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For a second, Qui-Gon thinks he has misheard Mace. It would be possible – their connection is shoddy, the rain outside is very loud, and Qui-Gon is still recovering from a blast that left his hearing slightly damaged.
But Mace just repeats, “You’ve been recalled to Coruscant.”
To be recalled by the Council – it is within their rights, but the Council normally elects not to wield that right. The Council generally allows Jedi in the field a large amount of latitude to fulfill their missions as they see fit, because every Jedi knows that the mission plan rarely lasts longer than the Knight’s boots touching down. So the Council generally only recalls Jedi when their life is in danger, a mission has been terminated by the Senate, or the original mission requestors have decided they no longer want Jedi. And these are all rare circumstances, for most Jedi.
Qui-Gon is not most Jedi.
“We’re at a delicate stage of the negotiations here,” Qui-Gon argues. “For me to leave now would disrupt the entire treaty process.”
“Not necessarily,” Adi says. “You reported earlier that you had helped them through the outlining of the treaty yesterday, and all were in favor of following that outline. And you’ve noted their weariness with war; they’re ready to commit. A new face might actually help make things better, since no one will accuse them of being biased based on associations from ending the fighting the streets. Was it really necessary to cause a revolt?”
The answer is, technically, no. A few swings of the lightsaber and they’d been ready to call off the fighting. But the revolt had freed those who deserved it after years of war – and it had been an excellent motivator to drive those in charge to the table.
Not that he’d ever tell the Council that.
So he says, “Yes. I included the reasons in my report, of course.”
Adi does not roll her eyes, but she does look to Mace, a surefire sign that as soon as the call is done, she will roll her eyes.
Mace picks up the signal beautifully. “We’ve already dispatched your replacement. Master Pikim shall arrive in two to three days. You can brief her and then return to Coruscant on the next available transport.”
“I haven’t agreed to be recalled,” Qui-Gon tells him mildly, because it’s only right to remind them that he is a Jedi Master, not a child to be ordered around.
Master Yoda opens his eyes. “An agreement, you made with us,” the old Master says. “A year, it has been, since last you set came to Coruscant.”
Qui-Gon looks away. It is a mistake, he knows, to break eye contact, but he can’t help the instinctive flinch. He had made that agreement when he was half-dead in the Healing Halls, a furious Tahl and Mace on one side and almost driven-to-tears Healer and Master Yoda on the other.
Once a year, he promised them. Once a year, he would return to Coruscant, and spend time with among his fellow Jedi, and try to remember that he was one of them.
“Time it is, for you to remember,” Master Yoda continues, “that part of a greater whole, you are.”
“A year already,” Qui-Gon murmurs. “It passed so quickly.”
“Yes, it’s called getting old,” Mace says dryly. He smiles blandly at the glare Qui-Gon shoots him. “We expect you in a week’s time, Master Jinn. Don’t be late.”
The hologram winks out, leaving Qui-Gon staring at the dusty wall. How typical of the Council, to make sure they get the last word. Not to mention the audacity of sending a replacement without notifying him beforehand.
Qui-Gon would be angry, but anger left him a long time ago. Mostly now the greatest surge of emotion he can muster is a vague irritation.
So he irritably packs up his things, irritably composes a report to hand off to Master Pikim, and irritably gets into bed, hoping against hope that he can negotiate the shortest rest and recuperation period. He also hopes that it will be bland and boring and that no one will try to shove any prospective younglings in his face. They’ve mostly stopped after his last and most explosive refusal on Bandomeer, but every once in a while, Master Yoda gets it in his meddling troll mind to try again.
It’s just one week, he tells himself. How bad can it go?
The answer is: very, very, very bad.
And not for the usual reason of Healers attacking him the second he deigns to grace the Temple’s halls.
Qui-Gon wakes up, which he is mildly surprised by. He is also wearing an uncomfortably tight Force suppression collar, which he is not surprised by.
And he is bound to someone else behind his back.
“Oh good, you’re awake. Honestly wasn’t sure you would with how many drugs they gave you.”
The voice is young and upbeat and male. Qui-Gon can hear the tones of a Corellian accent, although he thinks there is a tiny trace of Coruscanti. The person is shorter than him, too; when Qui-Gon straightens, his arms pull at where they bound together, back to back.
