Work Text:
I've missed your calls for months it seems
Don't realize how mean I can be
'Cause I can sometimes treat the people
That I love like jewelry
'Cause I can change my mind each day
I didn't mean to try you on
But I still know your birthday
And your mother's favorite song
So I'm sorry to my unknown lover
Sorry that I can't believe that anybody ever really
Starts to fall in love with me
------------------------
Red. An overwhelming color on the best of days; even worse upon this day, seeing it upon that face. Because, paired with the heavy darkness that seeps through everything, searching, searching to tear, to rip, to break everything in its path.
Red. Broken apart. Paths splitting in front, if only he had heard the warning in time. And one heart wrenching, soul stopping moment.
He can’t breathe.
Can’t.
And it begins again as he tries to tear himself away from that fated fight. But it is inevitable. He finds himself drawn inexplicably towards it, knowing what’s coming, knowing that even as he yells and pleads and screams and begs, nothing will change what is to be.
“NOOOOOOOOOO!”
--
Qui-Gon wakes, screaming, throat raw. He shoves his fist to his mouth to block more of the harsh sounds and tries to quell his shaking body. It had been four months since Naboo, and still nightmares plague him. Not that he was surprised by this.
The mind healers, the one time the council had managed to force him into a visit, had warned that such a traumatic event was likely to leave remnants behind. The aftermath of a brush with darkness and having a bond be all but shut down so suddenly and unexpectedly.
Forcing himself up and into the half-mechanical motions of tea-making, Qui-Gon tried not to focus on anything other than the task in front of him. Unsuccessfully. He had tried, in these months, to not think about the near silent bond between him and his Padawan. But it was to no avail. It seemed that, so trying, he was dooming himself to his own failure. His Padawan was all he could think about. The bond between them had become rather raw and sore on his side from all his poking and prodding, no matter how gentle it had been. He had checked for its presence all too often; tried to go too far down in an attempt to call his Obi-Wan back.
4 months, 5 bacta tank stints, 3 mandatory separations from all but two top healers, and 1 terrifying stop of heartbeat.
But who’s keeping track?
He sighed, digging the heels of his hands into his suddenly painfully stinging eyes, then dragged them through his lank hair. Glancing at the chrono, he sighed again, knowing it wouldn’t make time move any quicker. Nor would it force Obi-Wan back into wakefulness.
There was no guarantee that he would even-
-No. He was going mad enough with the weakness of their training bond and the persistent nightmares that tracked him no matter what he did. He wouldn’t add that to the cocktail.
--
He showed up at the door to his Padawan’s room in the Healer’s ward as early as he possibly could while hoping to get by without a raking over the coals by grumpy healers. The first thing he did as he walked into the room was to soak in the sight of his waylaid apprentice. Never an imposing figure, there had always been an underlying strength to him. Now that strength was all but gone, sapped slowly away bit by blood sucking bit as he stayed in a coma long after he should have.
But he’s alive, he reminded himself, remembering the moments in which his Padawan had spoken softly to him in what had clearly been what the boy-no, young man-had thought to be his last words, beseeching his Master to not shut himself away as he had done before. To take Anakin on as he had planned. A short-lived effort to send some last feelings and impressions over the bond, but it was scattered and overwhelmed by pain, hard to interpret. Those last few moments were stark and fresh in his memory all this time later, and when he didn’t have nightmares showing the sith and Obi-Wan being killed, it was Obi-Wan saying much harsher words with his dying breaths, sparing his old master not a bit.
Time was the harshest teacher of all, and Qui-Gon its humbled learner. He knew, oh gods great and small did he know, that he had caused much pain where none had been meant. He had been too focused on the moment and on Anakin and forgotten the man that meant so much to him already. Too much, some might argue should they see his closest thoughts. But he wasn’t trying to excuse his behavior. When the three of them had been able to move back to Coruscant, Qui-Gon had gathered his wits about him for a short period of time and made the Council eat their words. He wasn’t one of the most wanted diplomats of the Order for nothing, and he had used it to make sure that the boy was seen safely into the creche for a time, and that it was understood that he would not be taking him on, as his Padawan needed him.
He finally breathed deeper, broken nose twitching at the cloying smell of bacta and the normal smells of healing wards. He moved closer to the bedside, taking in the shallow features and the beard growing on the unfamiliar familiar face. There was that mole on the cheek, the brow, and should he look closer he knew he would find evidence of the scar his Padawan had earned from tripping over his own feet on a mission once, mostly hidden by his russet hair.
“Hello Obi-Wan,” he whispered, hardly daring to break the silence. “As always, it’s good to see you, my Padawan.”
