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Obi-Wan could not sleep.
When he tried—whenever he tried—or when sleep claimed him against his will, the nightmares did too. In the weeks since he and Qui-Gon had battled the Sith, Obi-Wan had only had a few hours of sleep.
Qui-Gon still had not woken, despite the extended time in the bacta tank. The Healers—even Tholme—had been utterly stumped by the coma. It was something more than the physical, something darker, holding Qui-Gon hostage in a prison within his own mind.
Other Jedi meditated beside him, and Tholme had tried to open a connection in the Force between them, but had been rebuffed by something dark, as if in his mind Qui-Gon was still fighting some endless, grueling duel between two fates, with Qui-Gon at the center of it all.
Now, Obi-Wan sat beside his master in the medical wing, digging his fingernails into his forearms, the pain enough to keep him awake.
There was the child to care for, too. Obi-Wan would do his duty to Qui-Gon, though the thought of being replaced—if Master Qui-Gon woke up to do it—was an added unbearable layer to an already unbearable pain.
He would try, though, for his master—and for this little one with his bright blue eyes and the stubbornly set jaw and the weight of the world already so heavy on his small shoulders.
“Master,” Obi-Wan whispered, his hand closing over the rail on the side of Qui-Gon’s bed. “Master, please.”
He could not articulate his plea beyond that. It was a cry for help, perhaps. It was desperation.
It was verging on three in the morning, just over a week since the duel, and Obi-Wan—Obi-Wan was going to break any moment.
Anakin was fast asleep in their quarters—Obi-Wan had given him his old bed and taken the pull-out couch because the thought of sleeping in Qui-Gon’s bed was unbearable. Anakin often woke from nightmares, so Obi-Wan would need to check on him soon.
Obi-Wan stood, and the room spun painfully.
He grasped for purchase—staggered into the wall.
He needed sleep. Something to eat.
But he could not bring himself to do either.
He tried to stand again, and the world slid sideways. A dizzy smell, nothing more.
Obi-Wan could stay up a bit longer.
He was alright.
He could stay at Qui-Gon’s side, and then check on the boy as needed.
There was a sharp pain in his head, and then nothing more.
It was Quinlan’s voice he woke to, calling his name. And also calling him an idiot.
Obi-Wan’s eyes fluttered open. “Quin?”
“There he is,” Quinlan said gently. “You passed out, my friend, and I arrived just in time to slow your fall, but you’ve still got a bit of a gash on your forehead, I’m afraid.”
Obi-Wan groaned. Qui-Gon would have his hide for keeping himself awake and—
Oh.
Obi-Wan’s vision blurred again, this time in a way that had nothing to do with his dizziness and everything to do with the sudden sheen of tears.
“Alright,” Quinlan’s voice was disconcertingly firm in a way that tugged Obi-Wan out of his head in a way he hadn’t managed in weeks.
Obi-Wan realized slowly that Quinlan was sitting on the floor, his long arms around Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan’s back pressed against Quinlan’s chest, his head resting where he could feel his friend’s heartbeat beneath, steady and reassuring.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Quinlan continued quietly.
Obi-Wan tried to sit up, neck craning to check on Qui-Gon’s sleeping form. There was no change. He knew there would not be.
“No,” Quinlan said quietly.
His arms were immovable.
“I’m alright,” Obi-Wan said. It was not even a good lie. Not believable to even Obi-Wan himself.
“No,” Quinlan said again. “You’re not. And I’m going to help you, but let me see to these injuries first.”
Quinlan released him then, and moved around him so that he was sitting in front of him, facing Obi-Wan. He kept one hand settled heavily on Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “Stay still,” he instructed.
It was a relief to be given a simple command. To shut off his mind and let Quinlan tell him, instead, what would happen.
Quinlan’s hands were gentle as he cleaned the cut on Obi-Wan’s forehead, and a small gash on his elbow he hadn’t even realized he’d gotten from his fall.
Healer’s hands, Obi-Wan thought as he looked at Quin’s large hands, encompassing his own. Just like Tholme.
Afterward, Quinlan sat down in front of Obi-Wan, his feet planted on the floor, knees up, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Obi-Wan,” he said. “I’m going to help you, and you might hate me for it.”
Obi-Wan stared at him in confusion. “I could never hate you, my friend,” he said. “Just what is it you’re planning to do to me?”
