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Chapter Text

Yan stood in one of the entrances to the Room of a Thousand Fountains, eyebrow raised in tired disbelief.  

There was a child in the room. The boy’s eyes were closed, his back straight, his red hair falling around his face, far longer than the standard length for padawans allowed, and he appeared to be deep in meditation.

A normal sight in the Temple. If not for the fact that it was almost three in the morning, and padawans and initiates had strict curfews.

But what caught Yan’s attention even more than the boy’s sheer nerve to be breaking curfew quite so shamelessly was that the child had managed to saturate all the organic matter in the Room with his Force signature, having spread it out like a net over the plants and flowers with enviable control.

It was the hint of that control that had initially drawn Yan’s eyes, then the realisation that while the room was drowning in the boy’s Force signature, the boy himself was like a black hole in the Force, his shields unnaturally strong for one his age, unwavering despite his deep meditative state.

Restraining a sigh, Yan stepped over the threshold and into the Room of a Thousand Fountains, feeling the child’s concentration break once he felt his presence.

“It’s the middle of the night.” Yan announced, watching the boy flatly, sparing only a brief thought to wonder how long the boy had been there.

Given that there was nothing to betray his presence in the Force, many a Master could have walked on by, none the wiser to the boy being there.

Tension coiled through the boy’s shoulders as he released a deep breath before his eyes slid open slowly, landing on Yan with unnerving precision.

“My apologies, Master-” he began, but when his gaze properly landed on Yan, he cut himself off.

The deep purple shadows of exhaustion made the boy’s eyes look silver in the scattered light of the fountains, and the glint of recognition followed by incomprehension that passed through them was…curious.  

“Dooku.” Yan offered as a prompt, studying the boy intently, not certain what he was watching for but aware that something was off.

The child blinked slowly, his expression eerily calm, his Force presence hidden behind his shields. Then, slowly, he inclined his head, but he made no attempts to rise nor promises that his behaviour would not repeat itself, and Yan felt the barest flicker of amusement, though it was overshadowed by his exhaustion, and manifested in impatience.  

“What’s your reason for ignoring curfew?” he asked the child bluntly, looking closer at the boy’s face while he waited for an answer.

Beyond the dark shadows and the gauntness to his cheeks, there was a distance in the boy’s silver eyes that Yan realised that he was intimately familiar with, though he hadn’t ever seen the expression in one so young. He noted that the boy’s hair, what Yan had initially assumed to be a result of vanity and a childish need to distinguish himself from his peers, fell around his shoulders in messy, unkempt waves, as if it had grown out rather than been grown intentionally.

“I needed-” the boy began quietly, and it took Yan a second to remember he had asked the child a question, “-something organic.”

To meditate with, Yan realised as the boy began methodically spooling back his Force signature from the plants and flowers around them, the practiced, caring way he went around separating his energy from that of the plants implying that it wasn’t his first go at using the Living Force to centre himself.

“You should be in the Halls of Healing.” Yan murmured, putting together what he’d noticed into the most likely conclusion.

The boy, to his credit, didn’t even try to lie, merely inclining his head in an exhausted bob and breathing out a quiet; “Yes.”

Yan eyed the boy consideringly. “Do you not find the Halls to your satisfaction?”

“They’re satisfactory.” The boy replied, tilting his head back to look at Yan, his gaze landing somewhere by Yan’s eyebrow instead of meeting his eyes properly, and a tiny frown appeared between his brows. “It is me who is lacking.”

Yan…paused.

The words sounded ridiculous coming from a padawan not even a third of his age – he finally caught sight of the mangled braid that peeked out between the boy’s hair – but there was something to the way they were said that gave him pause.

The padawan had been very careful at keeping whatever it was that had him meditating at three in the morning behind his shields, but with his declaration, his voice gained a depth of sadness that made his words ring with a concerning conviction.

Yan frowned.

“Who’s your Master?” he demanded, earning himself the first proper reaction from the padawan: a wince.

The boy stilled rather tellingly, and for a few seconds, he looked like he was contemplating whether to answer. But, finally, he uttered two quiet, inflectionless words that made Yan still: “…Master Jinn.”

…The boy was part of his lineage.

Yan levelled an expectant look at the padawan, releasing his mix of complicated emotions into the Force along with his exhale and drawing the boy’s eyes onto himself, though he didn’t like the tired wariness he found in the silver gaze.

“Go back to the Halls, padawan.” He ordered, leaving no room for argument, though also refraining from issuing any immediate punishment for the obvious rule-breaking.

The boy, clearly seeing the ultimatum for what it was, sighed quietly, but rose obediently, somehow not stiff in the slightest despite spending what must have been hours in the same position, though an odd tension clung to his shoulders, his fingers flexing briefly.  

Once upright, he bowed to Yan, though he didn’t drop eye-contact, and Yan felt his second eyebrow rise.

Then, the boy’s Force signature disappeared behind his shields along with everything else that could betray his emotional state, and he straightened.

“Good night.” The boy murmured, then turned and slipped out of the Room without a backwards glance, though it didn’t slip Yan’s notice that the boy’s steps made no sound on the marble floors.

Yan hummed thoughtfully, his mind wide-awake despite how weighed down his body felt after his mission.

Just what had Qui-Gon done for his padawan to fear him?

It took five days, two Council meetings, and a conversation with Master Yoda for Yan to come across the answer.

Qui-Gon had abandoned his padawan in a warzone for three months.

“Unhappy with your old padawan, you are.” Yoda observed as he gazed at Yan over his teacup during one of their progressively rarer get-togethers, as always seeing more than Yan was comfortable sharing. “Begrudge Qui-Gon the decision, you should not. Understand his Master’s reasons, young Obi-Wan does. Encouraged him to leave, he had, and Master Tahl’s life he saved, as a result.”

“Qui-Gon allowed his personal attachment to Master Tahl to blind him to the needs of the child dependent on him and the needs of the many.” Yan huffed, having memorised the reports Qui-Gon and the padawan had submitted to the Archives, though he’d been unable to speak to Master Tahl herself yet. “If a padawan had felt the suffering in the Force and felt compelled to alleviate it, I struggle to believe a Master hadn’t. And Qui-Gon has always been particularly gifted in the Living Force.”

Yoda’s ears drooped, the only sign that the Grandmaster shared Yan’s concerns, yet all he said was; “Allow young Obi-Wan to recover, we should. Hasty with any decisions, we should not be.”

So Yan had let the matter drop, and gone about the rest of the day on routine, taking evening meal in the cafeteria, speaking with his fellow Masters, catching up on his readings. The only change from the norm was that this time, he actively avoided looking for Qui-Gon.

In the evening, he headed to the Halls of Healing and stopped by his Grandpadawan’s bed, drawing a curious, if slightly wary look from the boy that Yan couldn’t quite understand.  

“I wish to extend an apology.” he began smoothly, and the boy’s eyes widened briefly before he schooled his expression with an alarming speed. “On behalf of my old padawan.”

Yan knew his words were even, neutral, his disdain for the situation kept carefully behind thick walls, but the padawan stared at him as if he was seeing him for the first time, disbelief and something uncomfortably close to wonder in his eyes.

Finally, the boy spoke, though his voice was still the same tired but measured lilt from their first meeting.

“I do not begrudge Master Jinn his choice.” He murmured, keeping his eyes on Yan, as if just as curious of Yan’s reaction as Yan was of his.

“No?” Yan inquired, and he wished he was more surprised than he was to find that Yoda had been right.

“No.” The boy confirmed, and his next words were calm, factual. “Master Tahl needed medical assistance. Of the two of us, my chances of survival were greater.”

Yan frowned at the boy, dissatisfied with the Council-ready response. “Did you believe so at the time, too?”

At that, the boy offered a ghost of a smile, though it wasn’t a happy expression. “I believed in the Force.”

Yan narrowed his eyes, noting the boy’s smooth evasion of the question and feeling once more the  odd mix of amusement and irritation he’d felt in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. Instead of pressing the boy further, he switched tracks.  

“Meditation cannot substitute sleep forever.” He remarked flatly, and the boy stilled, as if not having expected Yan to notice his lack of sleep. Or, perhaps, not having expected to be chastised for it so directly.

Then, the boy sighed, seemingly torn between discomfort and guilt when he replied: “I have found it to be more restful than true sleep.”

Yan arched an eyebrow, a wordless demand for a more thorough explanation. The padawan before him felt simultaneously incredibly young, dwarfed by the blankets of the bed in the Halls of Healing as he was, and incredibly old, grief and what Yan knew to be battle-fatigue weighing him down, making his silver eyes turn a dull grey.

“There had been…so much death there.” The boy sighed, dropping his eyes from Dooku’s and turning, instead, to his hands where they trembled in his lap. “I still feel it when I sleep.”

