Chapter Text
Obi-Wan had known, when he’d walked to meet Anakin for their duel onboard the Death Star, that he was walking to his death.
He had died at peace, content to become one with the Force, comforted with the knowledge that Luke and Leia had been able to escape, his duty fulfilled.
So he had been surprised when, instead of passing into sweet oblivion, he found himself returning as a Force ghost.
But seeing Yoda again, being able to guide Luke even from beyond, getting to see Anakin again, his padawan once more in the Light, his ghost exactly the way Obi-Wan had remembered him – it had been worth having his rest delayed.
And then, as Luke turned towards the celebrations and walked away from the ghosts from his past, the Death Star destroyed once and for all, Obi-Wan felt himself finally, properly relax.
He had done his job.
So when he felt the Force pull at him, Obi-Wan had gone willingly, looking forward to finally being able to rest.
And then he emerged into blaster fire, his feet kicking up dust as he stumbled, the Force wrapping around him in a comforting embrace even as another facet of it screamed and wailed at the death surrounding him, reminding Obi-Wan of the worst days of the Clone Wars, of the destruction of Alderaan, of everything he had hoped to have left behind.
The thought had him stumble again, bile rising up his throat, only years of navigating the chaos of the Clone Wars allowing him to twist out of the way of another blaster bolt, hearing it whizz by his ear but not paying it any more heed beyond that, until-
“This is not the place for distraction, padawan!”
Obi-Wan froze.
It couldn’t be…
Frozen in his disbelief, Obi-Wan wasn’t sure how long he simply stood and stared sightlessly ahead, fighting back his panic, not daring to turn and face where the voice had come from for fear of what – and who – he would see.
Finally, however, his luck ran out, and a stray blaster shot clipped his shoulder, making Obi-Wan hiss in startled pain and snap out of his head, battle-calm temporarily displacing his panic.
He knew where he was. He knew who had called out to him. He had a suspicion as to when he was, too.
Which meant that he knew where they needed to go.
Obi-Wan lit his lightsabre, threw up his mental shields as high as they would go, wrangled his Force signature as far behind them as he could, and set about carving a path, forging ahead of the members of the Young who had led him to the prison, the first time around.
When he finally stilled, there were no more blaster bolts, and Obi-Wan took a sharp turn and hid behind one of the giant pillars of the prison, crouching between the pillar and a felled boulder, feeling another (familiar-so missed-impossible-!) presence settle next to him and doing his best to avoid looking at his old Master.
“How is your shoulder, padawan?” Qui-Gon asked, making Obi-Wan’s self-assigned mission of avoiding interaction significantly more difficult.
Qui-Gon’s question brought Obi-Wan short, though, and he glanced at the man, frowning, grateful his shields held up when he found Qui-Gon already looking back at him, concern clear in his eyes now that Obi-Wan knew what to look for.
“My shoulder?” he echoed, not following, and glanced down. “I- oh.”
There was a blaster wound in his shoulder, the fabric around it charred, the flesh an angry red. When Obi-Wan focused on it, he could feel the pulsing pain of the wound, but in the grand scheme of things, it was barely a scratch compared to what he had become used to during the Clone Wars, or what living on Tattooine for two decades had taught him to withstand.
“Functional.” He replied when he realised that he had yet to answer the question Qui-Gon had asked him. He could see his Master frowning at him from the corner of his eye, doubtless concerned by Obi-Wan’s seeming indifference at his injury, so he shifted gears and asked a question of his own to hopefully distract Qui-Gon enough that the man wouldn’t think too hard about Obi-Wan’s unexpectedly high pain tolerance. “Can you feel Master Tahl?”
Much like he’d expected, the mention of Master Tahl drew Qui-Gon’s focus away from Obi-Wan and onto the reason for their presence on Melida/Daan like little else.
Obi-Wan was gratified that it took them far less time to find Tahl than his fuzzy memories of their first attempt implied. When they found her, Master Tahl was still very obviously in a poor state, the scar that had marred her face already in place, but only her right eye was closed and crusted over with dry blood, her left still open and seeing.
“…Qui-Gon?” the woman breathed, and Obi-Wan turned away, murmuring something about keeping watch, but more than anything else, not wanting to bear witness to the obvious longing on Master Tahl’s face.
He knew that look. He’d seen it in the mirror often enough.
A sudden pain lanced through his head, the dull, throbbing sort that usually signalled that he’d overexerted himself in the Force, but Obi-Wan had a suspicion as to what was behind this particular headache.
The same thing that had motivated him to split from Qui-Gon the first time. Felt all the more keenly now that he had four more decades of familiarity with the Force than he had had when he had been truly thirteen.
An unsubtle reminder that the Force on Melida/Daan had yet to stop screaming.
And Obi-Wan knew that he could do something about it.
“Come, padawan.” Qui-Gon called, and when Obi-Wan glanced at him, he found the man carrying Master Tahl bridal-style, the other Master’s arms looped around Qui-Gon’s shoulders, lightsabre clutched tightly in her left hand even though Obi-Wan could see that she was barely clinging to consciousness. “We’re leaving.”
Obi-Wan took a breath. Squared his shoulders. Released it.
It was now or never.
“No, Master.”
Qui-Gon halted in his tracks, having already started walking away, back the way he and Obi-Wan had come, and when he glanced over his shoulder, there was a warning in his eyes, a wordless opportunity for Obi-Wan to pretend he hadn’t said anything. “Excuse me?”
