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With little else to do while he convalesced, Qui-Gon turned his attention towards his newest Padawan, vowing privately to do better--to do Obi-Wan proud). So, with Anakin sitting on the side of Qui-Gon’s medical bed, Qui-Gon braided a lock of his hair into Anakin’s beginning their training bond. Anakin’s mind was incredibly receptive, naturally and intuitively forming the bond with him. They would have to work on Anakin’s shields, and judging by the tension headache that formed nearly immediately, Anakin would need to learn to meditate, and soon.
Mace had been thoughtful enough to bring a datachip with the various placement tests Anakin would need to take in order to correctly place him in courses once they had returned to Coruscant. He tested out of several subjects, showcasing his natural bright nature, including basic and intermediate mechanics, robotics, introductory coding, and basic piloting, but he tested below his age-group in the more academic courses--well below his age. When his mathematics scores came back high, Qui-Gon had a rising suspicion.
“Anakin,” Qui-Gon asked, his voice calm and his manner casual as he passed over the datapad and pressed his hand over his eyes. “Can you read the instructions to me? I find myself developing a small headache, and I don’t wish to make it worse.”
Quiet.
After a moment, Qui-Gon opened his eye to peek at Anakin’s face, unsurprised to see his new Padawan looking rather wide-eyed with panic.
“Did anyone ever teach you to read?” It was perhaps a bit blunt, but Qui-Gon had found Anakin responded best when he was frank.
Anakin’s panic flared before it was ruthlessly squashed. Qui-Gon made a note that he would have to work with Anakin on a better way to manage that particular urge, but focused on the present moment. “I can read Huttese,” Anakin said quietly. “Some Ryll.”
“But not Basic,” Qui-Gon concluded. After a moment, Anakin shook his head, looking down at the floor.
“‘Wasn’t allowed,” he said, quietly.
Qui-Gon nodded, and took a deep breath. “Well,” he said. “I think that would be the best place to start then, wouldn’t it?” Anakin looked up in surprise, and Qui-Gon smiled. “Perhaps you can speak with Obi-Wan about this, too. I’ve learned several languages in my life, but Obi-Wan has a natural gift.”
“You’d let me learn from Obi-Wan?” Anakin asked.
Qui-Gon leaned back, surprised. “Of course! Anakin, over the course of your training, you will learn from many teachers. My job is to make sure you get the best education for you as you grow, and help you learn to encourage your strengths and bolster your weaknesses. I would be delighted if Obi-Wan taught you to read Basic.”
Anakin’s brow furrowed as he thought, processing the information, and Qui-Gon knew he’d need all the help he could get. In his dedication to making sure Anakin was trained, he was afraid he didn’t quite think through the realities of teaching a student not raised in the Creche.
“Can he teach me by tomorrow?” he asked, at last, and Qui-Gon blinked.
“He can certainly make an effort,” Qui-Gon said with a light chuckle, “but some things cannot be rushed. Why tomorrow?”
“Because that’s when he leaves,” Anakin said, as if Qui-Gon was the one that said the surprising thing.
Typically, a new Knight was given a week to settle in, to adjust to their change in status, before being sent off on their first solo mission. That Obi-Wan was not given such a courtesy... Qui-Gon found himself frowning rather severely when he thought about it, offended on Obi-Wan’s behalf.
(But Qui-Gon remembered the closed-off look on Obi-Wan’s face at their last meeting, the way their bond felt muted and dull, and wondered if Qui-Gon still had that right).
“Well,” Qui-Gon said, mouth dry. “We can certainly ask him.”
Qui-Gon thought it strange when Obi-Wan didn’t arrive with Anakin, but he was certain, with Mace and Yoda on Naboo, they had occupied his time that morning. He had never thought that they’d throw him out into the Galaxy alone just yet, as capable as Qui-Gon knew he was.
The thought stuck like a burr, and when Obi-Wan did finally appear that night, he took one look at Qui-Gon’s face, and sent Anakin out for some tea.
“Were you going to tell me?” Qui-Gon blurted, and could kick himself for his lack of grace, but it had been eating at him.
Obi-Wan nodded calmly, bearing the brunt of Qui-Gon’s anger as he always did, and that was enough to take it from him, leaving bitterness and remorse in it’s wake. “I only just found out.”
You had time to tell Anakin, Qui-Gon thought, but it was petty, and Obi-Wan did not deserve that from him.
“Where are they sending you?” Qui-Gon asked, instead, and Obi-Wan sighed.
“Mon Cala,” he said. “The Quarrens and the Mon Calamari are at odds again, and the king has requested a Jedi presence to oversee the signing of another peace treaty.”
Qui-Gon smiled in sympathy. It was an easy enough assignment. The Mon Calamari and the Quarrens often flared, but both sides did genuinely want peace. It made for a good solo mission on which to cut one’s teeth, or train a Padawan. Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan had overseen the last flare, some six years before. Everything progressed smoothly, though Qui-Gon often thought Obi-Wan a desert-creature at heart, for all that he hated being consistently wet.
“You will do well,” Qui-Gon said, both a statement of truth and a blessing. “Anakin and I will be back on Coruscant when your mission is over.” He licked his lips. “I would like to see you, then.”
Obi-Wan had looked as if he would speak, but held his tongue. He bowed his head in acceptance, and when he left, Qui-Gon halted him at the door with a heartfelt, “May the Force be With you.”
“And you,” Obi-Wan said, quietly, and Qui-Gon heard him bite down on the title that habit wanted him to speak.
Like Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon and Anakin were deployed directly from Naboo, some three weeks later, when the healers had grown so heartily sick of Qui-Gon, he was sure they were glad to see the back of him.
Ever since the failure of Trade Federation’s disastrous blockade and the (un)surprising last of repercussions in the Senate, small fires had sprung up all over the Mid and Outer Rims. Qui-Gon and Anakin were set to putting out fires. It was an excellent source of practical training for Anakin, and a constant reminder to Qui-Gon of the dangers of insular thinking. Anakin shined in the field, approaching each mission with compassion and a commitment to help that made Qui-Gon glow warm with pride.
It also allowed Anakin a chance to grow in his understanding of written Basic, and complete many of the supplemental readings that Qui-Gon had chosen to help Anakin catch up to his peers. Obi-Wan, before he had left, had gifted Anakin with a datapad filled with vid-recordings of introductory lessons. Obi-Wan presented each clearly, in a manner that Anakin could review over and over if needed, and it concluded with Obi-Wan reading along with the Jedi Handbook—the same Handbook that he had given to Anakin, that had belonged to Qui-Gon, and his Master before him.
