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scottysketches · 7 months

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wip wednesday

because it's still wednesday somewhere :)

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Korkie sleeps for two days straight as his body begins the slow process of healing, and his friend Amis hardly leaves his side.

Obi-Wan isn’t there when his son finally regains consciousness; no matter how much he wants to stay with his family, his leave is over and he has to return to the war, though he has a nagging suspicion that his temporary reassignment to the strategy room in the temple has something to do with Anakin and Junda. He doesn’t argue with the orders, just asks that Anakin not drive Cody to the brink of madness (a tall order, of course, for Anakin, but his brother gives him his solemn and sincere word).

Because he’s so tired.

Tired of war, tired of fighting.

Tired of being something that Satine hates — a warrior, a fighter. She never says it to him, but he knows that the feeling is there, a lingering resentment toward the Jedi High Council for turning her lover into the very thing that the Jedi aren’t supposed to be.

He’s in the strategy room with Plo when Satine’s message comes through on his communicator.

:_ Korkie’s awake. He’s asking for you. _:

He doesn’t realise he hasn’t moved for several prolonged moments until Plo looks up at him and asks, “Are you alright, Obi-Wan?”

Is he alright? He doesn’t know. For the last two nights he’s slept at the temple, not wishing to inflict the reality of his night terrors on Satine — waking up screaming, drenched in sweat, the glow of a red lightsaber lingering behind his eyelids every time he blinks. He has to reassure himself that his eyes are still blue, not a sickly yellow ringed with red. With a pronounced swallow, he says hoarsely, “I need to go.”

Plo rounds the strategy room’s main display table, leans against it next to Obi-Wan. He folds his hands together in front of himself. “You’re not alright, are you, my friend?” he says softly.

Obi-Wan just leans on the table, hangs his head. His hair droops forward in front of his eyes. His jaw trembles as he makes a conscious effort to tense his muscles and mitigate the full-body tremors that threaten to overtake him. “I…” he starts, then pauses, shaking his head. “No. No, I’m not.” With a harsh, hollow chuckle, he glances up at Plo next to him and admits, “This is the furthest I’ve been from alright since Qui-Gon died.” His shoulders curl forward as he bites back a ragged sob.

Plo doesn’t say anything for a moment, instead grabbing two chairs and bringing them around the table. With a gentle push, he gets Obi-Wan to sit on one and takes his place on the other. “Is it about your son?” he asks, and when Obi-Wan nods he follows with, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Obi-Wan sighs, burying his face in his hands, leaning with his elbows on his knees. “I could have killed him,” he whispers. He glances up at Plo from between his fingers. “The assassin. I could have killed him, and I wouldn’t have cared.”

Plo stills. “Are you saying you felt tempted by the dark side of the Force?” he asks, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

He nods, ashamed. “I’ve been having nightmares the last two nights,” he admits. “I wake up screaming, sick to my stomach…”

“Yes, I noticed you haven’t been eating,” Plo says softly.

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “Not as much as I’d usually eat in a day, no. It’s… food has no taste or texture right now. The last time I felt like this was after—” He swallows nervously, the scars on his back from the Zygerrian slaver’s laser whips beginning to itch. “—after Kadavo.” With another sigh, he says, “It’s terrifying. Being a father, it’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever experienced. I don’t know what I’m doing…”

Plo’s hand comes down on his shoulder. “You’re doing your best, Obi-Wan,” he says. “I’m sure you’re aware that parenthood doesn’t come with a manual.”

He lets out a bark of humourless laughter. “If only it did.”

“And yet,” Plo continues, though Obi-Wan can hear his smile in his voice, “it’s my firm belief that Kohav couldn’t have a better and more dedicated father to look up to.” He glances at the display table, with the multitude of holograms constantly changing as new information comes in. “Go. Be with your son. I can handle things here for the time being.”

Obi-Wan looks up at Plo. “Are you sure?” he asks, sceptical.

Plo nods. “Yes. If anyone asks where you are, I’ll tell them I sent you to go and have lunch before you passed out.”

Twenty minutes later, he’s striding down the corridor in the hospital, back towards Korkie’s room, his dark brown outer robe swirling around his feet. He had memorised the path the first time, though he hasn’t been back since then, too afraid of having to answer uncomfortable questions. (It strikes him as hypocritical that he had refused to allow Anakin to spurn his relationships in the wake of Ahsoka’s leaving, and yet here he is now, doing the exact same thing after the attempt on his son’s life.) Satine had kept him up to date on their son’s condition while he worked through his anguish, and though she never says it, he knows she wishes he would — could — be there with them. He wishes the same; he would love nothing more than to have the ability to be by his son’s side as he recovers.

But he’s a Jedi, and a general in war, and unfortunately that means his job comes first.

When he walks in through the door to Korkie’s room, the first thing he sees is Amis asleep in the chair next to the bed, his head resting on the mattress and Korkie gently stroking the buzzed blonde hair on his head. Satine is sitting on the sofa opposite Korkie’s bed and reading a book, her glasses perched on her nose once again.

Korkie glances up at him, his neck still swathed in bandages but his skin not nearly as pallid as it had been two days ago; his hair droops in front of his eyes, long and a touch greasy from not being washed. He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hey, buir.” Satine looks up, then, peering over the top of her glasses.

