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“Did that just really happen?”
“If you mean, did we just finalize a negotiation to rejoin the Republic within our first day on the world,” Qui-Gon says, rummaging about in the kitchen, “then the answer is yes.”
Obi-Wan opens his mouth – and then shuts it and slumps onto one of the cushioned lounge seats. Their hosts had been insistent on providing them with extravagant accommodations, no matter how much Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon had demurred and explained that Jedi were comfortable with simpler settings. To that end, their suite of rooms has a balcony that allows for a gorgeous view of the binary sunsets, and plenty of comfortable seats with which to view said gorgeous sunsets.
Not that Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon have had the opportunity to see one yet, given the fact that they’d landed just this morning and the negotiations had concluded by midday.
“What in the name of the Force just happened?” Obi-Wan asks the unhelpful but admittedly very pretty sky.
A shadow falls over him as Qui-Gon steps onto the balcony. Qui-Gon says, “We successfully completed our mission of assisting the Terni in rejoining the Republic. The treaty is not perfect, but the terms are acceptable to both the Terni and the Republic, and now the Republic can officially provide them with reparations to rebuild and repair.” He pauses, and then adds teasingly, “Did you sleep through the negotiations? You were quieter than you were usually were.”
Obi-Wan rolls his head to the side. “It was your turn to take the lead, anyways. I handled Utapau, remember?”
“I remember the varactyls.”
It is such a Qui-Gon answer that Obi-Wan has to smile. “If all you remember from the Utapau negotiations is the varactyls, then I think I’m justified in taking a few breaks during the Terni negotiations,” he says wryly. Then he sits up. “But seriously. Did that really just happen?”
“I’ve already sent word to the Council and the Supreme Chancellor, so it better have.”
“Master.”
Qui-Gon makes a soft sound of amusement. “Were you expecting a different answer?” he asks, dropping the pretense of teasing.
“ . . . Maybe.”
“Is that your instincts speaking or your tendency to fret over uncertain futures?”
Obi-Wan scowls. “I do not fret.”
“And the daily ‘coincidental’ visits during my rehab were . . . ?”
“Necessary to keep you from losing your temper at the Healers,” Obi-Wan answers promptly. “It’s not usual to go through ten different Healer Padawans over the span of one year for one case, you know.”
“I have it on good authority that my case was extraordinarily complex.”
“It would have been a lot less complex if you’d stopped fighting the Healers.”
“We merely had some – disagreements over their projected timeline for my recovery.”
“Master, you were stabbed through the chest,” Obi-Wan says, rolling his eyes. “It’s not every day that a Jedi is treated for a lightsaber stab wound. I wouldn’t fault the Healers for being cautious when they were putting together your treatment plan given the rarity of what happened.”
“Strange,” Qui-Gon says lightly. “I seem to remember that argument being instantly dismissed when I used it following Rattatak.”
They are Jedi; they do not linger overlong over the past. Obi-Wan has had his share of meditation to come to terms with Rattatak, and he knows that Qui-Gon has as well. He knows that Qui-Gon would not bring up the topic merely to cause stress or pain – but he also wouldn’t bring it casually on a whim either.
He sighs and rubs at his face. “You think I’m overreacting.”
“Just a little bit,” Qui-Gon says. “The Terni allied with the Separatists because they were deep in Separatist space and it was more advantageous to disavow the Republic than wait for our aid. They have their complaints, as any member body does, but nothing that cannot be discussed and taken into account. Now that the war is over, we have a proper forum to actually listen and respond to such complaints and act accordingly, especially when it comes to providing aid. And given how eager they are for aid, it should not be surprising that they welcomed our arrival and worked with us in good faith.”
Obi-Wan blows out a long breath. They are all points that he knows – hells, some of them are points that he made when he put together the criteria for prioritizing requests for re-entry and matching them to appropriately skilled Jedi teams.
Silently, he holds out a hand to Qui-Gon. It is a both of a gesture of apology and a request for connection, and ever since the habit formed in the terrible, up-and-down days just after Naboo, they have always used it. They know each other so well that they do not need words to communicate, but cultivating the habit of deliberately and consciously reaching out to each other had taken time and no small amount of fights.
Qui-Gon takes his hand, as he always does, and squeezes it. A no apology necessary as much as a I am here for you.
“No apology needed, dear one,” Qui-Gon murmurs. “I can understand.”
“For once I get off without a lecture of living in the moment? Perhaps this truly is a momentous occasion.”
“I suppose I can make allowances. Just this once,” Qui-Gon says, eyes winkling. “You have been working rather hard. I don’t think you’ve had a break from these re-entry negotiations in months, and the Negotiator is, of course, in high demand for the most . . . sensitive requests.”
“You know I hate that name.”
“It’s still on your battlecruiser, so until then it is yours to keep.”