It was inspired, portable, and had most likely kept Obi-Wan up all night before he shipped out. It also made Anakin shine, and often Qui-Gon fell to sleep listening to the soft accent of his former Padawan explaining the core tenants of the Jedi Order to his line-brother.
Three months later, they returned to the Temple, and Anakin had a decent enough grasp of Basic to re-take his final placement tests. He still placed lower than his yearmates, but he had rigged his datapad to read aloud if he wished to aid in his study as he caught up, and Qui-Gon marveled at his ingenuity.
Anakin would be a brilliant Jedi.
They had been in residence for less than a Tenday when Anakin revealed that Obi-Wan was also on planet, and had been since they landed. Apparently, he had approached Anakin during mid-meal, when Qui-Gon was stuck in yet another meeting with the Council about the Sith. (Dooku had been there, as stiff and imposing as ever, though the edges of his presence were far more grey than they had been when Qui-Gon was younger. When the meeting had ended, Qui-Gon had watched Dooku leave, his cloak billowing behind him like a cape, and wondered at the foreboding he felt).
But Qui-Gon was not jealous that Obi-Wan had sought out Anakin; he was overjoyed that Obi-Wan hadn’t turned his well-justified frustration with Qui-Gon onto Anakin as well (not that he really thought Obi-Wan would. The young man was always far too kind). He was upset, however, that Obi-Wan had not sought him out in the same fashion. Qui-Gon had been looking forward to seeing him again.
The message couldn’t be more clear; don’t come near.
It hurt, but Qui-Gon could abide by Obi-Wan’s wishes. He would simply have to let Obi-Wan take the lead, and find a way to show that Qui-Gon was willing to be near, if it was ever desired. He would go slow.
Be subtle.
Of course, their paths would cross rather by accident later that day.
Oddly enough, the first thing Qui-Gon noticed was that Obi-Wan had grown his hair. No longer restricted by tradition, Obi-Wan had cut off his nerf-tail, and the short fuzz had grown out to flop over his forehead and curl over his ears.
That, combined with the unrestrained smile he had for Anakin, mad Qui-Gon’s stomach flip.
Then Obi-Wan noticed Qui-Gon, and that brilliant grin faded into something more polite. It was like an ice bath, a reminder of the distance that had grown between them (a distance that was all Qui-Gon’s fault).
Anakin was excitedly telling Obi-Wan about his success on his final placement test, when Qui-Gon’s mouth spoke for him.
“Come for dinner, Obi-Wan,” he offered, cutting through Anakin’s babble.
Obi-Wan and Anakin stopped to look at him, and though Obi-Wan looked a bite poleaxed, Anakin lit up even further, if possible.
“Yes! Obi, you gotta come!”
Obi-Wan hesitated, still, and Qui-Gon knew how to sweeten the deal.
“We were going to Dex’s,” he said, ignoring Anakin’s cheer. In truth, Qui-Gon had been planning on scrounging food from the commissary, but it had been a while since he’d seen Dex, and the Besalisk was starting to get grumpy with him. “He’s been asking about you. He doesn’t seem to believe me when I say you can feed yourself.”
Obi-Wan flushed, faintly, but something in him lightened all the same and the polite smile became a bit more real.
“I’d like that,” he said.
It wasn’t a true victory—Qui-Gon knew that was still far off, but he was afraid proving himself to Obi-Wan would be more of a war of attrition than a single decisive strike.
Qui-Gon gestured for Obi-Wan to walk with him and Anakin, Anakin slipping to Qui-Gon’s other side, just behind enough to show proper difference, though closer than customary—until Obi-Wan gestured, and Anakin skipped ahead to walk abreast with them. (It was a habit Qui-Gon had adopted as well, whenever decorum allowed, and it had helped Anakin settle into their bond a little more fully.)
“I am, you know,” Obi-Wan said, quietly. “Remembering to feed myself.”
Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow, looking Obi-Wan over. He was pale, with dark circles beginning to form under his eyes. Even his cheekbones looked a bit more pronounced.
Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. “I’m fine. The transport home had a faulty artificial-grav generator, and we were consistent flux for most of the trip.” He grinned weakly. “You should see the rest of the passengers.” He waved his hand, and then pressed it to his stomach.
“In fact, I hope Dex is ready for us. My appetite is only just returning, and I have several days to catch up on.”
Qui-Gon winced. He’d once spent twenty-four hours on a ship while they repaired the artificial-grav generator, and it had been an experience that had featured in his more unpleasant dreams for years. To have survived several days...
“Then I will definitely be buying you dinner. I’d say you more than earned it.”
Obi-Wan shot him a wry look so familiar that Qui-Gon’s breath caught. Force, he’d missed this man.
“First of all, Dex hasn’t made you pay for food the entire time I’ve known him, and secondly--with what credits?” He smiled, just enough for the shadow of a dimple to grace his cheek. “You’ve never carried money on Coruscant, Master.”
It was a slip, though not a terrible one. Depa called Mace “master” still, and Tahl had called her Master by the title until the day she died. (Anakin, however, had only called Qui-Gon “master” once after their training bond had formed, and when the Qui-Gon had felt the surge of dark emotion that swelled at the word, well—Qui-Gon got used to hearing his name rather quickly.)
But the way Obi-Wan paled, one would think he’d called the wrong name in his marriage bed. (And wasn’t that an image to meditate on later?)
“True,” Qui-Gon said, and hoped Obi-Wan heard enough to know Qui-Gon meant for both. “Not so much has changed.”
But the damage was done. After such a brief blossoming, Obi-Wan was pulling away again, until—
“I have credits,” Anakin chimed in. “And some cho marr.”
Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan both stopped to look at Anakin.
“Why?” Qui-Gon asked, as Obi-Wan asked, “How much?”
Qui-Gon looked at Obi-Wan askance, but Anakin said, “Enough to not get caught without.”
Ah. Well. That made sense.
“Make sure you don’t grow too dependant, or too reliant,” Qui-Gon said. “An insurance only works when we’re not afraid to use it, or grow careless because of its presence.”
Anakin nodded. “I understand,” he said, and Qui-Gon smiled.
“Good,” he said. “Now save your coin,” he tapped the side of his nose. “Dex has yet to make me pay, and he’ll definitely feed us for free now that Obi-Wan is coming.” Though, Qui-Gon wouldn’t put it past Dex to give Qui-Gon grief for how Obi-Wan looked.
They continued on, earlier tension forgotten. Qui-Gon would have to thank Anakin later, especially if he was behind the way Obi-Wan was looking at him currently, like Qui-Gon had done something unexpected. (Had he really been so terrible? Yes, yes he had to have been).
