Chapter Text
Masters went off-world without their padawans frequently, especially when the mission was particularly sensitive and dangerous; when the padawan was young, or when the master simply had highly specialized knowledge that was needed.
There were many reasons for it, and Quinlan Vos knew, in theory, that it was fine.
Jedi were not meant to have attachments. He should be able to, then, let Master Tholme go without any trouble.
But, as Obi-Wan would tell him fondly, if there was one thing that was certain about Quin, it was that he was always going to be trouble.
Tholme had told him over their morning meal, sipping his tea and looking at Quinlan with such deep, quiet understanding on his face that Quinlan wanted to run away then and there. “I have spoken with Master Qui-Gon,” he said when Quin didn’t say anything. “You’ll stay with him and Obi-Wan.”
Quinlan flinched. They had done that once, and Qui-Gon had been kind, of course. Quinlan and Obi-Wan had gotten up to shenanigans the last time, of course, and been spanked thoroughly for it. All that was well and good—well, not the spanking part—but Quinlan felt a flash of fear at the idea of his master being gone.
“Quin,” Tholme said gently.
“Sorry, I—yea, of course,” Quinlan said. “Right. Master, I don’t need to stay with anyone at all, actually. I’m fifteen. I can stay in our quarters alone. It’s not against the rules.”
Tholme cleared his throat. “Whose rules do you need to worry about following, Quinlan?”
Quinlan pushed back his chair, avoiding Tholme’s gaze. “Yours,” he answered quickly. He knew very well how this conversation went. “But Master—”
“Hold, young one, and let me finish,” Tholme said mildly.
Quinlan sat, looking down at his hands, which he twisted in his lap.
“I am sorry that I cannot take you with me,” Tholme continued. “It brings me no small distress to leave you on Coruscant without my care, and—”
“I’m fifteen,” Quinlan interrupted him sharply.
Tholme paused, and then leaned forward onto the table between them, elbows resting on the table. “By all means, continue,” he said quietly.
Quinlan looked down at his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m—I just think I can do this.”
“Of course you can do this, Padawan,” Tholme said. “But you do not have to do anything alone, not even if I am gone. Do you have some discomfort around either Master Qui-Gon or Obi-Wan? Because if you do, you can speak plainly with me, my child.”
Quinlan squirmed in his chair. My child was an almost alarmingly tender way to refer to him, and kindness had always made Quinlan want to flee, far more than any scolding or punishment could. “No,” he said finally. “No, of course not. Obi-Wan is my best friend, and Master Qui-Gon has always been very good to me.”
“It is settled, then,” Tholme said.
“Master,” Quinlan said tightly. “What if—”
But he couldn’t quite bring himself to say it.
What if I have another nightmare?
What if I fall apart again and you’re not here?
“When will you come back?” he asked, almost plaintively.
“In three days’ time,” Tholme answered, reaching out to lay his hand on Quinlan’s arm reassuringly. “I will notify you and Master Qui-Gon immediately if there are any changes.”
“And you can’t tell me where you’re going?” Quinlan pulled his hand away from Tholme’s.
“I am sorry, dear boy,” he said. “Only a select few members of the council know.”
“Sure,” Quinlan said harshly, pushing back his chair. This was un fair, and he knew it, but he had to escape before he blew up completely, or worse—or worse, before he started crying. “It’s fine. If you don’t trust me, I don’t see any point in staying around to—”
“Quinlan.”
Tholme did not raise his voice, but he said Quin’s name with such quiet firmness that Quin’s legs obeyed before his mind caught up with him.
“Come here,” Tholme said. Still quiet, still calm.
Quinlan turned and trudged back towards Tholme, half-expecting to get hauled across Tholme’s knee and spanked for his disrespect. He certainly deserved to.
Tholme looked at him for half a moment, his expression still even and unreadable, and then he pulled Quinlan close and set him on his lap.
Quinlan protested immediately. “I’m too old for this,” he said hotly, because the embarrassment over how comfortable this was still outweighed the actual comfort. Or maybe because if he actually let Master Tholme hug him, he might do something even more embarrassing. Like crying.
Which, Sith hells, he was not about to do.
“On my lap or over it,” Tholme told him calmly, and Quinlan settled in his arms immediately.
Tholme said nothing, just kept his arms wrapped around Quinlan for several minutes.
Finally, Quin felt the tension begin to leak out of his shoulders and he dropped his head against Tholme’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Master,” he said.
Tholme squeezed his shoulder. “Padawan,” he said. “Perhaps talking about this fear will help to ease it a little.”
Quin drew in a deep breath. “Last time,” he said. “Last time you were gone, I let you down. I don’t want to let you down again.”
Tholme was quiet, listening, and that give Quinlan the courage he needed to continue.
“I’m afraid I’ll have a nightmare and not be able to—not be able to deal with it,” he admitted. It was such a shameful thing to admit, especially after all the work Tholme had done for him. Tholme had already had to deal with so much shit from Quinlan. It was no wonder he was eager to leave the planet—and Quin—for a few days.
“Child,” Tholme said firmly. “Tell the doubts to rest. Wherever I am in the galaxy, you may call me, and I will come if I am able.”
Quinlan froze. The words were unbearably kind. “Master—”
Tholme held up one hand. “You have a commlink,” he said. “Keep it on you. If you need me, just call.”
“I don’t want to interrupt,” Quinlan mumbled. “You have important business to attend to.”
“I also have you to attend to,” Tholme said. “You are my priority, even now. So call me, padawan, even if the hour is late.”
Quinlan had no intention of calling Tholme if the hour was late, or if it was something silly, like a bad dream. He was fifteen kriffing years old. He shouldn’t need a crecheminder, or someone to yank him out of a bad dream. He should be able to do that himself.
“Young one,” Tholme said firmly. “Since I have given you a direct command to call me if you have a nightmare or otherwise need help, I will consider failure to do so disobedience. Do we understand each other?”
Quinlan squirmed. Tholme had a knack for leaving no uncertainties. It was comforting, sometimes—but now, squirm-inducing. “Master,” he complained, but when Tholme remained waiting calmly. “Yes, Master. I’ll call you if I have a nightmare.”
When Tholme finally let Quin up, he squeezed his shoulder once. “Last time you came back to our quarters to sleep,” he said. “That’s alright with me, as long as you ask Master Qui-Gon first.”
Quinlan nodded. “I’ll—Master, I’m going to try,” he said, scuffing his toe against the smooth hardwood floor of their kitchen.
