Archive of Our Own

“‘It’s just an escort mission,’” Qui-Gon mutters to himself as yet another pirate tries to shoot him in the face. He deflects the bolt harmlessly into the ceiling and slams the pirate into the wall; they yelp and then go down in a crumpled heap.

“‘Just an easy milk run from Jedha to the Core, nothing to worry about,’” Qui-Gon continues, sidling around a corner after checking that there aren’t any nasty surprises. He’s had enough surprises on this mission to last him a few years, and it’s only been about two days.

A hulking pirate who barely fits in the corridor grunts and raises guns in three of his seven limbs. Qui-Gon lifts him with the Force and propels him backwards, sealing off the corridor behind him so that the pirate can’t follow. He lowers his hand and grumbles, “‘Just do this one mission, Jinn, and then you can go back out to the Outer Rim to continue causing chaotic firefights and uncovering Republic law violations.’ Well, surprise surprise, Mace, I can get into firefights even on so-called milk runs.”

In Mace’s defense, Qui-Gon’s last mission had taken a rather nasty turn, and the result had been a three-day bacta stint. So he understands Mace’s, and by extension the Council’s, instinct to try to give him something easier while he recuperates.

However, then the ship he’d been playing escort to had been dragged out of hyperspace, had its engines shot out, and been boarded by pirates, so right now Qui-Gon is feeling rather less than charitably towards Mace and the Council. At least when he goes out to the Outer Rim, he’s expecting attacks.

The Trade Federation, on the other hand, had clearly not been expecting any kind of attacks. The ship had had shields and some offensive weaponry, but the shields had been knocked out almost instantly and their laser canons hadn’t been anywhere powerful enough to take down the pirate ships. Also, most of the crew had panicked when they’d been dragged out of hyperspace, and the rest had followed suit when the airlocks had been forced open. So Qui-Gon had abandoned his attempts to maintain some semblance of order at the bridge and gone to seek out the being he was actually meant to escort.

Not that he knows what that being looks like. Qui-Gon had already been on board when they’d been brought on, and his mission briefing had been extraordinarily light on details beyond “important being” and “crucial that they reach the Core”. He has no idea who would be so important that they would request a Jedi Master to play escort yet so unimportant that they’d have very little in the way of security – but then again, the Trade Federation has already shown that common sense is not their strong suit.

On the bright side, Qui-Gon does know one thing: what room this very important being is in. He probably isn’t supposed to, which had been another weird point on this supposedly easy milk run, but the map had been out on the bridge and it had only taken Qui-Gon a few seconds to memorize it, so now he follows the twisting corridors to his destination.

And actually walks past it and into a dead end, because the room is not noticeably labeled or decorated. In the fact, the only reason Qui-Gon realizes that it’s the room he is looking for is the fact that he senses a lifeform in the room.

He doubles back and walks to the door and touches the keypad and –

“Unauthorized being. Entry denied,” the keypad coolly informs him.

Qui-Gon frowns. The bridge crew had triggered an evacuation – the last, and to be frank, only sensible action he’d managed to convince them to take – and usually an evacuation alert means that most locks are released to ensure there is no hindrance for beings trying to escape. Any lock that isn’t released is usually a very high security lock, but that is usually reserved for extremely dangerous prisoners or extremely precious cargo. Neither of which were part of the briefing.

He touches the pad again, and: “Unauthorized being. Entry denied. Security lock engaging.”

And, well, isn’t that interesting.

Qui-Gon knocks on the door. He can still sense the lifeform inside, but their presence is . . . well the best way he can describe it is muted. Certainly they do not seem panicked, even though they must have felt the shudder from the airlocks being breached and the heard evacuation alert go off.

“It’s Master Jinn,” Qui-Gon calls, knocking again. “I’m your Jedi escort. An evacuation order has been sounded. Can you come out?”

No response.

“I’m a Jedi; you’ll be safe to come out. But we need to evacuate now.”

Silence.

Qui-Gon sighs. He squints at the keypad, but while he does have basic familiarity with slicing, he is not an expert; he does not recognize the system or the maker, and he knows it would take him far too long to hack it. So he does the next best thing.

He ignites his lightsaber and shoves it into the panel.

“Un-Unath-Ent-Deni-Una – ” the keyboard stutters, and then it dies with a horrible whine and a shower of sparks. After that, it’s an easy matter for Qui-Gon to force the door open with the Force.

Inside, he finds perhaps the most austere room he’s ever seen outside of a prison transport. The walls are an eye watering white, the floor cold and black. The air is just a shade too cool to be comfortable. There are no fancy decorations on the wall and no luxurious furniture pieces. There is only one chair and a simple pallet on the floor.

A pallet on which a being is now sitting up.

Humanoid male, Qui-Gon registers as he gets a good look at the very important being he apparently was tasked to help escort. Auburn hair, blue eyes, medium height and slim build. They could pass for a million other beings in the galaxy, but for the fact that they are wearing a grey jumpsuit with the Trade Federation logo branded on it.

“My name is Qui-Gon Jinn,” Qui-Gon says softly, crouching lower so he’s not quite so intimidatingly high. “I’m the Jedi who was tasked to escort you. May I know your name?”

The request gets him a wide-eyed look. Qui-Gon would almost call it helpless, in fact.

He tilts his head. “Are you unable to speak?”

The boy hesitates. He opens his mouth – and then his shoulders slump and he nods, resignation apparent in every line of his face.

“Temporary, then, perhaps? It’s all right, I don’t need to know right this moment,” Qui-Gon tells him. “But we do need to evacuate. The transport was attacked and we were boarded. I can get you to the escape pods, but I need you to work with me and obey my orders. Can you do that?”

The boy starts to nod. Then he stops and shakes his head.

“Don’t worry, I won’t be a tyrant. I just need to know that if I say duck, you’ll duck so that you won’t get hurt.”

Another head shake.

“I’m afraid we can’t stay here,” Qui-Gon tells him, suppressing the flicker of annoyance. The boy isn’t the first person Qui-Gon has had to coax out of a dangerous situation, and he probably won’t be the last, but he is very aware that the clock is ticking on their chance to escape. “We have to get to the escape pods. I can get you there, though, I promise. See this. This is my lightsaber, it can block – ”

Which is when the boy makes a wordless noise of frustration and drags his legs around.

Drags, because they are secured to the wall with what looks and sounds like heavy duty chains.

Qui-Gon blinks. That had most certainly not been in the mission briefing.

“Ah, I see. I don’t suppose you have the key?”

Another helpless look.

“Right, well, then I suppose we’ll just make one,” Qui-Gon mutters. “Can you hold very still for me, please?”

One swipe of his lightsaber later, and the severed chains clink to the floor. The boy stares at them, mouth parted in what Qui-Gon senses is surprise and awe, and reaches out to touch the still-glowing ends.

“I wouldn’t,” Qui-Gon advises, and the boy stops. “They’re still very hot. But now that we’ve solved that problem, will you come with me?”

This time, the question gets a very enthusiastic nod. Qui-Gon helps the boy to his feet, and in doing so he comes to two conclusions: one, the boy is more of a man, for he isn’t that much shorter than Qui-Gon when one takes into account the fact that Qui-Gon is abnormally tall; and two, what he had thought was a slim boy is actually a quite slim man. He feels like Qui-Gon could snap his arm in half with little effort and he certainly does not have the muscle mass that he should.

Together with the high security lock, the chains, the secrecy of the mission, it’s all adding up to a rather damning picture.

A damning picture, unfortunately, that Qui-Gon knows will need to wait until after they’ve evacuated to be unrolled.

“Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s get you out of here, okay?”

To the man’s credit, for someone who looks like a strong wind could blow him over, he manages to mostly keep up with Qui-Gon. He doesn’t yell loud complaints or ask obnoxious questions; when Qui-Gon gestures for him to hide against a wall, he does, and when Qui-Gon urges him to move faster, he does. He is perhaps one of the most cooperative beings Qui-Gon has ever had to escort and they make it to the escape pods in record time.

“See those survival kits?” Qui-Gon says, pointing to the neat rows of survival kits on the wall. “Grab some and toss them in that escape pod, as many as you can. We’ll likely be picked up soon, but, well, better safe than sorry.”

From the way the man rushes off to do as he says, he clearly agrees. That leaves Qui-Gon free for the rather more annoying and arduous task of slicing into the nearest computer, and he’s about halfway through it when he senses the man come back. The man keeps a very polite distance between them, but his curiosity is obvious even without the Force.

“I’m slicing into the computer system,” Qui-Gon explains. “Disabling the tracking and a few other things. Wouldn’t want the pirates to be able to track where we go, after all – ”

“Obi-Wan Kenobi!”

Qui-Gon goes for his saber; the man flinches and cringes back. His fear, which had slowly been fading away like fog under the morning sun, comes back tenfold. As a result, Qui-Gon half expects the speaker to be an enemy, but the person who storms in is a Trade Federation employee by the uniform.

“You know you’re not supposed to leave your room without permission, Kenobi!” the Trade Federation employee snaps. “A clear violation of your contract with us! Why, I’ve half a mind to – ”

Qui-Gon clears his throat. “Perhaps we might focus on escaping?” he suggests mildly.

To his surprise, the Trade Federation employee does not jump at the chance, as most civilians tend to. He actually gets visibly angrier, and snaps, “No! Kenobi is not allowed to leave the transport!”

“ . . . You want him to stay on a ship that’s been boarded by pirates?”

“He doesn’t have the proper guards! This is against procedure! Per his contract, he is not allowed to leave his room without the proper guards!”

“When I got there, his room was abandoned. It seems his ‘proper’ guards fled,” Qui-Gon says. “In any case, surely it’s more important for us to get off safely than to quibble over the minute details? I assure you, I can act as a guard to protect him.”

“But he’s not allowed to leave his room! It’s a contract violation!”

Kenobi cringes even more. He looks like a beaten animal, preparing to be kicked and punched until he bleeds. It makes the sour taste in Qui-Gon’s mouth grow even stronger.

Very carefully, he asks, “And a contract violation means?”

“Demerits,” the employee says, and there is an entire ocean of meaning in the word.

From the way Kenobi trembles, it’s not a calm ocean either.

Qui-Gon looks at Kenobi – at his malnourished body, the reddened marks around his ankles where the chains rub against the skin, the thin clothes and flimsy slippers – and the damning picture reveals itself a little more. He reaches out and places a hand on Kenobi’s arm, as gently as he can, and gives him what he hopes is a reassuring squeeze.

“I think any discussion of contracts should be left for when we are all safely off the ship,” Qui-Gon says firmly. “Please get into the escape pod – ”

“But the contract says Kenobi can’t leave – ”

Which is when Qui-Gon loses all patience. “You do realize that your guards are dead? And your crew dead as well, or already fled in other escape pods? Would you like to join the dead ones or the living ones?”

The Trade Federation employee gulps.

“I see. Well, if you would like to join the living ones, you can join me and Kenobi in – ”

“Master Jedi!”

The shout comes a scant millisecond before the Force surges in warning. Qui-Gon summons his saber to his hand just in time for blaster bolts to start pouring forth from the doors.

“Down!” Qui-Gon orders, and then he is moving forward to eliminate the threat. He doesn’t have time to check if Kenobi and the employee have obeyed. It takes all of his concentration to make sure that he is deflecting all the bolts aimed at them as well as to locate the threat and send a bolt rocketing back to that pirate’s position. A high-pitched squeal tells him he’s met his mark; he grins and bats a second and then a third, and then the hail of bolts abruptly ceases.

Qui-Gon waits for a few breaths more, just in case, but the eddies of the Force calm in a way that means his opponent is neutralized. He sighs and disengages his blade.

“Now, can we please – ” he starts to say as he turns around, and then he sees: “Oh.”

