A/N I know I should be working on my other fic: Same Cut, Different Color but well, once I get an idea I have write it down or it'll be gone in a flash. As soon as you can say kriff. This thing doesn't tie into Same Cut, Different Color but I promise I will work on my other fic but just let me wrote this thing down. Promise. You guys are all awesome anyways. Btw, this thing is mainly on grief and how different people deal with it, so don't like don't read.

I may continue if you ask me to. Longest this will be unless I get an overwhelmingly large amount of reviews will be five chapters.

p.s. if you guys ever see life, tell her/it/he that he/she/it that he/she/it can be so terribly mean to the people who live life

…

Ashoka knew that her master was hurting. She was too, but sometimes she just didn't understand him the way she wished she could. He hadn't talked since Obi-Wan died from that fatal bullet charge. Frankly he'd barricaded himself inside himself, walking around like this hollow shell of a person. He hadn't responded when she'd stolen his drink in the morning, hoping to perk him up. He'd just stopped drinking and left his breakfast tray there, shifted his fork, and left the mess.

"Master!" She'd called after his retreating shadow, momentarily stunned.

She realizes her master's breakfast is entirely untouched. He'd only been poking at it with his fork, not eating it.

The shadow melts into the rest of the shadows and she runs after him, calling out his name, desperately trying to get him back. She needs him as much as he needs Master Kenobi, she needs him to know that. Then she'd dashed out of the mess, tripping over her own feet, trying to get to him, he turns another corner and she's still picking herself up from the floor scrabbling against the walls.

"Master!" she'd clawed at thin air, her vision blurring as water droplets drip down her cheeks, she sticks out her tongue to find that it tastes salty and…bitter. Like the aftertaste of rotten fruit. The taste while bitter has a sickly sweetness to it, it's almost like the bitterness wasn't enough.

…

Her master wasn't in their quarters, his bed was left unmade, mechanical bits and bobs lying everywhere. She slips on a small patch of machine grease. It hurts.

"Mast-" she half yells and cuts herself off. She realizes she's going to make another snide remark on how he's never been neat and never will be neat. But then, she knows her master is hurting, she doesn't want to hurt him even more. As she looks around the dim room, she realizes that he isn't there, probably hasn't been ever since Master Kenobi died. The smell of the grease she slipped on is fairly stale. She asks herself why she just doesn't finish her sentence. He isn't here.

But she doesn't finish her sentence. It somehow makes her feel a little more in tune with what's happening, not like when Master Kenobi just died and she was left drifting in the wind, susceptible to any slight change in the flow of the wind.

It makes her feel slightly better

…

Her master doesn't show up at lunch, there's only this untouched cup of water and lunch in his usual seat. The fork once again shifted.

Ashoka just eats her lunch slowly while she stares at the untouched food and water. She even wonders if he was actually even drinking this morning, or just tilting the cup to his lips. She pushes the cup of water away from the tray, like it'll do anything. Nothing happens, but Ashoka feels that it looks better this way. It's like he actually bothered to at least touch his food. Not that he did.

…

At four, the council decides that the two of them should go after Rako Hardeen, catch him and throw him into jail. After all, he killed a Jedi. Didn't he? She expects her master to be ecstatic and race her to the hangar. She expects a wave of hatred to come through their bond. But nothing. He doesn't do anything. Mace Windu looks slightly shocked, Plo Koon looks slightly terrified, Shaak Ti looks like she knows there's a storm upon them, Yoda just looks quizzical.

Silence.

She pokes at the bond gently, trying to get a reaction from him. She does. He slams down his mental shields. He just nods his head silently like he didn't do anything and strides out of the council chamber, lightsaber clinking on his belt.

She follows, there doesn't seem to be anything else she can do. She realizes his face looks a little pale, but it's to be expected, she supposes. So she just follows him to the hangar where he takes a two-person speeder with a side carriage. Then she realizes he's clipped on a pair cuffs. She follows suit. Who knows? They might need more.

…

It's late when they get back to the Temple and throw Rako Hardeen into prison. Rako Hardeen seems drunk, she thinks. He ambles along with the gait of a person with dementia, his speech is slurred and he even laid a hand on her shoulder to stable himself. Her master slaps his hand away and kicks him. She winces.

They put Rako Hardeen on a cold metal table as they wait for him to sober a little after he vomited on the steps of the prison.

"He's drunk." Her master scowls and slaps Rak Hardeen on the face, eyes dull. She places a hand on his arm—she may not like the man but she definitely doesn't want him dead. The council would only punish her master.

Anakin later takes the prisoner by the crook of his arm and shoves him into the hands of the waiting clones. As they are about to leave her master turns towards the clones once again.

"If you need any help disciplining this piece of scum, don't hesitate to find me." His voice is cold and emotionless, Just like ice. Somehow she knows she's the only thing keeping him from killing the man.

This terrifies her a lot, more than she would like it to. But she sucks in a breath and tows her master away gently, a hand on his arm. He doesn't respond to the sudden touch. Her heart feels a little cold.

…

They go back to their quarters. His bed is still unmade but the small patch of grease is now gone. She wiped it after she slipped on it.

"Master, I'm going to sleep now." Ashoka tilts her head, the silka beads of her padawan braid clinking softly against her lekku. Her master nods, barely perceptibly. Ashoka just watches with wide eyes as he pads out from the doorframe of her bedroom to the main living quarters. She slips into her bedroom silently and eases her sore feet out of her leather boots.

'Clang'

The sound of something falling sounds outside startles her. She tiptoes into the main living quarters to her master's side. Somehow he remains still, as still as stone. She's about to ask him what happened when she sees a drop of crimson glint on the floor, beside a small utility knife. She gasps.

"Master!" She grabs his hand, which is for some reason she can't fathom still in his glove, a gash in the middle of his hand, seeping red glares back at her. "You're hurt." She whispers this part. She's not even sure if he wants her to get him a bacta patch. She doesn't expect him to respond. "I…I can get you a bacta patch…is that ok?"

"No." The small syllable breaks the silence. Like a small stone shattering fragile ice. She watches the blood drip onto the floor, shining garishly in the pale moonlight.

"I'm-" Her master is cut off when he collapses on the floor.

"ANAKIN!" She only uses his first name when she's desperate. "WAKE UP!" She shakes his shoulder. HE doesn't respond. She now wonders why his face is so pale again, she doesn't know why, but she does.

…

Her master is laid out on his bed, his wound bandaged with a bacta patch and medical tape. The small orb of a droid hovers around him.

"Is he ok?" Ashoka asks him. She's not sure she wants the answer.

"It appears he has not eaten or drank anything for the whole day, ma'am. His body scan shows signs of exertion. He will be alright after a good night's sleep and IV treatment." The droid cocks its head.

Ashoka is grateful to the droid. "Thank you, could you bring me an IV?"

"Of course." The droid bobs its head and leaves.

Somehow Ashoka finds it within herself to not be mad at her master. After all, he's just coping.

A/N Yup that's it. SO since this my first time doing this sort of stuff try to give constructive comments and review. No flames, I'm only a seventh grader ok? Be nice. Bye!

R&R!