Chapter Text
When Qui-Gon strolls into Mos Espa with a droid, a Gungan and a Queen on his heels, he honestly isn’t expecting everything to go smoothly. Oh, he’s had plenty of missions go belly-up before and he’s not exaggerating when he says he’s an expert at making the most out of karked up situations.
However.
This mission is particularly karked and though he knows Obi-Wan must stay on the ship with the rest of the Naboo, Qui-Gon still sorely wishes that his bright and clever Padawan was by his side.
So. He walks into Mos Espa with only the will of the Force on his side, expecting a few hiccups and gets— Well. He gets a boy.
“I wouldn’t try that place if I were you,” someone says as Qui-Gon contemplates the doorway of a small mechanic’s shop.
Qui-Gon very carefully doesn’t stiffen. Luckily they haven’t been approached by anyone since entering the city so this seems like an unwelcome development. Qui-Gon can only hope it isn’t a distraction technique while someone tries to snatch Padme or the droid or even Jar Jar.
But when he turns in the middle of the street, it’s a boy who’s standing there, perhaps around Obi-Wan's age. Tall and tan, with floppy hair and bright blue-purple eyes. He’s dressed like a native and not a spacer, in loose styled cloths of rusty orange and rich browns and blues. But just beneath his collar there is a gleam of metal, like lamellar armour, and there is a peculiar looking blaster on his hip.
The boy grins, lop-sided and full of amusement like Qui-Gon’s in on some kind of secret joke, and it highlights the twin scars upon his cheek. Qui-Gon is suddenly struck by how bright he feels. Like the lingering heat of the twin suns above. Curious, Qui-Gon opens his senses a bit, then nearly flinches at the strange glimmeringshimmering feeling about the boy. Like a mirage in the desert. It’s difficult to get a read on him.
“Why not?” Padme asks before Qui-Gon can get in a word. Her voice is sharp and suspicious. Maybe she’s regretting coming into Mos Espa. Qui-Gon hopes she is. She may be a Queen but she still has much to learn.
The boy’s startlingly bright gaze slides over to land on her and he visibly softens. “Watto is a cheat,” the boy says simply. “He knows what he’s doing but he’d sell your own ship to you if you could.” The boy tilts his head, eyes flickering over their strange little group to settle on R2-D2. There’s a strange kind of recognition there. Something that unsettles Qui-Gon right down to the core. “You’re Outlanders.”
“Outlanders?” Jar Jar echoes, confused. It’s miraculous that his attention has been captured for so long. The sights and sounds and smells of Mos Espa must be so strange to him after a life spent on such a water-rich planet.
The boy’s grin sharpens. “You aren’t from here.” He considers them again, attention sliding back to Qui-Gon in a startlingly perceptive way. “Do you need help?”
“We are looking for ship parts,” Qui-Gon says carefully. Something about this feels…strange. Like someone sliding a key beneath your cell door. Or the Force whispering to you go this way. Convenient enough that Qui-Gon is unsure if he should be grateful or suspicious. “If you do not recommend this Watto, do you have another place in mind?”
“I’m not going to jump you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” the boy laughs. There’s a casual geniality about him that Qui-Gon suspects has helped the boy slip out of many a stick situation. “Though you’re right to be cautious. Plenty of crooks and swindlers out here. Sometimes I’m one of them.” He pokes out his tongue in a remarkably childlike gesture. “But not when someone actually needs help, which I think you do. No offense.”
Qui-Gon can’t help but raise a brow, amusement twitching the corner of his mouth. “None taken. Though you seem awfully confident that you can help us when you don’t even know what our problem is.”
The boy shrugs in a carelessly confident way. “Call it a feeling.” His eyes flicker down to Qui-Gon’s belt where his lightsaber hangs hidden beneath the folds of his poncho.
Qui-Gon freezes, something whispering in the back of his mind threatening to rise into a deafening roar.
The boy half-turns, eyes still caught on Qui-Gon’s hip. Then he glances up and meets Qui-Gon’s gaze with purpose. “You might be surprised to know that you have a few friends here on Tatooine.”
“Qui-Gon?” Padme whispers as the boy begins to stroll down the street. “What’s going on?”