So I don’t sleep, the boy didn’t say, but Yan heard regardless, and he felt himself soften slightly.

“And the reason behind your presence in the Room of a Thousand Fountains a few nights ago?” he pressed, having a suspicion as to the answer, but wanting to hear it from the padawan himself.

Another quiet sigh, and an almost regretful expression.

“I was the only Force user around for…months.” The boy began haltingly, his voice even quieter than before. “While I am glad to have been brought back to the Temple, it is…overwhelming.”

Yan felt another spike of frustration at his old padawan but he released it carefully into the Force, keeping his eyes on the teen before him.

“Is that the reason for your unusually strong shielding?” he queried, because even now, when the boy’s expression was full of grief and a melancholy sort of sadness, his Force signature showed nothing of his emotions. 

His question brought another quicksilver smile from the teen, though it did not reach his eyes.

“I am not the same person I was when I left the Temple.” The boy confessed quietly, a weight behind the words that itched at Yan’s mind. “I do not want my friends to worry.”

Three months, the boy had spent in a warzone, before the Council had deigned to send someone out to recover him.

Three months of being more adult than child, more diplomat than student, more warrior than peacekeeper. It would weigh on any Jedi, child or adult; Yan knew that intimately.

“Are you seeing a mind healer?” he asked sharply, not liking the emptiness in the boy’s eyes, or the slump of his shoulders, or the eerie quiet of his Force signature.

The boy blinked at his question, something almost like amusement flickering across his face before he sobered and shook his head. “This is…not something the mind healer can fix.”

Yan frowned, not having expected teenage bullheadedness from the boy.  

“False bravado will only backfire.” He chastised, the sharpest he’d spoken so far to a child he had no relationship or obligation to. “You need to talk about what you experienced or it will devour you.”

At that, the boy laughed briefly, the sound jagged and resigned and seemingly startled out of him.

“Talk about it with whom?” he asked bluntly, meeting Yan’s gaze almost challengingly, a single eyebrow ticking up.

Yan’s frown deepened, not quite sure he liked what the boy was implying. “Explain.”

Where the boy had been reluctant to speak before, he seemed to have gotten over whatever had been holding him back, and did not hesitate to do as ordered: “I do not wish to burden my friends, the mind healers won’t understand, and Master Jinn has been- is unavailable.”

Yan didn’t miss the stumble over Qui-Gon’s absence, but, more importantly- “Why would the mind healers not understand?”

The boy looked like he wanted to throw his arms up in frustration, but he released a tangle of indistinguishable emotions into the Force between them instead and took a deep, steadying breath.

When he exhaled, he met Yan’s gaze head-on, his tone leaving no room for misunderstanding.

“Because I do not regret staying on Melidaan.” He said, the look in his eyes hard as glass and just as brittle. “It was- horrid, but I do not regret it. I am good at war.”

Good at war.

The words sounded like they’d slipped out without conscious input, particularly if the way the boy grimaced once he heard them was any indication, but he did not take them back.

Yan stared at the child perched on the bed, met the steely grey eyes and took in the dark shadows under them, and he felt a decision start to come together in the back of his mind, a Shatterpoint, Mace would no doubt say if he were there to witness.

“Tomorrow evening, we will take tea in my quarters, and we will talk about this properly.” He told the boy, his voice final, allowing no arguments or alternatives to be posed. “You are my Grandpadawan. While not my direct responsibility, you are part of my lineage, and your experience is not something you can just release to the Force.”

The boy’s face cycled through multiple emotions, but it settled on a wary sort of resignation as he sighed. “You do not owe me your time just because we are of the same lineage.”

“Do not assume you know my motivations.” Yan rebutted, and the boy had the grace to wince, chagrined. “But you can rest assured that it is not any misguided sense of obligation that guides me.”

The boy studied him, a quiet, unexpected wisdom in his eyes as he seemed to weigh Yan’s words, his expression perfectly placid before he finally nodded, decision made.

“Then I would welcome your counsel.”

Over the next four days, Yan saw Qui-Gon’s padawan every day. And every day, the boy would relax more, though the steel walls guarding his thoughts and feelings never once faltered.

Yan hadn’t planned to press the boy, hadn’t felt like he needed to know everything or was entitled to the information, but it quickly became tiring when the teen would glance at him whenever he was about to say something that clearly weighed heavily on his mind and then seem to bite the words back, like he wasn’t certain he was allowed to share them. 

“You do not have to hide your every emotion from me.” Yan finally said, on the fifth day of having daily tea with his Grandpadawan, wondering why he hadn’t been sent off-world yet. This amount of down-time between assignments was…unusual. “You went through a difficult mission. You are allowed to have feelings about it.”

The boy stared at him for a beat, that odd glint of wonder he occasionally got passing through his eyes briefly before they shuttered and his expression smoothed out once more. 

“There is no emotion, there is peace.” The teen recited, his voice even, eyes intent on Yan, and Yan nearly scoffed, though he turned it into a dismissive wave of his hand instead.

“Emotion, yet peace, was the original tenet, I think you’ll find.” He corrected, gratified when the boy stilled, clearly considering the correction instead of immediately refuting the mere notion.

“Mistranslated?” he hazarded, but his tone made it apparent even he didn’t fully believe it to be true.

“Partly lost to the passage of time, partly intentionally miscommunicated.” Yan explained, and he sat back and watched as the padawan’s mind quickly assimilated the information and churned out multiple possible explanations, though none of them seemed to fully please him judging by the frown between his brows.

“Can you think of why?” Yan prompted, ever one to challenge. The boy twitched, startled, as if he’d forgotten that Yan was there in his contemplation, but when he spoke, his words were careful, measured, his gaze never leaving Yan’s.

“It is…easier to sanction undesirable behaviour when the rules are absolute.” He said at last, the words halting, but sure. When Yan didn’t interrupt or chastise him for the implication, he quietly added, “Doesn’t leave room for grey areas.”

“Precisely.” Yan congratulated, then arched an eyebrow when the boy snorted quietly, seemingly finding something funny. “Something on your mind?”

The boy glanced at him, then away, as if deliberating, then back at Yan, and murmured; “’Only the Sith deal in absolutes’” in a tone that was both amused and concerned, and Yan fought a smile.

“It is curious, isn’t it?” he asked instead, a rhetorical question since he wasn’t about to get into the radical readings of the Code with his Grandpadawan merely a fortnight after their first meeting.

They lapsed into silence instead, and it was a long few minutes before it was broken, though it surprised Yan that it was the boy who broke it.

“May I ask a…personal question?” he asked, ever polite, and Yan tilted his head obligingly, though his answer was honest.

“You may, but I may not answer.”

“That is fair.” The padawan acknowledged, and he almost looked like he wanted to smile, curiously not taking any offense to Yan’s boundary. “What would you have done? On Melidaan?”

Yan hummed as he considered the question, having learnt that the boy didn’t appreciate platitudes. “As a padawan, or as a Master?”

“Both.” The teen replied, offering a half shrug, a wry glint in his eyes. “Either.”

“As a Master, I would have forced my padawan to come with me, and either returned to the planet myself or petitioned for another Jedi to be sent.” Yan admitted, well-aware of his faults when it came to conflicts between the Code and his own ethics.  

“And if you came across a particularly headstrong padawan?” The teen pressed, a slightly self-deprecating look in his eyes, and Yan was aware that it wasn’t the hypothetical it seemed. “Or if you got separated?”

“I still would have come back for my padawan sooner than after three months.” Yan huffed, meeting the teen’s expectant gaze steadily. “Especially since your report indicates that the actual fighting was done within a month.”

At that, the teen blanched. “You’ve read my report?”

“I have. Your analysis on how to consolidate democracy after years of civil war was particularly compelling.” Yan praised, having indeed found the report to be very apt and well-grounded.   “Although I found myself curious about one element of your report.”

“Which element?” the teen asked, and the calm thrum of his Force signature vanished, his shields going up to impenetrable once more.

“The revenge-driven boy.” Yan offered, watching the teen closely, and he noticed the exact moment Qui-Gon’s padawan understood who he was referring to. “I find it hard to believe he truly ‘chose to part ways’ with the new regime after the pacifist was chosen as leader.”

“You’re talking about Nield.” The teen sighed, and he looked resigned. “What, exactly, is your question?”

Dooku studied the boy for a few seconds, but he’d known what question he wanted to ask since he’d first read the report. “Did you mind-trick him?”

He’d expected the boy to hesitate. To deny. But the teen met his gaze evenly and nodded, wariness in his eyes but no regret.

“I did.” He agreed simply. Then; “Will you report me to the Council?”

