Chapter Text
The mission was a disaster. Obi-Wan didn’t know what he’d been expecting—it seemed he wasn’t capable of anything other than failure. He’s been off of probation for nearly half a year now. They claimed he was a fully fledged padawan, that his record had been scrubbed, that his betrayals on Melida/Daan and his failures on Telos had been forgotten—but Obi-Wan felt the eyes on his back when he turned away, he knew he was still being observed, the path he walked was paved with ice, growing thinner and thinner under the radiant heat of every blistering mistake.
His failures cost someone their life today.
“He is reckless, headstrong and impatient,” Qui-Gon said as they stood before the Council.
Obi-Wan stood tall, spine rigidly straight,hands folded into his enormous sleeves. He tried to ignore the way every word feels like a knife driven into his gut. There was validity in Qui-Gon’s words—Obi-Wan was all those things and so much worse.
His eyes remained fixed in place, staring just past the masters who were, undoubtedly just as disappointed in his failures as Qui-Gon was. He couldn’t bear to look at them—it is cowardice. Were half the Jedi he was supposed to be, he would be able to bear their scorn and disdain. Nevertheless, he was a failure in all things, unable to accept this passing judgement with even a modicum of dignity.
His skin itched and burned. It was as if his blood was made of lightning. His nails dug into the skin of his forearms until they bled.
A man died because of him.
It should have been the other way around.
“But all in all, he has done well today,” His Master ended on a note of hope, of pride, of praise.
Obi-Wan, who had been doing so well in his schooled rigidity, broke—he didn’t cringe, but he twisted his head away, his eyes fixed on the ground. His stomach churned angrily. His mouth tasted of copper and bile.
He didn’t deserve such praise.
There was a molten, burning anger that sparks somewhere inside of him, igniting his blood like fuel. He hated the praise. It was entirely undeserved. He hated himself. He should have been the one to die.
“Listening are you, padawan Kenobi?” Yoda’s voice cut through the molten maelstrom in his head, freezing the world around him solid. He realized, in that horrible moment, that all eyes were on him.Shame clawed up his back like a wild animal. The room felt as if it was spinning.
“Forgive me, masters,” he began. His voice was dry and rough, but it didn’t not crack. He would not allow it to crack. “I had allowed my mind to wander. It will not happen again,”
His resentment, his anger, his guilt, his shame rose up like a tidal wave and battered the inside of his worn, rusted shields, but he refused to let anything slip passed. He was tired... so very tired... He ached all the way down to his very core. He felt as if his bones were brittle, as if any pressure at all would cause them to snap. Still, he stood tall. He allowed the pain to sink into his very marrow. After all, he deserved it.
“Are you alright, Padawan Kenobi?” Master Koon asked in a voice that was far too kind and far too gentle. Obi-Wan felt as if somebody had swung a metal pipe against his head.
He schooled his expression into stony neutrality, ignoring the way his eyes burned and his throat felt as if it was closing up. “I am alright. Forgive me for causing concern,” Guilt coiled hot and painful in his gut. He had no right to cause such worry from somebody so kind.
A heavy hand rested on his shoulder and Obi-Wan’s head snapped up, eyes wide.
“Obi-Wan?” Qui-Gon asked, voice soft and small and gentle, his eyes filled with compassion that Obi-Wan craves so desperately, but could never hope to receive.
There was something evil inside of him. Something sick and twisted and vile. He wrenched his eyes away from Qui-Gon’s gaze, no longer able to bear the weight of their crippling kindness, no longer willing to risk his master looking too closely and seeing too much.
He would never be able to comprehend why Master Jinn had taken him back after Telos. There was nothing within him worth training, nothing worth loving, nothing worth keeping, nothing worth anything at all. And yet, here they stood, shoulder to shoulder, Master and Padawan against all odds.
Obi-Wan couldn’t fathom how Qui-Gon was even able to look at him after all his atrocities. He could hardly bear looking at himself. In every mirrored surface, he saw his own eyes reflected against those belonging to the people he had failed to save: Cerasi, Bruck, Xanatos...
“Obi-Wan?” Qui-Gon asked again, his hand tightening in Obi-Wan’s shoulder. His voice was so full of worry, so full of pain... Obi-Wan thought he was going to vomit. The touch on his shoulder burned.
“Forgive me, masters, I have nothing else to add to the report,” he said instead of screaming or vomiting.
He was supposed to feel these things. Guilt and anger... they all lead to suffer, and Obi-Wan was suffering.
Good. Let me suffer.
He didn’t deserve to be a Jedi. He was a coward and a fraud. Qui-Gon should’ve left him on Melida/Daan. Better yet, Qui-Gon should’ve let him blow himself up on Bandomeer when he had the chance—that would’ve saved them all some heartache.
“Dismissed you are,” Yoda said, and Obi-Wan nodded, bowing his head and wrenching himself from his master’s grip.
-
“Obi-Wan, we need to talk about your behavior,” Qui-Gon said firmly, as he set Obi-Wan’s plate of food down in front of him.
“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan picked up his fork and pushed around some of the steamed vegetables. His voice was heavy with resignation. He kept his eyes down. This was a good conversation. He needed to be reprimanded, he needed to be chewed out, he needed to be reminded that he was supposed to be better than this.
“I’m worried about you,”
Obi-Wan’s dull eyes flickered up and his chest suddenly felt tight. “Master?” he asked, his voice not cracking.
