#excerpts from ikhthus | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

themikeymonster · 8 years ago

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ikhthus - 1

in which young obi-wan discovers a most curious mother and an even more curious child on tatooine. featuring timeline fuckery (obi-wan is ~16)

The twin suns of Tatooine blaze relentlessly, swirling in counterpart to one another in the pale, parched sky. He pulls the rough woven fabric draped over his shoulders and head even closer, looping it across his nose and mouth. It's too late to prevent the arid atmosphere from sucking the moisture from his offworlder skin - still 'water-soft' compared to the locals, but he feels like it'll crack and bleed as his lips have.

He was already thirsty when his feet first hit planetside, and crossing the wide expanses of the empty wastes have done nothing but worsen it. The locals find their water much too precious to be easily talked out of it, and he doesn't have the heart to incline them otherwise.

He will be fine for a few hours yet, if he can only find someone willing to give him a little aid. The few bites of shared food yesterday hasn't done much to keep his ever-hungry stomach satiated.

Unfortunately, Mos Espa isn't proving to be entirely suitable to the kind of person that he needs to find. He'd come for the larger crowds and the business, but where there is money to be made, there will be those that seek a greater share of it. And in such places like this, those with it always seek to keep as much of it as possible.

It's a good thing he won't need much.

The crowds of Mos Espa are like many crowds that he's walked with before - not identical, but similar. This is the Outer Rim, and the crowds reflect it: many of the people in the streets swagger, boiling with anger and aggression. Many people duck their head and round their shoulders, moving quick and dodging through the rest of the wary, watchful others. It would be simple enough to merge with those wary, watchful many, but instead he lowers his head, rounds his shoulders; moves quickly, and avoids walking too close to others as they do, and watches the crowds out of the corner of his eyes as they do.

Those that were watching him slowly lose interest, and no one gains any interest as he walks by. Their eyes skate over him, looking over him and through him as if he were air - invisible. Nothing.

Tucking the rough woven cloth around his neck, he follows the flow of the invisible people, watching as the streets and buildings turn rougher until the sun-baked clay beneath his feet turns into looser packed earth. There are far fewer of the wary sorts here, and fewer of the aggressive ones; those angry few, however, burn with it. They're intense pockets of fraught emotions, and he steers away from them.

Most corners of the market lane are already occupied, but he finds a quiet spot out of the way and wills that no one will take offense to it. Resting, he tries to conserve his strength and water, watching the people walking by. These sorts value favors more than others; with nothing to bargain with, he'll have to earn their goodwill.

The two suns overhead beat down with merciless intensity.

Hours pass.

He watches, not with his eyes, but with unraveled focus; the people flow in and through the market square, catching up and intimidating one another, airing their concerns, haggling over barters. Most trades seem to occur through goods, rather than money. Those with money - not Republic credits, not out here, but wupiupi - don't do much haggling. Those with wupiupi simply pull blasters if the pricing is not to their liking.

At times, the vendors pull blasters right back.

Distantly, the discomfort of his parched mouth and cracking lips nags on him, his stomach clenching and sour. The concerns of his body are one step removed from his consciousness. It's not the hungriest he's been, and it hasn't yet weakened his limbs, but it's still unpleasant. He will need to find food and water soon, but finding shelter for the night is a more pressing matter. He's already spent one night without it; he doesn't wish to face another.

"Excuse me."

Although aware of the approach, it takes him a few moments to register that he's being spoken to. Reeling his consciousness back in, he blinks at the woman who has come to a stop well outside his arm's reach. Her face, prematurely weathered by the dry climate of Tatooine, is wary but not frightened.

Now that she has his attention, she eyes him for a moment, weighing her words, before she smiles thinly. "You've been standing out here for a while," she says. "Are you lost?"

He gets that question far more than he would prefer, even if this is the first time he's gotten it here on Tatooine. He matches her smile. "More than you know," he admits.