“I know you are, Padawan,” Tholme said. “You try your best every day.”
“What if I—what if I fuck up anyway?” He clapped a hand over his mouth. “Sorry, Master.”
Tholme smiled slightly. “Calm yourself, Padawan.”
Tholme had never bothered much with proper language as long as Quinlan was using his language respectfully. There are no good words or bad words, just words used to harm or heal. Choose wisely.
It would have been rather a different matter if he’d cursed at Tholme.
He’d done that, once or twice.
And ended up staring at the dreadfully boring white walls of the corner both times, before taking a lengthy trip over his master’s knee afterwards.
“But Master,” Quinlan attempted once more. “What if I mess up?”
“Quin,” Tholme said. He was standing now, but he pulled Quinlan back into his arms. “You will behave, because you know our rules, and I know you are a capable young Jedi. If you do not, I’m sure Master Qui-Gon will spank you. And I assure you, you will then go over my knee when I arrive back on Coruscant.”
“Master,” Quinlan grumbled, embarrassment heating his cheeks.
“Then behave,” Tholme said gently, releasing him now. “Come. We have a few hours before I must leave. Let us spend it meditating in the gardens together.”
Quinlan perked up at that. Meditating with Tholme was different than meditating with others—though meditating with Obi-Wan and Master Qui-Gon was nice, too. But when he and Tholme meditated together, connecting through their bond in the Force, Quinlan felt as if maybe there was at least one person in the universe who saw him, after all.
#
That night, after Qui-Gon had sent Obi-Wan to his chambers to prepare for bed, he called Quinlan over to the sofa.
The look Qui-Gon gave him was gentle. “Your master asked that we check in with him before you rest,” he said. “Would you comm him now, please?”
Quinlan balked. “I’m sure it’s late on—what planet did you say it was, again?”
Qui-Gon smiled slightly. “I’m afraid only your master and a few members of the council know that, young one,” he said. “But I applaud the effort all the same.”
Quin did his best not to sulk at that. Though it had not been one of his better attempts, in all honesty. “It’s still late, though,” he said. “And Master Tholme has been traveling all day. I’m sure he’s tired.”
“Quinlan.”
No, Master Qui-Gon was not someone to toy with, and the way he said Quinlan’s name now was enough proof of that. Sighing, Quinlan reached for his commlink.
“Would you like some privacy for your conversation with your master?” Qui-Gon asked. His gaze was steady, and gentle.
Quinlan remembered, with a flush of embarrassment, that the last time he had stayed with Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan, back when he had just met Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon had see him have a full meltdown. He’d gotten some swats from Qui-Gon for it, too, and then Qui-Gon had firmly put him to bed and made him rest all day. “Um,” he said. “Could I—Master Tholme said I could sleep in my quarters? If it was okay with you?”
Qui-Gon hesitated, and then nodded. “Very well,” he said. “As it is just down the hall, and Master Tholme mentioned you might feel more comfortable there, I’ll allow it. But you will come back down the hall for morning meal tomorrow. And I expect you to wake me if you have a nightmare.”
Quinlan flinched, but nodded. “Of course,” he said. “So I may go…”
“I’ll go with you,” Qui-Gon said. “So I can make sure Tholme gets the call I promised him.”
Quinlan, who had just been planning not to call his master, was immediately affronted that Qui-Gon suspected him of exactly what he’d been planning. “I’m going to call him,” he said huffily.
Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow. “I agree,” he said. “Come, young one. Let’s go.”
Quinlan trailed Qui-Gon down the corridor, shoulder slouching, but voicing no more outward protest. He was familiar with Master Qui-Gon’s hairbrush—mostly from Obi-Wan’s complaints, really, though he’d gotten a dose of it himself once for an incident that involved several senators, a speeder, and a dunk tank.
“Master Qui-Gon,” he said, his tone sounding marginally more respectful and less huffy. “I’m sorry.”
Qui-Gon turned as they reached the quarters Quinlan and Tholme shared, hand raised to type in the code. “Whatever for, little one?” he asked gently.
“I’m—I ought to try harder,” he said. “I am grateful. That you’re here.”
Qui-Gon pushed open the door and held it for Quinlan, squeezing Quinlan’s shoulder as he passed. “You are trying very hard, I think,” he said. “Come, sit down and get your commlink out. Master Tholme will be anxious to hear from you.”
When Quinlan began the call, Qui-Gon busied himself in the other room making tea, giving Quinlan space.
Quin sank into the cushions and reached reluctantly for his commlink.
#
Tholme was utterly exhausted. He had been sent to a planet in the outer rim—or rather, he had volunteered when he had heard the mission, and what was needed. It was one of the night-planets—cold, desert wastelands that saw little sunlight all year and made their livings by selling some of the spice found only in the deserts—and they had sent out a distress beacon about a new and deadly disease, something that had likely surfaced from mines that went too deep below the planet’s surface.
It was a disease that trapped people suffering from it in near-comatose states, though those who had woken from it recounted it as being trapped in a nightmare with their fears. It seemed strongest in children.
The people of Nacht had struggled to find a cure for those locked in their fear-states, unconscious, unable to leave the nightmare they found themselves trapped in. The fear had caused unrest across their planet, and an already-tense world was tilting abruptly towards war.
So they had asked the Jedi to help.
The Council had informed Tholme, and then subsequently informed Tholme that the mission was too far away to consider sending anyone, and that the Senate had need of their resources elsewhere. Or more accurately, interfering on Nacht might anger slavers that sold spice to mid-rim and inner rim worlds, and that would negatively impact the Senate. Who seemed to have increasing say in what missions the Jedi did or did not take.
Tholme rather thought it an abdication of responsibility for the council to tell him about such a mission and then tell him not to go, but he could see by the look on Yoda’s face that he had been given the mission as certainly as if they had overtly assigned it to him. They relied on his compassion, and his inability to see suffering and not provide aid. He had always been a healer first, and a Jedi second.
So go to Nacht he had, much as it pained him to leave hi padawan.
He understood why he had been selected, too. He, specifically, was a Force Healer, and what was that if not an empath? And what could defeat fear, if not that?
He had spent a very long day tending to those who were suffering from the nightmare-comas. He had felt what they were feeling, and he had guided them back out of it. Three had woken, though there were seven more, one of them a child.
Now, at the end of this long day, there was nothing he wanted more than to be in the quiet of his quarters, meditating beside his padawan, bantering with the boy about their respective days, or gathered around a meal with him and Qui-Gon and Qui-Gon’s young padawan, Obi-Wan.
