Work Text:
1:
Obi-Wan was trapped, useless, worthless. As if in slow motion, right in front of his eyes—his Master was in grave, fatal danger, and Obi-Wan could do nothing. Panic and despair swirled, choking Obi-Wan in a miasma of his own emotion, the level of which was impossible to suppress or give to the Force.
Obi-Wan gasped as he sat up inside his tent, the darkness strangling him until he found his lantern and flicked its switch. Bright white light flooded his surroundings, and it was only a few moments after that that the sound of blood in his ears had faded enough for him to hear the nearly deafening sound of the local species of cicadas chirping again. Obi-Wan tried to swallow his heart back down into his chest where it belonged, discarding the bad dream carefully.
Qui-Gon was fine. There was nothing particularly dangerous on this planet, only a rare type of crystal with a particular resonance to Force sensitive people and an endless forest of twisting, gnarled trees and deep gorges with uncomfortably blue water running in the streams at the bottoms. If his Master were here, he would tell Obi-Wan to trust in the will of the living Force. Nothing was wrong.
Obi-Wan sighed, and pulled himself out of his bedroll. He wasn’t going to get any more sleep, so he might as well finish packing himself up and move to the rendezvous point. If Qui-Gon wasn’t there already, then he could comm him and let him know that Obi-Wan had been successful in acquiring what they’d been sent for. Then Obi-Wan would see for himself that Qui-Gon was fine.
Quietly, Obi-Wan took down his tent and packed away his things, extending his senses and trying to use the fecund and rich life in the forest to calm himself in the Force. He slipped on red and orange leaves littering the forest floor, and soon he was packed and ready to go, except for the crystal.
It was the color of Qui-Gon’s kyber, translucent too, reminding him once again of his maverick Master. The crystal… sang, in a sense, filling Obi-Wan’s senses with a pleasant timbre. The crystal was too large to fit in Obi-Wan’s pack, so he hefted it up and held it against his waist, and then just as daylight began to break pale golden through the almost autumnal leaves, Obi-Wan headed in the direction of the rendezvous point.
Obi-Wan leapt over great ravines, the rock faces white as chalk and textured, and walked long distances under knotted trees with pale, scarred bark and gorgeous leaves. Florid birds flitted between branches overhead, and small mammalians skittered between their roots. Birdsong and the distant rush of faraway rapids joined the gentle percussion of his own footsteps, weighed down as he was by his pack and the crystal. His search was over, but the rendezvous was a coordinate he hadn’t been to—he and Qui-Gon had swept north in a pincer-like pair of arcs—and so he found himself exploring new cliffs, new waters, on his way.
Obi-Wan had enjoyed the planet’s beautiful scenery so much just yesterday, but with his nightmare weighing heavy on his mind all he could think of was how the leaves falling underfoot were dead, cut off from the living Force. If he stretched his senses, he could feel the end to life cycles natural and unnatural amidst the planet’s fauna and flora, and it made his steps more hurried than they should have been. He felt shame for his own anxiety.
Qui-Gon was fine.
Soon enough, he felt his Master’s Force signature in the distance, at the edges of his awareness, standing out in contrast to the noisy din of the forest. Qui-Gon was like a glassy-smooth lake, with nary a ripple to disturb him. Even when he was disregarding the wishes of the Council or when he was in the middle of a battle, his presence was still and calm.
Except…
Obi-Wan frowned. There were ripples in Qui-Gon’s Force signature, small but perceptibly there. Obi-Wan hurried himself a little more, though he still maintained care so that he did not drop the crystal or twist his ankle as he climbed down a chalky cliff face to the plateau down below. He wanted to see his Master safe.
“Master, I found—” Obi-Wan began as he walked toward Qui-Gon, though it was obvious that he had found the large crystal he now carried on his hip, but then he was cut off by a very sudden and forceful hug, the breath pressed out of him from it.
Obi-Wan blinked. His breath came back in a bit ragged at the edges, like a plush doll that had been loved too much.
“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon murmured, in his voice which Obi-Wan hadn’t heard for three full days.
How strange of his Master, Obi-Wan thought to himself—but then again, he’d always had trouble understanding Qui-Gon Jinn. His Master was understandable only to himself, and if he wanted a hug, Obi-Wan wouldn’t say no.
Something tight in his gut unwound languorously the longer they were held together, anyway.
