, he really does feel a lot better.

Maybe he should have taken a nap before he went to see Padmé, but… He’d been so keyed up with his need to talk to her about—

Oh.

He never did talk to her about Obi-Wan, did he?

Anakin sits up and stretches his arms a bit, looking around the office. Obi-Wan is still sitting by his desk, but he’s not working anymore. Anakin’s eyebrows raise before they knit together and he stops the small smile that almost formed on his lips. Why is Obi-Wan sitting at his desk stroking the leaves of a plant and looking a hundred light years away?

“Obi-Wan?” Anakin says, voice almost echoing in the empty room.

Obi-Wan startles and turns to him, blinking rapidly.

“Oh! Anakin, you’re awake.” He stands up and heads over the the couch, sitting down next to Anakin. “Did you sleep well?”

There’s that tone of voice. The one Obi-Wan would use the morning after Anakin snuck into bed with him because of a nightmare. Home, it whispers. If it wasn’t so comforting he would probably be insulted that Obi-Wan’s speaking to him like he’s a twelve year-old padawan.

He nods. He did sleep well and all things considered, he kinda wants Obi-Wan to use that soft and warm and comforting tone of voice. How long has it been since he last heard it anyway? When was the last time Obi-Wan’s presence was this comforting? Without any hints of reprimand or disapproval?

“Yeah… Yeah, I did.”

“I’m glad, you looked like you needed it.” 

It’s quiet for a while, but it’s a comfortable silence. Just Anakin and Obi-Wan, sitting on the couch. Anakin can feel the heat of Obi-Wan’s body, they’re almost touching…

Part of him just wants to fall in Obi-Wan’s arms and bury his face in his chest like he did when he was a kid, when he thought Obi-Wan could do anything and make any danger go away.

Part of Anakin wants to be twelve again.

“Do you need to talk, Anakin?”

Need to? Probably, yeah. Want to?

“… No. I’m fine.” He’s not fine, not really. But… He kinda… Ugh, he doesn’t really know how to talk to Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan’s so frustrating because he never… he never tries, does he?

“Are you sure?” Obi-Wan’s eyebrows knit together and his mouth twitches downwards. He doesn’t want Anakin to need to talk to him. That’s definitely what that face means. It has to be. He always makes that face when Anakin says he’s fine and doesn’t need to talk; since forever.

“I’m sure.” He isn’t. Anakin wants Obi-Wan to push, to wheedle the answer out of him. Palpatine always does when Anakin doesn’t feel like talking. That’s what you do when someone you care about clearly needs to talk but says they don’t.

Obi-Wan just nods slowly, and turns his head so he looks away from Anakin; his mouth is pressed tightly together.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t care.

Anger flares in Anakin’s gut. Why doesn’t he care? Why is it only Anakin who cares between the two of them? Why must Obi-Wan be a perfect kriffin’ Jedi with no feelings all the damn time?

“You always do that!” The scream tears out of his throat before he can stop it. There’s a loud crash in the background, but Anakin barely hears it.

Obi-Wan flinches away, his eyes wide as they stare at Anakin again.

How dare he not care? 

~~~~

One of the smaller potted plants flies off a table and crashes onto the floor as Anakin screams. Obi-Wan’s heart jumps and starts pounding in his chest as he instinctively puts some space between himself and Anakin. He has no idea what prompted the outburst. What did he do to make Anakin so angry all of a sudden?

“Anakin…” He moves away from the couch carefully, eyes not leaving his friend for a second, one hand raised palm up in a laughable attempt at a calming gesture.

He takes a single step back, which sets Anakin into motion. Soon he finds himself backed against the wall, Anakin’s hands painfully tight on his upper arms, and their faces so close together their breaths mingle.

“Why don’t you care?” Anakin’s voice breaks on the last word, and it’s not just anger Obi-Wan senses in the Force, it’s sadness—almost grief.

“Anakin? What—?” He doesn’t get to finish his sentence.

“You never care. You never push. You just… You don’t want to know, so you’re just happy and content when I say I’m fine!”

The accusation hits Obi-Wan like a lightsaber to the sternum. Is this how Anakin has interpreted Obi-Wan giving him space and the freedom of his own mind for all these years?

‘Oh sweet Force, help me.’

How Obi-Wan has failed him.

“General!” The panicked shout of one of his men—Obi-Wan is too rattled to take in who it is, it could be Jar Jar Binks for all the attention he can pay to anyone but Anakin right now—cuts through the tension and breaks the moment.

Anakin stumbles back, eyes going wide and mouth open already to try and stumble his way through apologies and excuses.

Obi-Wan reaches out—resolutely ignoring Anakin’s flinch—and puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently, making eye-contact.

“I’m fine, it was just a minor disagreement. A pot fell over. You don’t need to worry. It’s just me and Anakin here.”

He can feel the doubt and unease coming off the man, but he can’t take his eyes off Anakin. 

“General…” The man moves, Obi-Wan would wager that he salutes, and leaves the room to go back to the guard room.

As soon as they’re alone, Obi-Wan speaks up again.

“It seems we truly do need to talk. About a lot of things.”

Anakin flinches slightly and can’t seem to meet Obi-Wan’s eyes.

‘Oh, Anakin.’

