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

Starting Wars and Burning Bridges

• Summary: Anakin pants for breath. He’s pinned, and they both know it.

Yellow eyes gleam at him, their intensity unwavering. Slants of red and blue light dance over their faces, casting an eerie glow. Their proximity is unsettling; they’re close enough now that Anakin can’t inhale a full breath without their chests touching. “What’s wrong, darling? You were so mouthy a minute ago.”

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Anakin doesn’t mean to take a step backward or yield ground, but the Sith isn’t just strong; he’s fast, his red lightsaber whirling and twirling, clashing with Anakin’s weapon, sparks flying through the air. His form is somehow familiar to Anakin, throwing him off because it almost feels like someone he’s fought before.

But the only Sith he’s ever met is dead, and this is not the same man.

A swipe nearly catches him off-guard. Anakin brings up his saber just in time to prevent himself from rejoining the Force by way of decapitation. He feels the heat of the blade dangerously close to his face, and his arms are not in a good position; the angle is all wrong, and he has no way of parrying the saber away.

He takes another step back, and cold panic shoots up his spine when he hits the wall that he could have sworn was further away.

Anakin pants for breath. He’s pinned, and they both know it.

Yellow eyes gleam at him, their intensity unwavering. Slants of red and blue light dance over their faces, casting an eerie glow. Their proximity is unsettling; they’re close enough now that Anakin can’t inhale a full breath without their chests touching. “What’s wrong, darling? You were so mouthy a minute ago.”

The room seems to shrink as the tension thickened. The atmosphere crackles with the unspoken weight of their clash, and Anakin braces himself for the impending storm of combat—or for his own death.

"Kriff. Off," Anakin enunciates clearly, biting each word out with the defiance of someone who knows they’re in a hopeless situation but won't go down easy. He’s alone, because he stupidly begged Qui-Gon to let him take a ship down to the surface of the planet to investigate the abandoned hyperdrive factory for spare parts. Even if somehow Qui-Gon sensed that his Padawan was in danger, he couldn’t get there in time.

Anakin is on his own.

“Tempting offer,” drawls the Sith. A drop of sweat beads down the side of his face.

They’ve been at it a while, a game of cat and mouse, trading blows between hulking behemoths of machinery, using their surroundings against one another. The Sith no longer looks quite as composed as he did when he dropped in behind Anakin and destroyed his communicator; a lock of tawny-blond hair has fallen loose across his forehead, and Anakin thinks resentfully that it’s not fair that he’s going to die at the hands of a Sith that looks more like he belongs on a holoscreen soap.

“Could you just kill me? I’m not really interested,” Anakin snaps. His arms tremble with the effort to keep blocking.

The Sith tuts. “Ani, Ani; is that any way to treat an old friend?”

Anakin’s grip falters. Nobody outside Tatooine other than Qui-Gon has used that name, and Qui-Gon had stopped years ago. How does this bastard know about his childhood nickname?

The moment of weakness costs him. A flick of the wrist, and the Sith wrenches the lightsaber out of Anakin’s grasp, sending it skittering across the floor. Anakin’s gaze snaps to it, and he shoots a hand out to summon it back with the Force when gloved fingers grab his chin and forcibly turn his head to look at the Sith.

Anakin’s pulse roars in his ears, and all he’s thinking about is that none of this makes sense. “Who are you? You’re sure as hell not my friend.”

He gathers saliva in his mouth, intending to spit in the man’s face.

He doesn’t get a chance before the Sith’s mouth is hot and heavy on his, swallowing Anakin’s gasp. His tongue pushes greedily into Anakin’s mouth without fear of being bitten. The harsh grip on the hinge of Anakin’s jaw and the threat of the lightsaber nearly singeing his braid off should be what stops him from doing so.

Not the overwhelming sensation of being sucked into dark, cool waters after a lifetime of burning under the twin suns.

Do something, shout half of his instincts.

Stay still, whisper the other half, and somehow, that’s the half that fills his ears, that he ends up listening to.

His free hands fall on the Sith’s shoulders, flexing like they don’t know what to do, because he doesn’t know what to do; he’s never been kissed before, can’t kiss back even if he wanted to. (He doesn’t.)

Anakin can only stand there and shiver and shake like he’s being electrocuted, but this is not like any Force lightning he’s ever heard of.

Though it might be just as wicked.

The Sith’s mouth is soft, and his beard both tickles and scratches. The constant hum of the lightsaber poised to hurt him is never forgotten, but Anakin almost leans into the kiss, against all common sense, against his own mortal well-being, and the Sith shifts his grip to wrap his obscenely large hand around Anakin’s throat, squeezing gently in warning.

A pulse of liquid fire shunts through his veins. It comes edged with fear, with a flutter in his chest as if his lungs are butterfly wings nervously opening and closing, preparing to take flight.

Enough, thinks Anakin, and resumes the fight, angling an arm between their chests to gain some precious, badly needed space between them.

There’s a snick and a strange smell as the lightsaber cuts something, but the adrenaline is louder. Anakin drops, rolls and calls the lightsaber into his hand. Within a second he’s back on his feet, and shifting into Form V.

The Sith’s sigh fills the air. “Oh, darling; what have you done?” He brings something up to his face and rubs his cheek against it affectionately.

It takes Anakin a second to realize it’s his Padawan braid. That was the reason for the sizzle and the smell.

“You—” Anger and embarrassment flushes through him, because as much as it hurts to lose his braid—and it does, like a psychic wound has been inflicted on him, a horror almost as bad as if he’d lost an arm—there’s also an undeniable thrill in the way the Sith has folded the length of it around his hand, around his knuckles. The braid that should have rightfully been given to Qui-Gon.

While meeting Anakin’s eyes, the Sith brings his hand up and kisses the braid. “A token of your regards,” he purrs, and then he glances to the side. When he looks back, Anakin realizes he’s been standing there like a fool, like his feet have bonded with the floor, instead of taking the opportunity to attack.

And the Sith knows it. He bows, his teeth blindingly white against his beard, and strides away, robes swirling around him as if the excess of energy has to manifest somehow.

Anakin watches him go, lips parted.

A minute later, Qui-Gon arrives.