Ignorance is Bliss?
Summary:
You’ve been having the same nightmare for over a week now. At the same time, you feel as though you have been missing something from your memories for a while. A new employee at your workplace, whom you have no memory of, is missing. A bracelet has suddenly appeared around your wrist, a gift you don’t remember receiving.
Slowly, you also start suspecting your mutant boyfriend is hiding something from you…
Warnings: Yandere, emotional manipulation, gaslighting, implied murder
💜🐢💜
AO3
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It was almost 1:00 in the morning. Donatello had spent all day working on a new circuit. He was close to finishing… but something was distracting him. A pair of eyes were on the back of his neck, they had been for several seconds now. 34,07 seconds to be exact.
He smiled to himself.
“How long are you planning on just standing there and just watch?” he spoke up.
He pushed up his goggles and turned around on his swivel chair to face the doorway.
There you stood, half hiding behind the door, looking at him.
You were in your pjs and held your pillow in your arms.
It was the third night in a row now, you came to him in the middle of the night.
While Donnie was working on something, which usually kept him up until the late hours of the night, you woke up and went to him because you knew he would still awake.
“Another nightmare?” he then asked right out.
You nodded.
“I’ll be right there.”
He put his tools away before getting up from his chair and walked with you to the living room area and plopped down on the couch.
You looked pale. You had dark circles under your eyes.
Donatello felt bad you had to suffer in through the nights, but it was the only way. It was for your own good…
“Tell me about it.” he commanded softly, as he reached a hand up to stroke your back your hair.
“It was the same as the others…” you muttered.
Your gaze was focused on your hands fidgeting, on your lap.
You were still wearing the beaded bracelet he had made you… Good.
“A dark figure… a man… or something else… at the end of a long hallway…” Your voice was so quiet, “it kept demanding I returned to him… that I could never escape…”
“It’s only a dream, darling.” Donnie kissed your head.
“I know but-“
“But what?”
“… It feels like more than just a dream.” You sighed.
Donnie felt a lump grow in his throat. Dear god, don’t let them realise…
“It feels like… like a memory.” You finally said it.
Donnie pulled you close, hugging you tightly.
“It was only a dream.” He murmured more slowly.
You went quiet.
There was no way you could remember.
You shouldn’t remember.
He made sure of that…
It had all started with an argument three weeks ago.
You had found out he had hacked your phone, spying on you through it.
He was only looking out for you.
There really had been no need for you to get so angry…
He thought you would get over it.
You did not get over it.
After three days of not answering his calls or texts, he decided to check on you… not through your phone, but for real.
He waited for you outside your apartment.
You were furious.
It was ridiculous! Why were you so upset? He had just tried to look out for you, it was no big deal really. He had just gone through your messages and listened in on your calls, maybe checked on you through your phone’s camera.
He did his best to explain this to you, but you just wouldn’t listen, even when he promised he wouldn’t do it again.
You threw him out of the building.
He tried again.
The next day, the turtle waited for you outside your workplace and approached you when you walked out of the building.
You wouldn’t talk to him and just walked away.
This was frustrating beyond belief!
If only you hadn’t found out about him hacking your phone…
Then an idea popped into the purple-clad genius’s head.
What if he could make you forget he had hacked your phone?
After a couple of days working tirelessly in his lab, he had done it. He had made you the perfect gift!
You had always loved his homemade gifts, so this was sure to work right?
He went straight for your apartment, knocking on your door.
You didn’t answer. Strange. You were usually home at this hour, it was past 5 pm.
He heard footsteps coming his way and he swiftly hid behind a corner to observe.
He saw you, and… someone else. Someone he didn’t know… and he knew of all your friends and family.
The stranger was male, tall, dark hair, wore a dark grey coat and blue jeans.
He was smiling at you.
You were holding hands.
The ninja felt his body tense. His hands curled into fists.
Just who did this stranger think he was, walking you home? Holding your hand? Were you planning on inviting him in?
“Thank you taking me out to lunch, I really needed a distraction.” You smiled to the stranger.
