Chapter Text
Obi-Wan was running late to meet Healer Praste, and he let himself rush, just a little, through the corridors of the Jedi Temple.
“Do I need to tell you not to run in the halls like a youngling, Knight Kenobi?” A familiar voice called from behind him, and he threw a cheeky grin over his shoulder.
“You could try, Master Windu, but I don’t recall listening to you then either.” The Korun Master’s deep laugh followed him as he skidded around the final corner and came to a stop in the Healing Halls. He took a moment to breathe and straighten his robes, before making his way at a more sedate pace to the short string of offices on the left-hand side; the Mind Healer’s Wing.
Obi-Wan had been seeing Healer Praste for two years now, since his kidnapping, and since he had returned from Mandalore for the second time. He rapped sharply on the door and waited for the invitation to enter. It came, and when he pushed the door open, Healer Praste’s head popped up from the papers he was hunched over with a smile. “Hello, Obi-Wan. Come on in.” He told him, and Obi-Wan eased the door closed behind him and took his usual seat across from Healer Praste. The healer shuffled his papers away and turned to give him his full attention. He was Mirialan, with skin of a very pale yellow, against which his gold, geometric tattoos stood out beautifully. His brown eyes were kind, and his mouth was creased with smile lines. Obi-Wan liked him immensely.
“Good afternoon, Healer Praste.” He replied, with a polite incline of his head. “You’re looking well.”
Praste smiled that welcoming smile of his. “Thank you, Obi-Wan. How are you today?”
“Very well, thank you.” The healer was a brunet, which Obi-Wan always thought made his overall appearance quite autumnal, and it meant that the disbelieving brow that was raised in his direction was a pleasingly woody colour. “I had the dream again.” He admitted.
Praste nodded. “Talk me through it.”
“You must have heard it a thousand times by now.”
“And I’ll gladly hear it again.”
Obi-Wan sighed, and looked away over the Miaralan’s shoulder. He was one of the lucky few with a window in his office, though the angle and height of the Temple meant you could only really see a rectangle of sky. It was a lovely blue rectangle today. “I was sitting in a bed; it was comfortable and warm and I knew that it smelled of home. The sheets were pooled in my lap but beneath I was utterly bare.” He swallowed and licked at dry lips. “There was a babe suckling at my breast, and I was full of love. There was so much love inside me that it could not possibly be contained, and I was sure that soon it would spill from inside me like water breaking from a dam.” He reached up to rub against one flat pectoral, absentmindedly.
“Was the babe yours, Obi-Wan?” The healer asked gently.
“Yes.”
He received a nod, understanding. “Was it Boba?”
Obi-Wan flinched. “Boba is not mine.” He snapped, turning his gaze back upon Praste, who met his glare steadily.
“Alright.”
Obi-Wan swallowed around his anger, and released it to the Force. “It wasn’t Boba.”
“Alright.” The healer repeated. “What happened next?”
Obi-Wan took a breath and picked absently at the thread loose in the knee of his leggings. “Then he was there. My- my alpha.” He looked up to meet Praste’s gaze again, as free of judgement as it ever is. “He just appeared, beside me in the bed, in that way that dreams lack logic. He smiled at me and the look in his eyes- he loved me. He loved us both.”
“Did you recognise him?”
Obi-Wan choked on a laugh, his mind’s eye filled with brown eyes and warm tan skin and a head of curls. “I recognised him.”
“Can you say it aloud today?”
He shook his head and leaned forward, with his elbows on his knees.
“Alright.” Praste soothed, not at all disappointed. “Does the dream end there?”
Obi-Wan shook his head again and examined his hands where they hung between his knees. Large, broad fingers for an omega. He’d never noticed that before he’d taken his implant out, and even now, with the new one he’d had since just a few weeks after his return, he can’t get the thought out of his mind. He hates this part of the dream. “He reached out to touch me, to put his hand to my other breast. My chest felt wet, and I thought that I had leaked, that I had spilled milk upon him.” He swallowed and twined his fingers together to clench them around one another until the knuckles turned white. “But when I looked down, it was blood. There was no wound but the blood seemed to be spreading. It drenched the babe and they began to cry, and it kept spreading, flooding from me, as from a broken dam, as I had feared my love would and when I looked up the alpha was covered as well, staring at me in horror, and he opened his mouth to scream.” He finally raised his head to meet Praste’s steady gaze once more. “Then I woke up.”
The healer nodded, and tapped a hand thoughtfully against his desk. “It’s okay to be disturbed by this dream, Obi-Wan. It is disturbing.” He glanced to the side to where his notebook lay open, just a flicker of his eyes. He didn’t need to do it often, but Obi-Wan was always a little endeared when he had to consult his notes. It was so normal, not to be able to hold every patient conversation in his head, all the time. “The last time we discussed the dream, you were reluctant to assign it any meaning. Would you like to tell me now what you think it might mean?”
He blew out a breath. This question had plagued him for months; whether it was a warning not to return to Mandalore, or if it was just a stupid nightmare, brought on by trauma. “That I hurt them. If I go back, I will hurt him.” He whispered, saying out loud, finally, what he was most afraid was the truth.
The healer made a thoughtful sound. “What makes you say that?”
“The danger, it comes from me, from within me. My love spills out and it is bloody. Ja- the alpha is afraid, the babe stops suckling to cry.” When he’d first started seeing Healer Praste, soon after his return to the Temple, he had been so embarrassed to discuss what he’d done with Boba - and with Jango - and how he’d taken them to his breast and let them drink from him. With the healer’s gentle encouragement, he’d become more comfortable discussing his actions and why he’d taken them.
“Alright, I understand what makes you say that.” The healer leaned forward on his desk and smiled. “Can I tell you what I think it means?”
“Are you meant to do that? Shouldn’t you be guiding me to make my own realisations?” Obi-Wan asked, quirking a brow.
“Sometimes, yes. This time, I think it will help you to hear an outside perspective. May I?” He waved the healer on and sat back in his chair. “You say that the danger comes from within you, but I don’t think that’s quite right. The danger certainly affects you, the blood is yours, but I don’t think it hurts the babe or your alpha.” Praste smiles, gently. “I think they are afraid for you .”