“No.” Yan denied, taking a moment to reflect on his thoughts about the boy’s candour before adding a thoughtful, “I think it was the right decision. Peace is fragile.”

This, it seemed, was something the boy had not been ready for, because he gaped, his shields slipping the barest of margins, but it was enough for Yan to catch the wave of pride-happiness-disbelief the boy was feeling, the intensity astounding considering the teen’s typical restraint.

“…Thank you, Master Dooku.” The boy finally murmured, his voice shakier than Yan had expected, his eyes glassy. Then, in uncharacteristically unsteady motions, the boy set his teacup on the table separating them and rose from the couch, bowing jerkily. “I have much to meditate on. Please excuse me from tomorrow’s tea-time.”

And with those words, he swept out of Yan’s rooms, the door closing behind him with a quiet snick.

And despite the abrupt end to their conversation, it didn’t escape Yan’s notice that it was the first time the boy had called him by name.

The next time they crossed paths ended up being almost a month later, the boy having been released from the Halls of Healing and seemingly buried under classwork and padawan assignments, for all that he was still grounded to the Temple.

As such, instead of to his quarters, Yan led them to the training salles.

“You will see combat in your life as a Jedi.” He began, offering the padawan a training sabre which the teen took hesitantly. “The Jedi ideals are noble, but they are ideals nonetheless. Not everyone shares them.”

“I am aware.” The boy replied, his words almost wry, and Yan let his amused eyebrow speak for itself, watching as the boy’s cheeks coloured at the wordless chastisement.

“You have spent three months with a blaster in your hands. I want to see if your sabre-combat is still up to par.” Yan announced, and then, not giving the boy the time to reply, he struck.

Yan’s intention wasn’t to hurt the padawan. He also wasn’t interested in an exhibition match. But he needed to see if the boy’s speed and swiftness in the salles could match his quick wit and sharp ripostes in conversation.

Within an hour, he had his response. 

The padawan’s Shii-Cho was practiced, his movements sure and confident. His Makashi was clumsier, but it was to be expected. His Ataru was passable, though it felt as if using the Form went against the boy’s very nature. The padawan’s Djem-So, a comparably aggressive style to Ataru, was much more developed, though there was a profound sadness in the boy’s eyes when he used it.

His Soresu, however, was perfect.  

Two things became apparent by the end of their spar, and Yan took a moment to ruminate over them while the padawan panted for breath and dripped sweat on the floor of the training salle.

For one, not only had Yan found a teenage padawan who favoured a defence-focused style, but, secondly, and, perhaps more importantly, he’d found a teenage padawan with a working proficiency in all five of the main Forms.

As he led the padawan out of the salles and parted ways with a quiet farewell and a word of praise for the boy’s performance, Yan knew what decision he had reached.

He only awaited the Council’s word to see whether he could put it to action.  

It was two months before Yan saw the boy again, having been deployed to Corellia to assist with maintaining diplomatic relations. He was waiting for a comm when the boy almost ran into the atrium, his eyes searching the people gathered, his hair still long and wild, the padawan braid hidden. When he spotted Yan, the teen frowned, seemed to hesitate for a second, then quickly walked over to where Yan was standing, a severe frown twisting his brow and shadowing his eyes.

“Master Dooku.” He greeted, far more direct than he had been in their previous encounters. “May I ask a question?”

Yan ignored the curious glance one of the Knights who’d assisted with his mission sent him, waving indulgently at the padawan. “Go on.”

If anything, the boy’s frown only deepened at the easy acceptance of his interruption.

“Am I still Master Jinn’s padawan?” he asked bluntly, and Yan tilted his head, curious how this conversation would develop and sighing inwardly at Qui-Gon’s continued avoidance of his student.

“Do you wish to be?” he asked in return, calm and even and only slightly amused.

“Of course!” The boy replied immediately, then, seeming to realise that his response had come a bit too fast, visibly tried for calm, taking a steadying breath before he admitted. “No other Master would take me on.”

That is a lie, Yan privately thought, but he’d spoken to Master Yoda enough to gleam why the boy might’ve had such an impression. He was pretty sure the boy would’ve had Masters lining up to offer to teach him if the knowledge of what, exactly, had happened on Melidaan hadn’t been carefully contained to the Council chambers and the reports in the Archives.

However-

“That is not what I asked.” He told his Grandpadawan archly, and he caught the moment the boy bit back a frustrated huff, clearly not having expected to be called out on avoiding the question. “Do you wish to be?”

“I wish to be a Jedi.” The boy asserted, and, not for the first time, Yan saw glimpses of a future politician in the intelligent silver eyes and stubbornly tilted chin.

For all who didn’t know the boy, the answer would’ve been one of deference to the Force’s will, but Yan knew what the boy was saying: I wish to be a Jedi, and I don’t care who gets me there.

“And a Jedi you shall be.” He confirmed instead of voicing that thought, and also because he couldn’t imagine a future in which the boy before him wasn’t a Jedi. “But that is still not what I asked.”

This time, he laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder and leant down so their faces were level, and he spoke slowly, clearly, making it impossible for the boy to dodge the question again. “Do you wish to be?”

And then he watched as all the fight and bravado drained out of the boy and he seemed to sag beneath Yan’s hand, all the breath leaving him with a tired sigh.

Finally, inevitably, there came a whispered; “…no.”

Yan felt a smile pull at his lips and he withdrew his hand from the boy’s shoulder, though he kept his expression open and as warm as he could when the boy glanced up at him in alarm.

“Thank you for your candour.”

From there, it took only another week for the Council to decide. A matter which was likely helped by Yan informing his old Master of his decision the very same day he had spoken with his Grandpadawan.

“Not ready for another padawan, Master Jinn has been deemed to be.” Master Yoda announced to the audience of Council members, Yan, Qui-Gon, and Qui-Gon’s padawan. “Removed from his care, Padawan Kenobi has been.”

Qui-Gon was conspicuously silent, both in person and in the Force, and Yan was going to have words with his old padawan as soon as the situation with his Grandpadawan was handled.

The padawan in question looked shocked at the news, then resigned, then carefully expressionless in a way that told Yan he hadn’t yet caught on to Yoda’s plan. It also confirmed that they would have a lot of work before them to build up the boy’s self-worth to where it ought to be, because Yan could almost see through the teen’s shields and into the cloud of self-doubt and self-loathing that must’ve been swirling in his Force signature.

“Oversee the rest of Padawan Kenobi’s studies, Master Dooku shall.” Yoda continued, and that garnered a reaction, though Yan only cared for one. “Do you accept, Padawan Kenobi?”

He had never looked away from his grand-turned-new padawan, so he had a front-row seat to the kaleidoscope of unfiltered emotions over the boy’s face: shock, disbelief, suspicion, worry, hope.

Fragile and tentative, but it shone bright in his eyes when he glanced at Yan, as if he finally dared to believe that Yan hadn’t just been humouring him during their meetings.

“I accept, Master Yoda.” The padawan- his padawan- Obi-Wan replied, glancing briefly at Yoda before turning his full attention back to Yan.

Finding the expression to come genuinely, Yan offered his padawan a small, barely-there smile, but the boy’s joy at seeing it lit up his face nonetheless.

Luminous beings are we, Yoda had once said, and Yan knew it to be true, even if he had scoffed at the sentiment upon first hearing it.

But as the first strings of the training bond woven between their minds finally connected, Yan was almost overwhelmed by the Light that shone from his new padawan’s core, and he knew then that his Master had been right. For all that there were shadows around that Light, shadows of pain and grief and sadness more profound than Yan had expected at the boy’s tender age, Obi-Wan Kenobi was the veritable personification of the Light side of the Force.

“Ready, padawan?” Yan inquired as they made their way out of the Council room far more in-sync than a freshly-named Master-Padawan pair ought to be, Obi-Wan following seamlessly despite walking at Yan’s side instead of slightly behind him as was custom, a fact Yan noticed and stashed away, as he had with many other curiosities about his new padawan over the last few weeks.

“That depends, Master Dooku.” Obi-Wan replied, tilting his head to glance up at Yan, though there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes and a looseness to his shoulders Yan hadn’t seen before. “What do you need me to be ready for?”

“First, sorting out that braid of yours.” Yan shot back, leading them to his rooms and graciously pretending not to have noticed the way Obi-Wan stumbled at the unintentional reminder of the fracturing of his relationship with Qui-Gon. “Then, an introduction into proper politics.”

Obi-Wan didn’t bother to hide his curiosity, having seemingly picked up on the fact that Yan preferred when he showed what he was thinking and feeling, though whether it was through observation or the bond now linking their minds, Yan could not tell. “’Proper politics’, Master? I was under the impression that Jedi were separate from politicians.”