Qui-Gon stares at the boy’s back and says, “I think we may have stumbled upon our only ally on this planet.” He glances down at her, and says much more quietly, “The Force provides.”
Her eyes widen and she immediately straightens her back to follow Qui-Gon’s stare. The boy pauses and glances back at them, a playful smirk on his lips. A few passersby weave around him, grumbling.
“Well?” the boy calls. “You gonna come or what?”
“Is this another Jedi?” Padme hisses, urgency like tension throughout her body.
R2-D2 warbles quietly while Jar Jar leans in and lets out a little awed “Oooh.”
“I’m unsure,” Qui-Gon says. “He may be. But…there are other Force-sensitives in this galaxy. To find one here on Tatooine in our hour of peril…”
“It’s too much of a coincidence,” Padme insists, and Qui-Gon does not blame her suspicion nor her fear. She is the leader of her people and she has a right to question things like this. Especially during such a complicated time. In any other circumstance, perhaps this boy would be a plant ready to betray them. But as it is…
“The Force is oftentimes inexplicable,” Qui-Gon says, low and reassuring. “I feel he can be trusted.” And it’s true. The whispering of the Force is urging him forward, wind wisping the sand up around his ankles, insistent. This boy will be their way off this planet, one way or another.
Her majesty’s glare is formidable for one her age. Qui-Gon can see why she was elected. But the fact remains, this is the area in which Qui-Gon is an expert while Padme remains at a disadvantage.
“Please trust me, my lady,” Qui-Gon says, laying a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Your safety is my utmost priority. If I had any reason to doubt, we would not follow him.”
It’s then that Padme suddenly looks far more like her age, expression twisting into petulance. “The Queen would not approve.” For all that she sounds like a young peeved girl, there’s a hint of queenly steel in her voice.
Qui-Gon raises an incredulous brow. “Well,” he says slow and pointed, “the Queen is not here now, is she? So you must refer to my judgment.”
So it is with a curiousity in Qui-Gon’s soul and a sulky expression upon the young Queen’s face, that their little group follows their mysterious benefactor through the winding streets. At first they follow at a distance, trailing far behind. But at the next turn, the boy slows down and waits for them to catch up, hands stuffed in his pockets as he idly rocks from side to side under the glare of the twin suns.
Just as they catch up a couple of Zabrak younglings skip by, laughing and chattering, their skin sunset orange and covered in twisting black tattoos unlike anything Qui-Gon has ever seen. Trailing behind them is an older Zabrak with similar tattoos but— Qui-Gon blinks. The Zabrak is moonlight blue and possesses several broken horns. His violet eyes are bright and crinkled at the edges as he smiles, watching the younglings’ antics. But when he catches sight of the boy his eyes glimmer and his smile widens into a delighted grin.
“Ezra!” the man exclaims, pausing by the boy’s— Ezra’s— side. “Running errands for Shmi?” He glances ahead at the children and whistles, high and sharp.
The younglings immediately circle around and when they catch sight of the boy they light up, too.
“Ezra!” they call delightedly and dash forward to crowd up against him.
Laughing, Ezra leans down to hug them and when one of them raises their arms imploringly he dutifully swings them up onto his shoulders. The youngling shrieks in delight, twisting their fists into his hair to hold on tight. The boy doesn’t even flinch, just reaches up to steady them.
“Nah, ran my errands early this morning before the Suns rose,” Ezra tells the man.
“Ah, with Chenini’s Blessing then,” the man says knowingly, approving. “Good.”
Ezra’s grins goes lopsided. “I try.” Then he glances at Qui-Gon as they sidle up next to him. “I was on my way to see the Kehh’Ttek Clan, but I ran into some friends so I’m taking them to Shmi’s shop.”
The Zabrak’s brows rise and he follows Ezra’s gaze to find Qui-Gon’s ready smile. When Qui-Gon reaches out in the Force he’s surprised to find that the man is somewhat Force-sensitive, as well. Cool and ephemeral as moonlight, but open and kind. “Oh! Outlander friends? Did Gerrawn send them?”
Gerrawn? Qui-Gon wonders, watching as Ezra flinches, a frown marring the boy’s otherwise amiable face. The Force curls in discomfort about the boy, but it slips away again like a silvery fish flitting beneath the waves. There and gone again in a flickering instant.