Kenobi, apparently, had obeyed Qui-Gon and ducked down behind cover. The Trade Federation employee, on the other hand . . .

Qui-Gon bends over him, but the Force tells him what his eyes already did – the employee is dead and gone, thanks to the blaster bolt straight through the heart. Qui-Gon sighs and shakes his head. He feels a momentary wisp of regret for another life not saved; he breathes in, accepts the regret, and then breathes it out through the Force. Kenobi is still alive, after all. Qui-Gon must focus on him.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi, is it?” Qui-Gon asks, lifting his head. “Is that your name?”

Kenobi doesn’t answer. He stares in the employee, face frozen in horror and his hands over his mouth, as though he’s never seen someone die before. Perhaps he hasn’t.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Qui-Gon says, pushing himself to his feet. “But I promise you, if you do as I tell you, I will keep you safe.” And then, when Kenobi continues to not move his hands, he adds, “Are you hurt? In the face?”

Kenobi’s horror-filled gaze slowly moves from the employee to Qui-Gon. Strangely, though, his horror does not seem to decrease. His fear increases even more, until Qui-Gon feels like he’s suffocating under it.

“If you’re hurt,” Qui-Gon says slowly, “you can let me know. I have bacta, we can – ”

Which is when Kenobi moves his hands and a shimmering crystal falls from his lips to the floor with a soft clink.

For a long moment, they both stare at the crystal. It’s a small thing, dull blue in color and oblong in size. Qui-Gon can see how Kenobi might have concealed it. He stretches out a hand to pick it up –

The second his finger touches the crystal, Qui-Gon freezes.

The crystal is a kyber crystal. Unmistakable in the Force, even for such a small thing. Even more unmistakably, though, is that woven into the kyber crystal’s presence in the Force is Kenobi’s presence. Kenobi and the crystal are so intertwined that Qui-Gon could almost believe the crystal was forged by Kenobi’s hand, and not the shifting movements of a planet.

Master Jedi! someone had said, and it had not been the Trade Federation employee.

Slowly, Qui-Gon looks up at Kenobi. Kenobi still looks absolutely frozen in fear and horror, and that fear grows even more when Qui-Gon stands up with the crystal in hand.

“This is a kyber crystal,” Qui-Gon says, “and it’s – yours, isn’t it?”

Kenobi doesn’t answer. The kyber crystal, however, does – yes, yes, it whispers, I am his he is mine we are one.

“There are . . . legends,” Qui-Gon starts to say cautiously, but then the Force surges in warning again. Not as direct as before, but a none-too-gentle reminder of their situation. Qui-Gon shakes his head and holds out the kyber to Kenobi. He says instead, “I believe you dropped this.”

Kenobi looks at him like he’s gone insane.

Qui-Gon gives him a gentle smile and continues to hold out the kyber crystal. He can keep his arms raised for hours if need be, even if weighed down by heavy stones; a small crystal is nothing.

As cautiously as a beaten tooka, Kenobi edges forward. He doesn’t take his eyes off Qui-Gon for a second, but eventually his cold, trembling fingers take the kyber crystal.

“Excellent,” Qui-Gon says, keeping his voice steady. “Now let’s get into the escape pod before more pirates, hmm?”

Kenobi gives him another look, but he dutifully turns and begins trotting to the escape pod. Qui-Gon goes to follow, and then his eyes fall upon Kenobi’s footwear. Specifically, the very flimsy slippers Kenobi is wearing.

Qui-Gon pivots and returns to the Trade Federation employee.

“Your shoes won’t last a day,” Qui-Gon informs Kenobi when he feels the man’s small burst of confusion. “And this being – well, it’s not like he’ll be needing his boots, will he? Or his cloak. Might as well take them with us.”

Kenobi does take the boots. He also doesn’t flinch or cringe away from Qui-Gon when Qui-Gon gets into the escape pod and seals the door. It’s a good sign.

Fortunately, Qui-Gon doesn’t have to slice anything in the escape pod. He fires up the pre-flight checks, which all come back completed, and then sets the computer to calculate a primary course away from the doomed Trade Federation transport as fast as possible.

“Course calculated,” the escape pod computer informs them. “Launch?”

Qui-Gon glances at Kenobi. “Want to do the honors?”

Kenobi lights up. With unmistakable glee, almost like a child let onto the bridge for the first time, he dives forward and slaps the Launch option.

And just like that, they’re away.

“Well done,” Qui-Gon says warmly, and that earns him a small smile. He checks in the Force to see if their launch has raised any alarms, but the Force is still and quiet; his slicing to shut off the lifesign detectors must have worked then. He glances at the computer, and finds that it is happily calculating a course to the nearest habitable planet.

Which only leaves one pressing issue remaining.

“So, then. I think it’s time we had a proper talk,” Qui-Gon says, and he can see the way Kenobi goes tense and still all over again. “Your name – Obi-Wan Kenobi, is it?”

He is not expecting the surge of bitterness and rage. Kenobi’s face goes tight and he spits, “No.”

A blood red crystal sparkles at his lips and then falls to the floor.

Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow. “Well, that answers one of my questions,” he says mildly, trying to keep his voice steady and calm. “You speak and kyber crystals fall from your mouth, then?”

“Yes.” Clink, goes an orange crystal.

“And I suppose that’s why you have a contract with the Trade Federation?”

“Yes.” Clink, goes a green crystal.

“Well, if Obi-Wan Kenobi is not your name, how would you like me to – ”

“It is my name. Legally,” Kenobi says, and each word is echoed by the soft clink of a kyber crystal falling to the floor. “But I didn’t – I didn’t choose it.”

“I see. What would you like me to call you then?”

That earns him a deeply surprised look. It’s like no one else has bothered to show Kenobi any kindness. Which, considering his thin form and flimsy clothing, is entirely possible.

“ . . . Ben,” comes the soft answer, and this crystal is a brilliant blue, glittering under the control panel lights like a star in the sky.

“Hello, Ben,” Qui-Gon says politely. “My name is Qui-Gon Jinn. It’s very nice to meet you.”

“You’re very strange,” Ben informs him.

“I suppose.”

Ben raises an eyebrow. He could not be more clearly asking why if he tried.

Qui-Gon smiles. “I do not find the way that I live and conduct myself strange. But I suppose to a non-Jedi, it might seem so.” He pauses. “I do hope, though, that you understand that I meant what I said: I will keep you safe.”

“Not everything can be solved with a lightsaber,” Ben says. Clink clink clink clink clink clink clink clink.

“That’s true. But a lightsaber is not my only tool. The Force is my ally.”

Ben raises an eyebrow.

“The Force is . . . think of it as an energy field created by all living things. It binds the universe together. When it speaks, we Jedi are trained to listen.”

“And this energy field,” Ben says dubiously, “it tells you what?”

“Well, right now it tells me that the pirates haven’t noticed our departure, which is nice. It also tells me that there’s more to your so-called contract than the Trade Federation told the Jedi Order.”

Ben goes hunted-prey still again.

Very gently, Qui-Gon says, “I can help you, if you are willing to speak to me.”

Ben shakes his head. It is not a no, Qui-Gon senses; more an expression of hopelessness. Clearly the Trade Federation has had a lot of time to get their claws into Ben.

“I’ve negotiated plenty of contracts in my time. I can help you renegotiate yours, or even help you break it.”

Ben’s head jerks up. His mouth falls open in surprise. Just as swiftly, though, he closes it and that guarded look comes back into his eyes.

He gestures at himself, a clear Why?

“I am a Jedi; we are sworn to help. You need help. How could I not help you?”

Ben licks his lips. “The Trade Federation – they won’t let me go free,” he says hoarsely.

“Do you want to be free?”

Ben does not answer in words. But the sheer longing that comes over his face and builds in the Force – it is the only answer Qui-Gon needs.

Qui-Gon nods. “Then I will help you to be free. Starting with,” he adds, bending down with a grunt, “those cuffs on your legs. Give me your foot, will you?”

It takes a moment for Qui-Gon to figure out how to break the lock with the Force, as it isn’t one he’s run across before. But in time, the cuff cracks open in his hands, and then Ben willingly and without prompting lifts his other leg so that Qui-Gon can free that limb as well. And then, when the cuffs are both off, Qui-Gon makes a fist and neatly crushes them.

It is perhaps a frivolous display of the Force.

It does make Ben smile, though. So Qui-Gon considers it well worth the effort.

“Now, then. I propose we have something to eat and then we both rest up before our escape pod reaches our destination. What do you think of that?”

Ben nods eagerly.

“Excellent,” Qui-Gon says. He summons a kit and tosses it Ben’s way. “Help yourself, Ben.”

Ben ducks his head, but he can’t quite hide the way his smile grows when Qui-Gon uses his chosen name. His presence in the Force also gets a tad happier, and certainly much less scared.

All in all, Qui-Gon thinks, a much more positive start to his new mission.

Unfortunately, their escape pod does not have the fuel to bring them all the way to Coruscant. It gets them as far as it can, but eventually it plots a descent onto a planet that the computer cheerfully announces is named Takodana, with breathable air and detectable lifesigns.

It is also very, very green, and Qui-Gon does take a moment to breathe in the vibrancy of the Living Force. He is a Jedi and he can survive in any environment, but he cannot deny that it is easier when there is greenery around.

Ben, however, looks far less convinced, if the suspicious expression on his face is anything to go by.

“The air’s not toxic,” Qui-Gon tells him. “I’m breathing it, see?”

Ben gives him a look and then points at his lightsaber.

“Yes, I am a Jedi. But if the air truly was toxic, even I could only last so long filtering it out. It’d be easier to put on a rebreather. Which I do have, and a spare for you,” Qui-Gon adds, because he’s learned that the best way to put Ben at ease is to demonstrate that he does has somewhat of a plan. “But we won’t need it. Come on.”

Ben scrunches up his nose, and Qui-Gon can see him weighing the desire to explore and his trust in Qui-Gon against his fear. Fortunately the trust wins out, for he sighs deeply and clambers out of the pod. He lands on the grass and surprise sparks in the Force.

“Not used to grass under your feet?” Qui-Gon guesses.

A solemn nod is his answer. It’s yet another clue in the terrible puzzle Qui-Gon is building about what, exactly, the Trade Federation has done to Ben. He can so clearly imagine Ben locked in a guarded room, with no windows or plants or fresh air, always moved from room to room to room, chains on his legs and silence as his constant companion.

Ben lightly touches his foot against one of the flowers in the grass. It’s a pretty thing, blue as the sky and small as a kyber. He points.

“I’m not quite that all-knowing,” Qui-Gon says with a small laugh. “I’d have to read up on the native species of – ”

Ben shakes his head. He points again.

The gesture confuses Qui-Gon for a minute until he remembers that Ben likely has no context for greenery at all, given the sterile confines of his rooms and the strong likelihood that he received little, if no, education. He clears his throat. “It’s a flower, Ben,” he says gently.

Ben mouths the word to himself. After a few tries, he seems pleased enough with having learned the word and crouches down to stare at the flower some more.

Qui-Gon watches him and thinks. So far they’ve gotten lucky in that Qui-Gon has been able to guess what Ben wants or is asking. But that kind of luck won’t last forever, especially if Qui-Gon tries to have the more complex conversations he really wants to. They need a way to communicate – a way that doesn’t rely on pointing and inference.

“Ben, did your, ah, employers ever give you a datapad or comm? So that you could communicate?”

Ben looks up from his perusal of the flower. He shakes his head.

“Hmm. And I don’t suppose they ever taught you a language that did not rely on speech?”

Another head shake.

Which leaves them with only two options for communication, then. Qui-Gon sighs. He kneels down, so that he can be eye level with Ben, because this won’t be an easy conversation.