“Can you move your fingers to the side? I think I’ve almost got the lock,” the other man says.
Qui-Gon can’t check the truth of his statement or their progress with the Force or his eyes, so he obediently lifts his hand out of the way. He can always turn his attention to the restraints later, and for now, he wants to try and put together a distinct timeline of what happened, since the last thing he remembers is being shown to a cramped berth where the impatient captain told him he would have to share, because there wasn’t much room and she wasn’t open to complaints.
There is a distinct click – and the restraints do not fall off.
The other man swears. He has a very impressive vocabulary.
“I haven’t heard that foul of a speech since I was last around the Hutts,” Qui-Gon says mildly. “Can I help now?”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got this, Master Jinn.”
Qui-Gon blinks. On one hand, he’s not exactly an unknown figure – even for a Jedi Master, he is very tall, and he’s participated in several events that led to his face being splashed all over the Holonet. On the other hand, he’s also kept out of the spotlight since he took Xanatos on, not wanting politicians to stick their nose into his mentoring, so it’s been a while since he was front ‘Net news.
“You have me at a disadvantage,” Qui-Gon says cautiously. “Mind telling me your name?”
“What, your mystical Jedi mind powers don’t allow you to divine the truth? It’s the storyline that’s all the rage now in dramas,” the other man says cheerfully.
Qui-Gon grimaces. He hasn’t seen those old dramas since he was a young Padawan himself, but he doubts they’ve improved any. “Sadly, mind-reading is not among my skillset. Also, they put a suppression collar on me. Makes it somewhat difficult to do any – how did you put it? – ‘mystical mind powers.’”
“Damn. The Force would be really helpful right now in picking this lock. Or stealing the key.”
The sentence is . . . strange. Oh, true, most people know about the Force – not every Force-sensitive is strong enough for admittance to the Temple, and some parents choose not to send their children, of course. But most regard it as some mystical mumbo jumbo. Rarely does anyone without intimate knowledge speak like that.
Qui-Gon puts that aside for the moment, and, seeing as his companion is dutifully tinkering at the restraints, he casts about their cell for anything useful. Sadly, there isn’t much. It’s a small room with no furniture, more suited to hold an animal than two people. The laser grid guarding the doors will be problematic, although there is a control panel that Qui-Gon thinks can probably be prodded or otherwise hit. And of course there is a camera, tiny and hidden, which is an unusual precaution.
Qui-Gon lowers his head, as if he is defeated. “We’re being watched,” he cautions his companion quietly.
“Yeah, I saw that,” his companion says. “I’m not an idiot, you know.”
“ . . . Have I offended you in some way?” Qui-Gon asks, genuinely curious. “I acknowledge that it’s a distinct possibility. But I would like to ask if we could set it aside until we manage to escape.”
His companion stops moving. “You really don’t remember me?”
The other man sounds . . . curiously upset about it. Not sad, as if mourning passing quickly out of someone’s frame of mind. Not surprised, as if shocked at the fact that memories can face even for Jedi. No – he sounds bitter, like Qui-Gon should know him, and know him immediately.
It doesn’t really shorten the list Qui-Gon is running through in his mind, but it does put an interesting flavor to their interaction.
“My apologies if this upsets you further, but not at the moment, no. Will you tell me your name?”
“O – ”
A series of clanks echoes down the hallway as their captors approach. The other man quickly hushes and pushes back against Qui-Gon, hiding the movement of his hands. Qui-Gon approves of the move – it’s exactly what he would have done – and he also straightens his spine, so that he towers over his companion. Better for their captors to focus their attention on him, so that his companion can be free to work towards their freedom.
The other man shrinks back as their captors approach. He must understand Qui-Gon’s idea, then, and approve enough to play along.
It’s so strange. Qui-Gon hasn’t worked with a partner in a long time, and even back then, he doesn’t recall this kind of seamless, effortless connecting in terms of plans and how best to carry them out.
“So, Jedi, Judicial! Are you enjoying our hospitality?”
Their captors, as it turns out, are pirates. Not quite what Qui-Gon expected, because usually pirates prefer to only attack Jedi when they’re cornered, but it is possible that someone somewhere has placed a large enough bounty for them to become comfortable enough to strike. And they did have the advantage of gassing Qui-Gon.
Qui-Gon hums. “I wouldn’t call gas exactly a hospitable beginning, but perhaps it’s a warm up to greater things.”