Obi-Wan mulled this over, and the healer waited patiently. “So, what does it actually mean? In the real world, what is my brain trying to say?” He asked, finally.
The healer shrugged. “I don’t think I can answer that for you, Obi-Wan. I am not in your brain.” A quirk of his lips. “Although that would make my job much easier.”
Obi-Wan shot him an amused look, showing him that the joke was appreciated. But there was something else that was worrying him, something that frightened him, even. “Do you think it’s a vision? I was prone to them as a child.”
Praste watched him seriously, his finger tap-tapping on the desk again. “It’s possible. Though even if it is, nothing is set in stone.”
Obi-Wan smirked. “Always in motion, the future is.” He quoted his Great Grand-Master cheekily.
Praste grinned enough that Obi-Wan saw a rare flash of teeth. “Quite.”
“What if it is though?” He sobered a little. “And it’s telling me that I would hurt him if I went back to Mandalore?”
“What if it is, and it’s telling you that staying away is hurting him? And hurting you, as well.” Praste countered. “It’s a dream, Obi-Wan. It cannot tell you what to do, or what you want. These are things for your waking mind to decide, for it is your waking mind that must live with those decisions.”
Obi-Wan let out a breath slowly. He saw the wisdom in this response, and he hoped that he could absorb it and let the negative emotions being generated by the dream go into the Force. “Yes, Healer Praste.”
“Is returning to Mandalore something you are still considering?” The Mirialan asked quietly and Obi-Wan sighed.
“It’s something I am always considering. But many of the reasons I chose to return are still relevant.”
“Many, but not all.” The healer noted.
“Not all.” Obi-Wan agreed. Healer Praste looked expectant, so Obi-Wan continued with a sigh. “I know now that my feelings were real.” He shut his eyes for a moment, under the weight of that knowledge. That if his were real, then likely so were Jango’s. “Our instincts may have been driving us toward one another, may have made us act in ways that we wouldn't have otherwise, but that didn’t make my desire for him, or his for me, any less true. Those feelings have not gone away, even with my implant returned, and my instincts suppressed.”
Praste smiled warmly, still without judgement. “I’m proud of you for recognising that, Obi-Wan. Identifying our own feelings on any topic can be difficult, let alone with the memory of how your unsuppressed instincts had felt adding an extra layer of confusion.”
“It doesn't make me less of a Jedi, as long as I can set that attachment aside.” Obi-Wan recited. It had been hard for him to believe this at first; that the feelings he held in his heart for Jango and Boba did not make him less, did not make him weak. Just as the love he had for his lineage did not make him weak.
“That’s right.” Praste agreed. “And if you cannot, or do not want to set it aside, there isn’t any shame in that either.” This was harder still for Obi-Wan to stomach and he swallowed the sour taste it left in his mouth.
“Growing up, all I ever wanted to be was a Jedi Knight.” He confessed, and reached up to run a hand through his hair. It was getting long now, curling just a little above his shoulders. He couldn’t shake the small voice inside him that wondered if Jango would like it.
“Is that still true?” Praste asked, surprising him. “Our wants can change, Obi-Wan. What we want as a child may be different to what we want as an adult.”
“I’ve put so much into my training.” He shot back, just a tinge of desperation to his words. “Master Qui-Gon has put so much into my training.”
The healer made a thoughtful sound and tilted his head, just a little. “And if you weren’t a Jedi, would any of that be wasted? Would your education be wasted? Would the time you spent bonding with your Master be wasted?” Obi-Wan grit his teeth against his instinctive retort of yes . “Or would you still have all of these things? All of your knowledge, all of your skills, all of your Master’s love, even if you were not a Jedi?”
Would he still have Qui-Gon’s love? They’d had such a difficult start to their relationship, Obi-Wan had worked so hard for his old Master to really see him. And he did, and now there wasn’t a day that he didn’t feel how his Master loved him. But would that change if he was no longer a Jedi? Qui-Gon had felt he wasn’t suited to Knighthood when he was just a child, thought him too emotional, and Force , what if he was right? “This is hard for me to talk about.”
“Alright.” Praste agreed mildly. “Then let’s talk about something else. Have you considered whether to put in another request to the Council of Assignment?”
Obi-Wan blinked at him. “Do you think I’m ready? Shouldn’t such things wait until my treatment is done?”
Another grin, another flash of teeth. “Your treatment is done, Obi-Wan. I am happy to say that you are a resilient and capable, young man and that you would provide a very stable tutelage for a Padawan.”
“Even with the dreams? Even with my feelings for Jango?” He flinched a little at his own slip; at uttering his alpha’s name out loud.
Praste did not outwardly acknowledge it. “We all have dreams that disturb us, we all have wants and needs that we struggle to untangle in our own minds. It is my privilege to help you unpick them, but you do not need me to.” The healer leaned back in his chair and spread his hands. “Nobody is perfect, Obi-Wan. Everyone is a work in progress. It is healthy to seek the guidance of a Mind Healer whenever you think it will be of benefit, and I have been glad to keep seeing you, but it is my opinion that you are ready for many things that you could not have taken on when you first returned, including training a Padawan. I don’t believe that they would be a crutch, as they would have been when you returned from Mandalore.”
Obi-Wan tilted his head, thoughtfully. “You think that’s what I was looking for, when I first petitioned the Council, a crutch?”
The healer took a moment to consider his words before he responded to this. “I think you were genuine in your desire to take a Padawan, to guide and cherish them as you should. You would have been an exemplary Master. But I do not think it would have been good for you, mourning the loss of a child as you were. It would have been too close to trying to replace what you had lost.”
“Boba isn’t mine.” Obi-Wan huffed.
“No, but you lost him all the same.” The truth of this struck him between the ribs, leaving him momentarily breathless.
“Did you tell the Council not to give me a Padawan, back then?” He asked and Praste met his eyes steadily.
