A/N: requested by marvelgirl11111111 - i'm sorry this took me so long, i've been slowly working through the requests <33

Warnings: dad!obi wan, swearing, the jedi council are kinda bitchy, mention of panic attacks, sorry most of this fic doesn't even have obi wan in it, no proof reading whatsoever,

Word count: 1662

You run your hand through your hand through your short hair, staring at yourself in the mirror. This is a part of you that no one sees - the part that refuses to please others, the part that is only for you, the part that is only a number - 72. That's what is emblazoned on the back of your obsidian and navy motocross suit. That's the only thing you answer to nights on these. That's the only thing you can hear when the crowd roars, sitting forward eagerly in their seats to catch sight of number 72, weaving her way expertly through the off road courses on her jet black Harley Davidson, not pausing to look back.

They know your face, but not your name.

They've seen you remove your helmet, eyes glowing with a kind of joy that occurs rarely in the Jedi Temple, and you're unrecognisable. Not one of the people in the crowd would be able to identify you with your wig on, because what would the Council say if one of their padawans engaged in such a dangerous, often corrupt sport? Worse, what would the Council say about what something as small as your haircut could imply about the Jedi?

They infuriate you, actually. Master Kenobi, your master, and Master Skywalker are the only exceptions. Sometimes, you glimpse the burning fury in the latter's eyes, and you wait with bated breath to see what he'll say, what he'll do, whether it will have any impact on the Council, yet it never seems to do so. They're stuck in the old ways, obsessing over minute details and failing to see the bigger picture. Or that's what you tell Master Kenobi in your weakest moments, when you can't do anything but let the words out, and he'll hold you close to his chest, just listening as you blurt out words that in any other situation would be considered treasonous.

To be honest, you can't remember the last time someone who didn't know you as 72 saw you without your wigs. You're sure Master Kenobi would be able to recognise you, but there's no way he'd know about your secret, just as there's no way he knows where you're headed tonight - a motocross tournament, with thousands of spectators from the lower layers of Coruscant, eagerly awaiting number 72's appearance on the course. You managed to worm your way out of training this afternoon so you could prepare and arrive on time, which is a miracle in itself. There's nothing that makes your heart race more than the roar of the crowds as they catch sight of your face - easily recognisable due to the cloth tied over the lower half of your face. In the Jedi Temple, that cloth is removed to reveal shining beskar, a wonderfully crafted prosthetic for the half of your face that was burned off by a Sith's lightsaber before Master Kenobi saved you.

Sighing, you glance to your left. A golden hawk perches on your window sill, and you smile and nod in greeting. You've learnt how to shape and mould the Force around you to allow you to communicate with animals, and although their brains work differently from your own, they've become the brothers and sisters you lacked in the Jedi Temple. You can confide in them, and trust that they won't rat you out to Master Windu or Master Yoda.

The hawk blinks, cocking it's head at you. Going flying again?

Flying is the word you've substituted for motocross. It's too hard to explain to a bird how you can't simply just launch yourself out of a window and not risk death at the bottom of your fall, and it's even harder to explain that as a Human, you're forced to rely on machines to reach speeds that a hawk can easily achieve, so you don't. You're sure that the elation that hits you during motocross is extremely similar to the feeling of warm air beneath your wings, ruffling your feathers.

You nod. 'Yeah. Will you come?'
She ruffles her tail feathers, snapping her beak. Maybe. Depends on the success of my hunt at dusk.
'Well,' you smile. 'It would be nice to see you there.'

She flaps her wings, blinking at you one more time before she launches herself off the window sill, flapping lazily as she rides the air currents downwards. The setting sun glints off her feathers, and you take a moment to appreciate the way it paints the sky a dusky orange, more of a work of art than any of the statues in the Temple. Eventually, you tear your eyes from the view and grab your helmet, tucking it under your arm. It's time.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

There's something different today. You can feel it in the way the wind rushes past your body, crouched low on your bike, you can feel it in the way your bike's engine roars, you can feel it in the way your fingers are sweaty on the handles. Sure, you get plenty of panic attacks in the Jedi Temple, and yes, you're nervous of a wipe out on the course, but there's not often that deep sense inside you as if someone's right behind you, their breath grazing the back of your neck. And, of course, someone's watching you. A whole crowd watches you, their gazes fixated on you, but something tells you that there's someone in that crowd, someone new, someone significant.

