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hellfirenacht · 10 months

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Plus One Chapter 2

Summary: Once upon a time, you made a deal with the school freak that if he ever got famous then he'd invite you to be his plus one at a red carpet event. Now a decade later an invite shows up at your house asking you to be the +1 to Eddie Munson, front man of Corroded Coffin. (1)

Tags: modern!au, Eddie and Reader are in their late 20's/early 30's after the deal is made. Rockstar!Eddie. Friends to strangers to friends to lovers, references to Flight of Icarus characters. Eventual smut. No use of y/n, reader description is as vague as possible

No beta, we die like Jason Carver.

Eddie Munson

The name echoed in your mind for the rest of the day, bouncing around and trying to connect a name with a face the whole time you were at work. Of course this was the one day that you had forgotten to charge your phone, and were stuck in an endless loop of trying to figure out who it was.

Without your phone you were stuck listening to the radio on the way home. You flipped through the different stations, trying to find any channel that was playing music and not on a commercial break. The screech of an electric guitar gave you pause, giving the song a good five seconds to impress you before you continued your channel surfing.

The sting of the guitar rocked through your car and penetrated your brain in a way that felt electric. In five seconds you had removed your hand from the radio dial and were focused on driving again. The roads were empty this late at night, allowing you some extra room in your mind to enjoy the song. Vocals came in, scratching your brain in a pleasant way as you caught the final chorus before it faded out and the DJ came back on.

“And that was Corroded Coffin with their latest single Storm.” Announced the DJ, and you nearly slammed on the breaks from shock.

Corroded Coffin. The invitation. Okay, so it had to be a joke, right? There was no way that the letter that had appeared in your mailbox was really addressed to you from them.

It was only by pure luck that you were able to speed home without any cops pulling you over. You rushed into your apartment and grabbed the invitation that had been left on your counter before shoving your charge cable into your phone.

When it didn’t turn on right away you hurried over to your laptop and opened it, thankful that there was no delay. You made quick work of typing in ‘Eddie Munson’ and ‘Corroded Coffin’ into the search bar.

The results were instantaneous as pictures of a band popped up, as well as a flood of articles about the band’s latest goings on. You scanned the results and pulled up the latest one about how the band had been nominated for Best Metal Album at this year's Hellfire Awards. You quickly learned that the Hellfire Awards were a pretty big deal in the alternative music scene as everything was decided by the fans rather than a panel of industry judges.

You pulled up another article focused on Eddie himself and you stared at the picture as you started to remember who this man was. You got up and went to your closet, haphazardly pulling out boxes and bags until you found an old stash of high school memorabilia that you never looked at but never could bring yourself to toss.

At the bottom of the box was the thick yearbook from your graduating year. You flipped through it quickly to the Senior photos, singing the alphabet song in your mind as you made your way to the M’s for-

Eddie Munson. (insert funny senior quote here)

You stared at the picture for a good long while as you tried to comprehend what was actually happening. You brought the book to your laptop again, comparing the pictures of the Rock God on your screen to the awkwardly smiling kid in the photo. Yes, that was definitely him. He hadn’t changed much physically, his hair was still long and wavy and he still had bright and expressive brown eyes.

Memories began seeping in, as you thought back to the few weeks before high school ended. You flipped to the front cover of the book now, scanning the many signatures of long forgotten friends and the few of those you still talked to. There in the corner of the page was a message in scratchy handwriting, as if the pen had been refusing to work.

See you when I’m famous! Eddie Munson

You grabbed the invitation again.

A deal’s a deal.

His handwriting was somehow worse. Didn’t he have to write his autograph a million times a day? How was it worse? But it was still the same, and you found yourself laughing. Actually, you were in damn near hysterics as you pressed your face against your hands. This had to be a joke, right? One of your friends realized that someone that you both went to school with was famous, and had made this elaborate invitation to...

A deal’s a deal.

And if you forget to come back for Madame Zeroni, you and your family will be cursed for always and eternity.

You set the yearbook aside, sliding the invitation safely inside. Turning back to the computer, you started looking through Corroded Coffin’s past accomplishments; they'd been on the scene for a few years now, but had exploded in popularity in the past year and a half. They’d even played in Indianapolis just a few months ago and you were none the wiser.

That night was spent in a spiral of reading over articles, and (admittedly) stalking social media. Each of the band members had their own socials combined with the main Corroded Coffin page. You also skimmed the socials for WR Records, but didn’t find much interesting other than tour dates and updates on the other artists under the label. Oh, and you now knew that Eddie was about two years older than you. Huh.

The band was... chaotic. They posted a lot of videos behind the scenes, of them playing pranks on each other, lip syncing to other songs, and there seemed to be a running joke of everyone hiding Gareth’s drumsticks in weird places.

Magazines also seemed to love getting Eddie shirtless, especially tattoo magazines. They also liked him not wearing pants. They liked him in as little clothing as they could legally get away with.

It’s research. You told yourself, attempting to justify it. He has nice tattoos and I just want a good look.

Managing to tear your eyes away from the photos, (and ignoring any warmth you felt in your stomach from them) you found yourself smiling as you turned on their music as you watched years of curated material unfold in front of you in a few hours. Their music was good, really good, and you wondered why you hadn’t heard them until recently.

Oh right, you were stuck on listening to the same couple hundred songs since high school. You really should branch out.