The pirate leers. “It’s more than Judicial would offer us, if you captured us,” he points out. “You’re dry, comfortable, awake. Alive. That could change . . . so quickly.”
“I imagine a dead Jedi is worth less than an alive Jedi,” Qui-Gon says calmly.
“Who told you that?” the pirate demands, sounding incensed. “I told them all not to talk – ”
“It’s fairly obvious,” Qui-Gon says. “Otherwise you could have just slit our throats when we were unconscious. But you went through the trouble of procuring a Force suppression collar. These are expensive. And illegal.”
“Illegal and expensive things are what we offer, Jedi. Sometimes the only thing.”
“Is that what we’re to become? An illegal and expensive thing?”
A wide grin breaks out on the pirate’s face. He lifts an arm and points it – not at Qui-Gon, but just beyond him, to the other man.
“No, you are to become an illegal and expensive replacement,” he says gleefully. “Your friend there – he cost our employers a very expensive crop of miners. So, we thought: who better to fill their shoes than the very Judicial official who spirited them off into the night? Don’t you agree, Obi-Wan Kenobi?”
The recognition doesn’t hit Qui-Gon. Not at first. The name is familiar, but in the same way the Water Gardens of the Coruscant Temple are; he recognizes them as someone he knew well, but let fall to the wayside during the grief and rage and helplessness that ate him alive after Xanatos fell. For all he knows, Obi-Wan Kenobi could be a name of a dream he once had in those very gardens.
And then Kenobi speaks.
“I disagree, in fact, but I suspect that won’t matter to you.”
The pirate laughs uproariously. “So funny, this one! Let’s see if he still makes jokes when he’s choking on dust,” he says, still laughing as he stomps away.
As the footsteps grow softer, the dread in Qui-Gon’s stomach swells into a crescendo. He remembers, now: blue-green eyes, full of pleading; a head held high, even as Qui-Gon turned his back on him; a collar and a bomb and being trapped in a tiny, enclosed space, as they are now.
“Kenobi – ”
“I’m going to assume,” Kenobi says, voice clipped, “that you do not, in fact, want to end up enslaved in a mine.”
“Not really, no,” Qui-Gon says, still reeling. “Kenobi – ”
“Great, so we’re on the same page. For once.”
“Do you really think so little of me?”
“Yes.”
Qui-Gon winces. “I deserved that.”
“Yes, you did,” Kenobi says, merciless in his honesty. “And it seems you’re still on your pity party of one, so how about we focus on getting free?”
Kenobi eventually manages a clever little twist that allows him to pop one restraint open, and as soon as he manages that, they’re free in no time. Even without the Force, muscle memory guides Qui-Gon as he efficiently picks the lock on his ankles, and he turns to offer Kenobi help only to find the man has already managed to free himself and is now eyeing the laser grid.
He’s taller than Qui-Gon remembers – which makes sense. It has been a long time since he last saw Kenobi. He’s no longer dressed as a Jedi either, but in the uniform of Judicial, and a fairly high ranked one, by the stars on his collar. The bitterness and anxiety that Kenobi once carried around always is gone now; he’s settled in his skin, comfortable, at ease. He looks more like a Jedi than Qui-Gon feels like, right now.
”I will not take you as my Padawan.”
“Master Jinn – ”
“And that is final.”
“Kenobi,” Qui-Gon tries again.
Kenobi ignores him. “I suppose they took your lightsaber, right? But you still have your belt – did they leave anything else?”
Qui-Gon checks. They have indeed taken his lightsaber, and the backup blade he keeps in his boot. They have also taken almost anything of value, but they have left his rations and his grappling hook.
Kenobi snorts when Qui-Gon tells him as such. “Not surprised even pirates can’t stomach Jedi ration pellets,” he says, eyes dancing with mirth. “But the grappling hook – I think we can use that to smash the control panel. That would deactivate the laser grid.”
“Or lead to a misfire that would roast us alive,” Qui-Gon points out, and Force, does it feel weird to be the voice of reason.
Kenobi spreads his arms wide. “You have another idea, oh Master Jedi?”
They find their gear on the wall outside their cell, piled in a heap like the pirates couldn’t be bothered to sort out what was whose. Qui-Gon can’t deny the sense of relief that flows through him when he puts his lightsaber back where it belongs, and he can see Kenobi also relaxes when he locates his blaster and what thinks is an expandable staff of some sort.
