Chapter Text
There were certain things that one learned when killing for a living. Picking jobs carefully; identifying not only the target but who was asking for a pulled trigger. Cause and effect. There were no such things as careless assassins. Only dead ones.
Written and unwritten rules. The Coruscant was neutral territory; no violence, no research, no business. No hard feelings over open contracts or who earned the reward. Kills required verification. Faces, names, pasts, all of it buried.
And if one was JEDI, then SITH were to be avoided.
Though originally one guild, schisms had led to messy infighting. And corpses. Lots of corpses. How long ago? No one could tell Obi-Wan. But by the time he encountered his first SITH, he’d already learned: they didn’t care about collateral.
Which was why Vader didn’t make sense.
They hadn’t been after the same target that day. Obi-Wan was on the island to arrange an accident for an arms dealer who’d pushed his luck by selling faulty explosives. The other assassin was clearly after the politician with the boisterous laugh, the one on vacation.
A family vacation.
Obi-Wan hadn’t been sure what he was dealing with at first. The young man with the intense eyes had stood out—dangerous, his gut whispered. And so Obi-Wan had watched. Amateur? No. That theory vanished quickly. The kid moved with precision, calm beneath the surface, even while faking drunk at the bar. But who was he? Who did he work for? And most pressingly: where was his handler? His master?
He was just a boy. Couldn’t be older than nineteen. Who let a kid run ops solo? Where was the professionalism? Even Obi-Wan had been considered young at twenty-five when he started alone. He couldn’t believe there was some organization, some syndicate out there, that would be this ruthless.
And then he thought, ah. No. There’s one.
But even for SITH, this was irregular. How much training could a teenager have had? Obi-Wan had split that weekend’s attention between the arms dealer and the boy. And often found himself, inconveniently, oddly charmed.
—and chilled. Because beneath that pretty face that drew too many eyes was a natural-born killer.
A natural-born killer, yes, but one that waited. Patiently, playing the silly golden boy with daddy’s money out partying, until the politician’s wife and children left for a full-day dive trip. And then he’d slipped in and cut the man’s throat.
Obi-Wan wasn’t there for that part, obviously. He’d had a job of his own to do. But that kid could have hit the target on day one. Why didn’t he? Even more confusing, he tripped the pathetic excuse of a security alarm on the exit, ensuring the body was found fast. Which didn’t make sense, unless—
Unless the kid had planned it all so that the family wouldn’t walk in to see dear old husband and daddy bled out like a pig.
(A very specific mode of elimination, Obi-Wan had noted. Extremely personal. Not a quick death.)
Obi-Wan had been intrigued. No SITH would have hesitated to wipe out the family, and this one cared about not traumatizing them? SITH weren’t hired when someone was concerned about innocents.
Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice would say. But unlike her, Obi-Wan didn’t chase rabbits. The last time a JEDI had confronted a SITH had resulted in Obi-Wan’s hasty graduation. The grave his master had made was not one Obi-Wan intended to share.
Still, he asked around. Quietly. No harm in staying informed. It paid off to know who was active, who had retired, who had been retired by someone else.
Vader was the answer. Definitely SITH. Beyond that? Either no one knew, or they weren’t talking. Vader was young, but the sense he got was that people didn’t want to get involved.
Obi-Wan didn’t dig deeper. While he expected a certain degree of courtesy from others in their line of business—honor among thieves and all that rot—SITH didn’t count. They didn’t play nice with anyone, least of all his people. It wasn’t quite kill-on-sight… but it wasn’t far off.
Pity, then, that his path kept crossing with the young SITH’s after that.
—
“Are you stalking me?” Vader snapped at him over a rain-slick rooftop, three years and several inconvenient encounters later. The kind of night when bad weather made sniping easier. People got sloppy. They’d both clearly had the same idea. “Who the fuck are you?”
Obi-Wan knelt, case in hand. His impermeable poncho would keep the rifle dry while he slotted the pieces together and took his shot.
“Of course I’m not stalking you,” he said calmly, over the musical plinks of the raindrops striking terracotta roof tiles. He pressed his thumb to the scanner. The lock released. “They call me the Negotiator. Which, I’ll thank you not to—scoff at. Really, Vader, do you have any room to talk?”
Vader, who had snorted at Obi-Wan’s introduction, scowled. He’d grown since the island. Less fey, but not less attractive. His mouth, always sullen, twisted into what Obi-Wan wisely didn’t call a pout.
