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The wedding of Shmi Skywalker and Cliegg Lars takes place at sunset on Naboo. It is not a grand affair, even though Queen Amidala does offer, for both Cliegg and Shmi are uncomfortable at the idea of excessive splendor. They ask simply for a location, an officiant, and guests, and the Naboo are more than willing to oblige.
Qui-Gon is not expecting an invitation, to say the least, but one finds its way to his comm anyways. And since he is in between missions, he has no reason to refuse.
Shmi is the one to greet him when the transport drops him off. Gone is the air of quiet resignation from her shoulders; now she stands tall and proud, with her hair adorned with flowers and her garments free of the ever-present Tatooine sand. In the Force, she is glowing with happiness that matches her smile, and Qui-Gon finds himself smiling along with her.
“Master Jinn,” she says.
“Lady Skywalker,” Qui-Gon replies, offering her a short bow. “Although you needn’t use my title. I am Qui-Gon to you.”
“Only if I am Shmi to you,” she says, and there – there is the spine of durasteel Qui-Gon had seen in her, the one that had seen her through a life of hardship and cruelty and an unexpected son. He had admired her for it, even though their time together had been short; he is not at all surprised that Cliegg had been enchanted by it enough to ask for marriage.
“As my lady wishes.”
Shmi laughs and swats him on the shoulder, but gently. “I’m no lady, Qui-Gon, and you very well know it.”
“On the contrary,” Qui-Gon says, offering her his elbow as they move into the lodgings that the Naboo have provided, “you are the very definition of a lady. Is that not why Cliegg asked for your hand?”
“You make it sound like his proposal was some grand spectacle.”
“Tatooine does have the perfect backdrop for such things. I still remember the sunsets.” And then, when Shmi blushes very slightly, he adds, “Ah, I see.”
“We almost held the ceremony there,” Shmi says.
Qui-Gon plays along with the change in topic. “But?” he prompts.
“But Ani’s life is here now. And it seemed cruel to exclude his home, especially since we plan to return to the farm once everything is settled. So a ceremony on Naboo seemed a good compromise.”
“I couldn’t have thought of a better compromise myself,” Qui-Gon tells her. And Shmi does not need his vote – he is not family, and they’ve barely spoken since their last communication – but she does smile at him gratefully and pat at his elbow.
Shmi leads him to a room with a large window, two beds, and, because they are on Naboo, a wall entirely covered in plants. It is as beautiful as it is fitting; Qui-Gon reaches out with the Force and is delighted to feel the echoes of a thousand plants rippling back, with some of the blossoms and vines even twitching in his direction.
“I thought this room might suit you,” Shmi says, and Qui-Gon looks up to see her giving him a wry grin. “Anakin said you loved plants.”
“It’s perfect,” Qui-Gon says honestly. “Although I would have been happy with any room.”
Shmi sighs and shakes her head, but it is a fond sigh, half amusement and half exasperation. “Such a Jedi response,” she says. “Your apprentice said much the same thing.”
Qui-Gon’s heart jumps. He takes a deep breath. “Obi-Wan is here?”
Shmi gestures at the beds – and yes, one of them is rumpled. Not messy, but in such a way that it is clear that someone slept in it last night and quickly made the bed up in the morning. There is also a pack tucked along the edge that Qui-Gon recognizes at once as Temple-issue. It could belong to any Jedi, but the elegant knot at the side is definitely Obi-Wan’s handiwork.
After all, Qui-Gon had been the one who taught it to Obi-Wan.
“He’ll be in this room with you. I hope you don’t mind?”
Her question almost makes Qui-Gon laugh. He hasn’t seen Obi-Wan in almost two years, ever since he was finally discharged from the Halls of Healing and Obi-Wan could no longer refuse missions because of him. It’s understandable, for a young Knight is often kept very busy with fieldwork so that they can gain confidence and prove themselves, but understanding why Obi-Wan has been away has not solved the unique heartache of Qui-Gon looking over to share something with Obi-Wan only to remember that he is no longer there.
“I don’t mind at all,” Qui-Gon says, and he hopes his voice remains steady. “But Obi-Wan is no longer my apprentice. He was Knighted after Naboo.”
Shmi just hums. “Well, his first question was when his Master would be arriving,” is all she says. “I’ll see you this evening for the ceremony.”
And, well. Qui-Gon has to sit down after that.
The bed is pleasantly soft under his weight and the sheets are silky smooth. The designs are rich with glorious colors, far more bold than any linens in the Temple, but not overly so. It is the beauty of Naboo, elegant without being ostentatious, and Qui-Gon much prefers its style to that of Serenno.
Of course, he hadn’t been stabbed in the chest on Serenno.
As if on cue, his scar throbs. Qui-Gon winces and puts a hand to his chest, calling on the Force to soothe the sting. The Healers had cleared him for travel, but with a warning not to push himself. A reminder of the fact that he is still not quite where he used to be, and an unpleasant one at that.
He is just debating the merits of a quick meditation versus digging out the medication the Healers had given him when a voice says, “Master?”
Two years he might have been apart from Obi-Wan, bereft of his presence and voice and smile – but Obi-Wan had been at his side for over twelve, and Qui-Gon knows Obi-Wan as intimately as he knows himself. He’d know that voice even at a thousand paces.
So Qui-Gon doesn’t even have to lift his head to say: “Hello, Obi-Wan.”
He does look up, though, because he wants to see Obi-Wan – his face, his smile, his eyes – and promptly gets an armful of happy Knight.
“You’re here!” Obi-Wan says. “I was afraid you weren’t coming.”
“Now why would you think I’d miss out on this?”
“Because you think you’re a stranger and therefore had no reason to be invited,” Obi-Wan answers promptly, because if Qui-Gon knows Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan knows him. “Which couldn’t be further from the truth. You belong here as much as I do.”
It’s a touching sentiment, but Qui-Gon can’t quite help but point out, “You are quite literally the son of the groom.”
Obi-Wan rolls his eyes. The familiar sight brings a rush of fondness for Qui-Gon, for while Obi-Wan had been a dutiful Padawan, he’d also been a rather sassy one once he’d felt comfortable and secure enough in their apprenticeship. Not that Qui-Gon had discouraged it; if anything, he had encouraged it, for while his responsibility as Obi-Wan’s Master had been to teach Obi-Wan, a far more important responsibility had been to teach Obi-Wan to think for himself.
“And if you hadn’t sent Shmi a Tobal lens, she might never have agreed to let Cliegg pursue her and then this whole marriage might not have happened.”
Qui-Gon freezes. He hadn’t involved Obi-Wan in his package to Shmi, relying on Dex to see it through, because Jedi were not supposed to meddle in the affairs of non-Republic planets and he had not wanted Obi-Wan, as a brand new Knight, to be any more marked as a maverick than his apprenticeship to Qui-Gon already had stained him. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Neither do I, for the note was unsigned, but my point still stands,” Obi-Wan says cheerfully.
It makes Qui-Gon want to call him a brat or pull on his Padawan braid. Unfortunately, he can do neither, so he just bites on his tongue and looks more carefully at his former Padawan.