Donatello saw you reach down the pocket of your keys.
“It was the least I could do,” the stranger spoke with a chuckle, “you looked like you needed some cheering up. Besides, you’ve been kind enough to show me the ropes at work.”
“It’s always hard starting a new place, don’t think about it.” you now chuckled too.
Donatello’s face darkened.
Did this loser think he was good enough to get close to you? Did he think he could take advantage of your kindness?
No, he would not let this happen.
You were his!
He emerged from his hiding place, just as you were about to open the door to your apartment and pulled out his tech-bo.
You noticed him approach.
“Donnie?” Your voice sounded worried.
He would soon fix that.
He would fix all of it.
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You woke up, finding yourself in your boyfriend’s arms just outside your apartment.
You felt dizzy and disoriented. Your head was pounding.
What had just happened?
Why were you outside your apartment and not inside?
“Hey, you okay darling?” the voice of your boyfriend sounded.
You looked up to meet the purple masked turtle’s eyes.
He looked worried. His hand reached your forehead, stroking a lock of your hair aside.
“What just happened?” you muttered, as you were helped to your feet.
You didn’t get an answer right away. Or maybe you did, but you didn’t hear it? You weren’t sure, everything felt muffled for some reason.
Donnie helped you back inside your apartment and placed you on your couch.
He went to your kitchen to make you tea.
You tried remembering what had just happened… You felt completely out of it, as if you had just woken up from a deep sleep.
You then noticed something on your wrist: A silver bracelet with a purple heart-shaped charm attached to it. Where had that come from?
“Do you like it?” You looked up to see Donatello come back with a cup of hot tea for you, “I made it just for you.”
“When did you give this to me?” you asked confused.
“Today.” He smirked.
You looked back at the bracelet. Why couldn’t you remember?
Or… maybe you did remember? You did feel like you could remember Donnie putting it on you.
Everything felt foggy and far away in your mind…
“You fainted,” the turtle spoke before you could even ask again what had happened, “in the hallway and you hit your head it seems. Do you feel dizzy? Nauseas maybe?”
“No, I- I’m fine.”
“You just need some rest.” He handed you the tea.
You took a sip and immediately felt better. The scent was soothing.
“You didn’t answer my question before,” Donnie sat down next to you, “Do you like the bracelet?” he held up your hand, looking at the bracelet around your wrist, as if he was inspecting it.
“Yes!” your quickly blurted and put down the mug of tea. “Sorry, I haven’t thanked you, right? Thank you, it’s beautiful.”
“Good.” He smiled softly and leaned in, kissing your forehead and holding you close against his chest. He was being very affectionate, more than usual that is, “I’m so glad we’re together again…”
What?
“Again?” you asked, confused.
“Uh- nothing.” He shook his head and gave you one last squeeze before letting you go.
Something felt off though…
You looked around your space in the living room, though you weren’t sure what exactly you were trying to find.
“We… we were alone just now, right?” you asked in an unsure voice.
“Of course we’re alone,” he chuckled, “why are you asking?”
“I don’t know, it’s just… wasn’t there someone else in the hallway with us a little while ago?”
Donatello didn’t answer.
Instead, he went on a ramble about some new project he was working on, something about a new charging station for Shelldon.
Why wouldn’t he answer your question?
That night, you woke up out of breath and drenched in sweat.
A nightmare.
You couldn’t remember much, but it had been bad enough to wake you. It was weird. You weren’t prone to nightmares usually. You were quite a heavy sleeper normally.
You remembered a shadowed figure, at the corner of a long hallway… but not much else…
You reached for your phone to check the time and noticed a text message from Donatello.
I love you <3
That was all it said.
You smiled softly and tried to go back to sleep, while stroking the charm of the bracelet around your wrist.
“Uh, Y/n, we already sent in these papers two weeks ago, why are you working on them again?” your colleague looked over your shoulder as you worked in your booth.
You looked back at her, confused.
“What do you mean? Didn’t we just start on it the other day?”
Your colleague gave you strange look.