Obi-Wan scowls. He’d known it was a mistake to vow out loud that he would get the ship renamed the second he could once the war ended, because gossip spreads through the battalions faster than a fathier and Qui-Gon had heard of his vow basically seconds after he’d made it, but he’d been rather extremely pissed off and, well. An angry Jedi is one that makes mistakes.
Fortunately, his old Master has seen worse things from him.
“I can’t wait until the Chancellor can formally accept our resignations from the GAR. At least that title I know is almost on its way out.”
Qui-Gon hums. “I don’t know, General Kenobi seemed a very dashing title. Are you sure you don’t want to keep it?”
“Kriffing hells no.”
“I suppose it shall just have to live on in your show, then.”
Obi-Wan jerks his head up. He is aware, of course, that many of the more famous Jedi have been made holo stars against their will. Qui-Gon had laughed until he’d cried the first time he had seen the building-long flashing holobanner for the Adventures of General Kenobi. But he’d thought that had been the extent of Qui-Gon’s familiarity with it.
“You didn’t,” he says to Qui-Gon.
Qui-Gon takes a placid sip of tea. Too placid. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Master – ”
“But General Vos might have.”
“I am going to – ”
“We live in the moment, my old Padawan. We do not dwell on uncertain futures. Especially,” Qui-Gon adds, “uncertain futures about strangling one of your agemates.”
Obi-Wan makes a note to access the Temple rosters and find out where Quinlan is stationed. Then he deliberately makes a show of taking a deep breath and relaxing his face, projecting calm around himself and through their bond, so that Qui-Gon will think he’s let the matter go.
“Vos’s fans will be very disappointed if you end up strangling their favorite.”
Or not.
“He’d live. And I bet he’d like the break from his fans,” Obi-Wan says.
“Not that kind of break,” Qui-Gon says. “Besides. I should think you’d want to dedicate that formidable mind of yours to your break.”
Obi-Wan blinks, utterly derailed from plans of revenge. “What break?”
“Well, our transport won’t return to pick us up for a week. We can’t call them in earlier, and we can’t exactly book another transport since most of the ships here still have Separatists transponders. But our treaty negotiations are concluded, so . . .”
Once again, all points that Obi-Wan knows. And yet, vaguely, he’d dismissed them. Because: “I was going to begin brushing up on our next – ”
“That is not a break; that is working.”
“But I could make some headway in – ”
“Still not a break.”
“I could at least assist in reviewing some of the other pending cases– ”
“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon interrupts, in his most severe and stern voice. “If you do not use this opportunity to take a break, I will put you on the next transport back home to do your break in-Temple. With Healer supervision.”
“I’m not a Padawan anymore.”
“Then act like a Jedi Master.”
Obi-Wan glares at him for a few moments, but Qui-Gon is – as ever – unmoved. That’s not really surprising, though; Qui-Gon has always been the immovable foundation that Obi-Wan has been able to rely upon. And he’s never more obstinate than when it comes to Obi-Wan’s health, rather annoyingly.
He groans and flops back on the cushioned lounge seat. “At least in the Temple I would know how to occupy myself. What in the name of the Force am I meant to do here?”
“Firstly,” Qui-Gon says dryly, “I will point out that the goal of a break is to relax, not to occupy yourself. And secondly – ”
“I’m not the one who took over caring for an orphaned runyip after Naboo.”
“And secondly,” Qui-Gon continues, pointedly ignoring him, “I will note if you had been paying full attention during the negotiations, you would been listening when our hosts told us of the Feast of Valentine.”
“The what now?” Obi-Wan says, because while he could rummage back in his memories and pull out the relevant ones and scan them, they’re not actively at war now – it’s not a life or death scenario anymore, and so it’s okay if he lets someone else take the lead for once in remembering alien traditions. Also, he can’t deny that it’s comforting to hear Qui-Gon slip back into his teaching voice, like he used to when Obi-Wan was younger and still soaking up every bit of knowledge he could.
“The Feast of Valentine,” Qui-Gon repeats, and Obi-Wan can hear the wry smile in his voice. “A day for celebration and renewal and enjoying oneself.”
“Sounds rather indulgent for a Jedi to be partaking in, Master.”
“I think you can handle a bit of candy without losing your way on the path. Also, I heard rumors of your favorite wine.”
Obi-Wan blinks in shock. They’re no longer in a place where they need to ration, so foods that were commonplace before the war but become rare delicacies after it are beginning to return to the Core. Still, most luxury items have been slow to follow suit, and while Obi-Wan has thought wistfully of abusing his power as a member of the Council to demand wine to go with his tea, it’s only ever been a thought – innocent and wistful and easily dismissed.
He’d never expected his favorite wine to be here, in a random Midrim planet.
“Are you – Are you serious?”