~~~~

Why did he do that? Why did he let his anger get the better of him like that? And in front of Obi-Wan… Not just in front of him, at him. Obi-Wan must be so disappointed.

Anakin lets Obi-Wan lead him back to the couch and they sit down again.

It was so nice and now… now he’s ruined it. Obi-Wan’s disappointed, and he’s gonna sigh, and lecture Anakin about the code and releasing his feelings and—

“I’m sorry, Anakin.”

Anakin’s whole brain just freezes in its tracks. His head snaps up and he stares at his former Master. He can’t think and instead just gapes at him, at his slightly hunched shoulders and sad expression.

What?

Why would he—? What?

“Wh—at?” His voice breaks. Why is Obi-Wan apologising? Anakin was the one who… who… who threw a potted plant with the Force in anger, who screamed, who pushed Obi-Wan into the wall and, and… Why would Obi-Wan apologise?

“I’m sorry.” Obi-Wan pauses and looks away briefly. “I… I assumed you knew why I never push you to tell me anything. And now I see that you don’t and you’ve clearly been carrying this anger and sadness for a long time, thinking that I don’t care.” 

Obi-Wan looks upset, there’s an almost shine to his eyes, and he takes Anakin’s hands in his own.

Anakin’s brain is still stalling. He can’t believe this is happening.

“Anakin. No one, no one, has the right to demand you tell them everything that goes on in your mind. Everything that worries you.” He closes his eyes and sighs. “When you didn’t want to talk about something you worried about, I assumed you wanted time to try and work through it on your own. I have no right to demand you share your mind with me, Anakin. Your mind, your thoughts… they are yours.”

What? But… No… That’s… that’s not what you do. You push and you wheedle. People you love should tell you everything. If you love someone, of course you want to know everything they think. That’s why… That’s why Anakin and Padmé have no secrets.

And… and Palpatine would always coax his thoughts out of him to be discussed. Always. He always says it’s because he cares and wants to help.

“That’s… that’s not. You’re lying.” He has to be. It can’t be that simple. Anakin can’t have been worried and sad for years over a misunderstanding. That’s… that’s just too big.

Obi-Wan sighs and looks so sad, shoulders hunching and head bowing.