2:
The bright lines of stars streaking past as they flew through hyperspace stopped suddenly, far too soon. They weren’t nearly to Coruscant yet. Obi-Wan spun his chair in the cockpit around with a puzzled expression, heading for the navigation computer to check the input coordinates.
Qui-Gon had left the cockpit a minute or two ago, silently trundling off to do who-knew-what. Of course Obi-Wan was competent enough to return them to Coruscant at least—he was twenty years old, a newly senior Padawan. He leaned over the computer and pulled up the coordinates for their last jump.
He frowned. It didn’t seem as though there had been any sort of issue. Qui-Gon had put in the information while Obi-Wan had safely packed their cargo away into the tiny storage closet their ship had. They were in the Middle Rim, in a system nearly entirely void of sentient life, but this was where Qui-Gon had intended to route them.
Obi-Wan left the cockpit, wanting to at least ask why they had stopped in the middle of nowhere before he rerouted them back to Coruscant. Sometimes Qui-Gon moved in mysterious ways, but nearly as often he had a reason for it.
There was precious little room for privacy on their ship; a single bunk and a refresher adjoining it were in the back, and the floor paneling in the hallway could be removed to repair the wiring and engines and whatever else. Obi-Wan could hear the low tones of his Master even before he had fully exited the cockpit, though he could only fully make out what was being said once he was nearly to the door. Had Qui-Gon planned for them to exit hyperspace simply to make a call, when they would have been to Coruscant in less than a day anyway?
“Please do. Don’t forget; they won’t take Republic credits. You’ll have to bring some other form of currency.” Qui-Gon’s voice held a surprising amount of urgency, considering their mission had gone so smoothly. Obi-Wan wondered for a moment what he was talking about, who he was talking to.
“Considered our offer yet, have you?” Master Yoda asked, his voice distinctive even through a holocall. Ah. The Council.
Qui-Gon was silent for a few moments, which gave Obi-Wan ample opportunity to wonder what sort of offer he’d received. There were always rumors floating around the Temple, flowing easily from Padawans to Knights and even to the occasional Master, though those tended to be above it. Obi-Wan had heard that the Council intended to give Qui-Gon a seat, but surely not. Qui-Gon chafed against the Council consistently, there was no way—
Qui-Gon cleared his throat. “Ah, that. I’m afraid I will have to refuse once again, Masters.”
“In the estimation of this Council, young Obi-Wan is ready for the Trials. Why do you hold him back?” If the slight crunch of the long-distance comm wasn’t tricking him, that was Master Windu.
Obi-Wan was less concerned with who had said it and more with what had been said. Obi-Wan? Ready for the Trials? Obi-Wan didn’t feel ready for the Trials—there were so many things he struggled with, still. Even that morning, he had struggled to properly give over the nightmare he’d had to the Force. And clearly, his Master didn’t think he was ready, or he would have accepted the Council’s offer to let him take them.
A sting in his chest drew his attention to the physical for a brief moment after his long ruminations, and then Obi-Wan was able to center himself again just as Qui-Gon excused himself and hung up the call. Obi-Wan pressed all his thoughts away and remembered why he had come back here; not to eavesdrop, simply to ask why they had stopped their transit. Obi-Wan supposed he knew why now, but it was still polite to ask, he knew.
Obi-Wan stepped into the doorway, footsteps quiet. He was just about to open his mouth and ask, but Qui-Gon turned at that moment. Obi-Wan could see him in profile, his relaxed face twitching in surprise when he saw Obi-Wan. Qui-Gon startled, hands clenching around the comm he’d been holding.
Obi-Wan’s eyebrows furrowed a little bit. Again, his Master was acting strange—usually, even if he had said something strange, he was unabashed about it. But now—
“Master, are you alright? Did you have anything you need to discuss with me?” Obi-Wan asked, nearly forgetting entirely that he had come here to ask about the navigation. That was how great his confusion was.
“No,” Qui-Gon said, but it was a little too fast. His lips twitched down and to the left. Few would have noticed, Obi-Wan thought, but Obi-Wan had been following Qui-Gon around for years, watching and learning from him always, so it was obvious.
Then Qui-Gon covered a cough, hiding it in his sleeve, and the tension only halfway crumbled. Qui-Gon was hiding something from him—had lied to him.
“Alright, Master.”
Obi-Wan didn’t quite believe him.