Quinlan’s eyes looked deeply sad and even more understanding. There was no judgment there, his dark brown eyes warm. “The guilt is eating you alive,” he said quietly. “I know what you need to get out of your head. To let go of some of this guilt. To get to sleep, because that’s the only way you can even begin to heal.”
Obi-Wan was not processing. “Are you going to knock me out?” he asked. “Why would I hate you over a sleeping draught?”
He ignored the part about the guilt.
Because that—
That was impossible.
“No,” Quinlan said softly. “No, I’m going to spank you.”
“What?” Obi-Wan scooted back, nearly knocking over the stool he’d been sitting on. “What the fuck?”
“I know what he would do,” Quinlan said softly, reaching out one hand and tracing Obi-Wan’s injury with one gentle finger.
“Stop,” Obi-Wan said thickly. “Stop being kind. Quin, I can’t.”
He couldn’t articulate what it was he could not do. All of it. This. Everything.
“I know,” Quinlan said. “Obi, I do. It’s okay to let me help.”
Obi-Wan stared down at his hands. They were pale, and shaking. He hardly recognized them as his own.
He had not slept. He had not eaten.
Quinlan was right; Qui-Gon would never have stood for this, not for a single second. And he would have wanted Obi-Wan to go on.
“Alright,” Obi-Wan said quietly.
“Alright?” Quinlan reached out and wrapped Obi-Wan’s hands in his own.
Obi-Wan curled his fingers around the other man’s, clinging desperately to the strength and comfort there. “Yes,” he whispered. “Help me. Please.”
And then Quinlan was pulling him gently to his feet, his hands calloused from his saber and strong from dozens of missions and long hours of training. There was so much to him these days—he’d grown a whole head taller than Obi-Wan—and it was a comfort to lean on his muscular frame.
“I’ve got you, Obi-Wan,” Quin said. “Come on.”
Quinlan carried him back to the apartment he still shared with Tholme. It was an unorthodox arrangement, but he and Tholme were both unorthodox Jedi.
Tholme was sitting in his easy chair reading when they entered, and he looked up in surprise that shifted quickly to concern. “My boys,” he said. “Are you hurt?”
“Just some scratches,” Quinlan answered. “Master, will you watch over Anakin while I—” his voice cracked abruptly.
The sound of Quin in pain had always been enough to snap Obi-Wan back to himself, but it tore through him now—that he was the cause of it this time.
And worse, Tholme looked back and forth between them slowly, understanding dawning on his face. “I shall stay in the apartments so that Anakin has someone, if he wakes,” Tholme said quietly. “Quin, is there anything else you need from me?”
“A sleeping draught,” Quin said. He was still holding Obi-Wan up, his hand firmly under Obi-Wan’s arm, but now he guided him to the couch. “Like the ones you used to make me, when I needed them.”
“Of course, dear boy,” Tholme said. “I will be but a moment, and then I will leave you two to have some quiet.”
“I’m—Quin, I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan said. “You don’t have to—”
“Hush,” Quinlan said firmly. He dropped a heavy hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, squeezing gently, and then followed Tholme into the kitchen.
Tholme looked up as Quinlan entered the kitchen, his eyes soft. “Come here,” he said.
Quinlan obeyed, and Tholme wrapped strong arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug.
“I am proud of you,” Tholme said into his ear. “Deeply so. But I know it pains you to do this. I can do this, Quin, if you want me to. I care for him, too. For them both.”
Quinlan dropped his forehead so that it leaned against his master’s shoulder. “I love you,” he said. “But I can do this. I need to do this for him.”
“Alright,” Tholme said with a soft sigh. “Then my hairbrush is in the ‘fresher where it always is. If he needs this again, Quin, I can step in.”
“Thank you, Master,” Quinlan said. He met Tholme’s eyes, needing the comfort Tholme could provide right now. “Tomorrow—tomorrow, can you and I meditate?”
“Of course, dear one,” Tholme said. “Just you and I, in the Temple gardens near the fountain at the back?”
Towards the back of the garden the flowers were a bit wilder, less tended, free in a way that always brought Quinlan some measure of comfort.
“Did you feel this?” Quin asked him softly now.
