Archive: Bail Now! Archive, SWAL, anyone else, pls. ask
Archive Date: May 28, 2001
Author's Webpage: http://www.ravenswing.com/ravendreams/
Category: vignette, hurt/comfort
Disclaimer: I don't have enough to pay attention. Lucas owns everything.
Feedback: Waited for with bated breath.
Notes: Velma betaed. Blame her. ;)
Pairing: Obi-Wan/Bail Organa
Rating: PG
Summary: Bail watches over Obi-Wan
He cut his hair.
I know it shouldn't be what sticks in my mind -- the Emperor is moving faster every day, we are losing the war, the bright, quick, smiling boy that was Anakin Skywalker is gone. My world has just become more complicated than I have ever imagined. What am I doing? I'm sitting here, next to my lover whose soul is so broken that the tears continue through his drugged sleep, and all I can think about is his hair.
He looks odd, naked without that fall about his face, framing him. He is thin, thinner than I've ever seen him, even during the wars. He is dimmed, faded and broken in some vital way that sedatives and bacta and maybe even time can't fix.
I never thought his neck was long.
By the Living Wind, I've watched him grow his hair for what, a decade? Played with it, washed it, gloried in it? Teased him when the first silver streaks bled through that tumbled mass. I'm not sure he ever liked it. Honestly, it seemed more like a mark of maturity than vanity. A mark of being a successful Jedi knight, I suppose.
Oh.
What did that son of a bitch do to him? How much did that black-souled traitor take? How much would Obi-Wan give him?
He would let Anakin braid it, fastening it with a leather tie that he said reminded him of his Master Jinn. Obi-Wan loves those little rituals -- revels in them -- not that they've happened in years. Anakin is... was a grown man, married, long past needing a master.
In Obi-Wan's mind, though, time moves differently. I have never -- will never -- understand the distance in his eyes. I cannot comprehend how tomorrow and today and yesterday blend together in some strange amalgamation. There are times, when the light hits his face just right, that the depth in those eyes frightens me.
I had never seen him frightened, not truly frightened, until he stepped off the ship this morning, blood dripping from a dozen little cuts, tattered cloak wrapped around the blank-eyed woman who walked with him. This morning he was frightened and he was lost and he came to me.
I shouldn't feel proud about that fact. It's wrong. It's true, but it's wrong.
"Anakin." That's all he said, all he whispered. Of course, I knew already, knew he was coming, had things prepared. There are benefits to being Viceroy. I knew he was coming and bringing that poor woman, married to a monster. I knew Anakin had joined the Emperor. Hells, I even knew how much Ben loved that boy, spent hours, years, teaching, training, caring for him. I didn't understand the depth of his pain. Anakin was his padawan, his friend. Anakin was...
Oh, what does it matter what Skywalker was? He's gone, blistered and foul, tearing at Obi-Wan.
Tearing at him through that bond. Sitting in there, waiting for him, heavy and wet and slimy.
A disease.
To think I was ever jealous of that, even for a moment. I can't fathom having that "thing" in my head.
My poor Ben.
I should check on Amidala. She's sleeping, or was when I checked with Tia. I should be making plans, covering my tracks, protecting Alderaan.
I'm not.
I'm sitting here watching a shattered Jedi Master curled onto a bed, skin pale as any dead soldier on a battlefield and deep lines carved into a face that still teased at youth a year ago. I want to touch him, but he screams and I'm afraid of the noises he makes, like some flightless, clipped bird warning the flock of invaders.
He cut his hair.
I get up, find a warm blanket left by a servant, and cover him. I ignore the hiss that escapes his lips.
I straighten my robe. Tia's waiting for me outside and, for all that I am Viceroy, to her I am simply a rumpled brother who can't take care of himself. She looks at me and for a moment I see our mother, searching my face for evidence of hurt.
"How is he?"
"I don't want him disturbed."
"I understand, Bail. How is he?"
I can't do this. Not now. Not with him curled in there on my bed with tears eroding his skin like acid.
"Contact me immediately when he wakes, Tia. I have matters to deal with."
"Bail?"
I look at her, my sister, my friend. I shrug.
"He cut his hair."
The End