Chapter Text
When Obi-Wan searches his room for his datapad (containing his report for Improvised Medical Analytics II, an obscure engineering elective reserved for fanatical mechanics or Senior Padawans running out of class options, scrambling for some semblance of progress), he finds a baby.
On his bed, where his datapad should be, there is a sleeping baby: human, with doughy cheeks and a dusting of golden hair. About four months old, calculates an old instinct. The rest of Obi-Wan’s brain casually spirals into panic.
This isn’t a crecheling. Instead of the standard beige robes of Jedi younglings, they are dressed in a patched-up set of rags held together by visible stitching so untidy, even Obi-Wan could have done it. Their clothes are gray and uniformly plain, but for a couple of mismatched baubles strung on twine around their neck. Their body is strapped into a bulky baby carrier, with what might have once been quite a nice fabric covering, now stained and worn through until the padding shows in several places.
And before Obi-Wan knows it, he’s punched Quinlan’s code into his comm. “I’m not the one who’s been embedding X-Net links in all your Council reports,” he snaps, albeit at a much lower volume than he’d like, “and even if I was, this is completely disproportionate vengeance.”
“What do you mean, there’s X-Net links in my Council reports?”
“... You didn’t know.”
“Who put them there?”
“How would I know?” Obi-Wan retorts. He’s too senior for the Padawans’ prank battles and too junior for the Knights’. Masters, of course, avoid such petty rivalries entirely.
There’s a sigh. “At least tell me no one on the Council noticed.”
Unfortunately, Obi-Wan only heard about the tampered reports when Master Windu was telling Qui-Gon about them over tea, in a conversation Obi-Wan had most certainly not been invited to. Apparently the whole Council had noticed and been thoroughly amused, considering it a lesson in how Quinlan was not the only person who could break a weak passcode.
“... Enjoy your mission,” Obi-Wan says at last. “I hear Saleucami’s moons are gorgeous.”
“Obi-Wan-”
“May the Force be with you!”
Obi-Wan hangs up, declines the immediate callback, and returns to staring at the baby. Despite his attempts not to disturb them, they’re stirring, stretching their feet and scrunching up a little forehead in what might be displeasure. Reflexively, Obi-Wan bends to pick up the carrier and move it … somewhere, this child would be better off anywhere than on his bed. Unfortunately, it takes an inordinate amount of strength to even budge the thing a few inches, and Obi-Wan immediately sets it back down. The carrier is solid metal under the padding, so heavy that no one in their right mind would actually haul it around. Clearly it’s mechanical, meant to hover like all the fashionable baby carriers that upper-level families take promenading, only Obi-Wan can’t see an on-switch.
He gives up on the carrier and undoes the straps, just as the baby’s eyelids start to flutter open. Their eyes are a startling blue, like Obi-Wan’s saber blade. As they come into focus, they discover Obi-Wan’s face-
And light blooms in the Force.
Despite the child’s youth, their presence in the Force is breathtakingly luminous and vibrant with recognition, though Obi-Wan’s surely never encountered them before. He would have remembered. Whole face brightening, the child beams and coos and reaches up for Obi-Wan, legs kicking joyously. On pure instinct, Obi-Wan sweeps them up into a hug, eliciting another stream of burbling. The thought strikes him, No one’s ever been so happy to see me.
Obi-Wan carries the baby out of his and Qui-Gon’s quarters, newly grateful for the fact that his master disappears from his side every time they reach Coruscant (called away to lower levels by the unrivaled selection of pan-galactic tea shops). Sneaking through the Temple halls presents more of a challenge, but he’s capable of going unnoticed when necessary. When he reaches the Halls of Healing, the desk is empty. For a moment, he thinks of dropping the baby on it and running away before anyone can connect him to this scandal-in-the-making, but a tiny hand bats his nose just then, as if scolding him for even considering it.
The child then leans forward and tries to eat said nose. A Healer finds him in that undignified position.
“I’m Obi-Wan Kenobi.” He hastily turns his face out of reach in order to introduce himself. “And this youngling appeared on my bed this morning.”
In a testament to her professionalism, she keeps her face blank, though surprise bleeds into the Force. It intensifies as she presses him for more details. He is as helpful as he can be, which is not very helpful at all.
He informs her, “No, I didn’t sense anyone breaking into my room to abandon a baby. Frankly, I don’t know why anyone would bother.”
Even to his less trained senses, the child feels Force-sensitive, so they could have been given to a Seeker in a few years or surrendered directly to the creche before that. The Order has procedures, whole teams of Jedi specifically meant to work with children. There’s no reason for anyone with any sense to leave this baby with Obi-Wan.
Soon after this, the Healer calls in backup, and Vokara Che herself walks out to greet him. At first, she repeats the same questions. Then she dismisses the other Healer and fixes The Expression on Obi-Wan, the one he thought he’d escaped years ago.
“I have a somewhat sensitive question for you,” she says in a kindly tone that spooks him at once.
Though Obi-Wan stays still, the child squirms in his arms and lets out a concerned peep.
“Is there any chance this instance of … unexpected youngling acquisition relates to some kind of substance use?”
“I didn’t get drunk and take up kidnapping, no,” he says with a laugh. It’s a reasonable question, going by past legends of what happens when Jedi (already a strange sort when sober) mix with mind-altering substances.
“Then could this possibly be a memory lapse of another kind?”
The smile falls from his face.