“We need a way to communicate,” Qui-Gon tells him. “If I am not looking at you, I might miss it if you are gesturing to me. And I don’t want to risk something happening if it takes me too long to guess what you are trying to say to me. If I had time, I would teach you a language that did not require speech – ”

Ben’s head comes up. He looks startled at the idea of speaking without using his voice, and then indignant.

“ – but we do not have the time for that. I also imagine that you don’t wish to be constantly coughing up kyber crystals either.” He pauses, and waits for Ben’s silent headshake of confirmation. “Which leaves me with one solution. It is not ideal, and if you do not wish to pursue it, then I will try to think of something else. But I would have you hear me out first.”

Ben gives him a curious look and waves for him to continue.

“One of the skills we learn to hone as Jedi is the reading of thoughts. Now, I have not been reading yours,” Qui-Gon assures Ben hastily. “The mind is sacred, and we honor that. But sometimes, when a comm is not an option, I have shared my thoughts with others and had thoughts shared with me. It makes communication easier and there is no risk of disruption from outside parties. To accomplish this, I could link our minds with a very light bond – the kind we use for training exercises, for example. It is very superficial, so only thoughts that you intend to send will cross. And I can dissolve it when we reach safety. I don’t need an answer now, but I would like you to consider it. Of course, if you decide against it, then we will find another path.”

Ben’s gaze wavers. Qui-Gon is not surprised by his reluctance. Many species that are not naturally telepathically inclined are wary of anything that involves the mind, and even Jedi take years of training before they are skilled in it. Some Jedi can barely project at all, no matter how strong the training bond.

“Think about it,” Qui-Gon advises. Then he pushes himself to his feet, because he has an escape pod to raid for supplies and the daylight is swiftly fading.

By the time he has finished gathering up the survival kits and stripping out any useful parts, Ben has graduated from crouching on the grass to sitting on it. He is gently prodding one of the flowers, and his smile grows a little wider every time it swings back after he pushes it. It reminds Qui-Gon of the younglings in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, the ones from desert worlds without trees or flowers or plants.

And Qui-Gon hates to interrupt him, but: “We should find shelter before it’s dark.”

Unlike the younglings, Ben nods and stands up without complaint. He falls into step with Qui-Gon without hesitation, although his eyes do wander every now and again when he sees a new plant.

They find a series of caves in a crumbling rock face just as the sun is disappearing below the horizon. Qui-Gon uses the Force to find one that is large enough and stable enough, and by the time Ben has scrambled inside, it’s fully dark.

By the increase in Ben’s breathing pattern, the darkness is not the slightest bit comforting.

“Here, sit on this side of me, away from the opening,” Qui-Gon instructs. “Yes, that’s my hand – you can follow it. And here, use this pack to lean against, it’s softer than the wall. You can use it for a pillow when you sleep.”

Once Ben sits down, Qui-Gon expects him to let go – but he doesn’t.

“Ben? What is it?”

Ben takes a shaky breath. “What does it feel like?” he whispers, and five tiny clinks tells Qui-Gon that the cave floor is now decorated with kyber crystals.

“The sharing of thoughts? It depends on the person,” Qui-Gon says. “For some, it feels like droplets of water. Others, like a loud noise.” He pauses. “Would you like me to project at you? It won’t be the same, of course, but you see how it feels to you.”

When Ben nods, Qui-Gon closes his eyes. He breathes in and lets the Force fill him – he senses the soft muted glow of the plants and the tiny sparks of the animals in the distance. More importantly, though, he senses Ben, clear and warm as the sun. It makes it easy, so very easy, to brush his mind against Ben’s.

Like this, Qui-Gon says. We can simply send our thoughts, and be heard.

A series of emotions flits across Ben’s mind. It takes Qui-Gon a few moments to parse it.

“I could try to train you, yes,” he finally says once he figures out the tangled mess of desire-confusion-hope. “But this skill takes a while to learn, especially without a bond to guide you as you practiced. It’s much harder to just – project to someone.”

Determination blooms in Ben. It is fierce and strong, like the kyber crystals Ben speaks into existence.

“Yes, I have faith you could learn it. But perhaps we should learn it the easier way, and not by flinging ourselves off a cliff?”

Ben makes a soft grumbling sound. His determination fades, but not completely; it is a goal postponed, not given up on. Qui-Gon has to admire that kind of spirit.

Finally, Ben squeezes his hand in a clear indication that he has decided.

“One squeeze for yes, two for no,” Qui-Gon says.

One squeeze.

“Alright. Just remember, I can dissolve it at any time if you decide you don’t want it.”

Ben squeezes his hand again, almost impatiently.

Qui-Gon suppresses a laugh. He leans forward, so that their sides are pressed together, and murmurs, “Quiet your mind. Think of – of gentle things. I will do the binding.”

Usually, a bond takes at least two beings actively working together to make the connection. It does not have to be an equal distribution of the work – a Master generally does far more than a Padawan, for example – but for any stable bond, two or more beings must contribute to forge the pathway. Of course, to contribute, one usually must be taught how. Qui-Gon had taught Xanatos, once upon a time, just as Dooku had taught him.

It is therefore a tad surprising when, as Qui-Gon weaves the pattern of their minds together, Ben not only notices, but reaches back.

It’s clumsy, to be sure, like a tooka kitten batting a wobbly paw at a treat. But it is conscious and directed, and enough of an effort for the bond to go from a superficial thing to something a bit more stable – gossamer thin, perhaps, but stable.

Qui-Gon lays the final thread and then says, Did you know you were Force-sensitive? At least a little bit.

LIKE A JEDI?

“You needn’t shout,” Qui-Gon says in amusement.

YOU CAN SHOUT IN YOUR MIND?

“When you project, yes. Try to think in a normal volume.”

THIS IS A NORMAL VOLUME.

Qui-Gon hastily revises his opinion of Ben’s Force sensitivity. Not that midi-chlorians alone can make someone’s mental voice stronger, of course, but the stronger the Force-sensitive, generally, the stronger the mental talents.

That or Ben is just naturally gifted at projecting his thoughts.

AM I HURTING YOU?

“No,” Qui-Gon says, because after two Padawans and many, many rotations in the crèche it’s no longer painful. “Just a little loud, that’s all. Perhaps . . . Think a little softly. Not a whisper. Just – if we were standing close together. Think like that.”

How about this?

Qui-Gon smiles. “Much better. Well done.”

Could I speak this way to any Jedi?

“Well, you are Force-sensitive, so, yes. Now that we have a bond, you can practice projecting to me, and then when you’re skilled enough, you can do it without a bond.”

Are you sure I’m Force-sensitive? The Jedi did not come for me.

“The galaxy is a big place, Ben. We don’t find everyone. And even those we do find, we always let the parents choose. Some say yes. Some say no.”

So my parents could have said no?

“It’s entirely possible. I wouldn’t know for sure without accessing the Search records in the Archives. And I am certainly not doing that now. What we should be doing now is sleeping.”

Ugh.

Qui-Gon suppresses another smile. “Go to sleep, Ben.”

Yes, Qui-Gon.

Nature calls in the middle of the night, so Qui-Gon leaves a sleeping Ben to deal with it. He doesn’t go too far, though, and he keeps himself on high alert. Thankfully, the only things he senses are creatures burrowing in the brush. If the Trade Federation has dispatched someone after them, Qui-Gon and Ben have a useful head start, and Qui-Gon means to make the most of it to get to Coruscant on their own.

Negotiations are so much easier when one can choose the location, after all, and the Temple has many small rooms where Qui-Gon could press for Ben’s freedom.

When he returns, still absently mentally reviewing Republic law and relevant precedents, he finds that Ben has stolen both of their packs and Qui-Gon’s cloak, and is curled up in the tightest ball Qui-Gon has ever seen a humanoid manage.

“I do believe that that is my cloak.”

Ben opens one baleful eye. I am not giving it back. It’s freezing.

His tone is so reminiscent of a whiny teenage Padawan that Qui-Gon can’t quite muffle his laugh, which does not help with the irritation Ben is radiating down their bond. Qui-Gon settles beside him and says, “You know, if you give it back, I can show you a Jedi trick to be warmer.”

Show first. Return second.

“You drive a hard bargain,” Qui-Gon informs him as solemnly as he can, which isn’t that much. “Come here, Ben.”

Ben eases into his arms with the wariness of a wild tooka. He’s not quite on the edge of fleeing the second Qui-Gon moves, but he’s definitely tense and his heart is beating wildly against Qui-Gon’s hand. He’s certainly not easily falling back to sleep like that.

Qui-Gon hums and tucks his head against Ben’s. A Jedi can draw the Force to them to adjust their temperature. I could raise it or lower it or maintain it. Right now, though, we wish to be warmer, so I will gather it to increase the rate that my cells burn energy, which will then make me warmer.

But if you burn energy, won’t that make you hungry?

I can suppress that, Qui-Gon assures him.

Ben is less than convinced. But you’d still be hungry, he says, and anxiety colors each word. Anxiety – and distant but vibrant impressions of old memories.

Qui-Gon suppresses the flicker of anger alongside the hunger. With the Force, I could go many more days without food if I had to. But we don’t have to worry about that here. We can both eat in the morning. I’d rather not try and find the ration bars in the dark.

What, the Force can’t give you magical eyesight?

The Force is not magic.

It’s magic enough to make you warm, Ben says. Then he yawns so widely that his jaw cracks. He nestles more firmly against Qui-Gon, his body beginning to relax and his heartbeat slowing. Can you show me again? In the morning?

Of course, Ben.

They spend most of the morning walking towards the space port, but Qui-Gon calls for a halt and a rest around mid-afternoon. He senses no pursuit and the Force is quiet about danger, and more importantly, Ben’s face is beginning to look drawn with weariness. He does not have a Jedi’s training or their stamina, after all.

I could keep going, Ben tells him, even as he pants for air.

“I’m sure you could, but I’d rather not push too hard. And we should eat and rest now while we can.”

Ben gives him a look, like he knows exactly what Qui-Gon is doing, but he acquiesces, settling on the grass and digging into his pack. He unwraps one of the ration bars, resignation all over his face.

“Not the most pleasant of fares,” Qui-Gon agrees. “But it’ll keep us going.”

And to think I used to complain about polystarch bread, Ben says gloomily.

“Almost anything looks better in comparison when one is faced with ration bars. Although I do hope that you were given more than just polystarch bread. It’s not exactly the most nutritional foodstuff.”

Sometimes they’d give me nerf cubes instead. And if I had done really well, they’d let me have muja.

“And by done really well, you mean . . .?”

Ben tears a chunk off of his ration bar. Met my production quota.

“Which I assume was outlined in your contract?”

I suppose so. It’s not like I read the whole thing. Yes, yes, I know, that was stupid. But I – I was young, and they were offering so many credits –

Qui-Gon holds up a hand. “I’m not blaming you, Ben. I am merely trying to understand details about your contract.” He pauses, and then adds, “Including how many Republic laws they might have broken with it.”

Ben gives him a curious look. Surely they wouldn’t be stupid enough to draw up an illegal contract.

“Is that so? Well then, Ben: how much are you paid?”

What do you mean?

“If you have a contract with them and a production quota to meet, then how many credits are you paid?”

I’m . . . not?

Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow. “I can tell you right now that that is an illegal arrangement. Work without proper compensation is prohibited under Republic law.”

But they provide me with housing and food, that’s supposed to be my compensation.

“Pay can be reduced to take into account housing and food, that is true. But it cannot be the only compensation. Employers are required under Republic law to provide a fair and adequate salary for the work their employees carry out.”

Ben’s mouth falls open. Pure shock radiates from him, as strongly as if Qui-Gon had told him that the sky was purple instead of blue.

