Granta and Obi-Wan trapped in a Sith layer together, maybe obi-wan gets cursed to not be able to leave the side of the first person he sees?
“If you're not very careful right now,” Obi-Wan says pleasantly, “I'm going to push you into the lava.”
Granta scoffs, though he maybe gives the long drop slightly more of a berth than he had planned to a moment ago. “You seem to forget that if I fall, you’ll be jumping after me less than ten seconds later, Kenobi, given that you're magically tied to me right now.”
“Yes, but they’ll be the most peaceful ten seconds of my life.” Obi-Wan’s grip on his arm is iron, a warning, and Granta wants to push, to prod, to shake through the defenses of the man who replaced his father as Qui-Gon’s perfect padawan, but—
“One would think you’d have more of a tolerance, given what you raised,” he says sweetly.
Obi-Wan’s mouth thins, but there's a light of desperation in his eyes as he scans the interior of the temple’s next room. “It has to be a lie,” he says, just a little ragged. “Anakin wouldn’t have murdered innocents.”
Granta snorts. “He confessed to it himself,” he says. There's a point where blindness stops being entertaining and simply becomes annoying, and Obi-Wan passed that point almost twelve hours ago. “Just before he tried to kill his padawan, his mission partner, and his clone squad, just because of a few visions.”
“You wouldn’t be calling them that if you’d been able to see them,” Obi-Wan says quietly. “The Sith ghost showed us the future.”
“My only future is revenge against the Order, and I don’t need to see that beforehand, since I’ll be bringing it into being shortly—”
A hand on his shoulder, a shove. Granta stumbles, jerks, but Obi-Wan’s iron grip doesn’t waver as he’s pushed out, off-balance and scrambling, held right over the open pit that glows with heat and a dull, angry light. If Obi-Wan’s hold slips even a little, he won't have a chance to save himself given how tightly his hands are bound, and the knowledge sends his heartbeat racing in his ears.
“Going to kill me like you killed my father, Obi-Wan?” he asks softly, despite the pace of his heart. Stone crumbles under his boots, and he jerks despite himself, staring into Obi-Wan’s face. Looking for that coldness that was in Xanatos’s eyes, the last time Granta saw him, because that’s how Force-users look at him—
But it’s not how Obi-Wan is looking at him. There’s anger in his face, grief, a regret that makes Granta seethe, but it’s there and unwavering as he meets Granta's eyes.
“Xanatos committed suicide,” Obi-Wan says, perfectly even, though the look on his face is anything but cold distance. “He didn’t want to face punishment for what he’d done, and he threw himself into what was left of the Sacred Pools. I wish I’d been able to stop him, if only for your sake, Granta.”
The words shake through Granta, twist the anger up into vicious, desperate knots. “That’s a lie,” he snaps, and some mad impulse has him throwing all of his weight back—
Obi-Wan wrenches him forward, twists them, shoves him up against the wall instead, and Granta's breath is knocked out of him on an awful sound. Obi-Wan is like a wall in front of him, though, and he twists but can't get free, gives up with a curse and just leans there.
He’s shaking, maybe. There's a tremor in him, something deep and desperate and cold, and Obi-Wan is the first warm thing in a lifetime, even if he’s a blind fool.
“Bastard,” he manages, but Obi-Wan breathes out, cups a hand over the nape of his neck, and Granta has to close his eyes, because everything is too much.
“It’s not a lie,” Obi-Wan says. “Though given that I've apparently been raising a Sith Lord, I understand if my certainty means less right now than if might otherwise.”
Granta snorts. Anakin is most definitely a problem they're going to have to deal with if they want to get out of this temple. Preferably before he kills Ferus and Ahsoka, since Obi-Wan is going to be all but useless at facing him. Ferus seems like the practical sort, though. Granta can probably get him to stab Anakin at least once.
“I have contacts on Tatooine,” he says, soft, almost a taunt for all it doesn’t have much will behind it. “If you’d like to know whether it’s true that he wiped out a whole tribe.”
Obi-Wan stares at him for a long moment, then closes his eyes. “I don’t want to,” he says. “But—I need to.”
Granta hates the Jedi. He hates their righteousness, their self-important nobility, their haughty dignity. But looking at Obi-Wan right now—
“Let go of me,” he says, instead of what’s knotted up and pulsing in his chest. “Or I'm going to assume you want to pin me to something solid and fuck me, and then I’ll be most disappointed by your prudishness—”
“Would that make you be quiet for five minutes?” Obi-Wan asks, exasperated. “Because if it will, I’d be happy to help.”
Granta opens his mouth, closes it, and then laughs. Not prudishness, then.
“I should have known,” he says. “Given how readily you drop your robes at the first opportunity.”
Obi-Wan snorts, but there's a curve to his mouth that isn't the pinched tightness of a few moments ago, and he prods Granta along with a slightly lighter touch. “I refuse to have sex in a Sith temple, regardless of the circumstances.”
“Then you shouldn’t have flirted with the Sith witch who cursed you, maybe—”
“I will shove you up against another wall,” Obi-Wan says, aggrieved, and Granta snorts and lets himself be pushed onward down the path.
