Author's Note: Just a random vignette spawned by my over-active imagination. Takes place during the Clone Wars.

Disclaimer: They belong to the Flanneled One. I own nothing, and I don't make money off anything, let alone these.

You Were My Brother

Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi was no stranger to a little discomfort. It was no Jedi's fate to have an easy life or a gentle one, and that was something he had readily accepted long ago, and still did. But it remained, he thought wearily, that as he got older, the necessary hardships wore on him a little harder, catching and dragging at his spirit and his body, sucking dry his energy and endurance much more quickly than they ever had in younger days, when he could have gone for days without sleeping and simply shrug off the resulting weariness. He glanced enviously at his young Padawan, whose vibrant energy seemed to permeate even the dull gray air around them. Anakin was hardly even shivering in the chill rain, and the mud that sucked greedily at his boots didn't seem to bring down his spirits in the least.

Obi-Wan sighed and lifted his hands to pull his hood further down over his eyes as a big, wet raindrop struck him squarely in the face. Anakin seemed full of energy, but his master most certainly was not. Obi-Wan was exhausted and shivering, worn down to the bone by their current grueling campaign. Neither he nor Anakin had been fully rested for days, which wouldn't even have been a concern for a Jedi Anakin's age, but Obi-Wan could feel it in every centimeter of his body. His eyes felt gritty and ached with a hot, tight sort of pain, his head throbbed with dull agony, and his neck and shoulders felt knotted and tense. Every footstep was an effort with the clinging mud grasping at his boots so he had to wrench his feet free, battling for every step he took.

Obi-Wan felt tired and unaccountably weary, and very much as if he was getting old, and he hated it.

Now was not the time for this. The middle of a war was not the appropriate arena for Obi-Wan Kenobi to suddenly feel the press of years, not the time for the master of the Chosen One to be slowing down when Anakin himself was only speeding up. Obi-Wan could not accept this. Would not accept this.

And yet he couldn't deny that he felt tired and aching and just generally appalling. Obi-Wan groaned and raised a hand to rub at the persistent pain in his forehead, trying futilely to ease it.

"Master?" Anakin's voice seemed to come from far away and cut through a strange hazy mist inside his head. "Are you all right?"

Obi-Wan nodded and waved his hand in dismissal, not quite daring to look back at his apprentice for fear that Anakin would exhibit the perceptiveness that sometimes unsettled even his master and see through Obi-Wan's charade of energetic determination. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I'm fine. No need to worry yourself, my young Padawan. Now come, we must press on."

Anakin's sigh was heavy and protracted. "Yes, Master," he said.

Obi-Wan supposed he had reiterated that point a bit often lately, but it was as much to remind himself how vital it was that they reach the rendezvous point that day than Anakin. In fact, he had no doubt that with the youthful fire and exuberance Anakin's seemingly limitless energy gave him the Padawan could have reached it in half the time it would take his slowing Master to slog there through the freezing mud squelching beneath his boots.

Force, he was only thirty-six, Obi-Wan thought with frustration. In the prime of his life. He shouldn't be feeling like some doddering old hermit.

But Anakin made him feel that way, made him feel conservative and old-fashioned and old and slow, and with his mind fuzzy with the ache in his head and glazed with exhaustion, Obi-Wan couldn't help but wonder forlornly if he was slowing Anakin down, holding him back from more than just a rendezvous with a few dozen clone troopers, but from the great destiny Qui-Gon had foreseen for him so long ago as well.

He rubbed at his forehead again and shook his head, trying to banish his foolish, self-indulgent thoughts. Snap out of it, Kenobi, he ordered himself. Feeling sorry for yourself isn't going to get anyone anywhere.

Now just keep going . . . .

Anakin Skywalker stared at the drooping line of his master's shoulders and gritted his teeth in frustration as Obi-Wan huddled miserably into the damp fabric of his cloak. He knew better than anyone else how stubborn his master could be, and Obi-Wan was determined to reach the rendezvous point that day, even if it killed him.

Which Anakin was beginning to think it might.

It was blindingly obvious, to him, at least, that Obi-Wan was unwell, and that this wet, muddy hellhole of a planet was only making it worse. His master was tired and distracted and disoriented, worn and weary and shivering almost incessantly now. Occasionally he would groan and rub his head or neck, and he huddle into his cloak as if he were freezing in some all-pervading chill, despite the fact that the ragged garment was sodden and muddy and probably about as warm as the vacuum of space. When Anakin reached out with the Force or tried to touch him through their Master-Padawan bond, he came away feeling as if some sickening film had coated his Master's presence, slick and cloying, cutting him off. Anakin tried again, prodding gently but insistently at Obi-Wan's tight personal shields. Come on, Master, he thought fiercely. Let me see what's wrong. Let me help you, you stubborn, stupid—

"What is it, Padawan?" Obi-Wan asked without turning around. His tired, slump-shouldered figure looked thin and more fragile than normal, soaked with the rain that plastered his clothing close to his smaller form, and forlorn, plodding doggedly on ahead of Anakin. His voice sounded faint and tired, and he slurred his accented words together slightly and didn't seem to notice.

