Work Text:
Feemor has never been much of a Temple Jedi. He likes his long missions and his faraway quests, and the - everything that had happened with Master Jinn had given him a good enough reason to want to do his best to avoid ever seeing him again, and Jocasta offered him a position in her Explorcorps a few weeks ago for a reason.
He thinks he might say yes. He’s good, just as a normal Master, very good, but he could be great in the Explorcorps.
Maybe that was what the Force was trying to tell him, when it killed his first master and had his second repudiate him. That he was meant for something else. Something different. Maybe believing that would just be wishful thinking from a desperate man who he doesn’t want to see himself become.
He’s in the Outer Rim, on Seswenna, blonde hair growing longer as he negotiates peace, keeps a civil war from breaking out. He doesn’t let it get too long. Too familiar. He can’t, even if Rael, during his latest semi-rare holocall with his usual relaxed amusement, told him that the shaggy look suited him.
He remembers, distinctly, the feel of a bright green lightsaber slicing through his Padawan braid, and the memory shouldn’t make something in his chest burn, but it does. It does.
There is a part of him that knows before the call comes through.
There is a part of him that knows, deep and pained, a sudden hollowness in the Force behind the barrier of repudiation and years of betrayed confusion, before the tiny blue figure of Depa flickers into view.
“Master Billaba,” he says, and it doesn’t sound as warm as it should, as warm as he wants it to. She’s his crechemate, his good friend, he cares for her greatly, and there is something stuck in his throat, hurt that is reflected in her dark, sorrowful eyes. “It’s good to see you.”
“You as well, my old friend,” she replies, tone so gentle that he almost wants to snap at her, wants to say Just tell me already. Just say it. Just say it, “but I’m afraid that I don’t come bearing good news.”
“What is it?”
"Master Jinn was killed by a Sith Lord on Naboo. His padawan survived the fight and slew the Sith, but… I’m very sorry, Feemor.”
He tastes ash, choking on it, and his tongue feels like lead, weighted down and unable to move. There are so many things that he can - should say to her, assurances, condolences, meaningless platitudes. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t. Instead, all that he has to offer is a very slow, very cold, “Why are you telling me this?”
To Depa’s credit, she doesn’t look surprised. She knows him far too well for that, had come and sat with him after his repudiation, making him his favorite tea and offering the little counsel she could. Mostly, though, they were silent. They were silent, because what could you really say, when faced with a thing like that? Feemor didn’t know. Feemor has never known. Now, he isn’t sure he ever will.
“I know you still care for him,” she says, and he can’t say that she’s wrong. “His vigil is tonight. We are sending another Jedi to take your place for a time, if you would like to come back to the Temple.” It’s less of an optional thing than she’s making it sound, he knows. The Council likes to keep close watch on Jedi who are grieving. To provide support. He wonders how long it took them to realize that he might be affected, if Depa had had to remind them that there was another former Padawan of Master Jinn’s out there, not just Obi-Wan.
He wishes that she hadn’t. That he could stay here on Seswenna, where he’s needed, and finish writing this treaty. He knows this situation better than anyone else. He could make that argument, and another councilmember might listen - but this isn’t another councilmember, this is Depa, and she can see right through him and has never been known for easily changing her mind once she sets it on something.
“I won’t make it back in time for the vigil.”
“I know,” she says, voice still soft, even as he sits down heavily. “Just come home.”
Rael is waiting for Feemor when he arrives at the Temple the next night, the signature spark in the older man’s eyes gone. He looks as sober as Feemor has ever seen him, and nowhere near as shattered as he was after Nim, but there’s a similar weight that has settled onto his shoulders, a similar tiredness. Rael has always carried grief like a ball and chain, has always let it drag him under, and Feemor isn’t sure he has the strength to stop even only himself from drowning.
“How was the vigil?”
Rael shrugs, an attempt at his usual carelessness that doesn’t exactly succeed. “Don’t know,” he replies. “I didn’t go.”
“Ah. Were you on a mission?”