An opportunity Obi-Wan pretended he hadn’t seen.
“I would like to stay.” He informed his old Master, confident in himself and his decision in a way he hadn’t been the first time around. “I can help the Young, negotiate a ceasefire, if not an outright peace.”
Qui-Gon’s answering frown was sharp, but Master Tahl’s expression shifted into a mix of pride and resignation, as if she could see something in Obi-Wan’s face that his own Master refused to.
“You are a padawan, not a politician.” Qui-Gon reminded him flatly, his worry for Master Tahl displacing his usual patience. “Come, Obi-Wan. Master Tahl needs urgent medical assistance!”
Obi-Wan took a steady breath and held it for a long second, then released it with a shake of his head.
“These children are dying, Master.” He told Qui-Gon quietly, reminding him of the very thing Master Tahl had likely been sent to Melida/Daan for in the first place. “Can you not hear the Force screaming?”
Qui-Gon’s expression shuttered, but there was regret in his eyes when he said; “Do not make me leave you here, padawan.”
Obi-Wan tried for a smile, though he wasn’t certain how successful he was at managing the expression.
“I don’t mind if you leave. As long as-” he nearly bit through his tongue in his haste to keep the childish request behind his teeth. But then, he remembered that he was, for all intents and purposes, thirteen once again, a child in anyone’s eyes, even those of the Jedi. So maybe, he could afford himself this one admission of weakness.
“I don’t mind if you leave,” he repeated, forcing himself to meet Qui-Gon’s frustrated gaze. “As long as you come back.”
A flash of pain went through Qui-Gon’s face, but then his eyes hardened, his voice the sharpest it had ever been when addressing Obi-Wan. “You are walking away from the Jedi.”
Obi-Wan wondered whether this was how Anakin had sometimes felt, back when he had been Obi-Wan’s padawan, trying – mostly fruitlessly – to convince Obi-Wan to go chasing ‘disturbances in the Force’ or exploring old Sith temples.
This utter certainty that he was in the right, because how could he not be, when it was the will of the Force?
“No.” Obi-Wan denied, shaking his head once more, though he didn’t allow himself to drop eye-contact. He needed Qui-Gon to take him seriously, to understand that Obi-Wan wasn’t prepared to budge, but he wasn’t turning his back on the Order. More like the opposite. “I am fulfilling my duty as a Jedi, serving to balance the Force and protect peace.”
Master Tahl sighed then, quiet, but the sound still echoed in the silence that had fallen between Master and Padawan, and Obi-Wan tried for a final, encouraging smile.
“Go, Master. Come back for me when you’re able.”
And, without much further ado, Qui-Gon walked away.
It took a week for Obi-Wan to get introduced to Cerasi.
It took another week to gain her trust.
It took another to be able to convince both her and Nield that the end to the conflict lay not in continued fighting, but open conversation.
And through it all, all day, every day, Obi-Wan fought and bled and tried to kill as few as possible and save as many as he could. He tried not to keep count, but his mind had always enjoyed taunting him with his failures, and that hadn’t changed even after a supposed trip back in time.
Once Cerasi and Nield were both so exhausted of the fighting that any means of ending it sounded appealing, Obi-Wan reached out and organised a meeting between the leaders of the Melida and the Daan, and the representatives of the Young.
The arranging took three days. The actual negotiations a fortnight.
Obi-Wan felt stretched thin, exhausted beyond belief, dirty and littered with injuries both old and new, his eyes dull even in victory, his senses dialled up to eleven, focused as he had been since the negotiations had begun on monitoring their surroundings for any assassins who may try to take Cerasi out.
Two weeks of hyper-vigilance. Two weeks of stretching himself out in the Force, trying to remember how things had gone the first time, trying to reconcile how much he had already changed.
Knowing that, no matter his exhaustion, there was one more thing he had to change.
“Nield,” Obi-Wan called, rising from the chair he’d crumpled into as soon as the ceasefire and the treaty renaming Melida/Daan as Melidaan was signed, drawing the other boy’s sharp eyes onto himself, feeling that gaze dig into him like daggers, “walk with me?”
The boy wasn’t Force-sensitive. He was determined, sly, and dextrous, but pursuits of the mind had always been Cerasi’s forte.
Once they were alone, the mind-trick sank in easily, the Force-suggestion taking root without much resistance, Nield’s mind accepting it and folding around it as if it had always been there.
“You will leave the Young and forget about revenge.” Obi-Wan murmured, wishing that he felt more regret at what he was doing, but the War and years following Order 66 had turned him into a pragmatist.
“I will leave the Young and forget about revenge.” Nield echoed dutifully, his gaze growing hazy, his mind opening to Obi-Wan’s manipulations like a flower.
“You will focus on living well.” Obi-Wan instructed, willing to grant his old adversary this kindness and waiting for the boy to repeat his fate. Then, just to avoid any potential risks- “You will never seek Cerasi again.”
[an hour later, when he watched Cerasi burst into tears as she hugged Nield goodbye, Obi-Wan wished he could say he felt remorse.]
A month and a half after Qui-Gon had left, the fighting on Melidaan was officially over.
Two months after, and Obi-Wan was an active part of the rebuilding and reconstruction efforts, using the Force to lift the biggest pieces of debris that would’ve otherwise taken whole teams entire days to shift.
