Archive of Our Own

Blood.

Death.

Murder.

Children around him dying, being shot, being stabbed, being blown up, being caught with bare hands and bodily dragged Force knew where, because Obi-Wan always lost track in the chaos, even when he didn't mean to.

Cerasi's face moments before she died, and moment's afterwards. Bruck's, too. Nield's angry, accusing face morphing to Xanatos' smug cruelty, changing back to Qui-Gon, righteous and haughty and so, so disappointed.

Blood staining the deep pools of the Room of a Thousand Fountains, blastershots echoing in the Temple, water overflowing into the many tunnels of the Young and drowning them all, flushing their small, weary, dirty bodies out until they were lifeless and bloated, just like Bant, trapped and screaming with breath she didn't have, while Obi-Wan screamed too, held down and pinned, with breath being choked out of him by--by--who was it?

Was it the piercing glee of Xanatos' eyes he saw or was it the sharp coldness of Qui-Gon's or was it the rage and unearned justice in Wehutti's--he didn't know--he just knew he was dying with someone's hands around his neck, screaming even as he choked, as the pools in the Room of a Thousand Fountains turned red from below, turned black with acid, as a dying, burning figure stepped from the water, laughing and laughing and laughing--

Maybe it was Guerra he saw before him, cackling even as he worked to his death, burning even as he worked underwater, maybe it was Jono's hands on his neck, that terrible, horrible sneer smeared across his face, maybe it was Si Treemba under the water, crying and begging as he was burned alive in liquid from the machinations of someone stronger than him, maybe it was all of them, and Obi-Wan was as helpless as ever, as he had ever been, even as he trained to be a Jedi, until he wasn't, and then he was, and he wasn't, and he was dying, crying, he couldn't breathe, his eyes were wide and unseeing caught in the sight of the sizzling black water and the oddly shaped twitching figure that approached slowly, too fast, almost on him now. The pain of the air in his chest being strangled from him burned and he heard things from the body on top of him, trapping him, things he couldn't make out or understand but were undeniably angry, all of them accusing, all of them saying the same thing: his fault. His fault. His fault. He deserved this.

All of them saying the same thing: Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan. Obi-wan!

"Obi-Wan!" the voice said, urgent and startling and loud to his unprepared psyche.

Obi-Wan jerked, heart racing without knowing why, thoughtlessly backing up away from the figure beside him without knowing who, just that he was afraid and this shouldn't be happening--he should be safe--he was never safe, none of them were, it was a war, did he fall asleep on shift, were they being attacked--the figure was dark like the one who stepped out of the pool, who was mad with mindless joy and pain, and he flinched when hands brushed his arms, and something that might've been a cry or a whimper or just a gasp escaped him in a motion he felt more than heard--

"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said softly. His voice was so soft, Obi-Wan had never heard it so soft before, except for when he had had that awful panic creep over him when Bant had been taken and Qui-Gon had knelt beside him and gently talked him through the feeling until he could breathe again. Like Qui-Gon was beside him now, kneeling with one knee on his bed as he leaned over and apparently shook him awake. His hands hovered somewhere near his own stomach, hesitating, seemingly afraid to touch him after Obi-Wan had pulled away. His face was calm, but grim. There were lines around his eyes that Obi-Wan could just make out in the dark of his room.

That was wrong, Obi-Wan thought. Qui-Gon should not be the one anxious. Obi-Wan was the one who had failed him, not the other way around.

"Padawan," Qui-Gon said more clearly, noticing his awareness returning to him now, or maybe it was just clearer because Obi-Wan could notice it now that his awareness was returning to him. "You were dreaming," he murmured. "You had a nightmare."

Obi-Wan swallowed. His throat was so dry it hurt. He realized he was shaking, arms barely holding himself up, legs weak even as he sat against the wall at the head of his bed with them pulled up part-way. He couldn't speak. He wouldn't know what to say.

Qui-Gon leaned back now that Obi-Wan was awake and sat gingerly at the edge of the bed. He wasn't leaving for some reason, wasn't done with his part now that Obi-Wan was no longer trapped in his nightmare. His hands, uncharacteristically flying away like birds from Obi-Wan's body before, reached out very pointedly and carefully over his leg, and then settled once Obi-Wan didn't pull away.

He still flinched, a little. But Qui-Gon didn't recoil when he did, only left his hand, warm and large, gently stroking his knee through his sleep pants with his thumb. He was awake but his heart still pounded through his blood and through his mind, and the darkness in the room didn't do anything to help relax his wide eyes.

"You were screaming," Qui-Gon said, quietly.

Obi-Wan's brow furrowed. He hadn't meant to be. He didn't mean to. He was sorry, he wasn't supposed to be disturbing his Master, that wasn't fair, especially after Qui-Gon had gone through so much trouble for him--

Qui-Gon's face tightened and Obi-Wan wasn't sure why, until he felt the tightness in his throat and the liquid burn on his face, and something nasty choked its way out of his chest, aching in the way it forced itself out of him as much as in the sound of it violating his ears like echoing blastershots.

Qui-Gon's other hand that wasn't on his knee moved from its place in his lap, and Obi-Wan wasn't sure where it was headed, if it meant to join its brother or find someplace new that wouldn't make Obi-Wan reel back in irrational fear, or just hover again, aimless and wondering like a lost child in a crowd, but it didn't matter the intent because the next thing Obi-Wan knew he was buried in Qui-Gon's arms, shoving his face into his Master's chest and wrapping his own arms as tightly around the man as he could. He didn't know which of them had put him there, but he didn't care, not as long as Qui-Gon held him back the way he did--firm but gentle and soothing. Qui-Gon held him with his whole body, sitting back and pulling his legs to the side and hunching his shoulders and head over Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan knew he wasn't safe. Not anywhere. Not even the Temple anymore. He knew that vividly. But he felt like he was, while in his Master's arms.

He wept for a long time, not sure for which reason exactly he was crying, chasing that feeling of security and safety, at least for now.

When he finally managed to stop crying later, the sun had just barely begun to rise. Faint blue had begun glowing through the window slats, turning the black sky grey, announcing the beginning of morning. It was not quite there yet--still early and dim enough that it wasn't pointless to turn the lights on--but it was too late to go back to sleep.

He didn't know how long he had spent curled in Qui-Gon's grip, how long he had hid his face from the world like he was afraid that at any moment it would turn on him--because it would, and it always did--but eventually he calmed down, and embarrassment and exhaustion followed suit. Luckily, Qui-Gon seemed happy to ignore the former and tend to the latter. He helped him up, gently, mindful of the weakness in his knees still, and guided Obi-Wan with an arm on his shoulder out of the room, and to the kitchen. Obi-Wan was sat in one of the two chairs in their kitchen--their kitchen, Obi-Wan was still so unused to the idea of having a proper Master and Padawan joint suite--and given a glass of cold water.

He clutched at it delicately, dismissively, until he took a small drink and suddenly half of it was gone.

"Careful," Qui-Gon said gently, still so gentle, and Obi-Wan felt a small flare of anger in his chest, and then instant regret and self-reproach that he would get angry with his own Master for something so petty, when his Master was clearly just looking out for him. Qui-Gon probably just didn't want Obi-Wan to make himself nauseous after the whole emotional ordeal of how he woke up could've upset his stomach.

It hadn't, but it might've, and it was a reasonable thing to worry about.

Obi-Wan thought about nausea in the face of poor rations, how throwing up could be a death sentence for those who had nothing else to take for themselves, how wasting supplies was not only dangerous, but foolish, and he sipped more carefully at his water.

Qui-Gon began to quietly move around, seemingly preparing himself tea. His focus was not on Obi-Wan specifically, but Obi-Wan could feel his awareness brushing carefully against his, just hovering on the edge. Just in case.

Obi-Wan couldn't fault it. He knew he was… was being very… he wasn't…

He knew he kinda needed it. Knew his Master was prepared to catch him if he fell.

Obi-Wan was trying very hard not to fall. But it didn't seem to matter. It never seemed to matter.

Once Qui-Gon's tea was done, the older man sat across from Obi-Wan in the other chair, one hand curled around his cup, and the other resting on the table lightly. Obi-Wan shifted his legs automatically to make room under the table, drawing himself tighter and slumping against the wall that the side of the table was adjacent to. His eyes felt droopy and his body felt weak and he was paradoxically both too numb and too sensitive to everything around him. The yellow kitchen light was comforting, but the slowly whitening rays of the sun drawing over the horizon somewhere nearby began to sting his eyes; the steadiness of the chair under him and table and beside him helped him not feel so unmoored, but the soft clink and rustle of Qui-Gon stirring his tea scraped at his ears; the presence of his Master so close, just across the small table, was like a weight off his shoulders, something that made the ache in his chest lessen and his shoulders relax and his whole body lean towards him, wanting that feeling of comfort to last for just a little while longer--but it also unnerved him, made him feel raw and on edge, like he was a second away from shattering apart again and he didn’t know if it was because he couldn’t help it, or because he was allowed, or because he was expected to. All of it equally unsettling to him--he didn’t like being like this.

It wasn’t like this before. Even after everything in the first few weeks of his and Qui-Gon’s new relationship as Master and Padawan, Obi-Wan had never broken down, never had nightmares like this, never needed to cry into someone’s arms to feel like something was holding him up.

The experiences on Bandomeer before it had been… he thinks many people--not Jedi--would call it harrowing. It hadn’t felt that way, to him, though. More like a shattering of some sort, that had been carefully put back together. He had been so afraid of losing everything he ever wanted, that he had ever trained for, that he had been raised in, that the mere possibility of having that within his reach had kept him going.

Looking back just a few months later, he felt… something like pity and distaste at his past behavior. He’d been so desperate. Jedi were not supposed to feel something so harsh as disgust, not like this, but he couldn’t help the stirrings of it in him to remember how he’d felt then. He wasn’t sure why.

And then, what he’d wished for forever but especially that past month had been given to him. There had been no time to contemplate what had happened. He was a Padawan now, not just an initiate. He had an apprenticeship. And he had wanted so badly not to disappoint Qui-Gon. Sometimes the fear had crept back into his throat when he wasn’t distracted long enough, sometimes it took him--a while--to fall asleep at night. But Jedi ruled their anxiety, not the other way around. And restless nights were something that happened after you had experienced battle for the first time, he was told in training classes. It passed.

(And it did pass. Most of it. He thought.)

Qui-Gon Jinn was one of the most respected--and feared--active Jedi within the whole Order, and had been for years. The fact that Obi-Wan, after everything, had been taken as a Padawan at all was an honor he was grateful for. The fact it was Qui-Gon Jinn was something he never would’ve dreamed of months ago, years ago. It was like being asked to be the Padawan of one of the councillors.

Obi-Wan’s relief and fear of disappointing his new Master with his--feelings--had overridden anything in his chest clawing to be let out. He was a Jedi. He was the master of his own emotions. Not the other way around.

The first missions after that had been somewhat stressful, had gone off in way they hadn’t expected, but that happened on missions, and all in all they were very tame for Masters like Qui-Gon. As his Padawan, Obi-Wan certainly could keep up. Especially when he knew it was a Jedi Master’s duty to protect their apprentice. Nothing would happen while Qui-Gon was there, Obi-Wan knew that. Was supposed to know that. It was okay. It was all okay. He had managed.

And then the Melida/Daan mission had come. And, just as in every other way, it had shaken him in ways he couldn’t understand. It felt like it had knocked something loose in his chest he couldn’t put back in place.

He didn’t understand what it was or why he was acting like this. He had been fine during his stay on Melida/Daan.

Mostly.

War sucked. Everyone knew that. The Young had been through terrible things trying to get their Elders to understand their point of view and stop the deadly cycle of centuries and generations of violence. It had been difficult. They had had little resources, little support, and little capability for the most part. But what they lacked in this, they made up for in righteousness, desperation, cunning, and the always useful tactical advantage of being underestimated by your opponent. It had been hard, but with Nield and Cerasi… it hadn’t felt so bad.

If it weren’t for--

Maybe if what had happened at the square hadn’t happened, maybe he would still be there now, maybe he and Cerasi would’ve talked sense into Nield, maybe they would have won the war themselves and would be rebuilding at this moment, instead of Obi-Wan sitting in his new, fresh, never seen apartment drinking water in his Jedi robes again.

Or maybe they would’ve still been fighting. Maybe what had happened would’ve happened either way. Maybe it was the natural consequence of war and life and Obi-Wan had simply had that lesson taught to him more bluntly than most.

He should stop thinking about it. He should grow from it. That was what he was told by the Masters at his scheduled meetings with them. He should let his emotions go and hold onto his calm and learn to build his relationship with his Master again--with the Jedi as a whole.

He should. But Obi-Wan kept feeling like he couldn’t. He kept feeling like he was falling short.

And he kept that feeling in his chest. Those nightmares. The pointless anger and crying he couldn’t explain. That drop in his stomach when someone moved too fast and his brain told him to run, scramble for cover, flinch, hold yourself still, maybe they won’t hurt you if you aren’t a threat--

“Obi-Wan?” his Master said softly, calling him back from his thoughts.

“Um?” Obi-Wan answered automatically, bobbing his head up dizzily to look at Qui-Gon. He cleared his throat. “Yes, Master?”

Qui-Gon didn’t answer at first, only watching him silently. It wasn’t uncomfortable--silence with Qui-Gon never was, which Obi-Wan was grateful for, he wouldn’t’ve been able to stand awkward silences with his new Master--but it made him want to squirm a little. It had that look to it, the one Qui-Gon got when he was really looking at something. Not to figure it out, not to make a point, but simply observing, unbiased, unjudgemental. Every time he did that, Obi-Wan knew that whatever came out of his mouth next would be the truth, clear and simple and fair. It was tempered with a soft edge of concern, the one that he wasn’t sure that people who had never met Qui-Gon before would be able to spot on him.

Obi-Wan was grateful he had been able to see it again, that he had been allowed the opportunity to get to know it in the first place. Their meeting, their first missions, the recent developments, it had all been so eventful that Obi-Wan kept forgetting they barely knew each other. That was why his choice on Melida/Daan had hit them so hard, he knew. Because it had just started to feel like they were settling into a routine together, into a new normal.

Instead Obi-Wan wasn’t sure what normal was anymore. It wasn’t the Temple as it had been in his initiate years. It wasn’t his burgeoning apprenticeship with Qui-Gon. It wasn’t missions or new planets or even the rote cycle of struggle and death on a wartorn planet. It was nothing, right now. It was nightmares and numbness and flinching and forgetfulness and being both comforted and wary in Qui-Gon’s presence.