Qui-Gon cleared his throat. “So where did the council send you that put you on such faulty transport?” He asked as they made their way out the side-entrance to the temple, where the local transports stopped.
Obi-Wan sucked his teeth. “Mandalore,” he said.
Qui-Gon blinked. “I see.” It was odd that they didn’t send Qui-Gon, as he had been the ranking Jedi on their last mission, but it wasn’t as if Obi-Wan was unfamiliar with the political landscape. “And how is the duchess?”
Obi-Wan’s sigh was deep and telling. Qui-Gon knew that there had been something between them, years ago, something that had shaken Obi-Wan’s faith in his vows to the Order, but it seemed, now that the decision had been made, distance had given some...perspective. It seemed that Obi-Wan and Satine had fallen into the mutual frustration that was only so common with missed connections that were determined not to connect.
Apparently, it was the opposition that had requested the Jedi presence, and Satine was not prepared to be welcoming of any Jedi, as her views on non-violence had only grown more severe—now even the Jedi were seen as hypocritical advocates for violence, as they carried weapons and were willing to resort to them, if need be. In addition, she hadn’t been expecting Obi-Wan, and it had made matters...tense.
Yet as they traveled, Obi-Wan relaxed into the retelling of his adventures, managing to finish as they finally reached Dex’s diner.
“So she hasn’t changed a bit,” Qui-Gon concluded, pushing open the door. “She always was a spitfire.” Anakin was grinning widely, and not bothering to hide it. Qui-Gon was quickly rethinking his plans to introduce Anakin to a more diplomatic lifestyle. He may be better off with the pilots, or even in the Creche. He did seem to like Creche duty, especially with the babies.
“I think she’s worse,” Obi-Wan grumbled, and Qui-Gon bit his lip. More likely, Obi-Wan was seeing her without the veneer of teenage infatuation. His foot crossed the threshold, and—
“Obi-Wan Kenobi!”
Calling from across the diner, Dex lumbered over to them with surprising speed. Qui-Gon saw a flash of that blinding grin before Obi-Wan was wrapped inside of of the Besalisk’s huge hugs.
“See,” Qui-Gon said. Obi-Wan’s hands had flailed for a moment, but were now gripping back just as tightly. “I told you he was fine. Obi-Wan is more than capable.”
Dex grunted. “We have different opinions on ‘fine,’ you bastard,” he grumbled, pulling back. He kept two hands on Obi-Wan’s shoulders, while the other two braced on his own hips. “You’ve lost weight.”
Obi-Wan grinned, dimple flashing. “Then I’ve come to the right place, haven’t I?”
“You,” Dex pointed a thick finger in Obi-Wan’s face. “Are too much like this old reprobate.” He flicked his hand at Qui-Gon. “But you are not wrong, neither. Come. Sit. Eat.” He pushed Obi-Wan into an empty booth, and Obi-Wan slid over as Anakin darted forward to claim the seat next to him.
“And how are you, little desert mouse?” Dex asked Anakin, slipping into accented but easy Huttese.
“Hungry,” Anakin shot back. ”Growing. Not so little anymore.”
Dex laughed. “True! At this rate, you’ll be taller than this mountain.”
Qui-Gon smiled as he sat, and watched Obi-Wan roll his eyes. “You said the same thing to me, Dex.”
“You live to be contrary, Obi-Wan,” Dex said, and waved at them. “I’ll bring you food. You’re gone for so long, you’ll eat what I bring you!” And with that, he lumbered away. Qui watched him go fondly, and was unsurprised when they were soon brought their usual meals.
“So tell me about your classes, Ani,” Obi-Wan said, and Ani quickly swallowed the (rather large) bite of his (impossibly large, Dex, Force!) burger. It had taken Qui-Gon a long time to convince Anakin to not speak with a full mouth, and to be honest, Anakin often skirted the issue by simply eating very quickly and not speaking until he was done—but for Obi-Wan, he remembered his manners.
“Alright, I guess,” Anakin said. “I’m in advanced mechanics, and Master Drummand says I have a gift, but he still won’t let me upgrade the mouse droids.”
Officially, anyway. They all seemed to flock to Anakin, regardless of Master Drummand’s imput, as if they could sense his desire to help them.
“And how about Master Tripp?” Obi-Wan asked.
Master Tripp taught the introductory course in civics and galactic relations, and was old enough to have been Qui-Gon’s teacher. Anakin bit his lip, and Obi-Wan put his fork down.
“Anakin,” he said. “Still?”
Anakin hung his head, and Qui-Gon sat forward, concerned. “Still what,” he asked.
Obi-Wan blinked at him, and then frowned at Anakin.
“Anakin, you haven’t told him?”
“Haven’t told me what?” Qui-Gon insisted, putting his own fork down. He had a bad feeling about this.
“Tripp and Anakin had a difference of opinion on the role of the Outer Rim in the greater scope of the Galaxy.”
Anakin frowned, mutinous. “I told him the only real exports from the rim were spice and pleasure slaves.”
It...wasn’t wrong, unfortunately, but it was usually a view held by older Jedi who worked in that area—the way Anakin had been, working at Qui-Gon’s side. Combined with his upbringing...Personally, Qui-Gon thought the old hawkbat could use a little dissention in his classroom. Still. “Was he more upset by the phrasing? Or that it was Anakin who said it?”
Anakin turned away, and Obi-Wan spread his hands. “Nothing that Tripp’s done has been egregious, when viewed independently, but it adds up. Extra meditation, extra work, calling Anakin out in class—”
All methods that were used to teach the more stubborn students who had grown in the temple, and were used to that style of instruction.
“He hates me,” Anakin said. “But it’s okay. I’m used to it.”
Qui-Gon blanched. “But you shouldn’t have to be,” he said. “Not at the Temple, and certainly not from a teacher.” He shook his head. “Tomorrow, we’ll go to speak with Master Tripp.”
“No!” Anakin protested. “Don’t treat me different, it’ll only make it worse.”
Obi-Wan hissed through his nose, and placed his hands on Qui-Gon’s arm when Qui-Gon would speak. Qui-Gon stilled, attention focused on the warm pressure.
“Anakin is right. It may solve the issue with Tripp, but it won’t make it any easier with his classmates.” He licked his lip. “Anakin, would you accept my help on this?”
Anakin looked back down, and after a moment he shrugged. “Very well. However, if this does not work, we may need to bring Qui-Gon in, do you understand?”
“Yeah,” Anakin said, quickly. “I understand.”