“Ah, no,” Ezra says, tilting his head as he smiles awkwardly. “I don’t expect I’ll be hearing from Gerrawn for a while. He’s…he’s gone home to see his family. They need him.”
Giving the boy a knowing look, the Zabrak says, “His birth family.” The pause afterwards is significant, before he continues, “You still miss him.”
The boy pouts, as petulant as the young Queen. “Don’t you dare tell him, Mak.”
Laughing, Mak pulls the second youngling against his hip and absentmindedly rubs a thumb over one of their horns. “I shan’t! Brother’s word. But I doubt it’ll escape his notice. He’s sharp, that one.”
Rolling his eyes, Ezra cocks a hip and carefully readjusts the youngling perched upon his shoulders. “He’s actually pretty karking dense. It took for kriffing ever for him to figure out we were friends.”
Grin tilted and amused, the Zabrak laughs again. “Now that doesn’t surprise me. But he knows you’re brothers now, and that’s what’s important.”
Ezra ducks his head, unexpectedly shy. “Yeah, I guess…” He glances up through his lashes, studying the expression on Qui-Gon’s face. Qui-Gon wonders what he sees because the boy sighs and kneels down to slide the youngling off his shoulders. The youngling lands on their feet with a whining protest.
“Another time, Arzo,” Ezra promises, chucking the youngling affectionately under the chin. “I’ll be by with some of Shmi’s ahrisa. They’re your favourite, right?”
The youngling bounces on their heels. “Yes!” they shout and pump their fists. “The ones with the crunchy seeds are the best!” Their words are slightly accented, clumsy with the Basic vowels. Like they’re still getting used to the language.
“They are the best,” Ezra agrees enthusiastically. “I’ll visit tomorrow morning, okay?”
“Okay!” the youngling echoes, before grabbing their friend’s hand to tug them down the street again. “See you tomorrow, Ezra!”
“May the Suns bless you!” the other youngling calls, like an afterthought.
“May the Suns bless you!” Ezra replies, a fond grin upon his face as he waves.
“Ah, I better follow them before they get into trouble,” the older Zabrak apologies, wry and amused. He nods to each of them individually, takes a step after the younglings weaving between the crowds, then pauses. “Brother Viscus mentioned that he hasn’t seen you in a few days, Ezra. He’d probably appreciate a visit, too. You know he’s the anxious type.”
“Oops.” Ezra scratches the back of his head, clearly embarrassed. “Yeah, sorry. I can do that, Mak.”
Mak bows his head gratefully, violet eyes gleaming. “Thank you, Ezra.” Then he turns his kind gaze to the rest of them and nods again. “Welcome to Tatooine, my friends. Any friend of Ezra’s is a friend of the Nightbrothers. Let me know if you need anything.” And then he’s off at a trot, following the whirlwind children down the bustling streets.
Nightbrothers… Qui-Gon frowns. He’s sure he’s heard that name before.
“Come on,” Ezra says before Qui-Gon can ask about it. “We better get going. The Suns are nearly at their peak. We should find some shade before then.”
Frowning, Qu-Gon considers his sweating companions and silently agrees. None of them are used to Tatooine’s heat, and he suspects it’ll be particularly harsh on the Naboo natives. So he splays a hand and smiles. “I defer to your judgment. After you, Ezra.”
Ezra quirks a brow and grins. “Right.” Chuffing a laugh, he shakes his head then hustles them down the street again.
They scurry across what must be half the city, winding through between buildings and through street markets. Qui-Gon stays near Padme’s side and is surprised to see Ezra expertly redirect Jar Jar more than once when the Gungan’s attention lingers on anything they pass by.
The boy even pauses at one of the street stalls and playfully barters with the shopkeeper before passing over a handful of wupuipi and receiving a few sticks of some kind of grilled cactus in return. He passes the food around with a grin before chomping down on his own spoils.
“Go on,” he mumbles through a mouthful of brilliant green. “It’s tasty, plus super hydrating.”
Jar Jar downs his in one slurping bite, which makes Ezra laugh and hand the Gungan a second one.