His Master was speaking, but Obi-Wan realized he hadn’t been hearing it. He stared at where Qui-Gon’s mouth moved and it was only after Qui-Gon paused and stopped that Obi-Wan’s hearing and awareness came back to him fully.

He blinked and suddenly the room was full again, not the tunneled vision of--whatever he was zoning out on before. He heard the soft buzz of the appliances in the kitchen, along with the ringing in his ears. He smelled the earthy scent of the tea, both too plain and fragrant for his tastes. He swallowed and blinked again. “Yes?” he repeated, forgetting he’d already said that, forgetting he hadn’t even heard what Qui-Gon said.

Qui-Gon paused properly in how he absently, perhaps even apprehensively, stirred his tea. This second look was more focused, harder, like he was scrutinizing Obi-Wan instead of watching him. Obi-Wan almost didn’t notice, feeling inexplicably dazed where he hadn’t five minutes ago.

His Master seemed to make his mind up about something to himself, and merely looked down at the table and his cup. “I was saying I think it might be a good idea to stay in today. Nothing strenuous like lightsaber training, or… like your classes.” He looked back up to Obi-Wan with an unreadable expression. “Is that alright with you?”

Obi-Wan didn’t know why he was being asked instead of told, especially after he was supposed to be being monitored closely after his recent defection, but it wasn’t a hardship. He was only supposed to have two classes today anyway, and no meetings with any of the councillors. He nodded. “That’s okay, Master.”

Qui-Gon nodded as well, as if they were decided. “We’ll meditate together in an hour, then. Maybe you can catch up on some homework if you have any right now.” Qui-Gon’s mouth quirked and when he spoke next, his voice was tinted with a bit of self-deprecation. “I’ll spend my time trying to catch up on some paperwork I’ve neglected.”

Obi-Wan couldn’t find it in him to laugh so he settled for smiling gently back and going back to sipping his water.

The sun was up properly now, lighting the apartment with a glow that had a golden undertone that felt less unnatural and jarring than the grey-white brightness of before.

And with that, Qui-Gon swept himself up, refilling his cup with tea and rustling through cabinets to begin cooking them a breakfast.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, resting his forehead against the rim of his cold glass, and listened to the quiet sounds. Grounding himself like he had been taught to. Leaving the fear and anguish and inexplicable pain of the night in the past where it belonged. It was a new day. He was a Jedi. He would be the master of his own emotions, not the other way around.

Breakfast was quiet, good, and passed quickly.

Qui-Gon was a good cook, when he actually cooked. He didn't often nowadays, not always in the mood to set about the undertaking of meal preparation that was usually required for proper cooking, but he could do it, and enjoyed doing it.

Since they'd gotten back to the Temple after the end of the mission on Telos, he'd cooked something every day for him and Obi-Wan, sometimes for every meal. It had been a while since he'd been so grounded, not only pausing between missions, and he wanted to take the opportunity to do something with it.

Many things with it.

Obi-Wan seemed to appreciate it. He'd noticed early on his Padawan's appreciation of food at mealtime, and he had decided in their stay during Obi-Wan's probation to make an effort to cook at least breakfast, lunch, or dinner, hopefully more. He wanted to do something, something with his hands, something that was useful and quiet and good, that made them both happy.

The cafeteria food at the Temple was fine and filling, but often simple and prescheduled. His Padawan had gotten to try other kinds of food during their missions that allowed them to eat with others (Obi-Wan had told him, happily, about the kinds of things they served at Queen Veda's palace) but they ranged from too decadent to too sparse--he knew Obi-Wan had probably never had the sort of mundane luxury of home cooked meals.

He had been right--the first time he'd pushed up his sleeves and whipped up lunch for them, Obi-Wan had stared at him with wide eyes as if Qui-Gon had just announced he was planning on joining the circus. It was funny, at first, watching Obi-Wan devour his plate with the sort of unreserved joy one usually associated with stereotypical teenage cravings, until it wasn't anymore, when the boy offhandedly mentioned how he hadn't eaten anything so good for weeks and Qui-Gon remembered Melida/Daan and what wars were typically like in terms of rations. And then he considered the weight he had noticed at some point offhandedly, guiltily, that Obi-Wan had lost.

He was gaining it back. It wasn't that much lost, actually, but he was thirteen and it was… unsettling to see those kinds of changes on somebody so young.

It hurt. To see it. It scared him. It made him think about what if's: what if Obi-Wan had stayed there, forever? What if Qui-Gon hadn't gone back? What if peace had never been found on Melida/Daan? What if Obi-Wan had been killed, shot, stabbed, beaten, any of the myriad of ways a person could steal the life of another?

Any of the ways any of the adults on Melida/Daan could've very quickly and successfully taken out a child who stood in the way of their vengeance quest.

Qui-Gon wasn't stupid. He saw how Obi-Wan watched the adults around the Temple now, with a new wariness and distance he hadn't had before. The way he was polite and stiff and acquiesced to whatever he was asked, the way Qui-Gon had to step in sometimes when he could tell Obi-Wan was uncomfortable and wouldn't speak up. The way he flinched sometimes, if someone older stepped too close, too quickly.

Even people he knew. A few days past at the end of one of his scheduled meetings with the councillors, one of them--Plo Koon--had stepped forward to clasp his shoulder, smiling and proud of Obi-Wan's progress in something or other, and the boy had recoiled automatically from the gesture which a blank look and the beginning of a defensive stance that chilled Qui-Gon. He wasn't sure if it had been fear, anger, determination, or just pure instinct, but the implication was clear--Obi-Wan's body was used to being prepared to defend himself against foes much larger than him (and had done so), his mind much more accepting of the possibility of someone he knew trying to attack him rather than just--congratulate him. Express affection.

He couldn't see the eyes of the Kel Dor, but he knew when they shared a look, it was with the exact same shocked concern and disquiet.

Even Qui-Gon was not immune to those reactions (though they were… different around him) and well--it ached, every time, but Qui-Gon knew if any adult outside of Melida/Daan had failed Obi-Wan, had given him reason to be wary of them, it was him.

He knew his own part in that was not small. He was, after all, the one who had left, and not come back for far too long, had--

That wasn't the point. Qui-Gon Jinn may be a stubborn man, but he was an honest one. He knew his faults. He knew the role he had played. His guilt and self-recrimination and fear were, in fact, a large part of the problem that led to the events on Melida/Daan specifically.

He also knew it was in the past, and he could not change what had already been done, only address the consequences of them. Fix what he had helped break. Try to watch Obi-Wan, care for him, wait carefully as Obi-Wan relaxed around him.

He tried to do what he could. He cooked for Obi-Wan. He asked him what he liked to watch on the holoprograms, remembered all the little details he hadn't known about his Padawan before and stored them. He helped him with his homework (the little of it he had right now--Obi-Wan had received special consideration after his return and hadn't been given such a focused courseload), and waited patiently, watching Obi-Wan's shoulders lower little by little, feeling their bond tentatively reconnect day by day.

He sat with Obi-Wan when he woke from nightmares, sobbing about things that turned Qui-Gon's stomach, he didn't scold Obi-Wan for his fits of irritation and passing anger, only mildly directed the conversation back while letting his Padawan know he wasn't mad afterwards. He tried to ground him when he zoned out--common nowadays--and gently reminded him of things he forgot. He listened when Obi-Wan said things offhandedly, about himself, about Qui-Gon, about Melida/Daan and the missions before, about people and the world, that were--wrong, confusing, upsetting. Things that were too self-deprecating where he had done nothing wrong at all. Things that were too accepting of situations he shouldn't accept as natural or normal.

Qui-Gon had asked the council--when Obi-Wan was back off probation--to leave them both off the mission roster for a while. That had been the whole reason for the probation and Qui-Gon's extended stay at the Temple but he wanted to make it official.

A lot had happened in the early days of their relationship. Too much. Too many life and death situations right after another, chaining together like dominoes all springing from that terrible flight to Bandomeer, from the stay on Bandomeer itself. They had only one normal mission between that series of events and Melida/Daan.

He didn't think Obi-Wan had processed that yet. And he was angry at himself for not noticing before now.

Qui-Gon was a stubborn, foolish, guilty man, but he wasn't a dishonest one. Once he separated himself from his feelings, his bias, his obliviousness, he knew what had happened. Knew what place Obi-Wan was in right now. Knew what he had to do.

He had made a commitment. And though he realized now, through his actions on Melida/Daan, he had abandoned that commitment just as thoroughly and even more than Obi-Wan had, he would not make the same mistake again.

His guilt and mistrust and desire for penace were not Obi-Wan's fault, or responsibility.

Through fate or the Force or maybe just pure chance, he and Obi-Wan had been paired together. Qui-Gon had made his decision on Bandomeer months ago. He would stick by it.

Obi-Wan, though he may be on probation, was his Padawan, and that meant something to Qui-Gon. He would watch over the boy, as he was meant to. He would take care of him.

He would support him, and protect him. From now on. Whatever the circumstances. Missions, training, classes, emotional support. Homework and nightmares and meetings and cooking. Whatever that commitment meant.

And right now, that commitment meant doing dishes daily after meals.

He sighed, pushing his sleeves up dutifully, and got to work, listening to the sounds of Obi-Wan padding off from the kitchen to the fresher and truly begin the day.

Showering, getting dressed, and brushing his teeth gave Obi-Wan the opportunity to collect himself properly for the morning. After the hot water, the alone time, and the gentle, zoning-out effect of the echoing sounds in the fresher, he felt more awake and alert, despite his early--and bad--start to the day.

He actually felt refreshed and almost clear-headed when he stepped out, and the blue sky that greeted him through the newly-opened shades improved his mood as well. He even gave Qui-Gon a smile when he walked into the room.

His Master smiled back, a genuine, small turn to his lips that made the crow's feet beginning at the edges of his eyes crinkle, and it warmed him. He had wondered several times before how Qui-Gon had acquired them, despite seeming to not smile frequently or hugely. At some point he had considered if maybe Qui-Gon's stoicism was just a recent development, perhaps ever since the loss of his apprentice.

Obi-Wan wondered what marks his apprenticeship would leave on Qui-Gon, for better or worse.

"Feeling better?" Qui-Gon questioned softly.

Obi-Wan nodded and then--suppressed a yawn with the back of his hand. When he opened his eyes again, Qui-Gon's smile was wider.

"I'm glad," he said, and Obi-Wan could feelhow much he meant it in the Force, warm and just slightly uncomfortable in the way that one's guardian being overfocused on you made one feel both pleased and awkward.

He didn't answer, not really needing to, just walked back to his room in their shared suite, listening as Qui-Gon made his own way into the fresher to get ready for the day, the same off-timed start as Obi-Wan.

The reason for that hit him in the face when he opened his door and saw the dim light straining through the blinds, vaguely illuminating remnants of the scene from--earlier.

His stomach churned, threatening to sour his new mood, and he set to work; picking up the fallen, twisted sheets on the floor and putting them back on the bed--mostly neatly--fishing his pillows out from behind the edge of the bed and thumping them repeatedly to make them less squished (which was very cathartic if he did say so himself), and finally pulling the blinds and letting the sunlight waver into his room, cool and present if nothing else.

It helped. The room was still fairly dark and--somewhat unwelcoming, the angle of his room paired with the hour of day not being very generous, but it was better. It felt like his room again, instead of the place holding the remains of the energy from his… awakening.

He still needed to turn the artificial ceiling light on to find his things, though.

Truthfully he was still getting used to it. Having his own room wasn't new, he'd had one for years as an older initiate, but now it was placed in a suite in one of the wings for Jedi and their Padawans and it was… strange. When he last lived in shared quarters, it was with the other younglings in dorms, and that was nothing like this. That was comfortably loud, sometimes more chaotic, and much more communal.

In contrast, the shared suite was quiet--he'd expect nothing else from living with Qui-Gon Jinn--much more relaxed and almost paradoxically freer. Having a home--not just a single room shared among many or a dorm--within his home at the Temple felt strange. Almost like he wasn't even at the Jedi Temple sometimes, but somewhere else, like on one of his and Qui-Gon's missions where they were given guestrooms.

But it was the Temple, alright. The air hummed with that clarity of the Force that Obi-Wan hadn't realized he'd been missing until he'd come back, the focused energy of a thousand Force users under the same roof. There were the same eggshell white walls, the same soft, muddy brown carpeting, the same technology and furniture setups that the Jedi used.

It was disconcerting to be in a place that was so much home and discover things in it after coming back that he had never experienced until he'd left it. Almost jarring.

He hadn't unpacked all of his things yet, the things that had been sent back to the Temple from Bandomeer after he'd finally been taken on as an apprentice, and the ones that apparently hadn't been cleared from his room when he'd left, supposedly for the last time. Or they'd been recovered and--Obi-Wan realized with a tight throat--he had no idea where they'd have been put to begin with, how the Order might’ve disposed of them when he’d been rejected. What they might’ve planned to do with them. It didn't really matter--they were just objects and any of them could be replaced--but the understanding (once more) that he had lost something and only found it again in a different place after he'd realized it wasn't gone made his throat thick with an emotion he didn't understand.

He left without lingering in the strange room he didn't entirely feel was his own yet, taking some unfinished homework and a book with him. He went back out to the living room, settling at another table on the far end of the room away from the kitchen. He didn't really plan on reading the book, he’d already learned he didn't have the focus for that nowadays, but he felt like he ought to acknowledge the possibility, as a token gesture.

He didn’t really think he could focus on the homework either but--well. Token gesture. He should try.

He managed only about twenty minutes’ worth of effort before the paper in front of him began to blur beyond use, the letters and numbers swimming in and out of focus, blending together, and the dark wood of the table becoming a void that took up most of his vision. Distantly, he knew Qui-Gon was… around somewhere--he’d heard the fresher door open and close--but he hadn’t seen him, so he wasn’t sure where and it wasn’t important right now.

What was important was the sudden spell of dizziness that overcame him, the wave of tiredness that had him barely keeping his eyes open but he knew would do nothing for him if he actually tried to lay down and nap. He leaned his head against his hand against the table and sat, for what he thought was a while, staring into nothing in particular.

Eventually the air echoed around him and he blinked.

“-wan--”

He jerked up a little staring from the table at the wall.

“Obi-wa--”

He blinked rapidly and looked up, seeing the tall gray figure of his Master standing a little over a foot away, hand outstretched and hovering over his shoulder. When he adjusted a little more, trying to clear the fog from his eyes, the hand made contact with him, settling warmly on his upper arm.

“Padawan,” Qui-Gon said softly, looking down at him--not concerned, or wary, but focused in a way Obi-Wan only associated with the recent… issues of his.

