Chapter Text
Qui-Gon Jinn is still learning how to be a padawan’s Master. He is a far cry from the boy he had been—too sensitive, too quiet, too easily lost in his own thoughts and the feelings that had always seemed too big for him to understand or hold.
The world is manageable these days; the bright colors of the Force no longer as visible to his eye, but he finds more peace now; he is still strong in the Force, he can still sense it all around him. But voices no longer come with colors that overwhelm him. Energies around a life form are no longer so bright and vivid they distract him from everything else.
He finds that his small padawan still speaks in color, though, his voice bright blue.
Everything is summer blue those first few months, the child’s voice and laughter. He follows Qui-Gon around the small apartment, always at his heels, and he asks a hundred questions—from everything to the history of the Temple to the intricacies of negotiation, which he listens to with a very serious air for someone who is so small and knobby-kneed and bright-eyed. Most of his questions, though, revolve around when they will receive their first mission.
Qui-Gon always knows when these questions are coming; his small padawan’s voice shifts from its usual summer blue to something brighter and more vivid with excitement.
Obi-Wan’s sandy hair is always tousled, and he faithfully over-waters all of Qui-Gon’s plants daily, and he wakes up most nights wanting to tell Qui-Gon about his dreams and ask if, maybe, they were a sign from the Force. Even the ones that are about sweet ice.
Qui-Gon had not known, until he met this child, that he could love someone so much.
He has always been starry-eyed about being a Jedi himself; even as a boy he loved learning about their Temple, about their sacred history, about the beauty and mysticism of the life they lead. But he had known he could love something that was as simple as the daily routine of young Obi-Wan waking up, tousle-haired and chattering on about his day over their morning meal, of his small arms giving Qui-Gon a quick side-hug before he rushes out the door, his book bag so large on his small frame.
And when he returns at the end of a day, weary but bright-eyed with a hundred things to tell Qui-Gon, and a hundred questions for Qui-Gon about his own day and his own duties.
But one day, a few months after they have settled in together, Obi-Wan returns from his classes and, instead of climbing onto Qui-Gon’s lap and curling up like a contented little tooka cub, he marches straight by Qui-Gon, his shoulders slouched.
Qui-Gon had been researching on his datapad in preparation for their first mission together—a mission he was eager to tell his padawan about. But at Obi-Wan’s look, Qui-Gon lowers the datapad in concern. “Little one,” he says. “Are you alright?”
Obi-Wan, who is usually the very picture of respect, does not stop walking or even turn.
Qui-Gon sets the datapad down now. “Obi-Wan,” he says, a little more firmly.
His padawan’s shoulders set so tightly they are nearly around his ears, but he drops his book bag with a thump—directly on the floor—and then stalks away towards his room.
“Hold.”
He injects more than a little firmness into it now, and to his surprise, Obi-Wan goes still, as if the words and the tone have had a very certain and very unexpected effect on him.
Hmm, Qui-Gon thinks. He will have to file that one away for later. He had not known firmness would work so well on the boy. It certainly had never seemed to work on him, though he tries not to think of Dooku now. If he does, if he remembers his own fraught history with his master, he will lose the peace he needs to deal with whatever problem his own young padawan is facing.
“Come here, please, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon says softly.
Obi-Wan obeys, slouching rather dramatically as he does. “Hi, Master,” he says, pouting.
“What ever is wrong, dear one?” Qui-Gon asks him, drawing him gently forward by his rest until the child is standing between his knees. He looks even littler here, his hands so small beside Qui-Gon’s.
Obi-Wan hangs his head. “I don’t want to tell you, Master,” he says.
“And why is that, Padawan?” Qui-Gon asks him.
He feels a flash of fear that he has done something to make Obi-Wan afraid of him, but he releases his own fears into the Force, feels them and then sets them aside so that he may care for Obi-Wan in this moment. He reaches out through their bond.
He feels shame from Obi-Wan, and apprehension, and regret, a confusing mixture of colors. But not fear.
Qui-Gon places a hand on the child’s small shoulder. “Are you hurt?” he asks.
He is met with silence.
His own resolve hardens. “My child,” he says firmly. “If you are hurt, you need to tell me so that I am better able to help you.”
“I’m not hurt,” Obi-Wan says. “Well, I’m fine. It’s just a scratch.”
“Are you upset about something else, then?” Qui-Gon asks, fully intending to push until he uncovers the heart of this.
“I got in trouble today, Master,” Obi-Wan says finally, hanging his head. “I wasn’t even the one talking in class. It was Padawan Kolar. Agen Kolar. He’s the worst. He’s two years older, but he’s in this class anyway, and I think it’s because he’s dumb—”
“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon stops him. “We are here to speak of your actions, and what is bothering you.”