“I understand if you don’t believe… can’t trust what I’m saying.” He looks away to the side. 

~~~~

Obi-Wan wants to convince Anakin, he does… but it wouldn’t solve the underlying problem: they don’t talk to each other.

Obi-Wan assumed Anakin knew that he could always come to him with anything, that Obi-Wan would always be willing—happy—to listen and do his very best to help Anakin with anything he struggles with.

Anakin, on the other hand, assumed that Obi-Wan’s willingness to let his mind be his own, let him have freedom of thought, and unwillingness to pry… was because he didn’t care and didn’t want to know. Does he think that Obi-Wan considered—considers—him a burden?

The silence is heavy between them; neither knows how to bridge the gap after so many years. But… it’s Obi-Wan’s duty, isn’t it? He was the Master, so clearly he failed his student.

The knowledge stings and burns. He failed him and in a way is still failing him.

“We… we talked a lot, when you—when we—were young and you first became my padawan. Do you remember?” Obi-Wan feels far away. He expects the voice in his head, the one that sounds so much like Qui-Gon, to chide him for dwelling on the past, but it does not. Perhaps the past is too important right now.

“… Yeah.” Anakin’s voice is soft and hoarse.

They’d talked about what was expected of them, both regarding the Order and each other, about what a Jedi means when they say “Master”, about the Code… About a million other small things.

They’d talked so much back then and now… Now, they hardly ever talk. Oh, they chat, they speak with each other. But talk? No.

“You were shy at first, unwilling to express wishes, needs and desires.” It had come, no doubt, from a life of slavery. “As soon as you really understood what your situation as my padawan meant, though…” Obi-Wan huffs out a watery laugh. “Oh, there was no trace of shyness left. You spoke your wishes and desires clearly. It wasn’t that you never worried about being rejected or turned down, but… You were so bold about asking.”

Anakin doesn’t say anything, and Obi-Wan can’t be sure if that’s a good or a bad thing. It simply is, for now, and he must forge ahead.

“You used to crawl into my bed sometimes. You’d say you had a nightmare, or you were cold… Sometimes you said you felt lonely.”

He pauses and stares at the potted plant, still on the floor, dirt spilling across the carpet.

“I don’t think I ever mentioned, but we used to sleep in piles in the crèche. It’s probably what I missed the most when I left it. The comfort of another being so close, someone safe and warm next to you when you’re as vulnerable as you are in sleep.” He turns back to Anakin and catches his eyes. “I was always so honoured and humbled that you trusted me enough to come to me for such comfort.”

~~~~

Anakin stares at Obi-Wan. His chest hurts as he listens to his Master speak, voice so sentimental—filled with nostalgia. He sounds so fond, in a way Anakin never expected from him.

But then… he’s believed for years that Obi-Wan left him behind willingly, and that wasn’t true. And if that, a cornerstone of Anakin’s teenage years, wasn’t true, then what else is he mistaken about?

His hands shake as he slowly reaches out toward Obi-Wan. He’s nervous. Before he can change his mind he grabs a hold of Obi-Wan’s beige overtunic and pulls him into his arms.

Anakin buries his face in Obi-Wan’s shoulder, wraps himself tightly around him and breathes deeply. He’d forgotten what Obi-Wan smells like years ago, just like he’d forgotten the smell of his mother and their shared space on Tatooine. He’ll never have his mother back, she’s gone and never again will Anakin know what she smelled like. But Obi-Wan… he remembers now and the memory—comforting and soothing like a warm blanket on a cold Coruscanti night—has him crying.

“I’m sorry, Obi-Wan. I’m so sorry,” he whispers before he loses himself in crying on his brother-father-best-friend’s shoulder. He bunches Obi-Wan’s tunics in his hands as he clutches the man close. If Obi-Wan pulls away now, Anakin fears it might break him.

But Obi-Wan’s arms are firm when they wrap around Anakin, whose breath hitches in relief.

“You were gone so much and you were always so calm and I just… I thought you didn’t care and you couldn’t understand my overflowing emotions anyway so you couldn’t help. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he says when the tears finally start to slow.

“Oh, Anakin.” Obi-Wan’s voice is hoarse. Did he cry too? “I have a temper and I had a lot of trouble with my temper when I was young. I’ve learned to stay calm through years of hard work. I tried to teach you the same…” He trails off into mumbles that Anakin can’t make out.

Obi-Wan has a temper? Obi-Wan? That’s… that’s so different from everything Anakin knows of the man. He’s always been frustratingly calm!

“Perhaps I should have spoken more about that with you, when I tried to help you come to grips with your temper.”

“Maybe, but too late now, Master. I’m a Knight now, you’re not responsible for my temper anymore.” Anakin let’s out a small, watery laugh, a laugh that Obi-Wan mirrors.

It’s a fragile peace between them as they separate slowly. But Anakin feels lighter than he has in years. Still, the silence is comfortable again and the Force is humming in Anakin’s ears.

All his worries about Obi-Wan’s character, that he would actually be out to gain power… Oh, he should ask. Obi-Wan will answer. They can talk again. 

