#i also found a 50 page obi wan forces vader to take truth serum fic and they talk out their shit but that's too trashy for even me to post

[izzythehutt]

'Kenobi' if I had written it would apparently be Vader rage collapsing from hunger and Ben nursing him back to health in his hut on Tatooine

I was looking through old files on my computer and I found this doc called Desert HC (yes that stands for hurt/comfort) from 2015 that I'm 90% sure I wrote to amuse @darth--nickels while on the clock at my day job I hated

Cut for being self-indulgent unedited trash from 7 years ago, behold, my version of KENOBI, you're welcome Disney writers, feel free to poach from this for S2

Rage—that was all he felt, all he was. Rage personified. He knew only destruction, the desire to hurt, to kill—to maim, as he had been maimed.

Obi-Wan Kenobi stepped back, face lined, expression grim. He held his lightsaber aloft— Vader lunged, his anger propelling him forward—except...something was wrong.

Mid-leap all his strength left him—the Force deserted him, his head swam, he clutched at his chest. He was—this was the end. It had to be. At long last he was going to...right on the cusp of vengeance he would...

He gripped his head, and as it swam, in and out of consciousness, the last thing he saw was Obi-Wan's face—mouthing something he heard, faintly, and only dimly recognized. A word...an appellation from another life.

"Anakin!"

Then the world went black.

***

The first thing he was aware of when he awoke was the foreign pressure beneath his back and legs—hard, but with some give. The exposed place on his arm where flesh met prosthetic (had someone dared to remove pieces of his armor?) touched something...soft. Not the synthleather that was the only non-metal material he ever felt, but a rough, woven cloth.

He was lying on a bed, he realized. Stripped of half his armor, laid bare, exposed...and something else was missing. Some...some vital piece.

Realization of the absence of weight on his head dawned, and Vader's eyes flew open wildly. Immediately they fell upon it—his helmet. The mask he always wore, that sustained his life and sowed fear in the hearts of all in the galaxy who laid eyes upon it—

Sitting on a table next to this bed.

On instinct, he tried to raise his hands to his bare face—to cover it? To feel the scars, prove to himself he was alive, that this had happened? His arms were like lead, both sluggish and heavily restrained. Panicked, he began to struggle, thrashing about—hecouldn't allow himself to draw breath, he must be close to suffocating without the protection of the hyperbaric chamber—

"You're going to faint again if you don't breathe, you know."

At the sound of the voice, Vader let out a shocked gasp—when his artificial lungs necessitated he draw in a shuddering breath he was amazed to find—he could. Buoyed by this realization, he sucked in another breath, and another. Without the regulator on his mask, however, Vader felt his heart rate spike—and the panic returned.

"Slowly now—easy," the voice spoke again, firmly. "Breathe slowly."

His head was still a foggy mess, only dimly aware of even what planet he was on—but he obeyed. Something in the soft, Coruscanti-accented voice demanded it. Gradually, his breathing returned to normal. His muscles relaxed again.

The world swam into view—and that was when he saw the source of his salvation, the clear plastasteel oxygen mask that covered the lower part of his face. That was how he was able to breath. It was a crude apparatus, hooked from to an oxygen tank he could now see on the bedside table next to his helmet, only a foot or two away from where he lay prone.

He was alive—and he’d been saved.

“Master...?" Vader murmured, trying hard to focus his eyes. It had been so long sense he’d had to focus them on anything outside his meditation chamber. And who else could it be who would know where he was, understand that he’d been in danger?

There was a long pause. "...Once upon a time, yes."

Obi-Wan.

Now he remembered where he was. He recognized the sandstone building material, the utilitarian metal crates, even the geometric patterns on the threadbare carpet on the floor. Tatooine.

Obi-Wan had been hiding on Tatooine.

The anger he had felt when he had discovered this, white-hot at the touch, returned to him.

"If you don't control your emotions, Anakin, you're going to short out that suit again," the voice said—no, scolded. "I only got it functioning again a short time ago. I don't want to put you under again, but if you can't keep yourself from destroying everything in sight, I'm not going to have much of a choice."

It could just as easily have been a slap in the face. Indignant disbelief tempered his rage and left him sputtering like a fish.