Obi-Wan looks healthy and happy and well. His eyes are sparkling, his skin is tanned, his hair is grown out. His tunics are only a touch darker than Padawan-cream, but his cloak is the standard brown that every Knight wears. His lightsaber hangs at his waist; Qui-Gon absently notes that it is different from his first. But that does not concern him, for as a Jedi grows and matures and changes, so too might their lightsaber design change with them, and Obi-Wan had had to rebuild anyways, since he had lost his during the duel on Naboo.
“Knighted life suits you, I see,” Qui-Gon says. He brushes at that beautiful hair, thumbing at the spot where Obi-Wan’s braid had once rested. “How long did it take you to grow this out?”
“Long enough,” Obi-Wan answers. “Eventually I had to speed it up with the Force, because no one was taking me seriously.”
“Ah, the trials of youth. It took a while for people to trust me when I said I was a Knight too.”
“Yes, but you’re also as tall as a Wookie. People are more likely to defer to you based on height alone. I, meanwhile, am – ”
“ – short enough to not bang his head on every doorway and airlock and escape pod,” Qui-Gon says.
Obi-Wan flashes him a grin. “Well, I suppose there is that benefit.” Then he sobers and settles on his knees, gazing at Qui-Gon with quiet seriousness. “How are you, Master?”
“Oh, the usual,” Qui-Gon says. “I give the Council less fits, though.”
“The day you give the Council no fits at all is the day I’m having you sent to a Mind Healer,” Obi-Wan informs him.
“What makes you think I haven’t seen one already?” Qui-Gon asks wryly.
“Have you?”
And to be fair, Obi-Wan had seen him dodge the Halls of Healing many, many times during their apprenticeship, so the question is not unwarranted. So Qui-Gon only pulls on his hair gently when he replies, “Yes, you minx. The Healers required it for my field recertification.”
Obi-Wan blinks. “You’ve been cleared for missions?”
“Well, with restrictions,” Qui-Gon says. It feels strange to have to explain it to Obi-Wan, and he can’t quite tell whether it’s because he and Obi-Wan used to know everything about each other or because it’s hard to admit that he’s no longer the active Jedi Master he once was. “Mostly I’ve just been assigned to Senate negotiations so far. I suspect Mace is getting revenge on me while he can.”
Fortunately, Obi-Wan seems to accept his explanation. “He usually is the one you’re giving fits to.”
“You’re supposed to be my ally, Padawan, not his.”
“I’m not a Padawan anymore,” Obi-Wan says, radiating smugness.
Qui-Gon can’t help the way his hand instinctively moves to his utility belt. After he’d severed Obi-Wan’s Padawan braid and uttered the ceremonial words, raising Obi-Wan to his feet as a Knight, Obi-Wan had turned around and pressed his braid to Qui-Gon’s hand. There were no official words for it, as each Padawan could choose to give their braid to whomever they like – or no one at all – but Obi-Wan had been solemn and serious when he’d said, This belongs to you, Master. Qui-Gon had not been able to refuse him, and that braid had been Qui-Gon’s constant companion in Obi-Wan’s absence.
“No,” Qui-Gon murmurs, for although Obi-Wan might now be kneeling before him in the exact same pose as the Knighting ceremony, he is undeniably different from the Padawan he had been then. “You are most certainly not.”
But the past is the past, and Qui-Gon had often reminded his Padawan the important of living in the moment. He takes a deep breath.
“And yet you still seem to address me as one,” he adds, and he is relieved that some of the humor he’d tried to inject in his voice comes out.
Obi-Wan flushes. It’s a very pretty pink color, and he leans against Qui-Gon’s hand as though he wishes to hide his face. “Habit,” he says, but he doesn’t seem eager to correct himself.
“Well, in that case,” Qui-Gon says, “if you wouldn’t mind indulging your old Master and filling him in on the mission brief?”
Obi-Wan laughs at that. “This is a wedding, not a mission.”
“But we have roles to play, don’t we? And information we need to keep in mind? And – ”
“And we are here to relax and enjoy ourselves,” Obi-Wan says firmly.
Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow.
“ . . . And you might have a small role to play. If you are amendable, of course.”
Qui-Gon raises his other eyebrow.
“Shmi and Cliegg needs a witness each for the marriage to be recognized on Naboo, but they need different witnesses for the marriage to be recognized by Tatooine – Republic versus non-Republic,” Obi-Wan explains. “Anakin and Owen will be one set, and if you wouldn’t mind standing with Shmi, we will be the other.”
It takes Qui-Gon a moment to process the thought – that not only is he to play a part in the ceremony, but that Shmi herself requested him. He has been part of marriages before, but usually only as a Jedi representative.
Still, he cannot refuse such a request. “I would be honored,” he says. And then, “Owen?”
“My younger brother. He and Anakin are already starting to team up against me,” Obi-Wan says in an aggrieved tone.
It makes Qui-Gon smile. He had known for a long time that Obi-Wan would be his last Padawan, and teaching Obi-Wan had been the best part of his life. Yet he cannot deny that that joy had been tinged with sadness, for while Qui-Gon had Rael, Obi-Wan had no brother or sister Padawans – Xanatos and Feemor were dead, and Qui-Gon never intended to take anyone as Obi-Wan’s successor. Obi-Wan, like all Jedi, took shifts in the crèche, but playing with the younglings could not compare to fellow Padawans in a lineage.
And yet, after today, Obi-Wan will have two younger brothers.
So Qui-Gon merely says, “Think of it as practice for your future apprentice, perhaps.”
“Oh, no,” Obi-Wan says, and his response make no sense until he adds, “Not you too. I am not ready to take a Padawan.”
“The Council?”
Obi-Wan grimaces. “Repeatedly, and growing less and less subtle. They want me to go on Search.”
“Search doesn’t always have to result in a Padawan.”
“Doesn’t stop it from being a frighteningly common occurrence. I’m not ready. I need more experience first.”
“When it comes time for you to take a Padawan, the Force will guide you,” Qui-Gon says. And then, because he can’t not say it, he adds wryly, “Usually not when you want it to, though.”
Obi-Wan peers up at him. “I wasn’t that bad, was I?”
“You were my best Padawan,” Qui-Gon says quietly, but without hesitation. It is the truth, after all – Feemor might have been more attuned to the Living Force, and Xanatos might have been better at blending in at high society functions, but Obi-Wan is indisputably Qui-Gon’s greatest Padawan. In Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon knows, Qui-Gon’s legacy will not only survive, but thrive.
“I tried, at least,” Obi-Wan says, humble to the last. “And am still trying. And if you quote Master Yoda at me, I will steal all of your pillows.”
“Then I shall steal your pack and use that,” Qui-Gon replies. “Anyways. Is there anything else I need to do to prepare?”
Obi-Wan shakes his head. “No. Just stand with Shmi once she comes onto the dais, and then witness it with your signature. I can come and get you when everything is ready?”
“I’m not so frail and feeble as to need a personal escort,” Qui-Gon says in amusement. “When and where?”
“Sunset, and the terrace by the lake,” Obi-Wan says. He pushes himself to his feet. “I need to go help Anakin. He was tinkering with a petal delivery droid when Shmi told me you were here.”
“A what?”
Obi-Wan waves a hand. “Some Naboo tradition about decorating the aisle with flower petals, or something. Except the droid keeps setting the petals on fire instead of dropping them in the prearranged path, so I was trying to help him.”
“ . . . Please do not set the terrace on fire.”