“The Council of Assignment asked for my professional opinion, within the bounds of confidentiality, as your Mind Healer. And I told them that you weren’t ready.”
“Thank you.” Obi-Wan smiled. “I’m not sure that it’s what I want now, after all.”
“You’re welcome, Obi-Wan. And that’s okay; not every Knight trains a Padawan, it’s a personal choice. We all just want what is best for you.” The healer checked the chrono that hung on the wall beside them. “Now, last time I saw you, you were going to spend time with your loved ones outside the Temple. How did that go?”
Obi-Wan chuckled, and ran a hand over his new beard, the scruff catching against his lightsaber calluses. “Qui-Gon and Grandmaster Dooku took me to Dex’s. Did you know he now has a whole deep fried nuna on the menu?”
***
Mace Windu was a son of a bantha. He was lucky he was one of Qui-Gon’s oldest friends.
“Ha!” The Korun shouted as his Ghhhk took out Qui-Gon’s Houjix. “Take that, sleemo.”
“You know, this is why Yoda won’t play dejarik with you anymore Mace, you’re not a graceful winner. Or a graceful loser, for that matter. As my Padawan would say, you have ‘no chill.’”
“Your Padawan is a worse loser than I am. Who do you think taught me sleemo.” Mace grinned as he tapped a few buttons to shut off the portable dejarik board. The lines across the man’s forehead softened with the action, making him appear less severe than usual.
“Anakin has taught huttese curses to half the Temple by now, you’re not special.” Qui-Gon snipped, flipping a few strands of his hair back over his shoulder. He gazed across the Room of a Thousand Fountains for a moment, and sipped tea from his cup. Mace leaned over to pour the last dribble from the thermajug into his own, shaking it with dissatisfaction when it ran dry.
“Talking of your Padawans; how’s Obi-Wan?” He asked, leaning back on his spare hand, planted in the lush grass of the verge they’d chosen to set up on. “He nearly bowled me over in the corridor about a tenday ago.”
“He is well.” Qui-Gon sighed. “He is unhappy.”
“Hmm.” Mace peered into the bottom of his cup. “Something is about to happen.”
“You’ve seen something?”
He nodded. “A shatterpoint. It’s getting larger every day.” His friend sighed deeply, and Qui-Gon thought, as he had done many times before, that he did not envy him the ability to see shatterpoints.
“Do you think he’ll leave the order?” He asked cautiously. He’d been wondering that himself for some time. Ever since Obi-Wan had sat him down a few months after his return to the Temple and told him everything that had happened between himself and the Mand’alor’s son, and how he felt about him.
“I think that he will make a decision soon. I can’t say what that decision will be.” Mace winced again and knuckled at the corner of his eye. “He’s unhappy?”
“Yes.” Qui-Gon sighed, and shook his head. “He tries to hide it from me. But I know him.”
They sat in silence for a moment, contemplating this. Qui-Gon finished his tea in a swallow and passed the cup to Mace when he held his hand out for it. He shook both of their cups out over the grass, losing the last few drops and then stacked them over the lid of the thermajug. “Master Coll told me he’s been spending more time in the creche again.”
Qui-Gon hummed. He’d been aware that Obi-Wan’s visits had grown frequent again, nearly as frequent as when he’d first returned to them. “He hasn’t told me everything, but he’s been dreaming of a child. His child.” He swallowed and met his friend’s gaze. “He thinks it’s a vision.”
“Hmm.” Mace nodded to himself, as if Qui-Gon had confirmed a suspicion. “Even if it isn’t, Obi-Wan wants to be a parent.”
“Yes. More than anything, I suspect.” He ran a hand over the edge of his tabards where they lay on his thigh, smoothing them. “Maybe more than he wants to be a Jedi Knight.”
Mace made a soft noise that Qui-Gon couldn't parse. “We could give him a Padawan. His Mind Healer thinks he’s ready.”
Qui-Gon was quiet for a moment, contemplating. “There are many bonds of love within the Order, but we are not truly a family.” He met Mace’s eyes and saw no disagreement there. “Our love is not unconditional, it can’t be, by the very tenets we live by. We are taught that we must accept the pain and suffering of our fellow Jedi as the will of the Force, that we must set our love aside when necessary and that we cannot do whatever it takes to save them. A family’s love should be unconditional.”
“And Obi-Wan wants a family.”
“Yes, he craves it. I think maybe he always has.” Qui-Gon mused. “Perhaps it was the way he came to us; left on the steps as a baby. Most of us at least know that we have a family out there, one that does love us unconditionally, even if we cannot be with them. We remember, just a little, what that love feels like.” He ran his fingers through the grass beside him, the blades leaving pearls of moisture on his skin. “I think Obi-Wan has been searching for that sort of connection his entire life, and he found it on Mandalore. That is not a simple thing to shake off.”
“You are afraid of losing him.” Mace sounded disapproving.
“I will not lose him. Whatever he chooses, I will not abandon him.”
“That sounds a lot like attachment.” His friend’s disapproval deepened, and he fought the instinctive urge to flinch away from it.
“I know my duty. If Obi-Wan’s death is the will of the Force, then I will accept it.” He responded, defensively. “But if he isn’t with the Order then maybe I won’t have to. I knew Jango Fett for only a few hours and I am still sure that he would do every single thing in his power to protect Obi-Wan.”
Mace scoffed. “Trying to circumvent the attachment rule on a technicality then. You always were a maverick, old friend.”
“By maverick, you of course mean, ‘rule breaker’.” Qui-Gon told him, cheekily.
“By maverick, I mean ‘pain in my ass’.” They shared a grin.
At that moment, both their comms chirped, and Mace gasped in pain, hands coming up to grasp his head.
“Mace?” Qui-Gon reached for him in alarm, but his friend was already straightening and waving him off.
“Shatterpoint. I’m okay.”
“Anything to do with why we’re both being summoned to the Council Chambers, do you think?” Qui-Gon held up his comm to show Mace the message, requesting his presence with urgency.
Mace scrambled at his belt for his own, finding the same message awaiting him. “Oh, I have a bad feeling about this.”