Two and a half months in, Obi-Wan was in a meeting with the makeshift board of advisors Cerasi had picked out from the Melida and Daan factions, butting in with suggestions every once in a while about how best to put the planet back on its feet, the adults in the room listening intently, no one daring to question his judgement anymore.
[“You’re an incredible warrior, Ben.” Cerasi had said when he’d asked her, once, off-handedly, what he had done to deserve this unexpected respect. But what followed had chilled him to the bone. “But it is your mind they are truly frightened of.”]
Two months and three weeks since Qui-Gon’s departure, Obi-Wan managed to send a message to the Temple and update them as much as he dared on the situation on the newly-renamed Melidaan.
Three months and four days since Qui-Gon had left him, Master Tahl herself came down the ramp of a Temple ship, greeting Obi-Wan with open arms and a smile that could rival the twin suns of Tattooine with its brightness. Her right eye was a familiar milky-white, but her left glittered at Obi-Wan playfully, though it softened when Obi-Wan just stared at her uncomprehendingly.
“Come, padawan.” She murmured as he neared, feeling Cerasi’s gaze on his back. “It’s time to go home.”
And as Obi-Wan fell into her arms, letting himself seek the comfort he had gone so long without, he also tried to Not Think about the fact that he couldn’t feel Qui-Gon anywhere on the ship. Yet, after he bid the Young farewell, left Cerasi his personal comm details, and left the atmosphere of Melidaan behind, it became undeniable:
Master Tahl had come alone.
On his first night in the Halls of Healing, Obi-Wan woke up shaking, drenched in cold sweat, his lungs burning as he struggled to breathe through his panic, darkness that had nothing to do with the lack of light creeping in at the edges of his vision.
There were so many people around him.
So many Force signatures, the Temple teeming with life, humming with the pleased, steady thrum of the Living Force.
The Temple in his memories was a graveyard.
“-obi! Padawan Kenobi! You must calm or you will hurt yourself!”
The words barely penetrated through the fog of panic clouding his brain. The touch to his arm startled him, however, and Obi-Wan found himself wrenching away, scrambling to his feet, searching blindly for something to defend himself with. The shock of cold marble to his feet jerked him out of his head enough that he managed to catch himself on his hands when his legs folded under him, his knees too shaky to be able to support his weight, and he returned to himself just enough to become aware of his own heaving, gasping breaths.
The Force brushed against him, carrying the traces of the joy of the younglings in the creche, the wisdom of the old Masters, the mischief of the initiates and padawans sneaking around the Temple. Yet, instead of bringing peace, the sensations stirred a memory of the smell of iron, burnt flesh, and excrement, and instead of calming, Obi-Wan gagged. Then, bile rose up his throat, the sense-memory bringing tears to his eyes, and Obi-Wan vomited onto the floor between his shaking arms while simultaneously reaching desperately for his shields and pulling them up as high as they would go.
For a moment, his head was blissfully silent.
“Oh, padawan…” the healer murmured, then Obi-Wan felt something sharp nick his skin, the cold of thin metal in his arm, and his vision blacked out.
When Obi-Wan next came to, he threw his shields up before he even fully woke, blocking out the other inhabitants of the Temple from his perception.
He wasn’t dead. He was in the Temple. In the Halls of Healing.
In the past, somehow.
He hadn’t had time to fully process that, caught in a warzone and then aggressive negotiations for three months, most of his attention split between keeping as many as he could alive, and keeping an eye out for anyone targeting Cerasi specifically.
But he had succeeded. And now, here he was.
Cerasi was alive. Satine was alive. Master Yoda was alive. Qui-Gon was alive.
…was he?
It had been Master Tahl, not Qui-Gon, who had come for Obi-Wan. Feeling panic begin to claw at his lungs again, Obi-Wan searched for the bond he had not felt in over three decades, a bond that should be there if Qui-Gon were still alive.
There.
It was small, more of a thread than a bond, nothing like what Obi-Wan’s bond with Anakin had been, once upon a time, but its mere existence soothed Obi-Wan, and he suddenly understood why Anakin had always settled easier when he could ground himself in the connection between them.
Relieved to find Qui-Gon still alive, Obi-Wan tugged at the bond gently, lowering his shields just enough to pulse concern-curiosity-confusion down the thread that connected them.
Qui-Gon’s side flared with confusion, then shock, then Obi-Wan got the impression of a door being slammed in his face, Qui-Gon’s end of the bond going cold, his Master throwing up shields on his end of the bond so fast Obi-Wan nearly got whiplash.
Recoiling from the bond, Obi-Wan blinked dazedly, feeling confused and hurt, not understanding the violent reaction. Then, he took a deep breath, ignoring the way the inhale shuddered, and released his feelings to the Force.
It seemed that the more things changed, the more they stayed the same, and Qui-Gon had never hidden the fact that he hadn’t wanted another padawan, in his first life.
So why should this time be any different?
When he was still waking up choking on screams on the fifth night, his younger age seemingly eroding his ability to brush off his night-terrors the way he’d learnt to do on Tattooine, Obi-Wan decided he’d had enough. He rolled out of bed and slipped out of the Halls, his Force presence hidden behind his shields and the late hour ensuring minimal risk of detection.