Tholme sank back onto the pillows on his bed. It wasn’t much in the way of quarters, but it was something. He had grown used to scarcity in his years as a Jedi—and before that, as a healer.
It was with some concern that he realized how late it was on Coruscant. Quinlan should have called him long ago—that in itself was concerning. If Quin was coping with his absence, calling Tholme would have happened in the middle of dinner, or while sprawled out on the sofa beside Obi-Wan, something casual and easy.
But the boy really had been rocked by the idea of Tholme leaving again, and the tension in his shoulders when Tholme hugged him goodbye had been painful.
When Quinlan did call, he was sitting on the sofa of the quarters he and Tholme shared, wrapped in something that looked a bit like Master Qui-Gon’s robe. Tholme felt a flash of gratitude to his friend for the gesture of care.
The boy looked a bit as if he were sulking, but otherwise none the worse for wear. “Master,” he said quietly.
“Quin,” Tholme said, straightening up and trying to mask the weariness in his face. “How was your day?”
Perhaps it was because he had spent the day so immersed in the fear of others, but he could read fear in the set of the boy’s jaw and the stoop of his shoulders.
“I’m fine,” Quinlan said.
“Quin.”
Quinlan squirmed. “I’m—I miss you, Master,” he said. “I wish I could have come with you.”
The council would have allowed it, Tholme knew. Or they would not have stopped him, and that was the same thing in Tholme’s opinion. But there was no force on earth that could have convinced Tholme to bring the child to a place so steeped in fear. There would be a story of pain in every object the boy touched out here on Nacht.
“I miss you too, Padawan,” Tholme said. “I am sure the next mission will be one that you and I can accomplish together.”
“Maybe Tatooine,” Quinlan suggested. He loved the Outer Rim as Tholme did—though, Tholme thought, not for entirely the same reasons.
“Because of the pod racing?” Tholme asked.
Quinlan’s frown faded into a sheepish smile. “I mean, I like the planet.”
He liked any desert planet that felt like home, Tholme knew. But he also liked the deep-fried nuna legs and dangerous pod races. The rugged, barren desert and its fierce people called to Quinlan in a very visceral way.
It had been everything Tholme could do to keep the boy out of the pilot’s seat the last time they’d been on Tatooine. It had taken a firm spanking, and almost constant supervision.
“You look like you’re considering banning me from Tatooine for the rest of my life,” Quinlan said, a grin tugging at his face now. Even over the grainy blue image of the holocall, Tholme could see the boy’s shoulders had relaxed a bit.
“You can visit Tatooine when I have received a convincing promise about the pod races,” Tholme said lightly. “And about wearing sun protection while on a desert planet with not one but two suns.”
Quinlan rolled his eyes, obviously thinking the gesture invisible over the call, or thinking the distance between them would prevent him from getting swatted for it. “I don’t get sunburnt,” he said.
Tholme had had to practically cover the boy in bacta cream after their last trip to Tatooine. “Beg to differ,” he said, grinning back at his Padawan. “But we can—”
“Master,” Quinlan cut him off, his dark eyes flickering at Tholme from across the galaxy. “The planet you’re on now. Would I like it?”
Quinlan would love many things about the night planets, four Outer Rim desert worlds orbiting one small sun. But they were dark places, too; slavery was rampant here, and the fear trances were not the first cruel thing the people of this world had survived. Tholme could feel their pain, had felt it since he entered the atmosphere.
Someone like Quinlan would be utterly overwhelmed.
“I think not, Padawan,” Tholme told him gently. “But that’s alright. There will be other missions.”
“Did you think I would fail you?” Quinlan blurted.
Ah, so they had finally gotten to the question that had been on the boy’s mind all this time.
“No, dear one,” Tholme answered firmly. “I thought I might fail you.”
Quinlan drew back, nearly disappearing from view, but annoyance was clear on his face. “That doesn’t make sense,” he said sharply. “You wouldn’t fail me. You don’t—” he spluttered and then stopped, pulling the hood of the robe down a little lower over his face. “I’ll see you when you get back, Master. I should get to bed.”
“Quin—”
But the boy had already hung up on him.
Tholme bit back a huff of annoyance. There was anxiety, and fear, and Tholme could empathize with both and understand why the boy felt them. And then there was a tantrum, which required a different sort of support on Tholme’s part.
He sighed and settled back on the pillows. He would try for a few hours of rest, at least. The next two days were bound to be difficult.
#
Qui-Gon entered the room with some tea a moment after Quinlan had hung up on his master. Tholme would have a word with him when he returned, Quinlan knew that already, but for now, his master was across the galaxy.
Not that he’d gotten that information out of anyone.
“Done so soon, young padawan?” Qui-Gon asked, setting a mug of tea in front of Quinlan.
Quinlan sighed deeply. Damn Jedi Masters, and their knowing questions, and unnerving ability to get the truth with a raised eyebrow, and also—damn their stupid herbal teas. “Not much to talk about,” Quinlan said.
“Ah,” Qui-Gon said.
Who knew that one syllable could be infused with so much danger?
“I’m not lying,” Quinlan said, much more hotly than was strictly necessary.
Qui-Gon raised a single eyebrow, and it was a gesture so similar to one he had received only just this morning from Tholme that Quinlan felt his chest constrict dangerously.
“He was tired,” Quinlan muttered. “But I did call him. And we did talk.”
Those were all true.
Master Qui-Gon didn’t need to know that he had just hung up abruptly on Master Tholme.
“Mmm.” Qui-Gon settled calmly onto the chair, and for a moment, Quinlan thought he might call him on it. But then Qui-Gon simply looked evenly at him from across his cup of tea. “Well then, young one, you ought to get to bed. Is there anything you wish to talk about before you do?”
Quinlan shook his head no. He realized only then that he was still wrapped comfortably in Qui-Gon’s outer cloak, which he shrugged off now in embarrassment. “Thank you,” he said awkwardly. “And no. Goodnight, Master Qui-Gon. I’m sure Obi-Wan needs you. I’m alright here on my own.”
Qui-Gon did not move from the chair. “Obi-Wan is already in bed,” he said. “I am sure he will be fine until I return. Go on to bed, young one.”
“I don’t need you to stay here until I fall asleep,” Quinlan snapped. He didn’t need anyone here when he fell asleep, because then they would be witness to the nightmares that were certainly waiting for him when he did.
“Bed,” Qui-Gon said, more firmly now. “I believe your Master asked me to determine what you need while he is away, but I am more than happy to call him if you needed clarification on the matter.”
