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The forest was a mess of blasterfire, blue and red blasts coming from all angles in pursuit of the two Jedi running. Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan ducked and weaved as they dared, using the Force and the cover of tree trunks and brush to dodge the blasts aimed for them and them alone.
The mission was officially a mess. Negotiations gone sour, words twisted wrong, people turned angry. It didn’t matter much. In the end, the denizens of the planet that the Jedi had been sent to talk to had put down their datapads and picked up their weapons and, well--here they were.
“Duck!” Qui-Gon yelled at Obi-Wan, already able to tell that Obi-Wan didn’t sense a shot headed straight for his head and shoulders.
The boy complied, instinct and training overriding any questions or doubts. He ducked--and then stumbled over a root that ran under his feet at the exact same moment. His feet tripped over themselves--and then righted themselves a moment later. Qui-Gon would’ve breathed a sigh of relief, but he was too busy aligning himself with Obi-Wan’s trajectory to make sure it wouldn’t happen again.
They ran. They didn’t bother deflecting bolts. Their ship was only a little bit forward, nestled among the trees that ran along the edge of lake. As soon as they got there, they’d be home free and could take off, calling the mission a wash.
A new wave of blasterfire struck, a load of bolts increasing until the very air itself smelled like smoke and Qui-Gon saw more flashes of light than he saw trees and leaves, and he swore, ducking behind a tree to see what the new angles were, where he had to run. Obi-Wan followed suit, behind a trunk only ten feet away, covering his head as blasterfire pelted the canopy above him, littering him with debris.
Reinforcements. Great. And where the hell had these come from?
He wasn’t sure. But apparently they were coming in from a different place than their initial attackers, blasterfire angled differently. Too close, he realized too late, if one of them got lucky, strayed just far enough--
One of them realized it at the same time he did, and he saw the shot before Obi-Wan did, and then--
Obi-Wan screamed as a stray bolt of plasma hit him directly in the stomach, doubling over and almost collapsing.
“Obi-Wan!” Qui-Gon shouted, and then tripled his focus on the blasterfire, timing the shots, feeling the triggers being pulled with the help of the Force before they were even fired and--there.
He ran forward, next to Obi-Wan, and pulled him forward, practically leaping through the trees until they were far enough ahead that he didn’t have to worry about another lucky shot. He pulled him behind another tree, large enough to hide one adult man, perhaps, but not one his size and an older teenage boy. He angled them sideways behind it, noticing the way Obi-Wan’s weight leaned against him, and then and only then did he look.
Obi-Wan was gasping, barely audible over the sounds of shooting and yelling, eyes shut tight. One of his hands was clenched tight in Qui-Gon’s robe, the other clutching his own stomach. His stomach, with singed cloth and red seeping out.
Qui-Gon swore again, loudly.
He used one arm to hold his Padawan close, close enough to limit a chance at the blasterfire finding another target in him, and slotted his other arm under Obi-Wan’s, helping support him, and then all of Obi-Wan’s weight was on him. Could he stand like this? Could he run? Qui-Gon didn’t know. He doubted it.
“Obi-Wan,” he said to get the Padawan’s attention. When he didn’t seem to hear him, he repeated it louder, firmer. “Obi-Wan!”
Obi-Wan snatched his eyes open, and they were dazed with pain. “M-Master,” he said in response.
Qui-Gon did the math in his head, and a quicker, larger target was better than a slow, average sized one. “I’m going to pick you up,” he said, being as clear in his words as he could over the noise while trying to speak quickly. “I’m going to need you to keep your hands on your stomach and stop the bleeding. Okay?”
Obi-Wan took just a second too long to answer, long enough for anxiety to itch under Qui-Gon’s skin and almost have him repeat it, but he nodded. Quick, jerky. He may be distant, but he was aware. Okay. They could work with that.
They couldn’t stay there forever. Their attackers were far away, but that wouldn’t last forever, and though blasterfire had a habit of burning more than destroying, he didn’t want to test the durability of the trunk or branches behind or above them. Qui-Gon waited, waited for the pattern of shots to make sense, for the Force to give him the perfect timing, and when it did he moved. He slid his arms into position, the one barely moving to be around Obi-Wan’s shoulders, the other slipping under his knees and lifting. He tried to be as gentle as possible, as smooth as his training would allow in dire circumstances--which was still pretty fluid--but for an injury like Obi-Wan’s, he knew it hurt regardless. A stifled cry left his Padawan’s lips, immediately silenced as he bit them to keep himself quiet. Qui-Gon took a second to gauge how well Obi-Wan followed his orders, and was relieved to find that he kept his hands in place, wrapped around his own abdomen.
And then he focused only on dodging blasterfire, on following the whims of the Force entirely, shutting everything from his mind. He could’ve done this before but he had to keep an eye on Obi-Wan as well, and vice versa. With them as one unit, he could block everything else out but the scream and whizz and flashes of the blasterfire, the rustle of the trees around them as he rushed, the subtle shine of their ship beneath of the canopy of green that hid it and the accompany blue shine of the lake beyond. Close. They were close.