It had been like this all day. It was like you had been away from work without even realising it. New projects were already being worked on, though you could’ve sworn you had yet to finish paperwork from the last project…
You had even gotten the date wrong. You were much further into the month than you thought. Had the days just gone by so fast and you just didn’t realise?
You also kept overhearing your colleagues talk about someone named Owen. Who was this Owen? You overheard conversations of others, who were wondering why he hadn’t shown up today and no one could get a hold of him.
Was this Owen a new client or something?
“You went out to lunch with Owen yesterday, right?” you then heard another colleague ask you, “Did he say something about not showing up today?”
What the hell was going on?
Once your day (your very weird day) was over, and you got back to your apartment building, you suddenly found yourself frozen in front of your door.
A sense of dread and panic came over you, as if someone had just dropped a bucket of cold water all over you.
Your heart was racing, your palms felt sweaty, and you felt nauseous out of nowhere.
You looked over your shoulder, as if you expected someone was behind you… or behind the corner?
You quickly unlocked your door and rushed inside to the safety of your small living space and immediately locked the door behind you.
“Y/n? Y/n!”
You were immediately snapped out of your thoughts, “What?”
“You weren’t listening to a word I said just now, were you?” Donatello frowned annoyed, crossing his arms.
It had been five days since you fainted in the hallway.
You were hanging out in the turtles’ lair with Donatello, in his lab.
“Sorry… I guess I was pretty far away just now.” You rubbed the back of your head and tried to smile.
But your boyfriend’s face shifted to a look of worry, seeing through your pathetic attempt of a smile.
“Are you feeling okay? You look tired.”
You glanced the other way, hesitating.
“I… haven’t been sleeping well lately,” You admitted, “I’ve been having nightmares this past week and… they’re only getting worse.”
Donnie put his hands on your shoulders, and you immediately looked back at him, and saw him stare closely at your face as if he were looking for something.
“… Why haven’t you said anything?” His voice was now serious.
“I don’t know, I –“ you caught yourself short. Why hadn’t you told him? You told Donnie everything. For some reason, the thought of telling him about your nightmares gave you the same feeling of dread, like when you stood in front of the door to your apartment whenever you got home from work now. Was it paranoia, maybe? You honestly couldn’t tell. It was as if something was missing… like the days you had apparently forgotten had already passed at work… like you had apparently forgotten Owen, your supposed new colleague.
“It’s alright, darling.” You felt the purple-clad turtle take your hand, which was fidgeting with your bracelet, and he gently forced it away from your wrist as if he was afraid, you might accidently break it. His voice was softer now.
“Why don’t you stay here a couple of nights? We’ll get this sorted out.” He offered you a smile.
Was it just you… or did he sound kind guilty when he spoke?
You took him up on his offer.
Donnie did everything he could to distract you. You watched your favourite movies together, played video games, info-dumped you about his latest projects, even going on small walks before bedtime.
But it didn’t stop the nightmares…
You kept seeing that shadowed figure charging towards you, yelling at you… demanding you.
“I’m sure you’ve just been working too hard.”
“You’re stressed, obviously.”
“You just need more rest.”
“You’re thinking too much about it.”
“They’re only dreams.”
Donnie kept telling you this.
And yet… there was an eerie feeling about your dreams you just couldn’t shake off.
It was as if they became clearer.
A shadow in the corner of a hallway came charging towards you. A distorted voice demanding you to return to them.
Someone screaming…
The name Owen suddenly popped into your mind. That was the name of the supposed new employee at your workplace, right? You didn’t know why you suddenly started thinking about that name when remembering your nightmares…
On the third night of you staying in the lair, after you had been woken from your nightmares again, like clockwork now, you had gone to find Donnie just like the other two nights.
He sat with you on the couch, comforting you and cuddling you like he always did when you didn’t feel well.
He stroked your wrist where your bracelet was, constantly, as if he kept making sure you were wearing it.
He repeated again and again your nightmares were only dreams, nothing more… but he didn’t sound so convincing anymore. In fact, he sounded kind of… nervous?
