Work Text:
Feemor wasn’t particularly skilled at garment sewing. He much preferred weaving, or other fiber crafts with knitting or knotting yarns.
Even embroidery was fine, though far from his favorite.
He’d made an exception for this particular project.
Feemor made a vest. Well, four vests, technically speaking. And he taught Obi-Wan some of the basics of garment construction in the process. Obi-Wan had been a bit dubious about the assignment at first.
“There are machines that do this, Master.”
“Yes, but once you understand how those machines do the work, you will be able to make something if needs-must. And you will get better at mending and repairing items. And knowing when a damaged item can be repurposed.”
So, they made vests.
It was a relatively simple project that was always quite popular with those who spent large amounts of time in deep space, and Feemor had found them to be good gifts and trading items.
And the quartermaster had a large amount of thick, stained canvas that had been dyed black and was now ready for repurpose.
Feemor showed Obi-Wan how to carefully measure out and draw pattern pieces based on general measurements or known measurements of the final owner of the item. Then, they brought the pattern pieces to the quartermaster for a machine to trace onto the repurposed fabric, then cut from the fabric.
For this, Feemor allowed the use of a droid in order to limit the amount of wasted materials, though it still took time to make sure they did not mix the fabric pieces designated for different garments.
For batting, or the warm, inner pieces of the vest, they used a material always in ready supply in the Temple; used creche cloth.
“Are we…?”
“Are we what, padawan?”
“In the vests, are we putting, old diapers??”
“They’re perfectly clean now, Obi-Wan. And some of them weren’t diapers. Some of them were spit cloths.”
“But they’re stained! And worn through!”
“That is why they’ll be used as the interior of the vests.”
They were less delicate about cutting up the creche cloth, as any small scraps would likely be repurposed into small stuffed toys for crechelings or for other younglings at disaster sites, medical centers or during Seeking missions.
For each vest, Feemor told Obi-Wan to make sure there was about a pinkie knuckle of fabric between the front and back piece of the vest.
“A knuckle?”
“That’s the measure I was taught.”
It took time to sew all those pieces of fabric together, but it was good practice for stitchwork, and Obi-Wan felt comfortable trying different embroidery and mending stitches on the interior creche cloths.
When all the linings were finally complete, a task that took months, it was finally time for the actual construction.
“I’m not so nervous about the actual sewing now. Even the darts and finishing.”
“See? Your master knows what he’s doing!”
It was relatively quick work, especially with the use of some particularly strong needles gifted to Feemor and Obi-Wan by Komari Vosa of all beings.
(She’d shown up one day with two poorly wrapped packages. Inside each were all of the metal components of a hand sewing kit, including thimbles and thread cutters, a smaller travel kit, then a full range of knitting and crochet needles, the pieces for a small, metal travel loom that could be broken apart and put back together again, and a fine set of roto-shears.
Feemor hadn’t spoken to the woman since she was first claimed by Master Dooku, well, former Master Dooku, as his padawan. When Feemor asked why he and Obi-Wan were on the receiving end of such an extravagant gift, Komari had shrugged.
“It was good practice, all those tiny, finicky bits, and making the molds for them.”
That, Feemor could understand, and they’d spent a good hour discussing the many tribulations Komari was trying to overcome in her journey to learn metal smithing and, perhaps in the future, metallurgy.
He’d been glad to act as a sounding board for the senior padawan. It was all rather fascinating, and he actually had been able to give Komari some advice. Not about her metalsmithing, but in relation to how to deal with the Temple politics that had sprung up around her ambiguous position and her new endeavor, and by relaying what he knew of his first master’s experience learning and teaching a craft in the order.)
One vest would go to Kohna, of course.
Two others would go to Obi-Wan’s crechemate, Garen Muln, and his master Clee Rhara, who were both often in space.
The fourth was for Yuned. Feemor had knit a skull cap for the man as well, with a soft, thick red-brown yarn Feemor thought would look nice against Yuned’s skin.
After the vests were completed, Feemor spent a ten-day or so considering how to get these gifts to Yuned. Nua-Den said he was dallying.
“Then what do you suggest I do, oh wise Elder?”
Obi-Wan giggled from his place at their table. Nua-Den gave Feemor a flat look.
“Ask him.”
Ask him. Ask Yuned.
Sure, no problem! No problem at all, just ask Yuned, a being so secretive Feemor didn’t know his home base or the name of any ship he’d ever stepped foot on, about where Feemor could send a gift.
Feemor and Yuned had been in contact.
Mostly small written messages, or typed rather, that were sent to and from some kind of locked inbox that had been created for Yuned by a friend. An unnamed friend, of course. Every once and awhile they were able to actually have a comm call.
