Chapter Text
Padmé's water breaks on the way to Mustafar, and he has no choice but to leave his hiding place and lend aid. There are no medical droids onboard. She had not had time to bring one along, only C-3PO. So he finds the softest flat surface, lays down his cloak as a modest layer against the sterile cold, and eases Anakin's wife onto her back.
"Swear to me, Obi-Wan," Padmé says, fingers blindly catching his wrist, "swear to me that you will not kill him."
"Padmé, now is not the time for this," He tells her, tries to focus on helping her through the crisis with C-3PO's clumsy assistance, "You must push. The baby is coming."
"No," Tears pour unhindered from the young woman's wet eyes, and even now, she is stubbornly trying to bend him to her will. Just like her husband. "Not until you swear to me, Obi-Wan."
So he does. Tells the lie to her face.
"I swear."
"There is still good in him," Padmé insists, the tips of her fingers ice-cold against his skin.
"I know," He humors her absently as he settles between her legs. Obi-Wan knows nothing about childbirth. His training at the Temple had never covered such matters. Common sense tells him there should not be this much blood.
"No...please, I can't do this without you, Anakin," Padmé sobs, curls in on herself as the Force around them bleeds with her grief and distress.
The protocol droid's attempts to sooth her hysterics fail miserably, and Obi-Wan knows there is no other choice. He reaches out and touches her mind through the Force; gives her what she wants in the form of Anakin, crouched beside her, his lips stretched into a proud but anxious smile, his hands tightly twined in hers and whispering words of encouragement. The things Obi-Wan imagines he might do to comfort his wife.
"Ani," She gasps, unseeing, lost in the sweet illusion.
"Push," Obi-Wan tells her. And this time she does, cries out in pain, but gives it her all.
The Force swells around them, and then he is holding Anakin's newborn son, this tiny delicate pink thing that brings hot tears to Obi-Wan's eyes. He does not have time to rejoice. Padmé is still hurting, and when he checks again, he realizes she's having twins.
"Luke and Leia," She says when he brings them to her and carefully lays the children against her heaving chest, "just like we decided, Anakin."
"Padmé, hold on," Obi-Wan tries to say, but he knows she will not last. He can see it in her eyes and the gray palor of her skin. There is nothing he can do.
Force, won't you take me instead? He pleads as he carefully gathers her into his arms. Let her live and be with him. Let her save him where I failed to. Take me instead.
"I love you so much," Padmé murmurs, "I love you, Ani."
"I love you, too," Obi-Wan says for Anakin, brushing back her damp hair with a gentle hand. He does love her, not the way a man loves a woman but the way a Jedi loves all living things, and perhaps a little bit more than that, simply because she is a lovely and brave person and Anakin adores her so.
"Please don't hurt him," Padmé voice is barely a whisper, "Master Kenobi, he means well. He is going to help you, Anakin. He loves you..."
He holds her long after the Force around her withers and dies, long after the children's shrill cries turn into soft whimpers, and long after the skiff lands on the hot earth of Mustafar.
And that is how Darth Vader finds his old master — broken, soaked in blood and tears, sitting in the back of the ship with his dead wife and newborn twins clutched in his arms.
He knows Padmé's death is not Obi-Wan's fault. He's skimmed his mind and seen the memories, but a part of him still wants to blame it on Obi-Wan, just so that the bottomless pit of hot blistering rage boiling inside his chest can go somewhere. The twin's irritating screams are making the ache in his head worse. He hates the way Obi-Wan's body instinctively moves to comfort them, the way he always shows so much care and kindness to everyone but Anakin. So he twists the Force around his old master, shoves him back down in his seat, and feels a small spark of vindictive glee at the distraught expression on Obi-Wan's face.
"They are hungry, Anakin," He says, pleads with wet eyes, "please."
"They killed Padmé."
"You know that is not true," Obi-Wan says, "you would let your children starve? They are hers, the last remnants of your beloved wife."
He grits his teeth at the stinging reminder. Once a long time ago, Anakin Skywalker had been elated to find out that he and Padmé would be having twins. Now, the sight of them is like salt on a fresh wound.
"Fine, give them something," He finally relents, letting Obi-Wan go.
"Give them what? There's nothing here," His old master asks, bending to pick up the squirming babies and cradling them protectively against his chest.
"Can't you just make them something from the packs?" He gesticulates at the thin rations stocked in his private star destroyer.
"Anakin, they have no teeth!" Obi-Wan snaps in such a familiar way that he feels all of twelve again, a young and foolish padawan learner being scolded by his perfect master. He clenches his gloved hands into fists, temper flaring at the humiliating memory.
"What do they need?" He asks instead.
"Milk, baby...food? I don't know, I've never dealt with children this young before," Obi-Wan sighs, "the ones in the crèche were old enough to ingest solid foods. Do you have a medical droid onboard?"
