Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Luke is transferred from the provisional detention center to the medium-security prison late in the morning. 

He manages to remain calm all through the lengthy intake process. His hand shakes as he fills out the papers shoved at him, and his skin turns brilliant red during the strip search, invasive medical screening, and X-ray, but he is calm. He answers the questions asked. He does what he is told. His heart aches when the intake officer hands him his new ID card — he's required to carry it with him every moment of every day for the rest of his incarceration, his entire identity reduced to a barcode — but he accepts it silently, determined to retain as much dignity as possible in this horrible place. 

It helps that he’s still angry: his trial was a farce. Twenty years for something that shouldn’t even be a crime? The whole thing reeks of corruption. 

He falters slightly when the guards start to escort him to his cell, but he forces the panic down, making himself straighten his back and march forward, reminding himself it’s dangerous to show weakness here.

He feels the weight of appraising eyes on him as he walks, bookended by the two guards. The cell block is huge and gratingly loud. Are people talking more as he passes them? He imagines the horrible things they might be saying, the things they might be thinking, the things they might do… he locks his gaze on the guard in front of him and forbids the tears to form. Don't think about it. The guards will keep you safe. 

His new cell is the last one on the row, so he has to walk past dozens of other prisoners before the guards finally stop. He swallows around the lump in his throat. Stay calm. Don’t let on that you're scared. Maybe your new cellmate will be nice.

One of the guards raps his baton against the bars. “Fresh meat for you, Skywalker!”

Or maybe not.

Luke is no coward. He prides himself on his bravery, in fact, even when it verges on recklessness. But in that moment, his situation becomes real, and the last vestiges of his courage abandon him. The guards have to physically shove him into his cell; he can't make himself go through that door, not with those cruel words echoing in his head. What the hell did he mean, fresh meat…? His tone was too sadistic to be joking.

Luke huddles against the bars of his cell after they leave, staring warily at the silent form lazing on the top bunk. His cellmate is facing away, so Luke can’t see his expression, but what he can see is worrying enough: he’s huge, maybe twice Luke's size, his broad back and powerful shoulders straining the fabric of his white t-shirt as he rhythmically moves his arm. An ominous, repetitive shhhh-ink noise accompanies each motion, like he's sharpening a knife. A shank — that's what they call it in jail, right? Luke is alone in a locked room with the kind of man who makes shanks.

Is Skywalker violent? Is he going to attack Luke? Am I going to die on my very first day? 

Luke flinches back when Skywalker rolls over and jumps down from the bunk, landing on the concrete floor with a resounding thud. He's even bigger than Luke had thought, well over six feet and heavily muscled, a hulking behemoth seeming to fill the entire room. Shaking uncontrollably, Luke watches as Skywalker's sullen expression stills, goes completely blank, and then shifts into predatory delight.

"You don't belong here.” Skywalker's voice is low and unsettlingly soft. He has a wickedly sharp piece of metal — is it a bedspring? — held loosely in one hand.

Luke frantically scrambles to think of a reply. What response is least likely to get him stabbed? "I'm sorry," he squeaks. 

“Well, aren’t you adorable?” He saunters over to Luke, twirling the bedspring around his pointer finger. Up close, Luke can see fine lines creasing his forehead and surrounding his mouth, and guesses he is in his thirties or forties, old enough to have spent years in prison. A scar splits the flesh around one eye, running from temple to cheekbone, giving a sinister look to his mocking grin. “What’s your name?”

Someone outside the cell shouts. Luke jumps, and Skywalker stiffens, eyes hardening, any pretense of nonchalance gone in an instant. He stalks forward, pushing Luke aside and clenching a white-knuckled hand around one of the bars of their cell door. “Quiet!” 

The shouting stops immediately, as does all other noise. Luke is hardly an expert on prison dynamics, but even he knows what it means when there's one guy everyone else obeys. A chill runs down his spine as his unease morphs into true terror.

When Skywalker turns back to him, he’s all smiles, although the shank is still in one clenched fist and his jaw is tight. He softens his voice again. “So, you gonna tell me your name?”

Luke gulps. He tries to answer the question, but what actually comes out of his mouth is, “Please don’t stab me.”

Skywalker throws his head back and laughs. Luke doesn’t understand the joke, and the not-knowing makes his stomach cramp.

“I can’t imagine what you’re in here for, unless they've made being adorable a crime.” He studies Luke. “Relax. I'm not going to hurt you.”

Goosebumps break out all over Luke's skin. "I — thank you?"

Skywalker huffs another laugh. “So polite.” He steps closer, raising one arm, but then pauses and drops it, frowning. He follows Luke's gaze to the sharpened bedspring in his other hand; with a sigh, he crouches down to slide it into his sock. “Last chance. Tell me your name.”

“Luke,” Luke says immediately, not wanting him to retrieve his weapon again. “Luke Lars.”

Skywalker closes his eyes like he's savoring the sound. "A lovely name for a lovely boy." He opens them again, staring unblinkingly at Luke. "I'm Anakin." 

"Nice — nice to meet you," Luke stammers, heart racing. 

Skywal– Anakin's eyes are very blue, dark like the twilight sky, and impossible to read. He smirks. Luke shivers. “Likewise, Luke. How fortunate I am, to get such a sweet new roommate.” 

Before Luke can begin to parse that remark, Anakin tilts his head, silently sizing him up, and orders, “Put your stuff on the shelf and get on the bed. Don’t stay by the bars.” 

When Luke hesitates, Anakin points an imperious finger at the bed — “now" — so, legs weak, Luke forces himself to comply. Anakin lets him pass untouched, but makes a sharp sound of rebuke when Luke reluctantly starts to crawl onto the bare lower bunk, startling Luke so badly that he hits the back of his head on the bed frame.

“No. You take the top one.”

“S– sorry!” Shaking, Luke dares to glance behind himself, rubbing his head. “I– I thought the top one was yours.”

Anakin scowls. Luke’s stomach drops. “Both were mine. Now the top is yours.”

“Sor–”

“Stop apologizing.”

Luke closes his mouth instantly. Warily, he turns his back again and ascends the steel ladder, climbing awkwardly onto the mattress, dreading what comes next. Sure enough, Anakin follows him. He leans against the frame, tall enough to rest his folded arms comfortably on the edge of the bed, invading the meager space and crowding Luke against the wall. The eerie grin has returned; his gaze is almost manic.

“What are you in for? You’re way too young to be here.”

Luke desperately wants to look away, but knows he can’t. “I’m nineteen,” he blurts idiotically, a chill running through him when Anakin's smile falls away. “Um. Sorry. I mean — white collar crime?”

“Bullshit.”

He flushes. Bitterness sizzles in his gut again, not overpowering the fear, but not extinguished by it, either. “It’s true. I had a Youtube channel where I taught people to repair their own devices because, like, the cost for official repairs was — um.” Noticing Anakin's darkening expression, he cuts himself off. “S–” Right, no apologizing. 

“Bullshit,” Anakin repeats. “They sent a teenager here for being a nerd?”

Luke squishes himself into the far corner of his bunk, shrugging helplessly. “I swear I’m not lying.” He tries his best to resist, but his eyes dampen and Anakin's livid expression starts to blur.