“It will be good for your longevity in the Order to remain under that impression for a while longer.” Yan replied, mostly managing to keep his tone light, but Obi-Wan straightened nonetheless, his earlier curiosity sharpening. “But you are my padawan now, and my missions often require knowledge of politics beyond what the Temple teaches, and what most Jedi can stand. Are you ready for the challenge?”

Obi-Wan studied him for a few seconds, seemingly weighing up Yan’s words, that now-familiar contemplative expression settling over his face, and Yan was gratified that his padawan seemed the think-before-you-act type.

Then, slowly, a sly smile pulled at Obi-Wan’s lips, an expression that somehow made him look both younger and older than his thirteen years, and when he met Yan’s gaze, there was an odd sadness to his silver eyes, despite the mischief in his smile.

“’Challenge’? I actually like politics, Master.” He replied, a teasing lilt to his voice that Yan decided to allow this once.

“Then let’s get to work, padawan.” Yan decided, reaching out and briefly placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder, cautiously sending a curl of amusement down the bond.

He got a wave of warmth and gratitude in return, the extent of the mental touch almost overwhelming considering how carefully Obi-Wan shielded his thoughts, and the boy’s earlier sly smile faded to something softer, more genuine.

“Yes, Master.”

Yan smiled, turning away from his padawan to open the door.

His padawan’s Light burned bright, and its permanent warmth in the back of Yan’s head made his own doubts and concerns about the Order seem smaller, less pressing, more manageable.

Luminous beings are we, indeed.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan had known, when he’d walked to meet Anakin for their duel onboard the Death Star, that he was walking to his death.

He had died at peace, content to become one with the Force, comforted with the knowledge that Luke and Leia had been able to escape, his duty fulfilled.

So he had been surprised when, instead of passing into sweet oblivion, he found himself returning as a Force ghost.

But seeing Yoda again, being able to guide Luke even from beyond, getting to see Anakin again, his padawan once more in the Light, his ghost exactly the way Obi-Wan had remembered him – it had been worth having his rest delayed.

And then, as Luke turned towards the celebrations and walked away from the ghosts from his past, the Death Star destroyed once and for all, Obi-Wan felt himself finally, properly relax.

He had done his job.

So when he felt the Force pull at him, Obi-Wan had gone willingly, looking forward to finally being able to rest.

And then he emerged into blaster fire, his feet kicking up dust as he stumbled, the Force wrapping around him in a comforting embrace even as another facet of it screamed and wailed at the death surrounding him, reminding Obi-Wan of the worst days of the Clone Wars, of the destruction of Alderaan, of everything he had hoped to have left behind.

The thought had him stumble again, bile rising up his throat, only years of navigating the chaos of the Clone Wars allowing him to twist out of the way of another blaster bolt, hearing it whizz by his ear but not paying it any more heed beyond that, until-

“This is not the place for distraction, padawan!”

Obi-Wan froze.

It couldn’t be…

Frozen in his disbelief, Obi-Wan wasn’t sure how long he simply stood and stared sightlessly ahead, fighting back his panic, not daring to turn and face where the voice had come from for fear of what – and who – he would see.

Finally, however, his luck ran out, and a stray blaster shot clipped his shoulder, making Obi-Wan hiss in startled pain and snap out of his head, battle-calm temporarily displacing his panic.  

He knew where he was. He knew who had called out to him. He had a suspicion as to when he was, too.

Which meant that he knew where they needed to go.

Obi-Wan lit his lightsabre, threw up his mental shields as high as they would go, wrangled his Force signature as far behind them as he could, and set about carving a path, forging ahead of the members of the Young who had led him to the prison, the first time around.

When he finally stilled, there were no more blaster bolts, and Obi-Wan took a sharp turn and hid behind one of the giant pillars of the prison, crouching between the pillar and a felled boulder, feeling another (familiar-so missed-impossible-!) presence settle next to him and doing his best to avoid looking at his old Master.

“How is your shoulder, padawan?” Qui-Gon asked, making Obi-Wan’s self-assigned mission of avoiding interaction significantly more difficult.

Qui-Gon’s question brought Obi-Wan short, though, and he glanced at the man, frowning, grateful his shields held up when he found Qui-Gon already looking back at him, concern clear in his eyes now that Obi-Wan knew what to look for.

“My shoulder?” he echoed, not following, and glanced down. “I- oh.”

There was a blaster wound in his shoulder, the fabric around it charred, the flesh an angry red. When Obi-Wan focused on it, he could feel the pulsing pain of the wound, but in the grand scheme of things, it was barely a scratch compared to what he had become used to during the Clone Wars, or what living on Tattooine for two decades had taught him to withstand.  

“Functional.” He replied when he realised that he had yet to answer the question Qui-Gon had asked him. He could see his Master frowning at him from the corner of his eye, doubtless concerned by Obi-Wan’s seeming indifference at his injury, so he shifted gears and asked a question of his own to hopefully distract Qui-Gon enough that the man wouldn’t think too hard about Obi-Wan’s unexpectedly high pain tolerance. “Can you feel Master Tahl?”

Much like he’d expected, the mention of Master Tahl drew Qui-Gon’s focus away from Obi-Wan and onto the reason for their presence on Melida/Daan like little else.

Obi-Wan was gratified that it took them far less time to find Tahl than his fuzzy memories of their first attempt implied. When they found her, Master Tahl was still very obviously in a poor state, the scar that had marred her face already in place, but only her right eye was closed and crusted over with dry blood, her left still open and seeing.

“…Qui-Gon?” the woman breathed, and Obi-Wan turned away, murmuring something about keeping watch, but more than anything else, not wanting to bear witness to the obvious longing on Master Tahl’s face.

He knew that look. He’d seen it in the mirror often enough.

A sudden pain lanced through his head, the dull, throbbing sort that usually signalled that he’d overexerted himself in the Force, but Obi-Wan had a suspicion as to what was behind this particular headache.

The same thing that had motivated him to split from Qui-Gon the first time. Felt all the more keenly now that he had four more decades of familiarity with the Force than he had had when he had been truly thirteen.

An unsubtle reminder that the Force on Melida/Daan had yet to stop screaming.

And Obi-Wan knew that he could do something about it.

“Come, padawan.” Qui-Gon called, and when Obi-Wan glanced at him, he found the man carrying Master Tahl bridal-style, the other Master’s arms looped around Qui-Gon’s shoulders, lightsabre clutched tightly in her left hand even though Obi-Wan could see that she was barely clinging to consciousness. “We’re leaving.”

Obi-Wan took a breath. Squared his shoulders. Released it.

It was now or never.

“No, Master.”

Qui-Gon halted in his tracks, having already started walking away, back the way he and Obi-Wan had come, and when he glanced over his shoulder, there was a warning in his eyes, a wordless opportunity for Obi-Wan to pretend he hadn’t said anything. “Excuse me?”

An opportunity Obi-Wan pretended he hadn’t seen.

“I would like to stay.” He informed his old Master, confident in himself and his decision in a way he hadn’t been the first time around. “I can help the Young, negotiate a ceasefire, if not an outright peace.”

Qui-Gon’s answering frown was sharp, but Master Tahl’s expression shifted into a mix of pride and resignation, as if she could see something in Obi-Wan’s face that his own Master refused to.

“You are a padawan, not a politician.” Qui-Gon reminded him flatly, his worry for Master Tahl displacing his usual patience. “Come, Obi-Wan. Master Tahl needs urgent medical assistance!”

Obi-Wan took a steady breath and held it for a long second, then released it with a shake of his head.

“These children are dying, Master.” He told Qui-Gon quietly, reminding him of the very thing Master Tahl had likely been sent to Melida/Daan for in the first place. “Can you not hear the Force screaming?”

Qui-Gon’s expression shuttered, but there was regret in his eyes when he said; “Do not make me leave you here, padawan.”

Obi-Wan tried for a smile, though he wasn’t certain how successful he was at managing the expression.

“I don’t mind if you leave. As long as-” he nearly bit through his tongue in his haste to keep the childish request behind his teeth. But then, he remembered that he was, for all intents and purposes, thirteen once again, a child in anyone’s eyes, even those of the Jedi. So maybe, he could afford himself this one admission of weakness.

“I don’t mind if you leave,” he repeated, forcing himself to meet Qui-Gon’s frustrated gaze. “As long as you come back.”

A flash of pain went through Qui-Gon’s face, but then his eyes hardened, his voice the sharpest it had ever been when addressing Obi-Wan. “You are walking away from the Jedi.”

Obi-Wan wondered whether this was how Anakin had sometimes felt, back when he had been Obi-Wan’s padawan, trying – mostly fruitlessly – to convince Obi-Wan to go chasing ‘disturbances in the Force’ or exploring old Sith temples.