Qui-Gon sighed. Surely, he was disappointed. Good. Some sick part of Obi-Wan, buried deep in the back of his mind, was excited by this prospect—perhaps if he proved himself enough of a disappointment, perhaps if he failed enough, his master would finally reject him and Obi-Wan could stop trying. Wouldn’t things be easier that way? If people would just stop caring, maybe Obi-Wan could finally disappear. Wouldn’t that be nice? Everything would be over then. The hurt would stop. He just wanted to end.
Perhaps, if he failed spectacularly enough, the Force would reject him, too. If nobody cared for him, nobody at all, not even the Force itself, then he could stop caring too.
But that was wrong, wasn’t it? It was wrong to feel that way. It was wrong to want to die. (He added to the ever growing list of reasons why he was a terrible, terrible Jedi.) Death was not the answer. Death would only hurt people—he had seen how badly Xanatos’ death had hurt Qui-Gon and somehow... somehow the idea of causing his master that sort of pain made him feel even worse.
All he wanted was to be a good person. He just wanted to stop hurting those he loved.
“You haven’t been yourself in quite some time. You are quiet and withdrawn. You over exert yourself, you do not eat, you do not speak... You used to ask me so many questions about absolutely everything. Why have you stopped?” Qui-Gon’s voice was even and steady, but Obi-Wan was smart and clever—he could hear the way it bent around the edges.
“I don’t have any to ask,” Obi-Wan said simply. He watched as Qui-Gon’s expression crumpled, only momentarily, and was crushed. This was the wrong answer.
“Ah,” was all Qui-Gon said, fixing his gaze on his student.
Obi-Wan resisted their urge to squirm childishly and stood rigid still. He deserved the scrutiny he was given. Still, it pained him greatly knowing he had upset his master, and he sought to rectify that immediately.
“I will ask you more questions,” he resolved. Qui-Gon’s expression wilted once again and Obi-Wan felt violently ill. What was the correct answer?
“That isn’t what I want,” Qui-Gon said softly. “I don’t care about the questions, I want you to be happy,”
“I am happy,” Obi-Wan objected, desperation creeping into his voice for two contradicting reasons: he so desperately wanted his master to see that he was not okay, and he so desperately wanted to appease his master so that Qui-Gon would never have to bear witness to the depths and depravities of his pain.
It was such paradoxical thinking: wanting to slit his throat and cry out for help all in the same breath.
“Lying is not the Jedi way,” Qui-Gon said sternly.
Obi-Wan physically recoiled. There was the knife again, burying itself in his chest. He didn’t speak for fear his own bubbling blood would spill past his lips and out his pain.
It wasn’t fair. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? To be scolded and reprimanded? He wanted to disappoint, he wanted to be cast off and rejected. He wanted Qui-Gon to see how brilliantly he had failed, he wanted his master to understand that there was no hope for Obi-Wan Kenobi, he was utterly irredeemable.
So why did it hurt so badly?
Obi-Wan was quick to school his expression and fix his eyes on Qui-Gon’s. He felt the burning tears clawing their way up the back of his throat and held his breath, stubbornly refusing to let them fall.
He didn’t realize his hands were shaking until his master laid his own on top of them.
“Padawan...” Qui-Gon began, his voice impossibly kind. “What is causing you such pain?”
Everything.
The weight of the entire galaxy bearing down on his shoulders.
But that was an inappropriate answer.
“I’m fine,” he said instead, slowly sliding his hands out from beneath Qui-Gon’s. He felt as if his skin was cracking, breaking away like dried mud. He felt like a raw, exposed wire. Qui-Gon would be ashamed of him if saw the depths of his feelings.
Is that that what he wanted?
If nobody cared, he could finally go away. If nobody cared, he could finally rest.
Does he really want that? Did he really want to die?
No. Of course not. Nobody ever really wants to die. He just wanted the pain to stop.
Obi-Wan was trapped: if he told Qui-Gon about his feelings, Qui-Gon would be disappointed. Qui-Gon would reject him. If he kept his feelings to himself, Qui-Gon would be disappointed, grow weary, and ultimately reject him.
There was no winning this cruel game.
(Which was fine. Obi-Wan didn’t deserve to win.)
Qui-Gon’s hands tightened around his student’s hands. The breath caught in Obi-Wan’s throat. He was cracking. It was getting harder and hard to breath. It was getting harder and harder to shove the feelings away.
“I want to help you,” Qui-Gon said.
“You shouldn’t,” Obi-Wan squeaked and squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m okay,” he said quickly, trying to right himself, but it wasn’t working. Qui-Gon didn’t believe him.
“You aren’t,”
The whole world was breaking into pieces. Obi-Wan has held it all under such tight control for so long and now it was all falling apart. Everything was falling apart—he could feel it spilling between his fingertips.
“I love you, Obi-Wan... I love you so very much. Please... do you know how much I love you? Do you understand how much you mean to me?” Qui-Gon’s voice was cracking and full of so much hurt, so much sorrow.
He had hurt Qui-Gon once again.
Suddenly, Obi-Wan was far away, as if he was watching his body from outside of himself. In an instant, the feelings stopped, drained out of him like blood from an animal carcass. He felt totally empty and completely numb, except for the way his face seemed to tingle and crackle like electricity. He allowed an easy smile to fall across his face.
“I know, Master. I’m alright,” he said in an even tone.
Master Qui-Gon’s face was totally neutral, Obi-Wan couldn’t read it at all. Maybe he didn’t want to read it.
Not everybody can be saved. It was a lesson Obi-Wan had learned the hard way. It was a lesson that Qui-Gon, too, was beginning to learn.