Two Halfs of One Warrior • Obikin/Vaderwan One-Shots

Nothing Is Sacred If It's Wasted

• Summary: "What was that?" Anakin stands in the middle of the room with his arms akimbo, Force bright and agitated around him. “I could feel you from all the way over here. I thought maybe we’d have to blast our way out of this place.”

“It went poorly, but not that poorly.” Obi-Wan turns and, having scoffed the entire walk back to the guest wing that someone (specifically a man his own age) would be so gauche as to look at Anakin and be struck by lust, now has the horrifying revelation that Lord Beatlut might not be an unthinkable degenerate after all.

Force. His Padawan is beautiful. When did that happen?

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Ice runs down Obi-Wan’s spine. “I believe there’s been a misunderstanding,” he says, striving to maintain the cordiality that has characterized the entire five-cycle stay on Remos thus far. The mission is a diplomatic one, with little to no danger of violence and meant to serve as an initial foray in convincing them to join the Republic.

Historically, Remos kept to itself, which wasn’t an issue until now. Due to its low population, the planet lacked a standing army to defend itself. If the Separatists gained a foothold there, they’d have no issue setting up a base that would prove incredibly disadvantageous for the Republic. The enemy would be breathing down their proverbial necks. As such, it’d be much more advantageous for all involved that Remos grasp the severity of the situation and make their choice before it was made for them.

Yet, instead, the people of Remos were relishing in their newfound importance. None more so than the man in front of him.

“Do you?” asks Lord Beatlut, with the slightest twitch to the corner of his mouth.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan snaps and then immediately thrusts his aggression into the Force. Days of roundabout discussions culminating in a private meeting to finally get to the meat of the matter isn’t unusual; but what Lord Beatlut wants churns his stomach, and, more cuttingly, Obi-Wan didn’t see it coming. “We are here to serve the interests of the Senate, yes, but the Jedi do not peddle themselves. My Padawan is not chattel to be bartered.”

“I see. My profoundest apologies, Master Jedi.” Lord Beatlut cuts a pretty bow while somehow remaining seated.

Obi-Wan should be mollified.

He isn’t. His guard is still up. “If we can return to the topic—”

The man interrupts. “Oh no, my mistake is too grave to overlook. I’m afraid I must retreat to reflect on my error. For a day, at least.” Lord Beatlut tilts his head in thought. “Perhaps more in penance for such an insult to you and your delightful Padawan.” He rises to his feet and automatically Obi-Wan does the same. Much of the smoky Ji’boan they had been drinking remains in their cups, cooling. Apparently neither of them will finish their tea.

“For a day,” repeats Obi-Wan, flatly.

“At least.” The glint of humor in Lord Beatlut’s eyes is at odds with the sorrowful tone. They’re both aware that Jedi and Padawan will be leaving by the end of the standard seven-cycle. The man is effectively stopping all negotiations dead.

No. Not stopping them. Holding them hostage.

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O

bi-Wan knows what he’ll find in his chambers when he opens the door.

“What was that?”