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Tomorrow

by Ms. Nawilla (mail)

Title: Tomorrow
Author: Ms. Nawilla
Category: Angst, AU,
Summary: Qui-Gon prepares for Knight Kenobi's return to the Temple. Sequel to "Try."
Feedback: would be most appreciated at ms_nawilla@hotmail.com
Series: Sequel to Try, so I guess this is the "Try" series.
Try: http://www.masterapprentice.org/archive/t/try.html
Rating: R, (if not PG-13) No sex, just longing.
Warnings: See spoilers below.
Archive: M-A. If anyone else wants it, please email at ms_nawilla@hotmail.com.
Acknowledgements: Thanks and gratitude to Ceria, my beta and cheerleader. Any mistakes are mine, since I kept a few odd errors for stylistic reasons. Thanks to Hikaru for archiving. Also thank you to the readers of "Try" who wanted to hear more. Um, don't know if this is exactly what you were hoping for. The song quoted appears on Daryl Hall and John Oates' "Do It For Love" (a great cd by the way. Also saw them live last week. Excellent, excellent show. No, I won't quote their music in all of my fic.)
Spoilers: I wrote "Wall" while I was trying to get the last little bit of this written so they share something in common (as in if you didn't like that, you might not like this.) Hence warnings/spoilers appear below. Decide for yourself if you want to be warned/spoiled.

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Note Angst category. Also character death.

When they ask me how long I'm gonna love you
If the road to my heart will always stay true,
I'll say forever,
I'll say forever for you.
When they ask will I stand right there beside you,
And they don't see you and me the way that I do,
I'll say forever,
I'll say forever for you.
      -- Paul Berry, Mark Taylor, Steve Torch and John Oates "Forever For You"

His eyes blinded by the afterimage of lightning, Qui-Gon Jinn bolted upright in bed. The thunder still echoed in the Masters' Tower, still rattled in his bones as he blinked sightlessly, trying to restore his vision. Unscheduled rain was an unusual event on Coruscant, severe thunderstorms much more so, but at nearly seventy-five standard years of age he was far too old to be frightened like a new initiate by a little bad weather.

Slowly, his vision returned and he settled against the bed, eyeing the wind-driven rain through his windows a moment before leaning back to peer at his chronometer. Third hour. Dawn was still a long way off, longer still if this tempest did not abate. He shivered at the chill of early morning, and the feel of the storm in his bones; old injuries had been sending him forget-me-knots all the previous day. Huddling down into bed, he tried to will himself back to sleep, but another crack across the heavens made him jump again. He looked back at the chrono, puzzled. What dreams disturbed had left him so anxious as this?

He had just closed his eyes once more, the covers pulled up to his chin, when a particularly large bolt lanced across the sky to light upon a communications rod across the airlane, large arcs whiting through his closed lids, and filling his bedchamber with its harsh, unworldly radiance. Qui-Gon wiped his eyes to clear them, then got up and out of bed, throwing the linens aside in disgust. He would just have to wait out the storm before he would be able to go back to sleep. There was no reason he had to do it half-blind without a good cup of tea.

The familiar ritual was half routine, half meditation, and the soothing sights and scents began to calm the oddly rattled sensation he had felt ever since he had woken up. In the homey warmth of the kitchen the storm seemed more distant, no longer in the room with him but driven back behind the common room curtains, retreating from the wholesomeness of tea. A taste of honey to balance the bitterness and he took a sip. Warmth all the way down his throat and into his belly. He hadn't even realized he had been cold.

He turned off the heat, poured out the kettle, then stared down at the teapot a moment, debating whether to huddle in the kitchen like a wolverinx in its den, wondering if this was its last winter, or to go out into his common room to be serenaded by the percussive thunder. Another rumble, this one heard more than felt. A faint flash peeking in just under the heavy drapes. The storm was moving on, passing over the Temple and now toward the eastern embassy district. The senate building was already free of it and tending to the damage. Just another storm lived through. Another moment to give thanks to the Force.

Qui-Gon settled down into his overstuffed chair, a hopelessly ugly piece perpetually in need of reupholstering, even immediately after re-covering it. He slipped one hand over the worn, nubby fabric and took another sip. Even Tahl had called this chair vile the last time it had been redone after Ani had accidentally burned a hole into the seat. Qui-Gon still wasn't sure how a sightless woman, Jedi or not, could assess the beauty of his personal chair, but she adamantly defended her claim, going so far as to call it "offensive even to blind eyes." At that point he had told her it was his common room and his eyes were the only ones relevant to insult. Tahl had fallen off the couch laughing.

He sniffed ruefully as he surveyed the rest of the furniture. He really couldn't call it a common room anymore; he had lived alone here for the three years since Anakin had been knighted so there really wasn't anyone he had it in common with. His apartment was no longer the bustling center of knighthood preparation it had been for the twenty-five years before Ani's ceremony. Today it was just a place for a somewhat crusty old Jedi to retreat to his books and his tea after the day's lessons were done, and occasionally host equally dusty agemates where they sat around complaining about youth, old injuries, and what they were going to convert their old padawans' rooms into whenever they got around to it and the beautifully regulated weather was less damp. So far all his crabbed old contemporaries had put together were impersonal storage rooms with life's debris scattered over the beds and stuffed into the closets. But here, as in so many things, Qui-Gon differed from his peers. He had a guest room. Clean towels. Fresh linens. New slippers by the perfectly made up bed. Closet clear and inviting, empty save for a comfortable bathrobe. Everything ready. Today it was a well-equipped and unoccupied guest room. Today he sat in a sitting room that was solely his own domain. But in two days time . . .

Almost fourth hour. The next day had already begun. He smiled to himself as he sipped his tea.

One day left.

Tomorrow then. Tomorrow this would be again be a common room and Ani's old room would be empty no longer.

Tomorrow, Obi-Wan was coming home.

Tomorrow.

It had been so long and now he was coming home tomorrow.

It wasn't supposed to have lasted this long. A few months had been expected, a year or two at the most. Surely not longer than three years and then he would be back. Or not, but surely he would return before Ani made senior padawan. No, he had never expected his former apprentice to be gone ten years, much less nearly fifteen. He drained his tea and stared down at the shadows lingering in his cup. Fifteen years. He hadn't seen Obi-Wan in fifteen years. Obi-Wan was nearly forty. And he himself was an old man.

His eyes drifted to the three wooden boxes on his desk, lingering over the last one, the locked one. He was an old man and now was not the time to regret lost opportunities. He had debated emptying that box into the recycler, letting go of the wishes and emotions its contents represented, but he hadn't. He couldn't. Could not and would not let go until . . . until he had at least seen Obi-Wan again. Happy. Healthy. Home.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he could let it go. In the meantime he would just have to hide it away in the closet. Obi-Wan had a tendency to inadvertently snoop while looking for sweets. Somehow he didn't think those were the sweets he'd be looking for.

Shaking his head at the follies of old men, he walked over to the box and picked it up, turning it over in his hands. Smooth, cool wood, beautiful grain, it almost seemed to glow in the dim light of the apartment. His fingers lingered over the bold 'J' that formed the latch, and he smiled. Obi-Wan had given him this box, many years before. One of his birthdays, a day when he would rather have pretended he was wasn't a year older instead of celebrating his relentless march toward dotage. Considering his birthday was next week, he might just celebrate his arrival there instead. Chuckling at himself, a bittersweet laugh, he carried the box to the storage closet to hide it behind the winter cloaks.

When the box was safely camouflaged beneath old traveling bags and waterproof coats he would likely never need again, he moved the cloaks back into place and something hidden away in the back of the closet caught his eye. A small, plain black jar with a green lid, the same kind that the Ostalian nomads kept their aromatic perfumes in. He picked up the jar, the scent of musky desert blooms lingering faintly in the air as the seal was opened.