Quinlan shut his mouth so hard his teeth clicked shut. “Not necessary,” he said. “But you still don’t have to stay. It will be—it will be a long time before I get to sleep.”
“Do not trouble yourself on my account,” Qui-Gon said, his voice gentler.
Quinlan waited a moment longer, meeting Qui-Gon’s steady look with his own. He didn’t have any ammunition to use when Qui-Gon wasn’t willing to fight with him. Most people—even most adults—seemed willing to rise to whatever bait Quin set out.
Tholme never did, of course. Quinlan usually just got hauled over his knee for his troubles.
And of course Tholme had picked the one other Jedi master in this blasted Temple who could remain utterly calm in the face of Quinlan’s fierce temper.
“I can provide additional clarification on this matter over my knee, if you need,” Qui-Gon said when Quinlan did not budge.
Quinlan did not sprint to his bedroom, because that would be undignified and foolish. However, if he moved a bit faster than his usual pace, that was his business.
He curled up beneath his blankets—well, Tholme’s blankets, which he’d stolen from Tholme’s bed earlier that day—and breathed out slowly. He felt a wave of calm from Qui-Gon in the Force, and despite himself, it settled him. Enough, at last, to sleep.
#
Quinlan was going to go all three days without getting into trouble. And so was Obi-Wan.
They had made a pact and everything.
It had started out as a joke, and then turned into a competition—whoever got caught doing mischief first owed the other a hundred push-ups—but it came complete with a list.
- No fighting Agen Kolar (even though his whole face is stupid)
- No climbing the outside of any buildings, even ones that have drainpipes, fire escapes, or other very climbable apparatuses. (Obi-Wan, you would know a word like apparatus.)
Some lines after that were smudged from the ensuing scuffle, but the gist was the same. They were going to behave.
The threat of two spankings—one from Qui-Gon for the mischief, and one from Tholme when he returned for the misbehavior—would be enough.
Definitely.
The evening after Tholme had left, Obi-Wan and Quinlan were rushing to class—specifically, History of the Archives. And by rushing, Quinlan meant they had stopped for caf at the refectory, had a minor mock duel in the gardens before being sent away by some meditating masters, and were now very, very late.
Being on time to class had not even made it on the pact, which was just as well.
Agen Kolar, the fool himself, was leaning against the wall outside the classroom, a few of his friends beside him. He was a few years older than Quinlan, and also the worst person alive. “Hey, Vos,” he said. “You didn’t go with your master on his rogue mission?”
Obi-Wan’s elbow was very pointy, and was currently digging into Quinlan’s ribs quite sharply. “Class,” Obi-Wan said into his ear.
“It’s not a rogue mission,” Quinlan said fiercely. “It’s an important mission the council assigned him. Not that you’d know anything about doing important work. I heard your master couldn’t even take you to Onderon without you causing an intergalactic incident.”
To be fair, he’d heard that Agen hadn’t been at fault, not entirely.
Obi-Wan’s hand was on Quinlan’s robe now, pulling him gently backwards. “Part one,” he said. “Of the pact.”
“Was not punching him in his stupid face, right,” Quinlan said, shaking Obi-Wan’s hand off. “I remember.”
Agen looked angry now, not just sneering or mocking. He stepped forward, his hand dropping to his lightsaber. “Oh, they didn’t tell you?” he asked coldly. “No one assigned your master the mission he’s on. In fact, they told him not to go. He ran off on a whim and didn’t even take you with him.”
“That’s not true,” Quinlan snarled. He lunged, but Obi-Wan was quick, shouldering his way in between them.
“My master knows one of the council members who warned Tholme not to go,” Agen said. “And he ran off anyway.”
The worst part was that this did not sound like a lie. It didn’t even sound like a fib. But Tholme had said he was needed. That the council had—well, he hadn’t said much about the council, only that a select few members knew.
“You’re lying,” Quinlan snarled.
“Rule. Number. One.” Obi-Wan grabbed his arm and shook him.
Quinlan was on the verge of saying fuck the pact, even though he didn’t really mean that, when Agen opened his stupid mouth and said—
“Maybe he was tired of training the little crecheling who cries at night,” Agen said with another sneer. “Maybe he thinks everyone is right and you’re a—”
The word he said next was a slur for the Kiffu people. Quinlan had heard it before, but he was not prepared for the surge of rage he felt.
It was, in the end, Obi-Wan who actually landed the first punch.
He had been standing between them, holding onto Quinlan’s cloak, but at the slur, Obi-Wan released him and whirled, his fist closing as he smashed it into Agen Kolar’s nose.
The rest was a blur of thrown punches and shouts, and then someone was hauling him abruptly backwards.
Obi-Wan had a bloody nose, and Quinlan noticed his own jaw felt tender to the touch. Agen Kolar’s nose looked broken, because Obi-Wan had hit him square on, full power. One of Agen’s friends was holding his ribs miserably, and the other had a large bruise on his cheek.
The Jedi masters who had pulled them apart were a group of younger Jedi, new Knights who, from their dusty robes and generally weary looks, must have just returned from a mission.
Whether they were asked questions or not, Quinlan could not remember, the adrenaline still thundering in his ears. Obi-Wan was saying something—because of course Obi-Wan was the only one clear-headed enough to say anything here—and then one of the knights grabbed Quinlan firmly by the ear.
“Right, then,” the knight said, leveling an even look at Quinlan when he struggled in her grip. “We’ll take you straight to your masters then, shall we?”
“Mine isn’t here,” Quinlan snapped, struggling in her grip. He got a twist to his ear for his efforts—really, he had twisted himself, but he was still angry at her for it. “Good luck finding my master. No one kriffing knows where he is, apparently.”
“Take him to mine,” Obi-Wan said miserably. Another knight was holding Obi-Wan by the arm—but not the ear, which Quinlan didn’t think was quite fair.
“I’ll walk,” Quinlan snarled.
“I agree,” the knight said. “Come on. Master Jinn was teaching meditation today. I’ll comm him on the way.”
#
The knights deposited Quinlan and Obi-Wan outside of Qui-Gon’s apartment, where Qui-Gon was waiting, arms folded over his chest. He thanked both knights calmly, and asked something—his tone as even and kind as always—about their recent mission.
When the knights had bowed and left, Qui-Gon’s gaze fell on both of them.
“Inside,” he said quietly.
