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Qui-Gon Jinn was glad to be home.
Granted, he had only been absent since noon, but Coruscant was exceptionally unbearable today, or so it seemed to him as he made his way quickly across the vast Temple courtyard, grateful to be escaping the screech and shriek of the city-planet’s streets at last. The cacophony that characterized the ecumenopolis echoed more loudly in his ears than usual, the blinding brightness of its towering glass skyscrapers and the shadowy murk of its alleyways more defined in both their extremes. The exhaust from too many air taxis crammed into too few sky lanes still lingered on his tongue with a thick, gray taste, and was almost as distracting as the beginning of a migraine he’d developed from his maglev ride. He had had the misfortune of catching a train laden with gamblers from a lower-level casino, and as a result had been forced to close his mental shields off as tightly as he dared, trying to block out the bloated avarice that beamed off of his fellow passengers. Their drunken bouts of arguing over supposed offenses that the Jedi didn’t have the desire to investigate further certainly hadn't helped his blossoming headache, either.
The Jedi Temple stood as a bulwark of peace in the midst of Coruscant’s bedlam, a beacon of calm in the tempest of steel and stone, and as he strode up to its main entrance, long legs clearing two steps at a time, Qui-Gon felt the strain of previous hours melt right off of him. The halls beyond were shining, glowing, with the presences of other Jedi, and their joy and peace in the Force grounded him until his soul felt as free as the swallows that nested in the nearby Great Tree.
His spirits lifted to the cloud-flecked sky. He may have been born in the smog and chaos of the city beyond, but this was where he belonged.
He stepped inside the massive door and let it swing closed behind him, the familiar tune of so many Force-sensitives in one place humming louder in his heart and swallowing him up like a welcoming embrace. Two notes struck a closer chord to his own than the others, though, nearby and clear. They pulled his attention from the quiet harmony and fixed his mind instead on a duo chatting quietly in the corridor ahead of him. Their hoods were lowered, but had they been masked as the Temple Guards he would have still known them instantly.
“Master Dooku.” He kept his voice low in the cavernous hall but quickened his step as he walked toward his mentor. The other man turned to blink at him, blue eyes flashing bright even as he stood in the shadow of a marble pillar, and a broad smile overcame Qui-Gon’s attempt to contain himself.
“Feemor,” he greeted his former padawan warmly.
Shoulder-length blonde hair fell over the Knight’s eyes when he gave an exaggerated bow, his smile just a breath away from laughter, as usual. “Hey, old man.”
“Back so soon?” Qui-Gon decided he wouldn’t embarrass the younger Jedi with a full embrace in front of his fellow Knights, so he settled for a hand on his shoulder and a firm squeeze.
Feemor huffed, a chuckle echoing somewhere in the sound. “Not you, too.” He shook his head and glanced at Dooku, eyes narrowed with good-natured censure.
Dooku rolled his eyes but a smile tugged at his lips. “I was just reproaching him for abandoning the rest of us for a year at a time, just to jet back within a week as soon as he gets a padawan brother.”
“The best padawan brother,” Feemor corrected. “Can’t let you two have all the lineage baby’s formative years to yourselves.”
“Don’t let him hear you call him that.” Qui-Gon laughed, the sound deep and light. He could feel himself forgetting about the foggy tension of his earlier duties already. “He’s quite certain he’s a grown-up already, facts be blasted.”
He glanced around their little section of the hall, hoping for a glimpse of red hair or ocean-gray eyes sparkling up at him. When those hopes were betrayed, he eyed the hems of both Dooku’s and Feemor’s long cloaks, on the search for little boots sticking out from beneath the fabric.
Obi-Wan liked to hide beneath his older lineage members’ cloaks when he was overstimulated, cold, or just plain lonely, which he usually was. Shielding by the stronger, older Jedi would muffle the world around him and prevent anyone else from sensing the youngling’s presence, making for a secure haven if he didn’t want his crecheling friends to find him or if he just needed some quiet time. The padawan was very good at hiding and staying still, especially when he was warm and comfortable, but his feet always poked out just the tiniest bit and gave him away to the informed observer.
Qui-Gon was consistently the victim of such robe-theft – at some point the habit had become so ingrained in everyday life that he would sometimes forget his padawan was there, until he tried to walk off and heard a squeak of alarm – so he was usually the best at finding the little redhead. But this time, he didn’t see any little feet, nor did he feel excessive layers to his master’s or former student’s shields. And he didn’t see a five-year-old ball of energy and animal facts barreling toward him from the creche, which is where Obi-Wan should have been if he wasn’t with Dooku or Feemor.