“Obi-Wan… can I ask you something?”

“I… Of course, Anakin. But first, there’s something I must tell you. It’s very important.” Obi-Wan’s eyes are red and puffy—he did cry before—but his face is grave. Right. Important. Okay.

“Yeah, okay. But I really need to ask you later, okay?” He needs to know, they need to talk about it. He can’t have it hanging over him anymore.

“Of course, Anakin.” Obi-Wan nods.

“Alright then. What did you need to tell me?” Anakin feels wrung out again. He should probably take another nap after this. What happened with Padmé feels so long ago already but he knows it can’t be more than a few hours ago at most.

“It’s about what Padmé told you about the altered mission specifications.”

Anakin feels his breathing pick up. He tries to stay calm and keep steady, but just remembering it all is—Obi-Wan’s hand is warm where it closes over Anakin’s own, grounding him. He lets out a shuddering breath.

“I don’t think you’re quite ready to discuss all of the… implications… of Ellé’s report. What I want to tell you is simply that you can’t tell anyone. And I mean anyone. It’s paramount that it remains secret.”

Anakin nods, relieved that they’re not going in on the details now. He… he just can’t.

“Someone has been changing mission parameters. So far we only have confirmation that it’s on missions for which a specific Jedi was requested, but it could go much deeper than that.”

It’s a frightening thought, that someone might have sent Jedi on missions they were unprepared to handle deliberately. He squeezes Obi-Wan’s hand.

“Especially, Anakin, it must be kept secret from anyone who has worked in the Senate in the last twenty years at least.” 

But… wait. That means…

“But… Oh. Are you accusing Palpatine of—!” Before Anakin can even finish, Obi-Wan interrupts him.

“Anakin.” 

They stare at each other in silence.

“I am not suggesting that Palpatine is behind it. Ellé certainly found nothing pointing in that direction. However, Palpatine is not alone. He has aides and people working around him. It’s entirely possible that someone among them is capable of overhearing even his most secret conversations.

“For my sake, Anakin, please. No one. You can talk about it with Padmé or Bail if you’re certain you have jammers running and there are no bugs. You can talk to me about it, and you can speak with both Master Yoda and Master Windu—as long as you’re in a place where a jammer is running. Right now, we’re the only ones who know about this. Please, Anakin.”

Oh. That… that does make sense. Even if Palpatine is trustworthy, that doesn’t mean his staff is. Sure, Palpatine probably trusts them, but there could still be a frietchel bug hiding in the sand.