“They are also required to provide medical care if their employees are injured and for contracts, they are meant to provide access to legal counsel so that prospective employees know exactly what they are signing. They are also supposed to give you a copy of what you have signed. Please correct me if I am wrong,” Qui-Gon says dryly, “but I imagine the Trade Federation has not done any of that for you.”

Ben silently shakes his head.

“Well. Then right there I have at least three or four breaches of law. And probably more, if I get the chance to actually look at your contract.”

You . . . don’t look surprised.

“Let’s just say that this isn’t the first time I’ve tangled with the Trade Federation,” Qui-Gon says. “And it likely won’t be the last, either.”

Ben doesn’t reply to that. Anxiety creeps into his thoughts and his posture again. He crumples up the ration bar wrapper, then smooths it out before crumpling it again, almost like he has to do something with his hands. Qui-Gon watches him for a few minutes, debating the best way to distract him, before he notices a patch of the small pretty blue flowers Ben had been so entranced with.

“Here, Ben. Want to know a trick I was taught as a youngling?”

Another magic trick?

“Not quite. Here, watch me. I take a few flowers – all of them, stems included. Now, see, if you weave them like this, you can form a chain of them.”

Ben shuffles closer. The anxiety begins to fade as he focuses on watching Qui-Gon, which he does as keenly as an Initiate looking at prospective Masters before a tournament. He gets close enough that Qui-Gon spares a flower to playfully tap him on the nose with it.

What was that for? Ben demands indignantly.

“My mistake, you just got a little too close,” Qui-Gon says teasingly. And then, as Ben’s eyes narrow, he tucks the last stem into the first to complete the circle. “There we have it.”

Ben eyes the circlet of flowers with confusion. Have what?

“A crown of flowers,” Qui-Gon answers, and promptly drops said crown onto Ben’s head. “See, it fits perfectly.”

. . . What was the point of these flower crowns?

“Oh, mostly to crown the King of the Youngling Pile or the winner of the Force-Tickle Wars. But it also serves as a lesson in dexterity and patience.”

Ben reaches up and brushes a finger against one of the flowers. He still looks a bit confused, but he smiles when he feels the woven ring of stems. It’s not Qui-Gon’s finest work, of course – too hastily done, and he hadn’t evaluated the flowers to find the best ones before he had woven them in. It probably won’t last more than a day or two.

But it made Ben smile, and that is what matters.

How do I look? Ben asks.

Qui-Gon suppresses the first word that comes to mind, because with that smile on his face and that playful glint in his eyes and the sun shining down on his hair, Ben is beautiful. But instead Qui-Gon replies, “It suits you. The flowers bring out your eyes.”

Uncalled for flattery, Ben informs him. But he smiles even wider and leans close and says, Show me again, please?

“Of course, Ben.”

It takes two more demonstrations, but Ben gets the hang of it. His flower crown is neat and tight and well-woven, yet Ben refuses to exchange his for Qui-Gon’s. He merely sets it down, declares that some other lucky creature can find it, and then announces that he is ready to keep walking.

Unless my esteemed Jedi escort needs a bit longer to rest? Ben teases.

“Minx,” Qui-Gon says. “Come on, if we’re lucky, we can find passage to Coruscant before night falls.”

The Force is with them when they arrive at the spaceport, for Qui-Gon is able to find a transport that is bound for Coruscant which still has open seats. Of course, there is the small matter of paying for said seats, and Qui-Gon ends up digging around in his utility belt for his spare stash of credits.

Maybe we can trade something of equal value? Ben suggests, after Qui-Gon has gone through two pockets and moved onto the third.

“I’m afraid that I don’t tend to carry much valuables,” Qui-Gon says. “And I’d like to avoid openly accessing a Temple account. Too much risk of raising . . . unwanted attention.”

Ben opens his mouth pointedly. But I could speak. Kyber is untraceable. And valuable.

Qui-Gon pauses and looks up. Ben is remarkably uncomfortable with using his voice; ever since they established their bond, Ben hasn’t once chosen to speak. He always uses their bond or resorts to pointing. And while they have discussed a great many topics, for Ben has shown great interest in learning about the Jedi, he’s never once asked about Qui-Gon’s lightsaber or the kyber that powers it.

“A worthwhile suggestion, and I thank you for offering,” Qui-Gon says quietly. Then he grins as he locates his spare stash. “But luckily we shall not have need of it.”

Ben looks at the fistful of credits with a raised eyebrow. Is that enough?

“We’ll find out,” Qui-Gon says, and marches back to request tickets.

Ben turns out to be correct. It is only enough to purchase one ticket. But one ticket is all Qui-Gon ever intended to purchase anyways, so he isn’t bothered. He gestures for Ben to join him and boards the transport’s ramp.

The attendant takes his ticket and then grunts, “Ticket for that one?”

“You already scanned his ticket.”

Ben looks at Qui-Gon like he’s lost his mind – a look that only intensifies when the attendant dazedly repeats, “I – I already scanned his ticket.”

Qui-Gon continues, “We’re both free to board.”

“You’re both free to board now,” the attendant agrees placidly.

“Come on,” Qui-Gon says to Ben. And then, when Ben still is staring, Qui-Gon grabs his sleeve and pulls him inside. He does make sure that he’s between Ben and the surveil-cam, so that anyone reviewing the footage only gets a grainy image of Ben’s legs and back, but once inside he senses no more cams, so he drops his hand.

What was that? Ben demands.

Qui-Gon hums. “The Force can have a strong influence on the weak-minded.”

Ben gives him a suspicious look. Have you ever –

“Done it to you?” Qui-Gon finishes, settling down in a seat in the corner, where he can have the wall at his back and monitor the entire room. “You might be many things, Ben, but weak-minded you are not.”

I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or an insult, Ben tells him, but he’s smiling a little as he sits down next to Qui-Gon. My handler used to call me, ah, headstrong. And I don’t think they meant it as a compliment.

“Well, I meant it as a compliment.”

Ben ducks his head. An utterly adorable tinge of pink dusts his cheeks; he tries to cover it by raising up Qui-Gon’s hood over his face. Qui-Gon had let him keep it, mostly because it better covered the uniform Ben is still wearing, and he’d ended up stuffing his saber in his boot to hide it. Fortunately, his tunics are dusty enough that no one thinks to connect them with a Jedi.

How long will it take us? To get to Coruscant?

“Long enough. You can rest, if you like.”

Ben wrinkles his nose. Sleep and hyperspace travel don’t mix for me. It feels . . . strange.

“Space travel can be disconcerting for those who are Force-sensitive,” Qui-Gon says mildly. “We are taught to shield, and also to ground ourselves in the Force.”

I don’t think I’m up for another lesson, Ben says apologetically.

Qui-Gon waves a hand. “This isn’t quite the best place to learn, either. Well, if sleep is off the table, then I suggest we eat. Always a good idea to eat when you can.”

Ben eyes the ration bars Qui-Gon produces in utter dismay, although he does take one when Qui-Gon holds them out to him.

Does you use the Force to turn off your tastebuds or do you just have a durasteel stomach?

“I’ve had my fair share of ration bars and pellets, so I’ve gotten used to them. It isn’t always feasts and celebrations, you know.”

Jedi are warriors, aren’t they? So you see a lot of fighting?

“We are keepers of the peace, not soldiers,” Qui-Gon corrects, but he keeps his voice gentle as he does so. It’s not Ben’s fault he has the wrong impression; in fact, most people Qui-Gon meets think that he is a warrior. “I carry a lightsaber, yes, but I raise it in defense, not aggression. It is my duty to protect others.”

And yet the galaxy has so many who would do ill to others, Ben notes. And from the look in his eyes, he’s thinking of a very particular company.

Qui-Gon chews the last bite of his ration bar and swallows. He crumples the wrapper, stuffing it back in his pack, and takes a swig of water. Only then does he ask, “How did the Trade Federation get to you, Ben?”

Ben freezes mid-bite. His eyes narrow and for a moment he looks like he’s about to yell, or perhaps to chuck his ration bar at Qui-Gon’s head. But then all of the anger drains out of him; he slumps heavily against the wall and chews his mouthful, resignation clear in every line of his body.

My father – he didn’t like talking about my gift. Said it would attract unwanted attention. But word got out anyways. Trade Federation representative showed up a cycle later. Went on and on and on about how much good I could do – my kyber doesn’t require a harvester drill or backbreaking labor in a mine, after all, and didn’t I know Jedi could end up using my kyber in their sabers? And – And it was so many credits, and there was a drought, and we were almost about to lose the farm –

“And so you signed,” Qui-Gon finishes quietly.

Ben smiles bitterly. Didn’t even have to read the whole contract. Just put my name on the line. Next thing I knew, they were whisking me off on a big fancy ship. They said I would get to come back and visit, but . . . then there was never time.

“And your name?”

They said it was better. To have a whole new name. Untraceable. That way no one would try and find my family. Ben sags. I never realized until later that they’d never told my father what my new name was. Probably why he never commed me.

“I agree,” Qui-Gon says, and deliberately holds back the more realistic but cynical thought that the Trade Federation likely would have intercepted any messages even if Ben’s father had succeeded in reaching out.

Fortunately, Ben doesn’t seem to notice. He looks at Qui-Gon with unsure eyes, biting at his lip. But what if I’m wrong? What if he never reached out? What if he hates me for leaving?

Qui-Gon reaches out. He lays one hand over Ben’s, stroking at the soft skin with his thumb, and says, “You signed the contract because you were trying to do the right thing and help your family. Those credits probably did save the farm. I don’t think anyone can fault you for that, and most certainly not your father.” He pauses and then he adds, “And I don’t think anyone could hate you, Ben.”

Are you sure?

“Well,” Qui-Gon says lightly, “I don’t. And I know my kin at the Temple won’t either.”

Ben mouths the Temple, like he’s getting a feel for the word, the same as he had for the flower. Then he says, But the Temple is for Jedi. I’m not a Jedi.

“The Temple is home to many beings, and not just Jedi. Perhaps,” Qui-Gon offers cautiously, “if you like, it could even be your home, once we’ve discussed your contact with the Trade Federation.”

You really think you can make them let me go?

“I could make them give you a fleet if I put my mind to it. But only if you want me to, Ben.”

The humor seems to work, for Ben’s anxiety gives way to a burst of laughter. He muffles it quickly, stuffing the remainder of his ration bar in his mouth, but his eyes are sparkling again.

I don’t think I need a fleet. What would I even do with that many ships?

“See the whole galaxy, perhaps.”

I’d rather see your Temple, Ben says. He leans against Qui-Gon, nestling close the same way he had when he’d been cold at night. Will you give a tour? I want to see your favorite spots.

“Of course, Ben,” Qui-Gon says softly. He wraps an arm around Ben’s waist and encourages him to get even closer, and at the same time he draws upon the Force to keep them both warm. Hyperspace is always cold, but Ben, he has found, prefers being warm. “I think you’ll quite like the Room of a Thousand Fountains. And the Archives. And the Star Room. And the . . .”

“This,” Mace says, sounding like he very much wants to either dangle Qui-Gon off the Council spire or become one with the floor, “was supposed to be an easy escort mission.”

“Nothing exploded,” Qui-Gon points out. “There were no revolutions. And there were no diplomatic incidents.”

“And yet, you managed lose an entire ship,” Mace says irritably, “and found a whole new problem.”

Qui-Gon keeps his expression neutral. He is aware that there will be ramifications from his choices, because the Trade Federation will likely waste no time in calling the Chancellor the second they realize that Ben is on Coruscant but not in their custody. So Mace is likely thinking ahead to the headache he will have when the Chancellor demands to know why they have a Trade Federation employee in the Temple.

