Work Text:
He was swimming with Bant in the Temple pools. He loved swimming with her, although she was so much faster, her sleek body made for the water. He loved how huge her eyes looked underwater, two luminous globes blinking at him, shining with mirth. He could sense her contentment, a communion between Bant and the Force and the cool, moving water. He had never felt so in tune with anything himself.
Nothing that felt like it belonged to him, but sometimes she would take his hand and together they would glide, bellies nearly skimming the bottom of the pool.
He was weightless then, and when they broke the surface, she grinned wildly at Obi-Wan. He gripped her fin tighter and grinned back. They bobbed there, letting the artificial waves dip and bounce around them.
“Open your eyes now,” Bant said suddenly, those dark, liquid pupils focused on him. She spoke very carefully, as if he would not understand.
And he didn’t understand. His eyes were already open, they had been looking at each other—
Except his eyelids were very heavy. He glanced down at the water, which came to his chest, but it was dark; he could not see his own kicking feet.
“Obi-Wan,” His friend peered at him closer, but her face was fading, coral scales dimming to grey at the edges. Her voice sounded muffled, “Open your eyes now and look at me.”
He tried to form words. He reached for her; his arm was so tired he couldn’t lift it. He was sinking, as if his pockets were filled with stones. A dull pain crawled up his legs, and he could not see Bant at all.
He could just hear a voice: “Obi-Wan, open your eyes now. Padawan.”
Padawan.
He was able to crack open one eyelid, enough to see the bleary smear of a face hovering above him. Not Bant.
Long hair, blue eyes.
“Mmm..” the name came to him, instinct. His lips felt swollen. “Masss…”
Something poked his back, and he realized he was not surrounded by soft water, nor was he floating freely alongside his best friend, safe within the confines of childhood. He recognized the hard floor beneath him as ship decking.
He did not recognize the pain, throbbing now, in his leg. His body wanted to go away from that, and Obi-Wan turned his face, feeling the water come along, a current, that could carry him back to sleep, to…
“Obi-Wan.”
The voice was firmer, and a hand was holding his chin.
He moaned. Some sickly ache was gathering in his temples, beating in opposite rhythm to the pain in his leg. “Master,” he finally mustered all the syllables, and he felt too terrible to care that it was more a whimper than anything else.
The hand drifted from his chin to his hair. Gentle touches. He sighed, because they were soft too, like the water, and he was very tired…
“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon tended to speak in mild tones, but there was a steel insistence to his voice that echoed in the Force.
Duty would not allow Obi-Wan to ignore that voice. Smoke stung his eyes when he pried them open again and tears ran down his cheeks.
Smoke. Crash.
He sucked in a sudden breath and tried to move. His leg screamed in protest. It took a moment for him to register that he was screaming too.
“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Qui-Gon said. His hands rested on Obi-Wan’s hair, his cheek, his chest. Obi-Wan felt the Force radiate through the physical contact. Master. He swallowed another helpless cry, wrenching his focus from the pain, from the fragmented memories of the crash.
Find your center.
He was a Jedi, a senior apprentice,and could not afford to wallow in shock. Something unforeseen had occurred, obviously. He was part of a team. He could help. There were things to be done, damage to assess, they needed to contact the Temple—
Stars, his head hurt. Obi-Wan leaned into Qui-Gon’s hand and held his breath while nausea roiled through him.
“Slow. Don’t overdo it.” Qui-Gon warned. His hands slid under Obi-Wan’s tunics, fingers roaming across his belly, pressing over vital organs.
Looking for injuries. I’m injured.
“Tell me if it hurts.”
Obi-Wan nodded stiffly. He glanced around the ship. It was not sitting at the correct angle, and he lowered his eyes, dizzy. Qui-Gon pushed on a sensitive spot just then, setting fire to his abdomen, and Obi-Wan hissed.
Not a good sign.
Qui-Gon sat back, running a hand through his hair. A cut on his forehead seeped with bright, fresh blood. “I’ve sent a message to the Council. Unfortunately, we’ve landed somewhere remote. We’ll need to gather what supplies we can salvage and look for shelter.”
“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan said. He cleared his throat. His mouth tasted of bitter metal. “I remember seeing a medkit...in the fresher?”