This utter certainty that he was in the right, because how could he not be, when it was the will of the Force?

“No.” Obi-Wan denied, shaking his head once more, though he didn’t allow himself to drop eye-contact. He needed Qui-Gon to take him seriously, to understand that Obi-Wan wasn’t prepared to budge, but he wasn’t turning his back on the Order. More like the opposite. “I am fulfilling my duty as a Jedi, serving to balance the Force and protect peace.”

Master Tahl sighed then, quiet, but the sound still echoed in the silence that had fallen between Master and Padawan, and Obi-Wan tried for a final, encouraging smile.

“Go, Master. Come back for me when you’re able.”

And, without much further ado, Qui-Gon walked away.

It took a week for Obi-Wan to get introduced to Cerasi.

It took another week to gain her trust.

It took another to be able to convince both her and Nield that the end to the conflict lay not in continued fighting, but open conversation.

And through it all, all day, every day, Obi-Wan fought and bled and tried to kill as few as possible and save as many as he could. He tried not to keep count, but his mind had always enjoyed taunting him with his failures, and that hadn’t changed even after a supposed trip back in time.

Once Cerasi and Nield were both so exhausted of the fighting that any means of ending it sounded appealing, Obi-Wan reached out and organised a meeting between the leaders of the Melida and the Daan, and the representatives of the Young.

The arranging took three days. The actual negotiations a fortnight.

Obi-Wan felt stretched thin, exhausted beyond belief, dirty and littered with injuries both old and new, his eyes dull even in victory, his senses dialled up to eleven, focused as he had been since the negotiations had begun on monitoring their surroundings for any assassins who may try to take Cerasi out.

Two weeks of hyper-vigilance. Two weeks of stretching himself out in the Force, trying to remember how things had gone the first time, trying to reconcile how much he had already changed.

Knowing that, no matter his exhaustion, there was one more thing he had to change.

“Nield,” Obi-Wan called, rising from the chair he’d crumpled into as soon as the ceasefire and the treaty renaming Melida/Daan as Melidaan was signed, drawing the other boy’s sharp eyes onto himself, feeling that gaze dig into him like daggers, “walk with me?”

The boy wasn’t Force-sensitive. He was determined, sly, and dextrous, but pursuits of the mind had always been Cerasi’s forte.

Once they were alone, the mind-trick sank in easily, the Force-suggestion taking root without much resistance, Nield’s mind accepting it and folding around it as if it had always been there.

“You will leave the Young and forget about revenge.” Obi-Wan murmured, wishing that he felt more regret at what he was doing, but the War and years following Order 66 had turned him into a pragmatist.

“I will leave the Young and forget about revenge.” Nield echoed dutifully, his gaze growing hazy, his mind opening to Obi-Wan’s manipulations like a flower.

“You will focus on living well.” Obi-Wan instructed, willing to grant his old adversary this kindness and waiting for the boy to repeat his fate. Then, just to avoid any potential risks- “You will never seek Cerasi again.”

[an hour later, when he watched Cerasi burst into tears as she hugged Nield goodbye, Obi-Wan wished he could say he felt remorse.]

A month and a half after Qui-Gon had left, the fighting on Melidaan was officially over.

Two months after, and Obi-Wan was an active part of the rebuilding and reconstruction efforts, using the Force to lift the biggest pieces of debris that would’ve otherwise taken whole teams entire days to shift.

Two and a half months in, Obi-Wan was in a meeting with the makeshift board of advisors Cerasi had picked out from the Melida and Daan factions, butting in with suggestions every once in a while about how best to put the planet back on its feet, the adults in the room listening intently, no one daring to question his judgement anymore.

[“You’re an incredible warrior, Ben.” Cerasi had said when he’d asked her, once, off-handedly, what he had done to deserve this unexpected respect. But what followed had chilled him to the bone. “But it is your mind they are truly frightened of.”]

Two months and three weeks since Qui-Gon’s departure, Obi-Wan managed to send a message to the Temple and update them as much as he dared on the situation on the newly-renamed Melidaan.

Three months and four days since Qui-Gon had left him, Master Tahl herself came down the ramp of a Temple ship, greeting Obi-Wan with open arms and a smile that could rival the twin suns of Tattooine with its brightness. Her right eye was a familiar milky-white, but her left glittered at Obi-Wan playfully, though it softened when Obi-Wan just stared at her uncomprehendingly.  

“Come, padawan.” She murmured as he neared, feeling Cerasi’s gaze on his back. “It’s time to go home.”

And as Obi-Wan fell into her arms, letting himself seek the comfort he had gone so long without, he also tried to Not Think about the fact that he couldn’t feel Qui-Gon anywhere on the ship. Yet, after he bid the Young farewell, left Cerasi his personal comm details, and left the atmosphere of Melidaan behind, it became undeniable:

Master Tahl had come alone.

On his first night in the Halls of Healing, Obi-Wan woke up shaking, drenched in cold sweat, his lungs burning as he struggled to breathe through his panic, darkness that had nothing to do with the lack of light creeping in at the edges of his vision.

There were so many people around him.

So many Force signatures, the Temple teeming with life, humming with the pleased, steady thrum of the Living Force.

The Temple in his memories was a graveyard.

“-obi! Padawan Kenobi! You must calm or you will hurt yourself!”  

The words barely penetrated through the fog of panic clouding his brain. The touch to his arm startled him, however, and Obi-Wan found himself wrenching away, scrambling to his feet, searching blindly for something to defend himself with. The shock of cold marble to his feet jerked him out of his head enough that he managed to catch himself on his hands when his legs folded under him, his knees too shaky to be able to support his weight, and he returned to himself just enough to become aware of his own heaving, gasping breaths.

The Force brushed against him, carrying the traces of the joy of the younglings in the creche, the wisdom of the old Masters, the mischief of the initiates and padawans sneaking around the Temple. Yet, instead of bringing peace, the sensations stirred a memory of the smell of iron, burnt flesh, and excrement, and instead of calming, Obi-Wan gagged. Then, bile rose up his throat, the sense-memory bringing tears to his eyes, and Obi-Wan vomited onto the floor between his shaking arms while simultaneously reaching desperately for his shields and pulling them up as high as they would go.

For a moment, his head was blissfully silent.

“Oh, padawan…” the healer murmured, then Obi-Wan felt something sharp nick his skin, the cold of thin metal in his arm, and his vision blacked out.

When Obi-Wan next came to, he threw his shields up before he even fully woke, blocking out the other inhabitants of the Temple from his perception.

He wasn’t dead. He was in the Temple. In the Halls of Healing.

In the past, somehow.

He hadn’t had time to fully process that, caught in a warzone and then aggressive negotiations for three months, most of his attention split between keeping as many as he could alive, and keeping an eye out for anyone targeting Cerasi specifically.

But he had succeeded. And now, here he was.

Cerasi was alive. Satine was alive. Master Yoda was alive. Qui-Gon was alive.

…was he?

It had been Master Tahl, not Qui-Gon, who had come for Obi-Wan. Feeling panic begin to claw at his lungs again, Obi-Wan searched for the bond he had not felt in over three decades, a bond that should be there if Qui-Gon were still alive.

There.

It was small, more of a thread than a bond, nothing like what Obi-Wan’s bond with Anakin had been, once upon a time, but its mere existence soothed Obi-Wan, and he suddenly understood why Anakin had always settled easier when he could ground himself in the connection between them.

Relieved to find Qui-Gon still alive, Obi-Wan tugged at the bond gently, lowering his shields just enough to pulse concern-curiosity-confusion down the thread that connected them.

Qui-Gon’s side flared with confusion, then shock, then Obi-Wan got the impression of a door being slammed in his face, Qui-Gon’s end of the bond going cold, his Master throwing up shields on his end of the bond so fast Obi-Wan nearly got whiplash.

Recoiling from the bond, Obi-Wan blinked dazedly, feeling confused and hurt, not understanding the violent reaction. Then, he took a deep breath, ignoring the way the inhale shuddered, and released his feelings to the Force.

It seemed that the more things changed, the more they stayed the same, and Qui-Gon had never hidden the fact that he hadn’t wanted another padawan, in his first life.

So why should this time be any different?

When he was still waking up choking on screams on the fifth night, his younger age seemingly eroding his ability to brush off his night-terrors the way he’d learnt to do on Tattooine, Obi-Wan decided he’d had enough. He rolled out of bed and slipped out of the Halls, his Force presence hidden behind his shields and the late hour ensuring minimal risk of detection.

He didn’t know what he was looking for, but sleep wasn’t bringing any relief, and Obi-Wan couldn’t stay another moment in the Halls or he would go crazy.

Well.

Crazier than being a fifty-year-old war General in the body of a teen padawan.