He opened his mouth, couldn’t find anything to say and closed it, and then reopened it with a somewhat weak, “Yeah?”

Qui-Gon’s thumb rubbed absently at his shoulder. “I came to tell you it’s time for morning meditation. I don’t think you heard me.”

Oh. He probably hadn’t. “Sorry,” he said, not knowing what else to say.

Qui-Gon shook his head. “It’s fine.” And then he gestured with his chin away and Obi-Wan looked to see--yes, the part of their apartment with the meditation cushions. He should probably stand up.

He looked up again, and saw Qui-Gon staring at him, patiently. He looked to the hand on his shoulder, and then down at the table, where his homework was. Right.

He stood up, even if it was somewhat unsteady because his legs still didn’t feel like they were part of him.

Qui-Gon took his silence in stride, hand staying on his shoulder to steady him while he walked, and just like that, they were moving on again, one of the million little moments in their day to day routine now like this.

That felt like his routine now. Silence. Numbness. Or otherwise blank fear and anger, often followed by overwhelming guilt and shame.

And of course, when he wasn't conscious, the nightmares.

Maybe the meditation would help.

It did. The almost shaky, unclear feeling from before was dissipating, followed by--if not alertness--at least more grounded clarity. Obi-Wan wasn’t able to focus the same way he used to in their joint meditation sessions, but the attempt at least let him feel less unsure.

And more connected to his Master. He could feel their bond again, the tentative, warm, calming strands that tethered him to Qui-Gon in the Force. It was nice. And he knew Qui-Gon could feel it too, from where he guided the meditation, gently steering him back to a more neutral state, neither overwhelmed, nor distant, as Obi-Wan often seemed to be these days. He could feel Qui-Gon’s Force signature carefully hovering near his, so that, if nothing else, he didn't end up falling into another deep end either way.

They continued for a little over an hour and though Obi-Wan still felt sleepy, he did end up clearer again. Not as content as he was earlier before, but more like himself.

When he pulled out of meditation with Qui-Gon's guidance, the inhale he drew as he opened his eyes and stretched his arms a little felt good. A yawn broke out of his mouth unbidden and he covered it hastily, embarrassed.

Qui-Gon chuckled, leaning back on his seat. "Shall we continue, Padawan? If you are still struggling with awareness."

Obi-Wan grinned a little, rubbing at his eyes absently. "I think if I try to be any more 'aware,’ Master, I will begin taking an unscheduled nap."

Qui-Gon laughed again, more of a quiet rumble in his chest. "Maybe later, then." And then he stood up, holding out a hand for Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan hesitated a moment but took it, feeling Qui-Gon's strong, calloused hand grasp his and pull him up steadily, despite his weak knees, and then rest casually, comfortingly on his arm.

"What now, then?" Qui-Gon asked, tipping his eyebrows up into inquiry before he walked off to--get something.

Obi-Wan blinked and looked around. "Um. I should probably try to finish my homework…"

There was no answer from where Qui-Gon had walked into his bedroom, so Obi-Wan spent the moment stretching out his limbs and torso again, trying not to yawn more. When his Master returned, datapad in hand, they went off together and sat down, both working steadily on their own respective things at the same table for awhile. Several hours, actually.

It was still hard to concentrate but Obi-Wan was able to finish the rest of his schoolwork with fairly little issue, especially with Qui-Gon's help every now and then. It took much longer than it should’ve, but at least it was done. And it was more than he’d have been able to do on his own. Qui-Gon for his part seemed equal parts exasperated and engaged with his--reports or logs or whatever it was he was doing. Occasionally he sighed and then, upon taking in Obi-Wan's curious look, paused to inform Obi-Wan exactly on the cons of Knighthood--lots of paperwork. At some point after both of them finished their respective tasks, they switched objects of interest; Qui-Gon handed him his datapad and told him he deserved a break after doing so well to get his work done, and then asked to look over his homework for him whilst he was messing around on the holonet, checking over for mistakes and potential advice.

Altogether, it all kept him more grounded, more in the moment, less distracted, which was good. It felt almost like a normal day.

If he forgot the start of it. If he forgot why he wasn’t going to his classes, why his classes were cut down, why they were even at the Temple to begin with.

It was also exhausting, once it was over. He had to resist strongly the urge to yawn after Qui-Gon stood up and said something about making lunch.

Obi-Wan rolled his shoulders, stretching out his sore-from-sitting muscles and getting up only to collapse again on the couch on his side. He yawned again, the lack of good sleep and the effort of trying to stay alert and focused for hours catching up to him and making the couch feel much more comfortable than it used to be, he was sure of it.

He watched Qui-Gon move around the small kitchen, rifling through things and inspecting packages, apparently deciding on what to make. He wondered if it would be a bad idea to actually take that nap.

He blinked sleepily, listening to the gentle sounds of footsteps nearby and muffled noontime traffic outside, and decided he wasn't going to wait to puzzle it out.

Qui-Gon hummed while staring into the depths of the fridge, unsure.

"Obi-Wan?" he called without looking up, intent on his Padawan's preference. "What do you want to eat?”

Silence.

He frowned, removing his gaze from the endless torment of cooking decisions, and then found his apprentice laying on the couch, apparently without a care in the world. The boy was half on his side, half on his stomach, one arm wrapped around the pillow his face was shoved into, and the other dangling off the low cushions onto the floor below. Were it not already apparent what had happened, his quiet but clear muffled snoozes and the peaceful aura around him in the Force would have made it so.

Qui-Gon smiled, and closed the fridge door. Apparently the choice didn't matter at all, now that his charge had fallen into--as he had so accurately predicted--an impromptu nap, near immediately after getting up.

He poked gently at Obi-Wan's Force signature just to check how far he was embedded in unconsciousness, if it was worth it to carefully wake him for lunch, but the boy was deeply asleep. If sleep were a pool of water, he had been dragged beneath its surface nearly to the bottom, resting in the furthest reaches of its depths, cool and undisturbed and unbothered about the existence of the surface somewhere above.

He sighed fondly and padded carefully across the open suite to put up the few things they had scattered across the table, returning the datapad to his room, and then the papers and pencils to Obi-Wan's.

He lay them on his apprentice's desk, shuffling them quietly to a neat position, and looked around. Obi-Wan had drawn the blinds up and fixed his bed, but nothing else seemed changed, or out of place.

Or even very lived in.

Obi-Wan's small desk was organized chaos but sparse in its contents. His cloak hung off the back of the chair, almost falling off, and Qui-Gon corrected it to a more stable position.

He stepped away from the desk, hearing the sound of the appliances and Obi-Wan's quiet snores, and stood in the boy's room which he barely seemed to live in, besides necessity.

Obi-Wan had things packed up in the closet he'd brought from his room before. Qui-Gon had seen some of them--model ships, collectables of some kind of game or other, miscellaneous items gathered or gifted through years of childhood, and a few small stuffed animals shyly hidden underneath, only spotted the one time he had been standing nearby while Obi-Wan had dug through the single box to find something.

The only thing that was undeniably his and personal among the room of standard setup for a young Padawan's bedroom was the colorful blanket on the bed itself, carefully neatened and straightened after the disorganization and chaos of this morning.

It had been weeks since they'd returned from Telos, and a week or two more besides that since Obi-Wan had generally returned to the Temple before moving into the shared apartment with Qui-Gon, but nothing else seemed to be unpacked, and Qui-Gon was willing to bet that Obi-Wan hadn't even touched the majority of it since before Bandomeer.

He hadn't asked about it before now, though he was curious. He thought maybe Obi-Wan was too distracted or tired to bother with it yet.

Now, with more insight since their moving in, he wondered if perhaps Obi-Wan didn't feel like this was a home yet. If perhaps he didn't feel safe enough to expose his few and clearly cared about belongings to the rest of the world.

The thought worried him.

He walked out of his young apprentice's room and shut the door behind him, the soft click-release the only other sound in the apartment.

Qui-Gon looked to the couch, where Obi-Wan was drowsing, small body rising and falling slightly with every deep breath. He looked so peaceful in his sleep.

At least right now. For now.

Qui-Gon sighed softly, and crept around the couch, past the holovis, and found something else to occupy him for a while. He’d wake Obi-Wan back up in an hour, to get him to eat. For now, he should get all the rest he could.

Obi-Wan was dreaming about something. He didn't know what, wouldn't remember when he woke, but he knew it wasn't unpleasant. He had a brief semi-conscious thought of finally, for once, rubbing at his face, feeling soft and warm where he was napping.

Semi-awareness drifted through his mind, and he let his head and arm go lax again, not bothering to open his eyes. He heard the sound of someone nearby, and knew instinctively without thinking that they were safe, he was safe. He was home. He was okay.

Or at least, he knew that, until the footsteps got closer--but he thought nothing of it, besides a momentary question: Master?

And then he opened his eyes at the same time the footsteps stopped.

It should've been okay--he had half a suspicion already in his semi-awake mind where he was and who was near--but perhaps he looked up at just the exact wrong millisecond or perhaps his brain's first association with many things nowadays was not what it should have been.

He looked up properly, right as something came down--as a figure loomed over him--as a tall adult man with a gun and a height advantage took him unawares while he was sleeping--and maybe guns were broken or jammed as often as not on Melida/Daan, but being incapable of being shot did not mean losing their functionality as a weapon and it would be so easy to knock him unconscious, drag his body somewhere, take him prisoner, finish the job while he was passed out, or just leave him there while taking over the area and seeing fit to do the same to every other kid like him, younger than him, that crossed his path as well--

Obi-Wan was moving before he had a choice, moving without thought or decision of action. He scrambled back, kicking out (unsuccessfully, but ending up tossing his pillow off the couch in a quite forceful expulsion), propelling himself both back and up in the same panic-fueled motion.

If it were a real threat, he probably would've died--or at least been incapacitated--because he only ended up scooting himself back into a corner of the couch, clutching himself and digging his heels into the cushions, ready to kick and thrash again if necessary. His heart pounded and his eyes stared unseeing, adrenaline turning the terrible sight into a white void before his very eyes. It was only a few seconds since he had been asleep, was only another more that passed as he sat there, but it felt like long minutes.

And then the figure coalesced, after he had already flinched back, and the man was tall, yes--much taller than anyone else he'd seen on Melida/Daan, and his clothes were the soft gray of off-duty Jedi robes, not the dirty black and orange of those fighting on Melida/Daan, and there wasn't a gun in his hand at all, just his hand itself, carefully extended and hovering above where Obi-Wan's shoulder had been.

It was only Qui-Gon. About to wake him from his nap.

Obi-Wan's throat was suddenly so tight and dry he couldn't have spoken even if he wanted to in the heavy moment of shocked silence that sat in the air for less than another second.

"Obi-Wan?" his Master started carefully, hand withdrawing carefully back to his own body.

He didn't say anything. He couldn't. He wanted to nod, to acknowledge him, but he was frozen in the moment of post-terror-and-confusion.

Qui-Gon straightened up--he had already been over a foot away, was not actually looming over him as Obi-Wan had perceived it, but the space, the quiet respect of Obi-Wan's boundaries… helped. He inhaled deeply, shakily, and really felt it through his chest and stomach. He managed to lean back to a slightly more normal posture instead of the simultaneously hunched and splayed position he was in.

His Master stayed where he was, only looking at him--really looking at him. He addressed him simply, gently, and pointedly. "Obi-Wan."

That broke through his frozen spell, and he swallowed thickly, feeling some of the pressure relax and the wetness return to his mouth. And, humiliatingly, his eyes. His jaw still felt clenched shut too tightly to unwind, but he nodded jerkily and was able to loosen his body language to signify he was listening. Could listen.

The faint lines around Qui-Gon's eyes (the stress ones, this time, the worry ones, he thought guiltily) relaxed. He didn't smile but his mouth softened into an expression that was more befitting a man talking to his student, not confronting a frightened animal. He made no further moves, only stood quietly, still, which Obi-Wan was both grateful for and weirdly disappointed by.

"Are you with me?" Qui-Gon asked, voice pitched low. Obi-Wan might feel condescended to if the tone didn't soothe his jittery nerves so well.

Somehow he managed to unclasp his jaw and suck in air, the sound coming from the action too loud and wet and desperate between them. He also, miraculously, managed not to choke on his breath on the exhale, though shaky it may have been. The miracles ended there, however.

"Y-" he started and cut off when his voice broke. "Y-yeah," he tried again, better this time. He nodded to accompany his words, steadier this time, and straightened further.

Things were starting to come back into focus. His eyes flickered back and forth, taking them in. The rest of the living room, and the kitchen beyond, behind Qui-Gon. The early afternoon light streaming from the windows behind him, the cream couch under his feet and hands, the holovis in front of the couch, unpowered and silent, then brown shelves bookending it, and finally the doors on either side of those that led to their respective bedrooms. And Qui-Gon himself, calm, clear, and patient in front of him. His Master's worried but collected expression that he could see properly now, not just disjointed details that made up the whole.

He cleared his throat, the feeling shaking him into the last bit of awareness. He rearranged his trembling limbs, shifting to sit on the couch normally. As an afterthought, he turned away, trying to wipe discreetly at his eyes. It was a useless endeavor but the illusion of privacy made him feel better.

"I'm here," he said, voice croaky with sleep or the leftover remains of his panic--it was hard to tell. "I'm sorry. I-I was startled."

"It's alright," Qui-Gon assured automatically. There was something else behind his words, but Obi-Wan couldn't parse it out.

Obi-Wan didn't get it. How could he say that so easily? Did any of it really bother him at all? Or was it that Obi-Wan was just weak?

"May I sit?" his Master asked, gesturing cautiously towards the couch.

Obi-Wan nodded without bothering to think about it. It wasn't his place to dictate what his Master did or didn't do.

Qui-Gon sat gingerly, hands folded together in his lap. He turned towards Obi-Wan and Obi-Wan reluctantly turned back towards him, giving Qui-Gon his attention like a good apprentice should.

"I'm sorry," he said again.

Qui-Gon's face was genuine and contrite. "I'm the one who should be sorry, Obi-Wan. I didn't mean to alarm you like that," he rumbled. "I didn't realize you'd have such a bad reaction when I tried to wake you up."

Obi-Wan hadn't realized either. Didn't know why it had happened; it never had before.

Obi-Wan shook his head. "It's not your fault," he protested.

"Still," Qui-Gon said with a quirk to his mouth. "I should have thought."

Obi-Wan tried not to twitch or fidget. Said nothing.

Qui-Gon inhaled and moved on. "Do you want to talk about it?" he questioned gently, still so gently, and Obi-Wan didn't know why it annoyed him so much.