“No. I didn’t want to. Seriously, if one more person had told me they were sorry for my loss, I woulda pulled out my saber in the middle of the ceremony.” Feemor lets a hint of a smile grace his face, but it’s faint, strained. “I stayed in the Archives with Jo and listened to her complain about a mistranslation in a copy of some Rodian play she’d been going over.”
Feemor almost manages a laugh, but it comes out slightly choked, twisted up like he can’t breathe properly, and Rael doesn’t point it out, doesn’t offer up any bullshit concern, just puts a hand on his shoulder and turns him around, away from the Temple.
“Trust me, kid,” he says. “You don’t really wanna go in there.”
He’s right. Rael, Feemor has learned, is right most of the time, even if he doesn’t want anyone to know it. He’d probably say that he only wants that because it gives him less work to do. Feemor would say that it was so that he didn’t have to worry about failing someone again, because now no one would put any faith in him in the first place.
Sometimes, you lie to yourself so much that you forget what the truth is.
He’s not sure if it’s a gift or a curse.
Feemor looks incredibly out of place in the small, seedy bar they make their way into - his robes too crisply perfect, his gaze too bright and clear, shoulders too wide and strong without any malice in them. Rael, on the other hand, fits in like he always has, fierce and lazily relaxed at the same time. He leans back in his chair, and Feemor stares down into his drink, and there’s a painful for a moment.
Rael breaks it easily, so calm and casual it almost annoys Feemor, almost makes him want to grab him and ask How the hell are you okay right now? Almost. Almost. He’s not sure if it’s because he loves Rael too much or Master Jinn too little, but either way it’s only an almost.
“When was the last time you two spoke?”
There’s another silent question lurking beneath it, a did you two ever work your shit out that they both know the answer to, and Feemor just shakes his head. “Right before Xanatos Fell,” he says, voice painfully quiet, so much so that Rael has to strain to hear it over the general hubbub of the bar. “We sparred. I tried to reach out to him after the mission, but-”
“Radio silence?”
“Radio silence,” Feemor agrees, taking a small sip from his drink, barely noticing the burn. He hadn’t liked any part of the repudiation, but - it was the silence that had hurt him the most. The way that Master Jinn had never explained what had happened, what Feemor had done so horribly wrong that he didn’t even deserve to be called his former Padawan anymore. The knowing could have just made everything worse, but at least he would have something solid to hold onto, something to never do again, something more than just endless uncertainty and what ifs that had for so long kept him from falling asleep at night.
Rael hums, dark gaze piercing, like he can track every spiraling thought in Feemor’s mind. “You deserved better than that.”
“I don’t know if I did.” The admission stings, and the Corellian whiskey doesn’t make it feel any better, but he drains his glass anyways. He thinks that this might be what heartbreak tastes like, and his calm veneer never cracks. He’s the epitome of Jedi cool, even now, when he feels anything but it.
“Yeah, you did,” Rael replies, and the words are nonchalant and still firm, convinced. “You were a good Padawan, you’re a great Jedi. Nothin’ but the best. You deserved better. You jus’ did. That’s that.”
“You think so?”
“Would I be sayin’ shit like that if I didn't think so?”
Feemor pulls his lips up into a hint of a smile, crooked and not quite right around the edges. “Fair enough.” He eyes up the divots on the bar below him thoughtfully, like he’s going to find history in every scratch, like it’ll bring him some kind of peace. “After...it, I went to the Archives. I looked through the records for repudiations. All of them.”
“Stars, kid, why-“
“I was just glad that I wasn’t the first.”
“Fuck,” Rael says, and it’s almost a laugh, bubbling with incredulity. “Fuck! He really fucked you up, didn’t he?” The look Feemor gives him is entirely unamused, but Rael either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, patting him on the shoulder. “He was always good at that. Being cryptic as shit and messing with your head.”
“He wasn’t a bad master.” He sounds a little too defensive, he always does. Still jumping to protect him, to have Master Jinn’s back, even when he didn’t do the same.
“I know he wasn’t,” Rael says. “You two’re the best when you were training together, I remember tha’. He just fucked you up after-the-fact. Which really takes a special kinda skill, if you ask me.”
“Haven’t you ever heard that you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead?”