It was really late when you finally forced yourself to close the laptop and go to bed. You laid down and stared at the ceiling, holding the heavy yearbook on your chest thinking back to those last few weeks of school. Some memories were sharper than others. You closed your eyes trying to remember as much as you could. Eddie. An old notebook. A stupid worksheet. His smile. Some were less clear. Prom night. Graduation, forgotten small talk in the hallways.

Your crush.

Your heart jumped in your chest as you remembered that. Oh, right. You had a crush on him for those last few weeks, hadn’t you? You pressed your face to your pillow and let out a groan. Actually, this was no longer today’s problem. This could be tomorrow's problem. You put the yearbook aside and turned off your lamp and went to bed.

---

So as it turns out, tomorrow’s problems do, in fact, become today’s problems. You weren’t very thrilled about this as you read the invitation for the hundredth time over breakfast. How the hell were you even supposed to respond to this invitation? There was no RSVP or return address or phone number!

Maybe it was a prank? But the only other person who would know about that deal you two had made was Eddie right? Or maybe you’d told one of your friends back then? But then why would they just now try a prank?

Your phone buzzed and lit up next to you and you looked it over. A notification from WR RECORDS was blaring at you from your screen. You turned the brightness down on your phone hoping that it would help lessen the shock. It did not.

With shaking hands you fumbled to open the message. It was clearly addressed to you.

“Hello! This is Paige Warner from WR Records reaching out on behalf of Corroded Coffin to confirm that you received the invitation that we sent out for this year's Hellfire Awards.”

You stared at this for a long time. You closed the message and checked the account that it was sent from. It had the official small check that meant it was a verified account. You felt like you were going to be sick.

You re-opened the message, read it again, closed it, checked the account again to make sure that your eyes weren’t playing tricks on you, panicked again, set the phone down, did a lap around your house and opened the message again.

This cycle would repeat at least two more times before you finally forced yourself to type a reply.

Which you instantly deleted and opened the message on your laptop instead, as if changing the technology you were viewing it on would somehow make this any different.

Read receipts were on. FUCK.

You googled how to turn them off for this platform. You could not. Double FUCK.

You’d left WR RECORDS on read for going on 45 minutes. Triple FUCK.

“Got it!!”

You sent the message before you could stall any longer. You cringe at the two words. Why did you double up on the exclamation points? Anxiety was spiraling through you at a million miles per hour before another messaged popped up.

“Great! Would you have a moment to talk to me about making arrangements? I have a few moments free right now.”

You hadn’t felt this nervous since you interviewed for your current job.

“Yes, I have time!”

Your answer looked so robotic and generic on the screen, but there was no time to think about that as your laptop screen lit up and started ringing. A video call. WR RECORDS was trying to video call you. This had to be illegal. It had to! You were in your fucking pajamas and WR RECORDS was trying to video call you.

You spent ten seconds trying desperately to make yourself look presentable and threw on your robe over your pjs. At least the robe was clean and didn’t have any holes in it. You tightened it around you as much as you could. Took a deep breath and answered the call.

A woman a few years older than you appeared on screen. She had short dark hair and a face full of freckles. “I’m so sorry for the last minute call.” she said. “I’m Paige Warner, I’m the manager for Corroded Coffin.”

Your throat felt dry as you choked out your name with a nervous smile. Of course you’d left your drink in the kitchen and there was no graceful way to grab it now.

Paige wasn’t here to waste time or make small talk, she jumped right into it. She didn’t even blink at your outfit. “The annual Hellfire Awards will be held a month from now. We are willing to offer you travel expenses and hotel to come down, and the band has also agreed to pay for any hair and make-up as well as an outfit to wear onto the red carpet.”

“Red carpet.” You said dumbly. Wait you were going to- they wanted you to what.

“Yes, Eddie specifically requested that you join him on the red carpet.” Paige said, furrowing her brows. “He said that you would remember your deal.”

“I, uh...”

Paige looked at her watch and you could tell that she was starting to get antsy. “I can have plane tickets and a hotel booked for you by tonight. All I need is for you to sign this agreement and have it sent back to me before 5 pm PST. I’ll have it sent to your email. Now, about your involvement with-”

She didn’t get a chance to finish her sentence as there was suddenly a lot of background noise as it sounded like people were filing into her office.

“Paige, can you hide the drumsticks this time?” came a voice off screen. “We’re running out of ideas.”

“Jeff, I can’t right now I’m currently talking to-”

“OH! Is that her? Let me see!” Jeff suddenly ran on screen and your eyes nearly popped out of your head at the site of the bass player appearing behind her.

“Hi! You’re Eddie’s friend right?” He smiled wide at you, and all you could do was nod.

Friends? That seemed generous for the situation but it would have been rude to say otherwise.

“Oh shit, I should go get Eddie to say hi!” Jeff said, tossing the drumsticks down onto Paige’s lap and running off.

“Jeff, no!” she called after him but you had a feeling that her protests weren’t going to mean anything. You froze up as the idea of seeing Eddie again started to sink in.

“I’m so sorry for him, they all get excited too easily.” Paige said. “Jeff, I said no I need to finish this call and then I have other work to do! Work on this computer!”

Jeff just appeared again, grabbed the back of her chair and rolled her away with the biggest grin. “You can pretend to be us and post boring updates on our account later. The internet isn’t going anywhere.”