Of course, Mace does not have all the details.

“I would not call Ben a problem,” he says mildly. “And you let me finish explaining, I think this Council will concur with my decision to bring Ben to the Temple.”

Mace sighs and leans back in his chair. “Proceed, Master Jinn.”

“As I was saying,” Qui-Gon says, and continues to detail the firefight that had led to him abandoning the bridge and seeking out Ben.

As he speaks, Ben inches a little closer to him. Ben had been awed by the sight of Coruscant, and then absolutely overcome by the sight of the Temple. He’d stared open-mouthed at, well, everything, and Qui-Gon had perhaps taken the scenic route to the Council to allow Ben more time to sightsee. But that awe had vanished the second the Council chamber doors had slid open; fear and unease had replaced it, and Ben had stuck so close to Qui-Gon that he can almost pass for Qui-Gon’s shadow.

They seem . . . angry, Ben ventures.

This? This is nothing. I’ve heard far worse.

Ben gives him a sidelong glance. I don’t want to get you in trouble. I’m sure as soon as the Trade Federation finds out where I am, they’ll send someone to get me –

Which is exactly what we want to avoid. Patience, Ben. Let me finish with the Council first.

“And I found Ben alone in a room behind high security lock, one that did not release despite the evacuation alert.”

“That’s not terribly unusual for some escortees, especially considering that they thought highly enough of Ben to request a Jedi escort,” Adi points out.

“It is when I find my escortee chained to the wall,” Qui-Gon says, and he draws no small amount of satisfaction in the way that most of the Council straightens. “Also, when I did meet another Trade Federation employee, they were very insistent that Ben not be allowed to depart the transport, even though we had been boarded. They claimed it was against his contract.”

Mace frowns. “Was it?”

“I have not seen the contract, so I cannot speak to it. Ben?”

Ben jumps as though he’s been prodded with an electrostaff. He gives Qui-Gon a worried look, and his anxiety is clear in his face and in the Force. He looks as small and afraid as he had when Qui-Gon had first learned his secret.

Of course, things are very different now.

“You may speak, Ben,” Qui-Gon reassures him. “The Masters of the Council will not judge you, or shame you, or seek to use your gift for profit.”

Mace’s frown only deepens when he processes Qui-Gon’s words, but he can sense Ben’s fear. He gives Ben a solemn nod.

“Whatever you have to say, we will safeguard,” he tells Ben. “Was your contract truly written as such?”

Ben opens his mouth, but no words come out. In the Force, his fear and anxiety twist and multiply, like a rabid pack of fireworms. Qui-Gon turns away from the Council and steps closer to him. He takes one of Ben’s hands, squeezing it in reassurance.

You are safe here, he says. I promise.

Ben gives him another worried look, but after a moment, he squeezes Qui-Gon’s hand back. He takes a deep breath and opens his mouth again, and this time words come out.

“I don’t know,” Ben says. “I’ve never been allowed to review my contract.”

A shower of kyber crystals follows each word, clinking softly onto the tiled floor of the Council chamber. The clink clink clink of the crystals is, in fact, the only sound that echoes in the chamber, for all of the Masters go still and silent when they realize what just happened.

“As you can see,” Qui-Gon says into the silence, “the Trade Federation has a . . . strong interest in keeping Ben.”

“See, we do,” Master Yoda says. “Welcome with us, young Ben is. Yes.”

Thank you, Masters, Ben projects, and Qui-Gon gets to enjoy shocking the Council for the second time in as many minutes.

“I have more to say, Masters,” Qui-Gon says. “But Ben doesn’t need to stand here for all of my report. And I would be more comfortable if a Healer evaluated him; it was a rough journey back to Coruscant.”

Ben shoots him a panicked look. You’re leaving me?

I’ll come find you soon. But the Council is going to grill me with another thousand questions, and you don’t need to be stuck here for all of it. Besides, my fielding healing is not as good as it could be; best to have the experts look you over.

But you will come find me again?

Yes, Ben. I promise.

Only after Qui-Gon makes that promise does Ben allow himself to be led away by a Councilor Padawan, but he goes very reluctantly. He shoots many a backwards glance as he leaves, and Qui-Gon knows the Council is absolutely noting that.

And noticing the bond, for the first thing Adi says the second the doors close is: “You have a bond with him.”

“It was that or spend hours miming and guessing,” Qui-Gon says. “As you can probably guess, Ben is very uncomfortable with speaking out loud. I expect that he was punished for speaking when he wasn’t supposed to be.”

One of the kyber crystals levitates and then moves backwards; a moment later, Yaddle speaks. “These are real kyber crystals.”

“Yes. I imagine his high level of Force sensitivity has something to do with that.”

“Has he explained how he came to develop such a gift?”

“He doesn’t recall much about his life before the Trade Federation came for him, unfortunately. From what he remembers, he’s always had this gift. And he was kept from contacting his family as soon as he signed his contract. They even legally changed his name, in fact.”

“Ben is not his name?” Ki-Adi-Mundi asks.

“It’s his birth name. Ben Lars, he told me. But he’s registered as Obi-Wan Kenobi; all records the Trade Federation has on him likely bear that name. I plan to look into the Search records and see if either name comes up.”

That gets him an approving nod from Adi and Ki-Adi-Mundi, but Mace just frowns.

“You intend to break his contract,” Mace says bluntly. “That’s why you brought him here.”

“No, I brought him here because he needs sanctuary and because he has questions. And who better than us to provide him with both?”

Mace gives him a look.

“And, yes, if he asks, I will help him break his contract,” Qui-Gon concedes. “He was chained to a wall, Mace. They feed him polystarch bread and nerf cubes. He hasn’t seen the outside of a cell for years. He hasn’t been given an education, or compensation, or anything beyond work. So yes, if I can break his contract with the Trade Federation, I will.”

Mace closes his eyes. He rubs at his forehead and sighs very deeply.

On one hand, Qui-Gon understands. Mace is the Master of the Order; he is the one who will deal with the Chancellor and the Senate, and whatever political fallout might occur. It is his responsibility to consider what might be best for the Jedi Order as a whole.

On the other hand: Ben is a Force-sensitive who speaks kyber crystals into existence and was effectively forced to sign his freedom away. If there is any case in which the Order might have jurisdiction to interfere, it is this.

“Ben Lars is welcome,” Mace says after a long moment. Then he gives Qui-Gon a weary look. “But just for once, I would have appreciated it if you had had a quiet mission, Jinn.”

“It was quiet until the pirates showed up,” Qui-Gon says, and then he bows and leaves before Mace actually does try to dangle him off the Council spire.

The Healers have finished their examination of Ben by the time Qui-Gon gets to them, which is both good and bad. Good, because it means that they are able to reassure Qui-Gon immediately that Ben has suffered no ill effects due to his transport exploding or Qui-Gon taking him to Coruscant on a transport of dubious origin. Bad, because, well – since they’re finished with Ben, they immediately turn on Qui-Gon.

“No, we are not finished with you, Master Jinn, so sit down,” Healer Reyla says sharply.

Qui-Gon sighs. “I suffered no injures, surely all of this is unnecessary – ”

“A full evaluation is required for any Jedi returning from the field. And you are? That’s right, a Jedi returning from the field. A Jedi who often skips his evaluations, in fact. So you are going to sit right there, and quietly so, until I finish. Stars above, Ben did better than you, and we had to do a full baseline on him.”

Qui-Gon shoots Healer Reyla a glare, but Ben giggles quietly where he is sitting. It’s clearly the reaction Healer Reyla was aiming for, so Qui-Gon lets it pass.

“And the result of that baseline?” Qui-Gon asks.

Healer Reyla looks at Ben. “Do I have your consent to tell Master Jinn about you? If not, just shake your head no.”

Ben blinks in surprise. It’s clear that he wasn’t expecting to be asked for his input, which tells Qui-Gon a lot about how any past medicals Ben’s had have probably gone.

Healer Reyla picks up on it too, for their voice softens. “You’re an adult. Therefore, you are entitled to your own medical privacy. If you consent, I can give him some information. If you do not, then he has to live with it. It’s your choice.”

Ben thinks it over, and then he nods.

“As you wish. Baseline came back clean, Master Jinn,” Healer Reyla says. “Some malnutrition, but we can adjust his diet to accommodate. Some sores too, but a few good treatments of bacta will take care of that. All in all, not bad.” There was one thing that needed immediate intervention, though.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Qui-Gon says out loud. And then: Which was?

“You, on the other hand, owe me some more blood,” Healer Reyla declares. An abnormally high level of – oh, it doesn’t matter. Basically, it’s a good thing you brought Ben to us. A few more days and he’d be going through some serious withdrawal, far beyond what you or anyone else could have handled in the field.

“You must have enough of my blood to fill a bacta tank by now.” You think it was deliberate or accidental?

“Perhaps if you actually attended your post-mission evaluations more often, I wouldn’t need to get some much on the few times you did.” No way it could be accidental, the levels are too high. They were likely giving it to Ben in every meal, or at least every other meal.

“The Council often gives me a short turnaround time between missions.” But you can neutralize it?

“Which could turn into a long turnaround if you don’t get something checked out and you end up dropping in the field.” Already did. Might take a few more injections to fully take care of it, but he should suffer no permanent damage . . . as long as he doesn’t ingest anymore.

“As you say, Healer. You are the expert.” I intend to make sure of that.

“I’d believe it more if you actually listened to me,” Healer Reyla grumbles. Good. You going to go after the ones who poisoned him?

“Yes, Healer,” Qui-Gon says to both.

“Then you’re free to leave,” Healer Reyla says, and promptly vanishes as quickly as they had appeared.

“Let’s go before they change their mind,” Qui-Gon says to a still-snickering Ben.

Are the Healers always like that with you? Ben asks as they leave.

“Depends on the Healer. Healer Reyla is very direct. Others are not quite so much. But it all comes from the same place of caring about their patients.”

It was . . . nice. To be cared about.

“It’s what you deserve,” Qui-Gon says quietly. “It’s what all beings deserve.”

Ben looks away, at that. It makes sense: after years of being told otherwise, it will take time for him to accept that he deserves to be treated well. Time, and a lot of reassurance. Qui-Gon can give him both.

Where are we going now? Ben asks.

Qui-Gon accepts the barely-hidden request for a change in topic. “To my quarters. If you choose to stay in the Temple, you’ll be assigned rooms of your own, but for now, I have an empty suite that you can stay in. If you don’t mind, of course. Otherwise, I can find you a guest – ”

No! No, I’d rather stay with you.

“Well,” Qui-Gon says, waving open his door, “then here it is. It’s not much, but – ”

You have flowers! Ben says. He heads straight for the pot of poola blossoms, eyes wide and radiating excitement so brightly that Qui-Gon half expects him to start glowing. But these ones look different.

“Those are poola blossoms from Rodia. Sturdy little things. And good that they are; I’m not always here to tend to them.”

And these ones?

“Zeillas from Tenoo.”

And these ones?

The tour of the various flowers, vines, and shrubs that Qui-Gon keeps in his quarters takes them long enough that a Temple droid arrives with the requested food and clothing. Ben is delighted by the tunics, even if they are a bit too big for him, and even more pleased with the pile of bedding that Qui-Gon gives him.

“Come here and eat before the food gets cold, the bedding will still be there when we go to sleep,” Qui-Gon tells him, but he can’t quite stop the smile. Ben’s joy at such simple things is too adorable for words.

Qui-Gon finishes his meal first. It isn’t surprising, given that the Temple food is – while quite good – not the novelty to him that it is to Ben. Qui-Gon leaves him happily tearing into a third helping of food to shower and change into fresh tunics, and he comes out to find that Ben has finished with the food and migrated to the couch.