“Every time,” Tholme said, and pulled him close where he could press a kiss to the boy’s forehead. “But it was worth it, because it brought you safety and peace.” He handed a steaming mug of tea to Quinlan. “This has a sleeping drought mixed in, and will have cooled to an appropriate temperature by the time you are through. Comm me when he is asleep, and we can talk a bit before you sleep, too.”
“Yes, Master,” Quinlan said gratefully.
Tholme squeezed his shoulder and then left, stopping to ruffle Obi-Wan’s hair and say something, too softly for Quin to catch, and then he was gone.
When Quinlan returned to the living room, Obi-Wan was hunched over, barely able to hold himself up.
Quinlan almost relented, then. Almost stopped and asked do you think you can sleep now? Almost gave himself an out and decided to wait, to see if Obi-Wan was better after some sleep.
But he recognized the grim set of Obi-Wan’s jaw, the hard, merciless look in his eyes that he reserved only when his anger was directed inward, and all of that was still greater than his body’s need to rest.
Quinlan knew, intimately, what that was like. And he knew, too, the only thing that ever really seemed to pull him back out of it.
So he looked at Obi-Wan now and sighed softly.
His friend’s head lifted.
There were tears on Obi-Wan’s eyelashes. “Quin,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” Quinlan said. “No, Obi-Wan, don’t. Don’t apologize to me. I’m—going to take care of you. We take care of each other, you and me. We always have.”
He went into the refresher and emerged with Tholme’s hairbrush, the weight of it heavy in his hands.
Obi-Wan looked up, eyes narrowing slightly when he saw the brush. “Quin,” he said, the tone almost huffy.
He sounded, for a moment, so like himself again that Quinlan felt a flash of relief.
Quinlan sat down beside him, nudging Obi-Wan to his feet and drawing him close. HE swallowed hard, steeling himself.
Obi-Wan made no move towards his trousers, so Quinlan realized with a jolt it was up to him. He tugged at the drawstring of Obi-Wan’s trousers, which pulled a small noise from Obi-Wan’s throat, though he did not verbalize any protest, and then tugged them and his shorts gently down to his knees. He pulled Obi-Wan over his lap.
He was bigger than Obi-Wan in stature, and Obi-Wan fit there with relative ease. Quinlan shifted him so that Obi-Wan’s upper body was supported by the couch, a pillow within reach should he want something to hold onto. His injured elbow was resting gently on a cushion, and the gash above his eyebrow was protected, too.
Quinlan wrapped an arm around Obi-Wan’s waist, drawing another small noise from his friend.
“I won’t,” Obi-Wan said rather raggedly. “I won’t struggle. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“I know,” Quin told him softly. “I have always been the squirmier of the two of us. But I don’t want you to fall again.”
Obi-Wan dropped his head on his good arm. His shoulders had been tense, but the tension eased now, if only slightly. “Okay,” he said. “I trust you.”
“Thank you,” Quinlan said quietly, pulling Obi-Wan’s tunic up so that he was bared. He brought his hand down sharply across Obi-Wan’s backside, hating himself when Obi-Wan yelped at the pain. But Obi-Wan was here, present in his body and in this moment; Quinlan could feel his friend in the Force, more present than he had been in weeks.
Quinlan brought his hand down again sharply to the center of Obi-Wan’s backside, and then set to the rhythm that was so familiar to them both, landing swats at random across Obi-Wan’s upturned bottom.
Obi-Wan held true to his word: he did not struggle, or even squirm, but at some swats—especially those Quinlan landed on his sit spots—Obi-Wan’s hips bucked forwards involuntarily. It was when he let out a small cry that Quinlan knew it was time to push him, as gently as he could in this moment, towards the catharsis his friend needed.
He brought his hand down sharply across the top of Obi-Wan’s right thigh, three times in succession. “Why are you here, my friend?” he asked softly.
Obi-Wan’s whimper turned into something that could have been called a snarl. “Because you dragged me here,” he snapped.
But Quinlan could feel him through their bond in the Force—he had kept his own shields low on purpose—and the flash of anger was nothing but a mask for all the pain beneath it. He swatted down hard, switching to the left side. “Obi-Wan,” he said softly.
“No,” Obi-Wan snapped, and now he did buck a bit against Quinlan’s arms. “No, don’t be kind, don’t be karking kind.”