“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan says with another eye roll. “I’ll see you for the ceremony.”
“Still not your Master anymore,” Qui-Gon calls after him, but he isn’t really expecting a response. After all, a decade long habit is hard to break. And besides, even though he hasn’t seen Dooku in a long time, the last time they had met, Qui-Gon had called him “Master” as well, so he can’t really cast judgement. Fortunately, Obi-Wan and Dooku have never met, so Obi-Wan lacks that particular piece of ammunition.
Qui-Gon then turns his attention to his unpacking. His normal Jedi tunics are not exactly unsuitable, but he had dug out his formal ceremonial tunics anyways. They don’t see much use, after all, and it would be nice to make some happy memories in them after all of the dull or tense ceremonies he’s had to attend while in them.
He is in the middle of smoothing out a wrinkle in his formal tunic when he realizes that Obi-Wan is still lingering in the doorway. For anyone else, he would know at once if a being lingered by him, but Obi-Wan lived so closely with him for so long that Qui-Gon instinctively categorizes his presence as safe and normal.
He turns. “Did you need something?”
“I . . . I wanted to ask,” Obi-Wan says, and his voice is uncharacteristically shy. “Your wound. Is it – Are you well, Master?”
Twelve years of closeness; two years of distance. Qui-Gon weighs both, and then carefully says, “I’m better than I was.”
Relief spreads across Obi-Wan’s face. His hand, which Qui-Gon hadn’t even realized had been clenched in a tight fist, relaxes. “I’m glad,” he says quietly.
Then Obi-Wan is gone, as swiftly as he had departed once he’d accepted his first mission.
Qui-Gon watches the empty doorway for a few moments. Then he sighs and drags his pack up to better dig through it. He hadn’t lied to Obi-Wan – he is better than when Obi-Wan had left, for he is now able to walk unassisted and even do some basic katas.
But he is not fully recovered yet, and right now, his scar is aching in the telltale way that means he is due for some medication and some bacta. Normally he would put it off a little longer, but if Obi-Wan senses that he is in pain during the ceremony, he will fuss, and Qui-Gon has no desire to ruin Shmi and Cliegg’s wedding.
So he grits his teeth and digs out the bacta and deliberately does not think about the prospect of standing on his feet for several hours during the ceremony, plus the meal afterwards, and the rounds of dancing that will likely follow.
He can’t let Obi-Wan down, after all.
To Qui-Gon’s relief, although he is not among the first guests, he is most assuredly not late, for the seats are only half full on the terrace. Most of the guests are milling around, either making small talk or perusing the tables of food; Qui-Gon catalogues names and faces on instinct. He also surveys the terrace itself – large but not unmanageable, facing the lake for a beautiful view but also a quick exit, bordered by greenery but also containing several not-so-discreetly posted guards.
“Queen Amidala insisted on providing security.”
Qui-Gon suppresses a smile. Even though they’ve been apart for two years, it seems Obi-Wan can still tell what he is thinking. He turns to his former Padawan and opens his mouth to reply –
And all of the words promptly fall out of his head.
Apparently, just like Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan had also decided not to wear his normal Jedi tunics. Unlike Qui-Gon, however, Obi-Wan is not wearing his ceremonial robes – instead, he is clad in a beautiful set of new garments. They are unmistakably of Naboo make, with shimmering fabric and flowers stitched alongside the sides.
They are also the same color as Obi-Wan’s eyes.
“Master?”
The title brings Qui-Gon sharply back to the moment. He blinks and clears his throat. “Still not your Master anymore,” he says. “Those are . . . new.”
Obi-Wan flushes. He brushes a hand down one flowing sleeve, as if he could make the shimmers disappear alongside any dust. “They were a gift from Queen Amidala. She would not hear of any refusal for, ah, the Hero of Naboo.”
“Well, you did save her planet,” Qui-Gon points out.
“You did indeed,” comes a voice from behind him, and Queen Amidala herself emerges from the group of guests.
“Your Highness,” Qui-Gon greets with a bow. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees – and hears – Obi-Wan echo him.
“Master Jinn. We’re glad you could join Knight Kenobi for this. You were sorely missed at the one year anniversary.”
“I’m afraid that my duties kept me from leaving Coruscant. Perhaps another time,” Qui-Gon says, even though he had little desire to attend the one year anniversary and knows that he will have even less desire to attend any others. He, like other Jedi, does not ignore celebrations or anniversaries, but anything that places him on a pedestal for said celebration is rather uncomfortable and the “Hero of Naboo” is one of the more reserved titles the Naboo have bestowed upon them.
Queen Amidala’s face remains calm and even, but Qui-Gon knows that she understands exactly how noncommittal his words are. Still, she grants him a polite smile and says, “And when that time comes, Naboo will be glad to see you. As we were glad to see Knight Kenobi. It is only right that we recognize our saviors.”
“We were just doing our duty, Your Highness,” Obi-Wan demurs. “But my family and I are grateful that you agreed to let us host the wedding here.”
“Lady Skywalker is a wonderful woman. She deserves no less.” Queen Amidala tilts her head. “As do you.”
Obi-Wan offers her another short bow. “Yes, thank you very much for the clothing.”
“They suit you,” Queen Amidala says, and this time her smile is much more genuine. “You look very well in them, Knight Kenobi.”
“As you say, Your Highness.”
Queen Amidala raises an eyebrow. She turns to Qui-Gon, her gown swirling around her, and asks, “Do you not agree, Master Jinn?”
Qui-Gon swallows hard. “I do,” he says. “Knight Kenobi looks – ” perfect stunning beautiful “ – very well indeed.”
Fortunately, Queen Amidala is satisfied with that response, and further conversation is interrupted by a musical chiming sound. It is three notes, going up the scale and then going down, and it repeats twice. It could almost pass for the call of a bird in the early morning.
“I believe that is my cue,” Queen Amidala says, which is when Qui-Gon realizes that her fine dress and cape and crown are not just due to her royal position. “Master Jedi.”
They bow again as she departs, but this time Qui-Gon’s chest twinges. He covers the grunt of pain with a cough, but Obi-Wan’s head still snaps to him. Those blue-green eyes narrow, and Obi-Wan steps closer to him.
“What was that?”
“Nothing at all. Just old bones.”
“That didn’t feel like old bones,” Obi-Wan says suspiciously. “That felt – sharp. New.”
Qui-Gon bites back a curse. He’d foolishly forgotten how strong their bond is, especially in close proximity. Their bond has always been exceptionally strong, even compared to other Master-Padawan teams who’ve worked together for as long or longer periods of time. They should have severed it when Qui-Gon severed Obi-Wan’s braid, but the Healers had vetoed the idea to avoid adding any stress during Qui-Gon’s recovery, and Qui-Gon hadn’t broken it even after the Healers had finally cleared him. With the lack of Obi-Wan’s physical presence at his side, having the bond and knowing without a doubt that Obi-Wan was, at bare minimum, alive had been a comfort beyond compare.
Unfortunately, Qui-Gon is also badly out of practice shielding it and Obi-Wan has always been so very talented at reading him.
Still, while Qui-Gon might no longer being a match for Obi-Wan on a sparring mat, he still has his mind and his wits and he is not quite so willing to concede on that front without a fight. So he says, “And you are so experienced with the feeling of old bones, then, my young Padawan? New aches do arise, you know. Every year, in fact.”