The jar had also been a gift, but not from Obi-Wan. He closed his eyes as the fragrant scent of that mission filled the closet. He remembered the vast desert of the Ostali subcontinent, the fierce winds and fiery steeds, the small precious oases, the lush brocades, jewels, spices. He remembered the moment he had irrevocably lost his heart. It was not one of those storybook love-at-first-sight moments where suddenly he looked up and noticed Obi-Wan was the most beautiful man on the planet. He had been well aware of that already for he could not help noticing the youth's many admirers. Not to mention that he and his apprentice had been the only humans on Ostali anyway, so Obi-Wan really was the fairest in the land by default. No, it wasn't one of those moments, though it had all the ingredients.

He remembered exactly what Obi-Wan had been wearing. The water rights and trade negotiations between the two clans had been halted for some local festival or other and both he and his padawan had been honored guests and were clothed as such. He had long since forgotten whatever the Ostali matrons had dressed him in, but Obi-Wan had been clothed in native silks, vibrant jewel tones that set off his skin and highlighted his eyes. Obi-Wan was in a word, stunning. Which at his age of twenty-one was hardly a new situation for Qui-Gon, although quite a few of the Ostali matrons, maids and men took careful note of this. He was strong, confident, intelligent. The Force radiated from him, the light of his soul still growing and developing into a knight, but clearly he was already a young man. But none of this was new to Qui-Gon and none of this was enough to push the master to love more than one would for one's padawan.

It was what Obi-Wan was doing that stole his master's heart.

He was feeding the guargoats with the niece of the steed captain, and doing a particularly bad job of it too. Obi-Wan generally disliked livestock on a personal level, and the feeling tended to be mutual. But there he was, in the dusty pen, trying his best not to step in anything nasty and being butted on all sides because he didn't spread the grain fast enough. And he was making the child laugh.

The captain's niece had been a shy girl, smaller than her agemates and the target of bullies. She had clearly been very curious about the Jedi, like most of the children of both clans, but had been rather timid about approaching them. More cautious and dutiful, she went about her chores rather than shirking them to spy on the negotiators. Even though she clearly wanted to and was mocked all the more for it. She was very much like Obi-Wan had been at that age.

When the holiday had rolled around, her peers became more jovial, finding other mischief to engage in, but the child was still left alone to her chores, and this time with no one to provide even marginal assistance. He had seen her overwhelmed look that morning as she began to wash up from breakfast, but the clan chiefs had called him over and there was nothing he could do. At the time he had sympathized with the girl, but his own duty called just as loudly. It never occurred to him that Obi-Wan had noticed her at all.

However, it was evident from the dampness of his sleeves that Obi-Wan had noticed her and put in a fine effort in cleaning the meal bowls. A faint stain of soot spoke of tending the cooking fires. Suddenly Obi-Wan stood up straight, grunting and off balance, and as he turned, Qui-Gon could see a finely rendered pair of hoof prints on his backside, attesting to his efforts with the guargoats. His hair was a mess, his braid was coming unraveled and he was covered in dust; Obi-Wan hated getting dirty if he didn't have to. And he didn't have to, unless he wanted to help a child so like himself, forced to work like an adult when she should have had time to play on a holiday. Without his help she would have worked until dusk. With it she would be free after the midmeal dishes were done. For the sake of a little girl's free afternoon, Obi-Wan reduced himself to a dusty, dirty mess, one that would be spending the rest of the day getting clean again before the evening feast and subtle diplomatic work resumed. He was still stunning.

And Qui-Gon's heart was lost. Or so he thought at the time. In retrospect, he believed that had actually been the moment when he had noted its absence.

Obi-Wan hadn't seen him watching, and didn't seem to find anything peculiar in his behavior, even offering a grin when Qui-Gon himself moved to help the now star-struck girl after midmeal. His own efforts didn't last long as the matrons spied him and sent the three of them out of the kitchen yard and set the child's peers to their long-neglected chores. He had then spent the next hour guarding the bathing pool while his padawan washed himself and his clothes again, setting the matrons' earlier work to rights. He had sat under a shade tree, on the alert for the bold adolescents who had plagued them all week, and carefully tried not to think how much he wanted to see a certain Jedi naked himself. Despite that this would also hardly be a new experience for him.

But he hadn't looked, except in his dreams. And as far as he could tell, Obi-Wan never noticed a thing. His apprentice had washed himself clean, dressed in his still damp clothes, then stood, waiting for the seat of his pants to dry, commenting on how lucky he was that water evaporated so quickly in the arid desert air. Pity it hadn't been a little more humid; the damp silk clung so nicely.

No, Obi-Wan hadn't noticed anything in his master's slightly more frequent meditation, nor in his covert, longing looks. He was the youth's master after all, he expected inspection as it were. But their little friend's grandmother did, so after inviting them both to tea, and sending Obi-Wan and her granddaughter out to `play' with the guarlambs, she had turned her sharp old eyes on Qui-Gon before giving him the jar.

He had looked it over for several moments before asking what is was for. He knew perfumes were highly valued among the Ostali, used in rituals and always given for a reason. The aged medicine woman was thankfully not offended by his ignorance. She guided the jar in his hand to the rug of her hut, then carefully opened the lid, letting the heavy, sweet fragrance permeate the air. Qui-Gon closed his eyes, inhaling the scent for the first time. Not flowery, like his crèche-master's, nor the sweet citrus on Tahl's neck, but deep, earthy. Cultured and sophisticated, but with something natural and untamed in it. It was a scent for a lover, but not one he had ever had. A lover who worked hard, and loved true. The essence of a powerful passion, but made more powerful by secure serenity. It was the scent of his deepest wish, his greatest longing. A scent he had seemed to know long before he knew why.

He opened his eyes after several deep breaths, his look plainly asking the old woman what flower could have produced this scent. She laughed dryly as she closed the jar, and only then did Qui-Gon notice her scarf over her face. When the perfume was locked away, she lit a candle and lowered the cloth. Qui-Gon moved to speak, but she set a bony finger to his lips, then quietly explained.

The perfume in the jar was their most prized, not because the Force-sensitive flower was so rare, which it was, but because the scent was unique to each person who set the fragrance. Some aspect of the plant still lived on in its nectar, interacting with the first person to smell it. Somehow, through the mysteries of the Force, the perfume's scent was formed not by the plant, but by the mind of the one who first sampled it. The deepest thoughts and dreams of their heart were captured and distilled by the souls of the flowers, and reborn as an utterly unique fragrance. The Ostali did not know how this happened, only that it was. Thus Qui-Gon's deepest wish now drifted through the air of the tent. The old woman sniffed at it, delicately, then smiled as if it told her only what she already knew.

"You love him," she had said. Qui-Gon's jaw dropped, but she only cackled at the sight and continued. "You love him and he doesn't know." He nodded then, still not able to admit it out loud in its newness.

She sampled the scent again. "He does not return this love," she said at last, gesturing to the invisible fragrant clouds. "It is not that he does not love you," she hurried to add, lifting Qui-Gon's chin as he slumped. "It is plain to see how precious you are to him," she had reassured him, "but he is too young to love you, to love anyone like this."

"I know," he had said after a time. "I," he tried to force a smile. "I will just have to get over him, like so many who came before me." It hurt to trivialize his feelings, but to acknowledge them, he knew, would hurt so much more.

"Perhaps," the old woman nodded at last as she took up the still burning candle and let the wax drip onto the jar lid, sealing in that beguiling scent for the long journey home. "Perhaps you will get over him." She blew gently, hardening the wax, then sampled the scent still lingering in the air. "Or perhaps, good Jedi, you are patient enough to wait for him to grow into this love?" She handed him the jar then, her smile somehow both sly and kind.