Quinlan swatted hard across ground he had already covered, noticing Obi-Wan’s backside was already a painful pink. He winced sympathetically as he continued to land rhythmic, sharp smacks across Obi-Wan’s backside.
“You,” he said quietly. “Deserve kindness. You do not deserve—” he punctuated it with a swat lower on Obi-Wan’s sit spots. “The cruelty—” another swat— “You have been showing—” Obi-Wan lurched forward with another yelp—“yourself.”
“You’re wrong,” Obi-Wan said. “I don’t—I don’t—”
Quinlan paused, resting his hand on Obi-Wan’s back. “Talk to me,” he said.
Obi-Wan’s body jolted at the kindness of the touch. “No,” he said. “No.”
“Alright,” Quinlan said sadly, lifting the hairbrush. He brought it down hard, he knew he was swatting hard and he hated himself for it when Obi-Wan began to cry now.
He covered Obi-Wan’s now very red backside in methodical sharp smacks with the brush, his pace even.
“Obi-Wan,” he said firmly. “Let it out. It is eating you alive. Let it out.”
“No,” Obi-Wan said, though he was saying it all desperately now. “No, no, I can’t, I don’t—I don’t deserve—I did it, Quinlan, I did this.”
Quinlan spanked him again. “What did you do?” he asked softly.
“I wanted—I didn’t want Qui-Gon—to train—to train the boy,” Obi-Wan sobbed. “I didn’t want it, and I—and now he’s going to die, and he won’t train the boy, and I got what—I got what I karking asked for.”
Quinlan steeled himself, raising his mental shields a little because for this—for this he had to focus on Obi-Wan, on what he needed, and not on how badly it made Quinlan’s chest ache to see his friend in such pain.
He knew from experience—painful experience—that this was the part that mattered most, if he could press on and give Obi-Wan the release he needed.
“You,” Quinlan said quietly, bringing the brush down with a snap across Obi-Wan’s painfully red bottom. “Do not control that. You do not dictate the will of the Force.” He smacked the hairbrush again, alternating from one side to the next as Obi-Wan twisted in his lap. “You do not control the actions of your master, and you certainly are not responsible for the actions of a Sith.”
“I—I wanted to keep him safe,” Obi-Wan wailed as Quinlan continued spanking him. “I tried, Quin, I tried.”
“You did everything you could, Obi,” Quinlan told him firmly. “You are the reason he is still alive at all. The rest is just guilt and grief and they are not yours—to—carry—alone.” He punctuated the words with sharp swats. “Let it go, Obi-Wan. Let it go.”
And Obi-Wan did as Quinlan landed a few last, hard swats to the tops of his thighs.
Obi-Wan was sobbing over Quinlan’s lap, his body limp. Quinlan gave him several minutes to collect himself, his hand rubbing Obi-Wan’s back, slow and soothing. Finally, when Obi-Wan’s sobs had slowed, Quinlan hooked one hand under Obi-Wan’s bicep and helped him to his feet.
Obi-Wan had kicked off his trousers at some point, but he pulled his shorts up painfully and then stepped into the circle of Quinlan’s arms, his own twining around Quinlan’s middle and clinging tightly, his head buried in Quinlan’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he was saying, his voice muffled against Quinlan’s robes. “Quin, I’m sorry.”
“No,” Quin said softly. “No, Obi, not to me. Not ever.”
Obi-Wan cried harder, and Quinlan reached one hand up to run his fingers through his friend’s hair.
“I’ve got you,” Quinlan said. “I’ve got you, it’s alright.”
He tugged Obi-Wan towards the couch again, settling Obi-Wan onto his lap.
It was a testament to how exhausted his friend was that he did not protest, just settled in, one hand clinging to Quinlan’s robe, his breath evening out.
Quinlan reached for the tea—Tholme had left it on the table—and held it up to his friend. “This will help you sleep,” he said quietly. “Drink it.”
Obi-Wan groaned, but he reached to take the tea with shaking hands.
“I can hold it,” he said.
“Obi-Wan,” Quinlan said. “Your hands are still shaking. Let me.”
Obi-Wan obeyed, drinking the tea when Quinlan held it up to his lips, dutifully sipping until the cup had been emptied. Then he leaned back again, resting his head on Quinlan’s broad shoulder. “Where’d you learn to wield that things?” he asked. There was a small, weary smile on his face, and a spark in his eyes—faint but steady—that made him look almost himself for a moment.