His chair stood alone, weathered and abused, but someone had known to put it back exactly where he had left it after cleaning the room; clearly, he was becoming a creature of habit. Once upon a time that would have driven him up the wall and made his skin crawl. Now, he simply moved to it, sinking into its depths, imagining the words Obi-Wan might have said to him.
“You’ve clearly been in that chair too much, Master. I can practically see your indent.”
Or perhaps…
“It missed you, Master.”
“I’ve missed you, Obi-Wan,” he echoed, then flushed slightly as he recalled himself and shifted in his seat. “You need a shave, Padawan. I’ll ask an aid to bring the proper supplies.”
Request made, he went about refamiliarizing himself. He meditated, then stretched, then spoke about whatever piece of Jedi theory he could think of for a time, then he would stop, and just stare at Obi-Wan. Ran his long fingers through the rapidly growing hair. Rebraided the Padawan plait until it laid flat. Held his hand, speaking in soft tones.
“Any time you feel like coming back, Obi-Wan, I’d be grateful,” he whispered as he sank into sleep, head falling to rest upon their intertwined hands.
--
White, Obi-Wan discovered quite quickly, was his least favorite color. Why his brain had decided that that was the best color to torture him with he didn’t know; all he knew was that it was working. Gods, all he wanted to do was wake up. He got vague impressions from what should be. He could see what he thought was his bond, had been building a wall of supports up to it to try to reach it after he’d discovered screaming at it held no use.
He ruthlessly ignored the dark that crept up on him time and again from random angles. He suspected that it was some sort of weird phantom remnant from his fight with the sith but he couldn’t be sure. Whenever it came he fought it off, desperate to protect what he had built up. At first it had been so hard, and at one point he was sure it had won, had broken down all of his blocks, but there was one glowing block that it could never seem to touch. And he was glad for it.
“I’m coming, Master,” he told that specter of a bond with a sense of righteous determination. “If that sith didn’t kill me, then I’m not going to die in my own thick head.”
--
-I’m coming, Master—
Qui-Gon jerked awake, tears in his wild eyes, grasping the hand he held desperately. “Obi-Wan?”
But there was no response. There was no change whatsoever, and he had to fight off a frustrated sob, getting up to pace restlessly before he settled again in his spot before his Padawan, tools in hand.
“Alright, Obi-Wan,” he said with fake cheer, “time to deal with that fuzz.”
Carefully, so tenderly, he whipped the cream and brushed it on his Obi-Wan’s face, careful to avoid the areas he knew were sensitive and to get a thick, even layer over the whole beard. He picked up a shaving knife; antique and outdated, but sometimes it was really the best way to do things, and he had been delighted when his Padawan had shown interest in learning the technique from him. He had fond memories of them doing this for each other when they were too injured to do it for themselves.
--
Obi-Wan gasped as he fought off the darkness yet again as he tried to continue his wall, building it bit by bit again and again and again as the specter tried to tear it apart. He refused to fail. He was so close. He had already been gone too long, and he had much too much to tell his Qui-Gon when he saw him.
“I miss you, Qui-Gon! I’m almost there!”
--
Qui-Gon pressed gently against the throbbing bond, taking his shaking hand away from tender neck before he could do any damage to that precious skin. Within moments he was able to breathe again, headache going from stabbing pain to dull background noise, as it had been since Naboo, and he resumed shaving, finishing off the last bits. He missed the impish smile that would always greet him if he glanced up when Obi-Wan was awake when he shaved him, the one that said both “thank you” and “you sure you’re done?” That look had come close to undoing him in the last year, when both of them had been injured too many times to count.
He treasured each and every memory. He treasured even more closely the tipping over the edge feeling right before he regained his equilibrium before he did something foolhardy. He would always raise an eyebrow back, and the smile would become warmer, fuller; it felt as good as another being’s full body embrace. One would always have to break away first- at first it had been Obi-Wan, feeling the weight of his position. But more and more it had needed to be Qui-Gon who backed down from that tempting gaze.
Daringly, he mimicked his Padawan’s caress over his now smooth cheek. “I love you, Obi-Wan,” he murmured. “Please. Please come back to me so I can tell you.”
--
YES!!! Obi-Wan all but threw himself into the bond, not caring for the shields in place, not caring a whit about propriety and about the lessons he had been drilled with when he was in the creche all those years ago. He barreled through his side, disoriented,
//Toofartoofaryou’vegonetoofarwhereamiwhat’shappeningthisfeelsstrangebutalsosocomfortable//
//Padawan! // His Master’s voice. Amazed. Confused. Worried. And definitely too close. //You went too far, my Obi-Wan. You need to go back to your own body. //
He almost whined at that prospect. He liked it here. It was warm and comfortable and it felt like his Qui-Gon and his Qui-Gon’s love was rushing into him he could feel it, feel it all and it felt so nice, there was no mistaking anything-
A chuckle, and a sickening shift, and suddenly he snapped awake into his own body, immediately trying to place himself in all of his confusion.