More specifically, he’s migrated to the pile of gear Qui-Gon has left near the couch, and is poking curiously at Qui-Gon’s lightsaber.

“If you activate it and put a hole in my couch, you get to fill out the requisition for a new one,” Qui-Gon teases.

Ben jumps away as if he’s been burned. Sorry! I didn’t mean to – I just wanted to –

“Peace, Ben. I know you meant no harm. But a lightsaber is dangerous tool. To be a Jedi is to know how to wield it.”

It’s dangerous because of the kyber crystal, Ben says. Isn’t it?

“Not . . . strictly. The danger comes from not knowing how to use it, or not knowing when to use it. An untrained being could accidentally hurt themselves. Or hurt others if they used it for the wrong reasons.”

But the lightsaber draws power from the kyber crystal. It focuses the energy that makes the blade. Without it, this – this is just an empty hilt.

Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow. Knowledge of how to construct a lightsaber is not exactly a secret, since they have been wielded for millennia and their wielders were not always Jedi. But there is a difference between knowing the components of a lightsaber and understanding a lightsaber, and Ben’s tone is full of the latter.

“Did the Trade Federation teach you that?”

Ben shakes his head solemnly. Your kyber crystal told me.

“Ah,” Qui-Gon says, for lack of a better response. Kyber crystals do speak to Jedi – this one had called to Qui-Gon on Ilum, allowing him to find it in the depths of Ilum. After he bonded with it and constructed his lightsaber, though, the chatter had ceased; now all Qui-Gon can typically sense is its location. Which is useful for always being able to find his lightsaber, but rather less so for having actual conversations.

It said it has been with you a long time. Long enough to see you get into lots of mischief, Ben says, shooting Qui-Gon a sly grin. Then he sobers. I didn’t know they could speak like that. Mine never did.

“Well, it’s possible that you just didn’t know how to listen to them,” Qui-Gon points out.

But you said I’m Force-sensitive. That means I can feel the Force. And always have been able to do.

“Yes. However, feeling the Force and understanding it are two very different things. Why do you think it takes so long for a Jedi to be trained?”

But if they can all speak, Ben persists, then does that mean that I’ve been ignoring all the ones I’ve created? They could have been suffering. Because of me.

Qui-Gon regards Ben for a long moment. Then he steps forward and calls his lightsaber to his hand. It’s the work of a moment to open the casing, and then another moment to pry open the compartment where his kyber crystal rests among the matrices and power cells. It gleams under the lights, and a part of Qui-Gon finds peace in the sight of his kyber crystal, which has been with him since he made his first blade all those years ago.

“Come here, Ben,” he coaxes, and Ben eventually comes close and puts his hand over the casing. “Yes. Now close your eyes and listen. Truly listen. Because a kyber crystal doesn’t just speak. It hears us too. And your crystals – they heard you. They understood you. They knew you. If they suffered, Ben, they did so because they mourned for you. You did not cause their suffering.”

Ben makes a face, but Qui-Gon can feel his own crystal chiming in the Force, in perfect rhythm with his words. He knows without having to check that it agrees with him.

“You did not cause their suffering,” Qui-Gon repeats quietly. “And they did not blame you for it.”

A tear gathers at Ben’s eye. It sparkles like a kyber crystal as it travels down Ben’s cheek. Qui-Gon raises a hand and wipes it away, and he can feel the way Ben leans into his touch, like he’s desperate to believe Qui-Gon but can’t quite bring himself to.

Qui-Gon adds, “If you don’t believe me, then believe my kyber crystal.”

He loses track of how long they stand there, a perfect trifecta. Qui-Gon can hear his kyber crystal singing in the Force, but he can’t quite make out what it says. Not that matters, for Ben seems to understand, and that is all that matters.

Finally, Ben releases a long shuddering sigh. He scrubs at his eyes. “Okay,” he says hoarsely.

Just one word. It is everything.

Qui-Gon silently squeezes his hand. Then he lowers his and replaces the casing cover, closing away his kyber crystal and attaching his lightsaber back where it belongs on his belt. He can still feel it humming, the most active it’s been in years.

He clears his throat. “Dessert?”

I’m not sure I could eat anything else.

“Not even a muja tart?”

. . . On second thought.

“That’s more like it.”

A nightmare jolts Qui-Gon awake. He sits bolt upright in bed and reaches for the Force to ground himself against the terror, and is immeasurably relieved when all he senses is the calm eddies of the various plants scattered around his room. He focuses on his breathing and his heartrate, exhaling and inhaling, and tries to center himself, but the anxiety just won’t dissipate no matter what. Qui-Gon focuses –

And that’s when he realizes that it isn’t his nightmare.

“Ben,” he breathes, and leaps from the bed.

It takes barely any time at all to get from his room to the Padawan suite, but it feels like an eternity. Qui-Gon uses the Force to open the door, and he is greeted by the sight of Ben thrashing like a wild animal in the sheets. His terror is so strong that Qui-Gon itches to grab his lightsaber and put an end to the threat – but of course, a lightsaber cannot kill a dream.

“Ben,” Qui-Gon calls. “Ben, it’s a dream, you can wake up.”

The words don’t work, for Ben remains locked in his dream. And touch doesn’t wake Ben either, for Ben only flinches from his grip and rolls deeper into the tangled mess of his sheets. Eventually, Qui-Gon reaches for the bond between them, but when he calls to Ben there, Ben lashes out.

It’s like a lightning bolt to the mind. Qui-Gon rears back, utterly startled. It’s an untrained strike, to be sure, but no less powerful for it.

And, well. When subtlety fails . . .

“Ben,” Qui-Gon says, imbuing each word with as powerful of a Force command as he can muster, “wake up.”

Ben’s eyes fly open. He jerks away from Qui-Gon with a wild cry, scrambling backwards to get away from him. He’s too tangled up to go far, but that just makes his fear worse. It’s like watching a trapped animal and every second of it makes Qui-Gon’s heart ache.

“It’s all right, Ben. It’s just me,” he says, as lowly and softly as he can. “You had a bad dream.”

Ben stares at him as if he’s seeing him for the first time. His eyes are wild and his face is gleaming with sweat. For a moment, Qui-Gon wonders if Ben will attack him.

But then: Qui-Gon?

“Yes, Ben. It’s me. You’re in the Jedi Temple on Coruscant; there is no danger here.” Qui-Gon holds his hand out, palm up, like he would to an injured animal. “You’re safe, I promise.”

Ben eyes his hand like it has poison on it. Slowly and cautiously, he reaches out with trembling fingers, and he visibly shakes when he touches Qui-Gon’s hand. But the skin contact must ground him, for he begins to calm down and his fear begins to ease in the Force.

“It’s just me,” Qui-Gon repeats. “You had a bad dream. That’s all.”

Those wide eyes close. Ben shudders. It didn’t feel like a dream, he says.

“Dreams can feel very real. But it was a dream. You’re safe here.”

Ben sighs. He releases Qui-Gon’s hand and scrubs roughly at his eyes, as if he wishes he could rub away the dream that terrified him so much. Then he begins to pick at the sheets tangled around him, except that they are so tightly wound that Qui-Gon ends up having to assist, and it takes a few good minutes until Ben is finally free of his cocoon.

I’m sorry I woke you up. Do you regret agreeing to let me stay now?

The tone of his question is clearly aiming for humor, but the thing about mental communication is that Qui-Gon can sense the emotions that come with the thought. And Ben definitely is feeling upset with himself in a way that Qui-Gon does not like.

“On the contrary,” Qui-Gon tells him. “I’m glad you were here so I could wake you up. Otherwise who knows how long the dream might have lasted, and we both need to be well-rested tomorrow.”

Ben wrinkles his nose. I don’t think I’ll be doing much more sleeping tonight.

“I can help with that. We call it a sleep suggestion.”

Another magic trick?

“The Force is not magic,” Qui-Gon says for the tenth time. “But this would allow me to calm you so you could sleep. I could also ensure that you had no dreams, or at least better dreams.”

I suppose in this state, I count as weak minded, Ben jokes. He sighs and falls back to the bed. Well, I guess it’s worth a try.

Qui-Gon leans over and places a hand on his shoulder. He gathers the Force – and then stops, because Ben looks distinctively uncomfortable, which is not a good starting point. It also doesn’t help that he almost blends into the bed, because the sheets are plain and his tunics are plain and, honestly, the entire room is plain.

In fact, Qui-Gon realizes, the room looks a lot like Ben’s room on the Trade Federation ship.

He clears his throat and pulls away. “Let’s try a change of scenery first.”

Ben blinks at him in confusion, but he willingly pads after Qui-Gon out of the Padawan suite and into Qui-Gon’s room. He is then immediately distracted by the plants Qui-Gon has on his bureau and windows, which gives Qui-Gon a useful, if small, amount of time to grab a spare pillow and some spare blankets.

Then Ben turns around. Wait. You want me to sleep on your bed?

“Well, it would be incredibly rude to put you on the floor,” Qui-Gon points out. “Although I can sleep on the floor if that would make you more comfortable.”

Ben snorts. If I can deal with you snoring in a cave, I can handle you on a bed.

“I do not snore,” Qui-Gon says indignantly.

But his indignation quickly fades when Ben settles in his bed. Ben looks right here, amongst the fluffy pillows and soft sheets, and he seems delighted by the swirls of colors and patterns on Qui-Gon’s bedding. He also seems fascinated with the trailing vine of candlewick flowers Qui-Gon has on the bedside table, petting its petals with an awed look on his face.

“Candlewick flowers from Alderaan,” Qui-Gon explains as he joins Ben under the covers. “During the right seasons, they glow at night, but it isn’t that time.”

You have so many plants. Have you really been to all these places?

“Most, but not all. That one was a gift from the Alderaanian Senator. I saved his life, and he decided he needed to thank me.”

Ben’s eyes flicker in amusement. You seem to have a habit of saving people’s lives, Master Jedi. Does that mean I owe you a gift?

“Jedi do not demand or expect compensation for their work,” Qui-Gon tells him.

And so the flower was . . . ?

“A gift from one who appreciates plants to another.”

You appreciate kyber crystals.

“Very funny, Ben. But a gift is not needed. I protected you because it was the right thing to do. And if you will let me, I will break your contract, because it is the right thing to do.”

Ben’s amusement fades. He rolls closer to Qui-Gon, near enough that their legs brush, but he does not seem to mind the touch. If anything, it seems to relax him as he nestles further into the soft bedding.

Do you really think you can make them let me go? Ben asks quietly.

“They will if I sit at the table. And they’ll compensate you for every moment they held you, and every kyber crystal they wrung out of you, and every chain they ever put on you.” Qui-Gon pauses. “But only if you want me to help, Ben. This is your decision. I won’t take it from you.”

What if . . . Ben’s gaze skitters away. What if I’m not ready for that?

“Then you’ll have my comm number. When or if you ever need me, I will come.”

Even if you have to fight through pirates again?

“The Trade Federation is more likely to employ droids than pirates, but yes, Ben. If I had to fight an army to reach you, I would. I think my lightsaber might rebel if I didn’t,” Qui-Gon adds in wry amusement. “My kyber crystal likes you very much.”

Ben snickers. Well, at least I know one being in the Jedi Temple likes me.

“Two beings,” Qui-Gon says quietly, and he places his hand on Ben’s waist. Just for a moment, but he knows Ben understands.

Can you do the magic sleep trick on me now?

“It is not – ” Qui-Gon pinches his nose. “Yes. Close your eyes. Now feel your heartbeat slowing. Feel your muscles relaxing. Focus on my voice. Yes. That’s it. Now sleep, Ben. Sleep and dream no more.”