When you tried telling him you were starting to believe the nightmares were memories, he dismissed it.
He led you back to his bedroom and got into bed with you.
He fell asleep after a while, holding you close to him, being the big spoon. You could feel his chest rising and falling against your back.
You, however, couldn’t sleep…
You felt uneasy.
A somewhat unsettling thought had entered your mind:
Donnie wouldn’t lie if he thought something was actually wrong with me… right?
Surely, he wouldn’t hide anything from you…
You thought about his voice, how it sounded… uncertain, when you spoke about your nightmares.
You thought about how he had seemed to be extra affectionate as of late.
“I’m so glad we’re together again…”
You couldn’t seem to get that sentence out of your head. What had he meant by that?
You looked down at the bracelet around your wrist and ran your fingers against the purple heart-charm. It was nice and smooth to touch.
You hadn’t taken it off since Donnie gave it to you.
In fact… it had felt like he kept checking, to make sure you always wore it…
No, that was silly… you were being paranoid…
It was a lovely gift, and he had probably spent a lot of time and effort to make it just for you, of course he’d want you to wear it.
You weren’t sure why, but you suddenly felt the urge to take it off. It was as if something inside you told you the answer to all your questions of late would be answered, if you took it off. It was stupid… but still…
Ever so slowly, you started slipping it off your wrist.
But before you managed to take it off completely, your hand was suddenly stopped by Donnie’s, who grabbed your hand.
Startled, you felt your heart skip a beat. His grip was tight, it almost hurt. You hadn’t realised at all he had woken up.
“Don’t take it off, darling…” he murmured.
Your whole body tensed. The way he said that made your heart race. You palms started sweating and a sense of panic washed over you… but you weren’t sure why…
“Please…” you then heard his voice whisper, almost pleading as his other hand slipped your bracelet back in place on your wrist, “I need you to trust me… Everything will be okay… just don’t take it off…”
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Author's Note:
I hope you enjoyed the story. 😊
It has been a rough start to the new year for me, not only because I was sick, but because I'm still dealing with a lot of hard things in my life right now. For a while, I had a lot of good days, where I could write and be creative, but the last couple of months have been tough, and I find myself not really having the energy to do anything, so I'm really happy I managed to write this story.
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18) waking up with amnesia au pretty please! I was delighted with how many of the prompts you've already done, it was a really fun bingo!
Best friends sibling = band au
knocking on the wrong door = actually name of the fic
Nanny/single parent au = Nannykin
Etc etc etc!
hello hello this was sent january 10!! hope you still want some waking up with amnesia au! this just demonstrates how long i can hold onto a prompt i have every intention of completing
(from this prompt list) (& this is the waking up with amnesia au prompt fill i did a few years ago when i first reblogged that prompt list!)
(3.5k)
(warnings: angst but not incredibly sad. more like. here there lies some future manipulation/mind fuckery because of angst established in this ficlet but not resolved in this ficlet but would be in the future)
(also warning: vader)
It is somehow both the hardest and easiest part of the day, every time.
It is easy to let his feet turn in the direction they beg to go during all his waking seconds. It is easy to allow them to lead the way. It feels as if a great and crushing weight has been lifted from his shoulders the moment that he sees the pillars standing sentry at the entrance of the Halls of Healing. It is so easy to give into his body’s desire to allow it to find its other half.
It is almost harder to stay away, to pretend to be the respectful and poised Jedi master he masquerades as during those long moments of the day that he is not by Anakin’s side.
But what is infinitely harder than journeying there or keeping his distance is arriving. Is what waits for him within the Halls.
“How is he today?” he asks the moment he sees a healer—it does not matter which one these days. They must all know him by now, know the series of questions he demands answers to.
This time, the man he finds is healer Ramak, at least, one of the primary specialists on Anakin’s case. Rarely can Obi-Wan corner him. Ramak is incredibly busy both within the Temple and outside of it. He has numerous priorities.
Obi-Wan really only has one priority. Often this puts them at odds.