Obi-Wan breathed through the flashback that the thought triggered, steadying himself against the wall as his knees weakened. It could’ve been seconds or it could’ve been minutes, but the trembling in his limbs passed and he was able to walk again, trying not to linger too long on places he remembered as being covered with bodies the last time he had walked through the Temple.

Finally, he came across the Room of a Thousand Fountains, and a weight he hadn’t realised he’d been carrying eased from his shoulders.

He hadn’t gotten to the Room after the attack on the Temple. The Room of a Thousand Fountains was an oasis, free from the memories that haunted his steps, where every corner he’d turned wrenched up images of bodies superimposed over empty space.

Obi-Wan stepped into the Room of a Thousand Fountains and took his first unburdened breath since he’d woken up in the Halls of Healing.

He headed to his favourite spot from before and allowed himself to sink down on the grass, his eyes slipping closed as he carefully settled into light meditation.

When he next opened his eyes, it was almost dawn, and Obi-Wan startled, jumping to his feet and stumbling on legs that had fallen asleep, then hurried back to the Halls.

It wouldn’t do to be found ‘missing’ from the Halls of Healing when his latest act as a padawan had been to go against his Master.

Still, his willingness to avoid nightmares far outweighed his fear of being caught, and he found himself slipping out into the Room of a Thousand Fountains three more times that week.

And then, Dooku came.

Obi-Wan personally thought that his non-reaction to seeing the man who had tortured him, once upon a time was better than lunging for the lightsaber that hung from Dooku’s belt and decapitating him. He had always had more developed shields than most, first to protect his crechèmates, then as means of self-preservation to protect himself from Anakin’s sheer power in the Force, his padawan’s otherness occasionally overwhelming.

He was certain that his shielding was all that stopped Dooku from seeing right through him in three seconds and reporting him to the Council.

Yet, for all that he had once feared, if not hated the man, Dooku as he was now, a Jedi still, a Jedi Master, was…different.

There was intrigue in his eyes when Obi-Wan told him his reasons for seeking out the Room of a Thousand Fountains, intrigue that morphed into concern when he correctly guessed that Obi-Wan should be in the Halls of Healing, then smoothed out into concerning blankness when Obi-Wan admitted who his Master was.  

Obi-Wan didn’t miss the complicated jumble of emotions Dooku released into the Force between them, but he was too tired to try and pick them apart. His tiredness was also the reason why he didn’t argue with Dooku’s order to go back to the Halls, well-aware that Dooku would be well within his rights to report him. Still, he couldn’t fight the way his fingers twitched, itching for his lightsaber, discomfited by Dooku’s gaze never once leaving him.

He bowed to the man, his discomfort not letting him fully drop his gaze, then murmured a quiet goodbye, unable to utter the word ‘Master’ in relation to Dooku, even though it was clear that was something he’d need to get over, and soon.

Obi-Wan sighed as he settled back into his bed in the Halls of Healing, staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

He needed to meditate, sort through all the events of the evening in his mind, but damn it all, he was tired.

He was asleep within a minute.

The next day, Obi-Wan had to use every hard-earned trick that had learned as the Negotiator once upon a time, but he finally managed to persuade the healers to let him out of the Halls during the day.

It helped that the one place he wanted to go more than anything was the library, and if there was anyone the healers would entrust with his wellbeing, it would be Jocasta Nu.

So Obi-Wan allowed himself to fall into a routine, taking his breakfast in the Halls, then heading out to the library, burying himself among datapads, flimsi, and scans of scrolls until Madame Nu herself came to fish him out and shooed him out for evening meal.

The ability to lose himself in research soothed Obi-Wan, allowed him to focus on the familiar, on what he was good at, instead of wondering about how and why he was here again.

Mostly, it gave him an alibi – and a witness – for how he knew some things he probably shouldn’t. Lika Mando’a, for example.

And then, almost a week after their first meeting, Dooku found him again. And if there was anything Obi-Wan needed to truly understand that the man before him wasn’t the Count Dooku of his memories, it was the fact that the man apologised to him.

For Qui-Gon.

What must have happened for Master Dooku to become Count Dooku?

And so Obi-Wan drew the man into a conversation, keeping a careful eye on Dooku’s reactions, watching what he allowed himself to say too, knowing from personal experience that Dooku was not to be underestimated, not on the battlefield and not in verbal battles either.

He did not expect Dooku to notice that he hadn’t been sleeping properly. Or, more accurately, he hadn’t expected the man to call him out on it.

[the way Cody used to-!]

Obi-Wan wasn’t lying, not to Cody, and not to Dooku, when he said that he found meditation to be more restful than true sleep.

“There had been…so much death there.” Obi-Wan breathed, biting his cheek to centre himself in the here-now despite the way his mind played him nightmare reels of the Clone Wars. It would be a test of his skill at double-speak to see how much he would be able to tell Dooku of what weighed on him without outwardly lying. “I still feel it when I sleep.”

[Melidaan, the Wars, Alderaan, Tattooine-!]

He took a steadying breath and tried to still the tremble in his hands, frustrated with himself.

“I was the only Force user around for…months.” Obi-Wan continued, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat.

[months, years, decades-!]

“While I am glad to have been brought back to the Temple, it is…overwhelming.” The words slipped out before he could hold them back, truer than Dooku would ever know, but when Obi-Wan looked within himself, alarmed, he found no traces of compulsion or mind-tricks.

It hadn’t been Dooku’s will that made him admit that.

“Is that the reason for your unusually strong shielding?” Dooku inquired, and Obi-Wan immediately checked his shields, relieved to find that they hadn’t slipped an inch despite his fluctuating emotions.

He didn’t think he was imagining the note of respectful consideration in Dooku’s voice, as if the man found a padawan with Master-level shielding impressive rather than suspicious.

“I am not the same person I was when I left the Temple.” Obi-Wan admitted, stifling a wry snort at the understatement. “I don’t want my friends to worry.”

The truth was that Obi-Wan hadn’t seen any of his friends since he’d woken up in the Halls. Hadn’t seen Garen, or Quinlan, or Bant, and he both looked forward to and dreaded the day he would finally see them.

He hadn’t seen Quinlan since before Order 66.

Dooku’s question about mind healers snapped Obi-Wan out of his melancholy thoughts, and he barely bit back an amused sound, inwardly struggling to reconcile Count Dooku with the man who inquired about his mental wellbeing.

His response was honest, but once he reflected on what he’d said, he could understand why Dooku found his words flippant.

Still-

“You need to talk about what you experienced or it will devour you.”

The order startled him and Obi-Wan couldn’t hold back his bitter, incredulous laugh, even though in reality, his situation was far from a laughing matter.

“With whom?” he asked bluntly, still distantly amused, more than aware that he had to laugh or he would start to cry in earnest.

There was nobody in the Temple who would understand. Even Master Yoda – though, in his weakest moments, as he lay in the Halls and stared at the ceiling, Obi-Wan had imagined confessing everything to the Grandmaster – could react one of two ways, and Obi-Wan wasn’t ready to risk everything on fifty-fifty odds.

No, he was well and truly alone in this time.

Again.

He stumbled over his wording of Qui-Gon’s absence, aware by now that his Master was intentionally avoiding him but unaware of why, and that was too sore a spot to allow Dooku anywhere near, no matter how much the man was very quickly defying a lot of Obi-Wan’s assumptions about his character.

Still, it was one thing to admit to not regretting his decision to disobey his Master, and another thing entirely to admit to being good at war.

But, once again, Dooku surprised him.

 “Tomorrow evening, we will take tea in my quarters, and we will talk about this properly.” The man announced, and Obi-Wan was too taken aback to refuse immediately – not that Dooku’s tone left much room for objections – and he felt his eyes grow wide in disbelief while his mouth dropped open. “You are my Grandpadawan. While not my direct responsibility, you are part of my lineage, and your experience is not something you can just release to the Force.”

Obi-Wan reeled himself back in, realising that it was lineage obligation, not any form of genuine concern, that guided Dooku.

Of course.

The realisation stung, but it was a sting Obi-Wan had long grown used to. He sighed, managing not to fall back into the tone he used to use with Anakin, but only just, as he replied; “You do not owe me your time just because we are of the same lineage.”

He could hear the conspicuous absence of a honorific and nearly grimaced, but if Dooku noticed it, he didn’t comment, instead narrowing his eyes at Obi-Wan disapprovingly.

“Do not assume you know my motivations.” He chastised, and Obi-Wan winced, chagrined, once again realising how his words had come out only after he’d uttered them.

It was hard to constantly remind himself that he wasn’t a Master anymore, but a teenager, a young one at that, and that proclamations that he may have once been able to get away with sounded like arrogance, if not outright disrespect, in his current state.