The absurdity of this was not lost on you and you covered your mouth with your hand to stifle a giggle. This was playing out as if it had happened a hundred times before, and off screen you heard Paige’s exasperated sigh. “Five minutes.” she said firmly.

“Thank you, five” Came the sound of not just Jeff’s voice but another voice.

The sound of another rolling chair echoed through your crappy computer speakers and at first all you could see was the lower torso of a t shirt as someone moved into frame before they sat down in front of the camera.

Eddie Munson. Eddie ‘the Freak’ Munson.

Eddie Munson of Corroded Coffin.

“Uh, hi.” he said with a wide grin, and a wave and you desperately tried to reconnect the wires in your brain to say hi back.

Last night you’d seen carefully curated pictures of him, making him look untouchable. You’d seen him on stage holding his guitar, looking like a Rock God. You’d seen him spread out over pages of magazines, wearing clothing that was specifically tailored to make him look like, well, like he was better than any normal person. You’d even seen him wearing damn near nothing, covered in tattoos making him damn near look like a porn star.

Now he was sitting across from you (virtually) with his hair pulled back in a sloppy bun, and a faded t shirt with a questionable stain on it. There was unshaven stubble that looked like it didn’t know if it was growing out or if he’d forgotten to shave for the past few days. For five seconds, you felt like you were in high school again, as you finally managed to talk.

“Hey.” you said back. Nailed it.

“So you’re coming right?” Eddie said eagerly, and even with the lower quality of the video call (which was because of your internet, and not Paige’s webcam, you were sure of), you could see the way his large brown eyes showed excitement.

“You really want me to?” you blurted out. You couldn’t help it, none of this seemed real. Hell, you hardly believed that someone from Hawkins High School had managed to get out of the sad town and become famous. This was a lot to learn in two days.

“We had a deal, remember?” Eddie said. “And I’m not gonna risk you cursing me because I forgot to invite you the last four and a half years.”

“Well... I guess I should go then.” you replied. “I mean, if I don’t then I’m going to have to learn how to curse-”

“You’re allowed to say ‘fuck’, we do it all the time!” yelled out Jeff from behind Eddie.

“Shut up, Jeff!” Eddie grabbed a piece of paper off of Paige’s desk, crumpled it up and threw it at his bandmate. He was laughing through and when it made contact with Jeff, he fell down dramatically. “Ignore him, we’re all idiots.” Eddie turned back to you.

There had been a time in high school where Eddie Munson was regarded as a freak, a delinquent, a druggie, someone dangerous. When you had been paired together for a worksheet, you found yourself at ease with him, talking to him as naturally as you would any other friend. And now, nearly a decade later, he was a celebrity, a legend, constantly being swarmed by fans and groupies and paparazzi. Yet here you were, laughing at his antics the same way you had all those years ago.

Freak. Rock Star. Eddie Munson.

You found your shoulders relaxing and you were smiling at him. “It’s fine, I guess I’ll start with cursing Jeff and working my way through the band until I get to you.” you told him.

“You can’t!” protested Eddie. “I’m holding up my end of the deal! We said five years and if you don’t come to this one you’ll have to come to the Accolades and I think you’d curse me for that one anyway because it’s so boring.”

“Boring? The Accolades? You mean the biggest event of the year for all the tabloids?” you asked. It was hard imagining any of Eddie’s life being boring.

“Worse than Higgins’ speech for our graduating class.” Eddie said seriously. “You thought he was long winded? The Accolades are just a bunch of old farts who like to pat themselves on the back and insult anyone who doesn’t meet their standards.”

You nodded. “Alright, yeah, I guess I would have to take up witchcraft for that.”

“Wait, is she actually a witch?” Jeff said, finally getting up and walking back over.

“If she comes to Hellfire we won’t have to find out.” Eddie laughed and looked directly into the camera. It was unnerving, because that meant that he was getting as close to direct eye contact with you as he could in this current situation. Your heart jumped as his expression shifted. “You are coming, right?”

Maybe it was his big brown doe eyes, or the sincerity in his voice. Maybe it was the small ember of a crush that you had long thought was snuffed out. Maybe it was the way you had already exhausted yourself from your earlier anxiety. Hell, maybe it was the fact that you’d seen him nearly naked for a magazine spread just hours before.

You couldn’t say no, even if you wanted to. And you really did not want to.

“Yeah.” you said quickly. You’d figure out getting time off somehow. “Yeah, I’ll be there. Just tell me where to go.”

Eddie’s chair was pushed away and Paige returned to the camera with a small protest. The five minutes were up.

“I’ve sent you an email with an NDA. Sign it, and we’ll get everything taken care of.” she said.

You wasted no time pulling up the email on your phone, giving it your electronic signature, and sending it back. Though, maybe you should have wasted a little time reading a legal document. Well, it was too late now.

“Alright, you two need to leave now.” Paige said to Eddie and Jeff. “I have to finish up with her here.”

“Wait, what about the drumsticks?” Jeff asked.

“I already hid them.” There was a light in her eyes that you liked. She wasn’t all business, it seemed.

Eddie stuck his head back into view, giving you a full smile with teeth. “I’ll see you when you get here!” he said before Paige shooed them both away again.

The last words you caught from Jeff were a muffled ‘day off’ and ‘campaign’, followed by the clicking of a door.