He shook his head, looking over his Master's shoulder. "What's there to talk about?" he answered, more bitterly than he meant to.

Qui-Gon was quiet. Obi-Wan didn't want to look at him.

"I know this has all been very rough on you," he started quietly, hands still resting calmly in his lap, and Obi-Wan snorted before he could stop himself.

Qui-Gon cut off and Obi-Wan clenched his fists in his pants, confused why he was so suddenly angry. He was angry at Qui-Gon and he didn't know why. Angry at himself. Angry at this conversation that made him feel like he was even more useless and stupid and oversensitive.

He wished Qui-Gon hadn't even come to wake him--he was doing fine waking up by himself and if he hadn't, Obi-Wan would've gotten up, sleepy and happy and comfortable like he'd been before, before the sudden shock and jolt had transformed his whole state of mind, turned him back into someone else, this person who was fragile and unpredictable and confusing and angry and inconceivably frightened.

He wished he hadn't woken up at all. He wished he wouldn't wake up this way anymore. He wished he wasn't angry anymore. Wished this would all stop.

"--bi-wan," he heard Qui-Gon murmur, in that same distorted, wary way that meant Obi-Wan hadn't heard him the first time or two or three. There was a hand then on his neck, and then his cheek, and fingers wiping away hot tears he hadn't even realized were there. He sniffed, and it sounded loud to him where everything else was muted again.

Another hand grabbed his shoulder gently and guided him closer, which was odd because Qui-Gon was usually very careful lately about not touching Obi-Wan when it was likely to make him flinch, except he hadn't flinched and then he was near enough that even his watery vision didn't prevent him from seeing the way his own hand was tangled in Qui-Gon's tunic. Oh.

He heard a soft shushing noise from Qui-Gon and he was pulled into the man's side, arm wrapped firmly around his back.

The anger slid off him like cold water and he leaned into Qui-Gon without a second thought. Another frustrating, helpless sob tried to force itself out of his throat but he choked it down in favor of burying his face into Qui-Gon's tunic, attempting to calm himself. He wouldn't cry again today. He didn't want to.

Qui-Gon said nothing else, just gently stroked his fingers over the nape of his neck and held him, waiting and patient and steady like a pillar of strength Obi-Wan could lean on until he could stand by himself again.

Soon enough, the feeling passed, shakiness and temporary despair gone just as quickly as they'd been invoked.

He pulled away slowly, still sniffing and trying to wipe the persistent wetness out of his eyes. It was stubborn, but he managed. Qui-Gon let him go, keeping his two hands on both of Obi-Wan's shoulders. "Better?" he asked quietly.

Obi-Wan nodded mutely, rubbing at his hot face--though he didn't know if the heat was the remains of the tears, the anger, or sleep.

Qui-Gon smiled a little, and then inhaled deeply as if steadying himself as well. And then added, as if the act reminded him, "Remember to breathe, Padawan."

He obeyed, breathing as deeply as he could, and holding it for a few moments in his stomach, then letting it go in a measured exhalation.

"Good."

He spent another minute or two just breathing, trying to relax back down while Qui-Gon watched over him. Once he felt more collected, less like someone who'd been crying on the edge of some sort of fit, he ducked his head. "'m sorry," he mumbled. "I didn't mean to--I didn't mean what I said. I'm sorry for snapping."

He felt a knuckle under his chin lift his head and he looked up to see Qui-Gon smiling softly. "It's alright. These things happen. I don't hold it against you."

Obi-Wan swallowed. The comfort sat badly in his stomach, like food curdled. "It's not behavior befitting of a Padawan. I--I shouldn't lash out." And he didn't even know why he had been angry in the first place--never knew nowadays. He just held it in and pushed it down and tried to let it go like he'd been taught, but it just kept coming back.

The smile on Qui-Gon's face melted and he didn't frown, but the corner of his mouth did pull down in a way that made Obi-Wan's heart twist. What had he done wrong now?

"It's alright, Obi-Wan, I assure you." When Obi-Wan didn't seem reassured, he continued. "It may not be behavior befitting of a Jedi apprentice, it is behavior befitting of someone who's gone through what you have."

Obi-Wan squirmed uncomfortably, hating it when Qui-Gon talked about his experiences of late like that. It was fine. He wasn't--other people had worse things happen to him. He was lucky he had everything he had. He was a Jedi. He could handle it.

Qui-Gon took his hand from Obi-Wan's chin but kept his other on his shoulder to prevent him from turning away. He ducked his head when Obi-Wan's eyes moved down in disbelief.

"I'm serious, Padawan. I'm not angry with you."

You should be, was the first thing that leapt to Obi-Wan's mind, and he didn't know why but it felt true.

But he didn't say that. He was causing enough of an issue by dragging the comfort out so long. He smiled at Qui-Gon, and it felt wobbly and not… exactly right, but it also felt convincing. At least enough to drop the subject. "I understand," he said.

Qui-Gon kept his eyes on him a moment longer, but nodded and withdrew. Obi-Wan missed the warmth from his grip as soon as it was gone but he sat up and straightened dutifully.

Qui-Gon looked back over his shoulder at the kitchen. "I was coming to wake you because you missed lunch." He turned back. "I'm not sure if you're hungry, but I made food."

Another pang of guilt hit him at the reminder that Qui-Gon had just been trying to help him.

He opened his mouth to respond, give an affirmation, but his stomach answered for him first with a loud grumble at the mention of food. His hand flew to cover his abdomen in embarrassment but Qui-Gon just smirked and stood up.

"Come on, then, my young apprentice," he said playfully. "Let's get you and that stomach of yours something to eat."

Obi-Wan couldn't help cracking a smile at that, only followed his Master obligingly to the kitchen and the smell of food.

Lunch was easy, and a little awkward. Qui-Gon tried to smooth it over, quietly reassuring Obi-Wan without saying it outright, and it worked for the most part, but there was only so much he could do. And if Obi-Wan felt guilty for how he had woken up (again) then… Qui-Gon had already learned that guilt was the one of the more difficult emotions to dissuade his Padawan from when it became too much. He had a tendency to blame himself, and then apologize, and hold the self-recrimination inside himself. It was worrying, and frustrating, but Qui-Gon did what he could. At the moment that meant distracting Obi-Wan so he didn't linger on the moment and emotion.

Regretting the past did not help one accomplish anything. Only burdened the spirit. Qui-Gon knew that well. Obi-Wan had enough burdens. Qui-Gon did not want him to hold onto them like Qui-Gon had, for years. He wanted better for him.

Which was why he thought it prudent to bring up what he did after lunch.

"Do you want help unpacking in your room?" he asked, trying to keep his voice quiet and helpful, so as not to startle his Padawan with the topic change.

Obi-Wan froze in the door coming from the fresher, looking so much like a deer in headlights despite Qui-Gon's efforts that he almost laughed. After a moment, Obi-Wan untensed himself and walked cautiously out, pausing again in the middle of the living room floor to stare at Qui-Gon warily.

Qui-Gon himself sat at the same end of the couch he had before when he'd been with Obi-Wan, but now more relaxed, leisurely. He had been thinking, and he had his elbow on the arm of the couch, resting his face in that hand. It was a simple question--he hoped Obi-Wan did not take it beyond face value and think he was trying to intrude on his personal space.

He did not mean it at face value, but his Padawan didn't have to know that. Obi-Wan didn't like it when Qui-Gon pried too much, considered it overstepping his boundaries, even if he didn't say so. Qui-Gon could tell, though, and he tried to keep his worries and requests for information from Obi-Wan more casual if he could, more comfortable.

It seemed despite his efforts here, this was as touchy a subject for Obi-Wan on the surface as it had seemed underlying to Qui-Gon. The boy bit his lip, looking back at the closed door for his room and to Qui-Gon.

Qui-Gon straightened, removing his chin from his hand and trying not to look too interested.

"What do you mean?" Obi-Wan said finally. And he did say it, not ask it. Obi-Wan knew what he meant. He must have been thinking about it in the same terms as Qui-Gon had wondered. It was an issue.

"I couldn't help but notice that you hadn't finished unpacking your things from your room before. It hasn't been too terribly long since we moved in but I would've expected you to be done by now. If you aren't sure where things should go, or have been distracted, I don't mind helping." There. That sounded like a reasonable explanation that wouldn't scare Obi-Wan off.

It seemed to work. Obi-Wan relaxed a little. "No," he said, "it's fine. It's just--" he hesitated again, and Qui-Gon could guess why. Unwilling to admit the problem, but not wanting to lie to his Master. "I haven't been ready," he said at last. Not quite the truth--the whole truth, he was clearly trying to hold it back and hope Qui-Gon wouldn't ask--but close enough that it definitely was not a lie.

Qui-Gon didn't ask. Not directly, at least. "I was wondering because… it's somewhat of a tradition, when initiates become Padawans, between them and their Master. To help each other move their things in, as a symbol of the shared future and partnership to come, and how both have something to take and give in the relationship." It wasn't a lie, either. That was tradition and Qui-Gon was hoping he could continue it--especially after recent events. It just wasn't all of why he brought it up. "With the fact that I usually don't stay so long at the Temple, and the recent… difficulties within our relationship, we didn't really get to do that."

Obi-Wan was silent and Qui-Gon wondered if maybe that was too strong as well, if bringing that up was as worse an alternative as bringing up Obi-Wan's recent traumas by itself.

"I thought maybe you might like to," he said quietly, clasping his hands together in his lap and waiting. Inhaling and letting Obi-Wan decide, now that he had put it out there.

His Padawan was biting his lip again, nervously fidgeting his hands. He had his head ducked slightly in that way while still making eye contact that Qui-Gon had learned meant Obi-Wan was trying to read something from someone's face or body language with some difficulty.

After a minute of painful, patient silence, Obi-Wan asked, "Do you want to?"

He almost smiled. It was a redirection; Obi-Wan wanted to say yes, but was too anxious to. "Yes," he said. "I'd like that."

Ten minutes later they were in Obi-Wan's room together, sitting on the bed.

Qui-Gon couldn't help but remember that morning as he absently smoothed his hand over the cover: the strange, discomfiting dream he'd been having before waking--actually not a dream at all, he'd wager, but the effect of his bond with Obi-Wan as the boy projected his distress in the Force--followed by cries that had him standing in less than a moment before he realized why, and then rushing down the hall.

He'd found the boy somewhere between frozen and thrashing, everything from the abdomen up motionless with a kind of restrained tension that looked horrible and uncomfortable, hands gripping sheets and legs kicking desperately at something in his dreams.

And then he'd woken the boy and Obi-Wan had looked at him like--he didn't know. Like he was a murderer. Like he was a demon. Like he was something so horrible and frightening and dangerous there was no other option but to recoil with wide, terrified, crying eyes. And the thing was--the thing was that Qui-Gon was almost certain for at least one of those terrible, awful, long seconds of the air being permeated with fear and desperation that Obi-Wan recognized him through it. And yet--

Qui-Gon did not ever want Obi-Wan to look at him like that again. He would do anything to prevent it from happening again, to make sure the boy knew he was safe here, that the Temple was safe, that he never, even in his dreams, had to be afraid of Qui-Gon.

He thought again of that afternoon, of the aftermath of Obi-Wan's nap, and his heart hurt again.

The Obi-Wan of now was sorting through the things in the box determinedly, all sorts of noises of things rattling against each other emitting from the cardboard. He'd set a few things aside, probably because they were more fragile than the rest and he didn't want them damaged: a model spaceship, with a tiny insectoid pilot; a handheld game with a black screen and maroon coloring; a bracelet with decorative beads--shiny in exactly the way that spoke of real weight and therefore quality.

He made a frustrated noise and pulled away from his box. Qui-Gon waited patiently for Obi-Wan to pull it closer, between the both of them, so he could see as well. He would let his apprentice take his time.

"It's not all here," Obi-Wan mumbled.

"What isn't?" Qui-Gon asked curiously, concerned.

Obi-Wan looked up, brow furrowed in displeasure. "My… stuff. The things I left before--before Bandomeer." Obi-Wan said the last word in a way Qui-Gon couldn't pinpoint exactly, but knew wasn't good. "After I came back, they gave me this box and said it was from my room. But…"

"Not everything is there," Qui-Gon finished. "Something is missing."

"Many somethings," Obi-Wan said, seeming to deflate now, shoulders hunching.

Qui-Gon bit his lip in a rare expression of uncertainty. If this is what the Temple custodians had given Obi-Wan, he doubted there was much more elsewhere that could be tracked after the fact--the Temple was thorough, and whether Obi-Wan's things had ended up in the créche, given to other initiates, or donated away had probably already been recorded and filed away, and if they couldn't have been found or retrieved before now when Obi-Wan's return had been announced--twice--he doubted there was much to be done. But… "Do you want me to ask after them?" he offered quietly.

Obi-Wan looked up, a hopeful glance on his face. Then it crumbled before even dawning fully. "No," he said wearily, and that was when Qui-Gon decided he would at least try to see if he could find anything out. "It's fine. They're probably just given away, or lost, or something. Somebody else will enjoy them, I'm sure." He looked down in the box he still had. "I have these, at least," and his tone sounded at least more optimistic now, if not cheerful.

Qui-Gon nodded, and when Obi-Wan didn't move, he extended a hand towards the box. "May I see?" he questioned delicately.

Obi-Wan looked startled, then sheepish. "Yeah, here," and then he dragged it over to sit between them instead of just by his side.

Qui-Gon looked down into the box with a questioning glance and then to Obi-Wan who stared back approvingly, but shyly, and began to look curiously inside. It was exactly the same as the handful of times he'd seen it from afar, though in a different order now. It was a small box, half empty, and while rifling through he realized that the rest of it must have been carrying Obi-Wan's books that were now stacked on the shelf. For some reason he had assumed they were all schoolbooks, not just plain reading material for entertainment.

"Master?" Obi-Wan asked cautiously while Qui-Gon blinked in surprise.

"Do you like to read?" Qui-Gon asked.

Obi-Wan looked somewhat startled by the change in topic, and then hesitant. "I… yes," he said, sounding unsure.

Qui-Gon tilted his head and studied Obi-Wan. He didn't know why that was a difficult question, among the many asked before.

"It's hard sometimes," Obi-Wan admitted under his Master's questioning gaze, looking--disappointed? Reluctant? Ashamed?

Oh. That would need to be addressed as well, then. Later. He just nodded in understanding for now, and went back to the box.

There were old toys, some that looked not so old, some that Obi-Wan told him about proudly and--on occasion, excitedly--and some he looked away from, seemingly embarrassed by childish fancies. Though he did not pretend at distaste for those things, Qui-Gon noted.