“Would I ever not be serious about wine? Do you not remember – ”
“Yes, yes, I remember your lectures on the danger of getting drunk and the importance of mastering filtering out alcohol with the Force,” Obi-Wan says hastily, for while he might enjoy listening to Qui-Gon relay information to him, that does not include his lectures. Even if they had served for handy blueprints when it came time to give Anakin the same lectures.
Fortunately for the both of them, Anakin had taken one sip of wine, almost spat it out, and never partaken again until Padmé had introduced him to far, far milder Naboo vintages that he had been able to stomach.
“Oh good. I haven’t had to give that lecture in so long that I’ve mostly forgotten it, to be honest.”
“I doubt that very much.”
“Well, you’re free to doubt me on that, but not about the wine. Apparently it’s one of the most popular kinds for the feast, so they have quite a stock on hand.”
The aura around Qui-Gon is calm and steady and sincere; he couldn’t be radiating truthfulness any harder if he tried. It would be really convincing – if Obi-Wan hadn’t sensed the exact same steady sincerity right before the time Qui-Gon had revealed that his first demonstration of Jar’Kai would be a live one, and promptly proceeded to chase Obi-Wan all over the salle with two lightsabers.
Still, Qui-Gon usually isn’t lying about wine. Usually.
“Well, I suppose,” Obi-Wan says slowly, “I could be convinced to take a short break. We might as well be seen partaking of the feast by our hosts. As a show of faith and goodwill.”
“It would put their minds at ease, certainly.”
“And if I am taking a break – and considering that the transport won’t be back for a week . . .”
“Yes?”
“Then I want enough wine and candy to take down a krayt dragon,” Obi-Wan declares.
Qui-Gon laughs so hard that he spills sapir all down his tunics.
The candied fruits are delicious, and the delicate little cakes are lovely, and the soft puddings are wondrous, but the vast array of excellent wines and spirits is what makes the Feast of Valentines truly spectacular. Obi-Wan eats until his taste buds can’t handle another iota of sweetness, and then he turns his attention to indulging in beverages. He doesn’t only drink his favorite, either; he has long since learned the joys of sampling new delicacies in new planets, and the Terni are more than happy to provide.
Still, when they’ve eaten and drunk their full – and judged that they’ve spent an acceptable amount of time being seen outside – they retreat to their rooms, and Obi-Wan happily hugs the bottle of his favorite wine to his chest through the entire walk.
“If I didn’t know that was wine, I would think it was a case of kyber crystals straight from Ilum,” Qui-Gon teases.
“If they were kyber crystals I’d be using the Force,” Obi-Wan points out, because the tradition around kyber crystals is that each young Jedi seeks theirs out using the Force, carries it out using the Force, and then brings it back home using the Force. It helps them become more attuned with their new crystal, which is especially helpful when it comes time to construct a lightsaber.
Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow. “Are you telling me that you are not using the Force right now?”
“Only to prevent hyperglycemia.”
Qui-Gon raises his other eyebrow.
“I told you that I intended to take in enough wine and sugar to take down a krayt dragon,” Obi-Wan reminds him, cracking open the bottle. “Clearing out all of the alcohol the second it hit my system would rather inhibit that goal.”
“And you intend . . . to drink all of that?”
“The transport isn’t returning for a week,” Obi-Wan says cheerily, and promptly throws back his first glass and instantly refills it.
He hears Qui-Gon heave a huge sigh, but Qui-Gon does not stop him. If anything, the only thing he senses from Qui-Gon as Qui-Gon gets up and heads to the kitchen is fond amusement. And he can’t deny that it’s incredibly comforting to know that Qui-Gon is close. He is a Jedi Master, and has long since left behind the days where he was under the protection of Qui-Gon’s shadow – but Qui-Gon’s protection was a large part of his formative years, and he is always more at ease around the man who’d kept him warm and safe and alive.
Also, if Qui-Gon wasn’t around, then he wouldn’t even have the option of imbibing enough to match a krayt dragon.
As Obi-Wan steadily works his way through the wine, Qui-Gon drinks his tea and helps himself to some of the sweets provided by their hosts. He doesn’t overindulge, only taking a few sips of the wine when offered, but one of them has to be coherent, and Obi-Wan can always be the sober one another time. They’ve often traded being the person who has to be the responsible and focused adult – this time is no different.
Well, mostly no different, because this time when Obi-Wan drains the last of his wine and looks forlornly at the empty bottle, Qui-Gon says, “You’re slowing down, my old Padawan. You used to be able to drink a Besalisk under the table at record speed.”
Obi-Wan squints at him. He’s drank enough that the world is starting to gain some fuzziness, but he can still think. It’s a skill one learns, given all of the concussions he’s gotten during the war.
“Wait, you know about when I used to – ”
“Sneak out to Dex’s for drinks? You might have been able to set your own curfew as a Senior Padawan, but you were still a Padawan; the Temple guards were required to alert me when you left and returned, you know.”