And then, as if reading his mind, Dooku continued; “But you can rest assured that it is not any misguided sense of obligation that guides me.”

Obi-Wan blinked, staring up at the man blankly.

Had he projected?

But no, a quick check showed that his shields were still intact, and he had always needed to concentrate to project his thoughts, unlike Anakin, who used to have to concentrate to avoid projecting.

Which left only one other conclusion.

Dooku was offering him…comfort.

Dooku was offering him comfort.

Dooku was offering him – Obi-Wan Kenobi – comfort.

No matter how Obi-Wan stressed the sentence, it didn’t stop sounding completely, unfathomably ridiculous.

Yet, it was the reality he found himself in.

And so Obi-Wan weighed Dooku’s words, wondered whether this could be the reason he was brought back, brought to this time, to this place. Wondered whether his presence – and awareness of what had come to pass before ­– could be enough to keep Dooku in the Light.

Well, he wouldn’t know until he tried.

“Then I would welcome your counsel.”

Obi-Wan didn’t think he imagined the proud glint that passed through Dooku’s eyes before the man nodded at him, bid him goodnight, and swept out of the Halls.

Obi-Wan settled back against his pillows and considered the ceiling once more, trying to sort through his thoughts before sleep took him.

He would be having tea-time with Count Dooku.

[somehow, that was more difficult a concept for him to believe than suddenly waking up as a thirteen-year-old.]

Obi-Wan was conflicted.

He had agreed to tea-time to see if there was any Light in Dooku he could try to save.

He had not expected to enjoy their tea-time, however.

With each afternoon they spent together, it got progressively more difficult for Obi-Wan to keep in mind who Dooku had been, what he had the potential to do, who he could still become.

It was becoming harder for him to remember why he shouldn’t get into philosophical debates with the man, why he shouldn’t seek his counsel, why he should under no circumstances admit to mind-tricking a civilian to him.

And yet, instead of immediately denouncing him to the Council, which Dooku would have been well within his rights to do, what Obi-Wan was certain he would do, what Obi-Wan himself would have done in his place – Dooku just hummed.

And then, unprompted, declared; “I think it was the right decision. Peace is fragile.”

Obi-Wan froze.

While the latter part of Dooku’s statement was worrying and revealed a glimpse into the motivations of the man who had once become the leader of the Separatists, Obi-Wan was stuck on the easy acknowledgement Dooku had offered so thoughtlessly, as if he didn’t know how long Obi-Wan had spent fighting for even a hint of that same recognition from Qui-Gon in his time as a padawan.

“Thank you, Master Dooku.” He choked out, far more emotional than the statement deserved, noticing his slip-up only belatedly and stilling immediately, suddenly discomfited.

He had gotten too comfortable.

“I-I have much to meditate on.” He lied, stumbling to his feet, almost missing the table as he went to put his teacup away, only remembering to bow at the very last minute as he rushed out of Dooku’s quarters. “Please excuse me from tomorrow’s tea-time.”

Dooku didn’t comment on Obi-Wan’s sudden departure – not that Obi-Wan stayed long enough to hear any such comments – but Obi-Wan could tell from the brief spark of pleasure in Dooku’s Force signature that the man hadn’t missed his slip-up either.

Perhaps he really did need to meditate.

Obi-Wan went nearly a month without seeing Dooku. Three and a half weeks during which he could devote himself to his research, especially after he was officially released from the Halls within the first week.

Two weeks in, however, Obi-Wan saw someone else.

“Obi?”

Obi-Wan startled, nearly jumping from his seat. His flailing jarred the precarious pile of data-pads and flimsi on his desk, pushing one pad off the edge, though Obi-Wan caught it with the Force before it could hit the ground.

He levitated the pad back to his desk, buying himself time in the process before he had to look up.

Because he knew who he would find. Only one person ever dared to call him that.

[only one person was allowed]

Finally, Obi-Wan looked up, holding his breath. He drank in features he hadn’t seen since before Order 66, features of one of his nearest, dearest friends, regardless of the rumours that floated around the Temple during the Wars.

“Quin.” He breathed.

And then, looking was suddenly not enough. With the barest of glances to ensure Quinlan was wearing his gloves, Obi-Wan was out of his seat and pulling Quinlan into a rough embrace, grateful for his young age and the fact that the act wasn’t yet too uncharacteristic for him.

“Didn’t want me to touch you?” Quinlan asked as he obligingly hugged Obi-Wan back, a note of curiosity mixed with concern in his voice.

Obi-Wan laughed quietly, grateful when Quinlan didn’t comment on how wet his laugh sounded, and gave Quinlan one of the same not-quite-lies he had been giving Dooku: “My head’s a mess.”

“Not much changed, then.” Quinlan teased, but when Obi-Wan still didn’t release him after the comment, didn’t tease back or defend himself, Obi-Wan felt his friend’s concern skyrocket. “Obi? What the hell happened?”

Finally, Obi-Wan forced himself to pull back, though he found himself missing the touch almost immediately.

“It’s a long story.” He sighed, but Quinlan just levelled him with a raised eyebrow and grabbed him by the wrist, dragging him towards the way out of the Archives.

Obi-Wan felt a ghost of a smile pull at his lips – Quinlan had always been a little afraid of Jocasta Nu, even as an adult, and Obi-Wan was endeared by the reminder.  

“I’m gonna be in the Temple for at least a week.” Quinlan shot back as they stepped out of the Archives, making it clear Obi-Wan wasn’t getting out of an explanation any time soon.

“Mission overran?” Obi-Wan queried, interest piqued, since it hadn’t been too common for missions to overrun prior to the outbreak of the Clone Wars.

“By over a fortnight.” Quinlan confirmed, then narrowed his eyes, jabbing Obi-Wan in the chest with a gloved finger. “But don’t change the subject. Last I heard from you, you were off to rescue Master Tahl.”

“Yes, well…” Obi-Wan hedged, doing some quick maths in his mind. “I only got back from that…a month ago?”

Quinlan stopped so suddenly that Obi-Wan nearly bumped into him.

“So Master Jinn really left you behind?!” he demanded, the indignation in his voice warming Obi-Wan’s heart even if it was unnecessary. “I heard Master Tahl yelling at him when Master Tholme and I were briefly at the Temple last time. But that was months ago!”

Obi-Wan shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable.

“I asked to stay, Quin.” He corrected, lowering his voice when two Knights walked past them.

“Not for, what-? Two, three months, though!” Quinlan huffed, indignation mixing with annoyance, a combination Obi-Wan was more than familiar with from his and Quinlan’s adult interactions.

“No.” Obi-Wan agreed on a sigh, ceding the fight before it had the chance to become one. “Not for three months.”

After that day in the Archives, Quinlan made a point to drag Obi-Wan out of the library for meal-times and spars over the two weeks he ended up staying at the Temple before being sent out again.

And then, three days after Quinlan left, Dooku took Obi-Wan to the training salles.

And while with Quinlan, it was easier to remember how to spar, easier to allow himself to lose, easier yet to bicker during their fights, Obi-Wan’s lizard-brain forgot to do that with Dooku as his opponent.

With Dooku, Obi-Wan forgot that he was supposed to be a padawan again. And Dooku was many things, but he was not blind.

“Who taught you Soresu?” He inquired after he’d put his training sabre away, while Obi-Wan was still busy catching his breath, his padawan stamina nowhere near his stamina as a Master. “It was not Qui-Gon’s preferred style.”

“There are instructional holos in the Archives.” Obi-Wan huffed, trying his best to get his breathing under control.

“Copying holos does not make one quite this proficient.” Dooku argued, not sounding suspicious, just blunt, perhaps a little intrigued, and Obi-Wan forced himself to straighten and meet the man’s eyes.

“My best friend is Quinlan Vos. He is training in Form IV.” He admitted, suddenly grateful to Quinlan for dragging him to the salles over the last fortnight. “Our preferred styles are rather compatible.”

“Vos? Master Tholme’s padawan? Hm.” Dooku murmured, then suddenly grabbed his sabre again. “Let’s see how much Form IV you’ve picked up, then.”

And Obi-Wan found himself dodging before could get another word out.

After their spar in the salles, and with Dooku back in the Temple, Obi-Wan expected to see more of his Grandmaster, a suspicion which was confirmed in the first week, when the man either found him in the library or invited him over for tea.

And then, suddenly, Dooku disappeared.

Obi-Wan gave the man a week before he went looking for information, yet he hadn’t expected to be cornered by Master Yoda after only managing to check the cafeteria at dinner time.

“Looking for someone, you are?” Yoda inquired, nearly startling Obi-Wan with how suddenly he appeared.

“I was looking for Master Dooku, but it is nothing urgent.” Obi-Wan informed the Grandmaster, knowing better than to lie.