His spirits, so recently buoyed, sank groundward a few inches, and confusion pressed a dent like a thumbprint between his eyebrows. He had only had his little padawan for a short while, and already nothing was the same when he wasn’t there. Even the Temple itself suddenly didn’t seem quite so much like home. “Where is Obi-Wan?”
Dooku frowned. “He’s not with you?”
Qui-Gon felt a cold weight twist around his insides. He shook his head.
The count’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly, then he turned to Feemor. “Was he in the creche?”
Feemor shook his head. “Not as of a half hour ago, when I went by to kidnap – I mean, borrow him.” His blue eyes met Qui-Gon’s, narrowing with rising worry. “I thought he was with you.”
“I’ve been in a meeting with Corellian diplomats since noon.” Qui-Gon looked slightly up at his master and then slightly down at his former student, but their gazes were as wondering as his own. “So where is my padawan?”
“Be careful!” Qui-Gon’s rooms weren’t the largest in the Temple, or even in this particular old dormitory wing, but Obi-Wan’s tiny voice seemed lost in them all the same. Sitting in the middle of the den, legs crisscrossed on a cushion beneath him, the padawan looked even smaller than usual. “Layla bites.”
Yoda halted halfway from the sink, the bucket he’d just filled still hovering behind him. Someone might call bucket-carrying a frivolous use of the Force, but the old master failed to see how any task could be a frivolous one to the connecting current that flowed through acid beetles and snokeweeds as freely as sentients and stars. Besides, he had never really cared what the someones said, anyway. He was a someone, so what he thought could just as easily be a someone says, too, if he thought such things worth the trouble of verbalizing.
When it came to those in his lineage, though, he had learned to listen carefully, because far more than occasionally one of them said something that even his centuries-old ears had to question. He peeked over his shoulder at the little boy who was watching him and raised one eyeridge in a question. “Layla?” he echoed.
“Uh-huh.” Obi-Wan nodded and pointed to one of the potted plants that resided in the kitchen, very close to Yoda’s intended path. His long sleeve had come uncuffed and flopped over his fingers. “The purple one.”
The older Jedi eyed the plant suspiciously for a second, then altered his route accordingly. The bucket resumed its pace alongside him, but his mind remained on the new matter at hand. “Named the plants, your master has?” He wouldn’t have been surprised. His first interaction with a young Initiate Qui-Gon, after all, had originated in a search for a frog named Ephri.
Obi-Wan shook his head. “I did.”
Yoda chuckled as he lowered his hand and settled the bucket on the tile floor. “Fit in well, you do,” he remarked. “A bit strange, this lineage is.”
“I don’t mind being strange.” Far from it, apparently – the padawan was beaming at the perceived compliment. “Master Jocasta says everyone’s strange.”
Yoda remembered her as a youngling, too. He’d lost count of the times he had pulled her, little Sifo-Dyas, and his own padawan out of trouble before other masters found them in the Gardens after curfew or sneaking tooka kittens into their respective dorms. He still wasn’t sure where she’d found those. “An expert on the subject, Master Jocasta is.”
Obi-Wan almost nodded, then paused and tilted his head to consider the statement.
Yoda grinned and turned back to what he was doing. The door into Qui-Gon’s quarters was like others on the hall, updated and controlled by electronics. However, this dormitory wing was one of the older ones in the Temple, and the interior doors were still just solid slabs of wood on sturdy hinges. The door that opened into the living area from the kitchen was usually left pushed all the way to the wall to leave the walkway completely open, but if he closed it all but a crack, the bucket should balance on top long enough for his plan to work.
He waved his hand and the door creaked along, nudged by an invisible hand, until there was just an inch and a half of light showing between it and the doorjamb. Then he shifted his attention back to the bucket of water. With a flick of his wrist it began floating upward, and he guided it slowly to the top of the door.
Obi-Wan watched with interest, holding onto his feet as he rocked back and forth. “Is the joke gonna work?” he asked, squinting at the levitating pail. “Won’t they see it?”
Yoda shook his head. “Rush in, they will, when call them in here, you do.” Another low laugh rumbled from his throat and his big ears twitched in satisfaction. “Expect an aerial attack, they will not.”
The copper head tilted farther to the right. “Why not?”
“Look up, giraffes do not. And somehow, fill my lineage with them, I have.” Yoda hmphed, maybe in indignation at himself or with the effort of placing the bucket just so, leaning it against the wall while keeping it level on the narrow surface beneath. “Revenge, this is.”