“Oh,” Padme says, considering the glistening, crispy-blackened cactus with wide eyes. “Thank you.” She takes a tentative bite, hums consideringly, then goes in for a second larger bite. She glances back at the shopkeeper, then eyes Ezra curiously. “Were they really that expensive?” she asks, clearly thinking of the handful of golden coins Ezra paid with. It really did seem like too much, especially considering that Ezra bartered for their food.
Ezra laughs and shakes his head, leading them through the bustling market. Another shopkeeper calls out a greeting and Ezra waves but does not stop. “Nah. But it’s not uncommon to pay in advance for people who don’t have the money to pay. There are a lot of hungry mouths on Tatooine and while there’s a good community here…well. It’s just one of the ways we take care of each other.” He tosses her a roguish grin and Qui-Gon is amused to see the glittering awe in Padme’s eyes.
“That’s very good of you,” Qui-Gon says mildly, though no less genuine. He considers the dripping skewer in his hand, then takes a grateful bite of the juicy flesh. A mild sweetness bursts along his tongue, pleasant and just slightly savoury too. It’s quite unlike anything Qui-Gon has ever tasted and he finds himself eagerly going in for more.
Ezra shrugs noncommittally, gently taking Padme’s elbow to guide her out of the path of a rumbling dewback. The animal’s tail swishes from side to side and R2-D2 narrowly avoids getting knocked over. The droid lets out an irritated chirrup, then hurries to follow in Padme’s shadow.
“Eh, I wouldn’t say that. It’s just the right thing to do,” Ezra says. An older woman catches his eye and he waves at her just as she sees him. Smiling, she calls out a greeting, then goes back to herding the children lingering at her elbows. “I was a street kid once, so I know what it’s like to scrape by without anyone there to help.”
“Oh.” Padme stares up at him wide-eyed.
Qui-Gon wonders if she’s ever had such close contact with poverty. As a Queen, she must be aware of how it ruins people’s lives. Everything about her tells him that she cares quite deeply and fervently for her people. He has no doubt that she’s done her best to for those suffering, but he doubts that she knows exactly how it shapes people’s lives. How it lingers, even when you escape it.
Qui-Gon himself is no stranger to poverty. Though he barely remembers it, he comes from the lower levels of Coruscant where its citizens have so rarely seen the sun. Being given to the Order meant his parents had one less mouth to feed.
The Order, too, is not a perfect picture of luxury, though he’s come to realize that many think they’re as privileged as any of Coruscant’s upper class. And though the Order is certainly privileged in some ways, they are ultimately a religious non-profit organization that mainly relies on donations and its own capacity for self-sufficiency. They may be known for their diplomats and warriors, but the Order is mainly comprised of farmers and healers, craftsmen and scholars, educators and caregivers. The AgriCorps not only provides aid to planets in need, they also handle the majority of the Order’s food supply. Tunics and robes are spun by Jedi weavers. The Order often trades goods with other organizations like the Guardians of the Whills, just so they may survive.
Some years have been leaner than others, and Qui-Gon is sorry to realize that those years are becoming far more frequent than they used to.
But, Qui-Gon knows, he has certain privileges that someone like Ezra would not have as a child. For one, the Order’s younglings are very well protected and cared for. Their needs are funded and taken care of before all else. From the sound of it, Ezra would not have had that same luxury.
“You don’t need to feel bad about it,” Ezra tells Padme gently. “It sucked, but I learned a lot from it. And eventually I got a family out of it, too.”
Pursing her lips like she’s struggling not to apologize, Padme nods slowly. “Gerrawn?” she asks, hesitant. Qui-Gon can’t help. For all that she has a lot to learn, Padme is quite sharp. He’s sure it’s one of the many reasons that makes her a good Queen.
Ezra startles, steps stuttering as he blinks rapidly. “Oh, uh— No. No, he came later. A lot later.”
Tilting her head, Padme considers him thoughtfully. “Are the rest of your family here? On Tatooine? Is that where we’re going now?”
A pained look tightens Ezra’s young face, and Qui-Gon’s heart unexpectedly aches. “Not all of them,” he says and leaves it at that.
Padme wisely does not inquire any further, falling silent as she finishes her snack.