“‘m his brother. I can talk as much shit as I want whenever I want.” Feemor looks down, unable to come up with any real response, and so Rael continues. “Y’know what I think this is? You’ve never let yourself be angry with him, Feemor.” The humor has drained away from his voice now, replaced with that seriousness that he rarely shows. “You don’t gotta hate him. Shit, you can love him, he’s important to ya. But you can’t just make yourself come up with excuses for him forever and put all the blame on you. He fucked you over. Admit it, ‘n’ deal with it from there.”
“You...might have a point.”
“Goddamn right I do.”
“He fucked me up,” Feemor echoes softly, and Rael nods.
“Yeah. But you’re gonna make it out alright, eventually.”
“I didn’t think you were an optimist.”
He snorts, finishing his drink. “Definitely not. I just got a good feeling about you, tha’s all. You can be more than just fucked up."
"So can you."
He chuckles, signals the bartender for a refill. "'s a little too late for me."
They go back to the Temple when night has already fallen, although it’s far from dark out, natural light replaced with the neverending hum and buzz of the city around them. Neither of them are willing to face the questions that are guaranteed to come yet, and so they take a seat on the back steps, high in the air, still under the watchful eyes of the Temple Guard. Rael smokes, and Feemor watches the sky, counting stars and distant planets, remembering.
Years ago, when he was a Padawan, aching from his first master’s death, Master Jinn had taken him to Felucia. It was only their second mission together, and they were both still learning how the other fought, slowly starting to settle into the easy rhythm they would come to be known for years later. Feemor hadn’t been sure what to make of Master Jinn - he wasn’t that much older than Feemor himself, cryptic and slightly impulsive, filled with a wanderlust and an attunement to the Living Force that Feemor would eventually grow to understand, even to share. But he hadn’t then, not yet. He had been uncharacteristically tired and tense, grieving and focused with a single minded determination on the task at hand.
And so when Master Jinn had broken away from tending the fire in their little camp and climbed the nearest tree, beckoning for Feemor to follow him, his first thoughts hadn’t been charitable, spiking with sharp annoyance. He maintained his usual calm composure anyways, slowly rising to his feet and following his master. The bark was harsh under his hands, but he barely noticed, hauling himself up and making his way to where Master Jinn sat with his head tilted back, looking up at the stars.
“Master?”
Master Jinn gave him a half smile, inscrutable and infuriating, directing his attention towards one portion of the sky. “Coruscant is in that direction, half a galaxy away. Reach out in the Force, Feemor. Can you feel the Temple?”
Feemor hesitated for half of a heartbeat, and then concentrated, closing his eyes and letting the Light carry him along until he found it, that nexus of warmth, that feeling of home . “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I can feel it.”
“Isn’t it beautiful?”
He frowned slightly, opening his eyes again, not entirely sure what his master meant - the stars exploded with a brilliant light, a glowing pathway showing him the way back. Always showing him the way back. His surprise must have shown, because Master Jinn had chuckled quietly, radiating warmth.
“It’s beautiful,” Feemor echoed, and Master Jinn had placed a hand on his shoulder, and they had watched the sky, and for the first time in months, Feemor had felt safe. Comfortable. Surrounded by family.
Now, he hasn’t felt that way in too long. Longer than he’ll admit. He’s raised a Padawan, and he loves her dearly, he has Rael and Depa, but there is an emptiness where his security should be, where his trust in their care should be.
He takes a deep breath, squeezing his eyes closed, and feels the rush of the warm Felucian air again, the echoing ghost of his master’s smile, and he thinks that if he looks he’ll find Master Jinn, standing in front of him. He knows his heart can’t bear the absence, and so he doesn’t.
He doesn’t.
When his shoulders start shaking, Rael carefully snuffs out his cigarette on the stone steps and wraps an arm around him, and Feemor breaks under the familiarity of it.
“I miss you,” he mumbles, barely getting the words out, muffled by tears he’s trying to push down and the rough fabric of Rael’s cloak. “I miss you so much.”
Master Jinn doesn’t answer.
But it’s been years. Feemor’s used to that.