He grimaced back wearily as he took the gift, honored yet disheartened. "Or perhaps I will just wait for him to grow out of it." He shook his head at his own folly. "I do know he loves me, in a very deep, even a spiritual way. But I am his teacher, old enough to be his father and more."

"And he loves you as his father?" Qui-Gon had shuddered. He felt like he had gone from a pathetic old fool to a dirty old man in a matter of seconds. But his companion had merely cackled at his look as she put out the candle. "Or does he love you more?" she asked at last, just before her granddaughter burst into the tent with a guarlamb, scattering the last of the scent to the winds before his padawan followed a moment later. It would be many years before he would find an answer to that question.

In the silent dim of the closet, memories faded into the present and Qui-Gon looked back down on the jar long empty of perfume, but in which the scent still lingered. A smile bloomed on his lips and he blinked against the threat of tears as he poured the contents of the jar out into his hand, then held them up to the faint light slipping in through the curtains. The beaded knight's ties glinted slightly as he slipped the silk-smooth braid between his fingers. Fifteen years. Fifteen years but he would be home tomorrow.

His knees were beginning to stiffen, and his spine to ache; he had been standing around in closets for too long. He took a step back and peered at the cloaks again; they looked just as random and undisturbed as they did before he had moved them. The box was safely stowed. With a wince as arthritic joints protested, he placed the jar back on the shelf, and shut the closet, the lightly-perfumed braid still clasped in his hand. Fifteen years ago, his just-knighted former padawan had presented him with the long, elegant plait, decorated with ribbons and beads attesting to Obi-Wan's commitment to the order, his strength in the Force, his accomplishments and his challenges. Twelve years of training and dedication. The new knight had blushed, mumbling something about wanting to give his master something meaningful, that he hadn't been expecting his trials. He made no mention of the obvious, that he could hardly have planned a gift while he had been nurse-maiding his master all hours of the day for weeks on end. Qui-Gon's hand clutched the braid a bit tighter at the memory. It hadn't mattered anyway. There was no other gift his padawan could give that would have been more meaningful.

His feet had nearly carried him into his guest room before he quite realized why.

Obi-Wan's room.

He looked down at the braid in his hand, smiling. Now was not the time to lock up precious keepsakes that made him forget the moment to dwell in the past. Obi-Wan was coming home tomorrow. Today it was both the past and the future, but in just one day it would be the moment. Tomorrow he would be home. Qui-Gon gave the braid a gentle squeeze as he entered the room, his mind remembering the thousand affectionate tugs he had given it when the plait had still been attached to Obi-Wan's head. The lock slid in his hand, lax and warm like the feel of the boy's fingers in his palm whenever he had woken in the infirmary to find his padawan keeping vigil over him. Even as a child Obi-Wan had always taken care of him.

Slowly he raised the lights and looked over the room yet again. It looked just as it had last night, still perfectly ready and prepared. The smell of fresh paint had finally cleared and the small lacen ivy by the window softly scented the room as it bloomed. The sheets were neat, white and clean. Not a wrinkle to be seen. The pillows were plumped and inviting. A beautiful new quilt adorned the bed, a gift from some of Obi-Wan's childhood friends, they themselves almost as eager to see him as Qui-Gon was. It was a beautiful work of art in and of itself, made up of elaborate geometric patterns in blue, green and gold that seemed almost haphazardly arranged until one got close enough to see the images of nature in the design. Water. Sky. Clouds. Leaves. Oceans. Stitched together and interwoven into a beautiful whole. The Living Force or the Unifying Force? Qui-Gon had never been able to decide.

It had been Bant's idea to make the quilt, almost a year ago, when Obi-Wan had promised that come Hell, high water, a Council declaration or a Force-damned legion of Sith, he was going to come home for his former master's seventy-fifth birthday. Finally having a goal in mind, and with Anakin knighted and wed, Qui-Gon had begun remodeling his long-neglected guest room, and had even gone so far as to get Obi-Wan's personal possessions out of deep storage, determined to hold them ransom if necessary to ensure their owner would indeed come to claim them. Fortunately Obi-Wan had not been offended by his former master's presumption, or if he had, it hadn't been expressed in their frequent correspondence.

He turned, surveying the room. Opening those cartons, cataloged and sealed by his own hand more than a decade ago when Obi-Wan's knight's quarters, still unused had been reassigned, had been surprisingly bittersweet. His absence had seemed more acute at first, but the pain had been dulled bit by bit as he had marked off the days until his best friend would return. Gradually it had hurt less and less to take an object out of the box, to look it over, clean it if necessary, then find a place for it in the new room, usually close to the place Obi-Wan had kept it when he had lived there. His Jedi trained memory had proved both a curse and a blessing throughout the whole process. Particularly when he reached the quilt in the bottom of the second box.

He had opened the first two containers as soon as they arrived, fretting at old stains that spoke of water damage. A plumbing problem had occurred in the storage rooms some years ago, but either no one had thought to notify Obi-Wan or the cleaning crew had simply not realized how far the damage had spread. The first box had contained trinkets, luckily nothing prone to rust or with a mechanical purpose. The second box had contained some musty clothes, but nothing that could not be washed. So he had sealed them back up to sort at his leisure, and didn't give them another thought until he was sending the curtains out to launder and thought to send out Obi-Wan's clothes as well.

He had started to get what Obi-Wan would have called a `bad feeling' as soon as he had opened the box. Somewhat concerned, he began sorting out tunics and pants, most of which would be too small for their owner who had put a bit more healthy weight on his frame as he matured. Either that or the Outer Rim holo projectors added ten pounds. The deeper he got into the box, the stronger the musty smell became, though otherwise the clothing seemed fine. But then he was about halfway in and he pulled out a padawan robe, riddled with holes and greasy black stains, and his heart had clenched.

Fiber rot!

Careful not to mix the fungus laden robes with his own clothes, he began poking through the box, praying to the Force nothing of extreme sentimental value lay in the ruined layers below. Corpses of underwear soon emerged, followed by what might have been thermal socks at one time, and a rather blackened . . . something that must have been part of Obi-Wan's civilian clothing. And then, at the bottom, the loss that nearly broke his heart: Obi-Wan's quilt.

He had actually cried out in dismay at seeing the blanket ruined. Obi-Wan had made that quilt with his own hands as part of an artisan appreciation class. They had been Temple-bound while the Council debated whether or not he had gone too far that time and his apprentice nursed a nasty ankle injury that had almost kept him out of the annual sabre tournament. With more downtime on his hands, the young man had not been content to merely stitch a plain quilt, it was an artisan class after all, and the design had been carefully modeled on meditative chant imagery and artwork of the earliest Jedi. It had been glorious, and had even been displayed in a reflection garden for some weeks after Obi-Wan had turned it in.

And now it lay in ruins in the bottom of a moldy storage box.

Bant had come by then, perhaps following some suggestion from the Force, and had also stared down forlornly at the remains of Obi-Wan's work. Then her inner Bantness had kicked in and she had marched both the quilt and Qui-Gon to the laundry service to find out if any part of the blanket was salvageable.

"It's a quilt Master Qui-Gon," she had said. "There has to be at least one square we can save." The Laundry Master had been horrified when the tainted article had been brought in, but having taught domestics for many years, she too had remembered the quilt in its former glory and quickly began decontamination protocols on it.

Sadly it had been hopeless from the start, at least for the original quilt. After several hours and deep consultation with one of the art conservationists and the Senate Liaison sewing club, it became obvious that the damage was simply too widespread and extensive. It would never adorn another bed, much less a wall. Bant however remained optimistic. Enough of the original quilt remained, she argued, that a replica could be made. Here was an unstained patch to match color, there a whole block to see the pattern. A scrap here and a stitch there to show how it all fit together. With a little help, she was certain it could be done. And so it was.