“Good.” Obi-Wan pulled back and picked up his fork as if nothing happened. After a moment, Anakin picked up his burger. Qui-Gon looked between the two of them. His food didn’t seem all that appetizing anymore.
After their dishes were cleared away, Anakin slipped off to wash his hands.
“Do you like it?” Qui-Gon asked. “Working on your own?” Obi-Wan crossed his arms, leaning back in his seat, but he didn’t appear closed off so much as contemplative. He ran his hand over his mouth, passing his index finger over the cleft in his chin as he thought.
“It’s certainly different,” he said, at last. “I find I quite enjoy not having to manage my master in addition to the situation—”
“Manage!” Qui-Gon reared back, with half a mind to be insulted, but...teasing. He was teasing Qui-Gon!
Obi-Wan’s eyes sparkled at him. “And I certainly don’t miss your snoring—”
“I do not snore!”
“You snore like a rancor,” Obi-Wan countered, not missing a beat. “And your boots need a good deodorizing every few weeks. I’m sure Anakin doesn't do that for you, either.”
“Er,” Qui-Gon had noticed something different. In truth, he thought he might have contracted some sort of fungus.
“But...” Obi-Wan looked away. “I do find myself turning to speak to another only to find myself alone, and tea shared is always a better tea.”
Qui-Gon leaned in. “You know, it’s not unheard of for a new knight to work with a partner. You don’t have to always work alone.” They even allowed new knights to partner with Masters with Padawans. Anakin would love Obi-Wan to travel with them. Qui-Gon watched as Obi-Wan thought, gauging how he would receive the suggestion.
But Obi-Wan shook his head slowly, his eyes fixed on some far away point. “I think I do,” he said softly, and then looked at Qui-Gon. “Have to work alone, that is. For now, at least.”
Qui-Gon swallowed back his disappointment, nodding. “If that is your wish,” he said. “You have ever known your heart, Obi-Wan.”
“Yes,” Obi-Wan agreed, looking down and speaking down into his nearly empty glass. “For all the good it’s done me.”
Qui-Gon wasn’t sure what to make of that, but before he could say anything, Anakin returned, the stress of their earlier conversation lost as he asked for ice cream.
And why the hell not? “Let’s get ice cream.”
Qui-Gon never found out what happened with Master Tripp. Three days later, Anakin came in with a big grin and a report that had top marks.
Three years passed, and not much changed. Obi-Wan still ran alone more often than not, his list of accomplishments and great deeds growing longer as the years progressed, and Qui-Gon was still putting out fires in the Rim, and Anakin was growing in leaps and bounds, both in control and actual size. Dex was right about one thing: heightwise, Anakin would give Qui-Gon a run for his money.
Three years, and things between Anakin and Obi-Wan were as strong as ever, and still Qui-Gon watched from the outside. Obi-Wan was no closer to letting Qui-Gon back in, and Qui-Gon was beginning to resign himself to the idea of that never changing.
Except...
Except that every once in a while, Obi-wan would do something, or say something, and the Force between them would thrum and Qui-Gon would hope.
It had been nine long months since the last time Qui-Gon and Anakin had last set foot inside the Temple, and their transport set down in the wee hours of Coruscant’s morning, when the brightest lights were the neon glow from the middle levels’ shadier districts. For all that he had lived here most of his life, Qui-Gon never quite got used to being underlit.
Anakin loved it, however, and Qui-Gon was content to let him (twelve years old and already nearly as tall as Qui-Gon’s shoulder) press his nose against the transport glass as they landed.
Three A.M. it may be locally, but for Qui-Gon and Anakin, it was barely five P.M. Readjusting their sleep would be a chore—one that was getting harder and harder for Qui-Gon to handle. It was no wonder his master had been so cranky when they first settled planetside.
More, Qui-Gon couldn’t help but feel disappointed when Obi-Wan’s bright presence was not waiting for them on the platform, as had begun his habit when planetside.
As if sensing his thoughts (and with Anakin, it was always a possibility--he was usually more subtle when he was unaware of what he was doing), Anakin turned to him. “Will Obi-Wan be at the Temple?”
Qui-Gon lifted his shoulders in a small shrug. “I’m not sure. We can check once we’re back in our quarters. It’s possible that he was called away at the last minute.”
After spending three of the last nine months on some sort of space vessel, Qui-Gon wanted nothing more than to be off this transport and on solid ground. (He would not, however, fall to his knees and kiss the ground in thanks. Once had been more than enough, and he hadhad only done it to make Tahl laugh).
Finally, the signal sounded that the doors were opening, and Anakin pulled himself away from the viewport, gathering their meager packs. He hooked his straps over both of his shoulders, and handed Qui-Gon his.
With a nearly silent sigh, Qui-Gon shouldered his pack, and followed Anakin out through the throng that shuffled and pressed together as they tried to leave the ship. In their cloaks they were anonymous, if not invisible, and the traffic at this port had long since gained that city-farer’s immunity to awe. As such, they were able to make their way through with little fanfare, onto the shuttle that would take them to the Temple, and into the Temple itself.
Travel lag or not, Qui-Gon felt like he could easily fall asleep when they finally arrived at their quarters.
“I am heading to bed, my young Padawan, and I suggest you do the same.” He smiled gently. “If nothing else, tomorrow will be easier after a nap.”
Anakin nodded, trudging off towards his room, but he stopped in the doorway, and turned, crossing his arms in a move that was so much like Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon felt it in his chest. “You know, I think you planned on returning at midnight on purpose?”
“Oh?” Qui-Gon raised his eyebrows. “How so?”
“Well,” Anakin drawled, “if the Council does anything to piss you off, then you could insist on reporting immediately and drag their butts from bed.”
Qui-Gon nearly laughed, startled in part from the frankness of Anakin’s assessment, though he really should have been used to it by now. “Padawan,” he said at last, not bothering to hide his amusement. “That you would think I’d be so petty.” Anakin gave him such a flat stare, one that easily belonged on an older face (a specific older face, with red hair and such fetching dimples), that Qui-Gon finally laughed outright.
“Don’t tell anyone,” he said. “And thank Obi-Wan—it was his idea.”
Anakin paused. “Really?”
Qui-Gon hummed. “Really. He hides it well when he wishes, but Obi-Wan has a strong sense of right and wrong and can be quite...righteous. He’s more of a firebrand than he lets on. I can’t recall at the moment what the council had done to aggravate him, but I was more than willing to go along with his revenge.” Qui-Gon cocked his head. “Why don’t you see if he’s on planet. Leave him a message for the morning.”
Anakin grinned and turned to run off, only to pause, and turn back to envelop Qui-Gon in a large hug, catching Qui-Gon about the waist. Qui-Gon let out a soft “oof,” but he held back tightly.