The Jedi Master, hair now more gray than auburn, kneeled at the side of the bed and pulled something from the folds of his robes. The sharp prick on the flesh of his right arm made Vader hiss with surprise.

"What...is that?" His throat was as dry as the baking sand he knew lay all around them.

"An antibiotic," Obi-Wan answered, softly, as he pushed in the syringe. "Do you remember what happened?"

"I...remember." Kenobi stood up again. "I came to Tatooine to...kill you."

"Yes." The Jedi's mouth twisted into a wry half-smile. "You didn't get very far."

"Why did you remove my helmet?" Vader barked, ignoring the quip. He had never been without it outside his hyperbaric chamber for this long, and those benevolent, hateful eyes resting on him now made him feel...vulnerable.

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow.

"I had to. You were dangerously dehydrated; if I didn't get some water into your system you would have...” the Jedi trailed off.

Vader snorted in disbelief. "You saved my life?"

"Does that surprise you?" Obi-Wan's smile turned sad. "Did you think I would leave you out there to die?"

"Of course." You did once before. The Jedi master paled.

"I suppose I deserve that." He watched as Vader attempted to move his legs, arms (again) then his head. He was restrained—but not with Force-blocking cuffs. Obi-Wan didn’t need them, he knew. He was weak—practically powerless.

He hated it.

“What is wrong with...what has happened?”

“You were so angry you had a fit,” Obi-Wan said, gentleness turning into sarcasm. Vader made a noise in the back of his throat like an angry Lothcat. “Something in the mechanics of your suit failed—I believe the respirator is broken, though not beyond repair. After you collapsed I—got you back to my home.” He didn’t try to explain to Vader how he’d managed to carry the gigantic Sith—for which he was grateful. “You also did irreparable damage to the...food dispensary function. I’m afraid it needs to be completely replaced.”

Vader furrowed his brow, still too tired to focus on anything about his predicament but the bare facts.

“That makes no—that is unacceptable. I cannot—do not eat or drink as you do.” Something Kenobi had said earlier touched a nerve. “If you didn't replenish the nutrient packs, how did you administer the water?"

Obi-Wan’s small smile returned. He held up a metal canister with a rubber neck— suspiciously like the kind he had seen used on infants in the Jedi Temple.

"I had a baby eopie wander by my place last year. A krayt dragon had gotten the mother...I cared for her child for a season. This was what I nursed her with." Realization dawned on Vader's face—which gave way to stark horror.

"You...you dare—"

“Isn’t it amazing the degradations one’s body will submit itself to when it's desperate?”

Obi-Wan shook the bottle, smiling. “Still thirsty? There’s some left.”

“No, I am not still thirsty,” Vader hissed, incensed—though his throat was dry and papery. “I will not—I would never—“

“Oh, I assure, you did.” Obi-Wan set it down next to the oxygen tank gently. “You were craving it. Your body hadn’t had anything to eat or drink for days before you even arrived on Tatooine. Frankly, I’m astounded you lasted as long as you did in the desert, searching for me.”

The chastising tone he heard in the old man’s voice must’ve been a product of sunstroke, Vader thought. Though...he considered. The Sith had been due for his weekly maintenance check right before he found out where Obi-Wan had been hiding for all these years. After learning that...he had not slept, he had had no time for maintenance... his anger called him here, to this moment.

He tried and failed to lift his head again.

His anger was failing him in this moment, actually.

“Give me back my helmet, Obi-Wan,” he ordered, autocratically. Obi-Wan crossed his arms and considered him.

“I can’t do that, Anakin,” the Jedi Master replied, coolly.

“Do not call me by that—“ he sputtered. “Why not?”

“Well, firstly,” Obi-Wan sat on the foot of the bed, appallingly close to his former apprentice’s feet. Vader let out a weak growl he ignored. “I must confess to self-interest. I think you far less likely to attempt to kill me without it on.” In spite of his anger, the Sith could see the logic in his former master’s strategy. He made a soft tech sound through his teeth but did not reply. “And secondly...”

Kenobi pulled a bowl of some steaming liquid up from a tray on the floor. “You need to eat something.”