Over the next weeks and months she had peered over dozens upon dozens of fabric swatches, grilling Qui-Gon over tea to make sure she had the colors just right for human vision. She had dragged Tahl all over the textile district to feel for the ideal natural battings to stuff the new quilt. Bant had spent many late nights in the wardrobe workshops, skin drying and scaling, straining her good eye as she cut and stitched and fussed and Reeft pinned and pressed and asked every half hour if Obi-Wan was really coming home this time, and if there would be cake.

It had been a painful undertaking, but it was also a joyous labor of love. Qui-Gon carefully sat on the foot of the bed and ran his hand over the coverlet, tracing the fine stitching and the Force signatures that ran through the work. In the end, it hadn't been an exact replica. Bant had taken some liberties with the stitching and Reeft had become obsessed with the binding, resulting in a quilt both simpler and more elaborate than the original, but the pair had put such caring and dedication into the project, Qui-Gon was sure his former apprentice would love this one even more than the one that had been lost.

He smiled as his fingers traced along one patch, the careful decorative stitching designed to look like a padawan braid. That part had taken Bant the longest, but Obi-Wan had put the time in on the original, and she would not be satisfied until she had made the same effort. If he thought back hard enough, he could just barely remember Obi-Wan sitting on the couch, ice bag on his ankle, as he stitched the squares together during the holo news and made odd comments that half the time would pester his master's meditation that evening. Dim, but pleasant memories. Leaning back, he looked down at one of the seemingly abstract designs the stitches sketched out, different colors on different blocks, joining grass green, sky blue, golden sunlight. They all formed images, both the block pieces and the stitching, but neither he nor Bant could make sense of either while the quilt was still in pieces. Now that it was whole, all he had to do was look at it just so . . . and open his mind. He chuckled softly as the stitches beneath his fingers became a butterfly, floating through a quilted field. It had been a long time since he had seen this same butterfly in the coverlet's predecessor.

It had been late one night, just past midnight, a week after his medications had finally started quieting the ever-screaming nerves in his chest to an almost comfortable ache, and he began to hope that he just might heal from his closest brush with death. He had been sleeping, something had woken him, and it had taken him several moments to realize why he couldn't hear the ever-present heart monitor that reassured him he was still alive in case the excruciating pain of a lightsabre wound through the chest weren't clear enough. No, he wasn't dead. He was home. In his own bed. In his own bedroom, in his own quarters, which were where he had insisted he be taken. Which looked and smelled exactly like his med-ward room now that it had been stuffed full of equipment and antiseptics.

There was no place like home.

He settled his head back onto the pillows, willed away a cough that he really didn't want to experience, then reached out with the Force to feel home. To feel the Force signatures of those he loved who lived here. To feel his own mark upon the place. To feel the absence of kindly but intrusive caretakers.

Anakin's presence lit upon his senses first, like the dawn of a new sun. So powerful, but untrained and unshielded. Little wonder when the child had grown up among those blind to his talents. They would have to work on that first if he was going to be able to meditate in his own home.

After a time he was able to quiet his mind enough to see beyond his new soon to be padawan's presence. He could sense where the boy lay, and he realized with surprise that the child was sleeping in Obi-Wan's room. Had Anakin had some night terror and gone to his apprentice's room for comfort? Was that what had woken him up? And why was Obi-Wan not there with him, continuing to soothe the child? Where was Obi-Wan?

A small sound near the floor brought his attention back to his own room, and with it the answer to his question. Obi-Wan? Very carefully, he slid and turned as much as he was able to peer over the side of his bed. Another sound rose up in the darkness, soft but clearly one of distress.

Obi-Wan was sleeping on his floor.

The young man began to toss and turn, and the nightlight revealed a sheen of sweat across his brow. Anakin remained undisturbed.

Obi-Wan was sleeping on his floor and was clearly in the throes of a nightmare.

He tried to call out to the young man, his apprentice now in name alone, but could not get enough air in his position and condition.

Obi-Wan continued to toss and turn, alternately throwing aside his quilt and cowering within it, his motions punctuated by rapid breaths and heart-rending whimpers. Qui-Gon clenched his jaw and rolled over a bit more, prepared to suffer agonizing pain to shake Obi-Wan awake. His chest couldn't possibly be made to hurt more than seeing the young man suffer did.

Before he could get the chance, Obi-Wan's night terror reached a climax and the young man came awake suddenly, sitting bolt upright with his fist at his mouth barely in time to hold back his scream. Qui-Gon got the distinct impression as Obi-Wan curled up into a ball, shuddering, that the sudden, terrified waking had become routine while he had been healing in the med ward. Obi-Wan had almost never left his side for three weeks, and he had never wakened to his apprentice's cries. He had wondered why the odd bruises on the young man's hand had been so slow to heal.

Slowly, Obi-Wan's breaths returned to normal and the young man lay back down and turned away to huddle in his quilt and stare at the wall, waiting for the adrenaline to spend itself and the anxiety to bleed away. After a few moments, Qui-Gon could feel Obi-Wan centering himself before opening his mind to his environment, just as his master had done moments before. Qui-Gon closed his eyes to see him better.

It had been more than a month since the fateful duel when he had almost lost his life. More than a month since Obi-Wan had cradled his broken body, pouring all of his energies into his master, begging, pleading and ordering him not to die because help was coming and he only had to fight a little longer. More than a month since he had wiped a tear from his padawan's face and slipped off into the sleep before death, his last sensations a cry of denial and more hot tears on his cheek, his last hopeless wish that he could have kissed those tears away. His only regret that he would not live long enough to share his love, still locked away like the perfume in the jar.

And two weeks later, he had awoken to horrific pain, his body paralyzed by weakness and entangled in a web of tubing and sensors, frightened and alone in the darkness. Panicked, he had tried to speak, but the tube in his throat and the burning in his chest choked off all sound. And then there had been a cool hand on his head to calm him. A soft, slightly hoarse voice in his ear to soothe his panic. The warm, bright light in his mind that melted away the cobwebs of confusion and underbrush of medication, a presence so welcome after the seeming centuries of being alone that he had felt like weeping. He had fallen back to sleep instead.

When he had woken again the next morning to a well lit room, he found Obi-Wan stretched out on a cot next to his bed, gaunt, pale and asleep, and he was glad his apprentice hadn't turned the lights on. If he had seen the youth looking like that the night before, he might well have suffered a heart attack. The healers assured him the young man was only suffering exhaustion, and had finally passed out after Qui-Gon had woken up. Somehow in the weeks since, the circles under Obi-Wan's eyes had never quite faded away, and his master was beginning to see why.

Silently, Qui-Gon watched Obi-Wan's awareness make its rounds of the apartment. Obi-Wan's attentions were initially drawn to the sleeping boy, but unlike his master, the examination was brief; a quick bed-check to ensure the child was where he had been left and had not been disturbed. His responsibilities to Anakin met, Obi-Wan refocused his efforts on the rest of their rooms, ensuring himself that all was well, that whatever terrors haunting his dreams had not intruded on reality and that all three of them were safe at home. When he was finally satisfied and secure, he turned his attentions to his master. So gently, so quietly so as not to disturb his master, Obi-Wan's Force presence brushed against Qui-Gon's mind, and as on that first waking, Qui-Gon wanted to weep. Force knew how long it had been since he had felt this welcome spirit touching to his own. Force knew how many times he would again, though he suspected he could count it on one hand. Sighing, he leaned back into the pillows. Live in the moment. A rustling from the floor drew his attention, and he opened his eyes to find his apprentice looking at him. Concern and sleeplessness had etched lines into his face, making him look older than his mere twenty-five years. The soft lighting of deep night made his eyes seem larger, making him seem absurdly younger at the same time. Qui-Gon tried not to blink, drinking in the moment as long as he could before the image was broken.

"You're awake." The moment had moved on.

Qui-Gon smiled reassuringly. Nodding had proved difficult with his injuries.

