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The rickety little tavern they’d found themselves in for the night smelled absolutely horrid, and yet after nearly a week of enduring the outdoors, none of them dared to say a word of complaint—and wasn’t that a welcome change, because towards the tail end of their prolonged stay in the wilderness, Qui-Gon had begun to worry that the underhanded comments and pointless bickering between his two companions was close to boiling over into the spectacular outburst that would be the nail in the coffin of their little group’s fragile peace.
Now, though, such fears had been long since dismissed, aided by the fact that not one of them had spoken for some time now—a mercy that Qui-Gon can attribute, in no small part, to the fact that they each had a meal in front of them, a meal far more substantial than the berries and leaves they’d been foraging for some time. From the moment that Qui-Gon had handed over a few credits to the Twi’lek woman behind the counter and returned to Obi-Wan and Satine to set down three trays of food—warm food, at that—there had been little need for conversation, everyone far too eager to alleviate the dull ache of hunger that had become the fourth member of their party.
Though Qui-Gon had managed out a warning when he’d first brought over the meals, urging both of his charges to eat slowly, lest they make themselves sick, it appeared now to be a warning which both of them had readily ignored, scoffing down the food as though it might disappear in only a few moments—and Qui-Gon, too, for all the discipline he’d thought to have mastered, hadn’t been quite able to maintain a slow pace for very long. Were he more stern of a master, he might have chided his padawan, at the very least, might have warned him that self-restraint was essential to the life and practice of a Jedi—but kark, given that this ramshackle village was the first opportunity they’d had to feel once more like beings in a normal world, Qui-Gon had rather quickly decided that allowing his padawan this small happiness would do no harm to the boy’s training, no harm at all. If he were truly lucky… perhaps it might even lighten his spirits moving forward, as well as those of the Duchess, and then, well, Qui-Gon might be spared the bickering that seemed to endlessly envelop the two.
If only I could be so lucky.
Force knew he’d never been quite as grateful for silence as he was now—only perhaps silence was a rather inaccurate description, given that the tavern around them was all but bursting with life, in a manner Qui-Gon knew from experience could only be attributed to the one gathering place of an isolated village, the one place where everyone in town could convene to eat, drink, and be merry. The village was small enough and far enough into the wilderness for Qui-Gon to feel rather confident in the fact that it was unlikely to entertain very many off-world visitors or non-natives (namely the bounty hunters in pursuit of the Duchess), though he had been cautious, nevertheless, when approaching the small, dilapidated building towards the center of the settlement, hoping for an inn, something that might provide them with some sorely needed comfort…
… and instead, they’d found this, and Qui-Gon wasn’t yet certain how he felt.
The tavern, at least, had been able to provide them with a hot meal, with the ability to sit, rest their feet, blend in with a crowd, even if said crowd was a rather rambunctious amalgamation of villagers of assorted species, drinking and chattering and cheering. It was a lot for even Qui-Gon’s senses, after so long in the relative quiet of nature, and that was before he took into account the horrible stench of incredibly potent home-brewed alcohol that filled the air (this place was remote enough that any off-world supply was likely rare, and that the one and only reason Qui-Gon had ordered only water for himself, unwilling to trust the brewing talents of an unknown people), or the perpetual stickiness of the table at which they sat, enough to make him mindful of where, exactly, he rested his arms, or the heat that came with so many bodies pressed into such a small space—yet for all of that, a glance up at his companions told him that if they minded any of it, they certainly weren’t showing as much.
Obi-Wan had enough food in his mouth to cause his cheeks to puff slightly, and Satine, in a manner far removed from the poise and grace with which she usually held herself, was scraping the last bits of sauce from her plate, which had been otherwise cleared. Qui-Gon couldn’t fight the amused smile that rose to his lips.
“The food’s that good, is it?”
Obi-Wan’s mouth was too full for him to give much of a smile, let alone a response, but Satine broke into a wide grin, a shine to her eyes that Qui-Gon hadn’t yet seen. She looked utterly ecstatic, as though the worries of life on the run, her concern for her planet, her people, couldn’t be further from her mind— good, Qui-Gon thought. She needs some time without worry.
“The best I’ve ever had, Master Jinn,” she said, exuding confidence and joyfulness in a welcome change from the weariness they’d all previously carried, and Qui-Gon permitted his smile to grow to match her grin. The food, he knew, they all knew, was nothing spectacular—but it was warm, and they were hungry, and that was enough to fill them all with some sort of glee.