Out loud, anyway.
“Why the hell does the Negotiator know my name if he’s not a stalker?” Vader demanded. He recognized Obi-Wan’s moniker. Good. That simplified matters.
“I’m just thorough.” Obi-Wan didn’t look up from assembling his sniper rifle, thumbing the scope. The wind shifted, slanting the rain. He adjusted the barrel a degree left. “You’ve gained a reputation lately. I like to know where all the live rounds are.” That wasn’t entirely a lie. It was, in fact, completely true—just not the whole of it.
Seemingly deciding he wasn’t a threat, Vader dropped his oversized case. He wasn’t even attempting to be subtle, and he pulled out his rifle in only two pieces. Obi-Wan didn’t comment.
“Bullshit,” Vader breathed after a few seconds. His tone was flat. “You’ve been in my peripheral for months. Either you’re obsessed, or you’re casing me.”
Three years, actually. “Coincidences happen. Even in this line of work.”
“Four times?”
Seven. “I’m as surprised as you. Watch your elbow. Recoil’s rough on a Barret.”
Vader stared at him through the veil of rain that separated them.
This time, Obi-Wan did glance over to meet those hostile blue eyes and felt—not amused, but some other emotion that was too complicated to easily earn a name. Vader’s slicked down hair stuck to the sides of his neck like some defiant angel in a renaissance painting, more warlike than ethereal.
“I’ve been wondering,” Obi-Wan started, as if exchanging pleasantries instead of potentially risking his life, “those last two kills you bagged—were those contracts? Or personal?” He wasn’t sure which would be worse. They’d been… bad. Sadistic.
He saw that struck something—a flicker above the brow, a tight swallow. Not guilt. Closer to shame.
“Doesn’t matter,” was Vader’s reply, long after Obi-Wan had lined up his shot. “Stay out of my business, Negotiator, or I’ll make you my business.”
Touché.
Obi-Wan pulled the trigger.
—
Music pounded against Obi-Wan’s spine like a warning, the vibrations thrumming through the soles of his boots. Bodies whipped back and forth to the beat, arms raised—sweat, cologne, and drugs thick in the air, a mass of indistinct limbs under the strobing light.
Obi-Wan didn’t care for nightclubs. Too many variables. Too many blind spots. But that was also what made them useful.
He set down a tumbler of whiskey and checked his watch. His contact had a history of tardiness, and Obi-Wan had no intention of staying longer than necessary. He sat with his back to a corner, the oppressive heat of hundreds crammed together making him sweat when even a shootout couldn’t.
His contact arrived. Obi-Wan barely glanced up as she slid into the booth.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes, sir. Been keeping yourself busy?” She leaned in to be heard over the music.
Obi-Wan nodded, scanning the doors again, then checking the best vantage point, which was the VIP mezzanine.
It had been empty when he’d last looked.
It wasn’t empty anymore.
A party had taken over the largest table, front and center. And sticking out as if he had a spotlight pinned on him was Vader. He perched on a man’s lap, wrapped in designer black and collared, his rough edges on display just enough to separate him from the dozens of pretty boys who’d gladly swap places.
The plush couch also seated what was obviously the man’s lover. Both of them oozed wealth behind wide-open smiles, teeth glaringly white even from a distance.
They cooed over Vader like he was the most adorable thing they’d ever gotten their hands on. The woman had her hand on his hip, white nails striking against the black of his tight shirt.
Vader’s face was in profile. From that distance, Obi-Wan could only guess the curl on his lips was a lazy smile as the other tipped his head back and swayed—drunk? High?
Neither?
The contact launched into the briefing with locations, schedules, names. Obi-Wan listened. But he was watching the show unfold, wondering if it was a farce or a comedy.
God, he was still so young. Obi-Wan lifted his drink, eyes narrowing. Four months had passed since their run-in on the rooftop. And really, it was none of his concern whether or not Vader was on the hunt. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe this was just how he blew off steam. Maybe this was what Vader was like in his personal life, rubbing himself against the nearest warm body like a cat in heat.
Obi-Wan wasn’t stupid. He recognized those were unkind, inappropriate thoughts.
He still had them.
Vader’s head tilted again. When he looked up at the woman, his smile didn’t change—but his eyes did.
Sharp. Sober. Calculating. Obi-Wan’s skin prickled.
“You still with me?” his contact asked. She’d already slipped him the USB stick. Now she wanted something else.