Obi-Wan wrinkled his nose. “Master Windu says revenge is not the Jedi way.”
“Does he, hmm?” Yoda looked over his work one more time, checking for faults, then padded back over to sit with Obi-Wan on another cushion. “And say what, does your grandmaster?”
A mischievous smile tugged at the padawan’s lips. “He says it depends.”
“Smart, he is.” The old Jedi nodded, dark eyes sparkling. “Learn from me, he did.”
Obi-Wan laughed. “So, now what?” He glanced up at the bucket, still holding its place high above the doorway.
“Wait, we will.” Yoda shifted his weight on the pillow, settling in for as long as was required. “For the giraffes.”
Qui-Gon was not running down the halls to his quarters. He was walking briskly, perhaps very briskly, but he was not running like a nuna with its head chopped off. That would be ridiculous.
“Hey, Long Legs, quit running.” Feemor was practically skipping to try to keep up with his master. He glared at Dooku, who was keeping pace just fine. “Both of you.”
Qui-Gon ignored the nickname. “He wasn’t in the creche, so if he’s not in our rooms…”
“If he’s not, then he was likely picked up by another Jedi who saw an unaccompanied youngling and decided to keep him for the day.” Out of all three of them, Dooku looked the most unflustered. “Tyvokka borrowed you for nearly twenty-four hours while I was trapped in negotiations with the Chorian Frontier delegation, if you recall.”
Qui-Gon did, because that had been a blast. An entire day and most of an evening with board games, no homework, and plenty of sweets had left him with fond childhood memories, earned the Wookie master a lifelong friend, and saddled a tired Dooku with a padawan who had been nearly vibrating with sucrose-induced energy. He was supposed to have gone to the creche that day, too, just until his master came to collect him, but he’d gotten distracted on the way through the Gardens, where Tyvokka had come across him and decided to be his watcher for the day.
His padawan self hadn’t thought such a thing was unusual, because it wasn’t. The Temple was a safe place for all Jedi, especially the little ones. If a master, a Knight, or even a senior padawan with nothing else to do saw a youngling on its own, their first instinct would probably be to keep it for a while rather than return it to the creche. Unless whoever stumbled across them was engaged in an unpostponable task, that youngling was very likely going to get sweets, go to whatever training or research room they wanted, and generally have the best day of his or her life until a crechemaster or their own teacher was able to track down the impromptu babysitter.
That was probably what had happened today, with his own padawan. Either he had been able to escape from the crechemasters – which wasn’t improbable, given how many times he had done exactly that before Qui-Gon had met him – and some well-meaning Jedi had scooped him up on sight, or someone had beaten Feemor to the punch in his plan to borrow the youngling until Qui-Gon got back.
Honestly, he put his money on Tholme in either case. The Shadow had his hands full with young Quinlan Vos, who was ten pounds of energy in a two-pound bag if the description ever fit a living soul, and an unexpected playdate with his best friend might have distracted the little Kiffar long enough to Tholme to make a singular cup of caf undisturbed. If they didn’t find Obi-Wan in their quarters, he was definitely beelining down the hall to Tholme’s.
The thought hadn’t fully crossed his mind when Qui-Gon felt a faint tug on the training bond he shared with his padawan. He jerked to a stop a few yards down from his front door, trying to recenter himself and determine what direction he needed to turn.
The other two stopped just beside him, the three of them nearly blocking the hall.
Dooku glanced at him with concern. “What is it?”
Qui-Gon waited to reply until he felt the tug again, and frowned at the hint of mischief that colored the happy glow he was used to sensing from the other side of the bond. “He is in our quarters,” he answered. “I think he’s quite pleased with himself for giving me a heart attack.”
“Come on, old man. Let the kiddo have some fun.” Feemor strode on, jogging up to the door.
Qui-Gon moved to follow him, but Dooku’s arm caught him across the chest and held him back.
“Wait.” The count’s eyes were narrowed warily at the door, his forehead crinkling as he mirrored Qui-Gon’s frown. “I sense Yoda nearby, too.”
Well, that would make sense. Qui-Gon had thought his grandmaster had a full schedule today, but what grandmaster or great-grandmaster hadn’t thrown off a day of responsibility to bond with a new addition to their lineage? Yoda had been the cause of more of his sugar highs and days off from classwork than Dooku was probably even aware of.
He didn’t understand why Dooku looked so skeptical, though, or maybe that was suspicion in his dark eyes.
“Approach slowly,” the older man told him, and they walked together toward the door, a few cautious steps behind Feemor. “He’s probably up to something.”