Qui-Gon brushed sweaty hair from Obi-Wan’s forehead. He smiled. He looked wearier than Obi-Wan could remember him looking before. “Very good, Padawan.”
Obi-Wan sensed tension and worry in the Force, leaking through Qui-Gon’s shields. Pain, too. Obi-Wan struggled to sit up. His midsection burned, and he gasped, taking Qui-Gon’s left hand when it was offered. He noticed his Master’s right arm was folded against his body.
Obi-Wan motioned toward the immobile arm. “Master—“
Qui-Gon rubbed his thumb absently along Obi-Wan’s knuckles. “Don’t mind that. Jostled a bit in our rather graceless descent.”
Obi-Wan lifted his brow. It seemed to be the only part of his body that didn’t hurt. “Why do I get the feeling you’re lying to me?” He was surprised by the feeble quality of his own voice.
“Don’t question your Master.” Qui-Gon evaded, resurrecting an old joke between them. But Obi-Wan knew by the line of Qui-Gon’s mouth that he was troubled. He grasped Obi-Wan’s chin again, lightly, and studied his eyes.
Obi-Wan held still, without blinking. For a few quiet seconds, Master and apprentice looked at each other closely in the ruined shell of their ship.
Qui-Gon’s eyes were pale and bloodshot. Fear stirred in Obi-Wan’s chest. He is injured. More than the arm. The man’s tunics were torn and bruises darkened the side of his face and neck.
“Does your head hurt?” Qui-Gon asked.
“Yes,” Obi-Wan replied, distracted by the scrapes and contusions that seemed to multiply the longer he stared. “Master, are you—“
“Hush,” Qui-Gon flattened his hand across Obi-Wan’s forehead.
Qui-Gon’s presence in the Force was soothing. Like water, his unobtrusive probes washing over Obi-Wan, and then retreating. Each time, the pain in his head lessened, and the nausea calmed. He could feel Qui-Gon’s heartbeat through his hand, a little pulse in the center of the wide palm.
He wanted to sleep.
“No, no,” Qui-Gon pulled his hand away, and took Obi-Wan by the arms. “Stay awake. We need to leave the ship soon. I’m going to search for supplies.”
Obi-Wan straightened, biting down on a wince that was part pain and part embarrassment. For Force’s sake, he had been near death before and still finished missions. He could handle a headache and a bruised leg, especially when Qui-Gon was injured, and there was so much to be done. “Master, I can—“
Qui-Gon held up a finger. “No, you won’t.” It occurred to Obi-Wan that he was being treated like a much younger apprentice, but he was also behaving as a first-year Padawan might, too caught up in his superficial discomfort to assist his Master in an emergency. “You will stay here and save what energy you can. I need you to be strong when the time comes to seek shelter.” Qui-Gon paused, straightening Obi-Wan’s ratted braid, “You will need to walk.”
Obi-Wan looked at his Master and nodded solemnly. The unspoken message passed between them: you will need to walk because I am in no shape to carry you.
He glanced down at his leg, and saw a mess of blood and bone. Hot nausea rushed up his throat before he could control himself.
Qui-Gon steadied him. “Remember, Padawan, these types of injuries can look worse than they are.”
“Yes, Master.” He said, dragging his eyes away. He didn’t know if Qui-Gon could sense the intense pain pulsating in that same leg, but Obi-Wan wasn’t going to tell him. Not now.
Qui-Gon patted his knee before rising, slowly and gingerly, to his feet. “Call to me if you need me, Padawan.”
Obi-Wan had not been a child in many years. He had not swum with Bant in the Temple pool since they were young Padawans. So he did not know why he felt his throat tighten when Qui-Gon stood, an immature longing rising up within him.
“Yes, Master,” He said, once he was certain he could speak. He watched Qui-Gon step over the debris strewn across the deck, and disappear around a corner.
Obi-Wan’s head throbbed. The smell of smoke hung in his nostrils, but he would not be so uncivilized as to vomit. He breathed out slowly and closed his eyes, only because the fluorescent ship lights were making him queasier, and Qui-Gon had not specifically said he needed to keep them open.
He looked for his center, that brightness inside him that could withstand pain and fear. It was there, on the horizon of his mind, surrounded by water.
He started swimming.