Quinlan shuffled in first, stiffening as he went past Qui-Gon. If it had been Tholme, he would have felt a hard swat on his backside as he passed him. Sure enough, he heard the sharp smack as Obi-Wan passed Qui-Gon behind him.
Quinlan had been spared that, at least, though he had no doubts that he would not be spared the punishment they had both just earned.
“Sit down,” Qui-Gon said when he had shut the door behind them.
Obi-Wan opened his mouth, perhaps to explain, but Qui-Gon held up one finger, and then pointed to the sofa.
Obi-Wan sat down, exchanging a panicked look with Quinlan.
Qui-Gon disappeared—maybe to get that kriffing hairbrush—and Obi-Wan turned to Quin.
“I think I broke the pact,” he said.
Despite himself, Quinlan snorted. “I was about two seconds away from breaking it myself.”
“Yea, but I threw the first punch,” Obi-Wan said. “So I owe you the hundred pushups.”
“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon interrupted. He had re-entered, carrying a small med kit. “Your injuries, please. What are they?”
Obi-Wan stilled, his fingers inching towards Quinlan’s until their pinky fingers just touched. “Just the bloody nose, Master,” he said. He seemed like he was deciding on something, weighing his options carefully, and then his pinky curled over Quinlan’s and he grinned, impossibly. “Agen Kolar can’t say the same.”
Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow, and then pointed to the corner, handing Obi-Wan something to press to his injured nose before he went.
Obi-Wan went, one last grin over his shoulder at Quinlan.
Quinlan looked down at his hands. Obi-Wan was nothing if not deliberate, even, usually, when it came to the things that got him in trouble. And now he was wearing that confident, careless smile for Quinlan’s sake, to pull a laugh from Quinlan when nothing else could.
Qui-Gon sat down beside Quinlan, one big hand closing over Quinlan’s. “Your injuries, young one,” he said. “Let me see to them before we discuss this.”
Quinlan could not look at him. If Obi-Wan had chosen rebellion, Quinlan would choose solidarity with him above all else.
Besides, he was still reeling from what he’d learned about Tholme, and the true nature of his mission. And Qui-Gon likely knew.
“Did you lie to me, too?” he asked, snatching his hands back.
Qui-Gon tilted his head, looking down at him. “Lie about what, young one?” He ignored the fact that Quinlan had snatched a hand back, and dabbed some cooling gel against the swollen mark beneath his eye that would surely turn into a black eye regardless of what Qui-Gon did.
“You know what,” Quinlan said sharply.
In the corner, Obi-Wan shifted. “Master—”
Qui-Gon’s gaze shifted to Obi-Wan.
Obi-Wan did not turn, but he must have sensed it, because he shut his mouth again.
Qui-Gon was now dabbing at a small cut on Quinlan’s lip, and Quinlan let him, albeit reluctantly. Mostly because Qui-Gon was alarmingly tall, and the hand that was gently dabbing at the injured lip was unnervingly big. Quinlan didn’t like his odds. “Young one,” Qui-Gon said firmly. “Did you sustain any injuries to your ribs?”
“No,” Quinlan answered. Tholme would have his hide for speaking in such a surly tone, especially to someone who was caring for him so gently, especially to Master Qui-Gon.
But Tholme wasn’t here.
So what did it matter, really?
He could feel Obi-Wan reach out in the Force, sending a wave of something that was stubborn reassurance and affection and many other things, but all of them kind. Obi-Wan shifted again.
“The only one who sustained any injuries to his ribs,” Obi-Wan said loudly from his place in the corner. “Is Agen Kolar. Where I hit him. Twice.”
Qui-Gon carefully set the med kit down on the table. “Obi-Wan Kenobi,” he said quietly. “Come here, please.”
Obi-Wan approached, his cheerful, obstinate grin still frozen in place. “Yes, Master,” he said.
Truly, Obi-Wan Kenobi may be the most fearless and most stupid Padawan in the galaxy. Quinlan loved him deeply for it.
Qui-Gon did not speak until Obi-Wan was standing directly in front of him, the other boy only now looking as if he wanted to squirm a bit. Qui-Gon took Obi-Wan’s hand and pulled him closer, until Obi-Wan was standing between his master’s knees, looking very small indeed.
“Little one,” Qui-Gon said, in a tone so gentle that both Obi-Wan’s and Quinlan’s heads snapped up in surprise. “I know what you are doing, and while your loyalty is admirable, you do not need to defend your friend by digging yourself in any deeper.”
Quinlan felt a flash of shame, and he could see the stricken look on Obi-Wan’s face.
“Master—” Obi-Wan began, but it looked, for a moment, as if he had a sheen of tears across his eyes.
“Go and fetch the strap, please, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said quietly.
Obi-Wan looked very pale, but he ducked his head and obeyed without another word.
“Master Jinn, please,” Quinlan said. “He only—he only did it to help me. It’s my fault.”
Qui-Gon held up his hand. “Obi-Wan knew the results of his actions, and he knew he would answer to me for those,” he said quietly. “As will you for yours.”
Quinlan hung his head.
“Corner, please,” Qui-Gon said. “I will comm your master and inform him of today’s events.”
“Don’t,” Quinlan said. His voice sounded raspy, so he balled his hands into fists, fingernails digging into his palms and leaving small half-moon imprints.
“Young one,” Qui-Gon began patiently.
“He left,” Quinlan said harshly. “And he lied to me about his mission. He wasn’t sent by the council. He didn’t have to go alone. But he did.”
Qui-Gon’s face softened. “That sounds like an important conversation to have with your master,” he said. “I will make the call to Tholme, and then you may speak with him about the questions you undoubtedly have for him.”
“I don’t have anything to say to him,” Quinlan said.
Obi-Wan reappeared, the strap in his hand. He didn’t look at either of them, but set it on the table and returned to the corner.
Qui-Gon sighed and stood. “Quinlan, you may wait in the corner while I call your master.” He stood, squeezing Quinlan’s shoulders before disappearing into the next room.
He knew they were both already in terrible trouble, but he suddenly couldn’t bear the thought of standing in the corner all alone, not when Tholme had already abandoned him, not when Obi-Wan had just talked his way into a whipping. So Quinlan stood and walked to the corner Obi-Wan was already standing in, and took Obi-Wan’s hand.
“Sorry about the pact,” Obi-Wan said quietly, tipping his head against Quinlan’s shoulder.
“I’m not,” Quinlan said fiercely. He tugged Obi-Wan’s padawan braid and added, “I’d break it again just for the look on Agen Kolar’s face. But I’m sorry you’re in trouble because of me.”
