“No,” Padmé says, breathless but full of iron. “Hands on the floor.”

Boba Fett likes to be in control. Din Djarin feels more out of control with every passing day. Giving control over to Boba would make both of them happy. Din just doesn't understand why that has to be so complicated. (Or, rebuilding an entire culture is hard. Boba helps, more or less.)

“’M supposed to be on duty,” Fox manages, and that argument probably would have worked better an hour ago, when he was being frog-marched out of his office as Thorn waved a solemn and mocking goodbye. It definitely doesn’t carry a lot of weight when he’s pinned between Thire and the tiles, real water running down his back and endlessly hot.

“I can feel how much you want to come,” Obi-Wan murmured soothingly. “Would you like that? To come right now so that you can sit here properly as long as I’d like?” Or, Obi-Wan and Anakin relax, and Obi-Wan helps Anakin be good for him.

Cool, smooth leather touched his jaw—gloves. Because of course Obi-Wan had thought of that as well. “Quin,” Obi-Wan said, voice quiet, from somewhere on his left. “Are you ready?” “I thought you’d never get on with it,” Quinlan complained, but in truth he was already feeling more at peace. These moments together with Obi-Wan felt more akin to meditation than most might realize, or at least he’d always thought so.

Two months after the Guard officially moves to Coruscant, the lawyer shows up. _ In which Obi-Wan Kenobi never returns to the Jedi order after the war on Melidaa/Dann and instead finds another way to follow the Force's will. Namely, by fighting sentient-rights abuses all over the galaxy and emancipating the Grand Army of the Republic, one clone trooper at a time.