“Ah,” Ramak says, adjusting his robes. “Master Kenobi, hello.”
“Yes, hello,” Obi-Wan says. And then, “How is he today?” In case Ramak has missed his question.
“He is much the same, Master Kenobi,” Ramak replies. “As he was yesterday.”
Obi-Wan swallows. The words get stuck in his throat for a moment and he has to force them up past his teeth. “What does…what has he remembered?”
Healer Ramak’s face slides from reluctantly indulgent to pitying. It would grate against Obi-Wan’s rather impressive sense of pride if he did not already know exactly how pitiful he is.
“Memories are not stored within the mind chronologically, Master Kenobi,” Ramak says carefully. Obi-Wan has heard this before. Obi-Wan could recite this speech.
Obi-Wan listens to it silently anyway. Perhaps this time, Ramak will find the correct combination of words to explain his loss to him in terms he can understand. “Uncovering them again is not simply a matter of starting from the beginning of his life and moving forwards. We cannot simply recover and present him with all of his memories from age nine, from age thirteen, to now.”
Obi-Wan can feel a muscle tick in his jaw and he crosses his arms. Another healer crosses behind him, jostles him in their hurry to get to another patient. Differing priorities.
But Obi-Wan only has one.
“It is like…” Ramak trails off, thinking. “Picture the rain. What do you think of?”
It is much too transparent, what Obi-Wan thinks of when he thinks of the rain. He thinks of Anakin as a youngling. The ashes of Qui-Gon’s body had not fully cooled before the skies of Naboo had broken open in a torrential downpour, and the boy, padawan braid that was both his and Obi-Wan’s newly weighing on his shoulder, had escaped from the palace in Theed, ran outside with arms raised up in wonder.
“When you think of rain, you do not recall your memories chronologically,” Ramak says kindly, as if he understands where Obi-Wan’s mind has gone. “That is to say, you do not immediately think of the first time you experienced it. Our minds store memories based on their significance to us, the meanings they hold for us, which makes mind-healing to this degree incredibly difficult. Not to mention, not only was Knight Skywalker stripped of his memories, tortured, and indoctrinated, he was held for several months. Long enough for new neural pathways to form, new connotations and memories to take the place of the ones he lost.”
“Master, please,” Obi-Wan says. When he holds up his hand to forestall the other man’s words, it is shaking slightly. “Please just tell me.”
Will he recognize me?
Will he hate me?
Will another day go by where he does not know me?
“He has a long way to go yet,” Ramak says finally, lifting his hand to stroke over his beard. “His time as Vader left scars—”
“His time captured,” Obi-Wan interrupts. “He was a hostage.”
Ramak looks at him. Anakin, kidnapped by the sith, without his memories, trained to be deadly and taught to Fall, was more than a hostage. They both know that. Everyone in the galaxy knows the dangers that Darth Vader represented to the Republic.
Very few know that Darth Vader was Anakin Skywalker. It had been a terrible surprise. It had been the sweetest sort of relief too, to find him at all.
“Yes,” Ramak finally allows. “His time as a hostage left innumerable scars, Obi-Wan. Even after he regains all his memories, he will have a long journey ahead of him.”
“How is he?” Obi-Wan repeats, even though it is rather rude to cut the healer off. “How is he today?”
Ramak hesitates for a moment and then another, and his Force signature tenses as if at war with itself. “He requested to see you,” he finally says. “We’re not sure that’s a good idea.”
Obi-Wan’s breath catches in his throat. The Jedi saved Anakin Skywalker from the Sith five weeks ago, and though Obi-Wan has spent each of those days trekking from his quarters to the Halls of Healing and back, accousting various healers and Council members alike, desperate for any information they can give him…he has not yet been able to sit beside Anakin. He has not been allowed to talk with him at all.
It is for the best. That is what he’s been told and that is what he must believe. It is for the best. Anakin does not remember him. He remembers the word master—he does not remember that he used to say the same word with respect. With affection. He does not remember Obi-Wan at all.