#
Qui-Gon gave himself a moment alone in the kitchen to catch his breath and calm himself, releasing any stronger emotions into the Force. His own padawan had been so determined to dig himself deeper into trouble, and it hurt Qui-Gon’s heart to do what must be done for the boy. And Quinlan, too, his uncertainties and pain so close to the surface.
He called Tholme. The other man looked tired.
“Old friend,” he said wearily. “Are you well? The boy?”
“Not too worse for wear,” Qui-Gon told him. “Although he did find himself in the middle of a bit of a brawl this afternoon. I’ve told him I’m comm-ing you. It’s alright, Tholme, I’ll take care of him.”
“Thank you for keeping me informed,” Tholme said, letting out a sigh. “Was yours involved as well?”
Qui-Gon sighed. “The knights who broke it up tell me that Obi-Wan threw the first punch,” he said.
“Ah,” Tholme said. “It’s usually my boy doing that. Then it was undoubtedly in Quin’s defense, I am sure.”
“It would seem so,” Qui-Gon said. “And Tholme? Your padawan seems to be under the belief that you are on an unsanctioned mission which he somehow also believes he ought to have participated in.”
“Unfortunately,” Tholme said. “He is right on both counts.”
Tholme explained quietly, and Qui-Gon nodded his understanding.
“Your padawan has some questions for you,” Qui-Gon told him. “And I have some questions for the padawan who knew, and the master who leaked it. But first I must take care of these two.”
“Do me yet another favor, old friend,” Tholme said. “Don’t let the boy out of your sight tonight? He has a tendency to do drastic things when he feels either cornered or abandoned, and I think tonight he is likely feeling a bit of both.”
“Of course,” Qui-Gon promised. “I will keep them both close.”
#
When Qui-Gon returned, he called Quinlan to his side first. He made no comment on finding them both in the same corner, hands still grasping each other’s tightly, but he squeezed Obi-Wan’s shoulder before he walked past to the sofa, leading Quinlan.
“Can you tell me the nature of this disagreement with Padawan Kolar?” he asked Quinlan.
Quinlan did, sparing the detail about Obi-Wan landing the first punch, and being perhaps a bit extra thorough as he described all the ways Obi-Wan had tried to stop the fight. “I provoked him by mentioning the diplomatic incident he caused,” Quinlan admitted.
Obi-Wan snorted from the corner, and then stifled it with an exaggerated cough.
He did not mention the part about Ager using a slur, though, and when he was done, he simply undid the drawstring of his trousers and shoved them down.
Qui-Gon guided him across his knee gently, settling him where he could reach one of the cushions of the sofa. He pushed one of the pillows gently towards Quinlan’s hand, and Quin clenched it in his fists gratefully.
“Master Qui-Gon?” he said. “I’m—I am sorry.”
“Thank you, young one,” Qui-Gon said, his hand resting gently on Quinlan’s back. Then he raised his hand and brought it down in a hard swat across the middle of Quinlan’s bare backside.
Quinlan lurched forward in his lap, determined not to cry, not in front of Master Qui-Gon, not again.
Qui-Gon spanked hard. And his hands were gigantic.
And Quinlan was already emotional.
It only took a few rounds of firm swats to Quinlan’s backside to feel as if Master Qui-Gon had actually lit it on fire, and Quinlan found himself very desperately holding back the tears.
“Quin,” Qui-Gon said, directing his swats a little lower on Quinlan’s sit spots. “You are safe to feel what you need.”
Quinlan lurched on Qui-Gon’s lap again, biting back a sob. He bit down on his lip, so hard he could taste blood in his mouth, and then he was rewarded by several sharp swats to the tops of his thighs.
“You will not harm yourself, Quinlan Vos,” Qui-Gon said sternly. “Stop that at once.”
That was all it took for Quin to start sobbing pathetically over Qui-Gon’s knee.
A few more solid smacks landed on his backside, and then Qui-Gon adjusted his clothes and pulled him up and into his arms. “There, there, little one,” he said quietly, rocking Quinlan just a little, his arms tight around Quin’s middle. “I’ve got you, padawan. It’s alright.”
Quinlan could hardly see through the tears, but he was crying as if he could not stop, his breath hitching. The spanking hadn’t even been that bad, and now he was crying like a tiny little crecheling—
Just like, he remembered with a hot flush of shame, Agen Kolar had compared him to this evening.
He struggled to contain the sobs, and finally, when his breath had slowed and his mental shields were firmly in place, he pushed against Qui-Gon’s arms, just a little. “Master,” he said. “Can I please call my master and then go to bed?”
“In a moment,” Qui-Gon said.
Quinlan pushed against him again, just a little.
“Quin.”
Warning in his voice now.
Quinlan sank back against him reluctantly.
Finally, Qui-Gon stood him up on his feet and very quietly said, “You may go call your master, child.”
“Can I go to my quarters?” Quinlan asked.
Qui-Gon shook his head. “No, go to Obi-Wan’s room if you want some privacy. Your master asked me to keep you close, and I agree.”
Quinlan flushed hotly, but he ducked his head and obeyed as he heard Obi-Wan called over for his discipline.
#
Obi-Wan trudged over to Qui-Gon, head lowered. He was apologizing before Qui-Gon had him fully tipped across his lap, and at the first sharp swat began apologizing more fluently.
“Little one,” Qui-Gon said patiently. “I appreciate the apology, but there will be time for those later. Tell me why we are here.”
A flurry of swats followed this command, and Obi-Wan pushed his toes against the floor in an effort to contain the squirming. “Because I—because I punched Agen Kolar in—the—kriffing—face—”
“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said softly.
Obi-Wan swiped his hand across his face. “I’m sorry, Master,” he whispered.
Qui-Gon kept swatting him, covering from the top of his backside all the way down to his sit spots, swat after stinging swat. “Let us try that again, dearest,” he said quietly. “Why are you over my knee?”
“I didn’t mean to swear at you, Master,” Obi-Wan said shakily. “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” Qui-Gon said gently, though he was continuing the firm swats across Obi-Wan’s backside. “But answer my question please, Padawan.”
“Because I threw the first punch,” Obi-Wan managed, hiccupping a bit between words as he struggled to contain the subs. His bottom was scorching hot, each swat reigniting the sting. “I started a fight.”
“I will never be angry with you for standing up for a friend,” Qui-Gon said, still spanking. “Your loyalty and compassion are admirable qualities, and I am proud of the way you care for Quinlan.”