Not a usual weapon of Judicial, but for one who was once Jedi trained . . .
“Save the pity party for later, remember,” Kenobi reminds him, when he notices where Qui-Gon is looking. “Escape pod?”
Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow. “You don’t want to find the keys to our collars?”
“I can get out of mine, and then I can get you out of yours.”
“I don’t remember learning that from the Temple.”
“That’s because I didn’t learn it from the Temple,” Kenobi says, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Well? Do you trust me?”
And it’s like the mines in Bandomeer all over again: trapped in a terrible situation, their lives on the line, Kenobi reaching a hand out to Qui-Gon and asking, Jedi to Jedi, being to being, potential apprentice to potential Master, trust me. QuiGon had refused him, then.
He doesn’t now.
Qui-Gon nods. “Lead the way.”
They manage to dodge most of the pirates on the way to the escape pods. The ship isn’t that large, but between Kenobi’s keen hearing and Qui-Gon’s swift reflexes, they manage to stay out of sight.
They also raid the gallery, because even though they can live off of ration pellets, if there are other options, they’ll take them.
Unfortunately, their luck runs out as they’re loading up the escape pod. Or, rather, Qui-Gon is loading up the escape pod – Kenobi is at the panel, cheerfully doing . . . something – Qui-Gon did not ask what – to the internal systems of the pirate ship. He had said it was to stop the ship from tracking the escape pod, but the glint in his eye and how long he’s been standing there say anything.
Then again, coding was never Qui-Gon’s forte.
Qui-Gon is not sure what alerts him, since he’s cut off from the Force. Perhaps it was a whisper in the air, or long held experience that something always goes wrong, or maybe it was just a lucky guess.
Either way, just when the pirate wanders in and notices that his captives are making a run for it, Qui-Gon throws the last of the supplies and tackles Kenobi to the ground.
On the bright side, this saves Kenobi from a likely fatal shot to the chest.
On the not so bright side, this means that the shot ends up in Qui-Gon’s leg instead.
Kenobi, showing that same unshakeable determination that Qui-Gon last saw on Bandomeer, rolls to the side, pulls his blaster, and shoots the pirate, all in one smooth movement. He then shoots out the door, causing the pirates behind the initial intruder to skitter backwards, before he slams the button to shut the door and jams it.
“I feel like,” Kenobi gripes as he hauls Qui-Gon to his feet, “there were better ways of ending that situation. Like, I don’t know, using the lightsaber that can deflect bolts.”
“Too risky,” Qui-Gon grits out. He keeps moving, though, because escape is so close, and pain can always be dealt with later.
Kenobi lowers him to the floor of the pod, surprisingly gently, and then keeps berating him. “You’re a Jedi Master! That would have been child’s play.”
Qui-Gon bites his tongue rather than reply. He has no words that can express the depth of the panic that went through him when he saw the blaster aimed right at Kenobi’s chest. He has nothing he can compare it – except perhaps the last time he saw a blaster aimed at Kenobi by an irritable Hutt, and back then, Qui-Gon had been there to stop it.
Also, back then, Kenobi had had his own lightsaber, even if it had only been a training saber.
“If you pass out on me, I will stab you with a hypospray in the most sensitive spot I can,” Kenobi threatens.
Qui-Gon opens his eyes again. He’s not sure when he closed them.
Kenobi’s face is a study of relief and focus, illuminated by the lights of the flight controls. It seems that he’s picked up some flight skills, because even though the Temple gives rudimentary lessons to all younglings, more advanced lessons are reserved for the Padawans and Knights, and Kenobi’s current flying is anything but rudimentary.
“Stay awake,” Kenobi urges him. “I can’t get you into a healing trance myself.”
“You can’t do anything with these collars.”
“I told you, I can get mine off.”
“And the reason you aren’t is – ”
Qui-Gon is interrupted by the entire pod shuddering. Ah, so they’re being fired at. Lovely. That won’t jar his leg into new agony at all.
Kenobi must catch sight of his face, or maybe he’s just that good at predicting Qui-Gon’s behavior, as he was so long again. “Sorry, I didn’t have time to disable their weapons. I did leave a lovely little virus, though – Judicial should come pick them up in a day or two.”