"Speak plainly, old man. What is that?" Vader eyed the bowl of broth Obi-Wan was stirring with the utmost suspicion. Once more he tried to move his head—the effort made his head spin. "And what have you done to me?"

"I haven't done anything to you." As if by second nature, the Jedi smoothed the covers on the blanket he—he had put a blanket around Vader's legs—he—how dare he. “That pounding in your head is your own doing—what can you expect, when you’ve half- starved yourself?” He held the bowl of soup up. “And I couldn't feed you in your sleep, much as I would have preferred it."

As Obi-Wan tapped the wooden spoon against the bowl, the exact implications of what his former master was saying clicked in Vader's brain.

"I'm not taking any food of yours," he spat—the intended viciousness muffled by the breathing mask. “Much less from you directly.”

“I don’t recall giving you a choice.” Obi-Wan replied, grimly. "How else do you expect to recover? There is no one else for miles—not even the Jawa caravan is due for another month." The ghost of a smile hovered on his lips.

"The...the Empire will come for me, Obi-Wan," Vader slurred, all tepid defiance. His attempts to draw on his anger to give himself focus were only making the Sith Lord dizzier. "It is only a matter of time—"

"Is it?" Kenobi asked, his voiced laced with that delicate condescension he remembered so well. Vader clenched his jaw. "The speeder you rode in on isn't Imperial issue—it looks like something you commandeered in Mos Eisley. There's no Star Destroyer encircling the planet—no reports, from what I can tell, of any Imperial interest in Tatooine at all." Vader silently glowered. "I'm not convinced anyone in the Empire even knows you're here."

"You cannot know that for certain—"

"But I know you," he cut him off, archly. "You tearing half-way across the galaxy without telling anyone where you were going strikes me as very likely." He stroked his beard. "How off the mark am I?"

“You—you aren’t—" Vader felt his pale face flush with embarrassment. “You know nothing."

Obi-Wan shook his head in disbelief.

"So reckless and impulsive," Obi-Wan scooted up the bed, so he was level with the irascible Sith. "I always told you it would cost you one day—in this case, Lord Vader..." He reached his hand over, and, to Vader's amazement, actually cradled his former apprentice's head in one hand, lifting it up for him. "It's left you in my power."

"What...what do you think you're doing?" he exclaimed. The warmth of Kenobi's callused hand seemed to burn him.

"I'm giving you lunch," Obi-Wan explained, slowly, as though to a child—or a mental deficient. When the Jedi reached for the oxygen mask, as if to unhook it, Vader's anger gave way to fear.

"You cannot take that off!" he exclaimed, with a note of hysteria. “I—I won't be able to —"

"It's only for a moment," Obi-Wan told him, gently. "I'll give you a spoonful, then I'll put the mask back on. It will be—"

"Utter humiliation," Vader growled, glaring at the spoon as though the depths of his loathing alone could set the thing on fire. "I refuse."

"Anakin," The patience in Obi-Wan's voice gave way. He pointed the spoon directly in front of Vader's face, more like a weapon than an eating utensil. "You are acting like a child. Open your mouth."

"No!" The vein popping out in Kenobi's forehead gave him a kind of petulant pleasure, so he clamped his mouth shut. The aggravated sigh of frustration Obi-Wan let out also pleased him immensely. ‘

The Jedi’s eyes narrowed sternly.

"Fine, Anakin. If it's games you want to play—"

Before he understood what was happening, Obi-Wan had snatched the mask off of him. The Jedi Master held it in the air, more than an arm's length from Vader, with a look of triumphant patience plastered all over his smug face.

Vader's eyes widened in horror—but he curled both his lips under, stubbornly, and glared at Kenobi. Obi-Wan returned the look, something steely behind his eyes. The Sith's gaze flicked between the utensil full of food hovering inches in front of his mouth, to the oxygen mask, so far out of reach. Obi-Wan was...he really wasn't going to bring it back to his face—

His lungs screamed for air, and when he could bear it no more, Vader reflexively wrenched his mouth open. Just as quickly Obi-Wan had shoved the hot soup in and resecured his breathing apparatus. Before he could think to spit it out—his head was swimming from lack of air—he had swallowed the tangy broth and was gasping for breath.

"I trust we won't have to repeat that little exercise in obstinance?"