——
Qui-Gon limped to the lavatory, askew due to the ship’s unnatural tilt, the door crooked and stuck halfway open. He saw the medkit, still neatly stored under the small sink unit. He started to extend his fingers, to call the kit to him with the Force, until he thought better of it. He was already alarmingly exhausted, and he didn’t know how much longer he would need to stay awake, or what healing energies Obi-Wan would require.
Obi-Wan.
The name was enough to propel him forward, and he pushed the sliding door into the wall with his hands, grunting. Sweat rolled down his face, and he was panting when he stumbled into the narrow room. He grabbed the kit, and what other essentials he could stuff into the folds of his smoke-stained tunics. All the while, his Padawan’s mangled leg remained in the forefront of his thoughts.
He cannot lose it. I won’t allow him to lose it.
He had woken from the crash first, finding himself draped haphazardly over the console. He scrambled up before he could take stock of the damage to his own body, and began the search for his Padawan. He located Obi-Wan in the ship’s lounge, left leg pinned beneath a displaced hunk of steel.
Qui-Gon had used nearly all his remaining strength to fling the rubble away. Obi-Wan did not move once he was freed, and Qui-Gon had been seized by cold terror, feeling for Obi-Wan’s pulse with shaking fingers.
A subtle, uneven cadence met his touch.
Even now, he was lightheaded from relief, though he knew his apprentice was not out of medical danger. Neither was Qui-Gon himself, if he was being honest.
He had been cataloguing his injuries, as well as Obi-Wan’s. His arm was broken, that was obvious, but the less conspicuous injuries were more sinister. Internal bleeding, concussion. Ailments that he shared with Obi-Wan, but to what extent, he would not be sure until they located a safe place to settle. His skin was already slick and clammy from the short sojourn to the fresher, and he still needed to collect rations, water and blankets. He stepped carefully over the scattered innards of the ship. Obi-Wan remained a light in a corner of his mind, reassuring despite its flickering weakness.
I need to try to contact the Temple again. Let them know he is badly injured.
So badly injured. He could not recall hearing his Padawan scream like that, not ever. It made Qui-Gon feel helpless. As a Master, he should have been able to protect Obi-Wan from such pain. He should have sensed the impending crash sooner, kept Obi-Wan safe—
His head throbbed. Qui-Gon stopped in the crooked hallway, swallowing hard. He realized he was allowing his anxieties to run rampant, which would not help their situation. He needed to be calm and controlled, for Obi-Wan.
He is already worried about me. More than he is worried about himself. Qui-Gon was warmed by the thought, carrying the simple affection like a lantern to ease his path and soften his own worsening pain. Obi-Wan had looked after him from the beginning of their relationship, back on Bandomeer. Even as a young boy, his Padawan had been selfless, a natural caretaker...sometimes to a fault. And now Qui-Gon would need to be especially vigilant about those generous tendencies. He would not permit Obi-Wan to sacrifice himself, in any way, for his teacher. The very idea was anathema to a Jedi Master.
He did not care to live if Obi-Wan died.
He was filled with a sudden, dark dread, and hastened the rest of his tasks, grabbing water bulbs and protein packs, folding whatever he could find into a sheet-turned-sack. His heart thundered in his ears.
You fool, Jinn. His rational self chided, He is stronger than you think.
Certainly Obi-Wan was resilient, had survived dire circumstances with a wry smile on his face. But Qui-Gon couldn’t be sure how long it would take for reinforcements to arrive, and the medkit was woefully inadequate. He needed to get them to shelter before nightfall. Neither Master nor apprentice would be able to contend with the planet’s more vicious nocturnal creatures in their condition.
He left the collected supplies by the opened hatch, then hurried back in Obi-Wan’s direction. His right side burned with every step, and for a moment his vision spotted, and he bit the inside of his cheek. Sour saliva flooded his mouth.
Keep going. Obi-Wan.
He saw his Padawan, collapsed back on the decking. From a distance, his leg was one red, wet mass.
“Obi-Wan!” He shouted, closing the gap between them in a few swift bounds, heedless of the pain. Obi-Wan was unconscious. His head was rolled to the side, and a thin line of blood slid from the corner of his mouth.
Qu-Gon crouched down beside him, instinctively laying his hand over his Padawan’s heart.
An answering rhythm, and Qui-Gon swallowed, forcing himself to be calm. “Padawan, I need you to wake up now.” He said, taking Obi-Wan’s face in his hands. His pallor was too light, too grey. “Please, little one. I need you to obey me now.”