“I’m quite alright,” he replies coolly. “Nothing to report.”
“I see.” The Expression takes on a shade of calculation, before she reorganizes her features into their usual place, all business. “We’ll take the child and run a suite of tests. Genetic, among other things.”
There’s another probing, curious question, folded quietly in those words.
Obi-Wan presses the child into her arms like a challenge. “I look forward to the results.”
This child is not, in fact, his, though they let out an indignant squeak the moment he passes them over. Now empty-handed, Obi-Wan turns and flees as fast as he can.
There’s a perfectly sensible explanation for all these oddities.
The Force itself reassures Obi-Wan of this. Or at least, he senses a faraway gleam of satisfaction, not the vague twisting unease he so frequently gets from morning meditation.
Genetic testing doesn’t take long at all with the Temple’s equipment, so the possibility that he’s truly connected to this child will be ruled out soon enough. An investigation will find that this is a misaimed prank, or the result of someone else’s drunken kidnapping. Qui-Gon leaves his windows open sometimes to give his plants fresh air; it wouldn’t be impossible for someone to maneuver the baby carrier into their quarters that way.
Though if Obi-Wan missed a giant lump of metal floating through his home with a baby strapped to it, it’s no wonder he’s still a Padawan at twenty-four. Qui-Gon could repudiate him for sheer obliviousness.
As he returns to his quarters, he can sense his master inside, back from a particularly quick tea run. Obi-Wan smooths out the instinctual spike of panic. If he can just project a sense of calm, no one will ever know of any odd occurrences, and he can slip past this whole affair without calling attention to himself …
He opens the door to find Master Dooku, who immediately looks up from his tea to inspect Obi-Wan with interest.
Master Dooku, who hasn’t shown any interest in either him or Qui-Gon since … A vague image surfaces of Qui-Gon and a hooded figure in black huddled over teacups just like this, in those distant, fuzzy weeks after Melida-Daan.
“Masters,” Obi-Wan murmurs, bowing briefly to Master Dooku and nodding to Qui-Gon.
“We hear you had an eventful morning,” Qui-Gon says in response, in the especially mild manner that indicates he’s suppressing mirth.
Master Dooku, who must be as familiar with Qui-Gon’s moods as Obi-Wan is, shoots him an unimpressed look, or perhaps that’s just how his face is set. “The Temple is efficient with its gossip, if nothing else.”
Obi-Wan thins his lips. “As you’ve probably heard, I found a Force-Sensitive infant in my room this morning and promptly handed them to the Healers.”
“You claim an infant materialized in your room,” Qui-Gon says blandly.
“He either materialized, or he came from somewhere,” Obi-Wan states, matching his tone perfectly.
“It was obviously the will of the Force,” Master Dooku says, milder and drier than either of them; Obi-Wan abruptly realizes that his sense of humor is three generations old. Master Dooku glances over at Qui-Gon before commenting, “Perhaps this babe is the Chosen One.”
This barb strikes home; Obi-Wan has to stifle a laugh, as Qui-Gon sets down his teacup with a melodramatic clink.
“We shall have to wait patiently,” Qui-Gon counters, “if we desire answers. It is not as if this mysterious abandoner left a note.”
“... Er,” Obi-Wan replies.
Mumbling his apologies, he hastily shuffles into the room where the carrier awaits, largely unexamined on his bed. He forgot to report it to the Healers, his focus centered entirely on the baby in his care. He tries to make up for the mistake now, inspecting all sides of the carrier and poking at the padding. There’s nothing in sight. Now painfully aware of his master and grandmaster watching (judging) him from the doorway, Obi-Wan flips the heavy thing over, with only a little unauthorized assistance from the Force-
He feels their alarm, even before he sees the cause.
There’s no holocron awaiting him, no tidy explanation for all of today’s peculiarities. There’s only a gash crusted in blood, burnt right into the underside of the baby carrier.
The Temple Guards themselves arrive to collect the carrier, removing it from Obi-Wan’s room, levitating it like evidence in a criminal investigation. Obi-Wan feels suddenly foolish for getting his fingerprints all over it. He backs away, hands specked with dried blood.
The lineage reunion ends as suddenly as it began.
Master Dooku whisks back out, set on terrorizing some other wing of the Temple. Qui-Gon drifts out after him. He declares that a session of meditation is in order, given the increasing strangeness of the day.
Obi-Wan does not push to join him; there would be little point, seeing how he just finished his own meditation and learned next to nothing from it. Instead he rinses the blood off his hands and does his best to resume his usual routine, going down to the training rooms. There he tosses himself into an increasingly complex series of Ataru drills of the sort a Padawan might theoretically be asked to perform in their Trials, even if Obi-Wan has no apparent need for them.
The most acrobatic saber form, Ataru is Qui-Gon’s favorite, all midair twists and light-footed aggression with only the barest tether to the floor. After a decade of practice under Qui-Gon’s watch, Obi-Wan would like to believe he’s developed a level of competence befitting a Jedi Knight, even if every leap feels like jumping to lightspeed without setting the destination coordinates, much less plotting a path to get there in one piece.
He’d like to believe he’s competent. Then he catches Master Yoda practicing his Ataru in the next room over, and thus die Obi-Wan’s delusions of grandeur.
He falls into bed exhausted that night and then lies awake for hours, wracked by the not unfamiliar notion that he isn’t where he ought to be.