Those comms always started off a bit awkward, but eventually fell back into the same rhythm they’d found on Ratatak sitting beside the fire at Ky Narec’s little home.
Yuned was to the point in conversations, much like Nua-Den in that regard. He was also clever, and could suggest more with one sentence than many could say with a paragraph. He seemed to enjoy having someone to talk about his crew, and those Feemor were starting to realize stood as family for Yuned.
Feemor had it easy. His not-relations still had names for what they were to each other, terms created by the Jedi Order. Yuned did not have such things, or not in a language Feemor knew.
At least, Yuned did not provide those terms.
Even from a distance, Feemor could tell Yuned kept those he cared for at a distance while also hiding how he craved connection.
Feemor wanted to be one of those connections.
So, the gifts.
It had been presumptive to even make them. He didn’t know whether Yuned felt the same level of connection, or the same want for Feemor. But, as Kohna had pointed out when Feemor had also complained to her about the entire situation, the things were already made. It was time to either deliver them to their intended recipient, or donate them to another in need.
Feemor sent Yuned a message.
- - If I wanted to send you something, how would I do that? - -
- - What is it? - -
- - A surprise - -
- - Living? - -
- - No? A gift - -
- - {location file} - -
Alright, that wasn’t bad at all, and now Feemor had an address!
It was… in Little Keldabe. Of course it was.
“Master, I should go with you.”
“No.”
Obi-Wan seemed surprised and even a bit affronted at Feemor’s immediate refusal.
Feemor was a bit surprised at his padawan’s surprise.
“Master-”
“This is a simple errand, Obi-Wan, I-”
“Then why can’t I come with, if it is a simple errand?”
He had that look, pleasant and polite on the surface, with his eyes gone cortosis-blue. But by the will of the Force, Obi-Wan was still Feemor’s padawan.
“I am not taking my padawan along on a personal errand of this nature.”
Obi-Wan slumped a bit, visibly and in his Force signature.
Obi-Wan and he had already had a discussion about personal lives, specifically romantic and sexual connections to other beings. It hadn’t been the most comfortable conversation, mostly because Obi-Wan was still very concerned about attachments at the time, but Feemor had set some very strong boundaries and general rules going forward, and then welcomed Obi-Wan to work with him to set further guidelines for their partnership.
One such rule was that either could take time away for a meeting, or even to spend some time alone, but they needed to tell the other where they were going and how long they would be gone. Under certain circumstances, Feemor could refuse to allow Obi-Wan to leave, but even that was purposely limited.
So Feemor went alone to Little Keldabe.
_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_
Why the kriff did he think it was a good idea to go alone to Little Keldabe?
Feemor had been in enough social uncomfortable and even outright hostile situations (mostly with Qui-Gon, of course) that he could easily keep his body relaxed and loose, with a bland but welcoming smile on his face. He kept his steps light and at a slower pace.
He also made sure to meet the eyes, or visors, of a few of the visibly hostile Mandalorians he passed.
(An old lesson from Qui-Gon, one he’d in turn learned from Dooku;
“In the life of a Jedi, there are times one wants to appear unthreatening, and there are times one wants to appear un-threatened. Let the potential opponent understand, ‘I see your threat, I see what you can do, I acknowledge it, but I am not concerned with your violence because I can easily end it’. You are allowing their posturing, because it is only right they should fear you, and you respect them for the attempt. But you know you are the greater threat.”
He’d been impressed with the lesson when he was a padawan, but it had been a little disconcerting to watch Rael give Obi-Wan the same lesson over a shared late-meal, after Feemor’s padawan had complained about his young master’s ability to look scary out of nowhere.
There’d been a gleam in Obi-Wan’s eyes that Feemor knew would lead to at least one disaster on a future mission.)
Feemor carefully made his way down the crowded main thoroughfare until he found the correct side street. ‘Side street’ was a bit generous of a term. Really it was an alleyway.
A rather busy alleyway though, with multiple busy apartment balconies above, and at least one petty argument over what appeared to be an armor polish vendor and a potential customer standing outside a doorway halfway down the alley.
Feemor slid by the pair and continued down the alley, ignoring the increased yelling conversation happening in mando’a above him.
Toward the end of the alleyway, Feemor’s rarely used wrist unit indicated that he’d found the correct place. Feemor looked at a light brown, windowless metal door with deep red detailing in swooping designs along the door’s raised metal.
Feemor knocked twice.
A speaker from somewhere clicked on.
“Who?”
“Ah, my name is Feemor, I…”
Feemor didn’t want to say Yuned’s name. It didn’t matter if these were Yuned’s people. Feemor was standing in the middle of a public space. He would not just say Yuned’s name.
