Chapter Text
*
The Thing shows up in the middle of the ground assault on Sep positions on Geonosis, of all times, and frankly what with everything else going on Anakin has very little energy to spare on the muttered concern through his commlink about the fact that a UFO has crash-landed behind Republic lines. As long as whatever’s in it doesn’t come out shooting, he’s far more worried about keeping his men alive in the here and now.
It’s only several hours later, when the sun still hasn’t gone down and they’re still mopping up droids around the staging ground and Obi-Wan still hasn’t damn well sat down and allowed his crash wounds to be looked at, that he becomes aware that there’s something…. scuttling, that’s the word for it, around the edges of the camp, and that he’s pretty sure it isn’t friendly.
Expecting a Geonosian spy makes finding a six-legged alien with big ears, an overactive mouth (and spit glands) and wearing a truly confusing floral-patterned tunic in the middle of cheerfully noshing on Rex’s head… interesting, to say the least.
“Get it fucking off,” Rex is raging, staggering around in a circle with green-tinged saliva flying everywhere. The Thing doesn’t seem to be doing him much harm, strangely, and the troopers awkwardly trying to squeeze off a shot without accidentally hurting their captain aren’t doing any good at all. Mostly because they’re too busy laughing.
It takes Ahsoka all of ten seconds to decide she wants to keep it, which is so far beyond anything Anakin wants right now that he can’t even put it into words. He’s exhausted, and aching all over from more than just bruises, and screw whatever part of the Code which is about not killing when you don’t have to – he’s going to put his lightsaber through the little beast and have done with it.
“A little help,” Rex squawks again. Which is when Obi-Wan decides to intervene, and everything just gets worse.
“Wait,” he says, putting a hand on Anakin’s wrist to keep him from activating his ‘saber. His former Master has a look of intense interest on his face, and then the Thing finally looks up from where it’s been gnawing on Rex’s breastplate and, with a little coo of savage curiosity, races over to Obi-Wan as though it’s a pet being called home.
Anakin blinks. “Is it Force-sensitive?”
“No,” Obi-Wan says thoughtfully, easing himself down to sit cross-legged. He still doesn’t look or feel quite right, and Anakin’s really going to kill someone if the damned medics from the fleet don’t hurry up. “Empathic, perhaps,” the Master adds, then, as the Thing clambers comfortably up into his lap and sits there glaring at Anakin.
“Stupidhead,” the Thing says clearly in Anakin’s direction, and behind Obi-Wan Cody, who has managed to stay impressively impassive up until this point, finally doubles over and starts fucking giggling.
“Me Stitch,” says the Thing, and then promptly ignores everyone else for the next hour in favor of nosing its way around a very amused and suspiciously happy Obi-Wan, scurrying across his shoulders and muttering gibberish in his ears. The troopers get bored eventually and wander off; even Ahsoka eventually gets offended that she can’t get the Thing’s attention and leaves Obi-Wan to it.
Anakin keeps watching, though, vaguely aware that he’s jealous of Obi-Wan’s affection, still, even after all of these years, and also that he’s confused by the sight of his Master in genuine communion with something that isn’t Jedi or soldier. At one point Obi-Wan reaches into a tunic pocket and offers Stitch a mangled protein bar (which is rejected, with a cacophony of disgusted snarling – so the Thing is intelligent, at least); at another, Stitch waves around a comical imitation of a blaster, all garish colors and loaded with neon slime that makes Obi-Wan laugh aloud.
As the sun starts to finally set and the troop and medevac transports finally start to make their way in to land, Stitch, as though sensing time is short, looks carefully around at Anakin, at Ahsoka, at Rex and Cody and all of the clones, and then wriggles around to whisper something garbled in Obi-Wan’s ear, something which makes the Jedi Master frown.
“I’m sorry, I don’t – ”
Stitch says the word again, something Anakin doesn’t understand, mostly vowels, and sticks a clawed hand into his garish shirt, his eyes going big and liquid and filling with an unbearably obvious sorrow. Anakin can’t see what’s on the piece of flimsi he pulls out, but whatever it is makes Obi-Wan’s shoulders relax and his expression soften.
“Ah,” he says gently. “Yes. Yes, Stitch, they are.”
“Good,” Stitch says firmly. Then he leaves a long, loving, slurpy lick up the side of Obi-Wan’s face, stuffs the flimsi back into his shirt, and disappears so fast Anakin almost misses it, scurries away in the direction he came, dodging nimbly around troopers’ startled feet until he vanishes into the darkness.
“Sorry, Snips,” Anakin says at the look of disappointment on Ahsoka’s face as he helps Obi-Wan to his feet. “Guess you’re not keeping it after all.”
“He,” Obi-Wan says sternly, “is not for keeping.”
“Yeah, sure,” Anakin says, rolling his eyes as he settles one of Obi-Wan’s arms over his shoulders. “We should’ve taken him back to the Temple and set him loose in Yoda’s direction. Would’ve been fun.”
“Yoda wouldn’t have appreciated no longer being the oldest and wisest being in the room,” Obi-Wan murmurs cryptically, though he’s smiling as he says it. “Come on, Anakin,” he says then, his tone lightening as they approach the transport, where a similarly-battered Ki-Adi Mundi is waiting. “Home.”
He grips at Anakin’s arm a little tighter than usual before they say goodbye with glances and significant looks rather than words, as they always do; and Anakin finds himself wondering, as the ship lifts off and he’s left half-blinded by sand, whether something quite important had happened.
Who would have thought that a lesson on the depth of attachment would appear in the form of something quite so… blue?
*
FIN
*