Obi-Wan stood up, wincing as the floor creaked, then knelt next to the bed, checking the dimly lit monitors in the darkness before looking back at Qui-Gon. His master continued to smile at him.

"I'm sorry, Master. I didn't mean to wake you."

His voice was barely more than a whisper, but it lightened his heart and soul, as did the warm hands cradling his own. His eyes darted away, his smile widened a bit more and he squeezed Obi-Wan's hand gently. 'It's alright. You didn't wake me.' Obi-Wan smiled uncertainly, not quite believing him, and Qui-Gon marveled, not for the first time, at how well they could read each other after twelve years. How was it that unspoken communication could be this clear, that they could be this close?

And yet so far.

"Forgive me if I don't believe you." Obi-Wan looked away and Qui-Gon realized he was embarrassed, either for the night terrors or being caught sleeping on his master's floor like a new initiate found sneaking back into the crèche for comfort. Carefully not looking at his master's face, Obi-Wan made a thorough check of all the lines, monitors and tubes running to, from and into Qui-Gon's body before moving to rise. Qui-Gon clutched at his hand.

Obi-Wan looked down at him, startled by Qui-Gon's pleading look.

"What is it Master?" he asked, leaning down, concerned.

"S-sit." It came out as a raspy whisper. Obi-Wan held the straw and water cup for him before he tried again. "Sit with me . . . for awhile. Please." His apprentice nodded, helped his master settle, then sat down beside him. Qui-Gon clutched at the young man's hand, running his thumb over the back of it and fretting at the feel of bones. "You need . . . to eat more . . . before they'll knight you."

Obi-Wan looked away, his chin trembling slightly as he bit at his lip, but his voice was steady when he spoke. "Yes, Master."

"You need your sleep too, Padawan." Obi-Wan smiled unsteadily and squeezed his hand while he caught his breath. "Lay down, Obi-Wan." He almost laughed at himself. Hardly the seduction he had planned to get his apprentice into bed with him. "Rest with me." Too late to stop that train of thought, he hoped he had shielded it from the young man.

Obi-Wan turned sharply to face him. "I . . I don't want to hurt you, Master." Qui-Gon looked up at him, speechless, unsure what he had meant. The young man continued, embarrassed. "Sometimes . . . I've been having bad dreams, Master. I . . thrash around . . sometimes without waking." His shields had held. His secret was safe. Relieved, Qui-Gon tugged lightly at Obi-Wan's sleeve and for a moment, something in the young man's eyes seemed to beg his master to insist on it. Too proud or uncertain to accept but as desperate for comfort as his elder. "I might hurt you." Lonely. Haunted.

"Rest with me, Obi-Wan."

The young man could not say no.

With extreme care, as if Qui-Gon were a delicate infant, Obi-Wan lay down beside him and covered them both in his quilt. The master resumed rubbing the back of his apprentice's hand, and Obi-Wan's eyes drifted shut as he nestled against him. Qui-Gon turned his head to look at the young man, but all he could see without straining was a quilt-draped shoulder and a chest rising and falling in a slower and slower rhythm. Still running his fingers over Obi-Wan's hand, now over the sabre calluses along his fingers, Qui-Gon marveled that such skilled and powerful hands could be both strong enough to best a Sith and delicate enough to stitch the quilt. He smiled as Obi-Wan shifted and the design he couldn't quite make out suddenly became clear.

"You have . . a butterfly on your . . shoulder, Obi-Wan."

When Obi-Wan said nothing, he strained to look up at the younger man. Obi-Wan was already deeply asleep. With effort, he managed to kiss the young man's forehead before falling into his own sleep.

Neither one was disturbed by dreams for the rest of that night, but Qui-Gon's one regret remained.

Shaking his head, Qui-Gon turned away from the stitched butterfly. It was a regret he would always have and it was past time he accept that. He had tried to do as the old woman had suggested to him two decades ago, to wait until Obi-Wan had grown into his love. But while Obi-Wan may have grown up, he had grown old. He looked down at his hands, creased and marred by time. Far too old. Obi-Wan had grown into a man who could come to love the man he had been, but he had come to accept that the love of his life would always be too young to love the man that he was. His former padawan had grown to be an esteemed knight, a champion swordsman, a fine diplomat and a shining sabre for Light in these Dark Times. He had grown old, into an old fool who spouted proverbs and corrected the katas of the youngest initiates before he came home to drink his tea and indulge in his fantasies. Obi-Wan was Knight Kenobi, slayer of fourteen Sith apprentices. He was Master Qui-Gon, past his prime with a bad back. It wasn't a bad life. Not by far. He had had many excellent years of service in the field, he had trained four padawans, three successfully, he had survived what could have been a career-ending (not to mention life-ending) injury and had continued on. He had even had quite a few very nice love affairs in his day. Bessa, Xiris, Tahl, M'Ektor. But he had lost his heart to Obi-Wan long ago, and every relationship since had never touched him the same way. Sex with close friends had replaced making love. Tahl had tried to convince him to try to find someone during the off times of their on again/off again liaison, but his heart literally was not in it. He was already in love. He could indulge in the occasional night of passion, but no kiss, no coupling brought him the same sheer joy and pleasure as a simple letter from Obi-Wan always did.

He tried not to read too much into those frequent letters, but he could not prevent himself from savoring and cherishing each one. Obi-Wan did take the time to write to his former master every week or two, but he knew the desire for contact wasn't his motivation. His former apprentice was undercover much of the time, and his letters were the means by which he corresponded with the council. Computer signals could be intercepted. Datapads could be changed. And yes, letters could be read. But the council had their ways of hiding their intelligence in the guise of his notes. He suspected the stationary Yoda always seemed to give him for his birthday had data tape hidden in the weave. The letters all had to be cleared by the council, and occasionally he could see where Obi-Wan's responses had been tampered with or censored. At times he did not even know where his letters would be sent. But Obi-Wan's always came, as dependable as the cloudless days and the endless streams of traffic. As dependable as the sun, just beginning to pink the sky outside.

The letters were not always easy to read of course. Sometimes they spoke of happy things: of people Obi-Wan had met, of places he had seen, of lost or injured animals that had bitten and scratched him as he took them to local veterinarians because he wasn't his master; he wasn't going to keep them but he wasn't a completely heartless bastard. Sometimes they spoke of devastating things: of people too ruled by hate to end their wars, of being run out of towns or planets as a Jedi freak, of being forced to kill a Sith who had once been a brother in arms. The last fifteen years had been dark ones for the Jedi, but the Light had not abandoned them, and neither had Obi-Wan.

Other than the latest battles against darths unknown, the hardest letters to read spoke of Obi-Wan's lovers. He did not begrudge them exactly, and he could not even say that he didn't want to read about it. He wanted Obi-Wan to be happy, and having healthy relationships was a part of that, even if he couldn't have that relationship with the young man himself. He even fretted at how few and far between those significant others seemed to be, though he was sure there were less significant others Obi-Wan never thought to mention. But he didn't want the details, never mind the fact that Obi-Wan was not the kind to kiss and tell. Obi-Wan didn't write about his conquests in bed, nor about the physical attributes of the few partners he mentioned. Qui-Gon wasn't even sure of the species of some of them. He wrote of their conflicts, his insights, his milestones, of what was important to him in each relationship. His everyday cares and his deepest emotions. All of the things that Qui-Gon had longed to share with him, but could only vicariously, imagining himself in the place of the vibrant, young, intelligent and stimulating people his former padawan filled his life with. As the years went by and the knight had been kept away, drifting from partner to partner, the window of opportunity had slowly closed. But this dream did not fade with time, and he struggled to release his regret to the Force, lest it cloud this long-awaited reunion.

Tomorrow.

Obi-Wan was coming home tomorrow.

Today was the last day until Obi-Wan came home. The last day in a very long stretch of days that he had spent alone. But no more.