The next few minutes was Paige gathering your information and giving you a brief rundown of the papers you had just signed. She said that she’d be in touch with you within the next week to send you all of the travel information and to email her with any questions or concerns.

When the call finally ended, you were left staring at the last message sent by WR RECORDS with Paige’s personal email address. It wasn’t even noon and you’d already talked to a former-classmate-turned-rock-star, dodged allegations on being a witch, spoke to the manager of a metal band that you had only just started listening to the night before, and RSVP’d yes to walk the red carpet for one of the biggest alt music awards shows.

You closed the laptop, called out of work, and went back to bed.

---

Please comment and reblog 💜

Tag list: @hellfiredarling @crocwork-clockodile @hitoshislut @kurdtbean @kennedy-brooke @daisyridleyyyy @akira1803

#nacht fic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #Plus One

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jedibongrip · 2 years

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relationship: anakin/obi-wan rating: m (canon typical injuries/violence) tags: alternate universe, anakin was never a jedi, green card marriage (in space) for full list of tags, check ao3 5k

summary: They’re three days from reaching Coruscant when Anakin asks, “Obi-Wan, I’ll… I’ll be allowed to stay, right? On Coruscant? They won’t make me go back?”

Obi-Wan goes to assure him but falters. He didn’t think of that. Since the war started, immigration to the Core has been greatly restricted. Even refugees are often sent back to the Middle Rim. Hardly anyone without citizenship is allowed to move on Coruscant these days. Unless...

[for the @obikin-events bingo prompt: green card marriage]

By all rights, Obi-Wan shouldn’t even be on Tatooine. The planet held little value to the war effort — population too sparse to hold any real support for the senate, resources too difficult to extract to benefit any industry, and it wasn’t located by any major hyperspace lanes or trade routes. It wasn’t even technically in the Republic, only loosely associated with it through a variety of trade and cultural agreements, made by the Hutts and whatever committee lacked enough morals to work with them. But the Separatists sought any foothold in the outer rim they could get, and Tatooine, so rough yet defenceless, was an easy target. It was not on principle or a notion that all life is sacred, that called Obi-Wan and his men to this desert planet. The Republic can’t afford to lose any more sectors to the Confederacy, and so he is called here.

The air is bitter with smoke and the Force is sharp with grief and anger. The towns on Tatooine are small, spread out, but densely packed. Their buildings are meant to survive wind, sand, and heat, not blaster bolts and bombs. The casualties are high. Obi-Wan knows that no one will thank him or the GAR for this battle. The only people who will consider this a victory are sitting in comfortable offices in another system. Here and now, Obi-Wan can only hear the screams of people still trapped under distant rubble, the cries as children call out for their parents, and wails of agony as families realize that they are, and will always be, a few members short.

All Obi-Wan can see is the young man in his arms, his slender hand gripping the wound that used to be his arm, his trembling lips as he murmurs - prayers? Final goodbyes? Pleas for Obi-Wan to put him down?- in Huttese. The stump gives off the scent of charred flesh, still steaming from where Obi-Wan had to cut him to free him from under a mess of collapsed stone and metal. What’s left of his right leg is crumpled and bleeding, bones sticking out at odd angles. Obi-Wan is sure that he’ll have to get prosthetics for both. He weaves his way through the debris as fast as he can, making his way to the ship, where there’s a proper medbay, instead of a tent with a first aid kit.

His tears have washed a pathway of clean skin, tanned and flushed. His eyes are blue, blue like oceans that this boy could never dream of, has never seen. He is surely going into shock because they are glassy and distant. His breathing is shallow. Obi-Wan can sense him slowly slipping away, as his whispers grow slower and softer. His emotions are easing too, thrumming with fear and hurt but feeling soft around the edges. Like a tablet dissolving in water, they break apart, disappearing the longer Obi-Wan holds him. Leaving nothing behind.

It was his emotions that called to Obi-Wan in the first place, drawing him away from his intended path and making him clammer over piles of rocks, the remnants of destroyed homes. So strong that it almost knocked him over, Obi-Wan felt pain. Pain and anger, scorching hot and pulsing, whipping out like a solar flare. Curled around it was misery and exhaustion and grief so intense that one emotion all bled into another, like the tails of a rat-king. Tangled and suffering until its eventual death.

The emotions, as strong as they were, as aggressive, as they were, were not entirely unfamiliar to Obi-Wan. As he scrambled towards their source, he recalled his own anger, in childhood and now, his exhaustion. The pain he felt with every rejection, every failed battle, every corpse he failed to save. Using the Force to unbury this boy from his grave, Obi-Wan realizes how tired he is. Tired of the war, tired of failure, tired of being half a step away from death. The boy feels like his reflection, exaggerated but no less true. There are dozens of other people that need his help, but Obi-Wan can’t let this one die. He feels too familiar.

He dashes onto a ship still loading up supplies and orders it to take off prematurely. He’s sure he’ll get a talking to about it later. Cradling the skinny form in his arms, trying to parse any familiar word he says, he can’t bring himself to care.

Depositing the lad in the medbay is a slightly awkward affair. Droids and healers jump to care for him, but not without a questioning glance his way. For a blessed few seconds, Obi-Wan thinks he’ll be able to avoid any difficult conversations until later.

He turns to leave (perhaps he can change out of his blood-soaked clothes, before hopping onto the next ship back to the surface) and nearly runs straight into Kix. Blasted luck. No hope to avoid anything now.