“Struck a friendship with my padawan, you have.” Yoda hummed, and Obi-Wan cursed his complexion when he felt his cheeks warm, feeling stupid for thinking that Yoda wouldn’t notice that Obi-Wan wasn’t spending much time with his actual Master.

“I believe your padawan would object to such a statement.” He pointed out self-consciously, knowing that he would have objected to Yoda assuming he was friends with padawans when he’d been a Master.

[his bond with Anakin had earned him enough pointed looks and raised eyebrows as it was.]

“Yet an objection from you, I hear not.” Yoda countered, and Obi-Wan mentally slapped himself, reminding himself to stop disappearing into his own head in conversations.

“Master Dooku has been an infrequent but stimulating conversation partner when I was still in the Halls of Healing.” Obi-Wan clarified, aiming for demure and likely landing somewhere to the left. “I merely wished to ask him something, but, like I said, it is nothing urgent.”

“Ask your own Master, you cannot?” Yoda queried, and Obi-Wan bit his cheek to avoid saying the first thing that came to mind.

“Master Jinn does not… wish to speak to me.” He replied carefully, weighing his words with care he hadn’t expected to need around Yoda.

“Told you this himself, he has?”

“No.” Obi-Wan denied, shaking his head.

“Then certain you cannot be, hm?” Yoda chastised, and Obi-Wan-

-Obi-Wan was tired.

“He has closed off the training bond. I didn’t think there was any clarification needed.” He snapped, then immediately slapped his hand over his mouth, horror and mortification washing over him. “I apologise, Master Yoda. I did not mean to be impertinent.”

But Yoda’s ears had drooped the moment Obi-Wan had mentioned the bond, and Obi-Wan wasn’t certain if the Grandmaster had even heard his apology.

“Much time without the bond you have spent?” Yoda asked, his tone different now, and Obi-Wan carefully lowered his hand from his mouth and did some more calculations.

“Around…two months?”

Yoda sighed, but his response, when it came, was a non-sequitur. “On a diplomatic mission, my padawan has been sent. Six weeks from now, return he should.”

Obi-Wan blinked, not having expected to get an actual answer regarding Dooku’s whereabouts. Then he blinked again, remembering that Dooku had told him that his previous mission had also been politics-related.

It was becoming almost laughable just how much of a hand the Order had had in shaping one of their greatest adversaries in the Clone Wars.

“…Thank you, Master Yoda.” Obi-Wan managed, executing his clumsiest bow to date and wanting nothing more than to retreat to the safety of the Room of a Thousand Fountains.

“If talk you wish, to me you can come.” Yoda’s voice stopped him in his tracks, and Obi-Wan did not think he imagined the sadness that tinged the Grandmaster’s voice. “Part of my lineage you are too, young Kenobi.”

“Of course, Master.” Obi-Wan choked out past a lump in his throat, keeping his back to Yoda to keep the Grandmaster from seeing the absolute devastation on his face. “Thank you again.”

Then, he fled.

It took Obi-Wan two weeks to seek Yoda out.

Mostly because, between sleeping, spending his days at the library, and occasional spars with Quinlan, Bant, and Garen, Qui-Gon’s absence was ever more apparent.

“Master Yoda.” Obi-Wan finally dared address the Grandmaster, catching Yoda as the other was leaving the Room of a Thousand Fountains. “Where is Master Jinn?”

For the second time in as many interactions, Yoda’s ears drooped. “To Alderaan, Master Jinn has been sent.”

“Why was I not sent with him?” Obi-Wan couldn’t help but ask, feeling a frown pull at his brow even as his stomach dropped. “I am still his padawan, am I not?”

“Wished, Master Jinn did, for you to recover fully.” Yoda replied, but Obi-Wan had known the other Master well enough as an adult to be able to tell a half-truth from a full one.

“I have.” Obi-Wan retorted, bristling unconsciously, the earlier dread turning to simmering irritation. “I was released from the Halls two months ago.”

[Not that Qui-Gon would know, since he hasn’t visited a single time.]

“Speak with Master Jinn, you must.” Yoda instructed, sounding weary and resigned. “The answers you seek, I have not.”

Obi-Wan didn’t miss that Yoda had said ‘Master Jinn’, not ‘your Master’.

He didn’t know what to make of that.

Obi-Wan had been in the middle of assisting with the creche when he sensed him.

Asking to be excused, Obi-Wan all-but ran out of the creche, letting the Force guide him to where he thought he’d find Dooku, not surprised when it led him to the atrium of the Temple. He spotted the man quickly, Dooku’s towering figure no less imposing in Jedi robes than it had been in his get-up as a Count, and Obi-Wan frowned when the man made eye-contact.

He had come with the intention of asking Dooku something, but now he didn’t know if he had the right. Dooku wasn’t his Master. He had no obligation to him.

Then, Obi-Wan steeled himself and approached, inclining his head respectfully.

“Master Dooku,” He greeted, not missing the look one of the Knights beside Dooku sent him, but choosing to ignore it for the time being, “May I ask a question?”

Obi-Wan mentally slapped himself at his bluntness, then felt his frown grow when Dooku merely waved him on, seemingly unbothered by his rudeness.

“Am I still Master Jinn’s padawan?”

Obi-Wan cursed inwardly. That hadn’t been what he’d meant to ask!

But the words were out, and he had no way of reeling them back in. All he could do was weather whatever reaction Dooku would deign him with to his impertinent question, then hide in the library until Quin found him or Madame Nu kicked him out.

He wasn’t prepared for Dooku’s answer, however.

“Do you wish to be?”

Obi-Wan could tell, as soon as the words left his mouth, that he’d been too quick. Too defensive. He tried to explain himself, not expecting to see Dooku mirror his frown.

Nor expecting him to point out that that hadn’t been what he’d asked.

Not for the first time in his interactions with the man, Obi-Wan settled for a half-truth.

But he was finding out the reason why Dooku was being sent on so many diplomatic missions; the man didn’t miss a trick.

Obi-Wan wasn’t expecting the hand on his shoulder, nor the insistent, blunt question that felt like a compulsion, yet Obi-Wan knew even without the need to check his shields was not one.

The truth slipped out of him in a quiet, resigned whisper.

And Dooku-

-Dooku smiled.

Obi-Wan didn’t know what to expect when he was summoned before the Council within a week of Dooku’s return.

A week during which he saw the man one-on-one three more times, while Qui-Gon never once sought him out even though he’d come back a full week before Dooku.

Finding out that he was being removed from Qui-Gon’s care stung, but Obi-Wan couldn’t say that he was surprised. Though they’d eventually settled their differences in his first life, the start to his padawanship had been a rocky one.

Melidaan, in the end, had actually drawn them closer, since Obi-Wan had resolved to never again do anything that could threaten his place at Qui-Gon’s side.

In this timeline, it was not him who had been in the wrong. Qui-Gon had not needed to come save him. Obi-Wan had succeeded, as a padawan, at settling the conflict.

He had planned for many things, many events, both in the near as well as distant future.

Yet he had failed to take into account the fact that he may still be sent away from the Temple, that he may never get to complete his padawanship in this timeline.

“Oversee the rest of Padawan Kenobi’s studies, Master Dooku shall.”

Yoda’s words pulled Obi-Wan from his thoughts with all the gentleness of a speeder-crash, and he couldn’t help but gape.

He turned wide eyes to Dooku, found the man already looking back at him, a hint of warmth in his eyes when their gazes met. At the sight of Obi-Wan’s obvious shock, Dooku offered him an almost imperceptible nod, confirming Yoda’s words.

“Do you accept, Padawan Kenobi?”

Obi-Wan didn’t know what his face was doing, most of his focus on his shields, but he could guess that it was at least somewhat comical judging by the tiny upwards quirk of Dooku’s lips, his amusement subtle but undeniable.

Obi-Wan barely spared Yoda a glance when he uttered his acceptance.

The snapping of his and Qui-Gon’s training bond barely registered.

[what hurt far more was the way Qui-Gon excused himself as soon as Obi-Wan was no longer his responsibility]

Once his bond with Dooku was complete, however, Obi-Wan concentrated, and finally, after all his weeks in the Temple, dared to carefully, ever-so-slightly, lower his shields.

Then couldn’t decide whether he wanted to laugh out loud or finally give in to the tears he’d been supressing since the first time Qui-Gon had shut him out from their bond.

In the Force, Dooku felt nearly the same as Anakin had.

That same combination of stubborn Light and lingering Darkness, the very same propensity for all sides of the Force, not just the Light, the same doubts about the righteousness of the Order.

But the Light was there. Undeniably so.

And Obi-Wan was going to make it his mission to keep it there.