“Oh.” Obi-Wan thinks about it. It takes a little bit longer than he would like to admit. “So that’s why Anakin started sneaking out through the tunnels.”
“He what?”
“He and Padawan Veld used to sneak out to scavenge for droid parts. I used to wonder why the Temple guards never alerted me. He was terrible at sneaking back in, though. I would know the second the door closed because he’d come back with his hands full of parts.”
“You weren’t that great at sneaking back in yourself,” Qui-Gon notes. “You always looked so guilty in the morning.”
“I did not!”
“You very much did. Why do you think I assigned you quite so much practice on your lessons of filtering out toxins? It took me quite a while to realize it was guilt and not a hangover.”
“And here I thought you were just expecting to be poisoned constantly.”
“That too,” Qui-Gon admits wryly. “But in apology for my unneeded torture . . .”
And then he stands up and wanders off into the kitchen. Obi-Wan stares after him, utterly confused, but the Force doesn’t tell him that danger is coming so he stays relaxed. Or perhaps he is too relaxed to be alarmed by the gentle ripples in the Force. After all, whatever he’s sensing isn’t mortal danger, and his saber is nearby, and there’s plenty of cover to duck behind . . .
Before he can decide which, Qui-Gon emerges from the kitchen.
With an entire crate of wine.
“What,” Obi-Wan says very eloquently.
“Happy Feast of Valentine,” Qui-Gon tells him, casually thumping the crate down at their feet. “It’s all yours.”
Obi-Wan stares. Nudges it with his foot. Nudges it a few more times just to make sure.
“How the – ”
“The Terni wanted to provide us a gift of appreciation for completing the re-entry negotiations so swiftly,” Qui-Gon explains, easily anticipating his question. “I requested this on your behalf. I wasn’t sure if you’d agree to go out, after all, so I figured this reward could at least be enjoyed while staying in.”
Obi-Wan opens his mouth to say that Jedi are not supposed to accept gifts for missions, and then he quickly closes it because, well. It’s not like he can give the wine back. So instead he asks, “But why would my wine?”
Because Qui-Gon might also drink some, and he might enjoy it – there only a few things Qui-Gon despises, and he’s a trained diplomat who can fake delight even over things his palate might find utterly disgusting – but in the end, this wine is Obi-Wan’s favorite, not Qui-Gon’s. Not to mention that Qui-Gon, by his own declaration, appears to be ceding it all to Obi-Wan to have. Qui-Gon is not an uncharitable man, but his generosity generally comes in form of other comforts, not wine.
“Well, you did set a rather lofty goal,” Qui-Gon says lightly, settling back on the couch next to him. “It would be remiss of me not to help you. In the spirt of the feast, after all.”
It’s not a lie, according to the Force. Then again, the first thing Qui-Gon trained Obi-Wan in the art of diplomacy is that not telling a lie is hardly the same thing as telling the truth.
Obi-Wan narrows his eyes. “You want to see me get absolutely drunk, don’t you?”
“It’s your goal. I’m just . . . helping.”
“Your definition of help leaves much unsaid,” Obi-Wan tells him. “Now pass me a bottle.”
Qui-Gon laughs, but he does pass Obi-Wan a bottle. He even opens it for him. He opens the second too, and the third. By then, the world has gone from slightly fuzzy to permanently tilted on an axis, and Obi-Wan goes from sitting on the couch to sprawling on it. It’s just more sensible, since it ensures that he doesn’t go spilling onto the ground every time he takes a sip.
“Yes, I agree that laying down was a sensible decision,” Qui-Gon says from somewhere that sounds very far away. “And I am not far away, I am on the same couch as you.”
Obi-Wan lifts his head. Squints. Squints a little harder when Qui-Gon’s blurry outline only gets blurrier. “Then why do you feel like – like you’re on another continent?”
“Because you are very drunk,” Qui-Gon says, in a tone of great patience.
“Am not.”
“Definitely are, dear one.”
Obi-Wan considers it. He isn’t sure if it takes seconds or hours, but eventually he musters up the brainpower to reply: “Only a little.”
“If we’re using a battlecruiser to define little, perhaps.”
Obi-Wan groans and thumps his head back. Battlecruisers mean discussions of war and tactics and strategies, and bringing out his High General Kenobi façade, and Obi-Wan hates putting on that façade. He knows he’s good at it – Qui-Gon trained him too well not to be, and the war has only made him better – but that only makes him like it less.
“We are all very well aware that you’d much prefer to be called Master Kenobi. And I’m sure the Chancellor will be able to accept our resignations soon.”
“Would rather it be – be now.”
“I’m not sure that you’d be able to open your comm to receive such news, even if it were to come right now.”