“Kenobi! Thank goodness you’re safe. We were so worried about you. Have you been fed? Watered? You know it’s important to keep your strength up for work,” the Trade Federation representative says, and then they keep talking, going on and on in what everyone knows is a show.

In fact, Qui-Gon is quite sure that the Trade Federation knows he knows it’s a show, but if anything, that just makes them more determined to put it on.

My handlers are never like this, Ben confirms, uneasily inching away from the now-gushing Trade Federation employee and towards Qui-Gon. And is that – is that a tear?

Perhaps this employee had aspirations of theater once upon a time, Qui-Gon says.

“ – but, ah, it’s so wonderful to see you safe and sound,” Ben’s new handler says. They wipe away the glittering tear from their eye and turn to Qui-Gon. “We cannot thank you enough to rescuing Kenobi and bringing him to safely to Coruscant, Master Jinn.”

“I was only fulfilling my mission by protecting Ben. And he made it very easy for me.”

From the way Ben’s handler’s eye twitches, they catch the emphasis he places on Ben’s name. But they are a professional; they are not so easily flustered.

“Our thanks again anyways,” they say, and gesture to the guards. “Now, Kenobi, let’s get you safely back to – ”

Qui-Gon steps neatly into their path, and he takes no small amount of satisfaction in the way the guards falter. “Actually,” he says mildly, “there is a matter that needs to be discussed.”

“Ah, yes, compensation, of course, of course. We can settle that easily once Kenobi is – ”

“Not compensation. But it came to my attention that Ben has a contract with you, and that he has never been able to review it. I believe that he should be allowed to see what he signed. Surely you have no objections?”

“Oh, well, absolutely not. It is his right, of course, under Republic law.”

“It most certainly is.”

“We’ll furnish Kenobi with a copy once he is safely – ”

“You’ll furnish it now,” Qui-Gon says. “Unless you’d like me to conduct an investigation into exactly what kind of work Ben does for you?”

That earns Qui-Gon a furious red-eyed glare. Qui-Gon meets it without flinching; he’s been glared at so many times that it hardly registers, especially since Ben’s handler barely comes up to his chest. Just for a little extra motivation, though, he pointedly drops his hand to the hilt of his lightsaber.

The handler fumbles at their belt and produces a datapad. A few angry swipes later, and they hand it over to Qui-Gon, who immediately passes it to Ben.

I thought that you were going to help me with this?

I can read upside down, you know.

Oh. Right. Another one of your magic tricks.

Qui-Gon sighs. Fortunately, Ben leaves his teasing at that. He scrolls through his contract, going slowly so that Qui-Gon can read along with him. Qui-Gon could read faster, of course – with the Force he could read the whole thing in seconds – but with each passing page, he gets angrier and angrier, so it is a good thing that he has time to breathe out the anger and center himself.

When they get to the last page, where Ben’s shaky signature is pressed into the line bearing his name, Qui-Gon looks at the handler. “I believe,” he says slowly, “that it would benefit all of us if this contract were to be – reworked.”

“Kenobi signed it, and did so with a clear mind. It is binding.”

“Leaving aside the fact that he signed it before he came of age, which makes it null and void from the start, there are many provisions in this contract that are illegal under Republic law. Unless you would like me to bring this to the attention of the Senate, this contract will need be renegotiated.”

“The Senate will not interfere with a private company such as ours.”

“Perhaps. But the Jedi Order will.”

That gets the handler’s attention. They stiffen. “The Order has no reason to investigate a simple employment contract – ”

“They do when kyber crystals are involved. Although you sell them as – how do you put it? ah, yes – crystal gemstones. For very lucrative prices, in fact. Prices which seem to not have made their way to Ben’s accounts, even though he is the only reason you have a foothold in the trade at all.”

The handler sends Ben an absolutely poisonous glance. “Kenobi should not have spoken of this to you. It is a breach of our company’s trade secrets. And against his contract.”

“We’ve already discussed that this contract isn’t worth the datapad it’s on. But no matter. Ben didn’t break the contract, because he did not speak to me of it. I am a Jedi,” Qui-Gon reminds them. “I do not need to speak to find the truth.”

That spooks the handler enough that they physically take a step back. A burst of worry saturates the Force.

They’re really scared of you right now, Ben comments, as if he can sense it. And perhaps he can; he really is very strong in the Force.

It’s always good to start the negotiation on a strong foot, Qui-Gon tells him.

And you think it’s fun.

Perhaps. Qui-Gon winks at him. Can you blame me?

Ben muffles his laugh into his sleeve. He’s still wearing the tunics the Temple provided to him, and this morning Qui-Gon had given him a spare cloak for warmth. It should not please Qui-Gon so much to behold Ben wearing Jedi attire, and yet knowing that Ben is clad in comfortable clothes that Qui-Gon gave him and has a belly full of good food that Qui-Gon cooked for him is unbelievably satisfying.

“It is not, ah, quite the time for renegotiation yet,” the handler says, drawing them both back into the conversation. “The contract was set to be up for renewal next cycle. But! But we hear your concerns, Master Jinn. We would be happy to ensure that a new contract is drawn up that will fully abide will all the Republic laws and amendments that have been passed or updated since the original was signed.”

Qui-Gon is tempted to call out that almost all of the laws they broke in the contract were laws when Ben first signed, but he controls himself. Instead, he says, “I’m glad to hear it.”

“We can negotiate with Kenobi once he is safely – ”

“No, you’ll negotiate now,” Qui-Gon interrupts. “Ben will leave here with a new contract, one that abides by the laws of the Galactic Republic, or he will leave here with no contract. It is your choice.”

“But this is a confidential contract, Master Jinn. It would be gross negligence on our part to allow such an invasion of Kenobi’s privacy.”

“That is true. It is up to Ben.” Qui-Gon turns to look at Ben. “Ben, it’s up to you. I will abide by your wishes.”

Ben licks his lips. His face looks drawn and pale; he almost looks as frightened as he had when Qui-Gon first found him all those days ago, chained to the wall and unable to speak.

Almost.

Ben meets Qui-Gon’s eyes, and Qui-Gon can see the fire in him light. Ben’s spine straightens and he lifts his chin and opens his mouth.

“I want Master Jinn here,” Ben says, clear and strong, not flinching at the shower of kyber crystals that emerge and fall to the floor. “He will negotiate on my behalf.”

The handler is clearly displeased, but to their credit, they do not give up. They ask, “Are you sure that’s necessary, Kenobi? We have treated you so well for so many years, and we only have your best interests at heart. Surely we can resolve this, just between us.”

“I am sure,” Ben tells them. “And besides. Who better to handle this negotiation than the Jedi Master who helped negotiate the end of the Stark Hyperspace War?”

Qui-Gon sighs. I knew letting you have my datapad this morning was a mistake.

You told me that the best way to start a negotiation was to make sure I was fully educated on all parties. So I educated myself, Ben says, radiating innocence like a youngling in the crèche trying to sneak out. I really liked the song they wrote about you.

Which song? Qui-Gon asks, and then he immediately regrets it when Ben’s eyes light up.

There’s more than one?

Stars above, forget I even mentioned it. “Well, then,” Qui-Gon says to the handler. “Shall we get started?”

Qui-Gon takes, perhaps, a little too much pleasure in the sheer amount of credits that he manages to obtain for Ben. It is an obscene number, to be sure, but Qui-Gon was raised by Master Dooku, and Dooku had not batted an eye at either large accounts or opulent spending. Besides, Ben has likely earned the Trade Federation an equally obscene number, so really, it’s just his due.

Getting him a private ship and a Coruscant high level apartment is just a bonus on top.

Ben is looking a little overwhelmed at that point, and the Trade Federation handler is looking a little frazzled. No doubt they were anticipating an easy day of picking Ben up and immediately making him continue his kyber crystal production. Not that Qui-Gon has any sympathy for them; if they had been kinder to Ben, likely he would have been happy to continue working with them, and a good salary would have only strengthened that loyalty.

“This seems like adequate compensation for Ben’s years of loyalty,” Qui-Gon says, after everything has been tallied up and documented. “Unfortunate that it was missed in his previous contract, but I’m glad we were able to get everything straightened up.”

“Yes, we are – grateful for your attention to detail, Master Jinn,” the handler says through gritted teeth.

“Excellent. Then all that’s left is to sign.”

One thumbprint from the handler, one signature from Ben, and one witness signature from Qui-Gon, and the handler breathes a sigh of relief.

“All right, now that we’ve concluded this, I think it’s finally time for us to – ”

Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow. “Who said we were finished?”

“But – But we negotiated a fair amount for Kenobi’s work – ”

“For his past work, yes. His current contract is utterly unsuitable for any future work. If you wish to retain Kenobi as an employee, then we will need to negotiate a new contract.” Qui-Gon tilts his head and smiles at the frustrated handler. “Unless you would rather part ways? If so, I am sure that Ben can secure employment rather quickly with any of your competitors, but we would still need to negotiate a severance.”

The new contract takes the remainder of the day and multiple breaks to hammer out. Qui-Gon normally is willing to compromise and give concessions as equally as he is given them, but for Ben he stands steadfast. He pursues an exorbitant salary, extracts promises about living and working conditions, and leans hard on the fact that the Trade Federation is terrified of losing Ben to a competitor. It earns him much success but, of course, no small amount of hatred.

In the end, the contract the Trade Federation handler presents to Ben is – well, it’s not quite fair, because the Trade Federation still wants to make profit, but it’s the best that Qui-Gon can get him, and it will leave Ben well taken care of and no loopholes for the Trade Federation to take advantage of.

Ben reads it over, picks up the stylus, and then hesitates. Qui-Gon?

Yes?

It’s a good contract, right?

It’s good, Qui-Gon reassures him. It ensures standards for your living and working. They cannot stop you from speaking out loud, or living where you wish, or seeing who you like. Your salary must be paid, and your accounts must be held by a neutral party. And if you wish to break it at any time, they cannot penalize you or keep you from leaving.

But . . .

But what, dear one?

The endearment startles Ben. His eyes widen and he looks up at Qui-Gon. But if anything, it seems to give him the courage to speak.

But what if I don’t want to break it because I don’t want to sign it?

And Qui-Gon hadn’t quite dared to allow himself to hope that Ben might walk away. Ben had been agreeable to the breaking of the contract – but only in the terms of getting himself compensation for the past and a better contract for the future. He’d never given any indication that he might want to be free from the Trade Federation forever.

If you do not wish to sign it, Qui-Gon tells him, then don’t.

Ben blinks. It’s that easy?

Of course it is. You’re a free being, Ben. You can sign that and continue working with them, or you can walk away from them. It’s your choice.

But you worked so hard to make this, I don’t want to –

I’ve worked far longer on more complicated things that never came to pass than this. It comes with the territory of being a negotiator. And remember why I did this work, Ben. I wanted to ensure that you would be happy. If this contract doesn’t make you happy, then don’t sign it.

Ben digests this. He chews on his lip and fiddles with the edge of his cloak. Qui-Gon can see the war he’s having inside of himself, and he wishes he could touch Ben – squeeze his shoulder, hold his hand, even hug him – but the Trade Federation handler is watching, and so he cannot.

Instead, Qui-Gon settles for their bond. I want you to be happy, Ben. That’s all I want.

Ben’s face smooths out. He puts down the stylus and the datapad, and then he looks at the handler. “No,” he says, polite but clear.

The handler blinks. “What?”

“No,” Ben repeats. “I don’t want to work for the Trade Federation anymore.”

The handler’s shock gives way to anger. They lean forward, aggression in every line of their body, and growl, “We took care of you for years, and this is the thanks we get? Throwing away everything we’ve worked for?”

“You put me in chains and beat me whenever I refused to speak,” Ben says. “You forced me to change my name, you never let me comm my family, you fed me nothing but nerf cubes and polystarch bread. The only thing you took care of was your profit.”