“No,” Obi-Wan said. “We’re done, darling. And I suggest you don’t stick around. There’s a SITH here.”
She tensed, flirty attitude gone. Without another word, she dipped into the crowd and vanished. Good. She was useful, and smart informants lived longer.
The matter at hand was quickly becoming a matter of whether he could claim the same.
Obi-Wan left his drink on the table and made his way along the edge of the crowd, casually scanning the club, never lingering too long on the mezzanine. But he saw enough. Saw Vader laugh, loud, bright, reckless, even if the music made it impossible to hear. Saw the woman stroke his collar possessively, then fist the curls at the base of his neck.
That was it. Obi-Wan decided. Vader wasn’t there for pleasure.
Something in his gut recoiled and wouldn’t unclench. It was like watching a fool stick their arm into a tiger’s cage because they thought it was tame. Safe.
Vader was neither of those things.
USB burning a hole in his pocket, reminding him that his business was concluded and that he shouldn’t linger, Obi-Wan stepped into the smoker’s lounge. It was sectioned off from the rest of the club but not totally quarantined; ceiling-to-wall windows looked out onto the dance floor. If he positioned himself just right, he still had a partial view of what was happening in the VIP section.
He lit a cigarette and inhaled, smoke coiling down into his lungs. It was a poor excuse for a vantage point, but it would’ve been fine if he were there to take out a target and willing to risk not landing a clean shot.
And technically, it was fine—because he wasn’t. This was curiosity. Nothing more. Professional curiosity. Whatever Vader was up to didn’t affect Obi-Wan one way or another.
He allowed himself the grace of one cigarette, smoked slowly. Then the mezzanine trio left through a private exit. Obi-Wan stayed a few seconds longer. Finished the cigarette, the dry, acrid taste clinging to the back of his tongue.
And then, because he had twelve years of training, thirteen of experience, and three of watching Vader, he left the nightclub and walked halfway down the block to a tiny, nearly invisible three-car parking lot behind a small optometrist’s office. His rental car was parked there.
So was a sleek Ducati 950, black chrome edged with red. Obi-Wan shook his head, bemused. He couldn’t deny that, if he'd had that much freedom and money in his early twenties, no master holding his leash, he might’ve picked something even more garish.
His hand found its way back to his inner pocket, poised to tap out another cigarette, but he refrained. In his view, there wasn’t only a time and place for everything, but also a limit.
This was pushing it. Unnecessary to go overindulging on nicotine when he was already so thoroughly tempting fate. If he was right, Vader would be making an appearance within fifteen minutes.
If he was wrong, he’d get in the car and leave. Vader would never know about their eighth run-in.
The scrape of a boot on asphalt signaled he was about to find out how the die had rolled. Obi-Wan crossed his arms, hands away from the inside of his jacket, heart a slow, deliberate tattoo against his ribs. Elevated, yes, but not in fear. Just conscious enough of the risk to whet his senses, that fine edge that made life worth living.
Vader swung the alley at a fast clip and then went still. With the streetlight behind him, he could see someone was there, but not who.
Obi-Wan spoke before he got shot. “If I meant you harm, you’d already be dead.”
Time twisted, seconds ticking into eternities before Vader exhaled, a low, irritated sound of disgust. They both knew that was true. Vader had walked straight into a clear sightline.
That was the problem with their kind. So used to being predators that they forgot that they could also be prey.
“Negotiator?” There was no slur in that clipped question. Vader had dropped the intoxicated act.
“You remembered me.” Impressive, considering they’d exchanged only a few sentences. Obi-Wan almost raised a hand in greeting; stopped, left it where it was. “Another coincidence, I assure you.”
“Parking next to my bike?” Vader hadn’t reached for a weapon. God. Didn’t mean he trusted Obi-Wan, but it augured well for both of them walking away on both feet.
“I parked first.” Obi-Wan didn’t fight off the slight smile he heard in his own voice. “Though in that case, that’s more of us both gravitating naturally to the most convenient spot. Not unlike the average person, with a few… caveats.”
Locals probably knew the lot was there, but the isolation made them wary of using it at night. There was no telling who might be hiding there. No woman would take one look at the mouth of the alley and park there, no matter how far the next parking space was.
Vader moved, backlit by the streetlight briefly before he was swallowed up in the shadows. He stood taller than Obi-Wan, but even more so in those heavy boots that added a solid inch. Funny that he was capable of switching from coy to menacing so well. Obi-Wan hadn’t quite seen that from him before.