The sob tugged loose now, pulled from Obi-Wan by the kindness in Qui-Gon’s words, and then he was crying hard over Qui-Gon’s lap.
“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon continued firmly. “What I do take issue with is only your method, not your intent. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan sobbed. “I’m sorry.”
“I know, dear one.” Qui-Gon landed several more firm swats before he spoke again. “Why was brawling in the hallways wrong?”
“Because—” Obi-Wan’s breath hitched. “It was not—it was wrong to strike the first—the first blow. It was not—” he caught a sobbing breath—“Self-defense.” He was speaking through sobs now, but he had noticed that though Qui-Gon was still spanking him quite firmly, the pace of the spanking had slowed.
“And?” Qui-Gon prompted. His other hand settled on Obi-Wan’s back now, the warmth soothing despite the continuing—and ever-increasing—sting in his bottom.
“And it’s not the Jedi way,” Obi-Wan sobbed. “I failed you, Master, I’m so sorry—”
The spanking stopped abruptly, and Qui-Gon placed his hand on Obi-Wan’s back, rubbing gently. “You have not failed me, little one,” he said firmly. “Needing discipline is not failure. You are learning, Obi-Wan, and I will never be angry with you for needing guidance.”
Obi-Wan was still taking long, shuddering breaths, but his eyes filled with fresh tears at the compassion in Qui-Gon’s tone.
It had not escaped him, either, that he was still lying over Master Qui-Gon’s knees and his bottom was still bare.
And that blasted strap was still on the table.
His master had never whipped him with the strap before, and it brought a new jolt of shame, that he had done something so awful that Master Qui-Gon needed to discipline him this way.
“I’m sorry I spoke out of turn, Master,” Obi-Wan said in a small voice. “And I’m sorry I started the brawl. I really am. I didn’t—I didn’t know what else to do, I really didn’t.”
Qui-Gon put a hand at the bac of Obi-Wan’s head, ruffling his hair gently. “Padawan Kolar was taunting Quinlan about the mission, was he not? Quinlan mentioned as much.”
Obi-Wan nodded slowly. Quinlan hadn’t mentioned what Agen had said. He had distinctly left out the part about the slur, probably because he was embarrassed by it or hurt by it and hadn’t wanted Qui-Gon to know.
Obi-Wan ducked his head, uncertain.
“Perhaps you and I and Quinlan can all spend some time in meditation tomorrow morning,” Qui-Gon said. “We can reflect on a better course of action, and discuss some ways to deal with Padawan Kolar’s aggravating words. De-escalation would benefit all of you, and I know you, specifically, have shown yourself to be quite skilled in negotiation when you are not throwing punches.”
Obi-Wan nodded. “Yes, Master,” he whispered. He felt as if his stomach had fallen all the way down to the lowest levels of Coruscant.
“Alright then,” Qui-Gon said. He shifted and lifted his hand again, bringing it down in a hard swat right on Obi-Wan’s sit spots.
Obi-Wan let out a small sob, burying his face in his arms again.
“Do you understand why I am disciplining you, little one?” Qui-Gon asked. He shifted a little.
Obi-Wan nodded, tears threatening to spill over again. “Yes, Master.”
“And why is that?” Qui-Gon prompted, landing a few more hard swats across Obi-Wan’s backside.
“Because I know better,” Obi-Wan said. “Because I should—I should do better.”
Qui-Gon landed a few more hard swats to Obi-Wan’s sit spots, and then he guided him up, indicating for him to bend over and place his hands on the couch.
Obi-Wan felt himself trembling, and embarrassed by it but unable to stop. He was not scared of Qui-Gon; he had never been scared of Qui-Gon, but he was scared of this strap.
Qui-Gon lifted the strap, placing his other hand on Obi-Wan’s back. “My master punished me with this strap when I was young,” he said. His voice was quiet, almost subdued.
Obi-Wan chanced a look back at him, though Qui-Gon looked hazy through the sheen of tears still in Obi-Wan’s eyes.
Qui-Gon was looking at him, eyes soft, and then he set the strap back on the table with a very decided motion. “No,” he said finally. “No, but I am not Dooku. Come here, little one.”
He held out his arms, and Obi-Wan crashed into him, another sob ripping through him, though this time for entirely different reasons.
He was apologizing into Qui-Gon’s robes, but Qui-Gon was holding him, stroking one hand over Obi-Wan’s hair and keeping one arm tightly clasped around him. A moment later, he helped Obi-Wan readjust his clothes and then sat down on the couch, setting Obi-Wan on his lap.
“Master?” Obi-Wan tucked his head in the crook of Qui-Gon’s arm and did not lift it. “You’re not going to whip me?”
Qui-Gon stroked his hair for a long moment before answering. “I believe you deserve gentleness, little one,” he said finally. “And it did not sit right in my spirit to raise that strap. No matter how many Jedi have used that implement before me.”
Obi-Wan lifted his head and looked at Qui-Gon. “Was Master Dooku kind to you?” he asked.
Qui-Gon rarely spoke of his old master. Obi-Wan knew—from other gossipy padawans—that Master Dooku had left the order, but he knew nothing about the kind of Jedi he had been before he did.
Qui-Gon’s arms tightened around him imperceptibly. “He tried his best,” he said quietly. “But when I took a padawan, I promised myself I would embrace mercy above everything else, and let that guide any discipline my padawan might need.”
Obi-Wan leaned his head on Qui-Gon again, relaxing into the comfort of his master’s arms. “I’m the luckiest padawan in the galaxy,” he decided, despite his still-stinging bottom.
Qui-Gon laughed, tugging Obi-Wan’s padawan braid gently. “Is that so?” he asked lightly. “I am glad to hear it, young one.”
It was that warmth that gave Obi-Wan the bit of courage he needed. “Master,” he said. “I want to protect Quinlan.”
Qui-Gon shifted at the change in their conversation topic and looked down at Obi-Wan. “Of course,” he said steadily.
“But,” Obi-Wan said. “What about when your loyalties pull you in too many ways? What if I want to protect him but I also—I also don’t know how to do that alone?”
“Is there something I should know, my dear one?” Qui-Gon asked him. He carded a hand through Obi-Wan’s hair again, his touch gentle.
“It wasn’t just the mission,” Obi-Wan said. “What Agen Kolar was taunting him about. I was able to pull Quinlan back when Agen was just being—I dunno, stupid and a bit mean.”
Qui-Gon’s hand stilled on Obi-Wan’s back. “What else?”