Kix raises an eyebrow, glancing at the man in the cot, surrounded by a flurry of movement. “Well, well, well. What do we have here, General?”

“Why aren’t you on the surface?” Obi-Wan asks. His attempt at diversion is obvious and not as graceful as he would like. Kix rolls his eyes, seeing straight through his ploy. Sometimes Obi-Wan wishes his higher-level officers feared him as much as the lower ones.

“I was about to head down when I got word that you were making a sudden trip to medbay. Imagine my joy - finally, the general is taking care of himself! Now, I see you only came here as a guest.”

Obi-Wan’s throat is dry. He clears it a few times. “The… the medical tents were not yet set up. He needs more intensive medical care.”

“I can see that,” Kix drawls. “Usually we just stabilize civilians on the ground while temporary hospitals are set up.”

Obi-Wal falters, unsure how to explain his need for this man’s survival to Kix. Instead, he bites out, “I want you to tend to him.”

Kix raises an eyebrow again. “Sir, I have to be on the surface to look over the troops. And I need to look over you, come to think of it.” His expressions soften. “He’ll be in good hands here. I’ll look over him when I’m back.”

Obi-Wan supposes that’ll have to be good enough.

Hours later, when one of the twin suns has already set and the other making its sleepy descent to the horizon, Obi-Wan’s comm chimes. He misses the first notification, too busy discussing plans of action with the council and checking over his men, making sure that they are dispensing aid as instructed. He catches the second notification as it comes through, a message telling him that the boy he brought was out of surgery, just starting to wake up, and was extremely confused.

Obi-Wan can’t remember the last time he ran so fast when it wasn’t a life-or-death situation. When he arrives in medbay, healers speak to him in hushed tones, even as they talk in the hallway, far away from the boy’s ears.

They’ve managed to stabilize the damage - he won’t get any worse - but Obi-Wan was correct in his assumption. They had to amputate his leg, above the knee. They also had to remove the cauterized skin from his arm, making his amputation much closer to the elbow. He has large burns on his shoulders and torso. He has other wounds, lesser in severity but requiring no less medical attention. They don’t say it, but Obi-Wan reads between the lines.

Even with all this treatment, this boy will die if he stays on the planet. The care he needs is extensive, more than Tatooine can provide, for a man like him, living where he was. They have prosthetics in the Outer Rim but none as advanced as what is common in the core planets. Most people out here, Obi-Wan knows, live and die by the state of their hands and heads. Whatever livelihood the man had before is gone, either by way of blasters or because he can no longer do it properly.

If he stays he will die of infection or poverty. It’s selfish, but as Obi-Wan walks toward his bed, it feels like he’s the one on a death march. (He just wanted to save this one person, just this one. Was it too much to ask? To be able to sleep at night knowing he saved just one, at least?)

The boy blinks at him when Obi-Wan takes the seat next to his bed. His skin is shining where bacta was applied and leaked out past bandages. The bags under his eyes are large and dark and his lips are cracked. He looks drained like the universe has done its best to squeeze every ounce of joy out of him.

“Hello, there,” Obi-Wan starts, voice slow and steadier than he feels. “How are you feeling?”

The boy blinks again, heading tilting. Obi-Wan remembers how he whispered in Huttese, the fervent tone of his voice, raspy from screaming. He might not even speak Basic. Perhaps, Obi-Wan needs to search for a droid with Outer Rim language families programmed and-

“I feel like shit.” Obi-Wan nearly jumps at the words. The voice is raspy, deeper than Obi-Wan expected. He looks at the boy, tired and broken in the bed. He looks back, eyes blank and tired. “Where did you take me?”

Obi-Wan clears his throat and begins his halting, confusing explanation. He’s grateful when the boy - Anakin, he quickly learns - doesn’t ask why he was brought here instead of a medical tent. Obi-Wan still can’t think of a reasonable explanation. He does his best to skirt around the hard conversation of Anakin’s prognosis. Instead, he listens as Anakin slowly, gravely, talks about himself.

“I have no family,” he says, quiet and sad when Obi-Wan asks. “They… they’re gone, now. My mother and step-family. So’s our house and our speeder and our things.” Just under the surface, Obi-Wan can sense the anger at the injustice of it all, the thing that drew him to Anakin. “I don’t know what’s left.”

If his house was the building that Obi-Wan pulled him from, the answer is nothing. Nothing that he cared about is left for him. Obi-Wan looks away, surprised by his own grief at the realization.

“What do I do now?” Anakin asks. His tone has grown watery, and when Obi-Wan glances over, Anakin’s eyes are filled with tears. “Where do I go?”

Obi-Wan, truly, can’t explain why he offers. Why the thought even comes to his mind. But without his consent, without reason, he says, “You can come with me. Back to Coruscant.”

Anakin sniffs and tilts his head again. “The Core?”

Obi-Wan nods. Well, he’s offered now. He can’t back out. “We’re heading back there soon. There’ll be other stops along the way. But you’ll need medical attention. You can stay in our medbay.”

Anakin looks at him and seems to look through him, into him. He stares for a few seconds before slowly nodding. “Okay. I’ll come.”

A nurse droid comes by to check on Anakin, preventing them from speaking further. Obi-Wan can tell Anakin is growing weary, his eyes drooping without something stimulating him. Obi-Wan quietly slips out of the room, giving Anakin some privacy in his medical matters.