“Would too!” Obi-Wan says. He lets the bottle in his hand thump to the floor, because it’s mostly empty anyways, and fumbles for his belt. Or, at least, he expects the bottle to thump to the floor. What really happens is that it stops falling midway and then levitates smoothly onto the table. “Hey – that’s – that’s cheating.”
“Just because I promised that I would not use the Force to purge your system does not mean that I won’t use it to stop you from spilling wine everywhere.”
“Bottle’s mostly empty.”
“Emphasis on the ‘mostly’ there.”
Obi-Wan makes a face at him. “‘S not fair to use – to use diplomatic speak on me – right now,” he complains. “I’m – I’m com – compro – comprom – ”
Qui-Gon lets him carry on for a few more moments, because he is a cruel, cruel man, and then he says dryly, “Yes, you’re most definitely not drunk and definitely in a fit state to receive comms from the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic.”
“Comm!” Obi-Wan says, and goes back to fumbling at his belt. It takes him an embarrassing number of tries, but eventually he prizes it free and holds it up. “See, I can – I could receive messages if I had – had to.”
“Do you even know which button does what?”
“Yes! This one – This one, it – it opens – well, I think it opens messages,” Obi-Wan says, squinting at the comm. “It might delete them. Maybe I should test it? I have a lot of messages to – ”
Which is when the comm vanishes from his hands, as abruptly as though it’s been teleported away.
Obi-Wan stares. He flexes his hand, but the comm does not reappear. He looks at his belt, but the comm-shaped void does not refill. And the floor is suspiciously free of any comm-shaped objects.
“Maybe I should retain custody of your comm until you are cognizant enough to realize when someone’s taken it,” comes Qui-Gon’s distant voice again.
Obi-Wan levels a finger at him. “Thief!”
“I would argue it is not thievery if it involves not allowing someone to make a fool of themselves.”
“I wouldn’t have!”
Qui-Gon gives him a look.
“Well, Anakin’s seen worse, anyways,” Obi-Wan amends, because he has to agree that while most of his fellow Jedi would just find any drunken message he sent funny, any of the Commanders would find it less so, and any Senators would find it even less so. In fact, he’s pretty sure Cody would go AWOL and fly down personally to demand to know what in the blazes was going on. Cody’s good like that, solid and dependable.
“Yes, I agree, Commander Cody is a very good man,” Qui-Gon says, but strangely, he says it in the voice of someone who has said it many times before. They haven’t discussed Cody that many times, surely. “I’m glad that you were paired with him.”
“He wasn’t always so glad of it.”
“That’s because you and Anakin kept giving him and Captain Rex heart attacks.”
“We did not!”
“Zygerria.”
“Was not my fault.”
“Cato Neimoidia, then.”
“Still not my fault.”
“That seems to be your response for a suspicious number of things.”
“Because it is the truth!”
“Well, the truth is that you are far too drunk to be sending messages to anyone, even Anakin.”
Obi-Wan sulks. Not that he particularly wants to message Anakin, since Anakin is on much deserved leave on Naboo with Padmé and the twins, but being denied even the possibility is rather annoying. And even worse, Qui-Gon had never limited his comm usage during their apprenticeship, so this is an extra restriction.
“You can have your comm back when you stop flinching from the suns because you’re too drunk to remember that you can just cover your eyes.”
“The suns!” Obi-Wan brightens. “Wait, I should send a message to Anakin about the suns! I should – ”
“No, I think we should remain sitting.”
“But he hasn’t been to Tatooine in ages, and we haven’t been to many systems with binary suns, he probably would like a picture of the sunset, I really should – ”
Qui-Gon remains adamant that they should stay sitting, but Obi-Wan wins. Mostly he does so by rolling off the couch before Qui-Gon can catch him, but a victory is a victory, so he staggers to out to the balcony with an air of pride and ignores Qui-Gon muttering probably very uncomplimentary things behind his back. Fortunately, the lounge seats are comfortable and cushioned, so when Obi-Wan misjudges the force with which he sits down, it’s a soft landing.
“Just in time!” Obi-Wan says, pointing at the horizon. “Sunset! Binary sunset!”
“Yes, I do indeed see the very obvious binary sunset,” Qui-Gon says, coming to a stop by his side.
“Different from Coruscant, isn’t it? Because we – we have one sun.”
“Yes, that we do,” Qui-Gon says. “One sun to light up our entire world.”
“I wonder if Coruscant might’ve been built different. If we had two suns, you know.”
“Hmm. It might have been warmer on the surface, perhaps.”
“Ugh.”
“I wouldn’t have minded.”
“Because you like it hot.”
“I like it comfortable. You like it hot, given all of the times you huddled up next to me.”
“Was easier than using the Force,” Obi-Wan points out. Qui-Gon had taught him how to control his temperature, certainly, but sometimes such lessons were difficult to put into place when his stomach was growling and his head was aching and his eyes were drooping. Sometimes it had just been easier to curl up next to his Master and bask in the familiar, effortless heat, because his Master had never refused to let Obi-Wan seek shelter under his cloak whenever it was cold.