He didn’t know what he was looking for, but sleep wasn’t bringing any relief, and Obi-Wan couldn’t stay another moment in the Halls or he would go crazy.
Well.
Crazier than being a fifty-year-old war General in the body of a teen padawan.
Obi-Wan breathed through the flashback that the thought triggered, steadying himself against the wall as his knees weakened. It could’ve been seconds or it could’ve been minutes, but the trembling in his limbs passed and he was able to walk again, trying not to linger too long on places he remembered as being covered with bodies the last time he had walked through the Temple.
Finally, he came across the Room of a Thousand Fountains, and a weight he hadn’t realised he’d been carrying eased from his shoulders.
He hadn’t gotten to the Room after the attack on the Temple. The Room of a Thousand Fountains was an oasis, free from the memories that haunted his steps, where every corner he’d turned wrenched up images of bodies superimposed over empty space.
Obi-Wan stepped into the Room of a Thousand Fountains and took his first unburdened breath since he’d woken up in the Halls of Healing.
He headed to his favourite spot from before and allowed himself to sink down on the grass, his eyes slipping closed as he carefully settled into light meditation.
When he next opened his eyes, it was almost dawn, and Obi-Wan startled, jumping to his feet and stumbling on legs that had fallen asleep, then hurried back to the Halls.
It wouldn’t do to be found ‘missing’ from the Halls of Healing when his latest act as a padawan had been to go against his Master.
Still, his willingness to avoid nightmares far outweighed his fear of being caught, and he found himself slipping out into the Room of a Thousand Fountains three more times that week.
And then, Dooku came.
Obi-Wan personally thought that his non-reaction to seeing the man who had tortured him, once upon a time was better than lunging for the lightsaber that hung from Dooku’s belt and decapitating him. He had always had more developed shields than most, first to protect his crechèmates, then as means of self-preservation to protect himself from Anakin’s sheer power in the Force, his padawan’s otherness occasionally overwhelming.
He was certain that his shielding was all that stopped Dooku from seeing right through him in three seconds and reporting him to the Council.
Yet, for all that he had once feared, if not hated the man, Dooku as he was now, a Jedi still, a Jedi Master, was…different.
There was intrigue in his eyes when Obi-Wan told him his reasons for seeking out the Room of a Thousand Fountains, intrigue that morphed into concern when he correctly guessed that Obi-Wan should be in the Halls of Healing, then smoothed out into concerning blankness when Obi-Wan admitted who his Master was.
Obi-Wan didn’t miss the complicated jumble of emotions Dooku released into the Force between them, but he was too tired to try and pick them apart. His tiredness was also the reason why he didn’t argue with Dooku’s order to go back to the Halls, well-aware that Dooku would be well within his rights to report him. Still, he couldn’t fight the way his fingers twitched, itching for his lightsaber, discomfited by Dooku’s gaze never once leaving him.
He bowed to the man, his discomfort not letting him fully drop his gaze, then murmured a quiet goodbye, unable to utter the word ‘Master’ in relation to Dooku, even though it was clear that was something he’d need to get over, and soon.
Obi-Wan sighed as he settled back into his bed in the Halls of Healing, staring sightlessly at the ceiling.
He needed to meditate, sort through all the events of the evening in his mind, but damn it all, he was tired.
He was asleep within a minute.
The next day, Obi-Wan had to use every hard-earned trick that had learned as the Negotiator once upon a time, but he finally managed to persuade the healers to let him out of the Halls during the day.
It helped that the one place he wanted to go more than anything was the library, and if there was anyone the healers would entrust with his wellbeing, it would be Jocasta Nu.
So Obi-Wan allowed himself to fall into a routine, taking his breakfast in the Halls, then heading out to the library, burying himself among datapads, flimsi, and scans of scrolls until Madame Nu herself came to fish him out and shooed him out for evening meal.
The ability to lose himself in research soothed Obi-Wan, allowed him to focus on the familiar, on what he was good at, instead of wondering about how and why he was here again.
Mostly, it gave him an alibi – and a witness – for how he knew some things he probably shouldn’t. Lika Mando’a, for example.
And then, almost a week after their first meeting, Dooku found him again. And if there was anything Obi-Wan needed to truly understand that the man before him wasn’t the Count Dooku of his memories, it was the fact that the man apologised to him.
For Qui-Gon.
What must have happened for Master Dooku to become Count Dooku?
And so Obi-Wan drew the man into a conversation, keeping a careful eye on Dooku’s reactions, watching what he allowed himself to say too, knowing from personal experience that Dooku was not to be underestimated, not on the battlefield and not in verbal battles either.
He did not expect Dooku to notice that he hadn’t been sleeping properly. Or, more accurately, he hadn’t expected the man to call him out on it.
[the way Cody used to-!]
Obi-Wan wasn’t lying, not to Cody, and not to Dooku, when he said that he found meditation to be more restful than true sleep.
“There had been…so much death there.” Obi-Wan breathed, biting his cheek to centre himself in the here-now despite the way his mind played him nightmare reels of the Clone Wars. It would be a test of his skill at double-speak to see how much he would be able to tell Dooku of what weighed on him without outwardly lying. “I still feel it when I sleep.”
[Melidaan, the Wars, Alderaan, Tattooine-!]
He took a steadying breath and tried to still the tremble in his hands, frustrated with himself.