(He shouldn’t have been looking so closely in the first place.)
“Your car is shit,” Vader said bluntly. He ran a hand down the Ducati like it was a living thing.
Obi-Wan could appreciate a fine machine too. He just didn’t need to own one. “It’s doing what I need it to.”
“Which is?”
Obi-Wan wasn’t obligated to tell him. They weren’t colleagues. Barely a step above enemies. But if he wasn’t going to talk to Vader, why had he stuck around? To make sure the boy was alright?
Satisfying curiosity is becoming a threadbare excuse, he thought.
“Business. Reconnaissance, not wetwork. You don’t have to worry about multiple bodies being found tonight. Not on my account, anyway.”
Vader had come no further. They stood a decent two meters apart, JEDI and SITH, likely having the most civil conversation their kind had managed in decades. Obi-Wan lowered his threat assessment another ten percent. Despite the circumstances, Vader seemed less antagonistic than their last meeting.
Ah. Obi-Wan was flattered. “You asked around about me.”
Another huff. “Why the hell wouldn’t I? You keep showing up. You called me a live round, but if anyone’s out of line, it’s you.” Vader sounded aggravated—but Obi-Wan conceded that his assessment was correct.
Obi-Wan was sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. Not like him. He had an inquisitive mind, yes, but he knew when to draw the line. When to quit while he was still breathing. It didn’t matter that Vader had been out on his own at a monstrously young age.
And it sure as hell wasn’t any Obi-Wan’s place to wonder why Vader displayed such viciousness in certain kills, and perfunctory indifference in others.
“I like you.”
Vader froze.
Obi-Wan’s smile was gentle, and all the more unnerving for it, he understood. “It would be in my best interests to avoid you, I’m quite aware of that. But there’s something very puzzling about you. So forgive me for not pretending you don’t exist. I might endeavor to do so in the future, but I’m not one to make promises I don’t intend to keep.”
“I warned you—”
“You did. Message received.” Obi-Wan held a hand up. “I haven’t meddled in your business, have I? I’m not interested in you professionally, darling, simpler as that would be. We could shoot each other and resolve it that way if I were.”
Vader had his hand angled in such a way that told Obi-Wan there was a gun secreted away on the bike. “We still could.”
“We could. But we won’t. It won’t make me any less interested.” He studied the young man. “And you don’t want to kill me.” Obi-Wan stroked his chin, smoothing down his beard. Oh, now this was an interesting development. “We’re in a stalemate, you and I.”
Vader’s fingers twitched toward the hidden gun, but he didn’t draw.
“A stalemate,” he echoed. “Are you serious?”
“You’ve had ample opportunity to resolve this permanently. I’ve had more than enough chances to ignore you. Yet here we are.”
“Are all JEDI this annoying?” Vader shook his head. He reached not for the gun, but for the helmet hanging off the handle. It gleamed under the faint light, the red accents like fresh blood. “I don’t pick fights indiscriminately, you know. You haven’t given me a reason to kill you yet.”
Obi-Wan had discomfited him. In their world, that was reason enough.
“‘I’ve been known to be more infuriating than most.”
Vader swung a leg over his Ducati. His tight jeans clung to his thighs, long and lean with muscle. A body built for speed and endurance, just like the machine he straddled. Over his head went the helmet, effectively slamming a door shut. His voice, when he spoke, was crystal clear, projected from an in-built speaker. “The Negotiator loves talking people to death, I’ve heard that, yeah.”
Oh, well that was just unfair.
“We’re not in a stalemate,” Vader continued. “You’re just too much of a hassle to kill. Don’t make it worth my time.”
Obi-Wan tapped out another cigarette after Vader left. He figured if he was going to flaunt the principles that he lived by, he might as well knock over a few other pillars in the meantime before he regained his senses.
—
But he didn’t. Regain his senses, that was. Over the next eight occasions their paths crossed, Obi-Wan only stayed away from Vader twice, and that was out of his own sense of professionalism. He had work to take care of. Contracts came first.
He never sought Vader out on purpose. Their fates just seemed to be like planets doomed to orbit one another—never managing to fall apart far enough to break free.
To his credit, Obi-Wan made an effort to be courteous when they met. He’d made peace with the truth of the matter: that he liked Vader. Something that went beyond baseline attraction and physical need. It wasn’t out of some misguided sense of responsibility anymore. If it had ever been.