The hardest part came upon them--the focus and quick work of unlocking the ship and getting in before anything could strike them.
He ducked under the canopy of the low branches, doing his best to make sure nothing hit Obi-Wan, and ducked around the side of the small ship while simultaneously signalling its entrance to open with a strategic jab of the Force.
The blasterfire continued, but slowed, confused by their disappearance. He only had a moment before it redoubled in an attempt to find them, forcibly. His heart beat fast but steady, and he focused on the beats for a moment, feeling them slow, feeling time slow around him. He noticed, distantly, Obi-Wan’s heartbeat so close to his, scared and rabbit-quick.
He inhaled, and exhaled, and then--a gap in the shots. He moved, throwing himself around the corner of the ship and into it, hitting the closing button with a similar jab and not looking back as he rushed in. A few shots made their way in behind them but none struck them, or anything of note. A few singe marks from shots before stained the walls, but he paid them no mind.
Qui-Gon carried Obi-Wan to the bench-slash-couch in the “living” area of the small ship and laid him down. He noted again that Obi-Wan still had his hands over his stomach with enough pressure, and then ran to the controls.
The ship started quickly with no hitches, thank the Force. The blasterfire increased, getting closer, and small branches thumped against the top of the ship and covered the windows. The dull echoes of struck metal clung to his ears, still somehow noted past the roaring of the engines. Within thirty seconds, the ship was rising in the air, and may nature have mercy on the trees they broke with them when Qui-Gon pushed them forward and up, ascending over and across the lake. Barely a full minute passed between entrance to flight, but it felt like an hour.
Stray fire still tried to aim for them as soon as their attackers realized what was happening, still tried to hit their wings or engines or something, but it was useless and they were already gone.
The ship exited the atmosphere, Qui-Gon hit a button for auto-control, and he rushed back from the cockpit.
Obi-Wan was where he left him, laying on the padded seat with his knees bent up and his hands where Qui-Gon had told him to keep them. He wasn’t moving, but Qui-Gon felt his Force presence in the ship as clearly as he felt his own.
He sent a pointed nudge of acknowledgement and comfort his way, then went to grab a medkit off the wall, and returned.
“Here,” he said, kneeling next to his Padawan and placing the kit beside them. He wished he had more than that, but he didn’t. “You can let go now.”
Obi-Wan blinked rapidly at him, trying to focus, and Qui-Gon had to grab his hands and push them away. Obi-Wan clenched them in his own tunic in response, leaving bright bloody marks on the cream fabric.
Qui-Gon ignored that. He got to work on Obi-Wan’s injury, pushing the cloth of his clothes aside, easier than cutting it when it was so low on his stomach. Obi-Wan helpfully grabbed onto the bunched cloth of his over- and under-tunic when he did, holding it up, and some part of Qui-Gon was thankful for the sign that Obi-Wan was still semi-aware.
It was a nasty wound. But shallow. And he’d noticed already that it didn’t go all the way through, which was a blessing or a curse depending only on the weapon--and for blasters, it was a blessing. They had a tendency to put gaping holes in people that made them bleed out quickly, and though there was a gouge for sure, it was nowhere near what it could’ve been. It must have glanced Obi-Wan, hitting him from the side, rather than dead on.
Unfortunately, that also meant he had a burning, bleeding slash across his abdomen in the most painful layer of his skin, which was its own kind of dangerous injury, and its own kind of agony.
Obi-Wan, who had seemed to gain enough control to try to watch Qui-Gon as he treated the wound, slammed his head back with a strangled noise as soon as Qui-Gon actually put his hands on it. Qui-Gon wished he could do something more, but he had to focus. Less damaging didn’t mean safe. Shock, bleeding out, and hidden internal damage invisible to his eye were still worries, and the quicker it was cleaned and bandaged and Obi-Wan was stable for a trip to the closest medic they could fine, the better.
He cleaned the wound, trying to ignore the whimpers of pain from Obi-Wan, trying to keep his hands steady. After that, bacta ointment to numb the pain, and jumpstart the healing process--or at least keep it from deteriorating or getting infected. Then, the bandaging--he put the dressing in place and carefully fixed it until it was secure.
Once it was finally in place, treated, not a danger for now, he let out an explosive sigh and dropped his head to the edge of the seat by Obi-Wan’s side.
Force. How did they always get in these situations?
For a long minute, he just breathed in and out, letting the adrenaline and fear leak out of him bit by bit. He looked up when he felt the fabric by his head trembling.
Obi-Wan was still laying, bandaged wound on display, knees drawn up and arm covering his face. Shaking.
A muffled, wet sound came from behind the cloth of his sleeve, and Qui-Gon realized.