“Don’t cry.” A strong hand grabs him by the arm. Luke shudders, blood running cold. “Kid — Luke — calm down. I’ve already said I’m not going to hurt you, all right?” Luke nods miserably, helpless to do anything else. Helpless in general. “Right, so there’s nothing to cry about. So stop. Now.”

Anakin releases him and steps away. It takes a minute but, somehow, Luke manages to get himself under control again, afraid of what the other man will do if he doesn't. 

He hears Anakin running the tap in the back corner of the cell, and then something wet hits him in the chest. A washcloth. 

“Clean yourself up,” Anakin says. “And take a nap, it passes the time. Dinner is in a few hours.” 

Luke nods again, knowing already that he won’t be able to sleep, but not bold enough to disobey. He cleans his face as best as he can and lies back on the mattress, closing his eyes when Anakin glares at him, listening to the man pace around the cell like a caged animal.

“Nineteen,"Anakin mutters. “Fuck.”     

Fresh meat, Luke thinks, and wills himself not to cry again.

A voice over the intercom announces that dinner has begun. The orientation manual the intake officer gave him says that inmates are permitted to walk to dinner on their own during free hours, so Luke is allowed to leave his cell. The guards aren’t going to chaperone him; he has to go alone.

He hovers in the doorway, uncertain.

He doesn't want to stay here, but he also doesn't want to leave. Nothing actually happened after Luke 'fell asleep'. Anakin paced for a while longer, talking to himself, then stood next to Luke's bed for several nerve-wracking minutes, and then crawled into the lower bunk and presumably slept. Other than grabbing Luke's arm, he hasn't actually touched him — it's possible he won't, not as long as Luke is careful not to annoy him. (Or maybe he's waiting until lights-out to try anything.)

Luke doesn't even know where the cafeteria is. Did the guards show him? He can't remember, and his book doesn't have a map. Are there signs posted somewhere? Should he just… try to find it? What will happen if he looks lost? What if he really gets lost? Maybe he should wait for Anakin to go, and then follow him? (But what if that pisses him off?) Every decision feels momentous, like any mistake could be a matter of literal life and death — and Luke has no idea how to handle himself. He's going to mess up. 

“What do you think you're doing?” 

Luke nearly pisses himself. He hadn't realized Anakin was awake. “Nothing! I was going to get dinner, but... I'm not hungry…” 

The bed frame creaks as Anakin sits up, pushing the sheets away. (He must have made the bed at some point — how did Luke not notice that?) He tips his head to either side, cracking his neck ominously. “You need to eat, Luke. Every meal counts here, and you're too thin already.” 

He stands and prowls across the floor, and Luke is once again confronted by just how big he is. ‘Prison buff’ — that's a thing, right? 

Anakin slings a restraining arm around his upper back. Luke's heartbeat flutters. His bicep is as broad as Luke’s thigh and his hand covers Luke’s entire shoulder cap. Luke's head doesn't quite come up to his chin; he feels childishly small, tucked against that massive body. “But you can't go alone. It isn't safe.” Anakin squeezes Luke warningly. “You don't leave this cell unless I'm with you, understand? Jumpy little thing like you, you won't last a day.”

Anakin turns him back toward the doorway. “You'll be fine with me, though, as long as you don't wander off.” His fingers flex. “Can you do that?” 

“Yes —” Luke licks his lower lip. He doesn't dare argue, not with his capricious cellmate wrapped around him like a python. He likes when I'm polite. “Yes, sir.” 

Anakin raises a hand and Luke's brain whites out with terror. He flinches and tries to break away — Anakin’s grip tightens, inescapable — but Anakin merely grabs his jaw and tilts it upward. “Chin up,” he says evenly, like he can’t feel Luke’s thundering pulse. “Eyes in front of you, not on your feet. You look like a scared rabbit.”

He pushes Luke through the doorway. The cell door shuts automatically, but doesn't lock itself; Anakin uses a key to do that. (Did Luke get a key? He must have. He can’t remember.) 

He marches Luke inexorably down the hall, talking as he walks. Humiliatingly, Luke struggles to match the taller man's pace, even though Anakin doesn't appear to be going intentionally quickly.

“This place has rules. Fortunately for you, I will explain them; heed me, and you'll be fine. Don't, and…” He trails off menacingly, leaving Luke to imagine all kinds of horrible endings to the statement. “If anyone approaches you or offers you something, decline; they'll think you owe them.” 

Does Luke owe Anakin? Owe him what? 

“Stay close — don’t leave my side. In fact, don't even talk to anyone but me.” 

That order has the ring of a threat, as unmistakable as the arm wrapped around him like a noose. Anakin's speech is probably laden with threats, and Luke is too stupid and overwhelmed to understand them all. He starts shaking again. He can’t help it. 

“Stop. What did I tell you?” 

“S– sorry.” Too late, Luke remembers the no-apologizing rule. “I mean, uh —”

He's interrupted by a crash in the cell to their left. Reflexively, he looks over. 

Anakin seizes his jaw and turns his head away. “No.” He tightens his fingers until Luke gasps. “Do not do that. And don’t look away when I'm talking to you.” He huffs and lets go. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

Loud footsteps approach, but Luke keeps his eyes locked on Anakin, who straightens his back and intones darkly, “Do you have a problem?” The footsteps stop, then retreat. “A wise choice.” He shifts his glare to Luke. “Can we make it to the cafeteria without further incidents, or do we need to skip dinner after all?”

Luke shakes his head frantically. His jaw throbs like it's going to bruise and there is a length of steel in Anakin's sturdy boot. Anakin has been irritable so far, but not truly angry, and Luke really doesn't want that to change. 

“No — no more incidents, I promise.”

The cafeteria turns out to be fairly close: straight down the hall, turn, another hall, and down two flights of stairs. Luke could have gotten there on his own, if he'd been able to slip out without his cellmate’s notice. It's bigger than he expected, a large, all-white room filled with rectangular tables. Each table has two built-in benches bolted securely to the scuffed tile floor. Cameras loom in the corners like carrion birds, and there's an intercom embedded in the center of the ceiling. A long queue wraps around the perimeter of the room, stretching from the doorway to the serving station at the far end. It would look almost like a particularly austere school cafeteria, if it weren't for the navy-uniformed guards lingering at the doorways and the hundreds of surly men in matching white t-shirts and gray sweatpants. 

Anakin guides Luke to the end of the line and finally releases him. When they get their trays, he snaps at Luke to stay close, but allows him to walk unmolested, leading him to an isolated table tucked in the back — most of the other inmates cluster together in groups, but this corner is as vacant as no man's land. He gestures impatiently at the seat closest to the wall; Luke sits, and Anakin promptly settles next to him, boxing him in. 

“If for some reason I’m not with you, you still eat here,” Anakin instructs sternly. “Don’t go wandering around, and do not accept if someone asks you to join them.” 

More rules. Luke nods, studying his dinner so he won't have to make eye contact. The food is depressing, but not quite as bad as he had feared. Grayish vegetables, a small scoop of dry mac ‘n’ cheese, two hot dogs, some sort of bottled juice that smells like cough syrup, and a prepackaged cookie. Anakin got them both cups of water, too. Preoccupied as he is, Luke doesn't expect to have much of an appetite, but suddenly he finds that he is ravenous. When was the last time he ate anything? Breakfast, probably.