“Maybe I should have given you with more lessons about controlling your temperature than purging toxins from your system.”
“Well, you can’t give them to me now. ‘M a Master. In my own right.”
“Yes, you are,” Qui-Gon says, and his voice is deep and soft and strange.
Obi-Wan squints at him. “What was that tone?”
“Oh – forgive an old Master his nostalgia,” Qui-Gon says. “Sometimes I still remember you as the scrawny boy insistent on saving a war-torn world, because you knew you could make a difference.”
“Sometimes? And here I thought I would be reminded of Melida/Daan for all my days.”
“Well, the scrawny boy grew up. And he’s grown up into a fine Jedi. Finer and wiser than me, certainly.”
Obi-Wan hiccups. “I’m starting to think that that last bottle might not – might not have been so wise.”
“Hmm, perhaps,” Qui-Gon says, and now he sounds amused again, which feels better – more like how Qui-Gon should sound. “I don’t suppose you’ll be opposed to be using the Force to help alleviate the hangover you’ll have tomorrow, will you?”
“No,” Obi-Wan says immediately. And then he blinks and says, “Wait, you’ve never helped before.”
“Well, I did help contribute to this state that you’re in. So I think I share in some of the responsibility of helping you come of it.”
“But you’ve never helped before.”
“There is a first time for everything, Obi-Wan.”
“But – ” Obi-Wan says, and then he has to stop and try very hard to think, because for once Qui-Gon isn’t immediately understanding what he is saying, and as annoying as it usually is for Qui-Gon to know him so well, somehow this miscommunication is even more annoying. “But you – you had the wine. You brought me the wine. You helped with that.”
“The Terni were insistent on giving us a gift of appreciation. I thought wine would be more welcome than a tower of caramelized jelly orbs.”
“But you never bring me wine. And you don’t – we don’t normally accept gifts.”
“Are you complaining about the wine?”
“No, but – But you never bring me wine. Normally. Why now?”
To his surprise, Qui-Gon does not answer him immediately. Or at least, he doesn’t answer him in words. Instead, Qui-Gon leans over and picks up his hand. He squeezes it, gentle as a breeze, and then brushes the softest kiss over Obi-Wan’s palm.
It’s their standard subtle request for connection, reaching for the other’s hand, but it makes no sense why Qui-Gon would ask for connection. They’ve had no disagreements, they’re not in danger, they aren’t coming together after a long time apart. And the kissing – they’ve definitely never done that before.
“What are you – ”
“Can’t you guess why, dear one?” Qui-Gon says softly, his mouth still so close to Obi-Wan’s hand that he can feel each syllable as much as he can hear it.
“I – I don’t understand – ”
“Because you’re drunk,” Qui-Gon says, a slight smile on his face. He squeezes Obi-Wan’s hand once again and then tucks it back by Obi-Wan’s side. “Sleep it off and you’ll understand in the morning, my Obi-Wan.”
The morning comes far too early, way too cold, and very much unappreciated. Obi-Wan groans and tries to bury his face in his robe, but the binary suns are so bright that even his cloak isn’t enough. It also doesn’t help that the morning wind is a bit stronger and cooler than Obi-Wan wants right now. Add the fact that his head has decided to jumpstart the throbbing headache factory and, well, it isn’t long before Obi-Wan gives up, rolls off the cushioned lounge seat, and staggers inside in search of warmth, food, and Qui-Gon.
Fortunately, he finds all three the second he steps into the kitchen.
Unfortunately, he finds all three in the strangest manner he’s ever seen.
The kitchen is warm, yes, but not just because the heat has been turned up. The antique brazier – the ones their hosts told them were once used to grill meats for guests – has been lit and is crackling merrily in the corner. The kitchen has food, yes, but not the kind of simple fare Qui-Gon and he normally consume. The entire table is covered in foodstuffs, ranging from meats and stews to greens and eggs to fruits and breads. And Qui-Gon – Qui-Gon is there, but he isn’t drinking tea or eating his own food; no, he is carefully arranging what looks like some kind of platter of chocolates.
Also, there are flowers. And candles. And –
“Um,” Obi-Wan says eloquently.
“Oh good, you’re awake,” Qui-Gon says. He shoots Obi-Wan a quick glance, and then he pauses and looks again. “Headache?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Obi-Wan answers, because it’s that or demand what in the Sith hells is going on, and he doesn’t quite feel up to playing verbal dejarik with Qui-Gon right now. “I – I was just looking for some food before I went for the medkit.”
“No need for that.”