“And your plan for us is?”
“Habitable planet, not that far away. Lots of jungle, too, so it’ll be difficult for the pirates to find us with life-sign scanners. When we’re safe, I can rig up a beacon out of the communication panel and transmit a coded signal.”
“ . . . You’ve thought of everything,” Qui-Gon says. “Impressive.”
Kenobi flashes him a bitter smile. “For a failed Padawan?”
It’s not at all what Qui-Gon had meant to imply, but he doesn’t get a chance to respond. The next shot sends their little pod spinning – must’ve clipped their engine – and Kenobi is thrown violently from the controls. Qui-Gon grabs him by instinct, so that he won’t smack his head, and they cling to each other as their momentum builds.
Qui-Gon, for a brief second, curses the Council for recalling him.
Then another shot clips their pod, and when his leg flares up in agony, he thinks of nothing at all.
“Oh good, you’re awake.”
Qui-Gon looks up blearily. He’s no longer in their escape pod – he’s in some sort of cave, which has a flickering light at the end and a pile of blankets that Qui-Gon is nestled in. There’s some sort of soup bubbling over a fire. Kenobi, it turns out, has been busy since Qui-Gon passed out.
“It’s very disconcerting to hear that again,” Qui-Gon tells Kenobi, but he smiles as he says it. “The pirates?”
Kenobi shakes his head. “Dodged the Judicial cruiser. I suspect we’ll have to wait another day or two before I can safely signal. You’re in no state to fight or flee.”
Qui-Gon reaches down to check his leg. The skin is tight and hot; infection hasn’t set in yet, probably because of the medicine Kenobi has smeared over it, but a healing trance would do him well at this stage. He reaches for the Force –
And is shocked when it responds.
Qui-Gon’s eyes fly to Kenobi’s throat. It’s bare and pale, empty of the tight collar from before. There’s not even a scratch. Kenobi must have popped it off as easily as he popped the restraints.
“I told you I could do it,” Kenobi says.
“How?”
Kenobi settles on the floor. If not for the uniform, he could pass for a Jedi, the way he folds his legs and rests his hands. His bearing is definitely proper, and Qui-Gon can feel the Force flowing around him, gentle and calm, but directed, as a stone placed in a river parts water. It’s deliberate, not unconscious. Kenobi has taken the lessons he learned and built on them, to quite effective success.
“I’m not sure how to explain it,” Kenobi says cautiously. “One of my first solo assignments under Judicial, I ran into one. That’s what I get for using the Force during training, I guess. I didn’t have a key, or a partner, or a way out. I just had me. And the Force.”
“But the collar would have kept you from accessing the Force.”
“Yes.” Kenobi tilts his head. “But also no. Consciously using the Force – yes, that is difficult. But I’m also not cut off, not truly. For example, you could use the Force to guide my fall when I was collared on Bandomeer. I am still part of the Force even when collared, just as every living thing is. I just had to find a new way to speak to it, and let it speak through me. It takes longer, but . . . just letting the Force ripple through me is enough, I’ve found.”
Qui-Gon has to admit that it doesn’t sound implausible. A Jedi can use the Force consciously, and most often does, but unconscious use is also quite common. A youngling might instinctively levitate a favorite toy; a Padawan might instinctively save themselves from a drop.
And even when Kenobi had been wearing a Force suppression collar, Qui-Gon had still sensed him in the Force – the bright, brilliant beacon, calling Qui-Gon forward.
He is still, Qui-Gon realizes, a bright, brilliant beacon, a flame that has been carefully fed and nurtured, although not by Qui-Gon.
For the first time, he regrets leaving Obi-Wan Kenobi behind: for not being the mentor who had fed that flame, for not being the one who had taught him how to canvass rooms and pick locks and fly ships. He’d always known he was crushing the dreams of a boy.
He’d never considered that perhaps he was also crushing his own dreams of nurturing another bright young mind.
“Kenobi – ”
“I think we should get you into a healing trance,” Kenobi interrupts. “The last thing you need is to lose that leg.”
Qui-Gon stares into Kenobi’s eyes as Kenobi leans over him, fingers at his temple, the Force rippling around him. “I should have apprenticed you,” he tells Kenobi.
“Hush,” Kenobi says. “Go to sleep.”