3:
It wasn’t long until Obi-Wan figured out what Qui-Gon had been hiding from him—that tiny cough that had seemed only moderately suspicious in light of how generally odd his Master had been acting since their mission. After their debrief, they had returned to their quarters for a little joint meditation, and then Obi-Wan had made them a simple dinner because Qui-Gon had wished to continue on his own, just a little while longer, to commune with the Force more deeply than Obi-Wan was presently capable of.
And now, as the scheduled Coruscanti rain pattered gently (there was never any thunder, and Obi-Wan suspected it would be over before the sky lightened for morning) on Qui-Gon’s window, Qui-Gon lay in his bed, with Obi-Wan sitting in a chair beside. Obi-Wan had been there for most of the night, changing out the cooling washcloth on Qui-Gon’s forehead whenever he began to stir miserably in his troubled sleep.
Obi-Wan’s gaze traced Qui-Gon’s face in the near-silence of the night, catching on the hairs of his beard, the flushed red spots on his cheeks, the moderate recess where his eyes rested. His Master was handsome, it was true, but Obi-Wan’s ogling was born from concern rather than any personal pleasure. He kept vigil, as Qui-Gon tossed and turned in the night, his hair catching over his face, on his spit-slick lips. Obi-Wan leaned forward and brushed his fingers softly over his Master’s face, clearing it again. While he was at it, he checked for the temperature of the cloth, and found that it was too warm once again. He peeled it away from Qui-Gon’s skin, but contrary to his own expectations he didn’t simply rise from his chair and go to the refresher to renew it. Instead, Qui-Gon’s hand wormed its way out from under the blanket, and then wrapped with surprising strength around Obi-Wan’s wrist.
Qui-Gon felt so hot that his touch nearly burned.
“Don’t go,” Qui-Gon mumbled, half asleep still and feverish. “I still—things to teach you.”
“I know, Master.” Obi-Wan’s heart pounded the strangest drumbeat in his chest, his hand trapped against Qui-Gon’s broad chest by Qui-Gon’s. “I overheard you speaking with the Council, and I must admit I’m in agreement with you. I’m not ready.”
Qui-Gon’s eyes finally opened, and they were bloodshot and urgent in a way that nearly discomfited Obi-Wan. His Force signature was drenched in something uncomfortably like distress, not at all like Obi-Wan’s placid Master.
“You are ready for the Trials,” Qui-Gon insisted. A ripple of pain ran through him so strongly that even Obi-Wan could feel the phantom echoes of it, as he tried to sit up and failed. “But—there’s more than those.”
His Master really was speaking nonsense, delirious from the fever. Obi-Wan certainly wasn’t ready for the Trials—he was still only twenty, and he struggled in his dueling and with flexibility. But if Qui-Gon was so confused from his fever, it was probably better not to contradict him. It would only cause distress.
“As you say,” Obi-Wan murmured noncommittally.
Suddenly, and with strength unknown, Qui-Gon pulled Obi-Wan by his wrist across the bed, into the space between Qui-Gon and the wall. The washcloth fell to the floor as Obi-Wan yelped in surprise, an automatically affronted “Master!” falling from his lips as well. Obi-Wan landed still mostly on Qui-Gon’s body, wincing at the few sharp bony parts that dug into him before his weight settled over his Master’s body as if he were a blanket.
“I’m cold, Padawan.”
“You have a fever,” Obi-Wan practically choked out, wriggling against his Master’s strong arms. “That’s only natural.”
Qui-Gon pressed his cheek, salt-and-pepper beard and all, against the top of Obi-Wan’s head, his whiskers rasping against Obi-Wan’s scalp. “Warm.”
“If you’ve insufficient blankets, Master—”
Obi-Wan stopped trying verbally when Qui-Gon let out a deep sort of groan, the sort that sounded like pained sickness and feverish confusion. He focused for a few moments on getting back out of the bed, pushing against the practically boiling body of his Master, but then Obi-Wan stopped his squirming as he felt something hard pressing into his hip, something strange and awkward twisting in his gut at the feeling.
Oh. Somehow, due to some sort of sickness heretofore undiscovered by Obi-Wan (Obi-Wan did, immediately, attribute this to the fact that Qui-Gon seemed to waver between understanding his circumstances and not), Qui-Gon’s erection was pressed into his hip, though Obi-Wan’s Master didn’t seem to care to do anything about it, and in fact didn’t even seem to notice.
Obi-Wan noticed.