“Obi-Wan or Yoda?”
Dooku gave him a deadpan look. “Who do you think?”
The blonde Knight was already punching in the code that Qui-Gon never changed, eager to beat them inside. As soon as the door hissed open wide enough, he slipped his slender frame through the gap and bolted through the kitchen.
“Hey, Obi-Wan!” He called into the apartment. “Guess who’s back!”
A gasp that sounded small and shocked broke through the air. “Fee, wait—!”
Something solid crashed, followed by a wet splash that was punctuated by a high-pitched yelp.
Qui-Gon blinked as giggles exploded beyond the kitchen, but Dooku only shook his head.
“I knew it,” he said cryptically, and then walked inside the apartment.
Qui-Gon followed, and immediately saw what had occurred. He wasn’t quite fast enough to cover his laugh, so it came out as a snort.
Feemor glared at him over his shoulder, holding his arms out as water dripped from his hands, his robe, his tunic, everything. Blonde hair was plastered to his face and neck, and water pooled beneath him on the tile like a miniature pond. A now-empty bucket rolled in a lazy half-circle at his feet, role fulfilled.
“You knew about this,” he said flatly. He gave his master and grandmaster a look that reminded Qui-Gon of a kicked aakhound. “You all tried to drown me.”
“I did not.” Qui-Gon grinned at him. “And you only look half-drowned.”
“Dramatic, you are.” Yoda rose from his cushion, gimmer stick in hand and a smile stretching across his face. “Our intended target you were not, but happy to see you I am, Feemor.”
“Yes, I’m sure the target was me. Again.” Dooku realized Qui-Gon was staring at him in mystification, and explained. “He did this with Rael. Somehow it skipped you.”
“Wait for long enough, you could not,” Yoda said, obviously trying to soothe the slightly hurt expression that came over his grandpadawan’s face at being left out of some previously unknown tradition. “And get all their drama from you, they do,” he added, jabbing his stick toward Dooku. “Do you good, a drenching would.”
Dooku huffed indignantly, but Qui-Gon sensed his master’s own amusement as clear as sunlight.
Still giggling like a hyena, Obi-Wan scrambled up from the floor, kicking the pillow back behind him. “Hi, Fee!”
The Knight dropped his arms and caught the little padawan before he could tackle him at the knees. “Hi, you little monster!” He scooped Obi-Wan up and squeezed him tight against his chest, wet clothes and all.
Water seeped into his tunic and Obi-Wan squeaked. “You’re getting me wet!” He squirmed, trying to escape. “Feemor!”
“What’s the matter, little guy?” Feemor laughed and spun around, shaking water from his hair and into Obi-Wan’s. “I missed you!”
Obi-Wan yelped when he saw Qui-Gon and Dooku standing just inside the kitchen. “Master!” He threw out one arm, the other one trapped under one of Feemor’s. “Help!”
Qui-Gon chuckled and plucked his student out of Feemor’s grip, but held him out at arm’s length. Droplets fell from red hair and splashed against the pale floor. “We’re going to have to hang both of you out to drip dry.” He smiled and dipped his head, pressing his nose to Obi-Wan’s. “You were supposed to be in the creche while I was gone.”
“I know.” Obi-Wan scrunched his nose in confusion, and his master’s smile grew. “But Master Yoda came and got me.” He gave the master in question a sideways glance, moving his eyes instead of his head.
Qui-Gon mirrored the side eye, making Dooku chuckle as he and Obi-Wan both glared at the old Jedi. “Grandmaster…”
Yoda smiled back with dignity, and no small amount of self-satisfaction. “Never killed you, a day out of class did.”
“Perhaps not, but it certainly wrecked my sleep schedule.” Dooku eyed the ceramic container that sat open on the countertop, looking suspiciously like a cookie jar. “How much sugar have you given him, you old troll?”
“Not enough.” Yoda hummed and tapped his stick thoughtfully against the floor. “Returned too soon, you did.”
Qui-Gon was about to make a sarcastic apology, but small arms suddenly lunged around his throat and squeezed hard enough to choke his words off.
“No, they didn’t!” Obi-Wan pressed his cheek against his master’s rough beard and held on for dear life. “I’m glad you’re back.”
There was the part that had been missing when he’d walked back into the Temple, big blue eyes blinking up at him and a bright, pure soul flaring with joy as their bond glowed with contentment. Qui-Gon’s smile softened as the world felt right again.
“So am I, little one.” He hugged his padawan closer and chuckled when Obi-Wan giggled again. “So am I.”