On command, Obi-Wan’s eyes fluttered open. He moaned and coughed. He glanced around the ship, openly confused. “Drowned?”
Qui-Gon frowned. He wiped the smear of blood from Obi-Wan’s bottom lip. “No, we’re alright. The engine malfunctioned. We’ve crashed. Do you remember?”
Obi-Wan sniffed. Qui-Gon noticed a purple bruise across the bridge of his nose. He wondered if it was broken too. His heart clutched up in his chest. He worried over what else he would discover, once there was time to properly examine his battered Padawan.
In the moment. Focus.
He always reminded Obi-Wan not to concern himself with the what-ifs, when there was now to content with.
And Obi-Wan always reminded him to heed his own advice.
Qui-Gon swallowed thickly and stroked Obi-Wan’s hair. “Padawan, can you tell me the last thing you remember?”
Obi-Wan blinked up at him. “I was swimming with Bant. Something grabbed my leg.”
Concussion.
With his cut face and wide, glassy eyes, Obi-Wan hardly looked like a Padawan a few years away from his trials. Instead Qui-Gon saw the inexperienced boy he started training eight years before. He saw vulnerability.
He saw someone who needed him to lead, whose life might depend upon it.
Qui-Gon exhaled, drawing his good arm around Obi-Wan’s shoulders. “We will talk more when we get to safety. Right now, I need you to sit up.”
“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan leaned forward as Qui-Gon pulled.
Qui-Gon could tell his Padawan was in great pain. Even if he had not felt the strain of it in the Force, he heard the muffled moans, caught behind Obi-Wan’s teeth. No doubt the movement was aggravating whatever internal injuries he garnered in the crash.
“That’s it,” Qui-Gon encouraged, and Obi-Wan reached for his hand. Qui-Gon gripped it tightly. “We’ll find the closest shelter. It won’t take long.” It couldn’t take long. He imagined both of them collapsing, Obi-Wan bleeding out, the scent of gore attracting creatures they could not possibly fight. He closed his eyes, willing the macabre vision to leave him. “And the Force will be with us,” he added, with a conviction he didn’t quite feel.
“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan answered.
———
Qui-Gon looked down the cluttered, crooked path that led to the hatch, and decided Obi-Wan could not avoid all the obstacles. Qui-Gon’s own ribs were broken, and there was a terrible burning in his gut. His right arm was useless. But he would need to carry his apprentice, at least to the hatch.
Thankfully, Obi-Wan had shaken off his delirium. His face was pale, covered in a sheen of sweat, but his eyes had turned stoic, determined. He stood on his good foot, bracing himself on Qui-Gon’s good shoulder. He did an honorable job of controlling his pain, Qui-Gon noted with weary pride.
“I can do it,” Obi-Wan said, “if I just…”
But Qui-Gon knew Obi-Wan could not, just as he knew he would not allow Obi-Wan to try. “Preserve your strength when you can, Padawan. Recognize your limits, take help when it is necessary.” He glanced up at him, “Especially when it is your Master offering the help. Know I have your best interests at heart, always.”
Obi-Wan swallowed. “And what about your best interests?”
He had always been this way, since he was very young. Qui-Gon could not stop the smile from twitching the corner of his mouth. He felt the warmth of Obi-Wan’s affection, simple and pure, stronger than the physical suffering they both endured. “Your best interests are mine. And I do not intend to die here, Obi-Wan. Let me carry you when I can.”
Obi-Wan paused, brows knit, visibly turning the options over in his head. “Alright,” he murmured.
It was a lot of awkward, slow maneuvering before Obi-Wan’s arms wrapped around his neck, and Qui-Gon lifted him with his left arm. “Hold on,” his voice was already labored. His body was a single vibrating pain. The edges of his vision blurred and his head pounded. “Hold onto me. I’m going to start walking now.”
With his first step, Obi-Wan cried out with such intensity that Qui-Gon stopped. “I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan gulped, in apology for the outburst and Qui-Gon felt warm tears against his neck. He clutched Obi-Wan closer.
“You’re doing so well.” Qui-Gon said, to spur them both on. Water ran freely from his eyes. “It’s not far. I see the door right there, Padawan. That’s it, hold on.”