“You were a rebellious child who kept trying to break the contract you signed. We had to take measures to ensure – ”

“You kept me in a cell. No windows, no bed. I couldn’t even go to the refresher without two guards.” Ben takes a deep breath. He pushes the datapad towards the handler. “I don’t want to work for the Trade Federation anymore. I will not sign.”

The handler turns mottled purple with rage –

And Qui-Gon clears his throat.

“I think Ben has made himself clear,” he says. He stands up and waves a hand at the door, which slides open. “A Temple Guard will escort you out of the Temple. I expect to see the compensation in Ben’s accounts within a few days, as well as ownership idents for the ship and the apartment.”

The handler snarls at him. They’ve dropped the nice façade and their true self is rather what Qui-Gon expected – someone who cares only for money and is enraged that a profit-factory has slipped away from them.

He smiles politely at them in answer. “It was invigorating to work with you. I hope our paths cross again one day.”

“For your sake,” the handler spits, “I hope not, Jedi.”

But then they stalk out the door, followed by their guards. The Temple Guard nods to Qui-Gon and smiles at Ben, and then they turn to lead the Trade Federation group away. Qui-Gon has no concern about that; he gave strict instructions for them to be escorted off the premises, and he knows the Temple Guards will ensure that they leave.

As soon as the door slides shut, Ben slumps in his chair. Did I really just. Do that?

“You did,” Qui-Gon says. And then he gives into his impulse and takes Ben’s hand, giving him a reassuring caress. “And you did very well, dear one.”

I don’t work for the Trade Federation anymore. I don’t ever have to go back, Ben marvels.

“Never,” Qui-Gon affirms.

So . . . what happens now?

“You are welcome in the Temple for as long as you want to stay,” Qui-Gon says. “Or if you do not wish to remain on Coruscant, I can find you lodging in another Temple, or outside of the Order if you prefer. You certainly have enough credits to stay wherever you wish.”

The mention of his newfound wealth probably doesn’t help matters. Ben says, What am I even going to do with all of these credits?

“Buy some more muja tarts, perhaps. You certainly seemed to like them.”

Qui-Gon.

“I can put you in touch with someone who can help you put together a plan,” Qui-Gon promises. “Financial advice is not my forte, but if you are smart and careful, you should be fine. Tea?”

Ben lights up. He had been wary of tea when Qui-Gon had first offered it to him, but one sip and he’d been hooked. Qui-Gon had caught him rifling in the tea cabinets in the morning, and he had had to explain all the various types and how to prepare them before Ben had stopped pestering him. After having two Padawans who were not at all interested in tea, it had been a refreshing experience.

Qui-Gon guides them out of the meeting room and back to his quarters. The Trade Federation had wanted to meet them in company headquarters; Qui-Gon had refused. Ostensibly because the Temple was secure, but realistically because the Temple was a good neutral ground for negotiation. And now his decision pays off even more, because they don’t even have to go too far before they’re back in Qui-Gon’s quarters.

Once prepared, Ben attacks the tea and snacks with the kind of fervor Qui-Gon usually sees in starved beings. Not that Qui-Gon minds; he finds it pleasing to see how much Ben has settled and grown comfortable in the Temple.

Eventually, even Ben’s ravenous hunger is satiated. He stuffs one last set of spicy warra nuts in his mouth and then lets out a long sigh. In the Force, his entire being radiates contentment and utter relaxation, so Qui-Gon is not surprised when he ends up slumping and leaning against Qui-Gon’s side. And it’s easy, so easy, for Qui-Gon to move just a little bit so he can fit an arm around Ben’s waist and let Ben nestle closer.

Then, out of the blue, Ben says, You.

“Hmm? Me what?”

What makes me happy. You. And then, as Qui-Gon stares in astonishment at him, Ben continues, I – I want to stay here. In the Temple. With you.

“Then you can stay.”

It’s that easy?

“Of course it is, dear one. Although I probably need to get you better things for your room. I’d forgotten how bare it is.”

Or . . .

“Or what?”

Ben twists under his arm. He doesn’t move away, not really; if anything he moves closer. But he lifts his head so that he can look at Qui-Gon better, and that gives Qui-Gon a perfect view of his face when he says, Or I could share your room. Your bed is very nice.

“I . . . I would have thought you’d want your own room. Your own space.”

Ben ponders that for a moment, and then shakes his head. When I had my own space, I was alone and frightened and cold. You kept me warm, and safe, and happy. I want to be with you.

“That cell cannot count as – ”

Which is when Ben interrupts him with a kiss.

It’s a shy, tentative thing. As gentle as a raindrop, as brief as comet. Qui-Gon has barely even registered it happening before Ben draws away.

I want to stay with you, Ben says, his cheeks flushed pink. You make me happy.

And what can Qui-Gon do, except to reel him back and say, “You make me happy too” and kiss him senseless.

Epilogue

There’s a group of younglings in Qui-Gon’s quarters when he gets back, because of course there is. Qui-Gon can sense them halfway down the hall, and he bets if he strained his ears, he could hear them too. He sighs and shakes his head, but he is far from surprised.

Ben is exceedingly popular with the young ones, after all.

When he opens the door, every single possible surface has been commandeered into a seat for one of the many younglings. Ben himself is sitting cross-legged on the floor, and in his hands he holds a gently glowing kyber crystal. His eyes are closed, but the Force is radiating outwards from him, and from the way all of the younglings are still as stone, they are listening to him speak.

For a moment, Qui-Gon just drinks in the sight. Ben has truly come so far from when Qui-Gon first met him, and sometimes all Qui-Gon can do is marvel at it – marvel at how happy Ben is now, how he moves with confidence, how he is perfectly comfortable. Qui-Gon loves him so much that he would be content just to catch a glimpse of Ben in the distance and yet, for some miraculous reason, Ben has chosen to make a home with Qui-Gon in what has become their quarters.

Even if he does tend to fill their home with wayward younglings.

Qui-Gon clears his throat, and is immediately the focus of two dozen eyes. “Good afternoon,” he says in amusement.

“Good afternoon, Master Qui-Gon,” the younglings chorus.

“Ben was showing us how to listen to kyber crystals!” one says.

“This one had a lot of stories!” another adds.

“I’m sure it did. If you center yourself and listen, there is much we can learn from what is around us. And Ben is an excellent teacher,” Qui-Gon adds with a smile.

“Yes, he is!” the younglings agree.

“However, I do believe that it is time for your midday meal back in the crèche,” Qui-Gon says. “So I’m afraid this lesson is over for today.”

The younglings all groan, but they obediently begin to stand up. One by one, they bow to Ben and thank him, some with their voice and others with the Force. Ben hugs them all, because he has a soft spot for the children, but eventually, at long last, the door slides shut and Qui-Gon’s quarters are free of younglings.

For now, anyways. He has no doubt more will turn up tomorrow.

“One day,” Qui-Gon tells Ben, “the Crèche Master is going to follow through on their threat and come after me for constantly kidnapping the younglings.”

They come here of their own free will, Ben points out, setting aside the kyber crystal with a fond pat. So it’s hardly kidnapping.

“And did you report their arrival to the crèche? No? Because the Crèche Master does like to know where all the younglings are. And if they don’t, then they consider this to be youngling-harboring.”

You make me sound like some sort of smuggler.

“Well, you were being chased by pirates when we met.”

Ben rolls his eyes and stands up. Qui-Gon and several other Jedi have taught him how to defend himself, so he no longer fears pirates the way he once did. In fact, he’s developing an excellent skill for piloting in ways that make Qui-Gon slightly awed, but mostly dizzy. Either way, he’ll never be easy prey for pirates again, which is all Qui-Gon wants.

Welcome home, Qui-Gon, Ben says, leaning up to kiss him. I’ve missed you.

Qui-Gon hums. It’s nice to be home again. The Techno Union has no concept of proper tea.

Oh, I see. You only missed the tea.

“Well, good tea is something to be missed,” Qui-Gon teases, and then he laughs when Ben swats at him. “And I missed you too, of course.”

An afterthought, that’s what I am to you?

“I came here right after landing, so technically, you were my first thought,” Qui-Gon says, pulling Ben back to him. Ben pretends to grumble, but he melts into the kiss Qui-Gon bestows upon him, and Qui-Gon can sense that he isn’t truly angry through their bond.

Once Ben had mastered projecting his thoughts and could communicate consistently with the Force, Qui-Gon had offered to break their bond. Ben had already settled into using a datapad or the Force to speak to other Jedi, and in the Temple, no one batted an eye about it, so there hadn’t really been a need for their bond. But Ben had refused, and so their bond still exists, and in fact has only grown stronger over the years.

After a few more kisses, each longer than the last, Ben draws away. I want to show you something.

“If it’s something related to sex, it can wait until after I have a shower,” Qui-Gon says, because Ben’s latest forays in galactic research have taken a distinctively heated turn. The last time Ben had greeted Qui-Gon with those words at the door, it had ended up with them having sex against the wall. Which Qui-Gon had not objected to, and still does not, but he would like to wash off the dust and dirt from his travels first.

I don’t just read about sex, you know.

“The last few volumes you had delivered here say otherwise.”

They were a gift.

“A gift – Who exactly is sending you that kind of gift?”

Ben cheerfully ignores him. He reaches up and cups Qui-Gon’s face, caressing his beard, and opens his mouth, eyes furrowed in concentration.

“I love you,” he says.

The words are surprising. Even more surprising is the fact that only one kyber crystal emerges. Usually, when Ben speaks, one kyber crystal appears for each word. Not this time – this time there is but one crystal, and it is a deep and beautiful green, larger than any of the kyber crystals Qui-Gon has ever seen Ben speak into existence.

“What – ” Qui-Gon starts to say.

“I love you,” Ben repeats, and the next kyber crystal is even greener and larger than the last. “I love you, Qui-Gon Jinn.”

“Ben,” Qui-Gon says, and he has to kiss Ben, he has to. In between kisses, he says, “I love you too, Ben, I love you so much – ”

“You know,” Qui-Gon says, still panting and trying to coax his heartrate to decrease, “I had meant to shower before we engaged in any sexual activities.”

Ben, who is cheerfully nuzzling into his chest and tangling their legs together, just hums. We can shower afterwards. I read this really interesting holobook on shower sex, I think it would be fun to try.

“You and your holobooks,” Qui-Gon says. He turns his head and eyes the green kyber crystals arrayed on the floor around them. “Since when have you been able to do that?”

Not too long. I was trying to focus because it makes the kyber crystals come out in better quality, but I couldn’t quite figure out what to focus on. I went through so many meditation exercises. Ben twists and looks up at him. And then I thought of you, and suddenly it was easy.

“You honor me,” Qui-Gon says quietly. “But you didn’t have to speak, you know. If you never spoke again, you know it wouldn’t bother me.”

I know. But I wanted to. It’s – different. Hearing the words. Seeing the kyber.

“It is different. Now I have to find a bigger box to store them.”

Why do I chose to live with you? Ben grumbles.

“Because you love me,” Qui-Gon says, and the thrill that raises through him as he says the words have no equal. “And because I love you.”

Well. I suppose there is that.

“Although now I have to find a suitable rock to impress you. You’ve set a very high bar for me, dear one.”

All I want is you, Ben tells him. You make me happy.

“And I will strive to do so for all my days,” Qui-Gon says, and he kisses Ben before he scoops him up in his arms. “Which, right now, involves a shower. Because now we’re both filthy, since someone couldn’t wait five more seconds.”

Ben laughs and curls an arm around his neck. There isn’t an ounce of fear in him, and Qui-Gon loves him for it. Does that mean we can try shower sex?

“Anything you want, Ben. Anything you want.”

FINIS