“I’m glad to hear it,” he returned warmly, feeling the slightest soreness in his cheeks—how long had it been since he’d last smiled so freely, since any of them had?—before he sat back, giving a glance to their surroundings. “It seems we’ve happened upon a rather interesting resting place.”
Interesting was one word for it. Qui-Gon’s gaze scanned their crowd once more, surveying the many species he found there. Even this far from any large civilization, there was no way to be certain that they were free of any unsavory characters, that no bounty hunters had quietly and carefully followed them in, yet every being Qui-Gon laid eyes upon seemed entirely uninterested in him or his companions, not when they had plenty of drinking and conversation to occupy their time—and music as well, music that Qui-Gon could hear now, even over the din of the crowd’s cheering and shouting and chatter.
It was an energetic sort of music, a heavy beat made light by a constant and lively melody overtop it. Qui-Gon’s eyes searched between the many bodies of the crowd for the source of the noise before finally eyeing the small group sat up in the corner—four or five individuals, each a different species, and each with their own instrument. He could make out some sort of drum, looking somewhat familiar to his eyes, though he’d never had very much experience with music in even a broad sense, let alone instruments themselves—but the rest of the instruments were foreign as could be, a collection of odd-looking shapes that each provided a unique sound, whether by blowing through a mouthpiece or working an array of strings. Odd as they might have looked, though, the music they collectively produced was pleasing to the ears, in a joyous sort of way—a way that seemed suited for dancing, and within a few moments, it became evident that dancing was precisely the goal of the band’s tune.
It started with one couple—a pair of young women, young and grinning ear to ear and from the slight stumble to their gaits, slightly intoxicated as well. Hands clasped, one of the pair pulled her partner along until they stood in the center of the tavern’s open floor, far from the bar or any of the tables hugging the wall— and then the dancing began, with only the two of them, still hand in hand, breathless and beaming as they met the tempo with quick steps of their own, laughing and shouting. There was no definitive technique to their dance, or at least, not one that Qui-Gon could observe, only jumping and spinning and dancing in a manner he could only describe as festive, each woman seeming utterly exuberant with joy—and it was no wonder, then, that they drew the notice of more than only Qui-Gon’s gaze.
In short order, the crowd of the tavern had begun to crowd around them, providing enough empty space for their continued dancing. Half of their observers cheered, clapping to the beat, shouting and egging the duo on, while the other half joined in. Friends pulled friends to the floor, lovers shared a kiss before stepping out, joining the upbeat jig with laughter and smiles, and it seemed that even a parent joined in, taking two small children by the hand before pulling them out into the open to spin them each around, much to their obvious delight.
It was such a sudden display of spirit, of community, of happiness, resonating vividly in the Force, that Qui-Gon hadn’t realized he’d been staring until he pulled his eyes away. To his relief, he wasn’t the only one to have been distracted in such a manner. Both Obi-Wan and Satine gazed off towards the crowd, somewhere between curiosity and astonishment, and Qui-Gon cleared his throat, going for that innocently amused tone he employed so often.
“Lively crowd.”
Both sets of eyes turned his way, and this time, finished with his meal, Obi-Wan was the first to break into a smile, familiar with his master’s sense of humor. “You could say that,” he countered, just as casually.
“I’ve never seen dancing like that,” Satine confessed—and then, as though realizing that she’d drawn the attention of both Jedi and embarrassed that she might have proven herself to be less than worldly in her lack of knowledge, averted her gaze back to the crowd, her gaze distant and thoughtful. “It’s certainly… interesting.”
Obi-Wan laughed, which made Satine’s eyes snap back to him, and Qui-Gon braced himself, sensing that his short reprieve from their quarreling might have come to an early end. “They look like a bunch of jumping gizka,” he said lightly, that somewhat cocky grin on his face, as though he knew he was provoking Satine and was delighted to do it—and knowing his padawan’s temper, Qui-Gon was fairly sure that was an accurate assessment.
“They look like they’re having fun,” Satine countered sharply, her lips curling into the slightest frown, and then, as though she couldn’t help herself, she continued with another characteristically pointed quip, “though you wouldn’t know anything about that.”
The edge to her tone was nothing new to Qui-Gon’s ears, let alone to Obi-Wan’s. For all the beings in the galaxy, Satine Kryze might have been the only one to rival Obi-Wan in temper, and every passing day of their journey, Qui-Gon questioned why the Force had seen fit to bring such fiercely clashing personalities together—and, more importantly, why it had decided that he should be the one responsible for both of them.