-:-
They end up on the far side of the city and there is a marked difference between here and where they first met Ezra. The streets are livelier and full of laughter. There are fewer people obviously out of place or haunting corners with barely-contained suspicion. Natives very obviously far outnumber spacers, more children run around unaccompanied than not, and it seems like everyone knows Ezra here. It feels like their little party gets stopped every few steps by people who want to chat, asking about Ezra’s day, or about a family called the Skywalkers or about relations with the Sand People who, from the sound of it, appear to be the true indigenous people of the planet.
Ezra fields their questions with good cheer, asking about their own families and work. A few times people lean in close to whisper fervent and strained in his ear and Ezra’s expression always settles into a startlingly serious look. Qui-Gon does his best to appear courteous and not listen in, but Qui-Gon is also Qui-Gon and curiousity always eats away at him like a particularly stubborn youngling. So he catches snatches of conversation about slaver market growing just one city over, and about masters who are desperate to track down escaped slaves all the way to the tribes occupying the Jundland Wastes.
Qui-Gon is surprised to see how patient Ezra can be, thought he’s not surprised by how considerate he is, whenever the young man offers quiet advice or a comforting hug or reassurances that he’ll pass on the information to Shmi. He does not especially hide what he is doing, but he is discrete in a way that impresses Qui-Gon.
In another life the young man would make a good Jedi, Qui-Gon thinks. It’s a pity the Order never found him, though perhaps it was for the best, Qui-Gon reasons. Perhaps the Force had other use for him and Ezra’s place is here, where the Jedi so seldom manage to reach.
By the time they make it to their destination, it feels like they’ve talked to half the city. Qui-Gon’s party had been met with curiousity but no one questioned them with Ezra by their side. It makes Qui-Gon wonder exactly how important the young man is here, and it’s only reaffirmed that their meeting was no coincidence at all.
“Welcome to Shmi’s Shop!” Ezra spins on his heel and with a dramatic flourish of his arm gestures towards a squat dwelling on a busy corner. “Home of the finest mechanics this side of the galaxy! Whatever you need, they’re sure to fix you right up!”
A Rodian passing by laughs, then leans into Qui-Gon to whisper conspiratorially. “Don’t let the boy’s foolhardiness trick you! He actually knows what he’s talking about sometimes.” She grins. “Well, when it comes to Shmi and her son, at least. Those two really know what they’re talking about!”
“Hey!” Ezra protests, laughing. “That’s rude, Neela!”
The Rodian shrugs, palms to the sky, and grins lazily. “You know it’s true.” She winks at Qui-Gon and he can’t help but smile back, charmed. The Rodian starts down the street again, telling Ezra as she leaves, “Hey, let Anakin know that Greedo’s going to drop off his classwork, okay? Can’t have that boy missing his lessons. Shmi will have his head.”
“Oh, thanks! That’d be great!” Ezra doesn’t wait to watch her leave, instead beckoning Qui-Gon and his little party forward. “Watch your step. Anakin’s always leaving things around,” he warns, and with that he disappears beneath the darkened doorway.
A dozen steps lead down into a cool domed room full of scraps and dismantled tech and half-finished droids. There’s a clear attempted order to things, but it’s chaotic in a way that Qui-Gon has a feeling only the owners of the shop know how to successfully navigate. Jar Jar, of course, immediately trips over the first stray spanner he comes across. Sighing, Qui-Gon is quick to steady him, then immediately redirects Jar Jar to the nearest chair and pushes him down into it.
“Stay, please,” Qui-Gon says with a pointed look.
Jar Jar frowns, opening his mouth, so Qui-Gon tries a different approach.
“You must be tired,” Qui-Gon says more gently, concern colouring his voice. “You aren’t used to the heat. Why don’t you rest for a bit before we head out again.”
Expression still a bit dubious, Jar Jar reluctantly nods. “If yousa say so.” The moment Qui-Gon turns his back he knows Jar Jar’s going to reach for the closest thing in reach, but at least he’ll be contained for a little while.
“Can you watch him?” Qui-Gon asks the R2 unit. The little droid wobbles and grumbles, but sidles up to Jar Jar’s side to wait.
When Qui-Gon turns around, he finds Ezra standing next to a long workbench at the far end of the room with Padme hovering at his side. He’s talking quietly with two people, a woman with a kind face and dark hair braided into a bun at the back of her head, and someone wearing wrapped layers of cloth covering every inch of their skin including their head. There’s some kind of weaponstaff strapped to their back.