Live in the moment. He wondered if perhaps he would not be able to follow his own favorite admonition this day. His mind had already been skipping ahead to the future for weeks now, and for the past three days living in the moment had only seemed to make each one last that much longer.

Of course it didn't help that he had spent the last three hours awake instead of blissfully unconscious. He wondered if he could manage to take a nap that afternoon if the day would crawl by faster. Standing, he smoothed the quilt one last time and looked around his still perfect guest room. Perhaps if he had left something for the last minute he would have something to do to pass this last day away with.

Everything was done. The guest bed was made. The guest towels were hung. The good china tea set was polished and waiting. The pantry was stocked with Obi-Wan's preferred tea, his favorite casserole sat frozen in the cold-box, and the fruit bowl, an intricately carved piece Obi-Wan had sent on Qui-Gon's seventieth birthday with a deeply apologetic note, was filled with fresh Alderaanian plums and velsh berries. The apartment was uncharacteristically immaculate, either in tribute to Obi-Wan's fastidiousness or perhaps only to prove to his former padawan that he did indeed know what a broom and mop was for. Or perhaps it just looked so clean because Anakin no longer lived there.

He put his hands in his robe pockets, a habit acquired as age robbed his body of good circulation, and he realized that everything was actually not in its place. He was still carrying Obi-Wan's padawan braid. Surveying the room, he looked for a bare space. True, this braid had been presented to him as a gift, but this had been Obi-Wan's room and would be again soon. It was not just a room to house him and welcome him, but one to honor him. It was a means for Qui-Gon to express his love and devotion. In a purely platonic manner.

He could go back to pining after Obi-Wan left.

It was perfect. Just as he wanted it to be. Obi-Wan himself was the only missing piece.

But it had to be perfect. Not the room or the quilt or the food. Not the details. It was the whole, the experience that had to be perfect. After fifteen years he would finally get the chance to just be with Obi-Wan, to quietly love him in person as he had alone all of these years. A serene love. A Jedi love, he supposed. But this chance had been so long coming that it had to be just right.

Obi-Wan was coming home tomorrow.

Qui-Gon suspected he would not live until the next time that happened.

With care, he laid the braid on the bedside table. Everything was perfect.

Closing the door, he walked to the living room to open the curtains. The sky was still red with the coming dawn.

Red sky at morning, Jedi take warning. Red sky at night, Jedi's delight.

He never did care for that line. Jedi weren't supposed to delight. His hands found their way back into his pockets and he smiled as he felt the letter still sitting there. Perhaps he was being too harsh. He certainly enjoyed his delights.

He ran his fingers along the envelope and closed his eyes, the image of the note within dancing across his mind.

Dear Master,

As always I hope this note finds you well. I'm doing my best to wrap up the negotiations here so I will make my transport on time. With luck the diplomats will start responding to my Jedi mind tricks soon. Yes, Master, I know it would be wrong to do so. No I am not mind-tricking the ambassadors. Yes, I will meditate on my inappropriate sense of humor and release my negative emotions in a more productive manner. They are just being rather uncooperative and it gets frustrating. But it is of no consequence, as I fully intend to keep my promise to you. It's just that I doubt the prime minister will appreciate being packed up with my luggage so that I can continue mediating the conference during your birthday party.

Speaking of your birthday, I hope you are looking forward to getting your present from me on the actual 'big day.' Yes, not only do I have it, it is wrapped quite nicely and waiting for me to knock some sense into the representa— I mean waiting for me to make some headway into sorting out the conflict so I can bring it to you in person. No more seedy delivery services. No more gifts out of catalogs. Did you ever receive the gift I sent you last year? In case you didn't, it was hand-knit socks. Well, appendage-knit socks. I didn't actually ask what sort of creature had stitched them. Which of course then begged the question, if a droid had made them, are they really hand-knit, or only if the droid has hands? Quite a long meditation was spent pondering that one.

You mentioned in your letter that you had set up the old padawan room for me. I hope you didn't go to a good deal of trouble on my account. Besides, after all these years in hyperspace and on inhospitable worlds, bunking on your couch would be the height of luxury. No mud or stones sticking me in the back. Unless of course you have taken to decorating in the style of Master Yoda's quarters. Then I might just go stay with Bant; equally wet, but there the water is warm. Ha ha. But Master, in all seriousness, you didn't have to, and if you decide you want your privacy, I trust you will tell me when I wear out my welcome. In the meantime, I'm really looking forward to being home and thank you for giving me a place to hang my cloak and rest my somewhat weary soul. I have been away far too long, and it seems this week, as my homecoming draws closer, I can feel that time all the more.

The galaxy is a dangerous place, and the life of a Jedi is a hard one. I know you don't need me, your former padawan, to tell you that. You lived this life, and likely worked much harder than I have. (Of course you worked harder than I did, you had me driving you to meditate and graying your hair). Perhaps it's just an end of naiveté or the disillusionment of middle age, but it seems the galaxy has grown colder, and while the Force is a comfort as always, it just doesn't seem to be enough some nights. Maybe I'm just homesick. Maybe I'm just getting old. Maybe I just need a good cup of tea with an old friend and a good night's sleep in a place I feel safe. It's been too long since I've been in a peaceful place. Some nights it seems the Darkness is everywhere, tainting the air and watching. Even where there is no war there is tension and distrust. It serves to cloud focus and feed fear, perpetuating the cycle. I don't believe I have been as successful as you were at calming the masses Master. Perhaps if I were taller I would inspire more confidence in the citizens.

Maybe I should commission some new boots while I'm home. Thicker soles. Improve the Jedi image and all.

I've enclosed my travel itinerary so you won't have to worry after me if my transport is late. Ah, the chimes are ringing. I'm afraid I will have to close this letter here and return to the debates. Force willing, we will actually make some progress this afternoon. If not, would you please arrange for a porter to meet me at the spaceport? Prime ministers are rather unwieldy.

Looking forward to seeing you again, but keeping my focus on the moment,

          Obi-Wan Kenobi

He didn't even have to open the envelope anymore he had read and reread this last letter so many times since it had come last week. The last letter before Obi-Wan would be home. Elegant black script on thick ivory sheets. Fifteen years of letters and this was the last one. He wondered if Obi-Wan would continue the practice after the Council sent him out again.

Not that he didn't hope against hope that Obi-Wan would stay. For all that he missed his home, he knew Knight Kenobi's duty came before Obi-Wan's personal feelings. It was the way of the Jedi and Obi-Wan was a good Jedi. Too good a Jedi.

Too good for the Council to let stay.

The travel itinerary that Obi-Wan had included in his letter had been replaced by one from the Council. His former padawan was not so foolish as to include his real travel plans in letters subject to interception, but somehow Mace and Yoda had gotten the actual information. A small piece of flimsy, scrawled in Yoda's craggy hand, had been fastened to Qui-Gon's chiller: a date, a time, a ship's name and a dock number. Tomorrow. He still hadn't decided if he would go meet the ship or wait here in his quarters, preparing refreshment. Obi-Wan had not mentioned any new lovers recently, but it would not do to be the third wheel at some happy reunion.

He looked back out at the city planet, for a brief moment in time washed clean by the heavy rains, still bathed in the new dawn's light which had finally faded from a blood red to a more gentle pink. The softer colors, like his memories, were soothing. He had a whole day in front of him. His last day alone. He would make it a good one. But perhaps he would take that nap first. It was only seventh hour. It was still respectable to be in bed at seventh hour.

He was halfway to his room when he heard the knock at his door.

He stared at the door for a long moment, an uncertain feeling in the Force. Whoever it was, it was not Obi-Wan. He would know Obi-Wan. He would feel Obi-Wan. It was no matter that their bond had faded with time and distance. He would know. That bond was something that had been a part of him for so long that sometimes he could still sense it, like an injured man can sometimes feel a phantom limb years after it was lost.