He remembers his master, Sidious. He remembers his master on Tatooine. He does not—Obi-Wan doesn’t understand why he cannot remember him.
Anakin has never once asked to see him.
“I want to see him,” Obi-Wan says immediately, turning towards the wing where they are keeping Anakin.
“Master Kenobi, it is not a good idea,” Ramak says, but it does not matter what they think is a good idea. It is what Anakin wants and it has been so long since Obi-Wan has been something Anakin wants.
Something of what he’s feeling must flash across his face, because the healer sighs and rubs at his forehead as if he finds the whole ordeal incredibly trying.
“I will not hurt him,” Obi-Wan says quickly, and Ramak shakes his head, dropping his arms to his sides.
“That is not the concern, Master,” he replies, but his shoulders have slumped. His forehead is wrinkled, but his Force signature has relaxed. He has given in. Obi-Wan has won. “I—”
But Obi-Wan has won. And so he has already stepped away, intent now on seeing his padawan. He leaves the healer behind where he stands, pushing through the doors of the wing and finally—finally to Anakin’s room.
He’d been so volatile at first, when he was still Vader. The Jedi rescuing him probably felt more like being captured. Without his memories of the Order, of the Temple, of Obi-Wan, he’d Fallen so quickly as far as anyone knows. Sidious had taken him and twisted him and when he was found again, he’d fully believed in the Sith doctrine. He’d killed two Jedi before he was subdued.
So when he’d been brought into the Temple, into the Halls of Healing, they’d outfitted him with Force suppression cuffs. Given him his own room in order to protect the other patients.
Obi-Wan knows he still wears the Force bracelets and collar, but there’s knowing and then there’s seeing.
The seeing part takes his breath away. It looks so wrong, Anakin, his Anakin, wearing the cuffs and the collar.
Anakin, his Anakin, with yellow eyes watching him intently from the moment he enters the room.
“Anakin,” he murmurs, a reflex. The sounds are punched out of him.
He is thinner. His hair is greasy. There are dark shadows under his eyes. The skin around the collar is red, rubbed raw. He looks a thousand times older. Guant and hollowed out as if the captivity and the Darkness has leached away all of his youthful energy.
“Master,” Anakin says reproachfully. And it sounds—it sounds so much like him, like Obi-Wan’s Anakin, that he has the rather ridiculous urge to cry. Master, master.
“How are you feeling?” Obi-Wan asks, though it is a useless sort of question. He isn’t sure what to do with his hands. What to do with his tongue. He suddenly cannot remember the last time he asked Anakin how he was feeling. It was never a phrase that was part of their lexicon—for so many years, they shared a training bond. Obi-Wan was able to ascertain his padawan’s emotions with a gentle Force touch across the planes of his mind. More often than not, he was telling Anakin to search his own feelings. He was not asking him to interpret them for Obi-Wan’s sake.
Now though, their bond is severed and Anakin does not recognize him as anything more than another Jedi, another man who he once called master, and Obi-Wan stands across the room from him and does not recognize him either, save for all the ways that he does.
“Surely they have been giving you updates,” Anakin murmurs. “I know you have visited every day.”
“Yes,” Obi-Wan says because he will not lie to Anakin. He doesn’t think he remembers how. It has been—so long. Since he has last seen him. It is all he can do to stay standing now. To keep a respectable distance between them. To not fall to his knees. To not stumble forward and take Anakin’s hand in his own.
“What have they told you?” Anakin asks, and he tilts his head slightly. His golden eyes are as disconcerting as they are beautiful. They’re his. They’re his eyes, set in his face, and Obi-Wan has missed that face for so long. For months. He’d thought he’d never see it again, and he is just now realizing that he has no defenses left against Anakin. None at all. The boy could ask him for anything and he would fight to the death to give it to him.
The Force is in flux in the air around them, bucking up, riled, in a way Obi-Wan usually interprets as danger. But the Force could be screaming a death knell and Obi-Wan, in this moment, would only be able to hear a sweet cry of wild joy.