The finish line looms ahead, and your breath catches in your throat. A spray of dirt kicks up in your wake as you zoom forward, slaloming along the path, and any thought of the new onlooker leaving your mind. If you win this race, you win the tournament. Triumphant, a fierce grin stretches across your face, and your heartbeat picks up, adrenaline soaring through your veins.

You cross the finish line in a flash.

The crowd erupts, leaping to their feet.

You hop off your bike, raising your arms in the air.

Seizing the sides of your helmet, you yank it off, smiling and waving, until -

Until you see him. Master Kenobi. He stands out like a bantha among a crowd of Jawas, and your jaw drops, but you snap it shut and avert your eyes. You can't let anyone know this. You can't let him see you recognised him, maybe he won't realise it's you, his padawan, maybe he'll think your just some random, lucky biker who just won the tournament. Maybe he won't question the half of your face covered in a cloth mask, even if it's in the exact place where your prosthetic is. Maybe he's not even here, and you just imagined him.

Then what was that fucking prickling on the back of your neck the whole tournament?

You dare a glance back. He's still looking at you, but this time there's a fatherly smile on his face, just visible under the shadow of the hood he's wearing, even though he's seen this side of you, the side that is just the number 72, the side that has short, boyish hair and the side that's free.

It's then that you realise why you're so afraid. You don't want Master Kenobi to inform the Council about this, because although he wishes well for you, he'll do it if he thinks you're in the slightest danger. The Council won't think twice before taking your bike and helmet away. They won't think twice about burying number 72, only sparing the padawan half of you, leaving you to mourn your liberty.

The fear builds up in your chest, sinking its claws into your heart and threatening to bubble up, but you push it down. You don't cry in front of anyone. You don't cry in front of fans, either. You don't cry.

Don't cry.

Twisting your face into a smile, you let the cheers of the crowds swallow you whole, washing your mind clean, the adrenaline from the race buzzing in your veins like alcohol. You focus on that, on the other bikers walking up to congratulate you, not your master somewhere in the mob, watching you quietly. Laughing, shouting, pumping your fist in the air, you let the rush drown him out, until he completely slips your mind.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You tremble as you step into your quarters back in the Jedi Temple. You can tell he's here; you'd know even if you couldn't feel his Force signature. He's not hiding himself on purpose, and for that you're glad: he's giving you a chance to back out if you want, but you don't. That's not who you are.

Taking a deep breath, you press the button on the door, and sure enough, he waits for you, the moonlight casting shadows across his face. Relief rushes through you; he doesn't look angry, in fact, he's smiling at you. Fidgeting, you avoid his eyes, sheepishly shuffling your feet as you wait for him to speak, to reprimand or scold you, but he doesn't.

'I'm glad what you enjoy is so safe.'
You blink. 'Safe?'
He chuckles. 'Compared to Anakin, yes, definitely. You should have seen the things he got up to as a padawan. Your biking would pale in comparison.'
'But...' You pause, still processing his words. 'You're not angry?'
He laughs. 'Of course not, my padawan. You're young and full of energy, I don't expect anything else.'
'You won't tell the Council, right?'
Huffing, he shakes his head. 'Now, what would be the fun in that?'
You grin. 'Thanks, Master Kenobi.'

He holds out his arms, and you gladly accept his embrace, your heart swelling. Not just yours, but number 72's as well - she's been accepted, even though she wears all dark colours and covers up her scars, even though she's ruthless on the course and mysterious yet championed by the crowds.

'You know,' Master Kenobi says. 'I think I like the short hair, too.'