“...ah, I was told I should drop off a package here.”
There was a long pause, then a loud buzz as the door’s lock was disengaged. The door just barely opened, a common feature of doors installed and programed during Coruscants’ last century.
Feemor grabbed the door handle, opened the door the rest of the way, then slipped inside. He firmly closed the heavy door behind him.
He found himself in a small windowless entryway crowded with hanging cloaks and bags, with two warm, bare bulbs providing light. Feemor kept moving through to the door on the other side of the small room.
Feemor was surprised by what he found on the other side of the door.
It appeared to be a small cafe. The room was lit by a traditional Coruscanti system of mirrors and films, all redirecting light from some unseen skylight far above. There were tables and corresponding chairs of a few sizes, as was typical of businesses that knew they’d serve a variety of species.
There was also bar seating, a shelf with food behind plexalloy, a shelf at the backwall with some goods and download boxes for those who wanted to purchase files of holoreels, news reports or other media.
To Feemor’s left, further in the room, Feemor also saw a wall of greens one would expect from a middle income home, obviously used here to provide fresher options to the cafe’s customers.
Most surprising to Feemor was the lack of visibly Mandalorian customers.
Feemor looked back at the counter where a young Twilek-human hybrid woman stood behind a register watching Feemor.
“Hello there, I was told to come to this address?”
The woman studied Feemor.
“What do you need?”
Feemor was a bit unsure, but Yuned had been the one who told Feemor to come here. He opened his satchel and pulled out the parcel with Yuned’s present.
“Ah, I was told you could deliver this, for me.”
He passed the parcel over to the woman. She frowned and accepted it, then shifted it back and forth in her hands, as if trying to guess what was inside.
“Deliver it where?”
Femmor thought for a second. He still felt so uncomfortable saying Yuned’s name outloud. Why hadn’t he asked Yuned about this? Oh right, because he was embarrassed about giving a gift to the being he’d been flirting with for nearly a year.
He took a deep breath.
“There is one who lives out in space, who…has some Mandalorian family members. When I told him I wanted to give him a gift, he told me to bring it here for him.”
The woman studied Feemor for a minute then her eyes went wide. She then bit down on a small smile.
“We will make sure this gets to him. Would you like to sit?”
She indicated one of the bar counter seats, the one closest to the register. Feemor, blushing (kriff), nodded.
Over the next 30 minutes, Feemor learned about Crimson Song, the cafe, and Ahne, the young woman who accepted Feemor’s parcel, while sipping a cold bittersweet drink made of creme and a roasted flower root.
The little cafe was a place of respite for newly freed on Couscant, though Ahne was careful not to say this explicitly.
“Many new Republic residents and citizens, they may have experience with, work, but they do not know how to work with, ah, the parameters one, expects from a Republic plAhnet. So some work here, others come for courses or, information, especially about loved ones that, ah, are displaced. And we are a cafe where they can come and relax without judgement. Here, they don’t have to act like, like, ah, Core Worlders.”
Feemor nodded while mentally translated; Crimson Song was homebase for newly freed slaves. A place for some to retrain and for any newly freed to access support and advice, likely including legal advice.
He’d have to pass Nim’s contact information before he left.
Ahne was also a wonderful host. In between attending her other duties, she told him about the different dishes and drinks. Some items Feemor had never seen on Coruscant before, though a few items had been drastically changed due to the different ingredients available on Coruscant compared to the Outer Rim. Ahne didn’t know as much about their hydroponic system, but Feemor was still impressed with what she could share.
Eventually Feemor was looking down at an empty cup.
“Ahne, thank you so much for your time. And for taking responsibility of my parcel. How much was the drink?”
Ahne shook her head, a smile on her face.
“Nothing, for you.”
“I must-”
Ahne held up a hand.
“Don’t worry, it was not free. Your spacer friend, it is from him. As is this.”
Ahne pulled out a little prepared tray of sweets, then packed them into a travel box.
Feemor recognized a few of his favorite treats, and even some of Obi-Wan’s favorites, on the tray.
He was sure his face was bright red.
“Oh, ah, thank you Ahne.”
Ahne was smirking at Feemor. He tried desperately not to cover his face with his hands.
“You are most welcome, Feemor. Now, head back to your temple. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to be late for your comm call.”
Feemor looked up at Ahne. He didn’t have-
Oh, she’d let Yuned know he’d been here. Feemor grinned.
“You’re right, Ahne. I should get going. But, if it is alright with you, I would like to come by again.”
Ahne’s smirk changed to a true smile.
“You are most welcome to come again.”