Anakin, this is Anakin. This is his Anakin and he is here. Back—partially. Back, incompletely. But back. Obi-Wan…he’d stopped hoping he’d ever get him back.
Instead of answering his question, he presses the backs of his fingers against his mouth to try and stop their shaking. Every day he has walked here, accosted the healers, demanded to know the latest. And he has never once realized how incredibly difficult it would be to lay eyes on Anakin. How incredibly difficult it would be to maintain his composure, to hold himself in.
Anakin’s eyes glow gold, but Obi-Wan’s eyes are that of a starving man. All he can see is honey.
“Come here, master,” Anakin says, reproachful. “Did you not miss me?”
The words move him forward where his own feet could not. “Of course I did, Anakin,” Obi-Wan whispers. Hoarse, too hoarse. Too trembling and old, but it has been so many months. He had thought him lost forever. Dead and gone and one with the Force, and for the first time in his life, that had given him no comfort.
Anakin holds out his mechno hand, palm up, fingers slightly crooked. He’d built them that way on purpose, Obi-Wan remembers. At fourteen, he’d broken his index and middle finger in a duel, bones shattering under the blow of another padawan’s sabor. A lucky hit, an unlucky outcome. Though they’d healed near perfect due to bacta, they’d always remained slightly bent out of place. When he lost his arm to Dooku five years later, he’d fiddled with the replacement until the mech digits tilted the same familiar direction.
Obi-Wan stares at them, caught up in the tide of the memory.
Had Vader ever looked down at his mechno hand and wondered about the imperfection? Had he thought to fix it once he had the time? Had he spared a thought for the black spots in his memory, the cavernous gaps in his past?
His fingers fall to rest against the sensors of the mech tips. They’re sensitive enough that he can see Anakin shiver at the touch.
“Did you not miss me, master?” Anakin asks again, and his hand closes around Obi-Wan’s tightly, pulling him forward another few steps.
Obi-Wan nods, then shakes his head. Yes, he missed him. No, missing—missing is not a vast enough word.
“You asked for me,” he hears himself say. “Do you—what do you….”
Do you remember me?
You must. You call me master. And you want me close.
But they pulled the memories of the word master from your mind days ago, and you hated me then. You did not want me near you. What has changed? What have you remembered?
“I wonder if they would treat any patient like this,” Anakin says. He uses his hold on Obi-Wan to pull him even closer, til his thighs brush the edge of the bed. “If it is the war that makes me special, if it’s my own power. Or if it’s you.”
Obi-Wan tenses. Him? He doesn’t—
“They’ve tried everything they can think of to trigger my memories of you, Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Anakin says. When Obi-Wan tries to move back, take a step away, find the air in the room to breathe, Anakin tightens his hold and pulls him forward until the only option is to either topple over onto his padawan’s chest or sit on the bed at his hip.
He sits.
“They debated for many days, you know,” Anakin says. His mech thumb begins to sweep over the inside of Obi-Wan’s wrist. “If they should trigger the connections my mind has made to the word master. It’s a weighted word for Anakin Skywalker. Surely you know that.”
“I do,” Obi-Wan says carefully. When he tries to breathe, he can only do so shallowly as if his entire chest has shrunk to half its capacity.
“He was enslaved before he was a padawan,” Anakin explains as though Obi-Wan has not spoken at all. Maybe he hasn’t. For the past several months he has not been able to speak to Anakin aloud, could only talk with him in his mind—could never hear a reply. Perhaps he has forgotten how. “They were worried that after ten years studying under you, after two years fighting side by side with you, my strongest connotations to the word master would still be to slavery.”
Anakin ducks his head slightly, tilts it to the side to give Obi-Wan a small, private grin, as if the healers’ concerns are so unfounded that they are amusing. As if the concept that something could outweigh Obi-Wan’s importance to Anakin is so foreign and preposterous that it’s funny.
His smile knocks into Obi-Wan’s chest like a punch to the solar plexus.