"Are you sure you're all right, Master?" Anakin pressed, letting concern and persuasiveness seep into his voice and reinforcing his words with the siren call of the Force.

Obi-Wan sighed. "Force-persuasion techniques will not work on me, Anakin, and you certainly know better than to attempt them. And yes, I'm perfectly all right."

Just as he completed the sentence, though, he stumbled slightly, his boots sliding in the slick mud, and almost fell. Anakin was there in an instant to grab his shoulder and steady him.

He gasped at the heat Obi-Wan's body radiated even through layers of dripping tunics and his cloak. It was as if his master were on fire, eaten alive in some terrible inferno. Obi-Wan stopped for a moment and stood, wavering, in Anakin's grasp. "Ah," he said fuzzily. "This is not good." Anakin agreed fervently. "We must keep going . . . ." Obi-Wan added blearily.

This Anakin absolutely did not agree with. "You're burning up, Master," he said urgently. "The rendezvous point is still kilometers away. You'll never make it."

"I . . . am the master here, Anakin," Obi-Wan said in a blurred voice. "And . . . I will . . . decide . . . what I can and cannot do."

Anakin narrowed his eyes. "That's bantha poodoo," he said bluntly. "You'll be an easy target for the Separatists like this, Master. And I don't want some battle droid to get in a lucky shot just because your technique got a little sloppy." He swallowed hard. Force, please, don't make me lose him, too. How will I survive that, so soon after Mom—he shut down that line of thought as ruthlessly as if it had been an enemy he had driven his lightsaber through.

Obi-Wan groaned. "I'll be fine," he said. His accent had slurred into something hazy and unrecognizable, and Anakin could barely understand him.

"And that's kriff," Anakin said, not wanting to examine the hot, bright anger that coiled inside him at the thought of Obi-Wan driving himself into a dangerous situation like that out of his stupid, selfless stubbornness. "What if there's someone waiting for us like Durge or Ventress? Sith it, Master, I'll carry you there if I have to!"

Obi-Wan gave him an irritated glance. "I beg your pardon?" His master's features were pale and drawn, and his eyes were bruised with deep violet shadows in the seemingly bottomless hollows beneath them. He looked like one of the Ghostling children Anakin had broken into Gardulla the Hutt's palace to save long ago beneath the wet dark tangle of his beard, fragile and wounded, and his lips were tinged with blue. "I most certainly cannot allow that."

"You're feverish, Master," Anakin said more gently, willing him to see reason. "You're shivering and sick so that even I can see it, and I don't want to see you collapse at my feet because you felt like being a kriffing idiot. Standing around here—" he gestured violently at the dripping mud-slick clearing they stood in—"and arguing about it isn't going to get us anywhere!"

"Ah," Obi-Wan said again. "You have a point there." He wobbled on his feet, then glanced up into Anakin's face, a little pleadingly, Anakin thought, shocked beyond words to see his master's bleary sea-green eyes peering up at him with an expression like that. "If you do—end up—carrying me—" Obi-Wan stumbled slightly over the words—"don't tell anyone else? Please?"

Anakin laughed and slid a supporting arm under Obi-Wan's shoulders, relieved beyond measure when his master relaxed against it and didn't pull away. "You worry too much, Master," he said as he lifted Obi-Wan's own arm to settle it over his neck. "I would never."

Obi-Wan smiled. "Have to," he said. "You never do."

"That's not true!" Anakin protested in mock indignation as he started forward again, this time bearing much of his weakened Master's weight. "I worry about you. Someone has to. You're so stubborn you just might get yourself killed one of these days, and then where would I be?"

Obi-Wan patted his shoulder vaguely. "Won't get killed," he assured Anakin blearily, and then, "and you'd be alright. Chosen One. S'pose Master Yoda would finish your training. "He sighed. "Pr'bly do a better job of it, too," he added in a weary, bleak-sounding mumble.

Anakin froze. He would never in a million lifetimes have expected Master Obi-Wan to say something like that. Granted, he was feverish most likely delirious as well, but—Anakin tightened his arm around Obi-Wan's shoulders to steady him, a feeble cover for the only sort of hug he felt comfortable giving his self-contained, often cool, aloof, and standoffish master. "Never, Master," he said, and meant it. "You're the only one in the entire Order who could make me a Jedi. A hopeless droid-tinkering, reckless, disobedient troublemaker like me."