Obi-Wan blinks. As a Master, Qui-Gon had let him learn how to handle the consequences of his choices, but they are no longer Master and Padawan, and even back then, he had never forced Obi-Wan to suffer through the effects of a hangover. “If you want me to be at all coherent today, yes, there very much is a need for that,” he says cautiously.
Qui-Gon sighs, but there is an amused glint in his eye. He straightens. “You really were drunk, weren’t you?”
“Hence the massive headache. Can you just – ”
Which is when Qui-Gon strides over and reaches up to place his hands on either side of Obi-Wan’s head. He even anticipates and adjusts for Obi-Wan’s flinch of surprise, to the point where they actually end up standing closer together. The Force swells around them, like a river when a sudden rain has come, and when Qui-Gon presses their foreheads together, Obi-Wan lets his eyes fall closed.
“I believe,” Qui-Gon murmurs, “that I told you that since I shared in the responsibility of giving you a hangover, I would also share in the responsibility of alleviating it.”
The currents of the Force wash through Obi-Wan. It’s gentler than the lightest breeze, warmer than the strongest fire, and more healing than the most potent medicine. It is the power of Qui-Gon’s connection to the living Force, and when the eddies have calmed, Obi-Wan is as headache free as if he hadn’t had a single drop of wine.
“Better?”
Obi-Wan nods. Not a full head motion, though, for he finds that he does not wish to disturb the gentle grip Qui-Gon has on him. He also finds that he does not wish for Qui-Gon to step back. They’ve always been close, in sync on the battlefield and effortlessly linked through their bond, but physical closeness of this nature has been a rarity. Oh, when he has been injured, Qui-Gon has kept close watch by his bed, and Obi-Wan had nagged Qui-Gon constantly in the wake of Naboo – but never like this. Never so close that their chests have brushed with each inhale, that their robes mingle at their feet, that their heartbeats sound almost as one.
Or if they have, Obi-Wan was never conscious enough to appreciate it.
He very much is conscious right now. And with Qui-Gon easing the throbbing headache brought on by an overindulgence of wine, he is also conscious of a few other things. Like his memories of last night. He opens his mouth –
And Qui-Gon shifts. Straightens, and pulls his hands away, and steps back, posture as perfect as though he’s attending a Senatorial gala.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better now,” Qui-Gon says, like he isn’t the reason Obi-Wan is headache-free. He gestures at the table. “I wasn’t sure what you’d be hungry for, so I – I tried to get a little of everything.”
“ . . . I can see that,” Obi-Wan says, because that is the only response he can muster. “Our, ah, hosts were very accommodating, I suppose?”
“Extremely. They were most impressed by how much wine you drank, by the way.”
And this – this is more familiar territory. This is the type of banter they’ve always engaged in, ever since they finally found their rhythm in the early days of their apprenticeship. So Obi-Wan nods and plays his part.
“Did you conveniently leave out the part where I eventually passed out because of how much wine I drank?”
“Perhaps.”
“Well, thank you for preserving my reputation.”
“I thought that since you have so little of it, I should be kind.”
“I have more than you.”
“Not by much.”
“Councilor,” Obi-Wan reminds him, pointing at himself. Then he points at Qui-Gon. “Not Councilor.”
“I seem to remember that you were much less proud of it the day they nominated you.”
Which is true. Obi-Wan had dropped his datapad right on the ground, stormed out of his berth, and then barged straight into Qui-Gon’s. Qui-Gon had laughed at first, and then he’d calmly listened as Obi-Wan had ranted and paced and ranted some more. When Obi-Wan had finally run out of breath, Qui-Gon had wordlessly pushed tea and muja tarts at him and not let him leave until he’d both eaten and drank.
“No, I was a little agitated,” Obi-Wan concedes. “Less so after the tea.”
“Why do I think I gave it to you?” Qui-Gon says, sounding vastly amused.
Obi-Wan squints at him, because between the two of them, Obi-Wan is the one who gets visions, not Qui-Gon. And if it wasn’t a vision: “You just happened to have my favorite tea on hand because . . . ?”
“Can’t you guess why?”
And Qui-Gon’s tone is different. His bearing is different. The conversation is different. But the words: they are the exact same.
Can’t you guess why, dear one?
Obi-Wan’s hand tingles. They’ve held hands so many times, but Qui-Gon has never kissed his hand, and right now it’s like he can still feel the phantom sensation of Qui-Gon’s beard on his skin, like his skin remembers it. He curls it into a fist at his side, yet the sensation remains.
He swallows hard. “Why?”
“Because you needed it. Because I could provide it. Because,” Qui-Gon says, with a little shrug as though that explains why the kitchen table is covered in food and the counters are strewn with flowers. Qui-Gon has always been more likely to demonstrate his feelings through actions over words, but this – this is like he’s swallowed a romance holobook or been reprogrammed with romance protocols.
Or maybe Obi-Wan is the one who has just stepped into a romance holobook, and he’s just been too blind to see it.