She doesn't react much to his Core accent, but he senses her weighing that knowledge. She hesitates. She is luminous against his senses, faint whispers of what-might-have-been. Her hands, calloused, scarred and worn, clench around the strap of the pack that sits before her where none would slip their hands into it unknown. Like calls to like.

He shifts his gaze back to the crowds. "Don't worry about me," he says. "I'm more trouble than I'm worth."

Exhaling, she bows her head for a moment. "I think I'll be the judge of that," she decides. "Come. At least let me give you something to drink."

Her heart is good, and it's been a very long time since he's met someone luminous, even in the bare, quiet manner that she is. "Come," she repeats when he doesn't budge, and he thinks of the fact that the only people who know that he is here are long gone, and he has not yet attracted the kind of trouble he always does. Not yet.

"You don't need to," he says. "I'll find a way. I always do."

She doesn't look terribly impressed, dark eyes knowing under dark lashes. "Good for you," she says. "Now come along. Don't insult me by making me insist again."

And well - he always had a certain weakness for manners.

She walks, head down, shoulders rounded, watching from the corner of her eye. He matches her pace and manner, and they remain unmolested as the streets grow rougher, and covered with fine sand blown in from the wind. The houses here are rough and patched; any smoothness to their surface is from being battered by wind-borne sand. There is no transparisteel in the windows, only slats of cheap metal that can be closed against the winds.

The place she lives is small, the houses crammed together and inserted wherever there had been space to squeeze in, some piled on top of others as thickly as three levels. The doors latch and do not lock, but inside is cool after the baking streets, and surprisingly cozy. It's well-lived-in, with a generator, and a workstation that he can see once he's come further into the house, politely keeping the dining table between himself and his benefactor.

She brings him a tall glass, filled from a pitcher, and he's taken aback by how full it is when he takes it. It's not water or the blue milk he had at the farm a day ago; the liquid is cloudy and has earthy green smell. He senses no reason not to, and pulls the cloth away from his face to drink. It's slightly bitter, but cool and wet, and his cracked lips don't sting and his tongue doesn't tingle so he drinks, slowly, holding the liquid in his mouth between measured sips.

It doesn't take his benefactor long to put away the things she picked up at the market. When she turns, she notices his manner. "It's made from ground yuja root," she says. "It takes some getting used to, but it doesn't spoil easily and the plants needs very little effort to grow. It's not much, but it's what we have."

"And how well does it ferment?" he wonders wryly.

She startles into a bitten smile, ducking her head out of habit to hide it. "We wouldn't know anything about that," she says, which he takes to mean 'very well indeed.' He hums into the cup.

She quickly sobers as she seizes him up once more, and he's suddenly self-conscious of what she's seeing now that he's pulled the cloth down from his face.

"Is there anything I can do to repay you?" he asks. "I'm a fair hand at mechanics, if there's something you've been too busy to fix."

"That's kind of you," she says, "but my son keeps everything running very well around here. Anything I can't fix, he can. Or one of our neighbors. We look out for one another here."

He blinks in surprise. He wouldn't have suspected her to be a mother, at least not with a son old enough to repair broken machinery. The set-up in the corner didn't seem to be suitable for a young person.

"Something else, then?" he says. "I can't very well accept help without giving something in return." He has to have some way of making things even between them, at least on this: if trouble finds him, there certainly won't be any making up for that. He'd like to leave as even of a score as possible before then.

Her expression is strange and wistful. "How about a name?" she asks.

He gives her the one the fewest number of people would know him by: "Obi-Wan."

She introduces herself as 'Shmi' and insists that he stay for dinner. In the end, she wins with wounded dignity, informing him that they might not do well here and it might not be up to par with Core world chefs, but they did their best. Obi-Wan isn't quite sure how he was so badly outmaneuvered, but he acquiesces to stay at least that long.

Though still not entirely at ease with his presence, Shmi seems pleased enough to sit at her work station and tell him about the concerns of the community. Obi-Wan gets the distinct impression that she's somehow important in it, or at least well respected.

Not uncommon for people with that particular luminous quality.