Not that their lives revolved around these meetings in any significant way. Only once did they meet up while on neutral territory when neither of them was working. Putting all of his persuasive skills to the test, Obi-Wan convinced Vader to have drinks together.
If they had been anywhere else, it would have been too soon, too quick. But the Coruscant enforced its rules with an iron fist, and even their supposed rivalry had no place on its premises.
Vader downed a shot of whiskey and then frowned at Obi-Wan, eyes heavy-lidded and his cheek dark with a bruise. “I’m not a kid, you know,” he said, caustic, the throwing down of a gauntlet. “You don’t need to keep tabs on me.”
Obi-Wan’s fingers itched to run through Vader’s hair. He kept letting it grow a little longer every year; soon it’d be long enough to pull back. “I’m aware. How old are you?”
“Old enough,” Varder retorted.
“Twenty-six,” Obi-Wan decided. That number felt right. It’d been almost seven years since the island. Sixteen meetings in that time wasn’t all that strange, really.
Vader sneered at him. “What, am I supposed to correct you?” He had a habit of gesturing with his drink, never quite spilling it, though it came close. “And you?” he asked, lips still curled. “Do they call you something else other than the Negotiator, or is your ego too big for anything short of a title?”
Vader was showing interest in him. Obi-Wan savored that. It settled cozily in his stomach along with a mouthful of aged bourbon. “Obi-Wan. And you?”
The unamused look he got back made him laugh. “Alright, alright, it was worth a try.” He signaled for the waitress to top them off again. The Senate, as the lounge was called, catered to those seeking a quiet place to chat—and chat only. No business meant no business.
Which left pleasure.
He didn’t push, though. Vader tensed up every time Obi-Wan moved too suddenly. Even under the auspices of the Coruscant he clearly expected betrayal and violence.
Obi-Wan stroked his own cheek, settling for what he could have, since he couldn’t touch Vader. “How did this happen?”
Vader’s eyes flicked to the side. His mouth pulled strangely, no longer a sneer. “Discipline.”
“...I see.” So Vader did possess a master. Had they been around and Obi-Wan had missed them?
The warmth in his belly evaporated. It was an apprentice that had killed Obi-Wan’s own master. He’d assumed that Vader was a knight, that the SITH had retained the same hierarchy as the JEDI, but now he was no longer sure. If he’d been oblivious to a SITH master in the shadows, within striking range…
“My master doesn’t work on the field anymore,” Vader said, low, jaw tense. He was staring at the stained wooden surface of the table. “You’d be dead if he did.”
Sensing he was wading into deep waters, but willing to follow Vader’s lead, see how far they could both go before he was rebuffed, Obi-Wan asked the most pressing question. “Because he’d kill me?”
“Because he would have ordered me to kill you.”
He hasn’t told his master about me.
Obi-Wan shouldn’t take such vicious delight in that. But he wasn’t a saint, not even a particularly good man. “I am indeed very lucky.”
Not lucky enough to go any further that night. An adventurous explorer was just as often rewarded as he was left stranded in dangerous territory; Obi-Wan bid Vader a good evening somewhere south of the witching hour and left with much to think about.
Prior to their conversation, Vader's feelings about the situation had been ambiguous enough that Obi-Wan had held off on making any rash moves. Now that the lay of the land had become clearer, it called for a different strategy.
And lucky him again—he happened to know exactly who to talk to.
In the near decade since the island, one of his closest friends had become involved with a SITH collaborator. Ventress's loyalty lay only with herself, but Quinlan, through a combination of skill and suicidal stubbornness, had charmed his way into her good grace. Enough so that she rarely tried to shoot him on sight, Obi-Wan was told.
If there was anyone who’d have useful information, it was Ventress. She would be reluctant to tell him anything too sensitive, but all he needed was a direction to look in. Obi-Wan contacted Quinlan under the guise of a unit contract and dropped the suggestion that Ventress would be the right fit.
Quinlan figured it out when Obi-Wan sat at the table—yet another bar, in yet another city—and offered Ventress a smile.
“There’s no job, is there,” Quinlan groaned. “I’ve been had. Betrayed by my best friend. Unbelievable.”
Ventress rolled her eyes. She had a colorful, layered drink in her hand, poking holes through the granulated ice with a straw. The accompanying umbrella decoration lay crumpled on the table. “Of course he was lying. He would never work with me.”
“That’s harsh. What about that time we were on the cruise ship when terrorists attacked?” Obi-Wan put on a wounded air.