“If it’s because,” he starts to say, but the words fail him. “If it’s – ”
“Not if,” Qui-Gon says lowly, and there’s something in his eyes when he looks at Obi-Wan. Something raw and deep and powerful, like a rip current under the waves. It’s a look Obi-Wan has seen recently, but not on Qui-Gon’s face.
On Anakin’s, when he’d watched Padmé be whisked away by the medical droids as she went into labor.
“How long?” Obi-Wan asks. It’s the same question he’d asked Anakin. With Anakin, it had just been to distract him. With Qui-Gon, he finds that he needs the answer – desperately.
Qui-Gon’s jaw works. He bows his head. “Too long,” he says, sounding ashamed.
“I don’t understand – ”
“You still had your braid,” Qui-Gon interrupts. “I couldn’t – Not while you still had your braid. So I waited. But then – then I was healing, and you were busy establishing yourself as a Knight. So I thought, I’ll just wait, I have time. Except then when you established yourself, you went right into working with Anakin. And then member planets began seceding, and we were busy with that. And then the war broke out. And then . . . ”
And then the war had ended, and they’d been running around almost as fervently as they had during the war, except now it was to put out fires and provide aid and renegotiate memberships.
“So this – ”
“This is me not waiting anymore,” Qui-Gon says. “This is me taking my own advice.”
Here and now, Qui-Gon had often told him when he’d still had his braid. Sometimes he had said it while even gently yanking on the braid, just for emphasis. Live in the moment, Obi-Wan.
And that isn’t what Obi-Wan should do. What he should do is think about the kind of future ahead of them: the ramifications of trying to change their relationship into something different after so many years, the dangers of attachment that might rear their head, the gossip that might echo through the Temple and the Republic –
“Why?” Obi-Wan asks, because he has to hear it, he needs to, he must. “Tell me – Tell me why.”
And Qui-Gon, as always, understands him perfectly.
“Because I love you,” Qui-Gon says.
The words should inspire fear: of treading too dangerously close to breaking the Code, of opening a new avenue of temptation from the dark side, of risking everything they’ve ever worked for.
Instead, Obi-Wan finds that they feel right. As right as relaxing into Qui-Gon’s hands and letting the Force wash over him. As right as seeking Qui-Gon out whenever he’s upset or afraid or cold. As right as it had been, as those years ago, to let Qui-Gon weave his hair in Obi-Wan’s first Padawan braid, a symbol of their paths entwining together.
When his braid had grown long enough, he had set aside the strands of Qui-Gon’s hair. He’d never realized that he had failed to set aside the affection such a gesture had kindled in him.
Obi-Wan takes a deep breath and lets the Force fill him with warmth. And then he breathes out and lets the Force carry away all of his anxieties, his fears and regrets and failures. If they are to start on a new path, then they should do it together. And the first step should be taken while conscious of the moment.
He looks at Qui-Gon and says, “The candles were a bit much, you know.”
And then he steps forward and kisses Qui-Gon’s indignant response into silence. Fortunately, Qui-Gon forgives him for the interruption rather quickly, if the way he clutches at Obi-Wan is any indication.
I would forgive you anything, Qui-Gon says through their bond, and Obi-Wan cannot escape the deep truth that comes along with the words.
Neither of us is without flaw, Obi-Wan replies, because it has to be said.
We’ve managed to live this long with each other’s flaws. I think we can make a go of it. If you want to.
Obi-Wan rolls his eyes. He breaks away and says, “Yes, I love you too.” He pauses. “And if today is the day for confessions, then – then also for too long.”
“So all this time,” Qui-Gon says, “we’ve just been – ”
“Apparently.”
Qui-Gon considers that for a moment. Then he says, “You know, our transport’s return was actually delayed by a few days. I just got word of it this morning.”
“Is that so?”
“Confirmed with the Council, even. Mace told me in uncertain terms to stay put and not cause trouble.”
“I see. And does this mean that you’ve been dreaming up some insane plan to cause trouble the whole time I’ve been sleeping?”
“Nothing so dramatic. You need to get some food in you first. And some water. Or else even the Force won’t be enough to keep you on your feet.”
“And then?” Obi-Wan asks, because there’s a gleam in Qui-Gon’s eyes.
“Well, and then I’d rather like to lay you out on the balcony and find out how to make you come until you cry.”
“That seems – impulsive. And risky. And – And unwise.”
“That wasn’t a no,” Qui-Gon tells him. He brushes a kiss over Obi-Wan’s cheeks, which feel as hot as though he’s been exploring Mustafar. “Surely the great Negotiator is able to communicate when he does not want to – ”
“Qui-Gon.”
“Yes?”
“Shut up and give me a muja tart and some tea before I let you destroy whatever is left of my reputation.”
“Yes, my love.”
FINIS