Qui-Gon shushed him again, as if Obi-Wan were the one feverish and acting up. His hand was soft on the back of Obi-Wan’s head, petting at his shorn hair, and then he guided Obi-Wan to tuck his head under Qui-Gon’s, to lie down against his chest. They were… practically snuggling, Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan didn’t know if he’d ever really been cuddled like this before. He didn’t quite know how to handle it, the touches that soothed something deep in him and made him want to shift restlessly at the same time. Like he was receiving a too-large meal after a period of starvation.
Even with the awkward protrusion pressing into him, Obi-Wan suddenly didn’t feel like rising from this unexpectedly shared bed anymore.
“I’d never… give up your training… to be on the Council.” And with that, Qui-Gon fell asleep again, his arms still around Obi-Wan so that he couldn’t even get up to get another cooling cloth for Qui-Gon’s forehead. His breathing sounded a little easier now, without the slight laborious rasp to it.
Obi-Wan’s heart clenched tight in his chest, so tight he feared it might burst.
“I really don’t understand you, Master,” he whispered into the dark, before the twin sounds of the slowly waning rain’s delicate arrival on transparisteel and Qui-Gon’s isochronal heartbeat lulled him into a deep and dreamless sleep.
+1:
Obi-Wan heaved a massive sigh as they returned to their loaned quarters for the night. He excused himself to the balcony immediately, or at least tried to. They had been assigned to smooth over relations between two peoples who had been on the brink of war for nearly a decade, and Obi-Wan had naturally fallen into the role of negotiator more than Qui-Gon. And more than that—
“The princess was very fond of you. Perhaps if you threw in your hand, her father would be more amenable to your suggestions,” Qui-Gon murmured as he followed out onto the large balcony, the breeze ruffling his hair.
Obi-Wan flushed instantly, his face growing hot as he turned his face away and complained, “Master… you should know me better than that.”
He had already decided some time ago that the Order meant far more to him than some fleeting romantic prospect or another, and he didn’t even know the princess. No, he’d much rather stay with his Master, under his admittedly unconventional tutelage and helping him and protecting him.
Qui-Gon was silent for a beat, and for the oddity of the moment, Obi-Wan turned back to him to look. Qui-Gon’s eyes were unbearably intense on him.
“I do.”
Obi-Wan swallowed, suddenly, the drag of it dry in his throat. He had to take a deep breath before he could speak again, and he took the time to settle himself in the Force, grasping at the pinpricks of life all around him but, notably, not his Master’s signature. That was ill-advised, at the moment. As was continuing in that vein of conversation, so Obi-Wan decided to change the subject.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better, if you’re feeling up to teasing me,” Obi-Wan said, cracking a small smile. Qui-Gon’s teasing made him feel unbalanced in a balanced sort of way, as paradoxical as that seemed—perhaps like stepping onto uneven ground after coming off of a wildly-rocking speeder. Familiar and expected, if nothing else.
Qui-Gon laughed. “Yes, thanks to you.”
Silence fell companionable between them for a few moments, as the evening sky began to turn its typical violet hue, the brilliance of it seeping into Obi-Wan’s bones. As tended to happen to Obi-Wan, his mind turned over the familiar worry of the day in absence of anything else to focus on, and soon he found himself opening his mouth again.
“Master, you said some… strange things, while you were feverish. You’ve done a lot of strange things actually, since… since we parted on our last mission.”
Obi-Wan almost expected Qui-Gon to brush him off, but he merely leaned his forearms onto the balcony railing, the filigree metal’s shine tinted by the color of the setting sun. Obi-Wan’s Master gazed out at the horizon, over the glittering city they overlooked.
“What strange things? Would you tell me?”
Obi-Wan had intended to start slow, but the second he began speaking everything spilled out of him like a dam had burst. “You hugged me, when we reunited, and you felt odd in the Force. And then you startled when I overheard you, or just because I was there, when we were on the ship. And you… you told me that you… you turned down a seat on the Council for—for me, assuming I didn’t misunderstand your meaning. I thought it was just fever ramblings, but then I thought about it more and… And then you—” Obi-Wan flushed again, a deeper crimson than before. A squirmy sensation ran up his spine, and it was hard to get the words out. “You pulled me into your bed, Master. You held me.”