At Qui-Gon’s quiet step the second person turns to regard him through gleaming lenses, the grill covering their mouth glinting in the light. A long braided trail of dark hair trails over their shoulder. They tilt their head curiously, and Qui-Gon is startled so feel a tentative touch in the Force. They feel young and a bit clumsy, but well-trained.
Qui-Gon greets the touch with welcoming warmth, despite his surprise, and inclines his head with a smile.
Tatooine just keeps becoming curiouser and curiouser.
The new Force-sensitive straightens, clearly startled as well. Then they turn to look up at Ezra and their voice is slightly lilting and stilted when they ask in Basic, “Another Jedi?”
“Another Jedi?” Qui-Gon echoes, frowning. He’d already figured that Ezra knew what he was, but he wasn’t too concerned. The Force would warn him if he should be but everything in him was telling him to trust these people, as strange as it must sound. But— Is this person a Padawan? Is Ezra a Padawan? Or a Knight? Qui-Gon doesn’t recognize either of them. He’d thought perhaps they belonged to some other Force-sensitive community, but—
Ezra grins, as he seems wont to do. “Yep. Another Jedi. Getting a little crowded around here, isn’t it, A’Sharad?”
“A’Sharad?” Qui-Gon echoes again, alarmed. “As in Sharad Hett?”
The new Force-sensitive— A’Sharad?— tilts their head curiously, then nods. “I am his son. A’Sharad’Kehh’Ttek. Son of Sharad Hett and K’Sheek of the Kehh’Ttek Clan. You may call my A’Sharad.”
“I thought he’d died,” Qui-Gon says faintly. “We were—” Clearing his throat, Qui-Gon fights to reconcile the old grief tangled in his chest. “Well. He was a friend of mine. I’m— I’m happy to hear he’s still alive.”
A’Sharad’s curiousity brightens, and in this moment he feels so much like a youngling of the Order that Qui-Gon nearly staggers. He wonders how old his dear friend’s child is. If he’s been on Tatooine this whole time, isolated from the people his father used to call his own.
“What is your name?” A’Sharad asks. “Perhaps I have heard it before.”
“I’m Qui-Gon,” Qui-Gon replies, still somewhat stunned and aching. It’s been so long since he’s heard anyone speak his friend’s name. Those who were close to him don’t tend to run the same circle anymore. “Qui-Gon Jinn. Your father and I grew up in the crèche together. Our Masters were close friends.”
The boy immediately lights up, delight as warm and bright as the suns. “Qui-Gon Jinn! My father has told me about you. You used to get into trouble together. Father says you were banned from crèche duty because you were a bad influence on the uli-ah.”
When Qui-Gon’s laughs, the sound is wet with tears. “Yes. Yes we were banned from watching over the younglings. But don’t let your father lay all the blame on me!” He laughs and draws nearer so he can stand beside his old friend’s son. “He was far more of a rascal than I! He came up with most of our plans.”
Snorting, A’Sharad shakes his head. “I cannot believe that. That does not sound like my father.”
“Oh, it’s true!” Qui-Gon insists, delighted. If Sharad has turned into a curmudgeon in his old age he’ll never hear the end of it from Qui-Gon. “I have quite a few stories to tell if you’d like to hear!”
“As happy as I am for you,” Padme cuts in with an apologetic tone, “we do have some pressing matters to attend to.”
“Ah— yes. Quite. I apologize.” Qui-Gon tilts his head, chastened. A new kind of hope squirms in his chest, something strange and wonderful. He’s lost so many friends over the years and it is a mind-numbing relief to know that one of them is alive and well. This, too, bodes well for the mission and Naboo’s dubious fate. Still, it wouldn’t do to get ahead of himself.
Qui-Gon looks between young A’Sharad and the woman who’s straightened up from where she was bent over a dissected droid. She stares up at him with a warm smile, eyes crinkled with premature aging perhaps due to the strength of the Suns. He is not surprised to realize that she is yet another Force-sensitive.
Do they simply sprout from the ground out here on the Outer Rim? Qui-Gon wants to laugh. Instead, he says, “Young Ezra here assured us that you could help. Are you the Lady Shmi who runs this shop?”