No, it was not Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan was coming tomorrow.

But for a moment, it had felt . . .

Another knock at the door broke him from his reverie, and with a last longing look at his bedroom, he hurried over to the door, wondering who in the Temple would think to bother a retired old Jedi at seventh hour.

Composing a stern expression, or as stern as one could muster in one's pajamas, Qui-Gon opened the door.

"Mace?"

The tall councilor opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. After a moment he did it again. Qui-Gon furrowed his brow; this uncertainty was not like Mace. He was about to ask his early morning visitor if he wanted to come in when he finally spoke.

"I apologize if I woke you, Qui-Gon. May I come in?"

"You didn't wake me. The storm did that." Smiling faintly, Qui-Gon let his friend in, inspecting the younger, but not so young man as he walked by and sat on the couch. Time was catching up with all of them it seemed. Mace looked older than Qui-Gon remembered noticing. Or perhaps he was just tired. His robes were wrinkled with wear. He did not have the fresh, crisp lines he usually had at this early hour. No, Mace had to have been up for hours, likely on Council business to look like he did.

Bad business. Mace needed to talk.

"Would you like some tea, Mace? You look as if you could use something warm."

For a moment, Windu's eyes flicked to the cabinet they both knew Qui-Gon kept his liquor in, but the councilor shook his head to both the tea, and Qui-Gon's move to pour him a brandy.

"No, no tea." Mace looked out the windows at the still slow city traffic, then closed his eyes. "Please sit with me, Qui-Gon. I need to speak with you."

Involuntarily, Qui-Gon frowned, the thought of Mace and alcohol disturbing him, but when he did settle down in his chair, facing his friend on the couch, he had returned to what he hoped was a comforting, if neutral expression. It was clear the councilor was greatly disturbed by something, and Windu was a master rarely visibly rattled by anything. At least in public. For a moment he was touched that Mace still felt he could come to him at any hour after all these years. Which of course he could.

And had.

But he wasn't saying anything.

"What did you want to talk about, Mace?" he asked at last. He was getting a bit tired from his nocturnal wanderings, but he certainly wasn't going to show it. Still, it would help if his companion started moving things along. At his age, sitting in silence often led to inadvertent naps.

Mace raised his head and looked Qui-Gon in the face, then looked down at the caff table. Qui-Gon knit his brow in concern. This was definitely not like Windu. Trying to gently prod his friend to action, Qui-Gon gestured to the fruit bowl just outside councilor's unfocused line of sight. "Lovely bowl, isn't it? I really should put it out more often, but I don't usually have a special occasion." He looked up and saw . . . for a moment he would swear Mace looked—

Distressed.

"Special occasion?" It was almost a croak.

Somewhat more disturbed now, he forced a smile. "Yes. Obi-Wan is coming home tomorrow." He shrugged. "He may not be the Supreme Chancellor coming for tea, but it's certainly a special occasion for me. Besides, he gave me the bowl. He wrote that he thought I would love the smooth wood and the native carvings." He almost chuckled at the memory of that letter, where Obi-Wan had described the small, non-humanoids attempts to incorporate his visage into the piece, and his former padawan's own attempts to be flattered by the results. He still wasn't sure where exactly Obi-Wan's likeness appeared on the bowl. He looked up, and his smile faded abruptly.

Mace was looking over the room, cataloging the neat and careful preparations Qui-Gon had made. The councilor was a frequent enough visitor to note the changes, but had not been in recently to see them before. Now he could see them all.

He was pale. His lip trembled.

"Mace? What's wrong?" He knew he should let his obviously troubled friend speak in his own time. Not to mention that he was a Jedi master, who lived his life as an exercise in patience. Live in the moment.

He didn't like this moment. Mace was scaring him, and he didn't like being scared.

He was too old to be sca—

"Qui-Gon . . ." Mace had obviously come to a decision or built up his courage. Qui-Gon wasn't sure which. Deliberately, the councilor took each of Qui-Gon's hands in his own. Jinn looked down at their joined hands, his own once strong, but now pale, not withered, but not the powerful warrior's hands they had once been. Mace's hands looked even darker in comparison in the dim light. When they were many years younger, Knight Jinn and Padawan Windu, the then-youth would hold up his hands, palm to palm against Qui-Gon's measuring his growth and proclaiming he would catch up. Even with the ravages of age, Qui-Gon's hands still made Mace's look small.

Mace's palms were sweaty. His head was nearly bowed as he stared at their joined hands.

"Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan isn't coming home tomorrow."

He looked up at Mace, a rueful laugh on his lips. "Mace, I may be old, but I'm not senile yet. At least not that senile. Yoda sent me the information himself, and it's been on my chiller for a week. Obi-Wan's transport should arrive tomorrow, just before dinner hour."

Mace didn't look up. "Qui-Gon, he's . . . he's not coming home tomorrow." He opened his mouth, still trying to find the words, but Qui-Gon would have none of it. In sudden outrage, Qui-Gon wrenched his hands away and moved to stand.

"You gave him another mission?! How could you do that? He hasn't been home in fifteen years, Mace. Fifteen years! Could the Council and the Republic not spare him for the three short days he promised he would be here for?"

"Qui-Gon." Mace had grabbed his hands again and held them firm to keep him from walking off, as if afraid he would run away. Never mind that Qui-Gon merely wanted to pace while he ranted, as was his wont when he was particularly disgusted by a Council decision.

"Well, I don't believe you. I don't believe you, Mace. I trained him, I raised him, and I know him better than I know anyone, and he keeps his promises, particularly to me. You could have ordered him to the Outer Rim and beyond, but he will be here tomorrow. He promised me."

"Qui-Gon."

He turned and really looked at Mace, unable to resist the strange timbre he had never heard in his friend's voice before.

"Qui-Gon, we didn't send him on another mission." He took a deep breath. "We had called him back to the Temple." There were tears in Mace's eyes. "It was getting too dangerous for him to be out there alone."

He looked down at their joined hands, now trembling. He didn't know if he couldn't hold Mace steady or if Mace couldn't hold him.

"I'm sorry, Qui-Gon."

He looked up at Mace suddenly, his soul filled with dread.

"He promised, Mace." Quiet now. Desperate to be true.

There were tears on Mace's cheeks.

"We got word in early this morning from the governor on Repseilon that—"

Mace's voice broke.

TELL ME!

". . . that he . . he was killed . . about four hours ago."

Outside, the last of the storm's rain began to dry as dawn ended and the airlanes began to fill in earnest.

Inside, time stopped.

Qui-Gon shuddered, staring at nothing. Mace rubbed at his hands, his turn now to be concerned. The long, silent moment stretched on past its breaking point.

I will not live in this moment.

"Qui-Gon?"

I will not live in this moment.

"Qui-Gon?" More concerned. More urgent.

I will not live in thi—

"Qui—"

"IT'S NOT TRUE!" In anger, terror, some emotion he could not identify then or ever, Qui-Gon tore his hands free and stood over Mace, screaming at the top of his lungs. "HE PROMISED HE WAS COMING HOME, MACE! HE PROMISED ME! HE'S COMING HOME TOMORROW!"

"Qui-Gon," alarmed, Mace reached for his hands, but he swatted them away in rage. "Qui-Gon, I'm sorry. They tried to help him but there was nothing they could do."

"HE PROMISED ME! HE PROMISED!"

Mace stood, dimly aware of rapidly approaching steps. He hadn't wanted to believe sedation might be necessary for his friend, but unlike himself, Master Yoda had not allowed practicality to be overcome by wishful thinking. He reached out for Qui-Gon's hands again, hoping to steady him, hoping he would not have to wrestle him into submission.

"I'm sorry, Qui-Gon. He's gone." Someone outside began tapping at the door lock.