Unfortunately, even in his dreams, Qui-Gon does not find peace. He wanders through the burnt out husk of the citadel on Telos. He slogs through the acid swamps where Xanatos met his end. He crawls through the dust-filled mining tunnels of Bandomeer, surrounded by boxes of explosives and with the echoing tick of an armed clock ringing all around him.
“This is not my idea of a restful healing trance,” Kenobi says tartly.
Qui-Gon stops crawling. “You’re in my mind,” he says, half doubting himself.
“I touched your mind and you drew me in,” Kenobi says. “I didn’t come here on purpose, believe me.”
Qui-Gon does. Crossing into another’s mind is a difficult thing, especially without a prior established bond or a lot of experience. Although he isn’t really surprised; even ten years ago, when he had first met Kenobi, he had known they had potential. He could feel the Force drawing them together.
At the time, he had dismissed it as a meddling troll. Hindsight, however, makes things clearer.
Kenobi looks around, wrinkling his nose. “Really? Bandomeer?”
“I made a mistake here. Seems only right I should remember it.”
Kenobi makes a dismissive noise, but Qui-Gon keeps talking. Kenobi deserves this much from him.
“I should have apprenticed you,” Qui-Gon admits. “I should have walked out on the floor of the competition and asked then and there. At the very least, I should have taken you away from Bandomeer. You would have made an excellent Jedi. Likely even better than me.”
“High praise, Master Jinn. I thought I had anger issues?”
“You were facing exile from the only home you had ever known. Also, you were thirteen,” Qui-Gon points out dryly. “Puberty made monsters of us all, at that age.”
Kenobi concedes the point with a grin. Then he sobers. “Should have,” he says, “could have, would have. I’m not unhappy with my life now, you know. Judicial fits me: it’s good work, honorable work, and I can make a difference with the skills I have. Besides, weren’t you the one who told me to stop focusing on the possible future and pay more heed to the actual present?”
“Yes, well. Listen to what I say, not what I do.”
“Now that sounds more like the maverick Master Jinn I knew,” Kenobi says. “A much better version than the pity party.”
“I think you can call me Qui-Gon.”
“Only if you stop calling me Kenobi.”
And as they shake hands, the dust of Bandomeer slowly drifts down from the air, settling upon the floor like they can finally rest. The claustrophobic mine begins to stretch and shift, the darkness begins to lighten and pull away, and, at long last, Qui-Gon feels he can put the mines of Bandomeer behind him.
When Qui-Gon finally comes out of his healing trance, his leg is tender and sore, but not infected. He is also starving, and Obi-Wan hands over food and watches him eat like he’s a junior Healer and Qui-Gon is his first solo case.
“I managed to survive before I met you,” Qui-Gon is unable to resist telling him.
“How, I haven’t the faintest clue,” Obi-Wan replies, playing along. “There’s a stream not far from here. Do you want to bathe?”
Qui-Gon does, so with Obi-Wan helps him hobble down the slope. The water is freezing and Qui-Gon thinks wistfully of the sonic showers that he’d passed in favor of sleep on their original transport. But he still plunges in, scrubbing at his legs and arms to wash away the sweat stink from several days deep in a trance.
“We have soap, you heathen,” Obi-Wan calls out, wading in next to him.
“I don’t remember stealing that.”
“Standard part of my kit. Hard to make people believe you represent Judicial if you stink like a bantha.”
They pass the soap back and forth, taking turns dunking themselves in the ice cold water to wash it off. Obi-Wan is lucky; he’s kept his hair cropped short, so he only needs one or two times underneath the water before his head is fine.
Qui-Gon, with his long hair, is less lucky.
Obi-Wan catches him after the third dunk and takes him to task for it. “Every time you bend that leg, it has to hurt. Would it kill you to accept help once in a while?”
“Yes,” Qui-Gon deadpans. “I’ve requested Master Yoda to make it known during my cremation.”
“Very funny. How is the green troll?”
“Still meddling. Still speaking in riddles. And still fond of whacking recalcitrant Jedi with his walking stick.”
“I swear he doesn’t even need that thing, he just likes having a handy weapon to hit us with.”
“You know, you might be right.”
Once they no longer smell of blood and sweat, they face the terrible fate of getting dry. If climbing into the icy waters had been awful, climbing out and trying to quickly dry themselves is ten times worse. By the end of it, Qui-Gon’s leg is throbbing again, and he knows from the way Obi-Wan is glaring at him that he hasn’t quite managed to hide it.