She only works at the shop with her son once a week, to organize the paperwork and order shipments. The rest of the time, she's allowed to fix things from home, which her son takes in every morning, and brings home new broken equipment each night.

"It's the little things," she explains. "Ani can fix them, but it's a waste of his time and talents. Watto wants him working on the more complex things that are harder to fix."

"He's very talented at what he does, then," Obi-Wan says.

Shmi beams, head ducked almost shyly; she obviously loves her son very much, even though it's tangled with darker things that dim her. She fears for him. "Oh, yes," she affirms. "And only getting better." Her smile fades, fast and sudden, and she stares at and through the older model comm unit with unfocused eyes, multitool held loosely in hand. She hesitates for a long moment, and then she quietly says: "I'm worried."

He matches her tone. "About what?" he asks.

She looks at him, studying him with dark eyes at the lit workstation. Her weathered face seems haunted and wary. She looks away. "That someone will notice," she says, hushed. "That they'll take him away."

Something about the way she says it chills Obi-Wan to the core. "That who will take him?" he wonders. His stomach, filled with yuja juice, curdles.

"Anyone," she says. There is the edges of anger and despair in her words now, even as she withdraws from him, turning her attention back to the comm unit. "Who would stop them? Watto? Watto couldn't, even if he wanted to. Ani makes him money, but no Toydarian will treasure money over their own life."

"Isn't there anyone you can turn to for help?" he asks.

Her smile is bitter. "This is Tatooine," she says. "No one here has the power to change things. Or if they do, they won't. They benefit from the way things are now. Why would the change that and lose that power?"

She inhales, and holds it, and sloughs off her frustration and fear with the ease of a lifetime. "Nevermind. Thank you for listening to an old woman's worries."

Her manner and words sit heavy in his heart. Obi-Wan smiles at her, harmless and warm. "Hardly old," he says.

"Almost old enough to be your mother," she corrects, gentle and firm, but she's still charmed enough to shrug off the last of her concerns.

They pass the time in the same manner. Shmi does most of the talking, mostly about her neighbors or the people they work for. She doesn't ask Obi-Wan any questions, but he mentions that he's a pilot. Ani wants to be a pilot, she says; he dreams of one day flying very far from Tatooine.

"Is he any good?" he wonders.

"He's never had the chance to learn," she says, wistful and sad. "I don't think he ever will."

"The rest of the Outer Rim isn't all that great," he says. "I've been living in it for the past three years."

"Maybe not." She sets aside the comm unit and her multitool. "It's about time for me to go check in on Ricc'ol, before Ani gets home."

"I'll come with you," Obi-Wan offers, to save her the awkwardness of asking him to leave or at least wait outside. Trusting him not to attack her isn't the same as trusting him in her home alone.

"It won't be anything exciting," she says. "His leg was broken in an accident, and there's no one else to look after him during the days. He won't be in a very good mood."

He shrugs. "I'm sure I can handle it."

Any question as to why Shmi took him back to her home and put off checking on Ricc'ol is laid to rest when they get there. Ricc'ol is worse than unpleasant company: he's loud and abusive company.

Shmi enters his house with grace, ignoring the instant stream of abuse that sets Obi-Wan back on his heel. This home is much smaller than the one that Shmi lives in with her son, and in the dim back of it, in an alcove where a bed has been sat, is Ricc'ol. His human-like ears are saggy with age, his leg elevated as best as can be done with wadded cloths and flat, beaten pillows. The leg has been splinted, but Obi-Wan hasn't seen such desperate measures in years.

Shmi seems familiar with the house. It takes her very little time to take the pitcher from the floor by the bed alcove and replace it with another. Ricc'ol barely lets up on his rage - Twi'leki curses that Obi-Wan has no context for, cut with dire threats in the more common tongue - long enough to greedily suck the first glass of liquid down.

Shmi's glance is reproachful, but she says nothing when he pours himself the second glass. She goes directly to the cupboards and pulls out a bowl. Several rocks are pulled out of it and set aside, and she carries it over to Ricc'ol.