“I was the only Force user around for…months.” Obi-Wan continued, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat.
[months, years, decades-!]
“While I am glad to have been brought back to the Temple, it is…overwhelming.” The words slipped out before he could hold them back, truer than Dooku would ever know, but when Obi-Wan looked within himself, alarmed, he found no traces of compulsion or mind-tricks.
It hadn’t been Dooku’s will that made him admit that.
“Is that the reason for your unusually strong shielding?” Dooku inquired, and Obi-Wan immediately checked his shields, relieved to find that they hadn’t slipped an inch despite his fluctuating emotions.
He didn’t think he was imagining the note of respectful consideration in Dooku’s voice, as if the man found a padawan with Master-level shielding impressive rather than suspicious.
“I am not the same person I was when I left the Temple.” Obi-Wan admitted, stifling a wry snort at the understatement. “I don’t want my friends to worry.”
The truth was that Obi-Wan hadn’t seen any of his friends since he’d woken up in the Halls. Hadn’t seen Garen, or Quinlan, or Bant, and he both looked forward to and dreaded the day he would finally see them.
He hadn’t seen Quinlan since before Order 66.
Dooku’s question about mind healers snapped Obi-Wan out of his melancholy thoughts, and he barely bit back an amused sound, inwardly struggling to reconcile Count Dooku with the man who inquired about his mental wellbeing.
His response was honest, but once he reflected on what he’d said, he could understand why Dooku found his words flippant.
Still-
“You need to talk about what you experienced or it will devour you.”
The order startled him and Obi-Wan couldn’t hold back his bitter, incredulous laugh, even though in reality, his situation was far from a laughing matter.
“With whom?” he asked bluntly, still distantly amused, more than aware that he had to laugh or he would start to cry in earnest.
There was nobody in the Temple who would understand. Even Master Yoda – though, in his weakest moments, as he lay in the Halls and stared at the ceiling, Obi-Wan had imagined confessing everything to the Grandmaster – could react one of two ways, and Obi-Wan wasn’t ready to risk everything on fifty-fifty odds.
No, he was well and truly alone in this time.
Again.
He stumbled over his wording of Qui-Gon’s absence, aware by now that his Master was intentionally avoiding him but unaware of why, and that was too sore a spot to allow Dooku anywhere near, no matter how much the man was very quickly defying a lot of Obi-Wan’s assumptions about his character.
Still, it was one thing to admit to not regretting his decision to disobey his Master, and another thing entirely to admit to being good at war.
But, once again, Dooku surprised him.
“Tomorrow evening, we will take tea in my quarters, and we will talk about this properly.” The man announced, and Obi-Wan was too taken aback to refuse immediately – not that Dooku’s tone left much room for objections – and he felt his eyes grow wide in disbelief while his mouth dropped open. “You are my Grandpadawan. While not my direct responsibility, you are part of my lineage, and your experience is not something you can just release to the Force.”
Obi-Wan reeled himself back in, realising that it was lineage obligation, not any form of genuine concern, that guided Dooku.
Of course.
The realisation stung, but it was a sting Obi-Wan had long grown used to. He sighed, managing not to fall back into the tone he used to use with Anakin, but only just, as he replied; “You do not owe me your time just because we are of the same lineage.”
He could hear the conspicuous absence of a honorific and nearly grimaced, but if Dooku noticed it, he didn’t comment, instead narrowing his eyes at Obi-Wan disapprovingly.
“Do not assume you know my motivations.” He chastised, and Obi-Wan winced, chagrined, once again realising how his words had come out only after he’d uttered them.
It was hard to constantly remind himself that he wasn’t a Master anymore, but a teenager, a young one at that, and that proclamations that he may have once been able to get away with sounded like arrogance, if not outright disrespect, in his current state.
And then, as if reading his mind, Dooku continued; “But you can rest assured that it is not any misguided sense of obligation that guides me.”
Obi-Wan blinked, staring up at the man blankly.
Had he projected?
But no, a quick check showed that his shields were still intact, and he had always needed to concentrate to project his thoughts, unlike Anakin, who used to have to concentrate to avoid projecting.
Which left only one other conclusion.
Dooku was offering him…comfort.
Dooku was offering him comfort.
Dooku was offering him – Obi-Wan Kenobi – comfort.
No matter how Obi-Wan stressed the sentence, it didn’t stop sounding completely, unfathomably ridiculous.
Yet, it was the reality he found himself in.
And so Obi-Wan weighed Dooku’s words, wondered whether this could be the reason he was brought back, brought to this time, to this place. Wondered whether his presence – and awareness of what had come to pass before – could be enough to keep Dooku in the Light.
Well, he wouldn’t know until he tried.
“Then I would welcome your counsel.”
Obi-Wan didn’t think he imagined the proud glint that passed through Dooku’s eyes before the man nodded at him, bid him goodnight, and swept out of the Halls.
Obi-Wan settled back against his pillows and considered the ceiling once more, trying to sort through his thoughts before sleep took him.
He would be having tea-time with Count Dooku.
[somehow, that was more difficult a concept for him to believe than suddenly waking up as a thirteen-year-old.]
Obi-Wan was conflicted.
He had agreed to tea-time to see if there was any Light in Dooku he could try to save.
He had not expected to enjoy their tea-time, however.