“I am she,” the woman says with laughing eyes. She stands, offering him a hand, and when he reaches out she grasps his forearm in a firm warrior’s grip. “Shmi Skywalker. Well met, Qui-Gon Jinn. You’re a Jedi? We have a few of those running around here.”
“I am,” Qui-Gon admits, curiousity piqued even more. “There are more Jedi on Tatooine?”
When Shmi grins, Qui-Gon knows that her amusement is not mocking and instead friendly. “Oh, there certainly are. There might even be a couple in this room.”
Qui-Gon blinks, then regards his companions with new eyes. A’Sharad certainly makes sense. Qui-Gon can only imagine that his father must be teaching him. But Ezra? He feels so strange in the Force. Like a mirrored outline of a person rather than an actual living breathing being, for all that he’s clearly very real and alive. Perhaps he was trained by a Shadow? Or one of the Masters wandering on the Outer Rim?
When Qui-Gon turns to Ezra there’s a strange look upon the young man’s face. It quickly slips away, replaced by the easy confident amusement that seems so come naturally to him. The young man cocks his hip and raises a hand as he shrugs.
“Hey, you never asked and— before you say it, whatever you’re thinking? You’re totally wrong.” He smirks, then backs up a step and turns to Shmi. “Ani busy? I can go grab him if you like.”
But Shmi shakes her head, expression softening in a motherly softness. “No, he’s out with the boys. Kilindi commed to let us know that she’ll be back today so they’re meeting her there.”
“Oh!” Ezra perks up. “That’s awesome! Want me to get midmeal ready then? When will they get back?”
“Not ‘till the evening,” Shmi tells him, then turns to Padme. “Would you like to join us for a meal? We can get back to business after that, or if you prefer, we can turn it into a working meal.” Everything about her is kind and considerate and Qui-Gon finds that he quite likes her.
Padme looks a little startled at being address, but she quickly straightens her shoulders and nods sharply. “If we could discuss the details over a meal, I would be grateful.”
“Right then!” Shmi claps her hands together and stands. “We’ll handle proper introductions while we cook.” Then she turns to where Jar Jar is fiddling with the shell of a droid. “Would you like to join us, friend?”
“Oh, yesa pleasa!” Jar Jar exclaims, scrambling to his feet and dropping the droid shell in the process. It lands on his foot and he jumps up with a startled yelp only to trip and fall to the floor.
To Qui-Gon’s surprise, young A’Sharad scurries over to kneel by Jar Jar’s side. The young man places a hand on the Gungan’s back. “Are you alright?” A’Sharad asks, anxious and kind.
Jar Jar blinks up at him, dumbfounded, before nodding silently. Then he lets A’Sharad pull him to his feet.
“The Suns and Sands are ruthless even to those who are familiar with the land,” A’Sharad says quietly. “Come. We have plenty of water to drink, and if you need to rest before the meal please feel free to do so.”
“Tank yu,” Jar Jar mumbles, remarkably shy, and allows A’Sharad to lead him through the shop back to the rest of their little group while little R2-D2 follows on their heels.
“Well, hello there,” Shmi greets the droid, and rounds the workbench to kneel in front of it. Then she whistles high and sharp and let out a few warbling, beeping sounds.
The droid rolls back, trilling in apparent shock. Then it trundles forward again to bump into her knees, insistent and excited. It wobbles and its head spins as it beeps in a language Qui-Gon has never had the attention span nor interest to learn. But it is certainly fascinating to watch Shmi’s expression as she very clearly follows along with the droid’s animated dialogue.
Tilting her head, Shmi laughs then reaches out to run a careful hand over the droid’s dome. She trills again, higher and questioning, then nods along to whatever answer the droid gives her. Qui-Gon doesn’t think he’s ever encountered a being so effortlessly fluent in binary.
The woman pats the droid’s home one last time, then stands. She turns to Padme then says, “It seems like you’ve been through much the last few days. Artoo needs a few minor repairs which I can do while Ezra and A’Sharad prepare midmeal. Then we can eat and discuss business. Sound fair?”
Padme easily slips into the mask of the Queen and she nods, serious. “That sounds fair, Lady Skywalker.”
“Please,” the woman says, face so kind and warm, “call me Shmi.”