"You...you..." Vader wheezed in and out a few times, before getting himself under control again. "You almost killed me!"

"You're the starving man who won't take food that's freely offered." Obi-Wan's clear blue eyes flickered with concern as he watched Vader sputter and attempt to normalize his airways again. "And, really—first you're suspicious of me saving you, now you accuse me of attempted murder?" He quirked his eyebrow again. "It seems I can't win."

"I'm going to make you pay for this, Obi-Wan," he croaked, weakly. "You'll...see."

“I’m sure...but before that, you'll need your strength." Gently, he lifted Vader's head once more. “So, shall we try this again?"

The two stared at each other for a long time—Obi-Wan's expression dared Vader to disagree. At long last the Sith—blue eyes still flashing with displeasure—opened his mouth a fraction of an inch.

"Very good." The Jedi gave the back of his neck a comforting squeeze. At the touch Vader jumped—something uncomfortable in the pit of his stomach squirmed. "Now, another bite—and then a breath."

The spoon hovered by Vader's face again—pulling a face, he accepted the bite of tangy, vegetable soup, followed by 5 seconds of the breath mask. Bite, mask, bite, mask. Methodically, Obi-Wan made his way through the arduous process of feeding his former padawan a bowl of restorative broth.

At least, Vader thought, he has the sense to remain silent.

"How does it taste?" Obi-Wan asked, softly.

Or not.

Vader let out an indistinct grunt.

"It's fine." The older Jedi frowned.

"Just 'fine'?"

"Yes, 'just fine,'" Vader groused, snappishly. "What do you want from me, Obi-Wan, an elegy dedicated to your cooking?"

"Only if it's not an original work.” Obi-Wan clucked his tongue and frowned. “A little gratefulness wouldn’t do amiss. There’s certainly no one else in the galaxy who’d be willing to hand feed you a home-cooked meal. It’s akin to sticking one’s head in a Sarlaac Pit.”

“You—stop—“ Now Kenobi was covering his mouth—he was laughing at him. "There is nothing funny about this—or you, Obi-Wan!”

"Maybe once you get some food in you, you'll appreciate the humor of our situation." He shoveled more soup in Vader's mouth before the inevitable reply. "Or after you get some more rest—”

"Don't speak to me like I'm a child!" he snapped, waspishly. "I'm a Sith Lo-” Obi-Wan shoved the next spoonful in his mouth with more force than was strictly necessary.

“Forgive me, Anakin—” His face softened, almost imperceptibly. “But you’re acting far more like the stubborn little boy who I first knew than any Sith.”

“I told you not to call me—” His complaint was drowned out by a gargle—Vader had managed to dribble broth all over his chin. Faster than he could protest, Kenobi had a cloth out and was mopping it up. “—that.”

“There.” Ignoring him, he set the now-empty bowl down next to Vader’s mask. “Better?”

“...I...suppose so,” he admitted, grouchily. It was disconcerting to see how relieved the man he’d come to kill looked. “What are you planning on doing with me, Obi-Wan?”

Obi-Wan’s face was bent over the oxygen tank, fiddling with it, so Vader couldn’t see the pang in his eyes at the question. All he heard was the forced unconcern in his old master’s voice.

“I haven’t decided yet—I don’t think I can just set you free like the eopie calf. For one thing, you need more attention than she did.”

“That is not an answer, old man.” Vader fidgeted nervously as Obi-Wan set his uncovered head gently back on the pillow. “I suppose you’ll...turn me over to the rebels as soon as you can get word to them.”

“You’re more skittish than she was, too.” Obi-Wan straightened up and got off the bed, a no-nonsense mask firmly back in place. “Get some rest. I’ll be right here when you wake up, I’m sure.”

“I don’t want to get some—” Immediately Vader felt something change in the air being filtered in the tank—now a light dose of sleep gas was mixed in. Normally his metabolism would be well-equipped to fight it, but in his current condition...

“You’re...” His eyelids flickered shut. “You’re...”

“Doing this for your own good,” Obi-Wan murmured, so softly Vader thought he must’ve imagined it. “Sleep well, Anakin...”

I will get you for this, Obi-Wan, was his last conscious thought—just as the rough blanket was being draped over his exposed torso. You will suffer.