--
Qui-Gon held his hand against his apprentice’s shoulder, using the Force to alert the healer on duty to come at once. “Rest easy, Padawan. You’re safe, but you shouldn’t move.”
Obi-Wan managed a weak smile, and to stay awake for most of the healer’s tests. He passed out before they were done, which drew a shocked cry from Qui-Gon, who nearly bowled over the small healer before common sense told him the healer would know better than him if anything was wrong.
“All is well, Master Jinn. I suspect your Padawan is just worn out. A coma is not exactly a rest period, you know.”
He nodded, ears and neck burning. “Thank you, Healer Pth’Shora. Please forgive me my hastiness.”
Pth’Shora smiled gently and laid a small furred hand on his arm. “We’re all glad he’s back, Master Jinn. It’s to be expected that you’re a little…jumpy, after the situation that put him like this. Rest assured, he is well, and will wake up again. As I doubt that anyone will be able to get you to leave this room with even half as much success as they were able to before, I’ll see what I can do about food and holding off the Council for as long as possible.”
Qui-Gon smiled and nodded his thanks as the healer took their leave, turning back to the bed and grasping his apprentice’s hand, gasping when his hand was held in return. He did not sleep. He just watched Obi-Wan’s face, desperate to remember that sleep was different from a coma. He couldn’t resist quietly checking the bond once in a while, just to be sure.
--
As Healer Pth’Shora said, Obi-Wan did wake, and when he did, he turned an unimpressed eye upon his Master. “I know I look bad, Master, but what, did Hoth warm over or something? When was the last time you slept?”
Qui-Gon couldn’t resist smiling. “I’ve slept, Padawan.” A dubious brow rose. “Just not well, is all.”
Obi-Wan snorted, squeezing the hand he still held. He looked like he was about to say something, then changed his mind, and obviously switched tracks. “So how goes training
Anakin?” he asked neutrally.
Qui-Gon did his best not to stiffen or show any sign of outward disapproval. “He does well in the creche, where a child his age with no Temple background should be. And when the time comes, I’m sure he will make whichever Master or Knight proud.”
Obi-Wan looked shell-shocked. “You-you didn’t? I thought- “
“I was lost in the moment, Obi-Wan, and I owe you an apology. I did and said many things which caused you pain. Not the least of which is claiming some unknown boy just to throw a cog in the grove of the Council. It hurt you, rightfully so, and for that, I am so sorry.”
Obi-Wan blinked, and a few minutes passed as he stared at Qui-Gon. Finally, a soft, “I forgive you.”
--
“So if you haven’t been busy training Anakin, what have you been doing?”
Qui-Gon tried, and failed, to stifle a sigh as he set down the book he had just been reading to Obi-Wan. He had hoped to avoid this. “I visited with you and did my best to avoid cranky Councilors and to not irritate Healers, broken up by the odd trip to do solo katas as my favorite practice partner was woefully missing.”
Obi-Wan felt surprised; not unusual, since he had awoken from his coma a few days ago. “You’ve been planet bound for almost 5 months now? No Council baiting, no Healer terrorizing, no tormenting Master Nu with your late hour tea-fueled runs to the library?”
Qui-Gon laughed. “You’re right, Padawan mine, my life has been dreadfully boring these last months. I guess we’d best make sure you get better so you can help me terrorize these halls again. I have it on good authority that Jocasta Nu has gotten terribly comfortable ensconced in her safety.”
Obi-Wan chuckled, his joy lighting up the Force. The bond between them had never been clearer or easier to read. And since his little trip to his Master’s body, they both knew of their feelings for each other. They hadn’t said it yet, but that would come, with time. All things would.
Things settled comfortably between them; their fingers splayed together over an old bound novel that had been found in their shared quarters.
“I called out to you every day,” he whispered faintly.
Qui-Gon looked up from the book, perplexed. “Truly? Sometimes I thought I heard or felt something, but it was never a concrete enough feeling to be sure.”
Obi-Wan nodded, then looked up from their entwined fingers to stare directly into his Master’s stunning blue eyes. “Maybe you didn’t always hear me, but saying everything I said, every word I called out to you gave me the strength to come back to you. Made you real. Made this- “he stroked their strengthened bond “-real.”
Love shone in those bright blue eyes and found their equal match in eyes so changeable.