"Do not touch it," he hisses, and in the next breath says, savagely, "just cut it off! Let them put me down for being lame."

Shmi ignores him, settling down on the rough stool beside the small bedding alcove set into the wall. "No one is cutting off your leg," she says, infinite patience with a touch of rebuke that suddenly makes Obi-Wan homesick.

"Do it!" he demands, slightly frantic. "Put me out of my misery, you sky walking witch!"

Shmi cuts a look at him that is every inch disappointed Master. She wrings out the cloths in the bowl in her lap, and reaches out to the injured leg. Ricc'ol snarls but braces himself. She is as careful as she can be without taking long to unwrap the splint, moving efficiently.

Despite himself, Obi-Wan moves closer. Ricc'ol barely seems to notice him, let alone care that he's approaching, though Shmi senses him and glances over.

"No anesthesia?" he asks.

She huffs humorlessly. "There's none available," she says. "At least none that would do any good for a broken leg." She pulls the last of the wraps around the leg away, and Ricc'ol makes an animal noise in his throat, clenching at the blankets. The foot and leg both are swollen, and the green skin is dark and bruised looking. The pitcher next to the alcove smells faintly fermented, and strangely bitter.

"Well," he says, "we'll try the next best thing." He turns to the Twi'lek laying in the bed, and pitches his voice. "Ricc'ol, I'm going to touch you, okay?" Ricc'ol gives no response, and Obi-Wan switches to Common Twi'leki: "I'll force you to sleep."

He uses the incorrect 'force' - the Twi'leki word for the Force. That gets Ricc'ol's attention. He grabs at Obi-Wan with a clawing hand. "Put me out of my misery, witch-boy," he groans.

For this once, Obi-Wan will forgive the slur. He bends down close to Ricc'ol's face and says, "sleep."

Three years ago, he would not have been powerful enough to incline Ricc'ol against the screaming nerves of his body. Sentients are most likely to resist Force suggestions when it goes against their own instincts for survival. Ricc'ol fights it just the same, despite asking for it, and Obi-Wan brings his will against that. "Sleep," he says, soft and sweet.

The fight slowly unwinds out of Ricc'ol. He looks very old and very tired where he sags into the bed, but there's a flavor of relief there, too. Obi-Wan reaches out and gently passes his hand over the Twi'lek's head, letting the sensitive nerves of his fingers and palm react to the flow of life. Everything seems as it should be; the fraught twist slows and ebbs, but otherwise moves as it should in a sleeping man that will eventually wake back up.

Shmi is very quiet beside him for a moment. "Will I wake him if I bandage the leg?" she asks at last.

"He trusts you, so no," Obi-Wan says, passing his hand down toward the leg, where things are less peaceful. He can't do anything for that, though. He's always been too uncertain of his control to try learning. "He should sleep for some time. How long has he been like this?"

"A few days."

"He'll sleep through the night, at least." Obi-Wan pulls away and watches her work. This close he can see that the bandages had been soaking in some kind of poultice, which she layers against the skin.

When that is done, she gestures him closer to hold the splints in place. "I've never seen anything like that," she says without looking up at him.

"Not in the Outer Rim," he agrees.

They finish their work in silence.

By the time that he and Shmi reach her house again, Obi-Wan has begun to drag. The heat is getting to him, as is the lack of sleep. He feels vague and feverish in the cool of Shmi's home, his thoughts a bit sluggish and slow. Hunger has long since become nausea, and his body feels strange and loose and disconnected from him.

"Heat stroke," Shmi declares when she gets a look at him. "There's too much moisture in your body. The heat is boiling you alive."

Obi-Wan is pretty sure that isn't how heatstroke works, but concedes that she probably knows Tatooine better than he does. "I'll be fine," he says. He's crossed the wastes on foot; he doesn't see how being in the cool confines of a house could make him worse.

"Of course you will be," she says. "I'm here to make sure of it."

She leads him to the back of the house, where it's cooler still. There's a room here, larger than Obi-Wan expected - larger than Ricc'ol's room. There's a work station here, too; cluttered with bits and bobs and a rough sheet spread over a stripped droid. It's impossible to tell at a glance if the droid is being dismantled for parts or being repaired.