Chuckling to himself, Qui-Gon retired to his rooms. He walked the room, checking on his plants as he readied himself for bed.
The council could wait until morning, and hopefully he would see Obi-Wan that evening.
“I checked—Obi-Wan is due back this morning at eleventh hour.”
Qui-Gon nodded, sipping his morning tea. He was...not awake, not really. He was aware enough to fake it, however, and was well aware that Anakin knew that the best way to get something he wouldn’t otherwise was to present it now, when Qui-Gon was just unawares enough to say yes without thinking. (Not that he would need to twist Qui-Gon’s arm to visit Obi-Wan, so maybe he was just eager). Obi-Wan used to do the same and—well, Obi-Wan must have told Anakin.
At times like this, Qui-Gon was willing to admit to a certain amount of jealousy over the relationship Anakin shared with Obi-Wan—between them was the easy closeness that used to exist between Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan. (They were better, they were, but whenever Qui-Gon thought the distance between them was closing, Obi-Wan would dance away once more.)
“I was thinking, if we’re out of session then, we could meet him at the platform?”
It was not an unappealing thought. Still, Qui-Gon took a moment to pretend to think it over. He didn’t want Anakin to think this trick would work every time. (it would).
“If we’re done.”
Anakin was practically vibrating by the time the council dismissed them, and Qui-Gon drew it out only a little, before walking off.
“Are you coming? We’ll miss his transport at this rate.”
Anakin didn’t cheer aloud, but his joy shone brightly.
Seeing Obi-Wan disembark reminded Qui-Gon tof their first meeting post-Naboo. Obi-Wan was pale, dark circles under his eyes, and his hair was limp and hung in greasy tendrils. He looked very little like the fastidiously groomed young man that Qui-Gon had known for years.
Anakin was squirming next to Qui-Gon, eager for Obi-Wan to notice them, and when Obi-Wan walked past without a flicker of recognition, that eagerness turned quickly to worry. Qui-Gon frowned.
“Obi-Wan?” He called, and after a pregnant moment, Obi-Wan turned to face them.
He looked terrible, skin pale and waxy save for a few bright spots of red high on his cheeks. His eyes were glassy, and deeply sunk and bruised.
“Ah,” Obi-Wan said, blinking as if he couldn’t focus. “Hello.”
“You look terrible,” Anakin said.
“Anakin,” Qui-Gon admonished gently, and Anakin gave him an entreating look. Qui-Gon sighed, and turned back to Obi-Wan “But he’s not wrong. Obi-Wan, are you well?”
Obi-Wan waved his hand, and Qui-Gon didn’t like the way it moved loosely on Obi-Wan’s wrist. “I’m just tired,” he said. “Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”
Qui-Gon firmly doubted that, but Obi-Wan had done too much to establish his boundaries for Qui-Gon to run roughshod over them now.
“I’m you’re sure,” Qui-Gon said, but Obi-Wan was already nodding.
“Yes, yes,” he paused, breathing heavily. “But I think we may need to move dinner to tommorow, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” Qui-Gon said, immediately. “Rest, but if you don’t feel better when you wake, please go to the healers.”
Obi-Wan closed his eyes, nodding very slowly.. “Yes. Council, then sleep.”
“Go,” Qui-Gon said, and stepped back. Almost on autopilot, Obi-Wan set off. Qui-Gon and Anakin watched as he wove his way off the platform.
“He’s not going to go to medical,” Anakin said. “Is he.”
Qui-Gon crossed his arms. “Not on his own.”
In the meantime, Qui-Gon had to face the archives. There was information in the stacks that the Force was telling him he would need, but he still hesitated on the threshold. It was always an ordeal. When he was a padawan, Madame Nu had always sided with Dooku when he and his master had their arguments, and he had the impression he had never risen in her estimation. When he finally returned to his apartment, ego bruised but with the datafiles in hand, he found Anakin in the kitchen to their rooms, the air filled with unfamiliar spices that reminded Qui-Gon of hot sands and desert nights.
“What are you cooking?” Qui-Gon asked. Of their line, Anakin was the only one whose culinary skills extended beyond tea (Qui-Gon) and basic stews (Obi-Wan) to actual skill.
“Soup,” Anakin said, answering the unasked question. “For Obi-Wan.”
Qui-Gon leaned over the pot, breathing deeply. It smelled delicious, even as his eyes and nose began to sting.
“Spicy,” he commented, leaning back.
“Mmhmm,” Anakin nodded. “Mom always said it helps to burn out the sick, but I think it means you can taste it, so you eat more.” He paused. “That, and it’ll clear your sinuses like a bantha in cabbage.”
Caught off-guard as he pulled out a handkerchief, Qui-Gon laughed. “It does that, indeed.”
“It’s almost done,” Anakin said. “I thought you might want to bring it to him.”
Qui-Gon stopped wiping his nose. “You’re not being very subtle, Padawan.”
Anakin rolled his eyes. “I’ve been subtle for three years. I thought I’d try the direct approach.” He put the spoon on the little holder, and turned to lean against the counter. “There’s been something stuck between the two of you for three years and I’m sick of watching the two of you fail to address it. So, I thought to myself, ‘Ani, you know what they need? They need a little spice.’” He pushed off the counter and turned off the heat. He grabbed an insulated cover from a lower cabinet, and carefully lowered the pot into it.
“I’m meeting Aayla and a few others for dinner,” he said. “Please comm me if you end up in medbay.” Anakin lifted the covered pot and held it out to Qui-Gon until he took it. “Fix this, Master.”
It was the formal use of his title that threw Qui-Gon. Even after three years, Anakin still never really called him that, preferring whatever nickname he derived from the moment they were in. Gravely, Qui-Gon nodded, and took the pot.
Anakin nodded, bowed easily, effortless, and correctly, and left.
Qui-Gon stared down at the hot pot of soup in his hands. “Padawans.”
In three years, Qui-Gon had been in Obi-Wan’s quarters only a handful of times, and never for long enough for them to grow familiar. Anakin, he knew, spent plenty of his free time here, but, well...
Qui-Gon had hoped that giving Obi-Wan this space would lessen his need for space elsewhere.
Now, standing at the door with a pot of soup, Qui-Gon felt a bit of a fool. He was happy the hallway was deserted, as there was no one to watch him stare at the door buzzer in bafflement, both hands needed to hold the pot, for far too long.
He huffed a deep breath. “Get a hold of yourself, Qui-Gon,” he muttered, and summoned a tendril of the Force to push the buzzer.