He reaches eagerly for the cookie, but Anakin seizes his wrist, halting the movement. “Give that to me.” 

Luke shrinks into himself, throat tightening. His wrist looks pathetically fragile in that enormous hand. Anakin could probably snap it without even trying. Though submitting goes against everything he believes about himself, he can't fight back.

Anakin scowls. “I'm not robbing you.” He takes the cookie from Luke's tray, replacing it with the vegetables and juice from his own. “We're trading.” 

Luke nods. It's a stupid thing to be upset about, really, relative to everything else. He can handle this. He eats the macaroni and hot dogs before Anakin can take those away, too — they're bland and cold, but not completely awful — and picks at the green beans, which are. 

“Finish those, and drink the juice, and I'll give you your sweet back.” 

Luke jolts. “What?” 

Anakin stares resolutely at the table, shoulders tense, voice tight with irritation. “Stop asking questions, not everything needs a reason. Eat your food.” 

The juice is disgusting — it tastes like aspartame and metal and farts, with nothing even resembling fruit flavor — but he chokes it down, afraid to annoy his mercurial cellmate further. Shockingly, Anakin does give him one of the cookies afterward. It's stale, but Luke eats it anyway. (Does he owe Anakin now? Refusing hadn't seemed like an option…) 

“All done?” Anakin doesn't wait for a response, scanning the room with cold blue eyes, frowning. His fingertips drum on the tabletop. “Let's go; I don't like to linger where it's crowded.” He drops his utensils on Luke's tray, then stacks his own beneath it and shoves both into Luke's hands. A muscle twitches in his cheek. “Carry these.” 

Luke follows quietly, winding between crowded tables and trying not to let Anakin outpace him too much. Gaze locked on his cellmate's broad back, Luke sees his shoulders tense a split second before a hand locks around Luke's arm. He stumbles, heart racing.

“Hey, new kid,” says the man who grabbed him, digging his fingers into Luke's flesh. “Why don't you come sit with us?” 

Luke freezes, gaze flicking back to his eerily still cellmate, who hasn't turned around. Stupidly, he blurts, “I already ate.” 

The man tuts. He's older, maybe in his late fifties, white-haired, with a wiry strength to his grip and a ruddy cast to his skin. “And you didn't save me anyth — fuck!” 

Anakin pivots, shockingly quick for all of his bulk. He grabs the man's wrist, twisting it savagely and yanking him from his seat, throwing an elbow into his face as he falls.

“Whad the fugg?” Blood pours from the man's nose as he scrambles to his feet.

“Do not touch him.” 

Anakin's voice is low, firm, and completely devoid of warmth, the tone so flat it's almost robotic. A chill races down Luke’s spine. His mind flashes back to the shank in Anakin's sock.

A few of the other men at the table shift, but Anakin glares warningly around himself, and they avert their gazes, busying themselves with their own meals. Every muscle in his body is coiled tight. Luke wants to flee, but he's paralyzed. Some base instinct warns him not to draw attention to himself.

“The boy is off-limits. Am I understood?”

The cafeteria doesn't actually go silent, but that's how it feels, like everyone in their vicinity is breathlessly watching the standoff, the air heavy with danger. He doesn't understand what's happening — why aren't the guards doing anything? Anakin isn't being subtle.

The man's eyes dart around himself; he blanches, then flushes an angry red. He spits. “Fugg you.” 

For the briefest moment, Luke thinks he sees triumph flash across Anakin's face, but it's instantly supplanted by feral rage.

Anakin punches the man squarely in the throat. He staggers back, choking, but Anakin pursues, wrenching his shoulders down to knee him in the chest. He kicks the man sharply in the side when he crumples to the floor — he gags, and Anakin drives a foot hard enough into his gut to make him retch. Gasping for air, the man is unable to dodge the brutal strike that follows immediately after. Anakin's boot connects with his temple, snapping his neck back, and, with a sickly gurgle, he collapses.

Just like that, the fight is over. Anakin aims one more kick at the unconscious man's ribs and backs off, black boots leaving bloody footprints on the ground. His breathing is perfectly steady, his stance relaxed. Luke meets his eyes and sees nothing but madness, a violent fury so intense it's nearly euphoric. Nausea churns in Luke's gut. He enjoyed that. 

Anakin grins viciously and steps over the battered body like it isn't even there. He claps an oppressive hand on Luke's shoulder. “The boy is mine." His voice is inhumanly deep, almost monstrous. His thumb brushes the side of Luke's throat possessively. He hasn't dropped eye contact for a second. "Am I understood?"

Chapter Text

Luke returns to the cell in a daze, secured beneath Anakin’s arm, passively letting the older man steer him. He’s freezing cold, even though Anakin’s body is searing hot. Even if he dared try to pull away, he couldn’t; there’s a disconnect between his brain and his body, and his limbs won’t quite obey him.

Luke has never seen a fight before. He's been in his fair share of schoolyard scraps, but never real violence. Never anything that drew blood. The hand clasping Luke’s shoulder has red crusted beneath the fingernails — Luke hardly notices where they're going, because he can't look away from it. Has the blood stained Luke’s shirt, too? Will he see it, when Anakin finally lifts his hand away?

Luke didn’t notice Anakin unlock their cell door, but he must have, because suddenly they are inside, and there’s a hand on Luke’s other shoulder, too. There’s no blood on that one, as far as he can tell, but he supposes it could be on the underside. He’ll find out when Anakin lets go.

Anakin doesn’t let go. He holds Luke steadily in front of himself, clearly wanting Luke's attention. Luke doesn’t want to anger him, so he lifts his chin and forces himself to make eye contact. The mania has faded from Anakin’s eyes, and now he just looks annoyed, face set in a frown. Is he still feeling violent? He appears stable, but how would Luke know? He doesn’t know much about this man, really, except that his temper triggers as easily and as destructively as a grenade, and Luke desperately hopes to never be its victim.

“Are you all right?” Anakin asks.

“I'm fine,” Luke says, gambling that Anakin continues to like manners. “Thank you.”

Perhaps that was the wrong answer, though, or perhaps he took too long to give it, because Anakin’s frown deepens. “Some of the men here forget how to behave,” he bites out. “They need to be reminded.”

Luke’s mouth goes dry. “I’ll behave,” he promises.

“That isn’t what I —” Anakin releases him abruptly, turning away. “We have a few more hours until lights-out. You can do whatever you like until then.” He scoffs. “Well, you can go to bed early. I don’t have anything to entertain you.”

Luke wants to check if there's blood on his sleeves after all, but it's more important to monitor his cellmate, waiting for the tension to shift into violence. When minutes pass and nothing happens, he toes off his shoes and tucks them against the wall, then warily approaches the bunks and climbs the ladder to his own bed. He’ll brush his teeth in the morning; his nightly ablutions hardly seem worth the risk just now. If he could, he'd face the wall and imagine he's somewhere safe, just for a little while, pretend he can’t feel the painful throbbing in his arm and his jaw — but he doesn't dare turn his back. He lies supine on the mattress and feigns that he’s studying the cracks in the ceiling, keeping the other man in his peripheral vision.