He felt more than saw Obi-Wan smile, and through the Force Anakin felt sudden, grateful warmth enfolding him despite the chill of the rain and Obi-Wan's weakness. "Thank you, Anakin," Obi-Wan murmured, and Anakin was left to wonder at the heartfelt sincerity in his tone as he trudged onward through the rain and mud, more than half-carrying his feverish master.

"No," Anakin told the official Republic medical droid hotly. "I'll take care of him myself!"

"But sir," it responded in its tinny voice, holding a syringe just inches away from the blue-tinged vein in Obi-Wan's slack, exposed arm. "You are not qualified to—"

"I'm a Jedi!" Anakin roared, his patience splintering along with his temper. "That's qualified enough, damn it! He's my master, and I'll take care of him or I'll take you apart, you understand, you worthless hunk of junk?"

"Perfectly, sir," the droid said, its metallic voice stiff and offended. "But General Kenobi's condition is serious. Once he worsens, you may wish you had retained my services." It turned and whirred its way out of the pathetic excuse for a prefab command center where they had set up a temporary cot for Obi-Wan, every mechanical movement looking miffed to Anakin's frustrated gaze.

Obi-Wan's eyes flickered open, and he gave a tired smile. "Y' certainly have a way w'th droids, my young Padawan," he mumbled.

Anakin leaned closer, resting a hand on Obi-Wan's chest to keep him flat in the bed. "I know you don't like medical droids," he told him earnestly. "I'll take care of you, Master, I promise. Everything'll—" he swallowed hard—"everything'll be all right."

Obi-Wan shook his head. "'m not worried about that," he said in a soft voice. "Just be . . . careful. You'll have to lead the first attacks . . . I'm in no condition." He sighed and let his eyes slipped closed. "Stupid," he muttered. "To get sick at a time . . . . Never sick. So s-stupid." His teeth were chattering slightly despite the warmth of the heated cot and his fever.

Anakin reached out tentatively to brush his hand against Obi-Wan's sweaty hair, pushing it back out of his face. "I'll give you the shots," he said. "You'll be better soon, Master, and then you can show the clone troopers the difference between a Jedi Master and a Padawan, okay?"

Obi-Wan smiled. "When you're the Padawan . . ." he whispered, "sometimes not much difference." He lifted his eyelids slightly as Anakin stared at him in shocked pleasure, a foreign balm coating an ache inside of him he hadn't even known was there. "Sometimes," he continued, "even more of a difference than usual. My . . .very young apprentice." His eyes gleamed before he closed them, and Anakin realized that now he was teasing him.

"Yeah, yeah, Master," he said, holding the hypo the droid had left to the vulnerable place on the underside of Obi-Wan's elbow. "We both know you couldn't do without me. You ready—you're not allergic to this, are you?"

"Grenocol?" Obi-Wan murmured. "No. Thank the Force."

"That makes a nice change." Anakin injected the medicine and Obi-Wan stiffened, then relaxed again. He took the hypo away and snatched a blanket off a nearby stack as Obi-Wan shivered, tucking it in around his master's body. "I have to go out and check on the front lines," he said. "You'll be all right?"

Obi-Wan nodded.

"You'll call me through the Force if you need me?" Anakin pressed.

Obi-Wan nodded again. "I'm not a child," he said grumpily. "Go, Padawan."

"All right, all right, I'm going."

And then Anakin was gone.

Obi-Wan slumped back against the pillow beneath his head and followed Anakin through the Force.

The sound of blaster fire shook the command center, and ARCTrooper #1138 looked worriedly at the pale Jedi Master who was still a bit unsteady on his feet as he leaned on the doorway. "Are you sure you should be up, General Kenobi?" he asked in concern. "Commander Skywalker gave strict orders—"

"I am perfectly well aware what Commander Skywalker's strict orders were," the Jedi answered shortly. "Now give me an update on the battle's status."

The clone trooper saluted. "The battle goes well, sir," he replied, pleased to be able to give a positive report. "Commander Skywalker has been leading us brilliantly. We should overwhelm the Separatist's position in the next hour or so."

The tired-looking Jedi gave a relieved smile that made him look about ten years younger, in the clone trooper's humble opinion, anyway. "I know he could do it," he whispered so softly that if the trooper hadn't been wearing a helmet with enhanced auditory sensors he doubted he'd have heard it at all. "Carry on," the Jedi said more loudly, and then turned around and walked slowly back to his bed.

The clone trooper thought back to the fierce protectiveness in Commander Skywalker's eyes when he'd ordered them to take care of the older Jedi, and thought maybe he was starting to understand his unusual commanding officers a bit.

1138 turned back to the command center, still able to feel the General Kenobi's penetrating gaze, weary and blurred or not, on his back.

They were certainly something else, these Jedi, and yet they were just like him and the rest of his squad. Brothers.