***
When they stepped out of the turbolift, they were greeted with the sight of both Qui-Gon’s current and former Padawans standing outside the double doors to the Council Chamber. “Anakin?” He called in concern, and the young boy bounced to his feet to greet him. Obi-Wan followed more sedately, an indulgent smile on his face as he watched Anakin. Mace shot Qui-Gon a significant look, and then headed over to speak to the Padawan on duty by the Chamber doors.
“Mister Qui-Gon!” Anakin had been a slave on Tatooine before he came to the Temple, so they were not requiring him to use the honorific of ‘Master’ until his Mind Healer was sure that he understood that it was merely a rank and mark of respect here in the Order.
“What are you doing out of class, Ani?” He asked, smoothing a gentle hand over the boy’s blond head, the spiky Padawan cut prickling beneath his palm.
“Obi came and got me! We went to the hangar so I could watch them put a new engine into a starfighter. It was so wizard!” The excited boy told him, and Qui-Gon looked up to raise a brow at his former Padawan.
“But that was only for a couple of hours, remember Ani, so you need to get along to your Diplomatic Languages class now.” Obi-Wan said gently and held out his backpack.
“I suppose.” The boy sighed and took the bag, darting around Qui-Gon to get into the turbolift. Qui-Gon left his brow raised, until Obi-Wan huffed a laugh at him.
“Your face will get stuck like that, then what’ll you do?”
“Become known as Master Quizzical, I suppose.” Obi-Wan snorted and pushed their shoulders together gently. “Why did you pull Anakin out of class, Obi-Wan?”
“I didn’t. His Galactic History teacher stopped me in the refectory this morning. They started on the fall of the Zygerrian Empire today, and she wondered if it might be triggering for Anakin, given that he’s still so young. I thought it might be better if one of us went over those modules with him, rather than subjecting him to the scrutiny of his peers, none of whom know what it is to experience slavery.” Qui-Gon blinked at Obi-Wan for a moment, once again bowled over by his boy’s compassion.
“Of course I can teach him separately. And anything involving the hutts as well. It’s important he knows the history, but he can learn it in an environment that feels safe.”
Obi-Wan smiled softly, pleased, before turning to look back at where Mace appeared to be arguing with the Senior Padawan at the desk. “So, any idea what we’re being dragged in front of the Council for this time? You didn’t cause another diplomatic incident by using the wrong dessert fork did you?”
“No.” Qui-Gon huffed, sulkily. “Wait, they summoned you as well?”
Obi-Wan nodded just as Mace finally finished frightening the poor, unsuspecting Quarren.
“There’s a request from the Senate. They asked for Obi-Wan personally.” Mace lowered his voice. “It is non-negotiable.”
Qui-Gon exchanged a glance with his former Padawan, but when Mace began to lead them toward the Chamber, the big double doors sliding open to reveal the circular room, they followed without comment.
As they came to a halt in the centre, Mace split off to take his chair, slumping into it angrily.
“For joining us, we thank you, Master Jinn and Knight Kenobi.” Yoda began, the Grand Master of the order, and Qui-Gon’s own Grand Master, leaning forward in his chair to rest heavily on his gimmer stick. His ears drooped sadly, and Qui-Gon felt a pit of dread open in his stomach. “A mission for young Knight Kenobi, there is. From the Senate, it is.”
Obi-Wan took a deep breath beside him, and then bowed deeply. “I will do as the Council asks. What is the mission?”
“A call for aid, the Senate received, from the Governor of a planet called Galidraan. An attack, they report, by Mandalorian warriors.”
The pit of dread in Qui-Gon’s stomach became a chasm. Obi-Wan swallowed visibly beside him.
“The Mandalorians have a peace treaty with the Republic.” He responded, hoarsely. “The Senate believes that they have broken it?”
“Attacking civilians they are, according to the Governor.” Yoda told him, his usual croak gentler than Qui-Gon thought he had ever heard it.
“What sigil do they fight under?” Qui-Gon cut in. “There are still some Death Watch cells scattered across the galaxy, those who oppose Mand’alor Mereel’s rule. I would caution against leaping to conclusions here, Masters.”
“We have been sent holopictures. They fight under the sign of the Mythosaur.” Mace answered quietly. Obi-Wan gasped, and swayed where he stood. Qui-Gon caught a hand around his elbow to keep him upright.
“And the Senate wants to send Obi-Wan?” He demanded.
“Know that Knight Kenobi was saved by the True Mandalorians, they do. Hope that he can speak with them, they do. Want war with the Mandalorians, they do not.” Yoda peered seriously at Obi-Wan, and Qui-Gon could see that his Grand Master was worried.
“A pity that the full Council could not be convened to discuss whether sending Kight Kenobi on such a mission was appropriate.” Mace put in, snippily.
“We’ve not been given a choice, Mace. The best we can do is carefully select who accompanies Obi-Wan.” Plo Koon soothed from the other side of the circle, the Kel Dor’s talons clicking together when he grasped his hands in his lap. “This is why we have summoned Master Jinn. Will you accompany your former Padawan on this mission?”
Qui-Gon slid his hand up from supporting Obi-Wan’s elbow to grasping his shoulder. “Of course.”
Obi-Wan startled and turned his head to look at him. “But Anakin will need supervision and there’s the thing with his Galactic History module. He needs to be tutored privately, Master.”
“I will gladly look after the boy while you’re both away.” Plo cut in, his voice warm. His love of younglings was legendary within the Order. “You can brief me on whatever he needs. I love teaching Galactic History.”
“There then.” Qui-Gon smiled at Obi-Wan, who at least looked a little soothed.
“I’m coming too.” His former Padawan turned to gape at Mace, who just frowned at him, affectionately.
“I also think I will come.” The refined voice of his own Master, Yan Dooku cut in. “Komari could use some time in the Temple with her agemates without her old Master hanging around.”
“A chance to volunteer yourselves, this was not meant to be.” Yoda said amused. “But allow this, we will. Masters Jinn, Windu and Dooku, accompany Knight Kenobi, you will. Be ready to leave within the hour, you should be.”