With each afternoon they spent together, it got progressively more difficult for Obi-Wan to keep in mind who Dooku had been, what he had the potential to do, who he could still become.
It was becoming harder for him to remember why he shouldn’t get into philosophical debates with the man, why he shouldn’t seek his counsel, why he should under no circumstances admit to mind-tricking a civilian to him.
And yet, instead of immediately denouncing him to the Council, which Dooku would have been well within his rights to do, what Obi-Wan was certain he would do, what Obi-Wan himself would have done in his place – Dooku just hummed.
And then, unprompted, declared; “I think it was the right decision. Peace is fragile.”
Obi-Wan froze.
While the latter part of Dooku’s statement was worrying and revealed a glimpse into the motivations of the man who had once become the leader of the Separatists, Obi-Wan was stuck on the easy acknowledgement Dooku had offered so thoughtlessly, as if he didn’t know how long Obi-Wan had spent fighting for even a hint of that same recognition from Qui-Gon in his time as a padawan.
“Thank you, Master Dooku.” He choked out, far more emotional than the statement deserved, noticing his slip-up only belatedly and stilling immediately, suddenly discomfited.
He had gotten too comfortable.
“I-I have much to meditate on.” He lied, stumbling to his feet, almost missing the table as he went to put his teacup away, only remembering to bow at the very last minute as he rushed out of Dooku’s quarters. “Please excuse me from tomorrow’s tea-time.”
Dooku didn’t comment on Obi-Wan’s sudden departure – not that Obi-Wan stayed long enough to hear any such comments – but Obi-Wan could tell from the brief spark of pleasure in Dooku’s Force signature that the man hadn’t missed his slip-up either.
Perhaps he really did need to meditate.
Obi-Wan went nearly a month without seeing Dooku. Three and a half weeks during which he could devote himself to his research, especially after he was officially released from the Halls within the first week.
Two weeks in, however, Obi-Wan saw someone else.
“Obi?”
Obi-Wan startled, nearly jumping from his seat. His flailing jarred the precarious pile of data-pads and flimsi on his desk, pushing one pad off the edge, though Obi-Wan caught it with the Force before it could hit the ground.
He levitated the pad back to his desk, buying himself time in the process before he had to look up.
Because he knew who he would find. Only one person ever dared to call him that.
[only one person was allowed]
Finally, Obi-Wan looked up, holding his breath. He drank in features he hadn’t seen since before Order 66, features of one of his nearest, dearest friends, regardless of the rumours that floated around the Temple during the Wars.
“Quin.” He breathed.
And then, looking was suddenly not enough. With the barest of glances to ensure Quinlan was wearing his gloves, Obi-Wan was out of his seat and pulling Quinlan into a rough embrace, grateful for his young age and the fact that the act wasn’t yet too uncharacteristic for him.
“Didn’t want me to touch you?” Quinlan asked as he obligingly hugged Obi-Wan back, a note of curiosity mixed with concern in his voice.
Obi-Wan laughed quietly, grateful when Quinlan didn’t comment on how wet his laugh sounded, and gave Quinlan one of the same not-quite-lies he had been giving Dooku: “My head’s a mess.”
“Not much changed, then.” Quinlan teased, but when Obi-Wan still didn’t release him after the comment, didn’t tease back or defend himself, Obi-Wan felt his friend’s concern skyrocket. “Obi? What the hell happened?”
Finally, Obi-Wan forced himself to pull back, though he found himself missing the touch almost immediately.
“It’s a long story.” He sighed, but Quinlan just levelled him with a raised eyebrow and grabbed him by the wrist, dragging him towards the way out of the Archives.
Obi-Wan felt a ghost of a smile pull at his lips – Quinlan had always been a little afraid of Jocasta Nu, even as an adult, and Obi-Wan was endeared by the reminder.
“I’m gonna be in the Temple for at least a week.” Quinlan shot back as they stepped out of the Archives, making it clear Obi-Wan wasn’t getting out of an explanation any time soon.
“Mission overran?” Obi-Wan queried, interest piqued, since it hadn’t been too common for missions to overrun prior to the outbreak of the Clone Wars.
“By over a fortnight.” Quinlan confirmed, then narrowed his eyes, jabbing Obi-Wan in the chest with a gloved finger. “But don’t change the subject. Last I heard from you, you were off to rescue Master Tahl.”
“Yes, well…” Obi-Wan hedged, doing some quick maths in his mind. “I only got back from that…a month ago?”
Quinlan stopped so suddenly that Obi-Wan nearly bumped into him.
“So Master Jinn really left you behind?!” he demanded, the indignation in his voice warming Obi-Wan’s heart even if it was unnecessary. “I heard Master Tahl yelling at him when Master Tholme and I were briefly at the Temple last time. But that was months ago!”
Obi-Wan shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable.
“I asked to stay, Quin.” He corrected, lowering his voice when two Knights walked past them.
“Not for, what-? Two, three months, though!” Quinlan huffed, indignation mixing with annoyance, a combination Obi-Wan was more than familiar with from his and Quinlan’s adult interactions.
“No.” Obi-Wan agreed on a sigh, ceding the fight before it had the chance to become one. “Not for three months.”
After that day in the Archives, Quinlan made a point to drag Obi-Wan out of the library for meal-times and spars over the two weeks he ended up staying at the Temple before being sent out again.
And then, three days after Quinlan left, Dooku took Obi-Wan to the training salles.