"Not on this ship, no."
"Can you procure one? Or a clone medic. It's been hours. We need someone that knows how to help them."
He has to pull a few strings to transfer one of the remaining GH-7 meddroid from a nearby venator-class star destroyer without drawing suspicion. He leaves the droid with Obi-Wan to take a call from Sidious, impatience building in his veins with every second apart from Obi-Wan and the twins. He blames his agitation on the death of his dear wife to his new master, and excuses himself to end the transmission early. He pulls up the grainy surveillance of the common room and finds Obi-Wan lying on the floor, body curled around Anakin's sleeping offsprings, shaking with the force of his silent sobs.
The gravity of his choices finally hits him — Padmé is dead, the love of his life is gone forever; his old master, the man who had raised him from childhood, the one who Anakin respected the most in the world, lay broken and defeated at his feet; and the Jedi Order, the wide-eyed children he had taught saber forms to...
Bile rises in his throat as nausea floods him. He suddenly finds it impossible to breath.
No, he will not mourn them. He cannot. They made their choice to oppose him. The Jedi had trained him to be their weapon against the Dark Side, to die for them. They would never had approved of his relationship with Padmé. Obi-Wan had been one of them, hard to please, always so critical of Anakin, holding him back because he feared Anakin's power. Palpatine can teach him so much more. He will transcend both the Jedi and the Sith, and then, he will truly become what he was destined to be.
He will bring balance in his own way. He has to.
He wipes the moisture from his burning eyes and peers at the video feed again. Obi-Wan has finally succumbed to his exhaustion. Even in sleep, his old master holds the twins tightly to him. He knows they are safe with him, knows that Obi-Wan will protect Padmé and Anakin's legacy with his life.
And that is enough for now.
-
When they next interact, the broken wreck of a man from two nights ago is gone. He is facing the infamous Negotiator now. Interest piqued, he waits for Obi-Wan to speak.
"I do not have the capacity to give you what you want, Anakin," Obi-Wan admits. His soft words, spoken in that cultured Coruscanti accent, are sterile and maddeningly polite. "I cannot love you the way Padmé did. I cannot step into the role of your wife and be the mother of your children."
"I'm not asking you to," He snaps, hot irritation expanding within his chest. "I just...need you to be you."
"Very well, then there must be rules," Obi-Wan folds his hands in his lap, "First, you will be Anakin Skywalker within these walls, in the children's presence and mine. I refuse to address you by that ridiculous name Sidious gave you."
Anakin keeps silent.
"Two," He goes on, "you will keep them hidden from your Sith Master. Luke and Leia will never be a part of his plans, and you will honor your wife's wishes in raising them."
"That's why you're here, isn't it?" He reminds Obi-Wan.
"And three, once the twins are grown and no longer need me, I want you to grant me a dignified death."
"What?" He can hardly believe his ears.
"You know I dislike pain," Obi-Wan says blandly, "make it a quick and clean one, as a last favor to your old master."
"You want me to kill you?"
"You have already killed me, Anakin," Obi-Wan gives him a humorless smile, "I died when you raised your lightsaber against the younglings and padawans at the Jedi Temple."
"Fine," He says, seething internally, "but I have rules of my own."
Obi-Wan does not look surprised. "Go on."
"You will not run or try to escape," He tells the older man, "or I will kill the twins myself."
"I won't," Obi-Wan says, lips thinning at his heartless threat.
"You are to wear a Force suppressor implant at all times," He continues, "not because I fear you, but because my new master does not know you are alive."
Obi-Wan inclines his head without speaking.
"And when the twins are old enough, you will teach them."
"To do what?" Obi-Wan asks, heat flaring in his blue eyes, "Teach them as I failed to teach you?"
He peers silently at his old master. Obi-Wan is the first to look away, his throat working soundlessly as he swallows.
"And if I train them to destroy you?" The man finally asks quietly.
"You can try," Anakin laughs, refusing to let the words hurt him, "and if they succeed, then won't that be the biggest irony, Master?"
Obi-Wan recoils at his old title, hurt briefly twisting his pale features. Then, his expression smooths to blank nothingness once more as he lifts his head and says, "I will teach them what Padmé would have wanted them to know from me. Nothing less and nothing more."
Those words pull a frustrated sigh from deep within his chest. "Must you fight me on every single thing?"
"You fought me on every single thing for fourteen years, Anakin," Obi-Wan retorts, "I think I deserve a turn to drag my feet."
The exchange is such a familiar thing, in the rhythm of their usual sarcastic and affectionate banter that it catches them both off guard for a moment.
"Do what you must," He relents, quickly rising to his feet and turning away so that his former master cannot see how much it had affected him, "I trust your judgment, Obi-Wan."