Weight (Obi and Ani Gen Fic, 898 Words) Fandom: Star Wars Title: Weight (898 Words) Author:jarkai on IJ / jarkai_fic on LJ Theme(s): (For 30_somethings on Insanejournal, Nights: #26 - Trap) Pairing/Characters: Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker Rating: PG. Disclaimer/claimer: Characters owned by George Lucas. Critiques: Yes. Summary: They were not always a team. Our first night in shared quarters, I found a stranger in young Anakin's bed. Not that the child was not a stranger himself. Only a week before both the mattress and its dull-colored blankets had been mine. Much to my surprise, they now belonged to this newly shorn, hard-scrubbed boy--as did the thing in his arms, no doubt, with its balding fabric and absurd tufts of fur. Even in the half-dark, the toy demanded attention. Its myriad patches might have been stolen from a rainbow.
"What is that?" I asked, unable to keep the distaste from my voice. It reminded me of every other pathetic life-form that Qui-Gon had taken home.
"He's my opie," Anakin responded. He squeezed it tighter, pressing back into the lone pillow.
"Your... opie."
"He helps me with bad dreams," he began. "He--"
I held up a hand. "Bad dreams are nothing more than--"
He cut me off in turn. "It smells like my mother!"
My lip curled. Then I truly feel sorry for Qui-Gon, I thought bitterly, remembering how fondly he had spoken of the woman. I'd accompanied him on missions for a decade. I knew well enough what that sort of smile meant.
I drew a breath. Eventually I felt my face relax, my expression growing placid once more. "I'm sorry, Anakin. Jedi are not allowed possessions. It's against the Code."
"You keep a stone Qui-Gon gave you in your belt pouch," he said softly. "I've seen it."
The toy was in my hands before I knew it, ripped from his very fingers by the Force. A single piece of stuffing floated down to the carpet as my fists closed around its lumpy middle.
For an instant, the room seemed darker, his eyes an even more luminous blue. Anakin opened his mouth as if about to say something, then abruptly jerked the covers high, burrowing beneath them.
I stared at him a moment longer before turning on my heel, slamming the door, and tossing the damn thing in the trash. Even after I'd kicked my belt pouch halfway across the room, the stone it housed seemed to whisper to me, speaking of hypocrisies I wanted to ignore.
+++
Somehow he managed to rise before me, scurrying about the tiny kitchenette to make his breakfast without a sound. And, of course, Opie was nestled protectively in his lap, peering at me accusingly over the table.
I strode to his side and thrust out an arm.
Anakin curled around the toy. "He's mine."
My face grew hotter at the sight of my own, trembling fingers. "Nothing is yours. Not your opie, not the clothes on your back, not this room. All belong to the Force."
"My mother--"
"Your mother is on Tatooine! You're the one who chose to interfere in m--chose this life and all it entails!"
"Qui-Gon would have let me keep it!"
Silence fell. My fingers spread wider, demanding without words. Slowly, so slowly, Anakin lifted the toy from his lap and gave it over to me. Without another word, I made my way back to the kitchenette and dropped it in the compactor. The blades protested the first time I pushed the button, the sound they made much like Anakin's own. I did not look at him when I pushed the button the second time, or the third. Stuffing flew.
Finally I glanced back. He was already gone.
I ran my hands down the front of my robes over and over again, but it was useless. Bits of stuffing clung like a bad reputation, impossible to dislodge.
+++
The weeping began an hour after I sent him to bed. I tensed at once, waiting for the first high-pitched, overly dramatic sob. After a moment or two, I settled back into the sofa and took up my tea and datapad again, confident that the cry meant to carry would come along soon enough. It never did, not on the first night and not on the fifth.
On the sixth, he screamed.
By the time I reached him, he'd woke, or at least he'd sat up; his glazed eyes spoke of someone still trapped in a nightmare. His sweat-slick chest heaved with uneven breaths. I touched his shoulder, thinking only to rouse him, and at once his arms were about my waist, his face pressed into my stomach.
"I t-told--" he managed, the stutter full of recrimination. "I told you."
I should have freed myself. I should have pushed him away, taken him by the shoulders again, and told him that this is what attachment brings. I did not. Instead, I looked down at Anakin and saw only myself. I looked down at him and felt the weight of the stone on my belt.
My fingers slid through the messy ruff of his hair, brushed the braid I had woven myself.
Anakin sniffed. "You're my opie now," he said, hugging me closer. "You've got to be. I don't have anyone else."
"Well, it does rather sound like my name..." Unexpectedly, I laughed. It came out high and shaky, much like his sobs had, but I did nothing to stifle it. Nor did I stop stroking his hair.
Soon enough, he slept. Despite his size, he was heavy in my arms, far heavier than any stone.
I did not sleep that night, or for some nights after.