A few moments later, Anakin, scowling, seats himself at the little desk in the corner and proceeds to clean his boots, staring broodingly down at the black leather as he works. Every so often, he refocuses on Luke and opens his mouth as though to say something, but then closes it again. The silence wears away at Luke's already-frayed nerves. Images of the fight — the beating, honestly; the other man never had a chance — flash through his mind. He can’t possibly sleep, now that he knows there's a monster under his bed. He wishes he knew what Anakin wanted. He wishes he would do something; the way he sits is unsettling, like he's biding his time until his next attack.

Time passes slowly. As frightened as he is, Luke can't sustain active terror for very long; as the minutes turn to hours, he finds that, as much as anything else, he is bored. Mortal terror can only entertain him for so long. His physical needs demand attention, too — he must have been dehydrated most of the day, so it hadn't come up before, but now that he's had some fluids he urgently needs to pee.

He rolls onto his side and takes stock of the cell for the first time. There are the bunk beds, of course, stacked against one white-painted wall; across from them is the desk; and next to the desk is the little shelf where he'd put his toiletries and change of clothes. A small window is set into the back wall, and nearby is the toilet, made of smooth steel with a built-in sink where a water tank would normally go. It's clearly visible from everywhere in the cell, and probably from outside, too. No door or wall or curtain conceals it. There's nothing to give even the illusion of privacy.

He musters the courage to climb down from the bunk and walk past his menacingly silent cellmate. He stands in front of the toilet, dreading what he has to do next, but there's nothing for it: he tugs his trousers down, exposing as little as possible, and relieves himself. Though he tells himself it's no different than using a urinal in a public restroom, he’s lying. He’s a caged animal; he can't even piss in peace.

Humiliated tears prick at his eyes.

Once the crying starts, it won't stop. He manages to keep quiet at first. Hot trickles spill down his cheeks as he pulls his pants back up and flushes the toilet, his lower lip trembling when he turns on the faucet to wash his hands. The water is cold — he can’t figure out how to adjust the temperature — and something about that sets him off harder. He chokes down a sob, but the next one breaks free, too loud to be ignored, and then the seal is broken and the tears come as quickly as his ragged breaths. He can’t get enough air. The cell is too hot and his lungs aren’t cooperating. He’s going to spend the rest of his life here, isn’t he, however long that turns out to be? Locked away in this tiny prison cell with an inscrutable psycho, on display for everyone to see, unable to control even the smallest aspect of his own life. He can’t see anything — the world is blurry; the overhead lights are too bright — he can’t breathe and he needs to get out of here —

Large hands seize his shoulders. He shrieks.

“...stop… nothing to cry about!”

“No,” Luke begs, “no no no no…”

“...shit… quiet, not… loud, okay?”

He’s yanked off-balance, slammed against a firm chest.

“...going to hurt you… calm down…”

The arms are around his back now, unbreakably strong, restricting his movement. He tries to pull away, but they lock tighter, crushing the air from his lungs.

“...one can hear you… have to stop…”

Anakin hauls him onto the bed and climbs on top of him. Luke flails wildly, struggling to fight him off, but Anakin won’t let him go. He rolls them both onto their sides, trapping Luke’s arms between their bodies and capturing Luke’s legs between his own. One heavy arm folds securely around Luke’s waist while the other grabs the back of his head, forcing his face against the meat of Anakin's shoulder, muffling his cries.

This is it, isn’t it? Anakin’s going to smother him or — or — Luke has used up the last of his goodwill — he’s going to die here and everyone will see but no one will interfere — Luke tries to plead, but with his lips smashed against Anakin’s skin, he can only mumble incoherently.

“...hush, Luke… won’t hurt you. You’re fine… you need to calm down. Be quiet and breathe for me, that’s it…”

Luke groans weakly. He can’t breathe, Anakin’s made sure of that. He can’t move, either, or beg or scream — he’s utterly helpless.

The pressure lets up some, and suddenly Luke’s mouth is free. He inhales instinctively, sucking a loud gasping breath deeply into his lungs. The oxygen revitalizes him, so he does it again and then again, huge heaving inspirations that drown out the noise in his head.

“That’s it, that’s right, Luke. Keep breathing just like that.” The hand on his back rubs firm circles between his shoulder blades. “Nice deep breaths. You’re okay, sweetheart. I have you. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you. You’re safe here.”

Luke slumps, exhausted.

“Good,” Anakin praises, hand moving lower, massaging the small of Luke’s back. “Good, baby.” The leg holding Luke’s calves together relaxes enough that he can shift his feet, relieving some of the ache in his ankles. “It’s all right.”

Luke doesn’t understand what’s happening, but, honestly, what does it matter? He submits apathetically when Anakin tugs his hair to tip his head back, wordlessly commanding Luke to look at him.

His blue eyes are surprisingly sympathetic as he asks, “Feeling better?” His grip on Luke’s hair is as gentle as his voice; his thumb caresses the base of Luke’s skull.

Luke stares at him wordlessly. Their bodies are plastered together from chest to knee, but there’s no tension in Anakin’s muscles, none of that brutal energy Luke had witnessed earlier. His groin is touching Luke’s thigh, and through the thin fabric of their sweatpants Luke can clearly feel that he is flaccid — which — for a moment, Luke had feared — well — but that doesn’t seem to be the case. He doesn’t seem to have any motivation, in fact, except… Luke feels foolish even thinking it, but is Anakin trying to comfort him?

“The first day is always the hardest,” Anakin says softly. He scratches Luke’s scalp, using just a little nail, just enough to make it feel really good.

Luke is overwhelmed and has always been weak for contact there: he melts into the touch. He closes his eyes, suddenly painfully aware of what a mess he is — of what a scene he’s made, of how horrifically he’s embarrassed himself — but Anakin makes a soft sound and continues petting him, and Luke’s too drained to resist. It’s almost… nice, being held, if he can forget everything that brought him here. Sort of protective, maybe even paternal. Anakin’s body is a warm, solid shield between Luke and the rest of the cell.

His behavior makes no sense, though. He’s a completely different person from one moment to the next, impossible to understand or predict. Who’s to say whether his intentions will change again? Maybe something will set him off and he’ll stab Luke in the morning. But Luke really isn’t in a position to refuse any kindness, no matter the reason, and it’s true that Anakin hasn’t actually hurt him yet, not really. Maybe he never will, as long as Luke doesn’t provoke him. If Luke runs with the idea that Anakin is trying to take care of him, at least for now, then… but everyone else is afraid of him, and that has to mean something… and yet… Luke’s thoughts are spinning in circles. He’s trapped in that weird, empty headspace that follows strong emotion, and his brain isn’t working. Obsessing over the whats and whys is probably pointless, anyway: Anakin’s going to do what he likes regardless. If nothing else, that is abundantly clear.

“Thank you,” Luke murmurs finally, when his heart rate has slowed and he remembers himself.

“You should rest now,” Anakin tells him. “Tomorrow will be easier.”

Luke's breathing stutters when he awakes. He forces himself to remain motionless, hoping Anakin hasn’t noticed. He's still in Anakin's bunk, but they've shifted. Anakin is now flat on his back with Luke curled against his side, his head pillowed on Anakin’s chest, one hand resting on his stomach; Anakin’s arm is wrapped around his waist to hold him close. He’s pretty sure they’d been on top of the blanket earlier, but now it’s drawn up over them, so the bed is pleasantly warm.