Obi-Wan closes his mouth, but his expression says volumes. Specifically, it says that Qui-Gon is due for a scolding rather imminently.
Strange, how Qui-Gon finds that he is almost looking forward to it.
Perhaps not yet though. He clears his throat and tilts his head at the dais. “Should we take our places then?”
Obi-Wan gives him another look. However, then the music begins to play, so they really cannot delay another moment. Qui-Gon can see the way Obi-Wan neatly sets aside his concerns and turns his focus to the ceremony, with the Force settling around him as neatly as any fine cape. He straightens his shoulders and lifts his head and, just like that, he is a Jedi Knight.
He is beautiful, and Qui-Gon almost misses his cue to walk after Obi-Wan because he’s too busy drinking in the sight of him.
Somehow, Qui-Gon winds up where he belongs on the dais. He couldn’t tell anyone how, but his boots find their place on Queen Amidala’s left, and years of working together means that he and Obi-Wan, on Queen Amidala’s right, do so in perfect sync. The guests rise at Queen Amidala’s gesture, turning the aisle, and the music changes, from the musical sweet calls of a bird to a more lively and jaunty tune.
At the same moment, a boy comes down the aisle. He’s around Anakin’s age, perhaps a year or two older, and he has a basket filled with some small white objects that he takes fistfuls of and gleefully spreads about the aisle. His hair is a different color, and his eyes too, but his bearing is such that Qui-Gon knows who he is without having to be told.
Owen, my brother, Obi-Wan tells him unnecessarily. Playing the role of rice-bearer for my father.
Rice?
The Naboo believe it heralds good luck and prosperity.
Owen scatters one last handful of rice at Queen Amidala’s feet and then hops on the dais. Obi-Wan greets him with an open hand, and if the way Owen looks up at him with stars in his eyes is any indication, he does not at all object to the idea of an older brother.
Obi-Wan must catch wind of his thoughts. He’s just taken in by all the tall tales of Jedi Knights with laser swords and magic tricks, he says dismissively, but Qui-Gon can sense the undercurrent of affection Obi-Wan holds for Owen.
Well, you do have a laser sword. And to many, the Force does seem to be magic.
Please don’t encourage him, Master.
Qui-Gon hums innocently. I haven’t even actually met the boy, and you think I’ll cause trouble?
Yes.
This time, Qui-Gon has to cough to cover his laugh. Fortunately, the music changes right at that moment, shifting to a gentler, slower tune, and so only Queen Amidala hears it.
Anakin comes down the aisle then, but he carries no basket. Or at least, he does not carry it in his hands. Instead, a small droid flies in front of him, darting to and fro like a dragonfly over water, and it sheds a beautiful rainbow of petals as it swoops.
A petal delivery droid, hmm?
Anakin wanted the pattern to be perfect, Obi-Wan says, twitching his shoulder in a shrug so small only a Jedi would notice. Since the Naboo believe that the petals represent passion and a transition to a new life.
But is the droid supposed to do that? Qui-Gon asks, when the droid jerks violently before dropping a rather large amount of petals.
Obi-Wan does not answer in words, but the way Anakin’s Force-presence spikes with anxiety as he looks at Obi-Wan is answer enough. Qui-Gon sighs and reaches out with the Force to steady the droid, and the Force comes easily at his call. He directs the Force towards the droid, trying to smooth its flight, and is delighted when the droid ceases its erratic shaking.
Too easily, in fact, and Qui-Gon looks over at Obi-Wan to find Obi-Wan looking straight back at him, mirth dancing in his eyes and the Force singing around him.
Twelve years of falling perfectly into sync is a hard habit to break, after all.
So Qui-Gon stabilizes the droid’s flight and Obi-Wan coaxes forth the right amount of petals, and Anakin makes it to the dais without incident. One last burst of petals falls to mix with the rice at Queen Amidala’s feet before the droid beeps merrily and folds its wings shut, falling perfectly into Anakin’s hand.
“Well done, Anakin,” Qui-Gon murmurs under his breath as he helps Anakin to his side, and Anakin gives him a wide grin.
The rest of the ceremony goes by rather swiftly. Shmi and Cliegg had wanted a simple ceremony, and so despite all of the fancy adornments, the wedding does not take very long. There are no long speeches, no overcomplicated rituals, no tedious formalities. Cliegg walks down on the path of rice and Shmi on the path of petals, and then they join hands on the dais and say their vows. Queen Amidala affirms their words before presenting them with rings, which they reverently slide onto each other’s hands.
“I am Queen Amidala of Naboo, and I call for the recognition of the union of Shmi Skywalker and Cliegg Lars.”
“We answer, and we witness, and we recognize,” the guests chorus back.
Queen Amidala smiles and steps back. “Then it is done,” she pronounces. “May your life together be full of prosperity and passion.”
And just like that, Shmi and Cliegg are wed.
After they finish their first meal as a married couple, Cliegg sweeps Shmi onto the middle of the terrace for their first dance. The glow of the setting sun on their faces is beautiful, although it can hardly compare with the joy radiating from both of them. Cliegg looks like he’s won the entire universe in a sabaac game; Shmi looks like she’s found the perfect hidden treasure in a pile of junk. Qui-Gon is sure that the holopics of their dance will be stunning.
Most of the guests manage to let Shmi and Cliegg enjoy their first dance alone, but eventually the lure of being able to get out all their pent-up energy is too much for the young ones, and they start spilling onto the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, Qui-Gon sees one of Queen Amidala’s nieces drag Owen onto the floor; when he turns around, he finds that Anakin has been similarly kidnapped.
Then Queen Amidala stands up, Sio Bibble at her side, and the rest of the guests take that as permission to follow suit.
Qui-Gon does not join them. Even with the Force to suppress his pain, he can’t entirely block out the dull ache from his chest. The Healers had worried that such a long spaceflight might be too taxing on his wound; he is definitely beginning to regret ignoring their words of caution.
So Qui-Gon sits on the edge, letting himself enjoy the lovely music and the breeze from the lake. It’s rare that he gets to enjoy a wedding as just a guest – not an official representative, not a security escort, not a formal witness – and he intends to make the most of it. His next Senate assignment is likely to be far less pleasant.
He is absently reviewing his next briefing, in fact, when Anakin plops down next to him.
“That was wizard!” he says happily. “Thanks for helping me with the droid, Master Qui-Gon.”
“You’re very welcome,” Qui-Gon says, unable to stop the smile at Anakin’s exuberance. “And how have you been doing, Ani?”
Anakin lights up. He’s grown quite a bit, Qui-Gon can see, but not just physically. In the Force, he feels centered and strong, with barely a hint of the anxiety and fear that had made the Council so cautious. It is Shmi’s influence, Qui-Gon knows, for Anakin’s attachment to her is very strong, and when she had been freed, Anakin had been able to set aside a great deal of his worry. It had given him the space to finally think about what he wanted for his future, and although Qui-Gon has the slightest pang of regret that the Order will never see the Jedi Master that Anakin Skywalker might have one day become, he is glad that Anakin is happy and secure on his path with the ExplorCorps.
“I passed my exams and got my piloting license!” Anakin says. “They still won’t let me fly without supervision, but it’s the youngest anyone has ever gotten their license.”