Obi-Wan smiles, too. He makes his way around the bed to the chair on the other side, his footfalls quiet, and sits down. “Hey, yourself,” he says softly. “You’re looking better.”

Korkie rolls his eyes. “I thought mum was going to be the one giving the doctors a hard time—” Satine looks up sharply, her eyes narrowed in a glare. “—but Amis is nothing if not determined to make sure I get the best possible care.”

“He cares about you,” Obi-Wan notes aloud (quietly, so as not to wake the boy in question). “Everyone deserves someone in their life like that.” He glances over at Satine, and she smiles at him.

Korkie glances between them for a moment, and then clears his throat, looking directly at his mother. “Can… can we have a minute?” he asks quietly. He doesn’t meet Obi-Wan’s eyes when the Jedi returns his gaze to his son.

Satine nods, softly closing her book and standing from her seat on the sofa. “Of course.”

The young man in the bed gently shakes his friend’s shoulder. “Amis…” he whispers, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Wake up.”

Amis groans, still half-asleep as he mumbles around a mouthful of his own sleeve, “Don’t wanna… go to class today…” Obi-Wan and Satine both snort with barely-restrained laughter, and Amis looks up blearily, his eyes heavy with sleep. Korkie laughs, too, but then he winces, his hand coming up to the bandages at the side of his neck. Amis immediately straightens in his seat, now wide awake, concern written across his face. “Are you okay?” he asks, one of his hands hovering by Korkie’s shoulder. (Obi-Wan and Satine glance at each other, smiles on both their faces, as they’re witness to the feelings between the two young men.)

Korkie returns his hand to the back of Amis’s head. “I’m fine, just… it hurts to laugh,” he says softly, his fingers gently stroking the fine blonde buzzcut where it ends in the dip between the bottom of his head and the top of his neck. “I need to talk to my dad,” he continues. “Do you mind…?”

Amis shakes his head, a slightly exasperated expression crossing his face. “’Course not,” he replies, his hand finally making contact with Korkie’s shoulder and gently rubbing it. It doesn’t escape the attention of either Obi-Wan or Satine how the touch lingers slightly before Amis removes his hand and leaves the room. Satine gives her lover and son a smile, though she can’t hide the concern glittering in her eyes, and follows Amis.

Once the door slides shut behind them, silence fills the room, suffocating, the only noise coming from the sound of the traffic passing outside the hospital. It feels strange; they’ve only known each other for just over a month, and yet Obi-Wan and Korkie have always had something to talk about. Now, however, they can hardly maintain eye-contact, both fidgeting awkwardly.

He opens his mouth to speak, but Korkie beats him to it. “Buir says this is the first time you’ve been by since… since it happened.” He looks up, and his son pins him in place with an accusatory glance.

He lets out a long, weary sigh, his face sinking down into his hands as he leans with his elbows on his knees. “I know,” he says softly, his voice muffled slightly by his hands. “I know, and I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Korkie sounds confused, though there’s still a hint of hurt lingering in his tone of voice. “How bad could your reaction have been that you saw fit to sequester yourself away at the temple for the past two days?” Obi-Wan looks up. Korkie returns his gaze, his eyebrows furrowed into a frown.

What can he say? After all, Korkie isn’t wrong. How can he even begin to explain his terror, the fury that had wrested control away from the rational Obi-Wan that had been in control since Qui-Gon’s death all those years ago?

He has to try.

“I almost killed him,” he says, and his voice sounds hollow to his ears. “The assassin. If Anakin hadn’t been there, I… I don’t think I would have been able to stop myself.”

Korkie frowns. “That’s why you’ve been keeping your distance?”

Obi-Wan nods. “That, and the new nightmares I’ve been having the last couple of nights.”

His son glances down at his lap for a second. “Yeah,” he says softly, “buir said you’ve been sleeping at the temple.” He pauses, and looks back up at his father. “Are they that bad?”

He nods, struggles to swallow around the lump that’s formed in his throat at the thought of his night terrors. “…yes.”

The silence returns, more dense than before, everything that’s been left unsaid hovering awkwardly in the space between them. Once more, the images that haunt his dreams flash before his eyes — the blade of a lightsaber, casting an ominous red glow over himself; his robes black and swirling around him, a cloak of darkness that’s even deeper than the darkness of the room he’s in, so even in pitch black he’s still visible, his eyes glowing yellow, cheeks hollowed, brow constantly furrowed.

He hopes that he’s not experiencing premonitions in his dreams.

The sizeable pause is broken when Obi-Wan sighs. “I think I might be starting to understand more why the Jedi Code forbids attachments,” he muses aloud.

Korkie looks at him warily. “Meaning?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed tight and only opening when spots of light begin to dance behind his eyelids. “My life has changed so much in the last month,” he says as his eyes readjust to the light in the room once more. “I found out about you — my son, something I never thought I’d ever be able to have — and the moment you were hurt I was so angry that I wanted to kill the man responsible in cold blood.” He exhales, the breath shaky. “There’s only been two other occasions in my life where I felt like that: the first was when my master was killed by Maul on Naboo, and the second—”

“Was Mandalore,” Korkie finishes.

“Yes.”

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