“Right. Of course. I—I didn’t think about his aides. I won’t say anything, not to anyone. I promise. Jedi can have died because of this, I—I won’t jeopardise the investigation.” Anakin will keep quiet, for Obi-Wan’s sake and for the sake of anyone who might have gotten hurt or died because of it.

~~~~

Having Anakin promise not to tell Palpatine is such a relief that Obi-Wan only barely manages to refrain from sighing and slumping his shoulders.

While he hates having to keep his suspicions about Palpatine from Anakin, he has no proof yet. And if he’s wrong, he doesn’t want to damage his own or Palpatine’s relationship with Anakin. No, he needs to be sure before he says anything.

“Thank you, Anakin. I know I can trust you.” The investigation will remain secret, for now. Part of Obi-Wan doesn’t even want to know how deep the denigun hole goes, but it is his duty to find out.

He will have to speak with Anakin and Padmé about keeping important information secret and on a need-to-know basis later. Bringing it up now, directly after everything else, would be a disaster waiting to happen.

“Now, what was it you wanted to ask me?” He wonders what it could possibly be.

“You, uh… I mean… You don’t want to be the Supreme Chancellor… right?”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows raise toward his hairline. Want to be? It’s like one of his worst nightmares. But if Anakin even has to ask, then that just goes to show what a sorry state their relationship is in.

“No, Anakin, I don’t. If I could have turned down the position without betraying my duty to the Jedi and to the Republic—to the Galaxy—I would have.” He sighs and finally lets his shoulders slump. 

“So… You didn’t refuse the role of Chancellor because it’s your duty?” Anakin says, his face scrunched up with suspicion. Obi-Wan sighs again.

“Do you remember what happened just after Senator Mandai called for the Vote of No-Confidence against Palpatine?” he says, in lieu of an answer.

“Uh? What? Do you mean when you locked yourself in your rooms and refused to come out?” Anakin looks confused with the sudden change in topic.

“Indeed. I spent all of that time trying to distract myself as well as come to terms with the fact that for some reason, there were people who wanted me to fill yet another role of high power.” Obi-Wan looks away from Anakin and stares out over the office. “It’s utterly unreasonable for one person to hold this many roles of power, Anakin. I’m frankly surprised the Council hasn’t asked me to rescind my seat, at least temporarily.” 

He turns back to Anakin, who nods and frowns.

“Yeah… it’s also a lot of pressure, isn’t it?”

Obi-Wan almost wants to burst out into hysteric laughter. A lot of pressure is the least he would call the amount of expectations and responsibilities he carries now. He’s almost shocked he hasn’t buckled under the weight yet.

“Anakin… When the war is over and I can finally step down from being Chancellor, from being a general… I’m going to spend a minimum of two weeks in my rooms doing nothing but meditating, practicing katas, and taking care of my plants. Nothing else. The Council will have to drag me out of my rooms for anything short of an emergency.”

Anakin blinks in surprise.

“Oh, uh. Two weeks of vacation, huh?” he says and tries for a grin. 

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “After that, I’m going to spend at least a month in the crèche, with the babies, and just… just bask. Bask in their Light. Bask in being surrounded by beings who want nothing more from me than food, a toy, or a warm body to cuddle up with or sleep on. I don’t know much of anything about taking care of crèchelings, not really, but… I would learn. I would take the time to learn.” He smiles a bit at the thought. He suspects it’s why Master Yoda enjoys being on crèche duty. Obi-Wan never really minded it himself, even back when he was a teenager.

“Wait, what? You want to go on crèche duty?” Anakin sounds utterly incredulous. Obi-Wan had almost forgotten that he used to put Anakin on crèche duty as punishment, back in the day. He’d hoped it would help integrate Anakin in the Order, but… Perhaps some things just aren’t meant to be.

“Yes, I do. It’s still a responsibility, but… In far less dire circumstances, wouldn’t you say?”

They share a smile.

“After that, I’m going to work on all of my research projects. The ones I kept having to put to the side because of missions or, more lately, the war. That might take me a year or two. After that, maybe, I would be willing to take on more responsibility than an initiate again.” He laughs. It is a rather silly thought. A Master Jedi with less responsibility than an initiate? But really, it’s what he wants; he knows that’s what he wants.

“Yeah… I see,” Anakin says and nods, a small smile on his face.

The silence that descends is comfortable and Obi-Wan closes his eyes and allows himself to fantasize of the end of the war, just for a little while.

~~~~

Anakin watches his former Master for a bit. He doesn’t think Obi-Wan realises how much he gave away when he described his hopes for the end of the war. It’s obvious that Obi-Wan is tired, exhausted even.

Anakin feels a bit ashamed for having ever even considered the thought that Obi-Wan might actually be seeking out power. It’s true that it seems to have landed in his lap, again and again. But when Anakin really thinks about it, all of it was appointed to him without his say.

He was made a General because he’s a Jedi. He was offered a place on the Council—and considering his feelings on duty, he wouldn’t have turned that down—by the other Council members and being a Council member automatically bumped him up to High General. And this last bit, being voted in as Supreme Chancellor… Naangni are immune to Force suggestion so he couldn’t have made Senator Mandai do it even if he wanted to. So again power and responsibility landed in his lap through no action of his.

Anakin really should have known better than to doubt Obi-Wan. Now it seems obvious that he hasn’t been secretly plotting to gain power, but when Palpatine brought it up it seemed so reasonable.

Anakin frowns. It’s really weird, that. A lot of things Palpatine tells him sound reasonable when he says them, but less so much later when Anakin thinks about it in Obi-Wan’s presence.

Nah, that’s probably just Anakin’s imagination getting the better of him.

This talk has made Anakin wonder though… what will he do when the war is over?

—

(Supreme Chancellor Obi-Wan Kenobi masterpost)