Quinlan chuckled, stroking his friend’s hair with one hand. “I have a wealth of experience in the matter,” he told Obi-Wan dryly. “Do you remember the first fireworks incident?”
Obi-Wan laughed. “I thought I was going to be over Qui-Gon’s knee for the rest of my life at one point,” he said it lightly, but the words were tinged with sadness towards the end.
Quinlan tightened his arms around him, but he said nothing.
Obi-Wan let out a long breath. “How did we end up here?” he asked softly. “I thought it would be different.”
Quinlan hmm’d softly. He had never been quite as starry-eyed as his friend about the realities of what becoming a Jedi would mean, but it still made his chest ache strangely to see his friend grappling with the heaviness of it all. “I don’t think there are answers or reasons or words that will help right now,” he said finally. “But you are not alone, Obi-Wan Kenobi.”
Obi-Wan let out a long breath, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. “You gave me quite a reminder of that, old friend,” Obi-Wan said wryly.
“I am sorry,” Quinlan said regretfully. “I did not fully appreciate what our masters did for us until I saw you in such distress.”
“No,” Obi-Wan said, shaking his head firmly. He reached out and placed a hand gently against Quinlan’s cheek. “Thank you for your care tonight, Quin.”
Quinlan pulled him closer. “Will you let me take care of you a bit longer, then, and put you to bed?” he asked him gently.
Obi-Wan leaned on him. “I’ve no idea where my trousers have gone,” he said, smiling slightly. “And I’m afraid I’ll be sleeping on my stomach, but I’m happy to do it here on the sofa.”
“There’s space in my room,” Quinlan said firmly. “I’ll be there if you wake and need anything.”
“I won’t—”
“If you wake from a nightmare and don’t wake me,” Quinlan said firmly. “What will I do?”
Obi-Wan rolled his eyes, but he answered anyway—“You’ll spank me again.”
“Correct,” Quinlan said. “Though I much prefer it when we’ve both caught the same short of mischief and are being spanked together. Remember that jet juice we had when we were fourteen?”
Obi-Wan snorted. “I prefer it when no one is being spanked, actually,” he said. “Though perhaps that is too much to ask.”
Quinlan lifted Obi-Wan and carried him into his room, tucking him in gently. “Then let’s both behave ourselves tonight, you and I,” he said lightly, tucking the cover around Obi-Wan.
The sleeping drought—and Obi-Wan’s exhaustion—did the rest, and Quinlan felt his friend go limp and heavy with sleep in his arms a few moments later.
He called Tholme as he had promised, then, holding the commlink far enough away that it would not wake Obi-Wan.
“Ah, dear boy,” Tholme said softly. “Are you alright?”
Quinlan found that his own eyes were wet. “I don’t know,” he said. “What if it was too much? Or not enough?”
“Look down at him,” Tholme instructed. “And then look at me.”
Quinlan did.
Obi-Wan still had tear tracks on his face, and Quin knew that his friend’s backside was likely still a very painful red. But he was peaceful, his energy through their bond in the Force settled and steady. More than he had been in weeks.
“It will not ever be easy,” Tholme said. “It was brave of you to help your friend tonight, and I am very proud of you for the care you have shown him.”
Quinlan nodded his thanks, knowing Tholme would understand that the emotion in his throat prevented him from answering.
“Let us meditate together until you fall asleep,” Tholme said.
“Master, you don’t have to—”
“Lie back, Quinlan,” Tholme said, ignoring his protest.
Quinlan eased back onto the pillows, letting out a sigh. “Thank you, Master,” he said.
“There is no chaos.” Tholme’s voice was low and soft and soothing. “There is harmony…”
#
It would be weeks yet.
Quinlan and Tholme would be there for all of them. And Aayla, too, taking the little blue-eyed boy from Tatooine under her wing.
It was one morning, sun just coming up over Coruscant and Obi-Wan dozing in his chair—shifting on a once-again sore backside he had received courtesy of Tholme for staying up researching obscure cures for comatose patients instead of going to bed—at Qui-Gon’s bedside.
Obi-Wan had just shut his eyes when he heard, for the first time in weeks, the voice that sounded like home, weary and a bit frailer than usual, but home all the same—
“Padawan.”
“Master?” Obi-Wan asked, and opened his eyes.