There was a long pause, after Qui-Gon heard the tone fade away. He could sense Obi-Wan’s presence, but it was still, as if he was sleeping. That must be it: Obi-Wan would never ignore the door, otherwise.
Qui-Gon considered the buzzer again. If Obi-Wan was sleeping, he didn’t want to wake him. Perhaps he should just leave the soup in Obi-Wan’s kitchen with a note for when he woke.
Gently, just to be sure, Qui-Gon reached out to Obi-Wan’s presence, feeling it echo down mental pathways that hadn’t been traveled in far too long, though they showed no sign of atrophy.
There was a faint flicker, a recognition, but something was off.
“I’m coming in,” Qui-Gon sent, and when there was no reply, he pushed his way inside. “Obi-Wan?”
No one answered, and Qui-Gon placed the pot on the stove, taking in the rooms at a glance.
They were empty, but not quite devoid of personal touches—he saw Obi-Wan’s favorite teacup, filled journals on a small shelf and an in-progress volume on a side table. There was even a short trellis of plants by the window, but....
The shower was running. Perhaps Obi-Wan just hadn’t heard him?
(But then why didn’t he respond when Qui-Gon reached out?)
A feeling of wrong settled deep in Qui-Gon’s gut, and he hurried to the ‘fresher.
Obi-Wan would forgive him.
“Obi-Wan?” he called one more time, knocking hard on the door.
Quiet.
Qui-Gon slapped his palm down on the door control, moving quickly. The room was filled with steam, enough that it was hard to see at first. It billowed out past his face, partially obscuring the dark figure awkwardly slumped halfway out of the shower.
“Obi-Wan!” Qui-Gon cried out, banishing the steam with a sudden gust, and falling to his knees at his Padawan’s side, pulling him out of the shower and into his lap. The only comfort was that Obi-Wan’s face had been pressed to the tile floor, safe from the water that still ran, though his legs looked an angry red. With an irritated flick of his fingers, the water shut off, and Qui-Gon pressed his hand to Obi-wan’s cheek.
His skin was warm, if clammy, but that was not unsurprising, considering the steam. Still, when Obi-Wan stirred at last, Qui-Gon felt his heart began to beat once more.
Fumbling for his comm, Qui-Gon called a number he knew all too well. “Healer Che!” He said, as soon as he heard her voice. “I need you in Obi-Wan’s quarters; he’s collapsed and not responding.”
Healer Che cursed, the sound tinny in the comm’s small speaker, and Qui let the comm fall from his hand, confident that she was on her way.
Calling a towel to himself, he began to rub Obi-Wan dry. Once he was dryer than not, he wrapped the towel around his former padawan, picked him up, and carried him to his bed. Obi-Wan’s travel stained clothes were piled on the floor near the laundry basket, as if Obi-Wan hadn’t the strength to complete the throw, but the bed was made and the sheets were clean. Qui-Gon gently lay Obi-Wan on the bed and began to dig through the drawers for some loose sleep clothing.
Obi-Wan roused a bit when Qui-Gon began to dress him, but when Qui-Gon tried to speak with him, Obi-Wan’s answers made it clear that he wasn’t hearing Qui-Gon at all. Qui-Gon left only to wet down a cloth with cold water and press it to Obi-Wan’s forehead, watching with dismay as Obi-Wan’s eyes fluttered and he settled at the feeling of such small relief.
“Oh, Obi-Wan,” he muttered. “How did it get this bad?”
Healer Che walked in on them like that, with Qui-Gon pressing the cool cloth to Obi-Wan’s face.
“What happened?” she snapped, and Qui-Gon quickly stepped out of the way, telling her about the sequence of events, beginning on the landing platform earlier that morning.
“Hm.” Healer Che closed her eyes and concentrated, her fingertips spread on either temple. Then, she pulled a swab from her belt, taking a sample from the inside of Obi-Wan’s mouth, and inserted it into the portable diagnostic.
“He should have come straight to Medical,” she muttered, and Qui-Gon hunched his shoulders, defensively.
“He said he would—if he didn’t feel better after he woke, he would.”
Che checked the readout of the diagnostic and grunted. “And you believed him?”
“No,” Qui-Gon said. “That’s why I brought him the soup. Anakin would drag him by Force, if necessary.” Qui-Gon was sure of it.
Healer Che looked at him, and he shifted uneasily. “Well,” she said, and pulled a pair of hypos from her bag.” The good news is that he has a cold, and the only cure for a cold is rest. This will help with his symptoms, make him a little less miserable.” She stuck his arm with the first hypo.
“And the bad news?”
“The bad news is that his simple cold has developed into a nasty upper respiratory infection.” She used the second hypo. “Now, he needs a week of antibiotics. This is the first dose. He needs the second in the morning, and every morning after, for the next tenday. Understand?”
Qui-Gon nodded quickly.
Healer Che looked at Obi-Wan, her hands on her hips. “I want him observed overnight. He passed out once, and that is once too many.”
“Why did he pass out?” Qui-Gon asked.
She shrugged. “Steam overtaxed his lungs, and then, knowing Obi-Wan, he had so little reserves left, he’s been catching up on his sleep.” She looked Qui-Gon over. “It’s best that he rest, and if I don’t want to be foiling a jailbreak in a few days, he might as well stay here. Call me immediately if his fever spikes.”
Clearly, Healer Che expected Qui-Gon to spend the night, and--to be honest--if Obi-Wan had been in medical, Qui-Gon would be there. Was it really any different here?
“I will,” he said. “And I’ll send Anakin in the morning for his medicine.”
Healer Che nodded. Her manner softened momentarily, and she pressed her hand to his forehead. Qui-Gon felt the Force swirl around them, and Obi-Wan eased, however slightly. She left after quickly packing away her things, and then Qui-Gon found himself alone in the rooms with Obi-Wan once more.
Looking around, Qui-Gon sighed, and then did his best to tidy up.
The soup was first, being the easiest to handle as he simply placed it into cold storage. It would be best to heat it a bowl at a time, anyway.
Once in the kitchen, however, Qui-Gon peeked, and was unsurprised when he found a few well-used cooking tools, some of the spices Anakin favored, and a small set of dishes. That, at least, was a relief. Qui-Gon wasn’t sure how he’d handle it if Obi-Wan had embraced such sheer aestheticism as to have only one set of dishware (and what it would say about the frequency and intimacy of his guests).
Detouring through the bedroom, Qui-Gon dumped Obi-Wan’s clothes in the laundry in the hall and picked up the towel he had used to dry Obi-Wan. Entering the ‘fresher, now clear from steam, he set the shower to auto-clean, and used the towel to mop up the puddles as best he could. The floor would still be damp, but it wouldn’t be a hazard anymore. Then he returned to the bedroom, added the towel to the laundry, and set it running.