Satine’s retort wasn’t biting enough to affect Obi-Wan just yet—though inevitably, they would get to that point, if only because they always seemed to. To his credit—Qui-Gon knew his padawan’s temper far too well—Obi-Wan brushed the comment off coolly enough for Qui-Gon to know he’d put effort into it, his arms coming to cross over his chest. “I know plenty about having fun.”
Now, it was Satine’s turn to laugh, though her laugh was more like a dry huff of breath. “I’m sure you do, being a Jedi, and all.” She sat, satisfied with her words for a passing moment, before her gaze flashed towards Qui-Gon, suddenly alert and apologetic. “No offense, Master Jinn.”
Despite himself, despite the fact that he should have been putting an end to their bickering rather than drawing amusement from it, Qui-Gon smiled, giving her a small nod. “None taken, Duchess.”
Content that she hadn’t upset Qui-Gon, Satine turned once more to Obi-Wan, finding him leveling her with just as stern of a glare as she usually shot his way, and he met her gaze with another rebuttal, this time betraying a bit more annoyance than before, either not realizing that showing such emotion would only spur Satine on further, or too wrapped up in his irritation to care. “I don’t need to dance to have fun.”
Satine, clearly pleased with herself for managing to get a rise out of him, however slight, raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, her tone dryly satisfied. “Don’t you?”
Obi-Wan’s cheeks gained their first flush of color, a flicker of frustration flashing in his eyes—she’s winning this one so far, Qui-Gon noted. “No, I don’t,” he insisted, more passionate this time, ready to spit out another retort—
“Excuse me,” came a voice from their side—loud with the effort of being heard over the roar of music and the sound of the crowd, but otherwise soft in a way that might’ve indicated something like shyness—and all three pairs of eyes were turned on their visitor, their small group operating in sync just as one too many life-or-death situations had forced them to.
The mildly amused smile that Qui-Gon had previously worn fell in a moment as his gaze landed on the young Pantoran woman that had, somehow, crept up to their table beyond his notice—had he really been so distracted by the bickering of his companions?—and given the way Obi-Wan shifted almost uncomfortably when the woman’s light yellow eyes landed on him, his padawan hadn’t noticed her approach either. So much for being observant Jedi.
“Hello,” Obi-Wan greeted, as it was clear that the Pantoran’s attention was focused distinctly on him, rather than his companions. His hesitance showed in the awkward lilt to his voice, in the lingering flush to his cheeks, and Qui-Gon had little doubt that he was trying to discern the woman’s intentions in his mind, trying to assess her as a threat. Qui-Gon himself was doing the same, all too aware that bounty hunters could sometimes appear rather unassuming if they so chose—though after a moment, the hand that had come to ghost over his saber where it rested on his hip stilled, confident in the fact that he could feel no ill intent radiating off of the woman in the Force.
A moment passed—a beat, in which Obi-Wan and the Pantoran woman rather awkwardly stared at one another, in which Satine’s gaze, somewhat narrowed in suspicion, landed on the woman as well, in which Qui-Gon observed, withdrawn and careful—and then Obi-Wan swallowed, and found his voice again, sounding a fraction more like himself this time, though Qui-Gon still held onto a fraction of worry—had Satine’s jabs really thrown him so off balance?
“Is there something we can help you with?” His padawan’s voice was clearer now, and crisper, too, that tone that he tended to use on missions—and in response, the Pantoran’s cheeks flushed a darker blue.
“Um, yes, actually,” the woman rushed out, all at once, eyes still locked on Obi-Wan, and Qui-Gon had to wonder if he hadn’t been wrong in his initial judgement, if the peculiar way that she was so focused on his padawan was indication enough that something was wrong here… but then the woman continued on, seemingly just as frazzled and awkward as Obi-Wan had been moments before, and finally, the pieces clicked into place.
“Would you like to dance?”
The wave of shock that resonated through their bond made it clear that the question was not one that Obi-Wan was anticipating, and though perhaps he should’ve taken pity on his padawan for his clear surprise, for the way he was left scrambling for his wits once more, now disarmed further than Satine’s comments had managed… Qui-Gon couldn’t help but allow himself a small, amused smile as Obi-Wan, after processing the words for several moments, finally responded with a wide-eyed, “what?”
That dark blue blush on the woman’s cheeks deepened at his response, and suddenly, Obi-Wan’s unease was replicated in her expression as well. “I was wondering if you’d like to dance, is all,” she repeated, and then, as though realizing that her voice had become quieter in her shyness, nearly too quiet to be heard over the buzz of the tavern, added on a bit more loudly, “if you wanted to dance, um—with me.”