“I believe it,” Qui-Gon says. “And congratulations.”
Anakin beams. “Thanks, Master Qui-Gon. They say in a few years I can begin taking scouting missions. Padmé – I mean, Queen Amidala is allowing us use of one of Naboo’s moons, so we can use it as a launching point and base of operations.”
“It’ll certainly be more convenient than beginning from the Core or MidRim,” Qui-Gon says neutrally. Because it will be more convenient, but he’s pretty sure that that isn’t the only reason why Queen Amidala and the Naboo are letting a Jedi Service Corps have a base so close to them. The Service Corps are not Jedi Knights, of course, but they are still part of the Order and their presence will certainly deter anyone else from trying to attempt a blockade like the Trade Federation did.
Then again, it is Queen Amidala’s responsibility to look out for her people. And the ExplorCorps are hardly going to turn down the opportunity to establish a base that doesn’t require the Senate to get involved for permission.
Anakin chatters on, filling Qui-Gon in on the classes he is taking and the foods he’s tried and the ships he’s gotten to learn about. The Temple had seen to it that Anakin and Shmi were given proper medical care and stipends to get settled before Anakin had chosen to join the ExplorCorps, and what they hadn’t been able to provide, the Naboo had willingly stepped up for. It is therefore not surprising that Anakin now considers Naboo more of a home than Tatooine or Coruscant.
“ – and maybe if the Temple gets its piloting program off the ground, I can be a Corps pilot,” Anakin says. He shoots Qui-Gon a sly grin. “Maybe I can even fly you around for a few missions, Master Qui-Gon.”
“I hate to disappoint you, but most of the time, we take public transports for our missions,” Qui-Gon replies in amusement. “The Temple fleet isn’t quite large enough to fly all the Jedi around to our missions.”
“Yeah, but you’re one of the top negotiators! Wouldn’t it make sense to get you to the place you’re needed the fastest?”
“Haste is not always a good thing.”
“Well, but if people are shooting at each other . . .”
“Then the Council will determine who is nearest who can help. And besides,” Qui-Gon says, leaning over and lowering his voice, “between us, these bones are getting a little old. I’ve been glad of a rest from long and bumpy transports.”
Anakin snickers. “You’re not that old, Master Qui-Gon.”
“I’m old enough, young one.”
“The Force tells me you still have many years ahead of you,” Anakin says, and his tone is teasing, but there is a glint in his eyes that unsettles Qui-Gon. Anakin is perhaps the most powerful Force-sensitive the universe has ever known, after all, and while he is not training as a Jedi, the ExplorCorps are teaching him some things so that he can control the immense power within him. He can touch the Force with ease, now, even if some of the more advanced Jedi teachings have not been passed to him.
Qui-Gon has a feeling that one day, Anakin might not even need those teachings to be able to do things most Jedi can hardly dream of doing.
Still, Qui-Gon had had twelve years with a Padawan closely attuned to the Unifying Force, and it is those years that he falls back upon when he responds, “The future is always in motion, Anakin. Whatever you may have seen might not come to pass. We do not obsess over the future any more than we cling to the past.”
Anakin bows his head obediently. “Yes, Master Qui-Gon. I understand.”
“Still,” Qui-Gon adds lightly, because Anakin is still young, after all, “I look forward to the day you are my pilot. I’ll expect top level service, Captain Skywalker.”
That earns him a bright laugh and a salute. “I’ll be at your service, Master Qui-Gon.”
Qui-Gon smiles at him and ruffles his hair. Anakin puts up with the gesture with good grace before he turns his attention to the droid in his pocket. It is not, Qui-Gon notes, the same droid Anakin had turned into a petal delivery one; this one is smaller. He stops himself from investigating further though, because Anakin is not his Padawan or his ward.
So instead Qui-Gon leans back and surveys the terrace again. Some of the guests have bid farewell to Cliegg and Shmi and retired, for the crowd has thinned out. This means that Qui-Gon has a perfect view of Cliegg and Shmi, wrapped up in each other’s arms and gazing loving into each other’s eyes.
And a perfect view of Queen Amidala. She has set aside the crown and her cape, but her dress still flares out beautifully as she spins in the arms of –
Obi-Wan.
Queen Amidala is dancing with Obi-Wan. And she is smiling, a genuine smile, not the politician’s smile or the royal smile she typically uses. And her body language is relaxed, and she is even laughing. And Obi-Wan – Obi-Wan is smiling back, and moving his head close to her ear to whisper what are probably snatches of dry humor, and he moves with her as easily as he might spar with a partner on a mat.
The Temple does teach Jedi how to dance, for it is a requirement at plenty of functions. Qui-Gon can recall quite a few hours spent watching his Padawan as Obi-Wan practiced various patterns and giving advice or nudging stray limbs back into place. Not to mention that with the Force, Obi-Wan can make even the most unskilled and unseasoned being look like an expert dancer.
But Obi-Wan is not embellishing here. He and Queen Amidala flow together, perfectly in sync and absolutely naturally, and the Force around them speaks of nothing but happiness.
Qui-Gon should be happy for them. Obi-Wan is a caring soul, clever and kind and loyal. And Queen Amidala is – politics aside – a determined person who speaks her mind, values her work for her people, and has great skill in the negotiations in times of peace and war. They would make an excellent match.
Perhaps, Qui-Gon thinks gloomily as he watches them spin about the terrace, they already are, and he’s just been too preoccupied to notice.
“Master Qui-Gon?”
Qui-Gon shakes himself out of his sad musings over what might be a proper congratulatory gift for a former apprentice and a royal queen. “Yes, Anakin?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“I believe you just did,” Qui-Gon says, because he can’t quite shake off his teaching instincts.
If the way Anakin rolls his eyes is any indication, it isn’t the first time he’s heard such a response. Then Anakin asks, “Are you dating my brother?”
At first, Qui-Gon is incredibly confused. Shmi had only borne Anakin during her years in slavery, after all, and he had not heard that she had become pregnant or given birth to any child since she had been freed. Then he remembers that now that Cliegg and Shmi are wed, Anakin actually has two brothers now.
And – well, he’s still confused after that, but he answers honestly, “No, I am not dating Obi-Wan.”
“Oh,” Anakin says. There’s a moment as he processes that answer, although Qui-Gon hasn’t the faintest what response Anakin expected. Then Anakin’s eyes narrow. “Why not?”
Qui-Gon is – or at least, was – one of the Republic’s foremost negotiators, one of the most requested Jedi Masters, and one of the best teachers for diplomatic strategy. And yet he finds his mind goes entirely blank at Anakin’s question.
“Ah,” he says eloquently.
“I thought you cared for him,” Anakin says, and he actually sounds disappointed.
“I do.”
“But then – ”
“But there are multiple ways of caring for someone,” Qui-Gon says. He’s not sure how he ended being the one to explain this to Anakin, but, well. Being a Jedi means being able to think on one’s feet. “I do care for Obi-Wan; he and I were partners for over a decade. However, you can love someone and not date them.”
Too late, he realizes his mistake, but Anakin is already pouncing. “So you love him.”
“With all my heart,” Qui-Gon says quietly, because if the tooka is already out of the airlock, then it’s out.
Anakin’s face creases in confusion. “Then I don’t understand,” he says, sounding for once exactly his age.
“Well – do you care for Padmé?”