Then, with nothing else to do, Qui-Gon sat and pulled out his tablet, shooting off a quick message to Anakin with a small request.
A quarter of an hour later, Anakin walked in with the stack of Qui-Gon’s research and a worried expression. “What happened?” he asked as soon as he saw Qui-Gon. He dropped the ‘pad on the table and went to Obi-Wan’s side.
“He has a chest infection,” Qui-Gon said quietly. “Combined with the steam from the shower, he blacked out. Healer Che said everything after was simply him being on his last reserves of energy. He’s had his medicine, and should be only improving from here, though she asked that someone keep watch tonight.
Anakin licked his lips. “We should have made him go to the healers when we saw him before.”
Qui-Gon sighed. “On the one hand, I agree with you. On the other, it is not our place to make decisions for others.”
Anakin raised his eyebrow at him. “We make decisions for others all the time.”
Frowning, Qui-Gon crossed his arms. “Only when they invite us to; to decide another’s fate without their permission...” he trailed off, Anakin already nodding along.
“I see what you’re saying,” Anakin said. “But you know how little emphasis Obi-Wan places on his own health. He needs someone to make him go to the healers.”
At that was the crux of the issue, wasn’t it. Qui-Gon could see now that, in an effort to give Obi-Wan agency, he instead took a much needed level of support. “You’re not wrong, Anakin,” Qui-Gon said. “But as his friends, it’s all we can do to suggest.”
Anakin wrapped his arms around himself looking down. It was a familiar posture, one that said I still think you’re wrong, but I don’t want to fight about this anymore. Qui-Gon sighed, softly. This was always a point of contention with his Padawan. To be honest, it was a point that Qui-Gon could see all too well, especially when it came to Obi-Wan.
“Either way,” Qui-Gon said, quietly. “Obi-Wan will heal in time. What’s important now is that he gets his rest. I’ll be staying here tonight, but one of us should, at least, spend the night in his own bed.” Anakin watched Obi-Wan for a long minute, and then nodded.
“Yes, Qui-Gon,” he said. “Should I stop by Medical in the morning and get the rest of his medication?”
Qui-Gon smiled, tired. “I was just going to ask if you would.”
Anakin smiled tightly, and hugged Qui-Gon without words. He stepped up to Obi-Wan, squeezing the fingers on his left hand for a moment, and left.
The apartment was oddly quiet, with an electrical buzzing that came from the lights. Qui-Gon shifted, uncomfortable, and picked up the first file, hoping to lose some time in the reading.
Most took advantage of the forced downtime of a life that necessitated much interstellar travel, and Qui-Gon Jinn was no different—it was easier, however when one's Padawan was older, and better able to quietly focus on their own studies.
So it was that Qui-Gon was sitting in Obi-Wan's bedroom reading a rather worrying news report of social unrest on Sereno, his thoughts turning to his master who had not reported in for months, when Obi-Wan shifted on the bed with a quiet moan
“Master?”
Qui-Gon was at his side in an instant. “I'm here, Obi-Wan.”
Obi-Wan’s face turned towards him, but his eyes were blind to the present. “Master, I failed you.”
Qui-Gon pressed Obi-Wan’s hand to his cheek as he shook his head. “No, Obi-Wan –”
“I wasn't ready, I said I was, but I wasn't. I care too much, I'm attached, I'm attached –”
Qui-Gon tried to swallow around the terrible feeling rising in his throat, his voice strangled as he managed, “It's all right, Obi-Wan—”
But Obi-Wan couldn’t hear him, writhing weakly on the bed. “I felt the dark—I saw you fall and I reached for it because I love you too much—”
Qui-Gon Jinn closed his eyes, his face twisting in on itself. He shifted his hand, covering Obi-Wan’s eyes.
“Sleep, Obi-Wan,” he said.
Tell me again when you are awake.
Obi-Wan's fever broke in the wee hours of the morning, and Qui-Gon breathed a sigh of relief when Obi-Wan's eyes fluttered open.
“Qui-Gon?” His voice was bleary, thick with sleep and hoarse from his illness, and Qui-Gon was at his side in an instant.
“I’m here,” Qui-Gon said, gently brushing sweat-damp hair off of Obi-Wan’s face. He looked up at Qui-Gon, achingly open before he realized where they were and his eyes shuttered once more.
“What...?” Obi-Wan tried to push himself up, and Qui-Gon caught him when his arm began to shake violently, and eased him upright.
“What do you remember?” Qui-Gon asked, rearranging the pillows to create a better seat. Obi-Wan blinked, winced at remembering, and shook his head as Qui-Gon helped him lay back.
“I… I felt sticky,” he said. “I wanted to shower.” He licked his lips, and looked at Qui-Gon, the question clear in his eyes.
“I brought you some of Anakin’s soup,” Qui-Gon said. ‘When you didn't answer your door, I grew concerned.” He took a deep breath. “I found you collapsed on the bathroom floor, and I thought—” He shook his head. “Healer Che says you have a chest infection. Ten-day antibiotics.”
Obi-Wan groaned, seeming to press himself backwards into his pillows, as if trying to physically escape those words. ”Those always mess with my stomach.”
Smiling, Qui-Gon said, “Then it's a good thing Anakin made you enough to feed the whole creche.”
Obi-Wan smiled. “He always cares too much.”
Shaking his head slowly, Qui-Gon Jinn smiled sadly. “He’s been through so much. I don’t take his compassion as anything other than the gift that it is. The Jedi Order could use a little more compassion.” He shook his head, dismissing the thought for now. “I'll get you some soup,” he said, and stood.
It didn't take him long to dish out and reheat a portion of soup. He hunted through Obi-Wan's far too bare cupboards until he found crackers, and paused as his hand closed around a tin of tea.
Qui-Gon Jinn stared at the tin. Reaching out for the kettle automatically, he told himself he wasn't delaying.
By the time Qui-Gon had the tea brewed and ready, Obi-Wan had managed to call his datapad to himself and was reading with clear eyes, though he was pale and breathing heavily. When Qui-Gon Jinn entered however, and when his eyes lit up at the sight of tea, Qui-Gon Jinn felt a lot better about his impulse.
Obi-Wan lifted the cup with both hands, carefully to keep their trembling still, and breathed in the steam, sipping gratefully. “I have missed your tea, Qui-Gon Jinn,” Obi-Wan said, and Qui-Gon pulled his chair over to sit and drink from his own cup.