He got up, in no state to comfort Obi-Wan with bloody hands, and washed them quickly, then brought something back for Obi-Wan’s. He knelt again and carefully wiped blood off of his Padawan’s fingers on the hand still by his side, off the skin at the edges of the bandage that hadn’t been a priority, off the side of the seat where some had dripped down. Then he grabbed gently at the arm covering his face and pulled it down.
“It’s okay,” he murmured as he did so. “We’re safe now.”
Obi-Wan let him, and Qui-Gon saw the reflexive closing of his mouth to stop his crying, saw the wetness on his face that belied it anyway. Qui-Gon busied himself with pushing the sleeve up and cleaning Obi-Wan’s own blood from his Padawan’s hand. When he was done, he tossed the cleaning wipe aside and then wrapped his own fingers around Obi-Wan’s. Obi-Wan’s responded immediately, clutching at his grip with the strength of someone who had just been in extreme pain and still hadn’t shaken it off.
“You’re alright,” he stressed softly.
A full sob burst out of Obi-Wan’s mouth and he raised his other hand to his face again. Qui-Gon rose, detangling their fingers and absently kicking aside the now discarded medkit on his way to sitting by Obi-Wan’s head. In a second, he had removed his robe and folded it up, put it on his lap, and then gently lifted Obi-Wan up while scooting closer.
Obi-Wan was reaching for him again before he was finished, and he took his Padawan’s hand again as soon as he was done, the other drifting to rest on his shoulder soothingly. The comfort seemed to unlock the emotions stuck in Obi-Wan’s throat, because he started crying harder now. He turned his face into Qui-Gon and tangled his other hand fiercely in the fabric of Qui-Gon’s tunic.
“Shh,” Qui-Gon shushed quietly, “It’s alright.” He rubbed his hand up and down Obi-Wan’s arm, both for comfort and to ground him. That was important, he knew.
This didn’t always happen if a mission went wrong, but it did sometimes, and Qui-Gon knew how to deal with it. Obi-Wan was a capable Padawan, had been trained his entire life in battle and meditation and the skills all Jedi developed. But he was only seventeen. When he was older, he would learn how to ground himself in the midst of battle, in the middle of gaining injuries, how to keep his cool and hold onto the Force and his own inner well of calm before the fear and panic hit him, but for now, these things hit him hard. They were alarming. They were frightening. They could, if not acknowledged, be traumatizing. He needed external guidance, needed someone to take care of him and help him through it.
For now, that was why Qui-Gon was here. To calm him down, if something went unexpectedly sideways and startled him into a reaction like this. To teach him how to react, for when he was a Knight himself. To hold him.
“Focus on your breathing,” Qui-Gon murmured. “Listen to my voice.”
Obi-Wan squeezed his hands where they were gripped on Qui-Gon, and Qui-Gon knew he was listening. The boy cried, chest and shoulders shaking with the force of it, until he couldn’t anymore. Qui-Gon murmured comforting nonsense to him during it, gentle instructions, and waited, patiently.
Eventually he managed to stop, noticeably attempting to control his inhalations and exhalations and prevent them from becoming choking sobs, and succeeding. He breathed deeply, in and out, and Qui-Gon matched the rhythm of it, letting Obi-Wan feel it, giving him something external to help keep it consistent.
“There you go,” he said kindly. “Just like that.” He moved his hand from Obi-Wan’s shoulder up to the back of his head, running his fingers through the soft, short hair.
After another minute or two of that, of just breathing and feeling and easing his own depths of fear and anxiety, Obi-Wan collected himself enough to speak. “Sorry,” he whispered, voice raspy and thick from weeping.
“Don’t be,” he assured. “It’s normal.”
Obi-Wan turned his head back straight, no longer buried in his Master’s tunic. His eyes were red and his lashes were clumped together from tears but his expression was more subdued now. “I know. Thank you.”
In response, Qui-Gon leaned over and brushed his lips over Obi-Wan’s forehead. The boy leaned up during it, closing his eyes, and Qui-Gon finally felt some of the last tension in Obi-Wan's body relax. Whatever pain was left, both physical and mental, was draining away.
He pulled back and Obi-Wan turned his head back into Qui-Gon, inhaling deeply and then exhaling, seeming to be in a better--if fragile--mindset. At last, he stopped trembling.
Qui-Gon didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything else to say. They were okay. Obi-Wan was okay. Qui-Gon was going to sit here with him for a while yet, until he was sure his Padawan was steady enough to lay by himself without the warmth and solace of sympathetic company.
Obi-Wan closed his eyes, and Qui-Gon felt in their bond how his Force signature seemed to settle down, how he quieted and relaxed, and drifted into something not quite mediation, but not quite sleep.
Eventually he’d have to contact the council and inform them of their mission’s less-than-ideal end. Eventually.
For now, Qui-Gon followed the example of his Padawan, letting his eyes drift closed and running his thumb evenly over Obi-Wan’s hand where it was still in his grasp, both for Obi-Wan’s sake and his own.