Anakin brushes Luke’s hair back from his face, unhurried, indulgent. Soft lips press against the crown of his head in an unmistakable kiss.

He didn't imagine it, then: that is what woke him up. The gesture is so undeniably tender that it makes something inside of Luke cramp, warm prickles running from the top of his head all the way down to the tips of his toes. How many times has Anakin done it, while Luke was sleeping? Has he been awake this entire time? That thought should be alarming, but Luke can’t make himself actually feel afraid. The darkness of nighttime softens the world, lending a dreamlike quality to whatever is happening. There’s something so inherently intimate about lying together in a quiet, unlit room. It’s difficult to summon the same level of fear when he can feel the soft rise and fall of Anakin’s breathing beneath his cheek. None of the stresses of the day can reach them; even the snoring and rustling of the other prisoners seem farther away.

Anakin kisses him again, lips lingering against Luke’s hair line. Maybe Luke’s stupid, or maybe he’s just half-asleep, but it feels good.

“Luke. Wake up, sweetheart.”

“Mmggh?”

Anakin squeezes his shoulder. “Morning count is in a few minutes. I thought it would be nicer to wake up before the lights go on and everyone starts making noise.”

They’re still twined around each other in the lower bunk. Sometime during the night, Luke ended up half on top of Anakin, sprawled across his torso. Weak sunlight filters in through the window, enough to see by, but not enough to chase away the last dregs of sleep clinging to his mind and blurring the edges of his thoughts.

Anakin grins when Luke looks up at him. He appears softer in the dim morning light. Younger, friendlier, with laugh lines Luke hadn’t noticed before. Like this, he really is very handsome — pretty, even; though the word seems a little silly, Luke can’t think how else to describe his sleep-tousled curls or full lips or the deep blue of his eyes. He cuddles closer, blushing, and shifts his leg to get more comfortable. His thigh bumps against something hard.

His brain comes back online all at once and he recoils.

Anakin’s expression shutters and he tightens his arm, hauling Luke back against him. Luke goes easily, completely unable to fight. Is he imagining it, or does the cock pressed against his thigh twitch? Breathless with fear, he whispers, “Anakin?”

Anakin gazes at him for a long, silent moment, and then the darkness clears from his face. Smiling once again, he relaxes his hold on Luke, shifting his hips away and kneading Luke’s back like he can distract from what just — happened? Almost happened? Didn’t happen? Luke doesn’t know.

“Sorry,” he says smoothly. “I didn’t notice. Nothing to concern yourself about.”

Luke stares at him in frank disbelief before he realizes Anakin might find the reaction impolite; but before he can stammer out an apology, Anakin changes the subject.

“Time to get up.” He brushes Luke's bangs back just like he did the previous night. His gaze lingers on Luke's forehead and slowly slides downward, but then some complicated, indistinct emotion flashes across his features and he pulls away.

Unsure how to react, heart beating wildly, Luke holds perfectly still until after Anakin has rolled out of the bed and wandered to the back of the cell. His skin tingles everywhere Anakin touched him. He’s wide awake now, and the whole mess of emotions has returned in full force; if anything, he’s more disoriented today than he was yesterday. Nothing about the last twenty-four hours makes any sense, and he doesn’t know how to proceed.

A bundle of clothing lands on his face, startling him.

“Get changed,” Anakin instructs, standing over him. “I’ll show you where to drop the dirty uniform later.”

He’s half-undressed, shamelessly bare from the waist up, chest and abs and shoulders on full display. Luke is once again stricken by just how large he is, but ‘bulky’ isn’t quite the right way to describe it, actually. His frame is big enough to support all that muscle — and there is a lot of it; he must have seventy pounds on Luke, easy — so he looks well-proportioned, strong and sleek and deadly as a panther. He could crush Luke without even trying.

Anakin smirks when he catches Luke staring, and Luke averts his eyes immediately, desperately hoping that Anakin didn’t mistake his reaction for some kind of come-on.

“Luke,” he drawls, “you need to get changed now.” A pause. “I dislike being late for breakfast.”

“Oh. Um, I —”

Anakin’s voice firms, irritable, back to that authoritarian tone he’d used the previous afternoon. “No skipping meals, you know that. You’re going to eat, and you’re going to put on clean clothing before you do. You’re a mess.”

Luke does not want to get undressed while Anakin is looking at him like that, but disobeying him will be worse, probably. He nods and gets slowly out of bed, dread weighing his limbs down.

Anakin grins. “So shy.” He crosses his arms and turns around, making a show of giving Luke his back. “I won’t look, all right?”

His patience won't last forever; better to get this over with quickly. “Thank you,” Luke mumbles.

Doing his best not to fixate on the dark bruising ringing his forearm, Luke peels his shirt off. Anakin wasn't lying; it’s filthy, the dull white fabric stained by dried tears and drool and — yes — splotches of blood. A lump tightens his throat when he sees the reddish-brown fingerprints, but he swallows it down and sets the shirt aside so he can pull on the new one. There are clean socks and a pair of underwear rolled into it; he sneaks a glance at Anakin, who is still facing away, fingers tapping against one bicep, and hesitates, then acknowledges the command for what it is. He shucks his pants as quickly as he can, scarcely daring to breathe until the fresh underwear is on and he's fully covered again.

“Okay,” he says lamely. “I'm done.”

Anakin turns around again, mouth quirked up at one corner. He looks Luke over critically. “You should wash your face.”

Luke can only imagine what he looks like right now. He’s always been an ugly crier, and his face must be a wreck — red eyes, pale cheeks, gunk around his nose, his skin probably raw and puffy. He raises a hand to his mouth and feels a small split in the center of his lower lip, the flesh around it chapped and stinging. Anakin watches him silently, then steps away to use the sink; when he returns, he shoves a cup of water into Luke’s hands and gestures for him to drink.

"Sit," he orders.

Luke flinches when Anakin moves fully into his space, but Anakin just drops to a crouch and places a calloused palm on Luke’s cheekbone, ignoring the reaction. He has a washcloth in his other hand; the fabric is rough, but warm, and Anakin’s touch is light as he wipes the skin beneath Luke’s eyes. Luke watches him warily, frozen, and yet he closes his eyes when prompted, breathing carefully while Anakin cleans his eyelids, unbelievably gentle.

“Are you done with the water?” Luke nods and sets the empty cup aside, and Anakin moves the washcloth to his mouth, wiping the corners of his lips. “Tip your chin up for me. Good.” He finishes by blotting the area around Luke’s nose, and when Luke opens his eyes again, Anakin flashes him a soft, lopsided smile. “All better.”

They regard each other for a moment longer, Luke’s damp skin slowly drying in the cool air, his jaw aching with the sense-memory of a much harsher touch — and then the overheads switch on, flooding the cell with stark artificial light, and the spell is broken. Anakin stands and tosses the rag onto the pile of dirty clothes. The cellblock fills with noise as the rest of the inmates wake up; someone, presumably a guard, calls out numbers, voice getting louder as he walks down the hall. Ice spreads through Luke’s veins as he remembers that his cellmate isn’t the only danger he has to contend with.