Qui-Gon pushed him back down onto the couch and backed away.

"HE'S COMING HOME TOMORROW!"

Desperately, Qui-Gon reached into his mind, frantically feeling for that phantom bond, for a link that wasn't supposed to be there after all these years, for that imaginary connection that had replaced the most solid training bond he had ever witnessed, much less experienced. He had never cut it, but instead let it fade. The Force had willed its creation and he had let the Force will its demise. But the ambiguous end to that bond had left his brain still feeling it, so faintly. A pale sensation, an afterglow. Though he knew, deep in his mind that it wasn't a real bond, that it was merely a psychological security blanket, he had felt it, explored it.

Pretended.

It had been a comfort in his loneliest and most trying moments, and as he screamed yet again that Obi-Wan had promised he would come back, and the door swung open to reveal healers and articularly well-muscled orderlies, he found that place, deep inside his brain where the phantom bond had always been.

Emptiness.

He screamed again, wordless, in denial as the healers crossed the threshold, hypo-syringes in hand. No faint comfort. No mock connection. Only a dark, torn, bleeding place in his mind where a long quiescent bond had recently been severed.

Silenced.

Dead.

"NO!"

Mace was trying to get up again and the healers were getting closer. NO! It wasn't true, but it was and they had come to take him and calm him down, but Obi-Wan was coming, but no, he wasn't coming because he was—

If he wasn't coming, then the only place he was left was—

Qui-Gon turned and bolted toward Obi-Wan's room. Later, Mace and the healers would be shocked that a master of his age could still run with Force-enhanced speed. Making it inside, Qui-Gon threw up as strong a Force-lock as he could on the door, a lock no longer quite in the Light has he fought back in panic as the others tried to break it down.

No.

He had to find him. Before they took him away, he had to find him. Before all of Obi-Wan was lost and leaked out the hole in his mind.

No.

Another force pushed against his lock, another presence now pushing on his mind.

Master? Master Qui-Gon?

Familiar, but no comfort, it came from a different place and it could not plug up the hole.

"Qui-Gon, please, let us in. We only want to help you."

But they couldn't help. He had to find it, find all the pieces and quickly, before they faded too, before they slipped away like the memories of how it felt to have his mind touched. Like the memory of the last, bittersweet embrace, or the first hesitant 'yes, Master.'

Master? Please, Qui-Gon, let us in. Please!

Here was a piece, and here, and here . . . and here a big one. He tumbled to his knees, scrambling away from the door. They were coming, he couldn't stop them, but he needed a moment to find him.

A moment he could live in.

The Force lock gave way and they rushed in to him. Mace almost missed him, cowering on the floor on the far side of the bed, wrapped up like an infant in a large, multi-colored quilt.

"No, it's not true. He's coming home tomorrow."

"Master?" Hair too blonde, voice too deep. A hand on his face, the cold metal of a wedding band against his cheek. "It's Ani, Master. I'm here."

"He's coming home tomorrow." Without a struggle, Anakin and the healers lifted him to the bed. Mace rubbed at his chest and cautiously reached for one tightly closed fist, while Ani took the other and the healers began checking his pulse and prepping his dose.

"What happened? What's not true, Mace?"

He's coming home tomorrow.

A syringe hissed against his neck and he pulled away from the cold metal, crying out and clenching his hands tighter, pulling them up to his face like an unruly child.

Tomorrow.

The lights and the voices dimmed, faces and words blurring.

He promised.

. . . got word . .

. . . happened around third hour . . .

. . .attacked . . .

. . . Sith . . .

. . . fight . ? . . .

. . . too many . . .

. . . couldn't hold them off . . .

. . . badly beaten . . .

. . . violated . . .

. . . set fire to room . . .

. . . left for dead . . .

. . . rescue workers . . .

. . . smoke . . .

. . . not breathing . . .

. . . med techs found weak pulse . . .

. . . tried . . .

. . . too much trauma . . .

. . . heart gave out . . .

. . . couldn't save . . .

. . . what about body . . .

. . . leaving tomorrow . . .

Tomorrow.

. . . retrieve . . .

. . . bring him home . . .

. . . hear me qui-gon . . .

"Qui-Gon? I promise you, I'll bring him home."

He promised.

The last dim lights went out.

Slowly, as his will faded, Qui-Gon's tense posture eased and Anakin and the healers were able to lay him out on the bed, and cover him in the quilt in a more dignified pose. With care, Ani opened the clenched fists like he did when Padme's sister's son wouldn't release his grip.

In his left hand, Qui-Gon held a crumpled piece of paper.

In his right hand he held a padawan braid.

Anakin carefully smoothed both objects and placed them on the bedside table, knowing their origin, and that his former master had run to them for comfort, and would want them, intact, upon waking.

Quietly, knowing Qui-Gon wouldn't wake, but fearful of disturbing this fragile, drug-bought peace, Anakin closed the window shade, dimming the room, then settled down on the small rug beside the bed in a meditation pose. A lone healer remained, confirming Qui-Gon's vital signs, while Mace had retreated to the common room. The faint smell of Corellian whiskey drifted into the room.

He had known something was wrong, but not what. Ever since the storm had woken him the Force had been maddeningly vague, the warnings, clouded, unclear. He had left his home, his wife, and come here, knowing the wrongness was here. That he was needed here. Padmè would be worried, but not angry. She couldn't be after this. He would have to call her though, but later. When Qui-Gon was settled.

Someone came to the outer door, and he could feel Mace's sudden annoyance. He put up his own Force shield around his master, not wanting some new visitor who couldn't control themselves beating against his master's already battered mind.

Another flash of frank disbelief and annoyance, then Mace was at his side.

"Ani, you're being called to Council chambers. The Supreme Chancellor has requested you for a diplomatic mission."

Anakin took up Qui-Gon's hand, but did not turn to acknowledge Mace. "Tell him I'm not available."

Windu started, his shadow jumping across the bed. "He asked for you specifically." Anakin was loyal to his master, but had never turned down an audience with Palpatine before.

The young knight turned to glare at him. "Then tell him specifically to go to Hell. I'm not available."

Windu patted his shoulder. "With pleasure. I'll see you in a few days." Mace left, the scent of hard alcohol fading after him. After a few moments, another presence filled the room. Sorrowful, but warm and comforting.

"Master Tahl."

She knelt down next to him, old joints creaking, before she hugged him, then followed his arm down to Qui-Gon's still one. Settling down, she gripped her agemate's forearm, and then leaned over him, resting her forehead on his wrist. A classic pose to begin a meditation of healing.

"Go call your wife, Anakin. I'll need your help later. We're the only ones close enough to help him right now, and Yoda is making funeral arrangements. He said he would come by tonight to relieve us."

"You know about the tear?" He seemed surprised.

She smiled faintly, but he could see the tracks of tears on her face. "When Mace told me what happened, and that he had locked himself in here, I knew what must have happened in his mind." She raised her head up just enough to wipe her blind eyes, then settled again. "Did you know he didn't believe it was real? That he couldn't believe that it was really Ob—"

Her voice trailed off, and Anakin moved to comfort her.

"He really didn't know that he still had a bond with Obi-Wan?" He shook his head in disbelief. "But it was so obvious."

She shrugged. "I think it was easier for him to pretend it wasn't real, than to admit how far apart they really were. It didn't seem so far and so long if the bond wasn't real."

He nodded. She squeezed his hand as he stood to leave her and she prepared for her meditation. The last healer waited for him at the door, concern etching her features.

"Will he be alright, Tahl?"

She put a hand on the still man's chest, just above his scar, and the other on his thigh, just above his knee. Slowly, she lowered her shields and sent warmth into her long-time friend, and her sometime lover. Anakin stepped back.

"I don't know, Ani," she said at last. "But Force help me, he will still be here when you get back."

"Thank you, Tahl."

Anakin shut the door.