Chapter Text
The penthouse was silent, too silent for a place that looked like it belonged in a magazine. Sunlight pooled across the marble floors, reflecting off the glass walls and high-end furniture like it was mocking him.
Anakin lay sprawled on the oversized bed, damp hair stuck to his forehead, eyes glassy and half-lidded. He hadn’t moved in hours. He wasn’t sure he could. His skin burned, his muscles ached, and every breath felt like it cost him more than he had. The fever had come on fast and brutal, and now it had him pinned—helpless, shaking, and angry.
He didn’t get sick. Not really. Not like this. He hadn’t had a fever in years, maybe since he was ten. And now, with no one around, no one to call, no one to even notice he’d gone silent for two days, it was suddenly clear just how alone he was.
Except he wasn’t, was he? Not really. He still had a father. Technically.
Anakin had called him around noon—though the exact time blurred somewhere between chills and vomiting. His fingers had trembled too much to type a text, so he had actually called . Like some desperate kid in a soap opera.
And his father had answered. Cool, detached. Busy.
“You’ll be fine. Take something and rest. You’re not a child anymore.”
That had hurt more than the fever.
Anakin didn’t even remember hanging up.
In the haze of full-body shivers, he thought maybe he’d started crying, but he couldn’t be sure. Maybe it was just sweat. His mouth was dry, too dry, and his throat scratched like broken glass. He needed water. Something. Anything.
But he didn’t move. Not until the doorbell rang.
The sound sliced through the heavy silence like a knife. For a second, Anakin didn’t react, convinced he’d imagined it. But it rang again. Louder this time. More insistent.
With a low, pained groan, he forced himself upright, vision swimming. The room tilted violently. He gripped the back of the couch and waited for the vertigo to pass before stumbling toward the door.
The moment he cracked it open, a rush of cold air hit his face. He blinked against the light and the pounding in his skull.
The man standing there wasn’t who he expected.
He was tall, although slightly shorter than himself, dressed in a crisp but slightly rumpled suit, his copper-brown hair swept back neatly, beard trimmed. Eyes calm. Kind. Familiar in the way that strangers sometimes are.
It took Anakin a second, but he knew the face. His father’s assistant.
“…Obi-Wan?” His voice came out hoarse, small.
The man nodded. “Yes.”
Anakin leaned on the doorframe, more to stay upright than to keep Obi-Wan out. His heart dropped, sharp and bitter in his chest.
“They sent you to check if I was dead or not?” he croaked.
There was no warmth in his voice. Just that mix of disdain and defensiveness he had learned to wear like armor. Because if he didn’t let anyone close, they couldn’t walk away.
Obi-Wan didn’t answer right away.
Anakin’s eyes narrowed. “They sent you just to take a look?”
The words twisted into something angry and childish, and before Obi-Wan could say a word, Anakin turned and stormed off toward the kitchen, hands shaking.
“I don’t need help. I’m fine ,” he spat over his shoulder. “I don’t need anyone babysitting me.”
He managed to grab a glass from the counter and filled it with water from the fridge, but his fingers slipped as he brought it to his lips. The edges of the world started to dim.
And then he dropped the glass.
It shattered on the tile just before his knees gave out.
•
The crash was unmistakable.
Obi-Wan heard it from the living room—shattering glass, sharp and violent, followed by a dull, sickening thud.
He didn’t hesitate.
Rushing toward the kitchen, he turned the corner and froze for half a second. Then he dropped to his knees beside the boy.
Anakin lay crumpled on the cold tile floor, limbs tangled, one arm awkwardly caught beneath him. Shards of broken glass were scattered around him, glinting dangerously under the kitchen lights. His breathing was shallow and fast, too fast, and his skin looked far too pale against the dark tiles.
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan said sharply, voice low but urgent. “Anakin, can you hear me?”
No response.
He reached out, careful to avoid the glass, and pressed his palm to the boy’s forehead. The heat that radiated off him was alarming—blistering. Obi-Wan’s gut clenched.
Damn it.
He stood quickly, opened the stainless steel fridge, grabbed the ice tray and a bottle of water, then snatched a clean dishtowel off the rack. Kneeling again, he wrapped a handful of ice in the towel and gently laid it across Anakin’s burning forehead.
“Come on,” he murmured, brushing the damp hair back from Anakin’s temple. “Open your eyes…”
He gave his shoulder a light shake—not enough to hurt, “Anakin, wake up!”
Another few seconds passed. Then a minute.
Obi-Wan’s heart beat faster than he liked to admit.
Finally, Anakin groaned.
His lashes fluttered, and a soft, broken sound escaped his throat. He blinked once, twice, as if trying to focus through fog. His eyes landed on Obi-Wan’s face.
“…you,” he rasped.