They bunk down together back in the cave, because there are only so many blankets and Obi-Wan insists on checking his leg again.
“I seem to remember,” Qui-Gon says as Obi-Wan puts more medication on his wound, “a young Padawan who hid his injuries from a certain Master after getting beaten.”
“And I seem to remember a certain Master calling him a fool for doing so,” Obi-Wan replies without missing a beat.
Qui-Gon shrugs. He can’t argue against that.
“No, you can’t,” Obi-Wan says, and then he freezes. “Wait. You didn’t say that out loud.”
He didn’t, Qui-Gon realizes. But the Force is thrumming between them, tendrils strengthening and weaving together like a bird weaves a nest, and in this matter, at least, Qui-Gon has more experience.
“It’s all right,” he tells Obi-Wan. “We’ve formed a bond, that’s all. You’re picking up on my thoughts.”
“I didn’t – ”
“Sometimes it just happens. Compatible minds, close quarters, stressful circumstances. You reached out, or perhaps I did, and we met in the middle. It’s not unusual.” Qui-Gon reads the anxiety almost wafting off of Obi-Wan’s skin and frowns. “Are you unhappy about it?”
Obi-Wan wavers. “Will you – When we’re rescued. Will you have it broken?”
He sounds very young, in that moment, and very suspicious. Qui-Gon cannot blame him; he can’t guarantee that he wouldn’t have broken a bond before, had it formed on Bandomeer. It’s unlikely, because the Council would never have let him hear the end of it, but he had done many inadvisable things back then when he wasn’t in his right mind.
Qui-Gon clasps Obi-Wan’s hands in his and nudges him until he raises his eyes.
“No,” Qui-Gon says, letting his truth ripple through their bond so that Obi-Wan can feel it as well as hear it. “I’m done fighting what the Force wills of me. I can no longer ask you to be my apprentice, but – Judicial works closely with the Order, most times. I don’t suppose you’d have an interest in being a mission partner?”
The smile that crosses Obi-Wan’s face is worth every single moment of their ordeal.
Then Obi-Wan frowns. “The Council won’t like that.”
“If you think Master Yoda is going to do anything but laugh until he’s sick when he hears about this, I will eat my boot.”
Obi-Wan sends up the rescue signal two days later, once he’s confident that pirates are no longer a threat. Qui-Gon’s leg mostly doesn’t bother him unless he puts a lot of pressure on the wound, but Obi-Wan still fusses over him. Qui-Gon lets him for the most part, but he fusses back to ensure that Obi-Wan is actually sleeping and eating and not just monitoring Qui-Gon all night long.
The first time Qui-Gon has his turn to stay awake and keep while Obi-Wan sleeps, it is a revelation.
Obi-Wan is sweet and soft in his arms. He is trusting and relaxed, even after Qui-Gon has dealt him so much pain, and when Qui-Gon touches the bond between them, Obi-Wan mutters in his sleep and edges closer, burying his face in Qui-Gon’s chest.
He can’t deny the rightness of it, of being with Obi-Wan, of sharing a bond with him. Their hearts beat as one rhythm and their dreams overlap, flowing smoothly into one dreamscape.
Qui-Gon has not dreamed of Xanatos or Telos or Bandomeer since they bonded.
And now, too, he finds that for the first time he can think of Xanatos with wistfulness as well as grief. Xanatos chose his path, just as Obi-Wan did; it isn’t Qui-Gon’s place to insert his own responsibility in that.
Xanatos chose to create Offworld and cause the deaths of thousands.
Obi-Wan chose to create a new career in Judicial, and do what he could to save the lives of thousands.
Perhaps Xanatos could have been a fine Jedi. Perhaps Obi-Wan could have too. But that is not the present, the here and now: in the present, Xanatos is dead, and Obi-Wan is not a Jedi. And Qui-Gon will have to live with that, lest he fall into the trap he once counselled both of them against.
Qui-Gon breathes in the Force, and then he breathes out all those should-haves, those could-haves, those might-have-beens.
And then he looks to Obi-Wan, to that beautiful smile, to their glowing bond, to the present where he has a partner who understands him, accepts him, challenges him.
And Qui-Gon knows he’ll be all right.
FINIS