It's unmistakably Ani's room.

He tries to protest, but Shmi insists he use the bed. A blanket on the floor would be fine, honestly, but Shmi says there's no point in leaving an empty bed unused. She promises to wake him before Ani needs it, if it comes to that.

The bed is actually so uncomfortable that Obi-Wan almost thinks the floor would be easier to sleep on. It's lumped in strange places and smells of dry vegetation. The blanket looks rough and itchy as well; he thinks that if he finds out Shmi is using something similar, he'll switch it out for the wrap he's been using to avoid sunburn. The rough weave would work just as well as a sun shade.

He was never taught a healing trance, but he can manage something close to it. He breathes, in and out, and imagines that inside his body are a thousand little channels and rivers, that they too cycle and rise and fall, washing everything clean. Shmi is quiet in the other room, a delicate, pale light as she works at her station.

He drifts. He dreams. In the darkness something howls, distant but hungry and barely held at bay by the walls of Mos Espa. Something thrashes like some wounded, cornered animal, chewing its leg off to escape a trap. It burns and cracks and burns and busts, black-and-red-and-eating-rock. Tooth and nail in flesh. Hot and salt and bitter in mouths on tongues.

He awakes to a feeling like the sun scorching his sunburnt face.

Obi-Wan wakes up curled back against the wall with his hands clenched in tight fists. His ragged nails bite into his palms. It takes him a long moment to shed his dark, troubled dreams and reorient himself: he's on Tatooine, relatively safe in the house of a local woman named Shmi.

There's a young child in the room, sitting upon the counter next to the stripped droid. He's watching Obi-Wan rather intently. For a troubled moment, Obi-Wan peers blearily back and thinks he's still dreaming something strange influenced by the angry, wounded nature of the planet; this child with sunlight hair in white clothes. 'Luminous' is far too mild of an adjective to describe how he feels against Obi-Wan's senses.

The wary, searching look on the boy's face eventually convinces Obi-Wan that he is already awake and that this is a flesh and blood near-human child. "Hello," he rasps for lack of a better response to that look. What little moisture he'd gained over the day has thickened in his throat. He feels like he's just come down from three days of debilitating illness.

"Hi," the boy says promptly, swinging his legs. "Mom said you got sunsick." He continues to examine Obi-Wan carefully, squinting a bit as he's reminded of that. "How come you spacers get sunsick a lot more than we do? We live here. Don't you know to get out of the sun?" He doesn't wait for an answer, shifting into a more solicitous manner. "You've been sleeping for a while. Are you feeling better?"

Obi-Wan feels as though he'd like to roll over and pull the rough blanket back over his head. Scrubbing a hand across his face, he grimaces as the skin peels. The skin feels hot and tender underneath. "I'm not sure," he says honestly. "How do I look?"

The boy - Ani, he supposes - arches both of his brows high on his face. "Awful," he says bluntly.

As could be expected. "There's your answer," Obi-Wan says, sitting up. The world tosses unpleasantly, and his muscles ache and complain of his unrestful sleep, but if he gets a chance to stretch them out, the soreness should abate.

Ani huffs, unimpressed with his trick, but he doesn't seem to begrudge it, either. "Come on. Mom said to get you some juice if you woke up." He hops down from the counter and saunters away with every assurance he'll be followed.

Obi-Wan briefly contemplates staying in bed just to spite him, but manners once again wins out; there is no call for being rude to his hosts who have offered him much and asked nothing in return. Even if Obi-Wan already feels exhausted from having to deal with Ani so soon after his nap. Given his near-collapse earlier, Shmi might have actually saved his life. Taunting or otherwise bullying her child is poor thanks for that.

With a grunt, Obi-Wan gets himself to his feet. His legs momentarily don't wish to support him, but he takes a moment to center himself so that the Force catches him. By the time he leaves Ani's room, the boy has already gotten the pitcher out and poured a tumbler of yuja juice for him and is sitting at the table with his own mug.