“Agen Kolar is bothering me,” Obi-Wan mutters.
In time, Qui-Gon will learn to predict the way Obi-Wan will use Qui-Gon’s own words against him when he is in a surly mood, and he will grow more direct and firm when he needs to correct the boy. But now is the first time, and Qui-Gon is learning as much as his padawan, so it takes him a moment.
But he settles his hands on Obi-Wan’s shoulders and gives the boy the firmest look he can manage. “Your actions,” he repeats.
“I shouldn’t have gotten in trouble in class,” Obi-Wan says finally. “I was talking. But only because he talked to me first.”
Qui-Gon bites back a chuckle. “I know you always do your very best,” he says gently. “But everyone makes mistakes, young one, so if you have made one today, it is best to own it. And to tell me, so that we may fix it together.”
Obi-Wan sniffles a little. “I’m sorry I was rude, Master,” he says, ducking his head.
Qui-Gon brushes the tear away with the pad of his thumb. “Were you so worried, little one?” he asks softly.
Obi-Wan nods tearfully.
Qui-Gon sighs and sets the child gently on his lap. “Tell me everything, please,” he says. “Begin with your injury, if you please. You said it is just a scratch?”
Obi-Wan nods, pulling up his sleeves—still a bit too long for his small arms, even though Qui-Gon has already hemmed them back for him once—to reveal a scrape along his forearm.
Qui-Gon clicks his tongue sympathetically. “I will fetch some bacta,” he says. “Sit here and wait for me.”
Obi-Wan whines a bit when Qui-Gon moves him from his lap to the couch, but he obeys.
When Qui-Gon has tended to the injury, he sets the boy on his lap again.
“Now then,” he says. “After you were reprimanded in class, what happened?”
Obi-Wan spills the story tearfully—he had been talking in class, and afterwards had argued with Agen Kolar in the gardens.
“I said he smelled like bantha piss,” Obi-Wan whispers despondently.
Qui-Gon bites back a laugh, forcing his face to remain even. “I see,” he says. “Thank you for telling me, young one. What happened after that? Did you come straight home, then, as you are meant to?”
Obi-Wan hangs his head. “I’m sorry, Master,” he says. “I—I didn’t. I went to the gardens and sat by the fountain.”
“Ah,” Qui-Gon says. “To calm yourself?”
“No,” Obi-Wan whispers. “Padawan Kolar said I would be too much of a baby to fight,” Obi-Wan admits, his eyes on the floor. “So I pushed him into the fountain.”
Qui-Gon does not laugh, though that is perhaps the hardest part of this afternoon so far. The image of the small boy on his lap, with the oversized book bag and too-long sleeves, pushing the much-larger Padawan Kolar into the fountains is almost too much for him, however.
But what his padawan needs from him now is not humor, but reproof, perhaps, and a reminder of their shared rules.
“Dear one,” he says gently. “Did you land the first blow?”
Obi-Wan nods, the tears spilling over. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I knew it was wrong. I’m so sorry. You always—you always say—peace is important—”
Qui-Gon pulls him close and rocks him, his arms securely around his padawan. “Obi-Wan,” he says gently. “You have made a mistake, indeed, my dear one, but all padawans do. I will help you to fix it. How did you get the scrape on your arm?”
“One of his friends shoved me,” Obi-Wan manages after his tears have slowed. “It’s okay now. It doesn’t even hurt.”
He sounds very brave as he says it, though Qui-Gon can tell through their bond in the Force that the scrape does, in fact, still hurt quite a bit.
“Does anything else hurt?” Qui-Gon asks him.
Obi-Wan hesitates a moment too long. “My wrist,” he says. “After I pushed Agen, I lost my balance and I caught myself on the edge of the fountain, and now my wrist hurts.”
“Let me see to your wrist, please,” Qui-Gon says firmly.
“No,” Obi-Wan says.
He says is quietly, but the defiance is there all the same.
Qui-Gon arches an eyebrow, pulling Obi-Wan back so he can look at him. “You will,” he says sternly. Usually he finds it difficult to use such a sharp tone with his young padawan; he does not find it so now, not when the child’s health and safety are in question. “Or I will spank you, Obi-Wan.”
These words he says with more difficulty, but he manages them.
To his surprise, Obi-Wan does not freeze or tense or do anything at all but sigh a little dramatically. “I know that, Master,” he says glumly. “You’re already going to spank me. I did so many naughty things.”
The words come as a jolt to Qui-Gon. Is he going to spank his padawan for this? He has not yet decided—he has been hoping not to, the clouds of his own youth threatening to surround him when he so much as thinks of it. He clears his throat now.
“Let me see to your injury, Padawan,” he says firmly. “I will call Master Tholme to come and have a look at it. He is an experienced healer. You and I will speak of your punishment after.”