Giving a shallow bow to the assembled Council, Qui-Gon used his grip on Obi-Wan’s shoulder to steer him out of the Chamber. His former Padawan looked shocked and overwhelmed. He guided him to the small seating area outside the Chamber and sat him down.
“I can’t believe this, Master.” He murmured, reaching up to run a hand over his beard. Qui-Gon liked the scruff on him, though it made him look much older, and not at all like the young boy he’d raised. “Killing civilians? They wouldn’t. They just wouldn’t.”
“I believe you.” Qui-Gon told him softly. “I am sure there will be an explanation. We just need to go and find it.” Obi-Wan nodded shakily. He took a few steadying breaths and Qui-Gon waited patiently.
“What if he’s there, Master?” He finally whispered shakily.
“Then he’s there. And we’ll deal with that, together.” Qui-Gon leant over to press his forehead against Obi-Wan’s temple. He knew this gesture had significance among the Mandalorians as well, but he had always liked to feel Obi-Wan like this, solid against him, and cradled close like a child.
“I’ve wanted to see him.” The young man admitted quietly.
“I know. Perhaps it is the will of the Force that you will.” This got a slightly choked laugh.
“I just wish the will of the Force could be a little clearer, just this once.”
Qui-Gon chuckled. “Many have felt the same, my young Padawan, many have felt the same.” He straightened from their embrace. “Come. The shuttle will be ready to leave soon. Let us go and pull Anakin out of Diplomatic Languages so that we can say goodbye.”
***
The snowy planet of Galidraan was on the Perlemian Trade Route, which meant that the journey there from Coruscant would take just two days along the major hyperlane. In two days, Obi-Wan would see Mandalorians again. He may even see Jango or Boba or Mij. He'd missed the medic intensely since he’d returned to the Temple. He still struggled to accept what the man had done for him; adopting him, making him Mandalorian, if he wanted to be. He was glad that nobody but Qui-Gon and his Mind Healer knew about that particular detail however, as it may have caused something of an upset in the Senate.
The small tea kettle whistled in front of Obi-Wan and he took it off the heat. While Qui-Gon and Master Windu had been coordinating with the quartermaster to pack them some warmer robes, Master Dooku had been equipping the shuttle with a truly impressive array of teas and tea-making equipment. Obi-Wan couldn’t deny that he was grateful to him.
“Is that sapir, I smell, Grandpadawan?” Obi-Wan smiled into the steam curling around his head.
“Yes, Grand Master. A cup?”
“If you’d be so kind.” Obi-Wan looked over his shoulder to smile at Dooku. He didn’t smile back, but the hard edges of his brows softened, and there was a glimmer in his eye. Obi-Wan felt warmed by the old man’s affection. He gathered two cups and brought the pot over to the small table where Dooku was sitting, legs elegantly crossed in front of him. He went through the soothing motions of setting out the cups and pouring the leaves through a strainer, each movement precise and careful, and taught to him long ago by this very man.
Master Dooku thanked him politely when he sat down, both cups prepared, and Obi-Wan felt his approval loudly in the Force. They sipped in companionable silence for a while. His Grand Master had a tendency to weigh his words carefully before speaking. He rarely said anything just for the sake of it. Once half of their tea had been drunk, Dooku spoke.
“If your Mandalorian is there, you should leave with him.”
Obi-Wan choked on his mouthful. “Grand Master?” He wheezed, in question.
“You have been unhappy with us on Coruscant.” Obi-Wan started to shake his head in denial, but Dooku pinned him with a look. “Your efforts to resume your life have been admirable, young one. But you are changed. What you experienced, changed you. It is time for you to accept that.”
Obi-Wan swallowed nervously, and placed his cup down, noticing that his hand shook a little. “I accept that I have changed. That doesn’t mean that I can no longer be a Jedi.”
Dooku tilted his head, curiously. “But you no longer want to be a Jedi. Or at least, you want other things more. This chapter of your life is closing, Obi-Wan. It is time for you to start a new one.” The old Master drained the last swallow of his tea, and stood. “Think about what I have said.”
“I will.” Obi-Wan promised, and Dooku reached out to cup his cheek in one rough palm. The side of his mouth twitched, as close to a smile as Obi-Wan thought he’d ever seen on him, and then he was striding away, leaving Obi-Wan alone with his thoughts once more.
His Grand Master’s words had been so similar to Healer Praste’s. Did the Jedi want him to leave? Did they want to be rid of him? He shook this thought off like water from a fur coat. He had spent many years feeling inadequate, afraid of his welcome within the order. But he did not doubt his place any longer, and he would not allow such insidious thoughts to creep in again. Dooku and Healer Praste simply cared for him, and were trying to guide him toward what they thought would make him happy. But he was entirely happy! At least, almost entirely. So what if he sometimes lay in his bed in the dark of the night and wept for what he could have had? So what if he had to drag a pillow to clasp to his chest in the pretence of holding someone? So what if the very sight of younglings in the creche made his chest feel so tight with longing that it was hard to breathe?
He loved his Master, and he loved him in return. And he was becoming endeared with Qui-Gon’s lively new Padawan very quickly as well. His older brother Padawan Feemor was a Jedi Shadow, so spent years away from the Temple at once. It was refreshing to have a sibling around all the time.
And Quinlan was home a lot these days as well, since he’d rescued a little Twi’lek that he hoped to take as his Padawan when she was older. He and Obi-Wan had been out to the lower levels a few times in civilian clothing to drink and dance. He’d even tried to encourage Obi-Wan to pick someone up there; someone that he could sleep with and then forget, just as many in the Order chose to. He hadn’t been able to do it. The touch of their hands on his waist had been wrong, and made his skin crawl, and even with his omegan instincts suppressed, it had seemed like they smelled wrong as well.
He knew that he would need to make a decision soon; could taste it in the air almost. But he just didn’t know what to do. Truthfully, he was afraid. It was no small matter to give up the only life that you had ever known, no matter how badly you wanted to. He had meditated on it, and tried to see if the Force had any guidance for him, but he could still only see himself standing on the precipice. No closer to understanding if he was about to fall, or about to step back.