There was a trading card game with colorful, holographic designs that was from his friends, Obi-Wan said. Something one of them had taken interest in and collected with help, and then distributed cards among their friend group for fun, to play with each other.

There was a little set of colored drawing pencils--Qui-Gon knew he must have requested it personally for use in his free time since the Temple had art and craft supplies for all Jedi, especially younglings and initiates, to use and borrow. If it hadn't been taken away and put back into storage, that meant he had taken an individual interest. He raised an eyebrow at Obi-Wan in interest and received a red face and stammered explanation in response that he could only smile at.

There was also an accompanying notebook--definitely not the kind the teachers passed out for students to use--but he didn't see much of it because as soon as it was within sight, Obi-Wan snatched it away with an even redder face, and promptly sat on it to hide the evidence.

"Is that a sketchbook, Padawan?" Qui-Gon had to ask, amused.

"No," Obi-Wan declared hotly, and it was so obvious a lie Qui-Gon had to laugh.

That, or it was the truth, and it was a journal of some sort instead, but either way, Qui-Gon wasn't going to pry. He just turned, smiling, back to the box in front of him.

He pulled out a small container of some kind, which Obi-Wan made a loud ah! sound at, turning and bringing the handheld game with him. "It's for this," he said, unfolding the game (it had two screens, and many buttons, and Qui-Gon was sure he had seen some of the kids nowadays playing on them, but he hadn't any idea how it worked) and then unclipping the container to show rows of tiny cartridges--different games that could be played.

Qui-Gon wasn't sure where that was from--the Temple did not have any sort of communal video games when he was a Padawan (nor Xanatos), but he also didn't know if that had changed--and this seemed like a potentially personal object Obi-Wan treasured, if the way he handled it was any indication, and that would mean it had to have been obtained somehow else.

Obi-Wan then spent about half an hour showing him all the different games he had, talking about how they worked, and then turning it on and showing him his favorites.

It was fun. It was sweet. Obi-Wan got so into it at one point he pushed the box away towards the wall next to the bed and scooted closer to show Qui-Gon how, exactly, one raced in his game, or fought monsters with a sword (or a saber, in the very unrealistic example of a Jedi character that one game sported), or a number of other things.

He'd ended up under Qui-Gon's arm, holding out the game and tilting the screen so Qui-Gon could see, and then let--no, demanded--that Qui-Gon try. And how could he refuse?

He was not very good at it, he thought, but it was fun, and colorful, and Obi-Wan really seemed to enjoy giving commentary and listening to Qui-Gon's own.

When it was put away, placed at eye level on a shelf, Obi-Wan was looking far more engaged and present than he had in days, cheeks flushed healthily, and Qui-Gon decided to file the information away for later--maybe Obi-Wan would show him again soon, now that the game was brought back out. He wouldn't mind that.

Then back to the box it was, and there were some miscellaneous objects now--a smaller box in the corner that had a handful of small rocks. It was only a few--Obi-Wan told him when he pulled it out that he liked looking at them, but he left most of the ones he found interesting in the greenhouses or garden levels of the Temple where they were, where they belonged, for everyone. These were some over the years that were particularly interesting, and thus taken back to his room to look at. Some had come and gone from the collection, he said, put back where they were found when Obi-Wan wasn't interested anymore.

There was a marbled black-and-white spattered one that sparkled in the light when it was turned, and a mixed one that was mostly a deep opaque brown, but transitioned to a section of connected orange-yellow crystal. There was something Qui-Gon was certain was sea glass, and a chalky white rock that looked normal on one side, but when flipped, showed a small section of tiny fossilized leaves and fronds.

They were very interesting, and before closing the box to be put away somewhere, Obi-Wan hesitated, before scampering to pull something out of a side drawer in his desk. It was small and black, and had lines of orange-red shimmer running through it. He couldn’t see those from here, but he knew from experience, because he was the one who had given it to Obi-Wan.

The river stone.

Obi-Wan held it in his hands for a moment, like it was something delicate and precious, and then turned while cupping it carefully. He walked over and, still standing, placed the river stone in the box, in the middle of the other rocks he had collected and appreciated and cared enough to keep with him. He looked up at Qui-Gon then to see his reaction, smiling, and Qui-Gon suddenly understood Obi-Wan’s feeling a moment ago, of looking at something small and fragile yet inexplicably priceless, because Qui-Gon felt it while looking at Obi-Wan and his budding smile.

He couldn’t help but smile back, and for the first time in a very long time, he felt it all the way through his body.

After that, there wasn’t anything they lingered on for very much longer. Qui-Gon helped Obi-Wan find places to put his new things, and despite his earlier protest, Obi-Wan really did need some advice on how to navigate and organize his things in a new Padawan bedroom inside of an apartment rather than an initiate dormroom or the youngling shared rooms; some of his things he decided to put somewhere else in the apartment, because they were functional and better left somewhere more useful, or because Obi-Wan would probably want to look at them or entertain himself with them in the living room rather than here. There were a very few things he decided he didn’t really want or need anymore, and they were set aside for later, to see about the Temple custodians.

There were only three things that had more than a passing glance and explanation given to them. The first was the bracelet Obi-Wan had pulled out, and immediately put on when his attention was redirected to it--it was apparently a gift from Bant. The Mon Calamari girl had a matching one, Obi-Wan said, and the beads were made of a cheap but genuine mineral. They had made them for each other at a young age, and only wore them sporadically now, but it was clearly a cherished item.

The second was the stuffed animals--there was only a few, small and fuzzy or otherwise soft, but Obi-Wan looked nervous and embarrassed about them, despite the fact Qui-Gon could see very well that Obi-Wan still cared about them. His eye was drawn particularly to one, larger than the others, and cut in the shape of a shark, that Obi-Wan grabbed and sat in his lap, seemingly without thinking. The rest were, after a moment of shy consideration, placed on the bed itself, or on a nearby table.

The third and last was the model spaceship itself--it was red and black and gray, with insectoid pilots and--so he was told--green and purple lights that lit up when it was powered. Obi-Wan held it carefully in his hands, showing it off to Qui-Gon. The power charge had run out in the time since he had last seen it, and he mournfully pressed the button a few times to test it before sighing.

Apparently he had had more, too, but wherever the rest of his few belongings had been, they were there too. Only the one remained. That actually seemed to sadden Obi-Wan where the loss of other things was a less serious loss, and Qui-Gon put it on the steadily growing mental list of things to see about in the near future. If Obi-Wan appreciated them that much, he would go about finding him more.

And then that was that. By the time they were done, a few hours had passed, the box was put away to recycle, and Obi-Wan's room was looking much more lived in and hospitable.

Qui-Gon stood up from his seat on the bed, carefully brushing out his tunic and pants while Obi-Wan looked around.

"Well," Qui-Gon said. "There we go." He smiled down at Obi-Wan and was very pleased to receive a bright, answering one.

"It does look better," Obi-Wan said, reaching out to trail his fingers across the things scattered about his room.

"It does," Qui-Gon agreed.

Obi-Wan looked up at him. "Thank you," he said, a little timidly but earnestly. "For helping.

Qui-Gon's smile widened. He finally felt like they were starting to get somewhere. "Anytime you need it, you only have to ask, Obi-Wan," he assured softly.

"I will," Obi-Wan promised. And then he stifled the onset of a sudden yawn, stretching out his arms casually.

Qui-Gon chuckled. "It's not even nighttime yet, Padawan."

"Yet," Obi-Wan echoed contentedly, and then glanced at the chrono. "It is dinnertime, though."

Qui-Gon looked as well. So it was. "Well," he started. "Let's get to work on that, shall we?"

Obi-Wan grinned.

Making dinner was… slightly more eventful than usual.

In a number of ways.

It started small, with them simply helping each other out, Qui-Gon asking Obi-Wan to fetch him things and Obi-Wan rushing obediently to bring pots or spices or utensils or whatnot. Then the teasing began--simple things, little things, that small, slight camaraderie of banter they'd just begun to slip into before--just before. And were apparently blessed with the opportunity to continue, it seemed.

It didn't go to waste. Qui-Gon teased Obi-Wan for making it a habit to lick every spoon he was given--Obi-Wan retorted that if he didn't want Obi-Wan to lick them, he should finish cooking soon. And then he took to trying to sneak bits of food before they were ready, to which Qui-Gon countered with the only logical response: pointing cooking utensils at him faux-severely and shooing him away forcefully, occasionally scolding him for ruining dinner.

"But aren't I in the kitchen to help, Master?" the boy asked with a grin--a sly, playful, full grin that showed the true mischievous nature underneath his supposed diligent and obedient role as a Padawan learner. A grin Qui-Gon had seen only a few times but had sorely missed.

"Yes," Qui-Gon said stonily--he did it because he knew it was exaggerated and it would make Obi-Wan laugh again--and then pointed yet another large cooking spoon at the boy from across the room and looked at him down the handle. He saw Obi-Wan suppress a giggle. "Which you are not doing, what with that sauce all over your fingers."

"It's not--" Obi-Wan protested immediately, and then looked down to said fingers, spotting more of said sauce, and then put them in his mouth to clean them, appearing quite distracted with the task.

Qui-Gon sighed and shook his head. What was a Master to do?

He couldn't help but smile, however, going back to his stirring while waiting for his Padawan to get bored of that and come help him again.

And then make a noise that was ungodly for a Jedi his age and rank as something freezing cold snuck itself under his tunic against his back. He realized what happened at exactly the same time that he whirled, catching sight of Obi-Wan's laughing face and the cold bottle held extended in his grasp.

"Obi-Wan," he gasped--no, rumbled, he was dignified and composed--and that only made the boy laugh harder in his petty mischief.

Well. Two could play at that game.

Qui-Gon used his superior agility to snatch the ice-cold bottle from the Padawan and then hold it against Obi-Wan's neck.

Predictably, the boy shrieked and pulled away, batting at his hand aimlessly, instinctively. "Stop!" he cried.

"Fair's fair," Qui-Gon said smugly, but pulled away, leaving Obi-Wan in peace. He very pointedly placed the bottle on the counter, but Obi-Wan didn't go for it anyway, content to laugh in place.

And so it went. Qui-Gon was pleased he had chosen something that took a long while to cook, because the hour or so they spent together in the kitchen playing around and helping each other and just talking did them both a lot of good, he imagined. It made his chest loosen, made Obi-Wan's eyes bright and aware for once, made the whole apartment feel… right. Like maybe this was a place for them. Maybe this was a home.

Things felt like maybe they were okay.

Which, of course, was always when they went wrong in his life.

Obi-Wan couldn't stop talking. It was simultaneously thrilling and fun and cathartic and seemed to amuse Qui-Gon. It was like a floodgate had opened. He'd spent days and weeks being withdrawn, being afraid of overstepping and upsetting the delicate balance they had, or just too tired to bother, and now it's like those words and thoughts and need for connection were coming out at once. He was having fun. He felt happy.

He hadn't felt this happy in a while, he realized. Hadn't even realized he wasn't happy until he felt it again just now.

It was only a few months ago. How had his life and standards changed so much in only a few months?

It didn't matter. He just wanted to enjoy it right now while it lasted. He could at least have this.

He bantered with Qui-Gon. He joked. He asked him questions, mostly about cooking, at first. About how he learned (from his Master), how he wanted Obi-Wan to cut the vegetables (peeled and then diced), how long would it take to finish the food ("soon, Padawan," said with fondness). But then other things came up--holoshows and history and the Jedi Order and just miscellaneous topics and opinions and--

And they sat down to eat and they talked, and it felt good. It didn't feel like him as an apprentice talking to his Master (though it was also that), it was talking like two people who enjoyed each other's company did, like he talked to his friends, and he hadn't known it could be like this. He and Qui-Gon had teased each other before, of course, and humor and relation and fondness were part of any bond between people, but he had… somehow he had expected these last few months to be all there was. It was illogical--they hadn't even been Master and apprentice for a full year, of course they had yet to know each other properly and grow into a proper relationship--but somehow he just hadn't considered it. Obi-Wan had never had a Master before. Neither had his friends. And he had been so grateful after he'd almost been rejected that he thought he would've taken anything if it meant he was allowed to stay. He was prepared to take anything.

Somehow he hadn't realized that meant he was expecting to hold himself still and quiet and neutral for the rest of his apprenticeship, not until the expectation was gone and everything felt familiar and comfortable and right.

Once more, he had lost something and not understood it was lost or where to find it again until after he already had it back within his grasp.

That kept happening lately.

Could he be blamed, then, that he wanted the feeling to last? That he wanted the feeling of connection and attention to continue?

They finished dinner and the air sang with warmth and humor and contentment and things were bright and fond and they were going to have a good night--they were having a good night--and the quiet despair and detachment of that morning felt so far away, here and now. The anger and confusion of that afternoon. Nothing else mattered, not the probation, not Qui-Gon's grief for Xanatos, not Obi-Wan's issues, not Melida/Daan or Bandomeer or Phindar or Telos or Gala or anything but him and his Master in sync, finally.

They were talking while they got up, too, moving plates and scooting chairs--about something small, mundane, still full of that warmth but muted--and they were going to finish and clean up and then maybe watch something together. Obi-Wan wanted to show Qui-Gon his favorite holoshow, and kinda wanted to see if Qui-Gon was really serious about the fact he apparently liked those late-night holodramas, but first they had to finish here.

Qui-Gon asked him to hand him one of the plates so he could dry them.

Obi-Wan tried to hand it over quickly. He tried. He just wanted to help.

But he was distracted. He was talking with Qui-Gon. He was still so upbeat and happy. It was slippery from the water.

The plate fell from his fingers and slammed into the floor. It shattered into several dozen pieces of varying size, big ones staying close, the smaller ones flying across the room.

He was in the middle of saying something when it slipped, suddenly interrupting him with a loud crash that echoed in his ears over and over again, and he snapped his mouth shut so quickly it hurt. The smile he didn't even realize was on his face melted immediately and he stilled, shock shooting up his spine like ice as his brain switched from joy to an equally strong and overwhelming counterpart.

"Ah," Qui-Gon exclaimed with mild surprise, leaning back a little and looking down. "Oh no." He sounded disappointed.

The smash rang in Obi-Wan's ears. He stared at the fallen plate--red, a bright stark red against the white tile of the kitchen floor. His heart was beating so fast in his throat that he could feel it.

"Let me find a broom," Qui-Gon said, drying his hands off quickly. "Be careful where you step, there might be shards on the floor."

He wasn't moving. He was frozen. His throat was tight. Every muscle felt tense. He was trembling and he didn't know if it was from the tension of holding himself still or more.

"Obi-Wan?"