Anakin nods.
“And yet, you are not married,” Qui-Gon says. “Just as you might care for your teachers, and your agemates in the Corps, and your friends here on Naboo. To love without needing to possess – that is the most important lesson for any being. We love, but we accept that one day our loved ones might leave us. We shall mourn them and we shall miss them and we shall honor their memory, but we will not cling to them. That would be attachment, and down that path lies danger.”
“Because fear of loss . . . might lead to the dark side?”
“Exactly so.”
“But,” Anakin says, “Obi-Wan hasn’t left you. He’s right over there.”
Regret wells up in Qui-Gon’s stomach; he tastes it, breathes in the Force, and then breathes it out. If Obi-Wan is happy with Queen Amidala, then Qui-Gon will be happy for them. Obi-Wan deserves some happiness after the life he has had.
“Exactly so, Anakin,” Qui-Gon murmurs. “He is over there.”
And yet, when he looks up, Obi-Wan is not, in fact, over there. Cliegg and Shmi are still doing their slow turning, lost to each other, along with a few other guests, but Obi-Wan and Queen Amidala have both disappeared. The regret returns twofold, and this time Qui-Gon has a much harder time swallowing it down. He reaches for the Force –
“Obi-Wan! Padmé!” Anakin exclaims happily.
Qui-Gon does not jump when Obi-Wan and Queen Amidala appear behind Anakin. However, it is entirely due to the fact that he feels far too old to jump rather than any lack of startlement.
“Hello, Ani,” Queen Amidala says, and her smile is wide and bright as she looks at Anakin. “Your droid worked perfectly.”
“Welllll,” Anakin says. “Mostly. And with some help from Obi-Wan.”
“You did all the work, I just helped hand over some tools and make some minor tweaks,” Obi-Wan demurs. He looks at Qui-Gon. “Are you well, Master? I haven’t seen you dance even once.”
Anakin jumps in before Qui-Gon can respond. “No one’s asked him yet. Will you ask him, Obi-Wan?” he says, eyes enormous and innocent. “It would be a shame if Master Qui-Gon misses out on my parents’ wedding.”
“It’s getting rather late,” Qui-Gon says quickly. “You’ve been working very hard, Obi-Wan, I would not want to burden you. And I’ve enjoyed the ceremony very well as is.”
Unfortunately, Obi-Wan doesn’t let him get away that easily. “I can last for one more dance,” he says, holding out a hand. “May I have this dance, Master?”
“Still not your Master,” Qui-Gon tells him, but he smiles and takes Obi-Wan’s hand anyways.
The music shifts as they step onto the terrace. It has been changing all evening, moving from fast paced beats to slower and gentler tunes, and now it transitions into what Qui-Gon instantly recognizes is a slow Alderaanian waltz. The rhythm is meant to mimic the slow lapping of waves, with flowing, gentle maneuvers to simulate the rise and fall of the water. All in all, probably what the Healers would consider a perfect dance for someone like him.
If he hadn’t just endured a long spaceflight and then standing on his feet for hours during the ceremony, perhaps.
Not that he intends to Obi-Wan know. Doing so much might save him from a very sore chest tomorrow, but it will earn him a very irate lecture, and right now, the last thing Qui-Gon wants is Obi-Wan scolding him all night long.
So Qui-Gon puts a hand on Obi-Wan’s waist and another on his shoulder and steps into the first pattern of the dance. Obi-Wan falls into perfect step with him, as easily as he used to fall in line with Qui-Gon during their morning meditation katas, and for a moment, all is well in the universe.
Until: “You didn’t answer me.”
“Hmm?”
“It’s been a long ceremony. And I know you had a long flight here. Do you need to rest, Master?”
“As you said, I can last for one more dance,” Qui-Gon lies, because there is nothing right now that could take him from holding Obi-Wan in his arms. “Unless you’ve forgotten this dance and intend to walk all over my feet.”
“Step on the feet of the great Qui-Gon Jinn? I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Yes, you would, you minx,” Qui-Gon says, spinning Obi-Wan out in a twirl. “And did that one time.”
Obi-Wan spins himself back close to Qui-Gon. “That was not my fault,” he protests, returning his hand to Qui-Gon’s shoulder. “My cover for that mission was someone who was out of place and unsure of what was happening. How else was I to be appealing bait?”
“I might have bought the bait excuse the first time, and maybe even the second. But the sixth? I don’t think so.”
“I was also supposed to pretend to be drunk.”
“Not that drunk,” Qui-Gon says, but he smiles anyways, because Obi-Wan’s interpretation of a “drunk teenager” had been very funny.
“But I successfully infiltrated the ring, so clearly, my impression was convincing,” Obi-Wan says.
“And yet we have never been given that kind of cover again.”
“Because you blew up the hideout, Master. I think Master Windu decided it wasn’t worth the trouble if you were just going to solve things explosively even after we were explicitly instructed to simply gather information.”
Qui-Gon hums innocently. “It’s not my fault that they had so much fuel around. Nor my fault that they made poor choices about what to store it next to.”
“I don’t think Master Windu would buy that excuse any more today than he bought it back then,” Obi-Wan informs him.
“Good thing he doesn’t have to. I’m sure you are capable of thinking up even better mission reports now. You’ve certainly had plenty of practice.”
“Too much,” Obi-Wan mutters, but despite his dark tone, his eyes are full of mirth.
One day, Qui-Gon is going to have to actually read what Obi-Wan wrote in all of their reports. One day.
For now, he sends Obi-Wan through another gentle spin. The motion brings them further onto the terrace, and they pass by Cliegg and Shmi, and also Anakin and Queen Amidala. Anakin doesn’t quite know all the steps, but he seems to be enjoying himself, and Queen Amidala seems happy to chat to him as they slowly spin in place.
“Anakin seems very happy here,” Qui-Gon comments.
“Yes, he’s really settled into the ExplorCorps. And the lakes – every time I turn around, he’s swimming in another pond or pool or lake,” Obi-Wan says dryly. “But Padmé has been very gracious to give the ExplorCorps permission to utilize one of Naboo’s moons. It cuts down the travel time significantly when we can launch from Naboo.”
“Hmm. You seem happy here too.”
“It’s very peaceful here,” Obi-Wan says. “Especially now that the rebuilding is complete. Meditating in the garden is a very . . . serene experience.”
“Finally learning to be mindful of the Living Force?”
“Finally being able to meditate without being quizzed or lectured or made to balance stones on my feet, more like,” Obi-Wan retorts.
Qui-Gon adopts a neutral expression. “It was an exercise to teach you to find your inner balance and maintain it.”
“I still think it was so you could see me fall over multiple times before I’d even had breakfast.”
“If I wanted to see you fall over, Obi-Wan, all I would have had to do is assign you to help the younglings for kata practice.”
“You used to make me meditate with the stones and help with youngling practice,” Obi-Wan points out.
“Did I? I seem to have forgotten such a thing. Must be my age showing.”
Obi-Wan gives him a dirty look. “Your memory is good enough to remember every single word of every treaty you’ve ever negotiated, Master.”
“Now, now. I do seem to remember teaching you that particular skill.”
Obi-Wan sighs. “I give up,” he says, but his tone is fond and when they move into the next pattern, Obi-Wan settles even more closely to him, so that their chests brush with each movement. So close, in fact, that the only reason that their legs do not clash is that they know each other well enough to flow around each other.