Ventress wasn't buying it. “He would never willingly work with me unless it was life or death. There, are you happy now?"
“I'm not unhappy," Obi-Wan allowed.
Quinlan kicked him from under the table. “Next time you want to talk to my girlfriend, skip the bullshit.”
“I’ll do that,” Obi-Wan said, though he absolutely did not intend to. But to make up for the subterfuge, he slid a credit card under one of his many aliases to the waiter to cover the evening’s tab for all of them.
Once they were left alone, he didn't beat around the bush. “What can you tell me about Vader?"
“Vader?” Ventress wrinkled her nose. “Why do you want to know about that guy?”
“I’m curious.” Obi-Wan didn’t blink as she stared him down. The standoff lasted until Quinlan rapped the table with his knuckles.
“He wouldn’t be asking without a good reason. Do it for me,” he murmured to Ventress.
For that alone, Obi-Wan almost wished he had a better reason.
“Oh, fine,” Ventress sighed. “I won’t tell you anything too incriminating. I don’t plan to end up stuffed in a box in pieces.” She ran a hand through her short blonde hair, scratching at the buzzed sides with her long fingernails. “He’s their golden boy. The prodigy. He’s been operating alone there since he was young, but I’m sure you know that already.”
“And what about his master? Why allow him to go out so young?”
“His master,” Ventress began, her upper lip curling, “is the grandmaster of all SITH. He hasn’t been in the field for decades. Too old to get his hands dirty anymore. But don’t underestimate him. He’s a cunning bastard.”
She paused, and then said carefully, “He trained the SITH who killed Qui-Gon.”
—
Obi-Wan hadn’t enjoyed training under Qui-Gon all that much. But he’d been grateful to have a master and had put up with the man’s idiosyncrasies until they became a part of his everyday life, endearing in their own way.
His unexpected death had changed everything for Obi-Wan—left him reeling like a spun top, finding himself in a completely different world once everything stopped whirling. One day he had been an apprentice, still not allowed to go on the field without supervision, and the next, Qui-Gon was gone, and he was knighted.
It felt, in some way, as if he’d cheated. Instead of having been cheated.
Qui-Gon was the closest thing to a father he’d had, enough that he’d been angry, resentful, eager to kill the man who’d taken his master away from him, that had been impossible. The SITH had died in the same confrontation; there was no vengeance to be had. Nothing to comfort him as the Grandmaster guided him through the process.
“I don’t feel ready,” Obi-Wan had said, dry-eyed, sadness wrung out of him by then. All that was left was bone-weary grief.
“Qui-Gon thought you were,” he’d been told. And what was there left to do after that, other than to face reality? His master was dead. His training was over.
Vader would have been a child when Qui-Gon died. He had nothing to do with any of that. But where before Obi-Wan hadn’t been much bothered by him being a SITH, knowing who Vader’s master hit differently. Felt like a sucker punch. It stung enough that he couldn’t decide if this changed things.
Obi-Wan had planned to win this game, had been in it for the long run. Now, he wasn’t sure. Could he look at Vader and not see someone else’s ghost instead?
That could only be answered one way.
But as if life had a sick sense of humor, Obi-Wan didn’t see hide nor hair of Vader for nearly a year after the meeting with Ventress. Long enough that he’d convinced himself he was over the fit of madness.
And then he saw him again.
It was only a glimpse, an entire ballroom between them, but instinct had made Obi-Wan turn to look at the open balcony doors in time to see a familiar, lean body striding out. Vader’s hair was slicked back, curls tamed, but there was no mistaking that set of his jaw, the cadence of his steps.
Obi-Wan had been down the stairs and out on the balcony less than twenty seconds later—for nothing, as it turned out. Vader was long gone by then. And by the first ear-splitting scream that pierced through the orchestra, Vader’s work was done, and he wouldn’t be returning.
A glimpse. Only that. Happenstance and assumption. But it succinctly answered the question Obi-Wan had thought was already settled.
No, he didn’t see Qui-Gon’s ghost in Vader. He saw only Vader.
And Obi-Wan wanted him.
—
As the Negotiator, Obi-Wan had a reputation of his own in their world. A good one. He honored his promises, fought without resorting to dirty tricks unless given no other choice, and had never interrupted anyone’s kill.
He was fairly certain that was why the concierge at the Coruscant looked at the unconscious Vader in his arms and then simply asked if Obi-Wan wanted a doctor sent up to his room.
Covered in blood as he was, Obi-Wan said, yes, please.