***
Jango had a bad feeling about Galidraan. He was always wary about taking contracts in Republic Space - even though the treaty allowed it - but this one had him extra worried. They’d arrived on-planet less than a day-cycle ago, with no sign of the insurgents that they’d been hired to deal with. Jango had made three attempts to contact the Governor to find out what was going on and had been artfully deflected by the Governor’s aide each time.
“I have a bad feeling about this.” Myles said, stepping up beside him. Jango snorted and it made his vocoder crackle oddly. They both wore their buy’cese, not able to relax enough to be seen planetside without full beskar’gam.
“Something’s not right, Jango.” Myles told him, taking a few steps further down the landing ramp of the Legacy to look across the snowy plain.
“I know.” He replied and gusted a sigh.
“Might be time to cut our losses and get off this karking planet.” He tilted his head to acknowledge Myle’s suggestion. He’d been starting to think the same. He hated to skip out on a contract, but right now he wasn’t sure there was a contract. Besides that, he had Boba with him so it would be better to get out of here before things went sideways, if they were about to go sideways.
“When Silas and the verde get back from scouting, we’ll go. I don’t want to be here when our bad feeling proves right.”
Myles nodded and crouched at the bottom of the ramp to gather some snow into his gloved hand. He considered it, running a thumb through the flakes, sifting them in his palm. “Been a minute since I’ve seen snow. Last time must have been when we hunted that bounty to Hoth. Few months before Boba was snatched, you remember?”
Jango swallowed hard and grunted in acknowledgment. They’d been on the trail of some hut’uun who’d skipped out on a debt to the Hutts. They hadn’t been hunting him for the Hutts, who Jango didn’t take jobs from out of principle, but the family had asked for help when the slimy demagolkase had turned to them to settle the credits. They’d caught up to him on the ice planet; what had driven him to hide there, Jango still wasn’t sure. Boba had been too small to travel with him then, and he’d hated leaving him with Jaster, even for the tenday the contract took.
Of course, the next time he’d gone out, he’d wished that he had left Boba with Jaster. It still burned that the pirates had managed to take his ad from under the nose of Ori’ramikade, even if they’d had to kill four verde to do it. He’d left Boba with them on Yavin because he’d received a distress signal from Walon Vau, an old friend of his buir’s, on Rodia, all the way on the other sith-damned side of the Outer Rim. The single survivor of the attack on Yavin had returned from getting food to find the bodies, no ad, and a flimsi ransom note, and immediately commed Jango. By then, he was already several weeks travel away.
He’d been lucky that they were close enough for one of the short-range shuttles docked in the Legacy ’s upper hull to fly the rest of the way to Rodia. They weren’t hyperspace-capable, but Jango had packed them with verde, keeping his strongest, the vanguard, for his assault on the pirates, and sent them to help Walon. He’d understood, when Jango finally caught up with him months later. He had ade of his own, after all.
Then when he’d rescued Boba, his whole world had flipped on its head, because he’d rescued Obi-Wan as well. Thoughts of the omega still plagued him, years later. The taste of his rejection was still sharp and metallic on his tongue, and formed an ache under his kar’ta beskar. But even with that ache, he longed for him. Jaster had tried to set him up with an omega from clan Wren, about a year into his pining, but the poor lad just hadn’t been the right fit. Boba hadn’t liked him enough. Jango hadn’t liked him enough.
Blowing out another sigh, Jango reached up to tilt his buy’ce enough to be able to scratch at his chin. He startled, badly, when the roar of ship repulsors sounded suddenly in the distance. He tugged his buy’ce back into place and used the HUD to scan the sky. A shuttle had just entered atmo.
Myles stood up, letting snow scatter from his glove, and raised that same hand to shield the glare from the sun across his visor, so that he could stare up into the sky. “Bad feeling incoming.” He muttered, as the shape of the shuttle began to get larger and larger. It was clear that it was heading for Galdira, the capital city, outside the walls of which the Mando’ade had set the Legacy down.
Jango took a few steps down the ramp, so that he was shoulder to shoulder with his vod, the HUD in his buy’ce tracking the shuttle’s descent. As soon as it dropped into close enough range for him to get a clear visual, he gasped aloud. Painted on the side of the shuttle, in a dark red, was the winged blade of light of the Jetiise aliik.
“Osik.” Myles said beside him and he couldn’t help but agree.
“Comm Silas.” He told his Second. “Get them back here. And find Boba.” Myles knocked his closed palm briefly against his kar’ta beskar in acknowledgment.
“Oya!” He took off at a brisk jog up the loading ramp, his boots thumping loudly against the durasteel. Jango took another few steps down, his heels crunching into the snow, compressing it beneath his weight, as he lowered himself off the ramp.
The shuttle was still descending fast upon their location, and he felt his hands twitch to the hilts of his Westars. He left them resting there, breathing as steadily as he could. What in the Manda could have brought the Jetiise here? This whole thing stunk like a Jawa.
His comm crackled and he twisted his wrist to knock his kom’rk against his thigh rather than taking either hand off his blasters. A few lights lit up in his HUD. It was Silas.
“Report.” He barked.
“You’re seeing the karking Jetiise ship coming down on us like a jai’galaar, right?” Silas asked, sounding breathless. Jango could make out the whine of a speeder in the background.
“Yep. Where are you?”
“Klicks out, still. Won’t make it first.” Jango acknowledged this with a curse and Silas clicked off his comm. Footsteps above him on the landing ramp made Jango jerk, but when he looked up it was just Myles.
“I got Silas.” He told him, and Myles nodded.
“Good. Boba’s with Vhonte.” Myles hesitated, then turned his buy’ce to look over his shoulder. “Mij thinks we should stand down. Greet them as friends.”
Jango snorted. “It won’t be him, Myles. I don’t want to try and reason with a bunch of Jetiise who don’t know us, and don’t like us.”
His vod nodded, and took another few steps closer. “What if it is, though?”