“I do mean it, you know,” Qui-Gon says after a moment. “You seem happy, Obi-Wan. I’m glad to see it.”
“It’s nice to be around family. And friends. Do you know, Padmé had quite a few good suggestions for this ceremony? It made the planning so much easier.”
That sour regret rises up in Qui-Gon again. He pushes it down, but this time it does not settle so easily. He bites his tongue and tries again – and this time, his chest throbs as angrily as if someone had hit it.
Not the regret, then. Just his wound.
Unfortunately, at such close quarters, it’s impossible to hide anything from Obi-Wan. Those beautiful eyes narrow and Obi-Wan slows.
“You’re in pain,” he says, and it is not a question.
“Just a twinge. It happens from time to time.”
“That is more than a twinge.”
“It’ll settle down,” Qui-Gon assures him, which is when his body decides to make a liar of him and stage a revolt.
A minute later sees Qui-Gon bent over a nearby chair, trying to breathe through the waves of pain as his chest firmly announces that it has had enough of him being upright and moving around. He can vaguely sense Obi-Wan, lingering nearby, but it takes all of Qui-Gon’s concentration to keep his food in his stomach, so he doesn’t spare much of a thought to it.
Eventually, the pain eases. Qui-Gon slowly eases himself upright and gulps in deep breaths of air, trying to coax his heartbeat back to somewhat of a normal rhythm.
“See?” he pants, turning to Obi-Wan. “I’m fine.”
This time, the look Obi-Wan sends him is downright murderous. “You won’t be fine when I’m through with you,” he mutters, seizing Qui-Gon’s arm. “We’re retiring for the night. You’re done.”
“Force save me from bossy Padawans,” Qui-Gon sighs.
“Now.”
“Bed,” Obi-Wan says the second they get into their room.
“I’m fine – ”
“Bed,” he snaps. “And take your tunics off.”
“The pain is – ”
Obi-Wan whirls on him. The Force is raging like a storm around him, a match for the anger sparking in his eyes. He levels a finger at Qui-Gon. “Bed, sit. Tunics, off,” he growls, in a tone that sounds like he’s half a second away from using the Force to make Qui-Gon obey.
Qui-Gon sits. And starts working at his tunics, because he really doesn’t want to be on the receiving end of a pissed-off-flavored Obi-Wan Kenobi Force suggestion right now.
After watching him a few moments, as if wanting to make sure that Qui-Gon is obeying, Obi-Wan nods in satisfaction. He then stoops and starts digging through Qui-Gon’s pack as if it belongs to him. Which, to be fair, they’ve often shared gear and packs on missions, and Obi-Wan knows Qui-Gon well enough to know exactly how he likes to arrange his things. After all, it’s a longstanding Master tradition to make one’s Padawan pack their gear.
A triumphant sound marks the moment Obi-Wan locates the bacta. He digs it out and puts the pack back on the floor, turning to Qui-Gon.
Qui-Gon can see the exact moment Obi-Wan’s eyes land on his scar.
Obi-Wan freezes. “That’s . . . a lot of scar tissue,” he says, and all of the anger has left his voice, leaving only anxiety behind.
Qui-Gon blows out a deep breath. He’s long since come to terms with the gnarled mass on his chest. On good days, he can even convince himself that it’s a good thing, since it’s proof that he survived a wound that would have killed most other beings, and therefore that he can continue to be strong and do things others think impossible.
On not so good days . . . well. On those days, Qui-Gon carefully avoids looking at his chest.
“Force-healing and bacta could only do so much. Sometimes the skin would tear during therapy. And tear again a week later when I tried again,” Qui-Gon says. He tries to aim for wry, but he’s pretty sure he’s failing miserably. “Not to mention that the wound was aggravated again after my replacement surgeries.”
“But you’re healed now, right? You said it was better. You said you were better.”
Qui-Gon suppresses a smile at the accusatory tone. “And I am better,” he replies. “I couldn’t even sit up unassisted when you last saw me, remember?”
“I can still sense pain.”
“Pain is an old friend. And it will be with me all my days.” When Obi-Wan’s face crumples in distress, Qui-Gon reaches out and takes his hand. He can’t stand to see Obi-Wan so upset. “Peace, Obi-Wan. I am alive when I almost certainly should have died. I can walk and dance and meditate when I should, by all rights, be confined to a bed permanently. A little pain is nothing.”
Obi-Wan bristles. “It is not nothing,” he says, opening the tin of bacta. “Not when it’s affecting your life.”
“But I still have a life,” Qui-Gon reminds him. “And that is all thanks to you.”
Obi-Wan brushes aside the statement, as he always does. “I should have been faster.”
“No one could have been faster. And you saved my life. That is all that matters.”
“But – ”
“That is all that matters, Padawan,” Qui-Gon says, and this time he uses his sternest teaching voice. He has rarely needed to use it around Obi-Wan, for Obi-Wan had been an obedient student, proper and unwilling to break rules, but there are times it has come in handy.
Like now.
Obi-Wan bows his head. It is not acceptance, Qui-Gon knows, but at least he will cease lambasting himself, and right now that is enough.
He kneels before Qui-Gon, fingers shimmering with bacta, and his voice is quiet and respectful when he asks, “May I, Master?”
“You may.”
It is the first time that anyone has touched Qui-Gon’s wound since the Healers declared that they had done all they could. Obi-Wan’s touch is light and gentle, as professional and skilled as any Healer – and yet it is a galaxy of difference to be touched by Obi-Wan, who knows him so well and cares so deeply. He takes absolute care as he spreads the bacta around, and Qui-Gon can feel the warmth of Force-healing as Obi-Wan encourages the bacta to sink in and do its work. Qui-Gon does not like being put on a pedestal or being worshipped, but the only way he can describe Obi-Wan’s touch is reverent.
It is blissful.
“Master?”
Qui-Gon looks at Obi-Wan and realizes that somewhere in the last few moments, he has closed his eyes. He does not remember doing so. He clears his throat. “Yes?”
“You looked like you were having a very serious discussion with Anakin when I came over. What was he asking you about?”
It’s probably a combination of exhaustion and relaxation that causes Qui-Gon to speak before he thinks. Either way, he opens his mouth and the words just fall out: “Oh. He asked me if I was dating you.”
Obi-Wan’s fingers stutter and he freezes.
Which is when Qui-Gon realizes what he’s just said.
He coughs. “It was just related to a discussion on attachment,” he says hurriedly. “You know Anakin still has much to learn about our ways.”
“A discussion on attachment,” Obi-Wan says slowly. “And his question was about . . . me?”
“He was struggling with the idea of caring for someone without clinging to them.” And then, when Obi-Wan still looks a tad confused, Qui-Gon elaborates, “Of – Of loving someone but not possessing them.”
Those beautiful blue-green eyes move from Qui-Gon’s chest to his face. Softly, so softly that Qui-Gon has to strain to hear it, Obi-Wan says, “You love me?”
His tone is full of confusion and astonishment but most of all surprise. As if he thinks such a thing is beyond belief. As if he thinks Qui-Gon could never. As if he thinks it’s impossible.
And, well. Qui-Gon can’t allow that.