He licks his lips. “What —”

“The doors unlock after headcount is finished,” Anakin says, cutting him off. “We’ll leave as soon as they do.” Luke climbs to his feet, unnerved by the way Anakin looms over him. “I trust you remember how to behave. I don’t want any drama today.” As Luke watches, he straightens his back, like he's once again shifting into another person, and Luke has somehow caught him mid-transformation.

Luke bites the inside of his cheek. “Yes.” Anakin arches an eyebrow, and his heart skips a beat. If Luke looks down, will there be a knife in his sock? “Yes, sir.”

The cell door buzzes loudly and swings open.

Chapter Text

The tables are relatively empty when they arrive at the cafeteria, but fill quickly. There’s no sign of the man Anakin assaulted the previous night, and the linoleum floors have been mopped clean, so the only evidence that anything happened is the tension in Anakin’s posture and the way no one meets Luke’s eyes when he looks nervously around. Anakin is silent as they eat. Luke half-expects another lecture about proper behavior, but Anakin just shoves a fruit cup at him and surveys the room suspiciously. Still reeling from everything that has happened, Luke lowers his head and eats quietly.

He wishes he could sit and think (wishes he could talk to Leia), but of course he isn’t given the chance. After breakfast, Anakin abandons his apparent vow of silence and declares that he is taking Luke on a walk around the prison campus. 

“I don’t want you going anywhere alone,” Anakin reminds him as he steers Luke away from the cafeteria, “but you should know where things are, just in case.” 

Luke shrugs, trying to get comfortable beneath the heavy arm wrapped around him like a harness, pushing his head awkwardly forward. When he shrugs again, Anakin tightens his hold warningly, so Luke stops fidgeting and forces himself to ignore the painful cramping in his neck.

“Most of the day is unstructured: we’re left to fill our time ourselves. Some people choose to work, but the pay is shit and the conditions are bad.” A calloused thumb strokes the side of Luke’s throat, raising goosebumps everywhere it touches. “You won’t be doing that.” 

As before, his tone forbids disagreement. Well, Luke doesn’t really want to participate in glorified slave labor, anyway. “The brochure said inmates can take classes?” he ventures instead.

The thumb on his neck stills. “This place has a brochure? You read the brochure?”

Luke flushes and looks away. “The guards gave me an orientation guide.”

“Sweet baby,” Anakin coos, audibly delighted.

Despite Anakin’s enthusiasm, there really isn’t that much to see. The campus had looked enormous from outside when Luke first arrived, but their cell block is rather small. The halls are crowded, but they have no trouble getting around; though Anakin never speaks to anyone, people seem to retreat from him like fish fleeing a shark — even a few of the guards skitter away, which has such sinister implications that Luke prays he’s only imagining things.

Anakin, unaware or uncaring of the queasiness in Luke’s stomach, points out areas of interest as they walk, gesturing with the hand not petting Luke’s throat. 

There’s a dayroom with threadbare couches and a television in a plastic cage bolted to the wall. Men sit in the plastic chairs spread around the room, playing card games and chatting, turning their faces away as Luke and Anakin pass. Next to the dayroom is a dingy classroom with an old-fashioned chalkboard and several battered desks; and then a small gym stocked with free weights (Luke’s mind instantly fills with visions of all the damage someone could do with those) and a couple of ancient cardio machines.

“It isn’t much, just the basics.” Anakin slides his hand lower to rest on Luke's bicep, making him shiver. His expression becomes almost playful as he pinches the embarrassingly soft flesh. “But it seems you’ve never seen one before, so it might impress you.”

Past the gym are the showers. Luke regards the open doorway uneasily, stomach already cramping in dread. He was always body-shy in high school, and managed to never use the public showers, but he can still feel the anxious shame that accompanied every visit to the locker room. Back then, the worst he really had to fear was being teased or accused of staring, maybe the occasional cruel remark, and that was frightening enough. But now… How is he going to manage here? He has no desire to find out if all those juvenile “don’t drop the soap” jokes are based in reality.

Anakin notices Luke’s distraction and pauses. “What’s wrong? Do you need the bathroom?” 

“Oh.” Luke shakes his head, reminding himself to focus, then nods, because he does, actually, and because this is a rare chance for some semblance of privacy. “Um, yes, sir. Thank you.” 

Anakin follows Luke inside, loitering menacingly at the sinks with his arms folded over his chest, blocking the exit. The bathroom smells awful and the floor is sticky and wet, but it has actual stalls with real doors that latch closed, which makes it infinitely better than the toilet in their cell. Luke barely even minds the filth, so grateful is he for a moment to himself. He hasn’t been alone since he boarded the prison transport bus (only a day ago!) and he savors the break, letting his shoulders slump, hiding his face in his hands, taking a few minutes to just breathe. Realistically he knows anyone could break into the stall at any time — he’s rapidly learning that boundaries are nonexistent in prison — but, for this one moment, he isn’t being watched. It’s bliss.

Anakin’s eyes lock onto him as soon as Luke exits the stall. Choosing a sink several feet away from him, Luke catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he washes his hands. Though the plastic is warped and scratched and his reflection is blurry, he can make out the gist of his features and the unhealthy pallor of his skin. His eyes are still a little red, but his jaw is surprisingly unbruised. He slants a glance at Anakin. He must not have grabbed me as hard as I thought. 

When they leave, Luke tries to fall a half-step behind, but Anakin doesn’t let him. 

The last stop on their impromptu tour is apparently the library. It’s bigger than Luke might have expected, well-lit by a mixture of fluorescents and the sunlight that streams in through the large window set into one wall. A few tables sit at the front of the room, full-height bookshelves line the perimeter, and there are several rows of half-height shelves in the center. The carpeted floor is dull and threadbare, but clean. It’s by far the nicest room in the prison, and almost completely unoccupied — a guard stands in one corner; a young, oily-skinned inmate reshelves books; and two other inmates browse the stacks, both of them smaller than Anakin. It’s much quieter than the hallway, too.

Anakin guides him between two shelves seemingly at random and squeezes his arm. “Stay here,” he instructs. “I’ll be right back.” Then he strides away, putting the greatest distance between them since they met.

Luke watches him approach the library worker, blocking the end of the aisle with his body, effectively trapping the other man between the shelves. Luke strains to hear their conversation, but Anakin turns so Luke is directly in his line of sight, and Luke immediately looks away, getting the hint. Mind your business.

His skin itches: despite himself, he’s annoyingly uncomfortable. Frowning, he reminds himself that the distance between them is a good thing. He should be grateful for the space. He should be seizing the opportunity to do… something, probably. Wasn’t he celebrating being in a disgusting toilet just ten minutes ago…? And yet now he’s covered in nervous goosebumps and seized by a constant urge to check that Anakin hasn’t moved farther away. The room is too open, is the thing; even though it’s been less than a day, he feels exposed without his ever-present keeper looming over him. Surreptitiously, he peers around himself to locate the other inmates, and finds them all on the other side of the room, ignoring him — but that can change at any second, so he can’t be too relieved. At least with Anakin next to him, Luke knows everyone else will leave him be.

He shakes his head. ‘Don’t act afraid,’ Anakin said, and it’s probably decent advice. Hoping to distract himself, Luke examines the shelf in front of him, trying to appear busy instead of nervous. He snorts. The top row is filled with horror novels — did Anakin leave him here on purpose? 