He goes back planetside and spends a few hours sifting through the rubble where he found Anakin. He finds a few photographs, some swathes of fabric that could have, once, been blankets, and the remnants of many droids. He finds a few rings, warped from pressure and heat, but recognizable as marriage bands. Obi-Wan gathers up all he can salvage, all he can carry, and hauls it back to his quarters on ship.

They take off shortly thereafter, leaving Tatooine and her twin suns to cover up the unearned marks of war.

Obi-Wan visits Anakin when he has time, and sometimes, even when he does not. He is smart, wickedly so, and has such a sharp sense of humour that it catches Obi-Wan off guard. That anger, that sorrow, that Obi-Wan first felt is still under the skin, rising and falling like ocean waves. But as he heals more, as they get further from his home planet, it quiets.

They’re three days from reaching Coruscant when Anakin asks, “Obi-Wan, I’ll… I’ll be allowed to stay, right? On Coruscant? They won’t make me go back?”

They - some immigration guard or official or someone - may very well take one look at Anakin, penniless, jobless, Outer Rim accent clinging to every other word, and send him away. In the stars, Obi-Wan can protect him, as a Jedi and a general, but back home? He can’t promise that.

“Getting you citizenship may be difficult,” Obi-Wan admits. Anakin’s face droops, overcome with sadness and anger. Like Obi-Wan betrayed him. Obi-Wan has to fix that, immediately. “But, there is… an alternative solution…”

Three days later, Obi-Wan steps into the Jedi Temple from the shuttle ship. He waits in the hangar bay for a few minutes, as a meddroid pushes a wheelchair down the ramp, handing him off to Obi-Wan. As he walks through the halls of the temple, he knows people glance at him, in confusion, as he pushes the wheelchair. Anakin looks around, eyes wide and mouth agape, awed by the architecture and climate and everything. Against his chest, on a leather cable, hang the two, warped rings that Obi-Wan found in the desert.

Obi-Wan readies himself when he gets to the door leading to the Council. He tries to radiate calm and serenity as he walks to the centre of the room, bringing Anakin with him. He knows his shields falter when he takes a deep breath and introduces Anakin Skywalker-Kenobi as his new husband and new resident of Coruscant.

There’s no such thing as a honeymoon for Jedis or war generals. Shortly after Obi-Wan fields as many questions as he can, fills out all the filmsiwork to declare Anakin a new citizen of Coruscant, and helps him get situated in Obi-Wan’s meagre quarters, he’s off again to fight another battle in another star system. Anakin gives the healers permission to share his medical work with Obi-Wan, so occasionally he’ll open his datapad to find a lengthy email detailing Anakin’s progress.

He and Anakin are rarely awake and unoccupied at the same time, but they send the occasional message. Obi-Wan often takes a few days to respond to Anakin, whereas it only takes a few hours for Anakin to reply. It’s… pleasant. Like a pen pal. Like they’re new friends instead of new husbands.

Obi-Wan is gone long enough that Anakin gets fitted for prosthetics. He’s gone long enough that Anakin completes his equivalency exams. He’s gone long enough that, when he returns, so many months later, Anakin already has a list of potential apartments to move into.

“I got a job in droid repair,” Anakin says, with a small, proud smile. His accent is fading to the neutral tone that most Coruscanti immigrants develop. It disappoints Obi-Wan when he notices it. He enjoyed the way that so many of Anakin’s words seemed to flow together, the soft vowels bumping against the rough consonants. In their time apart, almost seven months, he’s picked up new slang, speaks in a steadier tone, and has worked hard to sound like he belongs. Obi-Wan is surprised when he realizes that he misses how his pitch would rise and fall with every other word, how often he used crass language, and punctuated sentences with sounds that should have been impossible for a human mouth to make. “The… teachers? The teachers here wrote me a letter.”

“The masters wrote a reference letter?”

“Yeah, them. And that.”

Obi-Wan’s shore leave is limited. He planned to spend a good amount of it asleep. But Anakin asks him to look at apartments with him and says that he isn’t sure what makes an Inner Rim house ‘good’ or ‘bad’. Truthfully, Obi-Wan doesn’t either, since he’s lived in the temple his entire life. But he wakes up early the next day and lets Anakin guide them to the lower levels. At one point, Anakin grasps his hand with his new mechohand. The metal is warm and firm, but the grip is soft. It’s quite nice. Obi-Wan doesn’t pull away even after Anakin has pulled him in the right direction.

They decide that most of the apartments are terrible, at least terrible compared to the temple. Anakin says that everything is practically a luxury hotel compared to his old house on Tatooine.

(“One time we didn’t have enough water to make clay to repair a crack so we had to use pee,” Anakin shares with a manic grin. He laughs at Obi-Wan’s grimaces. “I know! Kids made fun of me for living in the ‘piss house’ weeks!”)

When they return to the Temple, Obi-Wan falls asleep before they can talk about it more. Before he leaves for his next campaign, he gives Anakin access to his bank account. (He isn’t sure what to do with the credits. As a Jedi, he’s earned a small amount since he was a senior padawan, mostly to go to food, drink, and other expenses whilst away. Since joining the war effort, the Republic has started paying him a sum. It might as well go to someone who’ll use it for something besides drinks.) He also asks his friend, Senator Amidala, to help Anakin find some nicer living spaces.