Obi-Wan shook his head. “He called Quin a word. I don’t want to repeat it, Master. It wasn’t—Master, I don’t think Quin wanted to talk about it. I don’t know if I should.”
Qui-Gon’s look was very, very serious. “My dear, dear boy,” he said softly. “And that is why you turned around and punched Padawan Kolar?”
Obi-Wan nodded, ducking his head.
Qui-Gon took Obi-Wan’s chin in his hand, tipping it back up to look at him. “I am sorry, young one.”
Obi-Wan stared at him in confusion. “Master, why?”
Qui-Gon cuddled him close against his chest.
Obi-Wan felt the tension draining from his body as he was pressed close against Qui-Gon.
“Dearest,” Qui-Gon said slowly. “I should have made certain that I knew the whole story first. It was unjust to punish you without knowing all of it. For that I am deeply sorry, Padawan.”
Obi-Wan buried his face in Qui-Gon’s robe and let himself soak in the comfort of his master’s arms. “But Master,” he said, still confused. “I did throw the first punch.”
Qui-Gon sighed. “I probably would have spanked you for that regardless,” he said finally. “But I understand your reaction, Obi-Wan. Quinlan deserves far better treatment in this Temple than he has received, and he does deserve to be protected.”
“I mean,” Obi-Wan said, a little shame-facedly. “I did also tell Agen that he was a bucketheaded son of a bantha. And that he smelled like wookie piss.”
To his astonishment, Qui-Gon actually chuckled, ruffling his hair again. “While I value peace enough to ask you to use words before fists or sabers,” Qui-Gon said. “Agen Kolar chose a different kind of violence when he used that word to describe Quinlan. I cannot honestly say, Padawan, that there was an easy solution for you with the tools you had at your disposal. Though I do hope next time you come to me before engaging in a five-person brawl in the Temple hallways, and we can seek a solution together.”
Obi-Wan curled up contentedly on Qui-Gon’s lap. “I love you,” he said, very softly.
Qui-Gon’s hand stilled on his back, just for a moment. “And I you, Padawan,” Qui-Gon said. “Very dearly.”
“Master,” Obi-Wan said, shifting uncomfortably now. “I was very rude to you in the corner, and when I was telling you what happened. I did—I did still deserve to be punished.”
Qui-Gon nodded soberly. “You were,” he said. “You have had your spanking, and I think we may move on now. Do you agree, Obi-Wan?”
Obi-Wan looked down. “Master,” he said. “I wasn’t trying to get out of a whipping before. I was trying to be brave. Really, I was.”
“Obi-Wan.” Qui-Gon’s voice was warm. “You were very brave. And you are the noblest person I have met in this galaxy. You have never once tried to evade a punishment you have earned. I respect you for that deeply, little one.”
“Oh,” Obi-Wan managed, burying his face against Qui-Gon again.
After a few minutes, Qui-Gon set him gently on his feet. “I am going to be rid of this,” he said, gesturing to the strap. “Will you go and check on Quinlan, please?”
Obi-Wan nodded, sending one last glance at the awful strap. “Master,” he said, as he turned to go.
“Yes, Obi-Wan?”
“You deserve gentleness, too.”
#
Quinlan was curled up in Obi-Wan’s bed, his back to the door. He didn’t turn, or even move when Obi-Wan creaked open the door.
“Quin?”
“I’m sorry,” Quinlan said into the pillow, still not turning.
Obi-Wan sat down gingerly on the bed next to him, wincing as his backside made contact with the bed. “I threw the first punch,” he said. “You know I did.”
Quinlan sat up. His eyes were red and puffy, far worse than they had been after his own spanking. He looked wild-eyed. “I got you whipped,” he said. There was so much self-loathing in his tone that Obi-Wan almost wanted to recoil. “I’m the worst friend in the galaxy.”
Obi-Wan reached out and touched Quinlan’s cheek gently. “You didn’t,” he said. “And you aren’t. Master Qui-Gon didn’t whip me. He just spanked me, and not even with the hairbrush, which after everything I did today—never mind the way I was talking to him when I was supposed to be in the corner—I definitely deserve. Tholme would do the same to you, and you know it.”
Quinlan’s shoulders sagged a little, but the look in his eyes was still fierce. “I make everyone’s lives worse,” he said. “Everyone’s. My family’s, and now Tholme’s, and yours, and even Master Qui-Gon’s. I should just leave.”
“Padawans.” Qui-Gon’s voice called from the hallway. “Come with me, please. Obi-Wan, bring anything you might need for sleeping. We are going to spend the night in Quinlan and Master Tholme’s quarters instead.”
“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan called. He pushed Quinlan’s shoulder lightly. “If you weren’t here,” he said lightly. “I’d never have found out what fireworks look like going off the top of the Galactic senate at midnight.”
Quinlan snorted, though it sounded half-like a sob. “You definitely wouldn’t know what an underground podrace in Coruscant looks like,” he said.
“And without me,” Obi-Wan said, grinning at Quinlan. “You would not have ever been introduced to my master’s infamous hairbrush.”
Quinlan grimaced at him, but his eyes had some of their spark back in them. A little.
He followed Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan down the hall, his head ducked, his robe pulled low over his face. He excused himself quickly, though he ate politely and drank the tea Qui-Gon had made—that he drank that without pulling a face and attempting to hide it was, in itself, unusual.
When he asked to excuse himself for bed, Qui-Gon put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you take your master’s quarters tonight?” he said. “Obi-Wan can take yours, and I will take the pull-out couch.”
“Master,” Quinlan said, looking surprised. “You don’t—you don’t have to take the couch. You’re a master.”
Qui-Gon pulled him into a quick hug. “Go and get some rest now,” he said. “I will comm Tholme and tell him you have gone to bed.”
Quinlan leaned on Qui-Gon for a moment, and then gave Obi-Wan a small smile. “I’m okay, Obi,” he said, his voice quiet. “I really am.”
When he had gone to bed, Obi-Wan shamelessly curled up against Qui-Gon on the couch. “I’m not going to bed,” he announced through a yawn. “I’m staying right here next to you.”
Qui-Gon smiled slightly. “Is that so, little one?” he asked, wrapping an arm around Obi-Wan and pulling him close before dropping a kiss to the top of his head. “I suppose that’s alright, just for tonight.”
Obi-Wan was asleep within minutes, though he vaguely remembered Qui-Gon carrying him to bed and tucking the covers over him. And then nothing more, just the gentleness of that moment and Qui-Gon’s hand on his forehead, brushing back hair before he murmured goodnight.