Luke permits himself another glance at his cellmate just as the library worker passes something over to him that he promptly conceals in a pocket, face eerily blank. That’s… probably not good.  

Anakin rejoins him only a few moments later, suspiciously smug, leaning casually against one shelf like he has nothing to hide. “Find anything good?” There’s definitely something in his pocket, but it’s difficult to discern the shape. Sort of rectangular, maybe. What sorts of weapons are rectangular? Or maybe it’s just a box of cigarettes, although nothing in their cell smelled like smoke.

Anakin moves a hand to cover his pocket, perhaps unconsciously or perhaps in warning, and so Luke abandons that train of thought before any threats become explicit.

He realizes Anakin’s expecting an answer to the question. “No. I’m, um, not much of a horror reader.”

Anakin hums. “Really? I’d have assumed you’d read everything you could get your hands on — you seem the type.”

“I like adventure stories,” Luke admits, refusing to acknowledge the insult. “And at home I’d read a lot of articles about computers and mechanics and stuff like that.” 

Anakin’s smirk widens. “I knew it. Such a clever little nerd you are.”

Luke blushes and shrugs again. Anakin pushes away from the shelf to invade his personal space, crowding him against the shelf behind him.

“We should go,” he says. “Lunch is in about fifteen minutes. We can come back here later if you want, maybe find you one of your adventure stories.” He tilts his head, lips curling into a wicked grin. “Or we can go back to our cell. You’re probably overwhelmed, aren’t you?”

Luke doesn’t know why Anakin bothers asking; he’ll make the choice for both of them and demand that Luke comply. Though he’s only known the other man for a day, Luke is already very certain of that. 

“Don't look so grim,” Anakin says, reaching out to stroke his cheek. “It's completely understandable if you want to hide for a while. We'll spend the rest of the afternoon by ourselves, don't worry.”

Anakin keeps his word: after lunch, he takes Luke back to their cell and locks them both inside. 

Deliberately nonchalant, he saunters past Luke and arranges himself on the floor with his legs stretched out in front of him and his back resting against the ladder of the bed. He pats the space next to him. “Come here, sweetheart. I have a surprise for you.”

Luke hesitates, but, short of lingering by the bars, there isn’t really anywhere else for him to go. Anakin’s been in good spirits for most of the day, anyway, and Luke has gradually been gaining certainty that Anakin doesn’t intend to hurt him. (Not today. Not as long as Luke obeys him.) Steeling himself, Luke walks over and stands next to him. 

“Sit,” Anakin prompts, and Luke does so, sinking down slowly and crossing his legs. What does it matter, really? The door is locked, and Luke still hasn’t found his key.

Anakin reaches into his pocket — Luke tenses reflexively — and withdraws a deck of cards. He tips his head back, exposing his Adam’s apple. “I got them in the library. What do you say we play a few hands? It’ll be more fun than loafing around here doing nothing.” 

He draws the cards out of the deck and shuffles them, blue eyes never straying from Luke’s face. He must sense Luke’s uncertainty, because he sighs, then pastes on a bright smile. “Relax, baby. It’s only a game, nothing to be nervous about. I won’t even make you wager anything.”

“I, um, don’t know a lot of games,” Luke temporizes.

“Hopefully more than just Go Fish.” He straightens the deck and holds it in one hand, tapping it absently against his thigh. “How about blackjack?” 

Luke is vaguely familiar with that one, actually, although it’s been awhile. He used to play with Aunt Beru, sometimes, in the evenings after he’d finished his homework and Leia and Uncle Owen were busy with their own things. “Mostly.”

“I’ll teach you what you need to know.”

Luke doesn’t respond to that, and Anakin interprets his lack of protest as agreement. He designates himself the dealer and gives Luke a quick summary of how the game works. They play a few test hands, which Luke predictably loses, but he gets into the swing of it easily. It’s a simple game, really, that doesn’t require too much thought. Having a task to focus on turns out to be nice, and the clear, straightforward rules are surprisingly comforting. He's grateful for the structure.

Despite his misgivings, he finds himself relaxing just a little. 

“So,” Anakin says, dealing another round with unconvincing insouciance. “Tell me about yourself.” 

Luke’s mind instantly empties of every thought he’s ever had. “What?”

“Whatever you think is interesting. Where you grew up, any siblings, favorite hobbies… Hit or stand?” When Luke declines another card, Anakin takes one for himself, and then flips his entire hand face-up. Luke has won this round by two points. “I want to know.”

Luke shifts his weight, trying to relieve a sudden ache in his back. “Oh. Um, I grew up on a farm.” He doesn’t mention Leia. The questions are probably innocent — Anakin can’t do anything with the information — but Luke feels an instinctive need to protect her. “I like computers and mechanics.” 

Anakin's mouth quirks up at one corner. "Yes, I know." He deals again. "I used to work on cars before I came here. I modified a bunch of old classics to give them a little more kick — you’d have liked them.” He pauses expectantly, then huffs. “Did you like it? The farm.”

“Bits.” His heart still aches whenever he thinks about the homestead on Tatooine. “It was…” For a moment, the grief overwhelms him, loosening his tongue. “Honestly, it was boring, and I always dreamt of leaving, but now…” He worries the edge of a card with his fingernail. “I miss it.”

“Would you go back?”

He can’t. Clearing his throat, Luke dodges the question. “Um, what about you? Where did you grow up?”

“A shithole,” Anakin says flatly, expression closing off immediately. 

Luke flinches. “Sorry.” 

Anakin rolls his shoulders sullenly and deals a new hand. “It doesn’t matter where I came from; I’m never going back.” He stares broodingly down at the floor for a moment, lips pursed and brow furrowed, before he appears to rally, raising his head again and flashing Luke a disconcertingly cheerful grin. “So. Computers and mechanics — anything else you do for fun?” When Luke doesn't respond, he adds, “Give me something to work with, baby, or I’m going to start asking horribly inane ice-breaker questions. Favorite color? Batman or Superman? If you were a fish, what kind of fish would you be?” 

The question is so ridiculous, Luke nearly laughs; then his brain catches up with his mouth, warning him that Anakin might not be joking, and he chokes it down, though he can’t quite suppress the smile curling the corners of his lips. “Um, Superman.” 

“Superman. How predictable.” Anakin grins broadly, boyishly, his expression almost entrancing in its joy. “Such a good boy. I bet you always root for the heroes in any story, too, don’t you?” 

“I do,” Luke admits, fidgeting, fixing his attention on his cards so he won’t stare. Some unnamable emotion churns in his belly. Good boy. He can’t think; he babbles without processing his own words. “But, really, I just like that Superman can fly. I used to always dream about flying when I was little...”

Unable to resist, he sneaks a glance from beneath his lashes. Anakin’s expression has softened, and Luke finds himself mirroring it — then he remembers himself, and lowers his eyes again, cursing internally. “Um. How about you?”

“Batman: I look good in black.” He pauses. “I bet you look good in anything.”

Luke’s cheeks warm and a humiliating strangled sound escapes his throat.

Anakin changes the subject. “How about friends? Is anyone waiting for you outside here — a girlfriend? A boyfriend…?”