Obi-Wan stared at the ground and tried very hard to stop his rapid, shallow breathing from becoming--something else. He didn't know what else. He didn't know, he just--he didn't want to, he didn't want to--

They were happy. He was happy. And now he was unable to tear his eyes from the floor as he felt hot tears creep up to his tear ducts, and he couldn't breathe.

"--bi-wan," he heard, somehow both foggily and crystal clear at once.

His head snapped up and he was looking at the man--up and up--he was so tall--when did he get so close?

Qui-Gon looked concerned, maybe. Obi-Wan's eyes took in every detail of his familiar face and distorted it--he looked wrong. Everything was so sharp and blurry and just--wrong. It didn't look real. It didn't feel real.

The broken plate felt real, though. Achingly so. So did the hitch in his chest.

A hand, alien and slow but too fast for his racing, sluggish brain, tried to make itself acquainted with him, with his shoulder, and it did, he felt it. Distantly. It burned.

He jerked back as soon as it touched him, and it really was a jerk and not anything else. His body felt--uncoordinated. He stared with wide, unseeing eyes somewhere near Qui-Gon's head, or maybe behind it. Just enough to see where the man was but not focus on anything.

Qui-Gon froze. There was a long silence as the buzzing in Obi-Wan's brain only worsened and he swallowed repeatedly for some reason.

"Hey," said a soft, soothing voice, definitely trying to be comforting, to get through to him. The latter worked--he heard it through the buzzing--but it didn't help.

He shook his head rapidly. No. He didn't know why. But just--no. He couldn't. Whatever Qui-Gon was asking. He didn't. He wasn't. Something. He was wrong. Everything was wrong. He couldn't fix it. He needed--

There was some small movement before him--he wasn't sure what it was exactly because his gaze had drifted down somewhere to the side and he couldn't right it, but he jerked back again quickly, unsteadily, and something sharp pierced his awareness and his foot at the same time.

A gasp tore itself from his mouth and oh, that was a mistake, now the tension keeping his jaw clenched shut was gone and he had no idea what would come out next--

He looked down and saw his foot held up away from the floor, saw red on the tile, bright red, but it wasn't the shards of the plate, it was blood, dark and liquid and viscerally real and far, far too familiar to him at this point.

His breath came even faster and the body in front of him moved, he heard a quiet, shocked, worried "Obi-Wan," and again something reached for him, and he couldn't, he couldn't--he didn't want--

"Don't touch me!" he shrieked, hot and cold with the panic-rage of uncertainty and confusion. He was recoiling and lashing out before he realized what he was doing. He was shoving, his hands almost comically small against the chest in front of him but still strong enough with enough force to send the much larger and more unprepared man off-balance to the point he had to catch himself against the counter to steady himself.

There was a moment of shock and silence again and something about the adrenalized fear and anger made everything zoom back in, still fuzzy-sharp but now focused--the edges of his vision were blurry and the center of his gaze too detailed but he saw now, and now he saw Qui-Gon, his Master, hands held close to himself, staring in surprise and--some emotion Obi-Wan couldn't recognize. But it wasn't a good one.

Obi-Wan's thick, sluggish brain rushed back to catch up with the present as his whole being shuddered in the kind of clarity that only comes with horror. He struggled to breathe in and out clearly, realizing what just happened with a confusing mix of guilt-anger-terror. Why would Obi-Wan do that--why did Qui-Gon try to touch him, he knew--why was any of this happening--

Something close to I'm sorry tried to escape his lips, but it was only a sob that found its way out of his chest. His face crumpled and then the sobs didn't stop.

All he could see was the sad, alarmed look on his Master's face, saw him about to say something else--Obi-Wan didn't know what and he didn't want to know--and then he was running, he ran, he couldn't do this, couldn't face Qui-Gon. He ran out of the kitchen and through the living room and to the only place in their new apartment fitting as both a sanctuary and place of condemnation--his room.

The door slammed (he didn't mean to but he didn't mean so many things lately that turned out to be terrible, horrible choices) and his feet hurt (more shards embedded in his tender skin as he panicked and barely noticed) but neither of them mattered, really. He ran to his bed, throwing himself on it and curling up on the corner next to the wall, farthest from the door. The same corner he'd sat in that morning, quivering and frightened and pathetic, and now here he was again, just the same, just as he was before, just as he probably always would be.

He sobbed into his hands, and couldn’t stop. He didn't know what was wrong with him. Why it was so easy to upset him now, why he was so startled and angry and afraid.

It was just a plate. It was just a plate. He'd dropped things before.

But he hadn't been prepared and the shock had done something to him. His body had responded without his mind's permission--or maybe it was the other way around. He just knew that it was wrong. He was wrong. He was broken.

And Qui-Gon kept having to deal with it. Kept trying to help him. Kept trying to fix him. Obi-Wan didn't know how to say that he didn't know if the man could. He didn't know why Qui-Gon wanted to--Obi-Wan was surely just a burden on him by this point, wasn't he? Qui-Gon hadn't even wanted a Padawan, and for good reason. Obi-Wan, stupid and naive and desperate, had practically begged the man after meeting him, and of course he'd given in, eventually. That was Obi-Wan's fault. He was responsible for making Qui-Gon care for him, for having to deal with his issues.

He'd ruined it. He'd ruined the night. It'd been so good and just because he couldn't control his stupid brain it was over now, that rare feeling of calm and happiness and warmth shattered like the stoneware. And now Qui-Gon had to clean up the mess.

He sobbed harder, clutching himself tighter in the room that had just been righted by them, together, and with every passing second that Qui-Gon didn't call for him, he knew the older Jedi must hate him. Must be so angry.

He should go out and apologize like a good Padawan would, tell his Master he was sorry, but he couldn't. The guilt and horror ate at him but he couldn't make himself get up and do something.

He felt so bad. He hadn't felt this bad since--since--

Since Cerasi's death.

And before that, on Phindar, when they'd threatened the mindwipe.

And before that, the underwater mine on Bandomeer with Guerra--Force, he didn't want to remember that--

And even before that, the transport ship out of the Temple.

It felt like everything was just getting worse. And he didn't know how to control it anymore. He didn't know if it could be controlled. He'd thought it could, he'd thought he was doing okay, before Melida/Daan, but then--then everything had gone wrong--Nield turned on him--Cerasi died--the Young were losing--everything he thought he knew had abandoned him--

Qui-Gon had abandoned him. Qui-Gon had left him. And everything had fallen apart. He was supposed to care, he made a promise, and Obi-Wan knew he broke it, too, but he thought adults were supposed to be better. He'd thought Qui-Gon would ask him to come with him, would drag him away (and sometimes, sometimes he wished Qui-Gon had, despite the things he didn't want to give up), thought he would come back.

Obi-Wan had been so afraid he was never coming back. He'd been so scared he'd thrown away everything he'd ever wanted and fought for again on a stupid, irresponsible whim and that now he'd sit for the rest of his life on the planet that he gave it all away for and which didn't even want him back.

No one wanted him. No one. The Jedi didn't, certainly. They already proved that. It was only luck that he ended up being able to return. The other initiates didn't like him. Besides Bant and their small friend group, no one was nice to him--not when they had followed Bruck's lead, and not since Obi-Wan had returned from Melida/Daan.

His own parents hadn't wanted him--the créchemasters told him, while teaching the initiates of their own histories and peoples and where they came from, told him how little they had to tell him because he had been one of the children abandoned on the steps of the Temple on Coruscant. He knew he was Stewjoni, knew he'd been left with a note (but they wouldn't show him it, too afraid he was too young and would get attached to people he didn't even know), and that they hadn't wanted him. That was it.

And Qui-Gon didn't want him, either. Had abandoned him, too. He fought so hard against taking Obi-Wan as his apprentice. Several times. And Obi-Wan kept pathetically trying to get him to take him back, after he kept messing everything up. Maybe he just wasn't meant to be a Jedi. Jedi were supposed to be able to control themselves and their emotions and he clearly couldn't--he was messed up and stupid and impulsive and loud and he'd never been right, they never liked him at the créche, always fighting rules he shouldn't and getting into arguments.

Maybe Qui-Gon would see that, now, and not take it back this time. Maybe he wasn't coming back to Obi-Wan--again--and was walking off to tell the Masters that Obi-Wan was too much of a burden, was too broken, too foolish and out of control and childish even at this age and couldn't be changed. Maybe he really was too old to be trained, now. Maybe they should've ripped the band-aid off years ago instead of giving him hope.

He cried into his knees in the stupid light he was too tired to get up and turn off, feeling a headache grow steadily between his eyes. It hurt but he couldn't stop crying and he just--sat there. On his bed. Waiting for something. He didn't know what. For the day to end. For everything to.

He cried for a very long time. For a while he thought that would be it, he would sit there for the rest of the short night until he exhausted himself into sleep, and then fell into more nightmares until he woke himself and Qui-Gon back up and began the horrible day anew. He thought Qui-Gon would stay where he was and not come looking for him, because he was angry with him, or disappointed in him, or indifferent to him, and Obi-Wan would just be alone with his shame and confusion until Qui-Gon was forced to deal with him again tomorrow.

But then there was a knock, so soft he almost missed it over the sounds of his own weeping. He stopped immediately, choking the sound back in his throat and locking it in his jaw. He put his hand over his mouth as well, to stifle it. He didn't want Qui-Gon to hear. Didn't want to make him angry. Didn't want to be even more pathetic in his eyes.

A voice came through the door. "Obi-Wan?"

He clenched his teeth and closed his eyes, trying to swallow the convulsions in his chest and hold back the tears already spilling down his cheeks. It was useless, but what else was he supposed to do?

"Can I come in?"

He asked. Of course he asked. If Obi-Wan told him no, he'd probably leave. But then Obi-Wan would be making everything worse. And either way, he was already forced to open his mouth and control what came out. He didn't really have a choice.

He cleared his throat--several times, uselessly--and furiously wiped at his eyes. He had to do both over and over again, his body refusing to listen.

"Obi-Wan?" the voice prompted again, sounding some kind of way that Obi-Wan couldn't place. But he hurried to answer properly.

"Ye-ah," he answered the first question weakly, and of course it cracked mid-word anyway. He sniffed and the door opened and he turned away.

He heard Qui-Gon padding quietly across the floor.

He didn't look up. He couldn't meet his eyes after what he'd done.

He waited for something. Something. Some admonishment or curiosity or simple declaration to come back out now.

There was a rustling of cloth before him, and Obi-Wan saw from the corner of his eyes a figure settle on the floor, followed by the soft thump of something else being dropped on the floor.

"Padawan," said Qui-Gon in that way of his, both gentle and firm. Soft, but unyielding. Comforting and steady at once.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes and wiped his sleeve over his face, trying not to feel how his lip wobbled over Qui-Gon's acknowledgement of his relationship to him. As if he still was, unquestionably, his Padawan. It made his heart skip every time Qui-Gon said it since he'd returned from Melida/Daan--just as it had just after Bandomeer.

Another cloth rustle and this time closer, brushing across the fabric of the bed toward him, and then fingers resting lightly against his ankle. Asking for recognition, but patient. Understanding.

He scrubbed at his face when tears began leaking again and he looked--seeing Qui-Gon, kneeling by the side of the bed. His face was kind and open and--worried but. Not angry. Not indifferent.

He was an idiot.

Obi-Wan slid back across the blanket in one motion, legs slipping off the edge and feet ending up somewhere half-under the bed. It didn't matter. He fell, almost literally, into Qui-Gon's embrace.

He buried his face in the dip made up of his arms wrapped around Qui-Gon's neck and sniffed loudly, trying not to cry. "I'm sorry," he whimpered. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. It won't happen again--"

"It's alright," Qui-Gon shushed. "I know you didn't."

"I'm sorry," he said again, because he meant it and it was true and he needed Qui-Gon to understand that.

"Shush," Qui-Gon murmured into his brow, and Obi-Wan obeyed, tucking himself further into the embrace until the ugly animal inside his chest that wouldn’t leave him alone nowadays stopped hurting. "It's okay."

After several minutes of that, of being held while clutching at his guardian, Qui-Gon gently pushed him away and Obi-Wan stared at him in shocked--but unfortunately, familiar--hurt. Then Qui-Gon gestured him up, and he stared confusedly even as he moved with the motion back onto the bed. And then he saw what Qui-Gon had brought with him: a medkit, sitting on the floor beside him.

He blinked at it through wet eyelashes slowly, trying to remember why Qui-Gon would have that, before his Master opened it and then held his hand out expectantly. "Here," he murmured, gesturing towards him.

Oh. Right. His feet.

Obi-Wan silently, dutifully moved his foot over into the man's lap and grip as he began to set to work on Obi-Wan's fresh cuts and punctures. He almosted wanted to cry again. He broke everything and made a mess and ran away from it, and now Qui-Gon was going to help him anyway? Was going to fix it?

The tweezers came first, and though Qui-Gon was as gentle as possible, it still hurt to remove ceramic shards from the delicate skin of his foot. Obi-Wan didn’t do more than bite his lip and hiss, however. He’d had worse. He could take it.

Next came the antiseptic, and it burned, but he managed to keep his eyes dry. Then came the bandaging, and there were apparently enough collected nicks and gashes that Qui-Gon thought it prudent to wrap his whole foot, from heel to toe, rather than treating the individual cuts separately. It was weird, because he hadn’t noticed them that much through his haze of distress. And. Well. His pain tolerance may be higher than it might’ve been only a few months ago.

Qui-Gon didn't say anything through the whole process, just went about his task of plucking, cleaning, and wrapping with focus and calm. Obi-Wan tried to draw on it for strength inbetween obediently moving his foot as silently directed to give him better access.

It was… almost nice. Not the pain, not everything else that had led to that, but the feeling of being taken care of, looked out for--he hadn’t really felt it in a while. Not since he was younger, and watched over his the crechemasters. It was something he had thought was only reserved for young children, until the last week or two of his stay with Qui-Gon, and the constant overshadowing feeling of… concern.

It was odd to experience. Slightly uncomfortable, sometimes, and sometimes upsetting when he didn’t want someone noticing or acknowledging his pains.

But it was nice, too. To be thought about. Cared for. It made something settle in his chest, made the earlier fears of Qui-Gon abandoning him again blow away like dust in the breeze. Maybe there were problems, maybe Obi-Wan wasn’t good at whatever it was he was trying to do now--survive, probably, or maybe that was the only thing he was good at anymore--maybe Qui-Gon was or wasn’t upset, but--

His Master wouldn’t sit there and care for him like this over a small, inconsequential injury for nothing, right? That meant he cared?