“Mid-level, Padmé,” Obi-Wan reminds her in a holomessage. “I don’t want him living at the very bottom, but even I know he can’t afford much higher. Just… make sure he doesn’t get into any trouble.” (Based on the photos and messages she sends him later, perhaps Padmé is more likely to get Anakin into trouble than out of it. It’s good that he’s making friends, Obi-Wan tells himself, staring at a holo of Anakin’s arm slung casually over Padmé’s shoulder. It’s good. It's fine.)

A few weeks later before he goes to bed, he gets a message from Anakin saying that he’s moved into a new place. At the bottom, he’s included the code to the front door. Obi-Wan thinks about that, what it means, for longer than he wants to.

Months pass, with Obi-Wan fighting a war that saps him of his energy, his emotions, and his patience. Months pass with Anakin staying on Coruscant doing… whatever he does when he’s not messaging Obi-Wan or heading back to the Temple for checkups, physiotherapy, and prosthetic adjustments. Vokara tells Obi-Wan that Anakin has made a few adjustments on his arm and leg himself, though she is not knowledgeable enough about it to say what the modifications do.

Obi-Wan is on a Midrim planet, walking through the local market as they restock some supplies when he sees a jeweller's stand. Like with so much when it comes to Anakin, when it comes to this messy, unexpected shift in his life, he doesn’t know why he’s drawn to it. He glances at the bracelets and necklaces, eyes lingering on the rings.

Anakin is his husband in name only. Obi-Wan is fine with that, never expected anything more. A few times Anakin held his hand, mostly when he was still in medbay, an emotionally fraught time. Obi-Wan doesn’t know when they’ll be able to divorce without Anakin getting deported.

But in a few of Anakin’s updates, most of them so rambling that Obi-Wan finds them hard to follow, he’s mentioned uncomfortable situations where someone hasn’t believed his marital status. Sometimes it’s government officials, critical of his place on the planet. Sometimes it’s clients looking for a flirtatious discount when picking up their droids. Anakin mentions it in passing, without any request or question attached to it. But, and Obi-Wan doesn’t know why, he just, more than anything, wants life to be easy for Anakin. He wants to think of him without stress or worry. In a few years, when the war is hopefully over and when Anakin has… left him behind to start a new life, Obi-Wan wants him to look back with nostalgia. To see it as a situation born of grief and tragedy but made somewhat better by Obi-Wan’s care.

He buys two rings, plain white gold, and a chain to hang them around his neck until he returns home.

(By some miracle, Anakin’s ring fits him. He smiles when Obi-Wan presents it to him, shy and blushing, only looking at the ring as Obi-Wan places it on his finger.

“Thank you,” Anakin whispers, still staring at his hand. The pale metal contrasts beautifully with his tanned skin. “I love it.”

When Anakin turns that smile to him, it’s like the sun is smiling at him. Obi-Wan senses no anger or desolation in him, only joy and comfort.

Obi-Wan knows if he’s not careful, he’ll get addicted to feeling this directed at him. And he knows himself well enough to know that he won’t be careful.)

He has a few weeks in Coruscant before he’s scheduled to leave again. With such an unusual length, he’s expected to do more than simply recuperate. He has jobs to do, lessons to teach, and meetings to attend.

Too many meetings. Too long meetings. Obi-Wan resists the urge to rub his temples, staving off the dull but persistent headache that’s been brewing for a few hours. He wants nothing more than to abandon these talks and flop down on his bed. He’s so tired, always so tired. But this agreement with the Hutt family, to get information and an assurance that their fleets won’t be attacked by pirates or bounty hunters in their space, is important. Evident in the fact that they’ve spent too much time just trying to figure out a solution to something as silly as the language barrier. The senate or Chancellor won’t agree to anything that isn’t in writing. But very few legal experts in the Core would lower themselves to learn the language of whores and slaves, and most droid language packages haven’t updated the Huttese dialect in nearly two decades. Simply finding out how to translate has taken the bulk of this meeting. If Obi-Wan had an ounce less patience, he’d have walked out hours ago.

“Fluent in Huttese, your spouse is, is he not, Obi-Wan?” Yoda says, snapping Obi-Wan out of his internal lamenting. All eyes in the room shift to Obi-Wan as he tries to keep his gaping to a minimum.

Of course. His spouse. His spouse from Tatooine. Anakin. Obi-Wan clears his throat. “Er, yes, Master Yoda. An- My spouse is fluent in Huttese. However, I do not know if he would be… familiar… with the sort of legal jargon that typically occurs in agreements.” He also doesn’t trust Anakin to relay all the information truthfully. Anakin would probably revel in trying to make the Hutts take a bad deal. “Further, he does not have the political clearance to participate in these talks.”

“Few options, we have,” Yoda reminds him. Obi-Wan sighs, and resists the urge to rub his temples. He can already hear other members discussing the logistics of getting a temporary pass - perhaps one akin to an academic observer or an outside contractor - to join the negotiations. A few sidebar conversations about how unfortunate it is that so few politicians and academics will lower themselves to learn a ‘slave language’ when so many in the galaxy speak it exclusively. It seems that everyone else has agreed. Obi-Wan has not.