Obi-Wan exhaled in relief. “Yes. You fainted. Don’t move.”
But Anakin’s expression twisted, exhausted and defensive all at once. “Did she send you?” he croaked. “Was it my stepmother ’s idea to come laugh at me?”
Obi-Wan blinked, caught off guard. “What? No—Anakin, no. I heard your phone call with your father. I was in the next room.”
Anakin gave a soft, bitter huff, barely audible. “Eavesdropping now?”
Obi-Wan frowned, not rising to the bait. “You sounded unwell. I was worried.”
That gave Anakin pause. His eyes drifted slightly, unfocused, and Obi-Wan could see him weighing the words, trying to decide whether to lash out or give in. His pride clung stubbornly, even as his hands trembled and his skin glistened with sweat.
“I don’t need anyone to worry about me,” he muttered.
“You collapsed trying to get a glass of water,” Obi-Wan replied gently. “I think you might.”
Anakin didn’t answer. He simply lay there, breathing unevenly, looking as though he wanted to vanish into the floor but lacked the energy to even turn away.
Without asking, Obi-Wan slid an arm behind his shoulders and carefully helped him sit up. Anakin didn’t fight him, not really. His body sagged against Obi-Wan’s chest, boneless with fatigue. Obi-Wan maneuvered him out of the danger zone of broken glass and toward the plush couch just outside the kitchen.
The boy was too hot, heavy and clinging to consciousness by sheer spite.
Obi-Wan eased him down onto the cushions, then disappeared briefly into the bedroom. He returned with one of the thick throw blankets from the foot of the bed—warm, heavy, the kind that provided more than just heat.
Anakin made a vague sound of protest as Obi-Wan tucked it around him, but his arms didn’t move. His eyes were already fluttering closed again.
“I don’t…” he began, voice slurred.
“I know,” Obi-Wan said quietly, adjusting the ice pack against his forehead. “You don’t need help.”
But still, he stayed. Sat beside the couch, watching over him like a silent sentinel.
And for once, Anakin didn’t argue.
•
The blanket had slipped off one shoulder.
Obi-Wan reached to pull it back up, but as he adjusted the ice pack against Anakin’s brow, the boy flinched.
Not fully awake—just a flicker of instinct. He shrank from the cold, turned his face away, and curled tighter into himself, spine arched protectively, like a wounded animal trying to disappear.
Obi-Wan stilled his hand.
A soft exhale. He watched, noting the tremble in Anakin’s fingers as he clutched the edge of the blanket like a shield.
Still burning up.
He reached into his satchel and pulled out a compact digital thermometer—something he always carried, out of habit more than necessity. Gently, he tucked it beneath the boy’s arm, careful not to startle him again.
The numbers climbed too fast.
When it beeped, the reading made Obi-Wan’s stomach tighten.
104.5°F.
He stood, scanned the penthouse. It was luxurious, yes—floor-to-ceiling windows, sleek minimalist furniture, smart-home everything—but strangely devoid of anything remotely personal. No family photos. No clutter. No medicine cabinet.
No fever meds. Not even a bottle of Tylenol in the guest bathroom.
Anakin had everything and nothing.
Obi-Wan pulled out his phone and made a call.
It took twenty minutes for the doctor to arrive—a sharp-eyed woman in her fifties with practiced movements and no time for pleasantries. She’d treated Anakin’s stepmother before, and seemed neither surprised nor particularly invested in the boy’s condition. But she was efficient.
IV fluids. Antipyretic injection. A fast-acting antibiotic. Something for the inflammation in his throat.
Anakin barely stirred as she worked, eyelids fluttering once when the needle slid in, but never fully waking.
After she finished taping the drip line, she packed away her supplies in silence. Then, just before stepping out, she turned to Obi-Wan and asked:
“Does she know?”
Obi-Wan looked up from the couch, where he’d settled into a silent vigil. His tone was even.
“No. She doesn’t. And she doesn’t need to.”
The doctor studied him a moment, then gave a small, knowing nod. “Consider it a favor to you, then.”
He inclined his head. “Thank you.”
She left without another word.
The door clicked shut, and the penthouse was quiet again. Just the low hum of the HVAC, the slow drip of IV fluid, and the shallow breaths of the boy on the couch.
Obi-Wan sat back down.
He glanced at Anakin’s face—flushed, damp with fever sweat. The sharp edges of his usual defiance were dulled, but still there, curled into the lines of his mouth even in sleep.
It was hard to look at him and not feel something twist in his chest.
He wasn’t sure what it was. Pity, maybe. Or something older. Something more dangerous.
Obi-Wan turned away and focused on adjusting the blanket again.
His movements were precise. Professional.
But his fingers lingered just a second too long on Anakin’s wrist, checking his pulse.
_