Obi-Wan hangs his head, leaning against Qui-Gon again as Qui-Gon lifts his comm and calls Tholme.
Tholme lives only a few apartments down from them, and although he has not yet chosen a padawan, he is fond of Obi-Wan and is over most evenings when he is on Coruscant.
Tholme arrives only a few moments later, taking in Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan with one knowing look, and then setting to work looking over Obi-Wan’s wrist, proclaiming it nothing but a tweak—not even quite a sprain—and tells him to bandage it after he has showered for the night.
When Tholme has finished, Qui-Gon sets a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulders. “Go and shower and change into sleep clothes,” he tells his padawan softly. “We will speak afterwards.”
When the boy is gone, Qui-Gon’s shoulders sag wearily.
Tholme is sitting opposite him in the easy chair, his look sharp. “You are not alright,” he says. “What is it?”
“I appreciate your help,” Qui-Gon says. “But—”
“No,” Tholme shakes his head. “No, my friend, if you are about to dismiss me because you think you should handle this on your own, I can tell you that is neither the way of our order nor the way of our friendship.”
Qui-Gon expects the reproval with a grateful nod. “I do not want to discipline the boy,” he says. “But he was in a fight today, and I fear I must.”
“Ah.” Tholme leans back, steepling his fingers together and looking back at Qui-Gon with an expression that carries the weight of their shared history. There were no few times that Tholme had brought a pain-relieving remedy for Qui-Gon after Dooku had been particularly angry. “What do you need from me, my friend?”
“To know,” Qui-Gon says, catching a breath. “To know I won’t—to know I won’t hurt him.”
Tholme’s eyes soften. “My master and I disagreed at times,” he says quietly. “And sometimes it seemed I was over his knee more often than I was sitting comfortably. But I never doubted he cared for me.”
Qui-Gon closes his eyes. He lets the feelings swirl. He lets the wave crash. And then he releases it, again, into the Force. They are not, he is beginning to realize, emotions he will release only once. They are as recurring as the tides, and the work of letting them go ever-present.
Tholme’s hands close over his. “Will it help to know I would never let you?” he asks softly.
Qui-Gon opens his eyes, meeting Tholme’s look.
His friend is as steady and kind and sure as he has ever been. “You would never,” Tholme says, his fingers warm against Qui-Gon’s. “And I would never let you.”
Qui-Gon nods. “He expects me to spank him,” he says finally.
“I was speaking with Master Yoda,” Tholme says thoughtfully. “About padawans, and training them. There was a youngling I have been encouraged to mentor, but I cannot say I feel called to train a padawan yet. Perhaps things will train after my mission on Kiffu, but—anyway, Master Yoda and I discussed misbehavior. And he said ‘a question, they are asking.’ So all you are doing, my friend, is answering Obi-Wan’s question.”
Qui-Gon draws in a deep breath, squeezing Tholme’s hand in return. “I answer like this,” he says. “When he asks if his studies matter, I answer. When he asks if it matters when he gets into arguments or shoves other padawans into fountains—”
Tholme snorts. “He shoved a padawan into a fountain?” he asks.
Qui-Gon finds himself grinning, too. “He did,” he says. “Some unpleasant boy named Agen Kolar.”
Tholme laughs, shaking his head. “Didn’t you do something rather similar to Padawan Krell in our early years?” he asks. “I believe when he was tormenting me over something.”
Qui-Gon laughs. “I always thought he was an unpleasant sort.”
Tholme stands, clasping a hand on Qui-Gon’s shoulder. “Shall I come over a bit later then?” His voice is purple as the night sky. It is as it has always been; a safe place for Qui-Gon Jinn.
Qui-Gon nods. “Thank you, my friend,” he says. “For all of it.”
A few minutes later, Obi-Wan pads out into the common room, looking smaller than ever in his faded blue pajamas. He crosses the room and wraps his arms around Qui-Gon tightly, burying his face against Qui-Gon’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Master,” he says. He has a look in his eyes that is remarkably steady and certain for someone who knows he is about to be spanked.
But perhaps that is just trust.
Trust is dark blue, blue as the sea.
“I care for you very much, my dear one,” Qui-Gon says, pressing a kiss to the top of Obi-Wan’s head. “Is there anything else we need to discuss?”
Obi-Wan shakes his head no, drawing back far enough so that he can look at Qui-Gon. His blue eyes are a little round, but there is no fear in them.
“Very well,” Qui-Gon says softly, taking Obi-Wan’s hand in his. “Then you and I need a quiet word, do we not, Padawan?”
#
Obi-Wan had had the very worst day in his whole life. He had been anxious and then angry and then ashamed and then a little bit of all three at the same time, which was far too many emotions for one person to have. But the second Master Qui-Gon had said hold, everything had felt better. Even if hearing Master Qui-Gon say hold in that firm voice made Obi-Wan to squirm.