“Anakin will not be translating anything to do with the Hutts,” Obi-Wan speaks clearly, loudly, voice more sure than he feels. Conversation ceases as everyone glances back at him. He feels like a padawan being called in for a scolding, with how much he wants to squirm under their gazes. He clears his throat again. “As many of you have said, Huttese is traditionally spoken amongst the enslaved or the very poor. Anakin does not speak Huttese by chance or out of interest.”

Obi-Wan takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “I will not subject my spouse to having to interact with his enslavers or their representatives.”

There is silence for a few moments. “Besides,” Obi-Wan continues with a small smile on his face to defuse the tension. “He hates politics. He’d probably try to ruin the negotiations spectacularly just so that no one gets any ideas about asking him for help again.”

A few chuckles ring through the room, mostly by those who have met Anakin in passing.

“Perhaps, Anakin could suggest another fluent speaker on Coruscant. He participated in a few, what do they call them, transition groups? To help those from the Outer Rim acclimate.” Obi-Wan suggests, feeling awkward at having so publicly disagreed and scolded the rest of the council. Now that he thinks of it, it’s not a terrible suggestion. Anakin hasn’t attended any of those meetings or groups in a while, but he seemed to enjoy them when he was first adjusting.

With a lack of other options, other members agree. The meeting continues, though Obi-Wan takes a brief moment to type out and ask Anakin if he has any suggestions. It really would be much easier if Anakin translated for them. Obi-Wan knows it. And Anakin might complain, might be angry, but Obi-Wan is pretty sure he would have agreed if he asked.

Obi-Wan doesn’t want him angry, is the thing. Doesn’t want to drag Anakin into something he doesn’t like. It’ll feel like a betrayal. He brought Anakin here - Force, what was it? Two years ago? - promising him health and happiness. A life free of the pains he knew before. (He may not have said it, may not have told Anakin that he was promising that, but that's what he meant when he suggested marriage. When he granted Cody the authority to marry them. When he held Anakin's hand and said 'I do.') Obi-Wan likes to think that, despite everything, he’s met that promise. He doesn’t quite know what he’ll do if Anakin tells him otherwise.

Obi-Wan stares at the message blinking at him from his datapad. In the dark, the light is almost blinding. It’s fitting, in a way.

Happy anniversary, it says. I’m glad you found me. When you get back, I want to spend time with you.

Then, sent separately, like it was an afterthought or an impulse decision. I love you, Obi-Wan.

Three years seems so long when Obi-Wan thinks about it, yet he feels like nothing has happened. The time he’s spent with Anakin, in person, can probably be measured in days. Time spent on calls, messaging back and forth consecutively, then maybe they’ve spent weeks together.

It’s absurd to think that Anakin could fall in love in that amount of time. Much less fall in love with Obi-Wan. But Anakin has always seemed so sure in his emotions, each one felt strongly, like it would be the only thing for him for the rest of his life. Sometimes when they’re together, Obi-Wan gets dizzy, feeling the fluctuations between anger and joy. They make Obi-Wan feel like he’s in a riptide, getting stuck by Anakin’s gravitational pull.

Whatever Anakin feels for him - he dare not hope that it is love, that that’s something the universe would be willing to give him - it must be strong. Strong enough that he wants to spend more time with him. It’s a request that he often asks. When will you get back is always followed by Can I meet you at the hangar? Or Want to come over? I'll cook for you.

Obi-Wan has, more than once, explained that Anakin need not worry about losing his legal status. With all their papers in order, and with the ring that Anakin always wears, no one will question him or bother him. (And Obi-Wan knows he wears it all the time. In every photo he sees of Anakin, if he can see his hands, he’s wearing the ring. Padmé has complained about how Anakin never wears any ‘fun jewelry’, just ‘the boring ring’ that he has. He’s seen Anakin without it once, since giving it to him, when Anakin decided that he wanted to cook a traditional Tatooinian dish for him, and took it off when he handled raw meat. The pale sliver of skin underneath, bordered by Anakin’s tanned skin, almost made it seem like he was still wearing it.)

Obi-Wan tugs on the chain around his neck and feels the warm metal of the ring he has worn for almost two years now.

He… doubts that Anakin will still want him when the war is over. When Anakin will be free to travel the galaxy without fear. When it’ll be easier for him to get his citizenship without marriage. Anakin is young, beautiful, and smart. He’s funny and snarky and has the uncanny ability to drive everyone he meets up the wall when he wants. Despite his analytical mind, the parts that look to fix and change everything he sees - his ever-modifying prosthetics are proof - he always pauses and soaks up poetry and spends so long reading romance novels. Anakin is, despite everything, a romantic. A lover of passion and true love and star-crossed fates. Obi-Wan isn’t sure he can give that to Anakin. He wants to. He just doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know when he’ll be able to.

But he promised Anakin happiness. And, somehow, Anakin thinks that Obi-Wan will make him happy. He stares at the message on his datapad, the screen dimming from lack of use. Obi-Wan needs to go to sleep - he has to be up in only a few hours and needs his wits about him. He doesn’t want to make Anakin wait.

Happy anniversary, Anakin. I’m happy you remembered. I should be back in three standard weeks, Force willing. Unsure how much time I’ll have on Coruscant, but I’d love to see you. Obi-Wan sends it off, puts the pad down and closes his eyes. He manages all of two minutes before he reaches over and picks it up again. Anakin will be upset if he doesn’t reply to every part of his message, after all.

I love you too.

#bongrip writes #obikin fic #obikin

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