And maybe Obi-Wan didn’t deserve it, but he so badly wanted it.

By the end of it, his foot still hurt, but the sharp pain that had dulled to consistent pangs now turned to a silence ache, ready to heal. It was throbbing almost pleasantly from the ordeal of the dressing and the pressure of the bandage, and he rested it carefully against the floor to prevent it from becoming a harsher pain. He handed his other foot over with little prompting.

Qui-Gon cradled his other heel as he set to removing more shards, and Obi-Wan couldn't stand the silence anymore. "I'm sorry," he whispered again, for lack of something better to break the ice with.

Qui-Gon nodded without looking at him. "I know. I am, too."

Obi-Wan carefully drew the leg that wasn't being held up to his chest and rested his chin on his knee. "What are you sorry about?"

Qui-Gon inhaled. He took his time in answering, seeming to think it over inbetween the slow, careful actions of his hands. Finally, he uttered, “A lot of things. But, mostly, for you getting hurt.”

“It’s okay,” Obi-Wan whispered, trying to reassure even through his own upset out of some need for stability--he didn’t like knowing that Qui-Gon was upset, too. It messed up the balance in his head. It messed everything up that he knew, that he was trying to keep control of. “My feet will be fine.”

“I don’t just mean your feet, Obi-Wan.” Qui-Gon’s voice was calm, and steady, and Obi-Wan knew he was going to say it even before he said it.

“Oh.” Obi-Wan closed his eyes and laid his cheek against his knee, and waited. For Qui-Gon to finish. For whatever resolution they were building up to--he just knew something was going to happen, and it was going to happen now. He didn’t know. He didn’t know if he was ready for this conversation.

Eventually Qui-Gon finished with that foot, too, and Obi-Wan retracted it almost mournfully. He liked the feeling of being tended to. Perhaps he shouldn’t have worried, because right afterwards there was another gentle touch to his opposite ankle, and he took the prompting for what it was and slowly lowered the leg. A second later, Qui-Gon scooted closer and then placed his hands on Obi-Wan’s knees.

“Obi-Wan, look at me.”

Ah. He did, slowly, biting his lip. He met Qui-Gon’s direct gaze without flinching, which he was proud of.

Qui-Gon’s face was serious but kind. “I’m not angry at you.”

“I am,” Obi-Wan said automatically, the words true and unguarded and coming out entirely without his own permission. And then he stared, stricken, at Qui-Gon’s resulting hesitation, clearly not expecting that answer.

“Angry at who?” the man ventured carefully. Obi-Wan noticed the way that his mouth got pinched, but his eyes stayed steady on him.

Obi-Wan didn’t answer. He didn’t want to. He didn’t mean to say that. He stared desperately at the wall behind his Master, bunching his hands in the covers. He wasn’t supposed to feel that way, wasn’t supposed to feel this--this mess inside of him. It was bad.

“Are you angry at yourself? Or me?”

He didn’t want to say it, but he didn’t want to lie. He just didn’t want to be a bad Padawan. “Both,” he whispered, feeling his eyes get damp again.

“Oh, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon sighed.

His tone made something in Obi-Wan recoil, something that he didn’t like but knew was only allowed under his skin now that it knew Qui-Gon wasn’t angry, and it was safe to burn and coil inside him. He snatched away his legs and turned, curling into himself again. He didn’t look at Qui-Gon.

Qui-Gon didn’t try to touch him again. Just sat where he was, quietly. Once again, that lack of reaching out irritated him and he didn’t get it. He didn’t understand. He’d just been crying in fear that Qui-Gon wouldn’t want him anymore, would be angry, and then crying in relief that he was there and holding him, and now he was mad, and he didn’t know why.

And again, his Master’s uncanny ability to pick the right thread of thought to unravel showed itself. “Why are you angry?”

He wanted to say, Because everything is wrong. He wanted to say, why do you think? He wanted to say, I don’t know. But he just mumbled into his own legs and arms, “For which one?”

Another inhale. “Let’s start with you.”

He was quiet for a long minute. It was--hard to talk about. It felt bad. It felt wrong and nasty in his chest, that tangle of guilt and self-anger. Fear, and loathing, and terrible want, and the shame of all of those things. He didn’t know. He did.

“Because…” he started. “Because I keep doing bad things.”

A deeper inhale. Then, “Like what?”

Obi-Wan almost snapped at that, because of course Qui-Gon must know what he meant, but he held it back, barely. “Everything. I keep messing everything up, like--like--like tonight and--” He wanted to say more, wanted to say Bandomeer and Melida/Daan and his entire history as an initiate, but it stuck in his throat.

“What did you do wrong tonight?” Qui-Gon asked, voice entirely too measured, and provoking another irrational surge of anger.

“Everything,” he snapped, for real this time, and then tried to breathe and dial it back. He was there, he knew, why was he making Obi-Wan say it? Did he want Obi-Wan to admit to everything in his own words--but he said he wasn’t angry--and he had been here to help, to make Obi-Wan feel better-- “I--I messed everything up, I wasn’t--a good Padawan, I was a bad Jedi, I let my emotions get the best of me--I broke the plate and I ran and--” His breath choked up in his throat and all of the emotions of earlier rushed back to him, just as strong now as they had been in the moment. “And I-I got scared and I didn’t mean to, but I didn’t know what to do, and--”

Qui-Gon shushed him. “It’s okay,” he murmured soothingly, not coming closer but allowing his Force presence to lean against Obi-Wan’s, if he chose to lean back.

He did, and the quiet warmth of their connection and Qui-Gon’s presence made him quiet and close his mouth more than the verbal suggestion had, just because he wanted to sit for a moment and feel better.

“You weren’t a bad Padawan,” Qui-Gon added. “You weren’t a bad Jedi. These things happen. It’s normal.”

He didn’t say anything in response, just continued to stare at the fabric of his pants in front of him, and nothing else.

Qui-Gon’s voice was firmer, next. “I’m serious. Obi-Wan, you’re thirteen. You’re not going to react like a Jedi Master, and nobody expects you to. You are a Padawan, and you’ve been through a great many stressful things, and you are dealing with that. Understandably. Remarkably better than some people might expect. You are doing well.”

Tears sprung to his eyes again. “I was stupid,” he said plaintively.

“You weren’t.” There was no room for argument in Qui-Gon’s voice, so he moved on.

“I broke the plate.”

The Jedi Master’s voice gentled. “It was just a plate, Padawan. It’s been cleaned up already, and it’s no longer a problem.” A pause, and then, even gentler: “It’s not the plate I care about.”

For once, Obi-Wan heard the unspoken part of Qui-Gon’s conversations--here, the silent: It’s you. “I ran away,” he protested desperately, voice cracking, trying to get him to understand, and then he realized--he didn’t know what he was talking about anymore, what they were. He didn’t know which time he meant, which sin of running away he was confessing to.

“I know,” Qui-Gon said, and his voice was so soft it made him shut his eyes tight to not cry again. “And I found you again, anyway.”

He covered his face with his hands in a desperate attempt to stop the crying again before it started, to hide it before Qui-Gon could see--but that was useless, because of course he saw.

"Why are you angry at me?" he asked softly, and Obi-Wan knew he meant it, he wanted to know, he wanted to fix it. And Obi-Wan was upset, still caught in that mess of fear and shame and irritation, but if there was one thing he had learned in his apprenticeship, it was that Qui-Gon Jinn did not undertake tasks he could not complete, that there was very little anyone could do to stop him if he chose to act, that he had earned his reputation as one of the most respected and capable Jedi Masters.

And Obi-Wan found that he wanted him to help.

He kept skirting around it, didn't want to think about it, but--but it all came back to that. He knew why he was angry at his Master. "Because you left," he exclaimed into his hands, and even though he was admitting his anger, it didn't sound that way anymore, not with the wet, choked sounds bubbling up in his throat. "Because you were supposed to stay like you promised. Because it was fine until you were gone--then everything broke--" He cut himself off because the talking was letting bad things out of his chest and he needed to try to control it. He breathed heavily into his hands, more panting than than anything resembling coherent, collected inhalations and exhalations, and tried not to cry.

"Oh, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon whispered beside him again, and this time it didn't itch at his underlying anger, just made him want to make it go away, made him want Qui-Gon to make it go away.

He shifted towards the Jedi and Qui-Gon responded, leaning forward, and Obi-Wan removed his hands from his face just to lean down and bury it in Qui-Gon's shoulder. He wrapped his arms around the older man's neck for the second time and wept uncontrollably into his tunic. Qui-Gon's hands came up and wrapped around his back and rubbed a comforting line up and down, slowly.

"What broke?" he asked quietly and Obi-Wan shook his head without lifting it.

"Everything," he sobbed, muffled by the cloth. "Everything from before."

Qui-Gon nodded like he understood, but Obi-Wan didn't know how he could have, when Obi-Wan didn't understand it himself.

He cried, for the millionth time that time, and his head throbbed by the end of it. He wondered when this was going to stop, when it would finally be fixed. When he would be.

He broke off finally, turning his head out of Qui-Gon's shoulder and towards his neck, and stayed there for a moment, just feeling the sturdiness of Qui-Gon below him, holding him up as he still sat on the bed leaning forward. He inhaled raggedly through his nose, trying to catch his breath. Qui-Gon's hands stayed steady on him, and he held onto it for a moment, feeling somehow both mentally clearer and more jumbled than before.

This time, he was the one that pulled away, and Qui-Gon let him, letting his arms fall as Obi-Wan sat up until he could grab at Obi-Wan’s hands.

Obi-Wan readjusted the grip, looking at their hands resting in his lap. His face was hot from crying again, and he kept sniffing. He squeezed his Master's hands, for the feeling of something real to ground him back to reality.

Qui-Gon squeezed back, carefully. "I'm not leaving again," he said, picking up where he'd left off before. "I promise, Obi-Wan."

He nodded jerkily. "I know," he mumbled, voice thick. "I’m sorry. I don't think you are. Not really. It's just… before… is still…" He shook his head, not knowing how to say it. How did he explain the mess of everything since his apparent expulsion? How nothing made sense in his brain? How he knew Qui-Gon was there for him, was going to stay, but couldn’t help the terror that gripped him at the idea of him leaving again?

"You're still trying to come to terms with everything that happened before," Qui-Gon rephrased. "Because it scared you, and it still hurts."

He nodded, breaking one of the handholds to wipe at his face. That sounded right. He said it better.

"Okay," Qui-Gon said, like they were finally getting somewhere. "Tell me."

Obi-Wan looked at him in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“Tell me about it. About how you felt. About what happened. When I left. Before I left.”.

"You were there," Obi-Wan said, puzzled. And besides--he didn't know how to do that--what to start with--it was everything and he was bad at explaining it, and he didn't know how to express the mess in his mind associated with all of that, within the past few months

"I know," Qui-Gon said. "But not for all of it. And I still haven't heard most of it in your own words."

Obi-Wan was unsure. He didn't know why Qui-Gon wanted him to talk about it. He didn't know if he could--it felt so bad--but…

But maybe it was better saying it than keeping it locked in his chest. where it hurt. Maybe if he wanted Qui-Gon to help, he had to trust him.

He wanted to trust him. He did trust him.

He bit his lip. And he told Qui-Gon everything.

Qui-Gon knelt patiently while Obi-Wan sat and confessed his long list of traumas like a history of his own crimes, like a terrible secret, like something inherently wrong with him that needed to be fixed and put back in place. He listened as Obi-Wan started with Melida/Daan, and then worked his way outward.

Obi-Wan talked about watching teens be shot and stabbed in front of him. About watching it happen to his friends. About children too young to properly button their own shirts being handed knives and expected to use them deftly enough to defend themselves and those younger than them. About children being beaten by adults in the middle of battle, who were frustrated and just wanted something to put their anger and violence into, no matter who it was, or how young. About what the Young whispered of at night, of what they did to the children in the factories. About quick weeks of fighting, and long days of grief, and the overshadowing grief of it all.

Qui-Gon had not known that the Young had put Obi-Wan in charge when they were trying to fix the mess the Elders had made of everything. He had not known that the boy before him had been expected to help lead a council, to argue for the rights of every child and teenager on the planet, expected to have the authority to give orders to and be obeyed by grown adults. Expected to lead a rebellion. Expected to hold together a broken people under civil war. Expected to do that, and more, and then be functional when he was tossed aside when it all fell apart anyway.

He had not known either what Xanatos had done to Obi-Wan on Bandomeer. What happened in the underwater mines. What his former apprentice had said to him, how he tried to fill his ears with sweet poison before betraying any innocent notions of budding trust with violence and enslavement. Qui-Gon had listened to Obi-Wan's pleas for Guerra's trustworthiness when they had gone to Phindar, and now he heard the things the Phindian had said to him, as well, alone in the dark, when Obi-Wan had no one else. He had not even been thirteen yet and had been expected to put off the same daily workload as an adult in those mines, and mocked mercilessly for it by Guerra, and then punished by other if he didn't fulfill the expectations. And he never managed it.

Obi-Wan told him what the underwater mines were like: rancid and salty and choking, and always dripping, always one bad strike away from collapsing the only thing between them and an underwater tunnel that would have flooded the shaft. Obi-Wan told him of having never been so exhausted in his life, of having never wished so desperately that he could just sleep a few more hours until the next morning. He told him about the attempted execution--not that Obi-Wan would call it that. He only referred to it as when they tried to get rid of me.

Qui-Gon knew about the attempted mindwipe on Phindar, but he didn't know they had caged Obi-Wan like an animal before it. For a whole night. He knew of the Hutts' cruelty onboard the ship to Bandomeer, but he had not known that no one had informed Obi-Wan where he was supposed to go, and that Clat’Ha had not been tasked by the Temple to watch over Obi-Wan, and had not made it her priority any more than Qui-Gon had. He had known that Bruck Chun had died in front of Obi-Wan, but he had not known the circumstances, did not know the history between the two boys, did not know that the other boy had been put on the path leading to his death for exactly the same reasons Obi-Wan had ended up on Bandomeer and been ridiculed for it.

There were too many things to recount. Too many details. So many that Qui-Gon knew there were dozens more left unspoken in Obi-Wan's head, contained in the history of the fear and pain in his body. Of acid, and explosions, and blood. The feeling of cold ground, the knowledge of incoming death, the sounds of screaming of children, compounding and doubling and reverbating from a dozen different sources in his memory.

Too many. Too many for a child to hold.

That was why Qui-Gon held his hands. To help hold it for him. For something Obi-Wan could hold onto inbetween, and not lose himself in the entagled mess of trauma.

It was, in truth, a fucking miracle this child was still standing. For multiple reasons.