Obi-Wan joins him at the table, sitting down carefully. "Where's your mother?" he asks.

"Checking on Ricc'ol again," Ani informs him factually before taking a drink. Obi-Wan notes that it doesn't seem to be yuja juice he's drinking; blue milk seems more likely. "She says you got him to sleep, but she's worried he might fall on the leg."

Obi-Wan hums. It is a concern. Though he might have inclined Ricc'ol to sleep, without being secured, he could do further damage to the leg and wake up. "She left you alone in the house with me?" he asks, taking a drink from the cup. He's not sure what to make of that decision.

Ani is entirely untroubled by the idea, shrugging one shoulder widely. "You won't hurt me," he says dismissively.

Obi-Wan arches his brow. "You're sure about that?" he asks, dipping his tone the way he must to get his point across sometimes. The boys' eyes dart to him, his face going blank as he stills.

For a moment, Ani seems to hold his breath, and then he squints at Obi-Wan and loses interest. "Uh-huh," he says. "Even if you do, you won't mean to." As if that makes a difference.

The Jedi really have to do something about the Outer Rim if children like Ani are going feral. Obi-Wan drinks in thoughtful silence.

Ani has already finished his milk and washed and put away his cup by the time Shmi returns. She sees Obi-Wan sitting at the table with his tumbler and smiles, shockingly bright. Her mood seems good. "Good, you're up," she says, "How do you feel?"

"Better, thank you," Obi-Wan says, shifting in his chair.

"That's not what you told me," Ani says, unimpressed. He also twists to face his mother. "When I asked him, he said he felt awful, and he looked it, too."

"Well, believe it or not, he looks better now than he did when I picked him up out of the streets," Shmi says, coming to a brief stop behind Ani to drop her hand on his shoulder. He leans back into her, looking pleased. They both look happy. Like twin suns in a parched sky. "So he's right, he probably feels better, too." Shmi glances up and includes him in on the smile.

Obi-Wan feels his cracked lips twitch and curl against his will. If that's true, then it's no wonder that Shmi was moved to take pity on him. "I'm usually better prepared for - unexpected visits planetside," he excuses. "But it's a bit difficult to plan appropriately for Tatooine. The numbers don't do the planet justice."

Shmi hums in agreement, releasing her son and circling the table into the kitchen. "It can catch even the people who live here unaware," she agrees. "It's a hard life, but it is ours."

"We do pretty good," Ani disagrees, looking at Obi-Wan with a stern little frown. "We'd do better if we were let to."

Shmi cuts him a sharp look, dark with worry, and Ani subsides reluctantly with a mulish expression. Obi-Wan glances between the two of them before he turns a smile on the boy. "I saw that you had a droid in your room, Ani," he says.

It takes a moment for Ani to give up entirely on the subject, but the droid is clearly something he's excited about. "Someone threw 'm out in the trash heap, so I dragged him home and I'm gonna rebuild him!" he explains, "and then he'll be able to help Mom when I'm not here."

Obi-Wan is pretty familiar with the regularity that droids get tossed out. The materials used to build them are readily abundant, making it cheaper to buy a new droid than to get it repaired. Given that they were produced with the most commonly produced circuit boards and wire gauges, they were a rich resource to strip for parts.

"Isn't that difficult?" he asks. "There's not any manuals for repair droids anymore - not that I'm aware of."

"Not really - not if you know what you're doing," Ani says, shrugging it off. "The hard part is gonna be finding enough scrap metal to put a case on him. Someone already pried his off before I found him."

He smiles. It reminds him of when building model ships was popular in the Creche, about the time they were also studying piloting skills and general aviation. Most models readily took to the air, but the masters would encourage them to actually understand the methods of flight the models used. "And when he's finished, what color will you paint him?" he asks.

Ani looks surprised by the question. "Paint him?" he repeats, like the idea never crossed his mind before. He glances at Shmi, but she's busy at the counter with food and just smiles warmly at him. Ani scratches his face for a second, brow bent in thought. "I like blue, so that, probably," he says, but he seems disheartened. "If I can. Sand's bad on paint 'less you can seal it," he explains seriously. "And even then, it wears off fast."