And while with Quinlan, it was easier to remember how to spar, easier to allow himself to lose, easier yet to bicker during their fights, Obi-Wan’s lizard-brain forgot to do that with Dooku as his opponent.
With Dooku, Obi-Wan forgot that he was supposed to be a padawan again. And Dooku was many things, but he was not blind.
“Who taught you Soresu?” He inquired after he’d put his training sabre away, while Obi-Wan was still busy catching his breath, his padawan stamina nowhere near his stamina as a Master. “It was not Qui-Gon’s preferred style.”
“There are instructional holos in the Archives.” Obi-Wan huffed, trying his best to get his breathing under control.
“Copying holos does not make one quite this proficient.” Dooku argued, not sounding suspicious, just blunt, perhaps a little intrigued, and Obi-Wan forced himself to straighten and meet the man’s eyes.
“My best friend is Quinlan Vos. He is training in Form IV.” He admitted, suddenly grateful to Quinlan for dragging him to the salles over the last fortnight. “Our preferred styles are rather compatible.”
“Vos? Master Tholme’s padawan? Hm.” Dooku murmured, then suddenly grabbed his sabre again. “Let’s see how much Form IV you’ve picked up, then.”
And Obi-Wan found himself dodging before could get another word out.
After their spar in the salles, and with Dooku back in the Temple, Obi-Wan expected to see more of his Grandmaster, a suspicion which was confirmed in the first week, when the man either found him in the library or invited him over for tea.
And then, suddenly, Dooku disappeared.
Obi-Wan gave the man a week before he went looking for information, yet he hadn’t expected to be cornered by Master Yoda after only managing to check the cafeteria at dinner time.
“Looking for someone, you are?” Yoda inquired, nearly startling Obi-Wan with how suddenly he appeared.
“I was looking for Master Dooku, but it is nothing urgent.” Obi-Wan informed the Grandmaster, knowing better than to lie.
“Struck a friendship with my padawan, you have.” Yoda hummed, and Obi-Wan cursed his complexion when he felt his cheeks warm, feeling stupid for thinking that Yoda wouldn’t notice that Obi-Wan wasn’t spending much time with his actual Master.
“I believe your padawan would object to such a statement.” He pointed out self-consciously, knowing that he would have objected to Yoda assuming he was friends with padawans when he’d been a Master.
[his bond with Anakin had earned him enough pointed looks and raised eyebrows as it was.]
“Yet an objection from you, I hear not.” Yoda countered, and Obi-Wan mentally slapped himself, reminding himself to stop disappearing into his own head in conversations.
“Master Dooku has been an infrequent but stimulating conversation partner when I was still in the Halls of Healing.” Obi-Wan clarified, aiming for demure and likely landing somewhere to the left. “I merely wished to ask him something, but, like I said, it is nothing urgent.”
“Ask your own Master, you cannot?” Yoda queried, and Obi-Wan bit his cheek to avoid saying the first thing that came to mind.
“Master Jinn does not… wish to speak to me.” He replied carefully, weighing his words with care he hadn’t expected to need around Yoda.
“Told you this himself, he has?”
“No.” Obi-Wan denied, shaking his head.
“Then certain you cannot be, hm?” Yoda chastised, and Obi-Wan-
-Obi-Wan was tired.
“He has closed off the training bond. I didn’t think there was any clarification needed.” He snapped, then immediately slapped his hand over his mouth, horror and mortification washing over him. “I apologise, Master Yoda. I did not mean to be impertinent.”
But Yoda’s ears had drooped the moment Obi-Wan had mentioned the bond, and Obi-Wan wasn’t certain if the Grandmaster had even heard his apology.
“Much time without the bond you have spent?” Yoda asked, his tone different now, and Obi-Wan carefully lowered his hand from his mouth and did some more calculations.
“Around…two months?”
Yoda sighed, but his response, when it came, was a non-sequitur. “On a diplomatic mission, my padawan has been sent. Six weeks from now, return he should.”
Obi-Wan blinked, not having expected to get an actual answer regarding Dooku’s whereabouts. Then he blinked again, remembering that Dooku had told him that his previous mission had also been politics-related.
It was becoming almost laughable just how much of a hand the Order had had in shaping one of their greatest adversaries in the Clone Wars.
“…Thank you, Master Yoda.” Obi-Wan managed, executing his clumsiest bow to date and wanting nothing more than to retreat to the safety of the Room of a Thousand Fountains.
“If talk you wish, to me you can come.” Yoda’s voice stopped him in his tracks, and Obi-Wan did not think he imagined the sadness that tinged the Grandmaster’s voice. “Part of my lineage you are too, young Kenobi.”
“Of course, Master.” Obi-Wan choked out past a lump in his throat, keeping his back to Yoda to keep the Grandmaster from seeing the absolute devastation on his face. “Thank you again.”
Then, he fled.
It took Obi-Wan two weeks to seek Yoda out.
Mostly because, between sleeping, spending his days at the library, and occasional spars with Quinlan, Bant, and Garen, Qui-Gon’s absence was ever more apparent.
“Master Yoda.” Obi-Wan finally dared address the Grandmaster, catching Yoda as the other was leaving the Room of a Thousand Fountains. “Where is Master Jinn?”
For the second time in as many interactions, Yoda’s ears drooped. “To Alderaan, Master Jinn has been sent.”