“But they decided to risk it,” Anakin says. His voice is light as a feather. Airy and unconcerned. “Perhaps they should have started with smaller things. A light saber. A braid. A pear. A planet. But they wanted to re-establish my firmest conneciton to the Light as quickly as possible. And they thought that was you.”
Obi-Wan holds his breath, eyes leaping from their connected hands to the yellow of Anakin’s eyes. He has still fallen. He has not been healed. He is still—he is still—
“So they gave me back my masters,” Anakin pitches his voice low. “All of them, though I suppose I remember Sidious well enough. But they gave me back the Toydarian. And they gave me you.”
“They said you did not want to see me,” Obi-Wan whispers. “Why, Anakin, if you remember, why would you—”
“Because I hate you,” his padawan says as if it’s the easiest thing in the galaxy. “Because they could give me back Master Kenobi, but wherever Anakin Skywalker kept his love for you, it was not in your title. He hated your title.”
Obi-Wan flinches back so violently that his forearm slips from Anakin’s grasp. Before he can move from the bed completely though, his padawan’s hand lashes out and curls around the fabric of his tunics.
“No,” Obi-Wan says because he must deny this—he cannot stand to hear it and not deny it. No, Anakin—there was love there, in the way he pronounced the word master. The way he looked at Obi-Wan: admiration shining in his eyes when he was younger, cooling off over the years into acceptance and affection. They had their arguments. They had their—misunderstandings, but Anakin did not resent him for his role in his life as his old teacher. His master. “You’re wrong.”
“He hated it more than he hated his actual slave master,” Anakin murmurs. Lightly, airily. As if his words are not landing devastating blows on all of Obi-Wan’s softest spots. “Do you know why?”
“I don’t believe you,” Obi-Wan whispers because he doesn’t because he can’t. Because he’d have known. Because this is Anakin, this is his Anakin, but there are still cavernous dark spots and gaps in his mind. This is not entirely his Anakin. He is still missing things. Thousands upon thousands of memories and moments and learned contexts and—
“I think you know why,” Anakin says as if he has not spoken. Funny, as Obi-Wan had thought he was screaming.
“I assure you I do not,” he snaps, spitting the words out as quickly as he can so that his voice cannot break between the syllables.
“Because Anakin Skywalker believed til the day he died that if you had not been his master, you would have allowed him to kiss you. To take you. To be taken by you. Don’t you remember, Master Kenobi?”
Obi-Wan tears himself away from the bed, from the boy in it. Just a boy. Not a man. Not when he was seventeen and drunk for the first time, slinging his arms around Obi-Wan’s neck and pressing his face into his chest, whining and begging and pleading—and not when he was eighteen either, bold and staring at Obi-Wan's lips, not when he was nineteen, on the verge of his Knighting ceremony and demanding to be given into.
Just a boy, just his boy. But never—never anything else.
“Like I said,” Anakin but not Anakin murmurs. Anakin, but Vader too. “Wherever Anakin Skywalker kept his love for you, they have not yet been able to find it in my mind. I can only assume he loved you at all.”
Obi-Wan flicks his eyes over the familiar face, the beloved face. The stranger’s face. If it were anyone else sitting before him, he’d have a retort already on his tongue. He’d have raised his shields, gone on the offensive. There are few people left in the galaxy that can land a blow on him, and many have tried.
But this is not anyone. This is Anakin. This is his Anakin and this is something for which he has no defenses prepared.
“How ashamed did you make him feel for loving you, master?” Vader asks, tilting his head in cruel curiosity. “That he compressed all of it into something so small that a whole Temple of healers have been unable to find it?”
“Don’t call me that,” Obi-Wan snaps and this time he does not get the words off his tongue quick enough. His voice breaks in the middle of the demand, ribs cracking and parting to reveal the heart of him. “Not if—” not if you do not know what it means for him. For me. For us.
“Why not?” Vader says, and he raises his flesh hand to tuck a piece of greasy hair behind his head before allowing his fingers to fall to rest against his collarbone, ghosting against the Force suppression collar around his neck as if it’s a diamond encrusted necklace. “After all, am I not wearing your chains, master?”
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