"Sounds like an excuse to repaint him if you get tired of the color," Obi-Wan says, though he has the suspicion that the availability of paint for droids would be in short supply locally. Keeping the sand off the paint while it dried may be a bit of a feat as well, he acknowledges; there was even sand in the bed earlier. It seems to get everywhere here.

Shmi serves them a dinner of pungently spiced meat and a flat bread. It's a far more generous spread than Obi-Wan is accustomed to sitting down to, but he can still see the evidence that it was meant for only two, and one of those a child. The spare serving of meat is supplemented with preserved sides, soaked in brine and vinegar, and she tops off his tumbler with yuja juice.

The small bowl of mystery-meat stew feels like days ago, but Obi-Wan satisfies his empty stomach with generous amounts of the flatbread and juice. Ani devours his meal with the speed and eagerness that Obi-Wan remembers having at that age, and then starts cutting speculative looks towards Obi-Wan's mostly full plate.

"Are you going to eat that?" he wonders.

Obi-Wan's chest pangs at a memory, even as Shmi says, sharply: "Anakin!" Ani's mouth pops open and he stares at his mother with wide eyes. "He's not eating it," he defends. Shmi's color is up and she seems a bit flustered.

"It's fine," Obi-Wan says to her. He picks off one last piece of the bread and pushes his plate into Ani's reach, who casts one more cautious look toward his mother before reaching for it. "I'm still a bit nauseous, and it shouldn't go to waste."

"You're thin enough as it is, you should be eating," she says, but she relents with one last reproachful look toward her son, who catches sight of it and seems embarrassed, firming his jaw stubbornly. "And you're a guest," she adds pointedly, causing him to duck his head even if he doesn't slow down.

"You've been very generous with your time and your home," Obi-Wan says. "At this rate, I'll be so far in your debt that I won't be able to make it up to you." I won't take food from the mouth of your child, he doesn't say.

"You don't need to pay me back, Obi-Wan," she says. "If more people helped others in need, the galaxy might not be in such an awful state."

He drops his gaze, reaching out to pick up the tumbler full of yuja juice. "Perhaps," he says, and takes a long drink to occupy his mouth for a while. Finally, he sets the tumbler down. "I heard that philosophy a great deal when growing up. Finding the right way to help others is more difficult than I thought it would be."

"You have plenty more time to learn," Shmi says, eyeing him.

It takes a moment for Obi-Wan to realize what she means; it always takes him by surprise when someone asks where his guardians or chaperones are - by how some refuse to work with him thanks to his youth. There are times that he misses the regard Jedi robes had once brought him. He misses a great many things, when he lets himself.

Ani hasn't finished his meal yet, but he's nearing the end, so Shmi rises and begins to clear the table. Obi-Wan automatically moves to help, but she shoos him back. "The equipment is temperamental," she says.

He wants to offer to take a look at it, but both Shmi and Ani are mechanically inclined, so if it was something fixable, they would have already.

Ani hastily shoves the last of dinner into his mouth. "Come on," he mumbles around it, reaching out and catching Obi-Wan by the sleeve. He has the air of someone taking pity on something pathetic. "I'll show you my droid."

Obi-Wan glances at Shmi, but she doesn't seem concerned; she did leave her son home alone with him for a while, he recalls. It's not that they're both trusting so much as their instincts seem particularly keen, but it's been years since someone let down their guard around him so quickly. He lets the boy pull him back toward the far corner of the house, where it's cool despite the open slats in the windows.

"Help me a second," Ani says, letting go of his sleeve to hurry to the stripped droid's side. He pulls the rough woven cloth off the top of the droid, revealing a very humanoid shape.

"Well, hello there," Obi-Wan murmurs in surprise. "What is a protocol droid like you doing in a place like this?" He glances down toward Ani, who seems pleased that Obi-Wan has recognized the droid as something special. "These are a fairly new fad among the well connected," he says.