“Why was I not sent with him?” Obi-Wan couldn’t help but ask, feeling a frown pull at his brow even as his stomach dropped. “I am still his padawan, am I not?”
“Wished, Master Jinn did, for you to recover fully.” Yoda replied, but Obi-Wan had known the other Master well enough as an adult to be able to tell a half-truth from a full one.
“I have.” Obi-Wan retorted, bristling unconsciously, the earlier dread turning to simmering irritation. “I was released from the Halls two months ago.”
[Not that Qui-Gon would know, since he hasn’t visited a single time.]
“Speak with Master Jinn, you must.” Yoda instructed, sounding weary and resigned. “The answers you seek, I have not.”
Obi-Wan didn’t miss that Yoda had said ‘Master Jinn’, not ‘your Master’.
He didn’t know what to make of that.
Obi-Wan had been in the middle of assisting with the creche when he sensed him.
Asking to be excused, Obi-Wan all-but ran out of the creche, letting the Force guide him to where he thought he’d find Dooku, not surprised when it led him to the atrium of the Temple. He spotted the man quickly, Dooku’s towering figure no less imposing in Jedi robes than it had been in his get-up as a Count, and Obi-Wan frowned when the man made eye-contact.
He had come with the intention of asking Dooku something, but now he didn’t know if he had the right. Dooku wasn’t his Master. He had no obligation to him.
Then, Obi-Wan steeled himself and approached, inclining his head respectfully.
“Master Dooku,” He greeted, not missing the look one of the Knights beside Dooku sent him, but choosing to ignore it for the time being, “May I ask a question?”
Obi-Wan mentally slapped himself at his bluntness, then felt his frown grow when Dooku merely waved him on, seemingly unbothered by his rudeness.
“Am I still Master Jinn’s padawan?”
Obi-Wan cursed inwardly. That hadn’t been what he’d meant to ask!
But the words were out, and he had no way of reeling them back in. All he could do was weather whatever reaction Dooku would deign him with to his impertinent question, then hide in the library until Quin found him or Madame Nu kicked him out.
He wasn’t prepared for Dooku’s answer, however.
“Do you wish to be?”
Obi-Wan could tell, as soon as the words left his mouth, that he’d been too quick. Too defensive. He tried to explain himself, not expecting to see Dooku mirror his frown.
Nor expecting him to point out that that hadn’t been what he’d asked.
Not for the first time in his interactions with the man, Obi-Wan settled for a half-truth.
But he was finding out the reason why Dooku was being sent on so many diplomatic missions; the man didn’t miss a trick.
Obi-Wan wasn’t expecting the hand on his shoulder, nor the insistent, blunt question that felt like a compulsion, yet Obi-Wan knew even without the need to check his shields was not one.
The truth slipped out of him in a quiet, resigned whisper.
And Dooku-
-Dooku smiled.
Obi-Wan didn’t know what to expect when he was summoned before the Council within a week of Dooku’s return.
A week during which he saw the man one-on-one three more times, while Qui-Gon never once sought him out even though he’d come back a full week before Dooku.
Finding out that he was being removed from Qui-Gon’s care stung, but Obi-Wan couldn’t say that he was surprised. Though they’d eventually settled their differences in his first life, the start to his padawanship had been a rocky one.
Melidaan, in the end, had actually drawn them closer, since Obi-Wan had resolved to never again do anything that could threaten his place at Qui-Gon’s side.
In this timeline, it was not him who had been in the wrong. Qui-Gon had not needed to come save him. Obi-Wan had succeeded, as a padawan, at settling the conflict.
He had planned for many things, many events, both in the near as well as distant future.
Yet he had failed to take into account the fact that he may still be sent away from the Temple, that he may never get to complete his padawanship in this timeline.
“Oversee the rest of Padawan Kenobi’s studies, Master Dooku shall.”
Yoda’s words pulled Obi-Wan from his thoughts with all the gentleness of a speeder-crash, and he couldn’t help but gape.
He turned wide eyes to Dooku, found the man already looking back at him, a hint of warmth in his eyes when their gazes met. At the sight of Obi-Wan’s obvious shock, Dooku offered him an almost imperceptible nod, confirming Yoda’s words.
“Do you accept, Padawan Kenobi?”
Obi-Wan didn’t know what his face was doing, most of his focus on his shields, but he could guess that it was at least somewhat comical judging by the tiny upwards quirk of Dooku’s lips, his amusement subtle but undeniable.
Obi-Wan barely spared Yoda a glance when he uttered his acceptance.
The snapping of his and Qui-Gon’s training bond barely registered.
[what hurt far more was the way Qui-Gon excused himself as soon as Obi-Wan was no longer his responsibility]
Once his bond with Dooku was complete, however, Obi-Wan concentrated, and finally, after all his weeks in the Temple, dared to carefully, ever-so-slightly, lower his shields.
Then couldn’t decide whether he wanted to laugh out loud or finally give in to the tears he’d been supressing since the first time Qui-Gon had shut him out from their bond.
In the Force, Dooku felt nearly the same as Anakin had.
That same combination of stubborn Light and lingering Darkness, the very same propensity for all sides of the Force, not just the Light, the same doubts about the righteousness of the Order.
But the Light was there. Undeniably so.
And Obi-Wan was going to make it his mission to keep it there.