Jango shook his head. “Do you know how many Jetiise there are in the Galaxy? Thousands.” They both looked up as the shape of the shuttle continued to get larger. Jango thought it was probably almost close enough to see the Jetii aliik with the naked eye now.
“How long did Silas say?” Myles asked, sounding nervous.
“Too long.” Jango snarled. “Get everyone but Boba and Vhonte out here. We’ll show these Jetiise that Mando’ade will not be taken lightly.”
***
The size of the welcome outside the Mandalorian ship was- concerning. Qui-Gon cut his eyes to where his former Padawan was practically vibrating beside him. The young man had been silent for the last fifteen minutes, since they’d gotten close enough to get a clear view of the Mando ship parked outside the city walls, and Obi-Wan had confirmed it to be the Legacy , Jango Fett’s flagship.
Qui-Gon leant over to put a hand on his shoulder. “It will be alright. Remember, this is the will of the Force.” Obi-Wan swallowed heavily and nodded. He was very pale. Dooku watched quietly from Obi-Wan’s other side.
“Knight Kenobi should go first, once we land.” Qui-Gon shot his old Master a look, and opened his mouth to protest. “It is his mission, we are merely here to support him.”
“We’re here to protect him.” Qui-Gon hissed. “How can we do that if he is first into the line of their fire.”
“They will not harm me.” Obi-Wan rasped. “Whatever has occurred here, whatever they have done. The crew of the Legacy will know me.”
Qui-Gon made a frustrated noise, but saw on the faces of his companions that their minds were made up. He reached down to grip his lightsaber tight in his hand. Their shuttle clunked, and began to slow momentum as they approached the surface. Their pilot was an FA-4 droid by the name of Effa, and they took the vessel in as smoothly as only a droid could.
Qui-Gon jolted a little on his feet when they put down, the landing struts old and creaky. Obi-Wan caught his elbow to steady him, and he smiled softly down at his former Padawan. “Ready?” He asked him and got a determined nod. Mace hit the landing release and a hydraulic whir began as the durasteel ramp lowered. At first, they could see only the sky and the tips of some distant, snow-dusted trees. They breathed in the fresh, cold air, and Qui-Gon shivered, grateful for the fur lining of his cloak.
More sky appeared, then the top of the Mandalorian ship, grey and imposing against the landscape. Once the ramp had dipped low enough, the armoured bodies of three dozen Mandalorians, standing to attention, filled their view instead. Obi-Wan’s breath stuttered at the sight of them. They were as still as statues, sun glinting off their beskar, giving no sign that said they recognised any of the Jedi. Qui-Gon hoped that it was just too dim inside the ship for them to make them out, and not because these Mandalorians did not know Obi-Wan. Or did not care that they knew Obi-Wan.
His former Padawan squared his shoulders and stepped forward to place a foot onto the ramp. A steadying breath, and he strode briskly down the durasteel until his boots could sink into the snow covered the ground. As soon as he passed out of the shadow of their shuttle enough that the sun could catch in the red-gold of his hair, the Mandalorian in the middle of the line jolted, as if they’d been struck. Qui-Gon felt his heart rate pick up, and he, Mace and Dooku stepped forward as one to follow Obi-Wan down.
At least there hadn’t immediately been any shooting.
Obi-Wan kept walking, his pace fast, but steady, until he’d reached a point about halfway between the two ships, where he paused. He looked back over his shoulder at Qui-Gon, and he looked uncertain. Ahead, a handful of the Mandalorians seemed to be arguing with the one who had reacted to Obi-Wan, judging by the movement of their hands and helmeted heads. The one in the middle had their helmet turned toward where his Padawan stood, like he was staring, and had not looked away.
The Masters stepped up behind Obi-Wan in the centre, catching him up, and they paused there too, willing to follow the young man’s lead. Suddenly, the armoured figure to the right of the central one threw up his gloved hands and broke rank, striding purposefully toward Obi-Wan. A hand reached to grab him and pull him back, but they were too slow and their fingers scrabbled uselessly across smooth beskar.
The warrior descending upon them was painted in gold, the mythosaur sigil of the True Mandalorians proudly displayed on one pauldron. A glance at Obi-Wan showed that he was grinning.
Just a handful of paces from them, the figure reached up and yanked his helmet off, revealing a man in his sixties, with an oft broken nose. Qui-Gon recognised him as the medic, Mij Gilamar; the man who had said the adoption vow to Obi-Wan in Sundari.
“Ad’ika.” He called gleefully, and then he was sweeping Obi-Wan up into his arms. Qui-Gon’s former Padawan laughed joyously, and pressed their foreheads together, clinging in a tight hug.
“Mij.” Obi-Wan sighed, and shut his eyes in contentment. Qui-Gon risked a glance at his fellow Masters, who seemed confused, but endeared by the display. Back at the Mandalorian ship, another figure had broken away from the group and was approaching, movements stiff and stressed. They came to a stop by the embracing pair, but did not remove their helmet.
“Su cuy’gar, Obi-Wan.” They said, voice distorted by their vocoder.
Obi-Wan drew his head back to look at the figure, and smiled. “Su cuy’gar, Myles.” He breathed. The Second in Command then, not Fett. A peek over at the Mando ranks showed that the central Mandalorian was still staring at Obi-Wan, and still had not taken a step closer. Qui-Gon was sure that this was Fett.
“What are you doing here?” Myles asked, and tilted his helmet towards Qui-Gon, Mace and Yan, making clear that he meant what are you doing here with them?
Obi-Wan glanced at Qui-Gon and took a breath. “I need to ask you the same thing, Myles. The Senate sent us - sent me - to investigate reports of Mandalorian activity on this planet.”
“Mandalorian activity.” Myles scoffed, sounding annoyed even through the vocoder. “Our treaty allows ‘Mandalorian activity’ within Republic space.”
Obi-Wan inclined his head in agreement. “Yes, to a certain degree. I need to reach into my robes to retrieve something, are you comfortable with that?”
The Mandalorian stared at Obi-Wan until Mij snapped at him. “Myles.”