"Uh — no, um — no anyone." He coughs, face burning hotter, desperately trying to reclaim some of the dignity Anakin seems to delight in stripping away from him. "Um, I mean, I have friends, but no, uh..." 

“No beau.”

“...No." This conversation is giving him whiplash. 

“I’d have expected someone to snatch you up by now, but I suppose there's no accounting for taste.” Anakin’s pupils dilate, like those of a cat about to pounce, and the playful lilt leaves his voice. “I win.” 

“What?”

“The hand,” Anakin says airily. He gestures to the cards laid between them. “And the game, actually. We finished the deck. Play again?” 

Luke remains mute while Anakin reshuffles the deck and deals again. Is Anakin flirting with him? He has to be. But why? Is he just toying with Luke, enjoying Luke’s discomfort for the hell of it? After everything that happened overnight, that seems distressingly unlikely, but the alternative is worse. Much worse. And if Luke doesn’t reciprocate…

Not for the first time, Luke wishes he knew what Anakin wanted from him. 

“The game's started.”

Luke startles and takes a card, glancing at it only just long enough to see that he’s lost again. 

Anakin arches a brow, but doesn’t say anything, nor does he comment when Luke loses the next hand, but on the third, he remarks, “You seem distracted.”

“No, sir,” Luke says instantly. “I’m fine. Just… a headache.”

The gleam in Anakin’s eyes suggests he sees through Luke’s obvious lie, but he frowns and leans forward, humming thoughtfully. “Do you feel ill?”

“Yeah, maybe —” Luke breaks off with a squeak, petrified beneath the hand suddenly pressed to his forehead. 

“You don’t feel feverish.” Anakin tuts and moves his hand to cup the side of Luke’s neck, his rough palm warm against Luke’s skin. He licks his lower lip. “But perhaps you should rest. Stress is terrible for your health.”

Luke nods eagerly, immediately seizing the excuse. “Yes, sure, that’s a good idea, I’ll just go lie down now —”

“Use my bunk,” Anakin says. “You shouldn’t risk the ladder when you don’t feel well.” 

He stands and holds out a hand as though to help Luke up; Luke shoots to his own feet and pretends not to notice the irritation that flickers across his features. “Actually, now that I think of it, maybe I don’t want to lie down after all —”

“I insist.” 

Anakin lingers by the bed as Luke gracelessly clambers onto the mattress and lies down, curling onto his side to face outward; his fingers twitch, and for a moment Luke half-fears that the man will try to tuck him in or something equally invasive, but instead he sinks to the floor, leaning alongside the bed frame with one hand resting atop the blanket.

“You’re still nervous,” he observes in his incongruously soft voice, all levity gone. The bottom bunk is low enough that Luke’s eyes are level with his chest. He watches Anakin breathe, the rise and fall of his chest almost unnaturally rhythmic. “You don’t need to be. No one can get in here while the door is locked, and no one would dare try anything when I’m present.”

Luke considers denying it, but the lie is too obvious. He chews his lip. “Yes, sir.”

Anakin fiddles with the blanket, crushing it in his hand and then smoothing it out. “Like I told you before, I won’t let anything happen to you. You’re safe here.” His fist clenches and relaxes, leaving permanent wrinkles in the cheap fabric. “Safe with me — you simply have to listen. I’ll protect you, sweetheart.”

But what if I don’t listen to you? Luke wonders. Am I still safe then? 

“You know that, right?”

No. “Yes, sir,” he repeats.

“I know you’re overwhelmed, and outside this room you’re right to keep your guard up, but you don’t need to do that with me. We were having fun, right? It’s okay to enjoy that; you don’t need to overthink everything.”

Luke believes that Anakin believes what he is saying, but his faith in his own words doesn’t make them true. Strange and unnerving though his attention is, Anakin is undeniably fond of Luke — but Luke understands neither his motivations nor his expectations, nor, for that matter, whether Anakin liking him is even a good thing. His behavior is gentler with Luke than it is with anyone else, but who can say whether that will last? Suppose he wants more from Luke than Luke is willing to give? Luke can’t let his guard down around Anakin, not if he values survival.

He’s been silent too long. Anakin sighs heavily, full bottom lip twitching downward. His fingers spasm again, and then he reaches across the bedspread — Luke, lost as he is in his own thoughts, doesn’t react in time; Anakin takes Luke’s hand in his own and laces their fingers together. 

Luke fights to keep his discomfort off his face. “Yes, sir,” he mumbles. “I know.”

Anakin watches him pensively, thumb rubbing circles into the vulnerable flesh of Luke’s palm. “I don’t think you do.” His jaw clenches. “But you will. I’ll prove it to you.” His gaze dips down to their joined hands; Luke follows it, and is stricken yet again by the comparison. Whereas Luke’s hands are small, slender and smooth, Anakin’s are broad, with long fingers and calluses Luke can feel against his own skin. He’s seen the violence those hands are capable of — is fully aware of how dangerous it is to be caught by them. They shouldn’t feel good. 

Anakin raises Luke’s hand to his lips. 

Luke’s nerve shatters before they can make contact. “I think it’s dinner time!” He sits bolt upright, trying to yank his hand away. “Every meal counts, so we shouldn’t miss it.”

Anakin doesn’t release him. His thumb continues to caress Luke’s skin, like he hasn’t even noticed Luke is trying to pull away. “Dinner isn’t for a few minutes yet. We still have time.”

"You hate to be late," Luke insists, trying not to panic. Anakin’s grip doesn’t feel any tighter, but it’s utterly inescapable. "So we should go early." He tugs his hand again.

"Luke. Cease this.”

Luke falls silent immediately, sensing the danger in the stern command. He lets his wrist go limp, submitting.

Anakin sighs. “You're so twitchy, baby. Do you not remember my advice? You need to learn to hide your fear.”

It’s too much — anger flares in Luke’s chest and he argues before he can stop himself. “You just told me I’m safe with you!” Blood freezing in his veins, instantly regretful, he appends the outburst with a lame, “Sir.”

Anakin is silent for a moment, features eerily blank, and then he grins. “Clever boy. I did say that... How wise of you to believe me.”

He chuckles and raises their hands to his mouth again; this time, Luke doesn’t try to escape. Anakin kisses the inside of his wrist, warm lips pressed against the thin skin there, soft enough that Luke can’t feel the sharp teeth he knows lurk just behind them. He shivers.

“If you're feeling upset again tonight,” Anakin says later, after they've gotten back from dinner and changed into their pajamas, “or you're having trouble sleeping—”  

Luke shimmies up the ladder at record speed, climbing into the top bunk before he can finish his sentence. “I'm fine, just really tired. I'm sure I'll sleep great.”

Anakin follows him, leaning against the bedframe the way he did that first evening. His mouth presses into a firm line that exaggerates the dimple in his chin. Luke waits with bated breath, but he just tugs the blankets up to cover Luke's chest, fingers brushing Luke's neck as he tucks the edges carefully around his shoulders. “Still. If you need me, I am here.” 

Luke thinks of bloodied work boots and tender kisses and an unmistakable erection against his thigh. “I know.” 

Anakin hovers a moment longer, and then leans forward to press a chaste kiss to his brow. “Good night, sweetheart.”