“You're welcome for tea anytime,” he said, and paused. “You do know that, don't you?”
Obi-Wan’s silence was far too telling, and Qui-Gon lowered his tea, placing it on the side table.
“Obi-Wan, I have greatly missed your company,” he said, low and earnest. When Obi-Wan still didn’t look up, Qui-Gon sighed. “Oh, Anakin was right. He's much more perceptive these sort of things. Emotions.”
“He feels too much,” Obi-Wan said into his cup, and Qui-Gon shook his head. They had been over this--though now, Qui-Gon wondered if maybe this wasn’t any more complicated than projection on Obi-Wan’s part. Oh, Obi-Wan.
“Does he?” Qui-Gon hummed, wondering just how to get Obi-Wan to admit it about himself as easily as he admitted Anakin. “I wonder.”
Obi-Wan's cup clicked at he lowered it to the bedside table, much emptier now. “The one good thing about not being your Padawan is that I don't need to listen to your lecture voice anymore,” Obi-Wan informed him, stiffly.
Still, Qui-Gon laughed. “Very well,” he said, and the smile fell from his face.
“For a long time I have been… dissatisfied by the teachings of the council,” Qui-Gon began, and felt something ease in his chest when Obi-Wan looked at him, expression droll. If he felt well enough to tease Qui-Gon, then he would be fine.
“You? Qui-Gon, I'm shocked.”
Qui-Gon snorted. “Brat. I'm serious. My master often spoke of a stagnation in the order. It took me time to see it, but I did, in the end. Far too late to tell him.” Dooku had left the Order with little fanfare, leaving the planet hours after he announced his resignation. Qui-Gon wouldn’t be surprised if he was involved with the upheaval on Sorreno, but his name was still not in the holonews.
“Our numbers are dwindling,” he continued. “We teach our philosophy as absolute and are discouraged from questioning our elders--save for in very specific ways. We go only where we are told--not where we are needed and—” he shook his head. “I lost Tahl to blind faith. I nearly got you killed several times because I was too blind--” Qui-Gon broke off to breathe through his nose. “I did hurt you, carelessly and needlessly, for the sake of the prophecy.” He sighed. “Do you remember why the Chosen one would come?”
“To restore balance,” Obi-Wan reply dutifully, and then his eyes widened. “In our most desperate hour. No wonder they deny Anakin--if they're blinded to our own shortcomings—-”
“Yes.” Qui-Gon said. “And it begins with our code. I believe the rules against attachments are flawed--fundamentally so. They keep us from our darker emotions, yes, but they keep us separate from the galaxy, from each other. They may work in peacetime to prevent the darkness but…” he paused before rushing forward. “But my attachment to you brought me back to the light.”
Obi-Wan stared back at Qui-Gon, his expression pained. “Yet mine brought me closer to darkness.” He shook his head. “Qui-Gon, when you were hurt, I nearly fell!”
Qui-Gon spread his hands. “Even that could be a shade of balance,” he said. “To not deny feelings, but to acknowledge them so they don’t control your actions.”
Obi-Wan shook his head. “Mace was right. You are a heretic.”
Point scored then. Qui-Gon picked up his tea and leaned back in his seat, raising his cup in a toast. “But I trained the most skilled Jedi Knight the order has seen in years, and they let me train the most powerful Padawan in the order.”
“You have the fates own luck,” Obi-Wan countered.
“I have the Force,” Qui-Gon said, and Obi-Wan shook his head. The room felt better, lighter, between them. Obi-Wan must have felt it too, as he spoke truly between them for the first time in years.
“When I… Let go,” he said, quietly. “The Force sang. It frightened me, how right it felt. I never truly understood how seductive the Dark could be, before.”
Qui-Gon nodded. “I have felt it,” he said. “I have always allowed the Force to guide my actions. I wonder if we have been following the wrong path in denying the Force this part of ourselves.” He sniffed. “Either way, I can’t argue with the results.”
“The ends hardly justify the means,” Obi-Wan countered, vaguely scolding, and Qui-Gon nodded, ceding the point.
“True,” he said. “But just as new green grows best in volcanic soil, so too can better things come from darker beginnings. Our battle on Naboo revealed just how important you are to me; made me face what I should have known for years. I cannot regret that, even if if cost me our former closeness.”
Obi-Wan licked his lips, speaking to the blanket on his lap. “I cannot tell you how I longed to hear you speak clearly of your regard for me; for so long I felt so unsure that you even liked me. But I needed to learn to stand without you.”
“You have,” Qui-Gon said. “Please. Stand with me, now?”
It took a long moment for Obi-Wan to raise his eyes.
Obi-Wan was asleep again when Anakin came by with his medicine, not even stirring when Anakin announced his presence at the door.
“Hey,”
Qui-Gon blinked rapidly. Obi-Wan wasn't the only one who had fallen to sleep with the dawn.
Anakin bit his lip as he looked at Obi-Wan. “How is he?”
Qui-Gon rubbed at his eyes. “Tired, mostly. His fever broke, and he's been sleeping peacefully.”
Anakin held up a small satchel of hypos. “Think he’ll sleep through these?”
Qui-Gon smiled as he stretched. “He slept through the last one.”
He unfolded himself from the chair as Anakin administered the hypospray. Obi-Wan shifted uneasily but he remained asleep. Anakin looked at him.
“My classes aren't until this afternoon. I can stay, so you can sleep.”
Qui-Gon nodded, wiping his face. “Tell him I'll get take out from Dex’s tonight, if he's up for it.”
Anakin smiled. “He’ll like that.”
“Yes,” Qui-Gon said, thinking of the way Obi-Wan had stared at him, as if reading the writing on his very soul, before nodding once, decisive. “I think he will.”
Two months later, and Anakin and Qui-Gon we're headed to Jedha. Qui-Gon had been to the Temple of the Whills as a new Padawa--his master had been sent to the temple on a request from the Council, and Qui-Gon had spent several days wandering the archives. It was that trip and the scrolls that he had found there that had first prompted his interest in the prophecy of the chosen one and the concept of balance.
This time, however, they did not head to the platform alone. Obi-Wan walked with them, health fully returned and present, sparkling more brightly than it had in years.
On the platform, the wind was brisk, catching at their robes to make them snap and tousling Obi-Wan’s hair.
“Give my best to the guardians.” Obi-Wan said. “Try not to shock them with your heresy.”
“We will,” Qui-Gon said with a smirk. “And the guardians are notoriously hard to shock. When we we return, I'll bring you that tea you like, if you would join me.”
Obi-Wan smiled. “I’d like that.”