Qui-Gon smiled warmly, glancing at Obi-Wan as he spoke. “Perceptive as always. I should know better than to try to hide anything from you.” But then he sighed, solemnity overtaking any warmth. “I… died, Obi-wan. I’ve only been here since that mission—before then, we were on Naboo, about five years from now. I don’t know how much of this you can even believe, knowing you. The Queen of the Naboo had requested our assistance on some… matters, and there is—will be—a boy who should be on his way to the creche as we speak, but none of that is important now. I rejoined the Force in your arms after a Sith Lord stabbed me, my young apprentice—younger, now.” Qui-Gon chuckled. “And now I am here again, having been given the opportunity to… do it over again, perhaps make some better choices. Or at least, different ones.”
Obi-Wan tried to wrap his head around… what in sith’s hells Qui-Gon had told him. It felt like a puzzle of mind-bending proportions, that Qui-Gon was an even older Qui-Gon, that he had died, that he had died right in front of Obi-Wan and Obi-Wan had—seemingly—been entirely helpless to stop it from happening. His dream from a few scant weeks ago resurfaced in his mind, and he shuddered. He mourned in simulacrum, a model which he would hopefully never experience in reality. He thanked the Force—he thanked the Force for giving him his Master back, even if he hadn’t even been gone yet. Finally, he understood why his Master had been so strange recently.
Obi-Wan’s eyes flicked back to Qui-Gon’s face, feeling a sudden surging urge to trace and remember his face again with his eyes all over again. Qui-Gon was always looking at him, his eyes soft and patient as he waited for Obi-Wan to finish absorbing his words. The sun was setting behind him, a vivid crown of indigo and violet, painting him in shadow and splendor. He looked the same as he ever did, Obi-Wan’s eccentric Master.
“You kissed me for the first time just two weeks before I died, you know.”
Obi-Wan’s heart did a sudden, panicky flip in his chest, painful in a borderline saccharine way. “Me? I did?”
It was unthinkable that he would kiss his Master—Obi-Wan had certainly had a typical Padawan crush on his Master, and it had taken an extraordinarily long amount of time for it to simmer, of course, but he had it under control, the thing that rested in between his lungs. Obi-Wan opened his mouth to apologize for his five-years-older self’s behavior, but then Qui-Gon beat him to actually getting words out.
“You did,” Qui-Gon said, voice as soft as a cloud. “And then I kissed you in return.”
“Oh.”
Obi-Wan’s heart did about a dozen more backflips in his chest, and his lips itched almost unbearably, suddenly. His gaze fell to Qui-Gon’s lips, but he felt caught up halfway into his own head, unable to let himself have something like this.
“You told me that you’d been wanting to kiss me for years,” Qui-Gon murmured, eyes lit with something between amusement and tenderness. The fond sort of exasperation usually reserved for Obi-Wan, toward Qui-Gon. “Is it true? I’ll never have another opportunity like this to ask.”
Qui-Gon pressed his advantage, leaning in most of the way before hovering. Obi-Wan’s breath caught in his lungs, and his lips parted on a gasp that didn’t do anything except make him look like a frightened animal. When Obi-Wan didn’t do anything, frozen in indecision, Qui-Gon snatched up his Padawan braid with gentle fingers, pressing his lips to it affectionately.
Obi-Wan thought his heart was going to explode. The moment Qui-Gon lowered his braid again, Obi-Wan leaned in that last fraction, the space left by his Master. He gave away his first kiss as a quick peck, nearly too fast for the press of lip to lip to even be felt. But it happened, and the fact that it happened sat in Obi-Wan’s mind, in his chest, a whirlwind of emotion that he couldn’t quite settle. Most of all, he was embarrassed by how juvenile his expression of affection had been, like a child trying to kiss a playground crush for the very first time.
“Master, I think it’s time for bed,” Obi-Wan said suddenly, turning away and practically fleeing back into their room, his robes swishing and swaying with his movement.
Qui-Gon followed him, gait slow and steady, unhurried and somehow satisfied. A soft smile had taken up residence on his face—maybe it would live there forever.
“Hm, I think it’s a bit early yet for that if a kiss flusters you so, Padawan.”
Obi-Wan was going to have a permanent blush at this point, honestly. “You’ve misunderstood me! I simply think that our mission would benefit from us being well rested.”
“Very responsible of you,” Qui-Gon commented mildly, and Obi-Wan had nearly gotten away with it when Qui-Gon pulled him back by his robes and gave him another kiss on the crown of his head.
Even if Obi-Wan understood his Master’s strange behavior now, that didn’t mean that it wasn’t going to someday kill him via a rare heart explosion.