Obi-Wan stared for another long moment, and Qui-Gon wondered if his padawan had always been so awkward, or if Satine’s prodding really did have such a pronounced effect. “… dance?” He spoke the word as though he hardly had any understanding of the concept, as though they weren’t surrounded with a rather large, vigorously dancing crowd. The Pantoran girl nodded, the flash of hope that Qui-Gon had come to recognize in her eyes quickly beginning to fade with each moment of Obi-Wan’s continued gaze, her shoulders deflating, and yet still she opened her mouth as to speak, to clarify her question once more—and this time, it was her who was interrupted.
“Dance, Obi,” Satine said coolly, drawing Obi-Wan’s gaze at the sound of her voice, and drawing Qui-Gon’s interest, too, at the peculiar tone she’d taken up, firm and yet too carefully controlled, in a way that even he was hard-pressed to see through—“You know what she’s saying, don’t be silly. Having fun—I thought you were supposed to know all about that, weren’t you?”
The chilled tone she’d taken up, while unfamiliar and a bit perplexing to Qui-Gon, had clearly drawn Obi-Wan’s attention—and with that, it seemed that her goal was accomplished. The weary surprise that he’d worn faded gradually as previous taunts and provocations came to mind, and with them, the recognition that Satine had just presented him with a challenge. She might very well had simply told him to prove it, prove you can have fun, prove you can enjoy something— and Qui-Gon knew too well that Obi-Wan never could back down from a challenge. Something seemed to click in Obi-Wan’s mind, his uncertainty replaced with hardened determination, and a moment later, he was meeting the Pantoran woman’s gaze with newfound confidence.
“Alright.” Obi-Wan had risen to his feet in a moment, too quick for even Qui-Gon to truly process the movement. There was a surge of emotion through their bond that Qui-Gon couldn’t place, but which was nevertheless surprising in its intensity as Obi-Wan held himself with new conviction, a new strength—“Alright. Let’s dance.”
The woman’s eyes widened in surprise, a wide grin quickly forming on her lips nonetheless, and without another word, her hand was reaching out to Obi-Wan’s own. “Come on, then,” she said, replicating his confidence just as she had his uncertainty—and with one last wide-eyed look shot towards his master, Obi-Wan was stumbling along into the middle crowd with her, hand in hand.
The band’s music had swelled to a crescendo, now, so loud and lively that any conversation below the level of shouting would’ve been impossible to hear, yet for most of the patrons of the little tavern, already on their feet, that didn’t appear to be an issue. Qui-Gon watched, an amused twinkle in his eye that he made no effort to conceal, as his padawan became one with the swarm of people in between the tables and the bar, as he joined a line of strangers with interlocked hands, the Pantoran girl by his side through it all. The smiles on their faces matched those of the other patrons, joyful and free, and after months on the run… it felt good, Qui-Gon had to admit, to see his serious, somber padawan letting loose somewhat.
Or, rather, it was, until Qui-Gon finally peeled his eyes away from the dancing and commotion, turning back to his drink and catching a glimpse of Satine, her light eyes utterly fastened on the dancing form of his padawan, on his hand, finers intertwined with the Pantoran girl’s, and her lips pressed into a thin, thin line.
Ah. If there was anything worse than having his two companions constantly at one another’s necks… well, this might very well be it.
Satine, for all that she had proven surprisingly observant out in the wilderness, didn’t seem to notice Qui-Gon’s gaze landing squarely on her—and so, to maintain the air of politeness required of a Jedi master, he cleared his throat lightly, watching as she startled slightly, her eyes quickly flashing towards him.
“I’m sure you could join them, if you like,” Qui-Gon said, light and warm and hopefully encouraging, and reached for his glass. “In a crowd like that, I doubt anyone would have the time to recognize you.”
Satine blinked once, as though the idea hadn’t quite occurred to her—and then, regaining the practiced composure of a duchess, she shook her head. “I don’t quite feel like dancing, Master Jinn. But—thank you.” Her voice was a carefully even tone—too carefully even, to the point of sounding just a bit unnatural—and again, her eyes drifted to the makeshift dance floor, to Obi-Wan, smiling and laughing and lifting his hand to give the Pantoran girl a twirl.
Her eyes shifted again, this time into something that looked like longing. Qui-Gon mulled over words that seemed to be on the tip of his tongue—gentle reassurance, useless small talk, quiet conversation that both of them would struggle to hear over the roar of the band and the laughter of the dancers—yet in the end, he simply brought his drink to his lips, taking one long sip and offering a brief plea to the Force for the two relentlessly stubborn young people he’d been charged with.
The next few months, Qui-Gon suddenly felt, would be a long few months indeed.