Now, Master Qui-Gon drew him until he was standing between his knees.
There was no one in the galaxy as safe or kind as Master Qui-Gon. Even if he was about to spank Obi-Wan.
“Have you ever been spanked before?” Master asked him gravely.
Obi-Wan nodded. “By the creche-minders,” he said, blushing a little. “They swatted me a few times. But I only had one real spanking, because I behaved myself.”
Master Qui-Gon’s mouth twitched as if he were trying very hard not to smile. “Very well, then, Padawan,” he said quietly. “Then you know what to expect.”
Obi-Wan nodded, shoving his trousers and shorts out of the way before leaning over Master Qui-Gon’s knee. “Master,” he said.
“Yes, little one?”
“I really am sorry,” Obi-Wan said. “I’m not—I’m not trying to get out of the spanking. I just wanted you to know.”
Master Qui-Gon placed his hand on Obi-Wan’s back and rubbed, gently. “Thank you for the apology, dear one,” he said quietly.
There was a moment’s pause, and then Qui-Gon’s hand lifted—
And landed with a loud swat.
Obi-Wan yelped. Master’s hand hurt. Qui-Gon had perhaps the biggest hands in the galaxy. Definitely bigger than any of the creche-minders. Obi-Wan was going to be brave, though.
Qui-Gon spanked him again, and then his hand began falling in a steady rhythm. “Why are you getting this spanking, Padawan?”
Obi-Wan squirmed a little. He had earned this spanking, he knew he had, and he was trying to be brave for Master Qui-Gon, but he found that his legs kicked a little, anyway. Just a little. And only when a swat particularly hurt. Well, okay, maybe more than a little, but only because all of the swats Master Qui-Gon was landing hurt. “I pushed Agen Kolar into the fountain,” Obi-Wan answered miserably.
Qui-Gon landed a few swats in nearly the same spot, and Obi-Wan found his legs scissoring just a bit.
“You did,” Qui-Gon said quietly, landing a few swats where Obi-Wan would feel them the next time he sat down. “I expect you to do better in the future, young one. You will control your anger, and ask for help when you need it. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan sniffled.
Master Qui-Gon kept on spanking, though he seemed to be finished with his lecture, and it took only a few minutes for Obi-Wan to go limp, crying over his master’s lap.
A few swats later, the spanking stopped.
Qui-Gon rubbed his back for a moment, his hand soothing. Then he pulled Obi-Wan’s pants up and scooped him up into his arms, holding him tight. Obi-Wan cried against Qui-Gon’s shoulder, forgetting all the promises he had just made to himself about being brave about his punishment.
His master did not seem to mind, however. He just rocked Obi-Wan, and held onto him gently, and it made all the bad things that had happened today feel much smaller and quieter.
“I’ll be good,” Obi-Wan promised into Qui-Gon’s shoulder.
Qui-Gon chuckled, running his fingers through Obi-Wan’s hair, which was still wet from his shower. “My Obi-Wan,” he said kindly. “You have a very good heart. I have always thought you were good.”
“I was bad today,” Obi-Wan said in a small voice.
“You made some mistakes,” Master Qui-Gon corrected him gently. “Everyone makes those. You are learning, my young one. What did I tell you earlier today?”
Obi-Wan thought hard. Master Qui-Gon had told him several different things, though he remembered the ones his master had told him while spanking him better than the rest. It dawned on him in a flash, though. “Oh,” he said. “That I should tell you when I make a mistake, because you’ll help me fix it?”
“Very good, Padawan,” Qui-Gon said. “Do you think you can do that going forward?”
Obi-Wan nodded fervently. “Yes,” he said, burying his face in the crook of Qui-Gon’s neck. The feelings that had felt so big and overwhelming an hour ago now seemed quite small, and even a bit silly. After a few minutes of silence, in which Qui-Gon continued to stroke his hair gently, Obi-Wan said, very quietly, “Thank you, Master.”
Qui-Gon pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Whatever for, little one?” he asked.
“For—taking care of me,” Obi-Wan said. “Even when I’m too much trouble.”
Qui-Gon laughed, cuddling him closer. “It is my honor to care for you, Padawan,” he said. “And you are always just the right amount of trouble,” he teased gently.
Obi-Wan let out a long breath at his master’s words. He was feeling so sleepy after such a long day, so he did not bother saying anything more. Master Qui-Gon understood. And his arms were so big Obi-Wan felt as if he were all the way surrounded, and it was so very cozy here. So he dropped his head on Qui-Gon’s shoulder and let his eyes flutter shut.
He would get up and go to bed in a minute. But for now, he would stay here. Right where he belonged.