It was only Qui-Gon's extensive training and experience that lent him his composure during it. He had seen worse. He had lived similar, during his own teenage years and much more often later. It was that, and the fact that he kept a close watch on his breathing, kept his heartbeat slow, held onto his focus and his self-control, that kept him calm and attentive. He did not even look at the potential well of guilt and horror inside him. He knew it was there and it would drag him under and this was not about him.

Later. Later he'd confide in someone else. Inform the council of many of the details given here. Other things.

Right now he knelt, and he listened, and he held Obi-Wan's hands. Obi-Wan, who tried to stay composed, and only sometimes succeeded. He cried some more. He got angry. He spoke so hollowly of things Qui-Gon didn't even want to think about for too long. And he squeezed Qui-Gon's hands intermittently--lightly, or bruisingly, or with his nails biting into Qui-Gon's skin, but he did not let go.

Eventually, he was done. They were. At least for now. He knew there were more things, more angles, more ways a traumatized mind could hurt itself over its own memories, but they would deal with those later as they came up. Qui-Gon would be there. He had promised.

Obi-Wan took such a shuddering breath after it all that it seemed as though his ribs might collapse inward on themselves like shuttering doors, but then his breathing evened out, and he squeezed, again, and he looked in Qui-Gon's eyes. And waited. For either judgement, or forgiveness.

Qui-Gon would give neither. He closed his eyes and leaned forward and pressed his lips to their joined hands. "Thank you for telling me, Obi-Wan. You've been very brave and strong."

A line drew up in Obi-Wan's brow, but he didn't argue.

"How do you feel?" Qui-Gon asked.

"'m tired," Obi-Wan said, and he knew it had to be true. It was already night when--this--had all started, and it had been an exhausting end to an exhausting day, and neither of them had slept properly through the night, and especially not Obi-Wan. "And my feet are better. But my head hurts now."

Ah, that wasn’t what he meant, but that made sense. He nodded. "I'll get something for that. You stay here."

He got on his knees, finally, and Obi-Wan's gaze followed him with an anxious but accepting expression that he understood. He squeezed Obi-Wan's hands one more time in reassurance, and then pulled his away. He lifted one of them to Obi-Wan's head and leaned them both forward enough to give the boy a kiss on the forehead. Obi-Wan was already loose from the exhaustion, but he went even more lax with the sign of affection, releasing a quiet sigh. Qui-Gon drew away, letting his hand hold onto the Padawan’s face for just a second, letting him know in actions as well as words that he'd be right back.

Then he stepped away and went to fill up a glass of water. The kitchen was as he'd left it, shattered ceramic all swept away into the garbage, dishes finished cleaning, leftovers put away. The only thing out of place was the solitary dirty glass on the table, from where he'd sat sipping for ten long minutes contemplating exactly how and when to approach Obi-Wan without upsetting him more, how much space to give him, how much of his own hesitation was protective fear or simply petrifying anxiety.

He put the glass away and grabbed a new one. The cold from the water and subsequently the glass after being filled up helped ground him, and he knew it'd do the same for Obi-Wan. He left quickly, and went to the fresher and got the tablets for Obi-Wan's headache.

Qui-Gon set the glass on the counter when he entered and took a moment to himself there with the door closed, to simply inhale and exhale. Long and deep, with his eyes closed, feeling the edge of the counter against his hands, feeling the gentle waning buzz of the Force as most of the daytime activity in the Temple and surrounding city wound down--or as much as it ever did on Coruscant.

It was less than a minute. But it did wonders for his nerves, letting him release his own fear and tension and anger into the Force without worrying about Obi-Wan sensing and getting the wrong impression. He finished, grabbed the tablets with a soft clatter, and left without a glance at his own reflection.

He knew what he held within him right now, and he did not need to see to know how to school his own expression.

He came back to find Obi-Wan, despite his words, hovering at the doorway to his room looking anxious. It lessened when he saw Qui-Gon, Qui-Gon held out the water and tablets for him.

He took them gratefully and Qui-Gon was going to tell him to drink more than a sip for the dehydration and the headache, but he didn't have to; Obi-Wan drank all of the water in a long, continuous gulp, and then pressed the cold glass against his face tiredly.

Qui-Gon laughed softly and let him have it for a moment before he'd ask for it back. "Do you want to go to bed?" Truthfully, he didn’t know if that was a good idea--he didn’t want Obi-Wan to not sleep when he could right now, when he was so clearly tired, but he was also worried the boy might accidentally work himself into more nightmares later by going to bed right after all of this. He mostly asked because if Obi-Wan wanted to--and he needed the rest--then Qui-Gon should be there, should help him get to sleep as peacefully as possible.

Obi-Wan opened his eyes and peeled the glass away from his face, looking hesitant. "What are you going to do?" he asked quietly.

He paused. He wasn’t sure. He supposed he expected to be watching out for Obi-Wan for the next few hours, whether the boy was awake or not, but he hadn't really planned for after that besides getting some much needed rest himself. "It's a bit late to do much,” he said contemplatively. “I may watch some late night programs.” Like they were going to do earlier, before Obi-Wan’s panic attack.

"Can I join you?" He asked it without hesitation, looking so… hopeful.

It was late but… well, Qui-Gon couldn't find a reason to protest. Maybe it would help. Maybe it let him calm down and settle before going to bed, let them both get a moment of solace and alleviation from the stress of the night.

"Alright," he said. "Come on out, I'll find something for us to watch together."

Something small brightened in his tired face, and it was worth everything that’d happened in the long night to see it.

Qui-Gon smiled gently, and turned to go do exactly what he'd said. Against his expectations, Obi-Wan did not immediately follow, however. He was still flipping channels when Obi-Wan finally popped out of his room, with his blanket and pillow in tow, and the stuffed shark from earlier.

Oh.

Oh.

Obi-Wan didn’t wait for a reaction to or acknowledgement of his emergence to climb in the middle of the couch, arranging his blanket somewhat orderly around him. He placed the shark to his side, before hugging his pillow to his chest and looking back up expectantly at Qui-Gon.

The sight did something to him that he couldn't describe. He looked so young. So tired and trusting and content.

Qui-Gon didn’t even remember the last time he’d sat on a couch sharing a blanket with someone else late at night. It had probably been Xanatos, complete with snacks and jokes and a holomovie binge setup prepared, as they used to do on the rare weeks they were grounded at the Temple.

Seeing it with Obi-Wan, something so achingly familiar, yet strange in its distance and newness… it hurt. It warmed him. It made him miss a past that didn’t exist and long for a future that hadn’t yet come to pass. It made him want so badly not to lose this. Both because he didn’t want to lose it again, and because he just didn’t want to lose Obi-Wan.

In the end, he picked something simple, something he thought Obi-Wan might like if he stayed awake long enough to actually watch, but quiet and unbusy enough that he could sleep through it if he wished.

When he sat down next to his Padawan, Obi-Wan didn’t wait a second to toss his blanket over Qui-Gon, too, and then scoot closer. Qui-Gon responded in kind and threw his arm over Obi-Wan’s shoulder and hugging him near. For a minute, Obi-Wan reciprocated the hold, snaking his arms around Qui-Gon’s waist and leaning in, inhaling deep and sleepy and relaxing completely against him. It loosened something in his chest, something old and painful, but fresh with everything that becoming a Master again had awakened in him. He held his Padawan--his Padawan--and felt some of the tension in his chest and mind release from the contact, from the surety of Obi-Wan being okay, from the reality of him being safe and with him. And he knew that with whatever relief and reassurance it gave him, it must be doing twice as much for Obi-Wan, who had been through almost all that Qui-Gon had recently, and then more.

When Obi-Wan began to tremble slightly in his arms, from exhaustion, maybe, or leftover anxiety, Qui-Gon squeezed gently. “I’m here,” he murmured to him softly, rubbing his hand up and down Obi-Wan’s back comfortingly. "I'm not going anywhere, Obi-Wan."

"I know," Obi-Wan whispered back into his chest, and Qui-Gon knew that he meant it and believed it. Then Obi-Wan drew his arms back to grab his pillow again, hugging it back against his chest while leaning against Qui-Gon. Qui-Gon removed his own arms enough to not be fully hugging him anymore, but as the boy seemed happy enough stay to under his arm, he kept it in place around his shoulder.

And then, they watched the holoprogram together. Well--mostly watched it. Qui-Gon still kept half of his attention on Obi-Wan just in case, and Obi-Wan was sleepy and still fragile enough that Qui-Gon doubted he cared as much about the program’s plot as he did the distraction and ambient noise and simply being allowed to sit next to someone else, warm and cared for.

There were still some minor conversations, Qui-Gon occasionally quoting something with the show under his breath here and there, Obi-Wan giggling softly in response, and sometimes there was even a mumbled question or two that he did his best to answer. But mainly it was quiet, and peaceful, and Qui-Gon leaned his head onto Obi-Wan's, and Obi-Wan drifted while staring at the screen, propped up by his Master and his pillow and even his small stuffed shark.

Eventually, as Qui-Gon knew he would, Obi-Wan began to drift fully, eyelids drooping and Force presence going soft and quiet. When that happened, Qui-Gon gently leaned forward, moving Obi-Wan with him and earning an adorably betrayed look for the action. Qui-Gon soothed him with a hand down his back, and then carefully extricated the pillow from his grasp and set it on his own lap.

“Mm,” Obi-Wan hummed, Qui-Gon assumed in approval of realizing that his Master was only trying to help his goal of getting comfortable. He grabbed his stuffed shark to replace the pillow he’d lost and then laid his head in the older Jedi’s lap with Qui-Gon’s gentle prompting.

He yawned sdudenly, quiet but big, and then buried his head in the pillow, followed by an inaudible noise and the stretching out of his legs before curling up properly.

Qui-Gon laughed softly, laying his own head in one of his hands and running the other through Obi-Wan’s hair. It had the intended effect, making him sigh and press closer and close his eyes entirely.

He stayed that way for a while, watching Obi-Wan relax, seeing the dim lights outside the dark, shuttered windows pass over the floor of their apartment and hearing the distant hum of the Coruscanti traffic that still made it ways up to the higher levels of the Temple. He ran his fingers through Obi-Wan’s newly shortened, re-shaved hair and twined his fingers around the short braid. It was longer than it had been at the start, noticeably so since it could only grow exponentially in the beginning. A sign of their partnership, how far they’d come--not long at all, but there, with more yet to show. A representation of all that passed. He smoothed his fingers over it carefully, reverently, and then left it alone, pulling his hand away and resting it on Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

His Padawan exhaled through his nose, and then untucked one of his hands to grab Qui-Gon’s, slotting their fingers together. And then, spoke. “Master?” Obi-Wan asked quietly, so low it was nearly inaudible.

“Hm?”

“What if I have another nightmare?” His voice was soft, almost asleep, but with a small undertone of concern. He could fall asleep right now and probably be alright, probably not need to worry about his dreams at all, but he wanted the comfort, the reassurance from Qui-Gon first.

How could he deny him that? “Then I’ll be here,” Qui-Gon whispered, and it was a promise for more than just tonight.

Obi-Wan didn’t say anything else. Just squeezed his fingers against Qui-Gon’s again, as he did earlier. An acknowledgement. An understanding. Belief that he spoke the truth.

Qui-Gon squeezed back, throat tight. He knew that after everything Obi-Wan had been through, to be someone considered worthy of that kind of trust and affection was important. It was special. He knew Obi-Wan would not let anyone else around him like this, so vulnerable and unsure, save perhaps Bant, and despite the fact Qui-Gon may have been part of the reason he did not lightly allow others near him nowadays, he was still trusted enough to hold him and comfort him in the worst parts of his days.

That meant something. Maybe Qui-Gon didn’t deserve it. But it wasn’t about what he deserved--it was about what Obi-Wan did. And he deserved a Master that gave him what he needed, and chose to honor that trust and reliance with support and companionship.

Qui-Gon did choose it. Would continue to choose this. Chance or perhaps the Force itself had seen fit to put them together, it seemed, and he had accepted. He was a Master again--Obi-Wan’s Master. That was that.

Qui-Gon didn’t want to disappoint him, again. He didn’t want to see Obi-Wan get hurt, again--because of him or not. And he would do everything he could to make sure neither of those happened.

They were building something. Rebuilding something. Something that had broken in him when Xanatos had fell, something that had broken in Obi-Wan when he had failed. He knew it would be hard and they had a lot to do to turn an apprenticeship into a proper partnership, and an apartment into a home, but he was ready to do it.

He looked down at the boy resting peacefully in his lap and admitted it finally to himself--he missed what he had lost. Desperately. And he wanted Obi-Wan, as his Padawan. The pain of the former had blinded him before, made him unable to acknowledge the latter for fear of getting hurt again, but that had just hurt them both more by trying to deny it and push him away. But he knew now they didn’t have to be separate, or erased.

He missed Xanatos. He was grieving him, in more ways than one. But Obi-Wan wasn’t him--not in his mistakes, and not in Qui-Gon’s affections. Obi-Wan was young, was innocent, was different than his former Padawan--he was sweet and awkward, honest and stubborn, hotheaded and shy. He was a lot of things Xanatos wasn’t and Qui-Gon liked seeing those parts just as much as anything that reminded him of the past.

Qui-Gon missed Xanatos dearly, but Xanatos was gone, and had been for a while, and Obi-Wan was not him. Obi-Wan was not the past. He was going to be Qui-Gon’s future--but for now, and most importantly, he was just Qui-Gon’s present. Qui-Gon’s Padawan.

Qui-Gon sighed through his nose and used the Force to close the curtains, shut off any remaining lights in the apartment, and lower the volume on the holovis. Obi-Wan’s heartbeat had slowed and his breathing was even, on the edge of sleep. Qui-Gon gently coaxed him further, wrapping his Force signature around Obi-Wan’s and nudging him all the way into deep, dreamless rest. Just before he tipped over, Qui-Gon felt the smallest answering surge of warmth and safety and trust.

Qui-Gon closed his eyes against it, letting it wash over him. He’d be worthy of that. He would.

He shifted carefully, just enough to get comfortable for a long period of time, without disrupting Obi-Wan, and then laid his head down on the side of the couch using one of his arms as a pillow. His other stayed occupied, hand still caught in Obi-Wan’s fingers still tangled together.

Like a braid, he thought tiredly. Like separate pieces woven together into something solid and steady and more than the sum of their parts. Something that meant something because of its mere existence. Something that represented something important. A history and a future in one.

Qui-Gon fell asleep with the program still playing softly, and Obi-Wan’s hand still in his grip. Obi-Wan didn’t move from it or let go, even in sleep.

And neither did he.