Ani shrugs his shoulders up to his ears. "Dunno, they wiped his memory, he just knows his model and a few language settings." He frowns briefly, circling around the table to where a few more of the droid's parts sit. "I wouldn't give him to Mom if he was dangerous," he says factually, giving Obi-Wan a look.

"I imagine not," Obi-Wan says. If its memory had been wiped and tossed out to be stripped for parts, then whatever happened to its original owners would be a mystery not easily solved. Obi-Wan frowns at the droid, worrying at the skin peeling across the bridge of his nose.

"Anyway," Ani says, "I found him. He's mine now." He's standing next to the table, scowling deeply at the droid and fiddling with what appears to be one of the droid's visual receptors. Sensing Obi-Wan's attention, he cuts Obi-Wan a wary, warning look.

Obi-Wan smiles thinly. "Of course. I was only thinking, Ani. He'll be a great help to Shmi once you get him finished. How far have you gotten in fixing him?"

Ani regards him warily for a moment longer before relaxing. "Pretty far, actually," he says proudly, stepping forward. "Just a moment." He slots the receptor into its socket, and then depresses the switch on the droid's chest. The droid whirls to life, sitting up from the reclined position on the table.

It moves, quick but mechanical, in a kind of harmless tottling way. It will weigh less than its height and shape suggests, to aid in righting it and in case it falls on anyone. "Oh," it says in surprise. It has a Core accent and speaks in high, harmless pitches that Obi-Wan himself has used on occasion to set others at ease. "Hello! I am C3P0, human-cyborg relations. How may I be of service?"

"He's not finished yet," Ani explains, stepping back when the droid moves to stand from the table. It whirls more as it tries to handle being upright, its arms awkwardly folded to give it better balance. It has the side effect of looking slightly fretful, perhaps made so by the tottering gait it takes in establishing the boundaries of the room. "I haven't calibrated all his servos yet. He was smashed pretty good."

"Fortunately, he was found by you," Obi-Wan says. "You've done well with fixing him. I'm sure the servos won't be a problem."

"'Course not," Ani says, puffing up his chest. "Mom thinks pretty soon there won't be anyone as good as I am at fixin' stuff." While C3PO tottles, complaining about the unsteadiness of the floor, Ani smiles up at Obi-Wan brightly. "I make stuff, too, you know," he says. " Stuff they said couldn't be made! But I'm pretty sure they were lying."

This must be what has Shmi so frightened for her son.

"That's very impressive, Ani," Obi-Wan says. "You don't get bored of fixing things all day?"

"Are you kidding? I love it!" He says emphatically. "Mom loves it, too. It's the only thing that keeps me busy sometimes, like when there's a storm and everyone has to go inside and lock up. There's not a lot to do then, if I don't have something to work on."

"What kind of things do you work on?" he asks. "Other than droids, of course."

"Everything," Ani says with a shrug. "It's easy for me. I don't get why everyone can't do it. They can't, though. It's why Watto keeps us around." He says it plainly, factually, but the reminder quickly darkens his mood and he scowls. Obi-Wan feels a faint trickle of unease.

Before he can ask about Watto, they both jump at the sound of a crash from the main part of the house. "Ani!" Shmi calls with exasperation, followed by a quiet, Core accented, "oh dear!"

"C3PO!" Ani sighs loudly, hurrying toward the commotion. His indignant complaints are more than loud enough to hear. "What did I say about waiting to help until your servos are fixed? This is why I hafta keep you deactivated!"

"I am sorry, master Ani," the droid says with dismay.

Obi-Wan snorts, glancing around the room with all its tools and wires and bits. He had thought to try to quickly leave Shmi's home, to try and spare her and her son the trouble that always follows him wherever he goes. He has the sinking suspicion that when Shmi approached him in the marketplace, that was trouble finding him.

He's thigh deep on it already. He may as well see just how deep this hole goes.

#excerpts from ikhthus #more like actually part one of ikhthus but whatever it's a tag

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