He gusted a sigh through his helmet, but nodded for Obi-Wan to proceed. Qui-Gon’s former Padawan slowly put his hand beneath his cloak, and there was a series of clanks as over thirty Mandalorians shifted their weight, hands reaching for weapons. Qui-Gon barely kept himself from reaching for his own lightsaber, but Myles threw a hand up behind him, and the warriors stilled. Fingers were still wrapped around blasters, but they were not drawn.
Obi-Wan’s own hand came back out of his robe clutching a datapad. “The Senate has received reports of Mandalorians killing civilians on this planet.” Myles jerked forward and it seemed as if was about to speak, but Obi-Wan cut over him. “Holopictures were provided. The Mandalorians wear the sigil of the mythosaur.” He held out the datapad to Myles, who took it cautiously.
He clicked the pad on and swiped through the screen, each movement of his finger more vicious than the last. He let out a stream of sounds, and while Qui-Gon knew next to no Mando’a, he would place credits on them being swear words. “I need to show this to our alor’ad.” He told them, and Obi-Wan nodded to allow it. Myles strode away across the snow, sending flurries up around feet.
Obi-Wan turned back to Mij and they began to talk quietly, the Mandalorian reaching up to run a hand over the young man’s longer hair, his new beard, checking him over as a parent might. Obi-Wan batted his hands away and smiled fondly. Back by the Mandalorian ship, Myles had reached the being that Qui-Gon assumed was Fett, and they were bent over the datapad together. Their hand movements looked angry.
“Are you going to introduce me, ad’ika?” Mij asked, a little louder, and Qui-Gon drew his attention back to them. Obi-Wan flushed, embarrassed.
“Oh! Of course. This is Master Mace Windu and my Grand Master Yan Dooku, from the Jedi High Council. You remember Qui-Gon.”
Mij hummed thoughtfully. “Grand Master? This is your ba’buir?”
Obi-Wan laughed, a soft little thing. “Yes, I suppose.”
Mij held a hand out to Yan, which he contemplated quizzically for a moment, before reaching to clasp it in the Mandalorian style, forearm to forearm. Mace got a respectful nod from the medic, which he returned, deeply.
“Why are the Mando’ade here, Mij?” Obi-Wan asked, eyes darting over to where Myles still conferred with their leader.
Mij reached up to tuck some wayward hair behind Obi-Wan’s ear. “Best to let Jango explain, ad’ika. But whatever your Senate thinks we’ve done, they’re wrong. We’ve been on-planet for less than a day.”
Qui-Gon watched as his former Padawan flinched at Fett’s name. “He’s here, then?” He asked the medic, breathlessly.
“He is.” Mij responded. “Boba, too.” Obi-Wan actually gasped at this and took a step as if to go around Mij, as if to approach the other Mandalorians. Qui-Gon, Mij and Yan all reached for him at the same moment, grasping him in place between them. “Udesiir,” Mij murmured, “just wait.”
Approaching footsteps made them all look over, and Myles was coming back, Fett just behind him. Qui-Gon tightened his grip on his Padawan’s elbow.
The two Mandalorians came to a halt and there was a beat of tense silence, before Fett reached up to yank off his helmet, revealing a head full of curls, wilder than they’d been two years ago, and an expression on his face like he had been punched in the gut.
***
He was exactly as beautiful as Obi-Wan remembered. Maybe moreso, with his curls a bit longer like that, cropped far less close to his scalp. His handsome mouth twisted, and Obi-Wan could not have said, blaster to his head, if Jango was pleased to see him or not.
“Omega.” He greeted, and Obi-Wan felt Qui-Gon and Master Dooku’s flinches, through their grip on him. As gently as he could, he shook them off. Jango had not said that to insult him, as they believed, but to mark his respect for what Obi-Wan was. He had done a lot of reading about Mandalorian approaches to gender in the last two years.
“Su cuy’gar, alor.” He returned and stepped forward to offer his forearm. Jango clasped it readily, and when Obi-Wan tried to withdraw, his grip remained tight. Obi-Wan relaxed into the hold, so that it would not appear to his companions that he was struggling to shake Jango off him, lest they do anything hasty. “You look well.” He added, and Jango continued to stare at him for a moment.
“You grew a beard.” He sounded gruff, almost annoyed.
Obi-Wan chuckled. “People kept mistaking me for a Padawan.”
Mij barked a laugh beside him. “My baby-faced ad.” He said affectionately. Obi-Wan stuck his tongue out at him.
Looking back at Jango, he let his eyes drift to where the other had still not released him, then back up to his face. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Do you not like it?”
Jango let his eyes trail obviously along his jaw, lingering on his lips. His own curved into a smirk. “I like it.” He said, voice low, and Obi-Wan had to fight the shiver that tried to go down his spine. Force, how did the man still make him feel like this, even with his omegan instincts ruthlessly suppressed?
Obi-Wan cleared his throat again, and tried to tug subtly on his trapped arm. Jango’s eyes dropped down to it, and after a moment of contemplation, he finally drew back. Obi-Wan shook his arm out by his side, flexing his fingers.
“This isn’t us.” Jango held up the datapad, glancing at it in disgust. “They bear the mythosaur, but the base colours on their armour? They are Kyr’tsad colours.”
Master Dooku made a thoughtful sound behind Obi-Wan. “And I suppose we must just take your word for that?”
“Nayc.” Jango snarled. “A joint investigation. Kyr’tsad could not have done this on their own. Someone seeks to disrupt the treaty and plunge us into war once more.” He turned to Obi-Wan, who felt suddenly hot under the intensity of that gaze, especially as it dipped down to drag across his body. “We should remain on-planet until this is resolved. You will be welcome to bunk down on the Legacy. Come.” Obi-Wan distinctly felt that order, and the offer preceding it, were just for him, but when Jango turned on his heel and strode off back towards his ship, and Obi-Wan followed, so did Qui-Gon, Master Windu and Master Dooku.
Obi-Wan had a feeling that something significant was about to happen, and the Force roiled and murmured around him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Master Windu squint at him, and flinch.