He reaches out and cups Obi-Wan’s cheek. He caresses that soft skin. “My Obi-Wan,” he says, looking into those beautiful eyes, the eyes that haunt his days and nights, his dreams and nightmares, his thoughts and his feelings. “Dear one. How could I not?”
“Oh,” Obi-Wan says, and his tone is still so full of surprise. “But I – ”
Qui-Gon repeats, “How could I not?” Because there is nothing, nothing, that would stop him from loving Obi-Wan. How could he not love his silver-tongued diplomat, his clever warrior, his passionate spitfire? How could he not loving the being who has come to mean the most to him in all the universe?
Obi-Wan’s eyes flicker. He must be sensing some of Qui-Gon’s thoughts; their bond is so strong that even Qui-Gon’s best shields can’t do much in such close proximity. Not that Qui-Gon finds that he cares much now. He takes a deep breath and lets those shields fall away, like fog burnt away by the morning sun.
“Oh,” Obi-Wan says, and the surprise has given way to wonder. “You love me.”
“How could I not?”
Qui-Gon could not say who moved first. Whether Obi-Wan leaned up first, or Qui-Gon bowed his head first. In the end it does not matter – Obi-Wan straightens and leans up, and Qui-Gon bends and leans down, and they meet in the middle.
Somehow, even though they’ve never done it before, they are in perfect sync when they meet in the middle.
They kiss, and when Obi-Wan draws back, Qui-Gon chases him. He has to kiss him again, and longer. And again, even longer, until they’re both panting for breath, Obi-Wan’s cheeks filled with a petal-pink blush and his eyes sparkling in the moonlight.
I love you, Qui-Gon thinks helplessly.
Obi-Wan’s flush deepens. He makes a soft sound and nudges Qui-Gon’s nose with his own. I love you.
Something that Qui-Gon hadn’t even realized was tight and gnarled in his chest loosens, and takes a deep breath, and spreads his wings. He is able to breathe with it, he finds, and suddenly all of the aches in his bones and head and chest cease to exist.
But when Qui-Gon goes to pull Obi-Wan closer, Obi-Wan resists.
“No,” he says, and then, when he catches sight of Qui-Gon’s face, he amends, “not yet. I haven’t finished with your bacta.”
“To hell with the bacta,” Qui-Gon says, and reels him up onto the bed to kiss him senseless.
An insistent rapping wakes Qui-Gon the next morning. For a moment he is confused – his Temple quarters have a chime, so no knocking is needed, and the Coruscant sun casts a different pattern on his walls when it rises, and there is a warm weight against his side. But then his memories begin to assert themselves, and he remembers that he isn’t in the Temple on Coruscant, he is in a guest room on Naboo and the warm weight at his side is Obi-Wan, his hair rumpled and crease marks on his cheeks and his bare skin glowing softly under the sunlight.
Bare skin that he is covering with tunics.
Qui-Gon leans up on an elbow and wraps an arm around Obi-Wan’s waist. For all that Obi-Wan is stronger than his lean frame might suggest, Qui-Gon is still heavy enough to pull him down easily with his weight alone.
“Hey!” Obi-Wan protests, but his eyes are bright with amusement when he turns in Qui-Gon’s grip. “The door, Qui-Gon, I need to answer it – ”
“Let them knock,” Qui-Gon yawns. “They’ll get the idea when we don’t answer. We’re on vacation, aren’t we?”
“Yes, but it’s rude not to answer – ”
Qui-Gon looks at Obi-Wan – specifically, at the marks Qui-Gon’s teeth left on his shoulders, deliciously bared by the tunic slipping down – and raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think you’re in a proper state to answer.”
That earns him a playful swat. “And whose fault is that?” Obi-Wan says. He hikes the tunic back into place, much to Qui-Gon’s disappointment. “Thank the stars that my spare tunics have high collars.”
“Is that so?” Qui-Gon nibbles at a bare patch of skin. “I suppose that means I didn’t do enough, then. My mistake. Shall I remedy it now?”
“Qui-Gon – no, Qui-Gon, stop – ” Obi-Wan says, but he is laughing and his hands seem confused about whether to push Qui-Gon away or pull him closer, and he bares his throat willingly for Qui-Gon’s kisses.
Qui-Gon is in the middle of sucking a new bruise onto Obi-Wan’s neck, in fact, when their door-knocker decides to let themselves in.
“Ah hah!” comes a loud exclamation.
Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan startle apart. Qui-Gon cranes his head to find Anakin in their doorway, triumph written all over his face. Anakin levels a finger at them as Obi-Wan curses and frantically tries to pull his tunic up higher.
“So you are dating!” Anakin says.
“Well – ” Obi-Wan stammers.
“We – ” Qui-Gon says, and then he realizes he has no idea what he means to follow that word with.
Not that it seems to matter with Anakin. Anakin cackles and claps his hands. “I knew it!” he crows. “I’ll tell Mom and Dad that you won’t be out until lunch, then. Bye!”
And just like that, Anakin is gone as swiftly as he had arrived, the door sliding shut silently behind him.
In a faint voice, Obi-Wan says, “I thought I locked our door last night.”
“Hmm. We may have been distracted.”
“And whose fault is that?” Obi-Wan says with a snort. He sits upright, pulling away from Qui-Gon, and fusses at their blankets. “You should have retired much earlier and gone easier on your chest.”
“Anakin isn’t going to barge back in,” Qui-Gon says in amusement. “There’s no need to make sure we’re properly covered.”
“Thank the stars we were. Can you imagine? How would I explain that to my father? Wait. To my father and my mother. Sithspawn, Qui-Gon, I have a father and a mother now.”
“You do indeed,” Qui-Gon says. Then he reaches out and reels Obi-Wan back against his chest. “But do you know what you also have?”
“An increasing urge to shove you onto the floor?”
“My tunic,” Qui-Gon murmurs in his ear. He bestows a gentle kiss to the soft skin behind Obi-Wan’s ear, and is delighted that he can now see the resulting shiver in the full light of day. “You put on my tunic, my love.”
Obi-Wan flushes. “It was the closest, I – I was just trying to be decent. Which you were hampering me from being!”
“Well,” Qui-Gon says, “I think decency is out of reach for both of us now. And . . .”
“And what?”
“And if Anakin is going to make sure that everyone is not expecting us until lunch at the earliest, then I think we should take care not to . . . disappoint them.”
“Qui-Gon,” Obi-Wan says in exasperation. And then, when Qui-Gon tries to kiss him again, he wriggles free, slippery as a Naboo eel. “Qui-Gon – come on – at least let me finish putting bacta on your chest – Qui-Gon – ”
“My chest is fine. I don’t even feel any pain – and you know I’m telling the truth. Besides, I can think of better ways to pass the time,” Qui-Gon says between kisses.
“You,” Obi-Wan declares, “are a menace.”
But he lets Qui-Gon kiss him, and lets Qui-Gon peel away his tunic, and lets Qui-Gon pull him back underneath the covers, so Qui-Gon counts it as a victory. And if he kisses each and every scar Obi-Wan has gained in the two years they’ve been apart, well. It’s only fair, given that Obi-Wan kisses every inch of his scar.
I love you, Qui-Gon tells him, because he can’t not say it.
Obi-Wan plants another soft kiss on his chest, right on the line where skin becomes scar tissue. I love you too.
FINIS