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Aloneness (What Came After)

by Diotima

Title: Aloneness (What Came After)
Part I: Delirium
Author: Diotima
Email: graphikos@writeme.com
Archive: Yes
Category: Qui/Obi, angst
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: sexually explicit
Spoilers: N.A.
Summary: sequel to "Being One". This is one of three parts, Part II will be "Homecoming" and Part III will be "Agonies of the Flesh". Coming soon!.
Feedback: Yes. Email me!

Part I: Delirium

There was pain. And darkness.

Sometimes Obi-Wan would almost fully wake up, opening his eyes for a little while to the blinding light. But this was very bad, for when this happened there was even more pain. So he would close his eyes again, and go fully back into the darkness, because the pain was less there.

He could not remember what had happened. They had gone into the Arena, and had fought bravely, back to back, like the Jedi of old. He had been willing to die that day, next to his Master. What did death matter, when he would never be separated from Qui-Gon?

He had been struck—he had only a long wooden stick to deflect the blows of his attackers who were swarming in great numbers over him; and suddenly, he remembered searing pain, centered in his abdomen, but every nerve and fiber in his body crying out with the blow. He had fallen to his knees, holding his abdomen, blood pouring out from between his fingers, running down his legs and onto the sand of the Arena. He had screamed from the pain and the shock, despite all his Jedi discipline. Everything had then become blurry before it disappeared into blackness, although he had some dim memory of his Master gathering him up in his arms

He could not remember anything after that, because he was not only injured, but he was also very sick, as there was fever in his blood, for he burned day and night with relentless heat, making his body shake and his mind very confused.

He was rapidly cycling in and out of oblivion, his wakefulness alternating, not with true dreams, but strange visions of the dying, and reality and his hallucinations bled into each other so he could no longer tell which was true and which was false.

“Watch out!” he screamed, as he watched the Pyadeans attack Qui-Gon, with their sharp sythos blades. He was trying to leap up from the straw pallet, frantically clutching at his lightsaber which was not there, but his legs would not support him, and he would have fallen down had not Qui-Gon caught him, laying him back down gently.

They were alone in the room.

“What is it, my Padawan?” Qui-Gon’s face was deeply concerned.

“The Pyadean. I saw it…watch out…”Obi-Wan mumbled.

Qui-Gon placed his hand on his forehead. “Your fever is much worse. You must rest.”

“Watch out…”Obi-Wan repeated.

“Hush. You are safe. Just rest.” Qui-Gon insisted.

Every time he awoke, Qui-Gon was always beside him. His Master must never have slept, for he was always there, holding Obi-Wan’s hand, or stroking his hair. His hands were so cool, and so gentle on his brow. Obi-Wan could not always make out what his Master was saying in his soft murmur, but he did understand that he was loved, and that his Master would not leave him.

I will never leave you, Qui-Gon had said, looking into his Padawan’s face.

That had been the night before they were to die. The night when they had finally been one.

But was that a dream, as well? Obi-Wan had longed for Qui-Gon’s touch for as long as he could remember. He saw it over and over in his mind, as he tossed in fever, confused yet remembering. The memory of his Master’s kiss made his body thrum with another sort of fever.

The next time he partially awoke, Qui-Gon was taking off his clothes. Obi-Wan sighed. If felt good to be naked, to feel the coldness of the air against his hot skin, even though he was shivering.

It was also pleasurable to be naked under his Master’s hands. He was too delirious to be modest, or to have his usual shyness, so to be so completely exposed in front of his Master only made him feel a profound and sensual enjoyment, even to the point that he was not embarrassed about his growing erection.

His eyes were closed, but he could sense his Master was looking at him, at his nakedness. Others had frequently told Obi-Wan that he was exceptionally handsome, but this had never particularly impressed him, since he was indifferent to such complements from most others, and Jedi training strictly warned against vanity. However, now remembering how others had found him good-looking, he wondered, shamelessly, if his Master liked what he saw. He was not indifferent to Qui-Gon finding him handsome, and this idea of his Master taking pleasure in his nakedness, getting sexually aroused by looking at him, instantly made his penis fully stiff and aching.

Qui-Gon was now lightly stroking Obi-Wan’s neck in a way that was violently arousing, his callused fingertips rough against Obi-Wan’s soft skin despite the gentleness of his hand. His callused fingertips then lightly stroked Obi-Wan everywhere, his throat, his shoulders, his arms, his abdomen, and then silky skin between Obi-Wan’s thighs.

This last touch was maddening, so intimate and so close to his erection, yet holding back from what he desperately needed his Master to touch, certainly, then, it had been done on purpose. His Master was showing his control, proving to Obi-Wan that even in this he was Obi-Wan’s Master, that he could tease and torment his Padawan to an almost unbearable arousal before letting his Padawan find release.

“Master…please,” he groaned,desperately, “...don’t tease me...give me what I need... Please”

Qui-Gon said nothing, but in response, his hand, gentle even as the roughened skin had exquisite friction, lightly moved over Obi-Wan’s penis. This touch, hardly even a caress, almost drove Obi-Wan beyond his endurance, he clenched his fists, his legs trembling, it was only by force of will that he did not orgasm instantly under his Master’s hand.

His hands reached out blindly for his Master. “Please….teach me how to please you….I need to please you….”

“Teach you what? I can’t understand what you are saying, Padawan, you are mumbling again," Qui-Gon said, suddenly. His voice was puzzled.

At the sound of his Master’s voice, startled, Obi-Wan more fully awoke, and although everything was hazy, he now realized that although he was lying naked on the pallet, he was not being caressed but rather being efficiently bathed with a sponge.

The rough feeling against his skin had not been the callused fingertips of his Master, but the roughness of a cleansing sponge.

Qui-Gon had simply needed to take his clothes off to bathe him, and after being undressed by his Master, his feverish mind had created the rest.

“I was dreaming…”Obi-Wan mumbled, his face even hotter than before.

“I hope it was a good dream,” Qui-Gon said.

“I…I don’t remember,” Obi-Wan lied, clumsily.

Qui-Gon was still washing him all over, now in his lower legs, and Obi-Wan realized, to his shame, that he had probably soiled himself, which is why his Master was cleaning him. He had not been, under Qui-Gon’s eyes, an object of desire, but had rather been simply filthy, and his compassionate Master had helped him, the way he would a child.

“sorry…” Obi-Wan apologized, “I am…disgusting.”

Qui-Gon shook his head, smiling at his Padawan “No, you are not,” he said, kindly, “You are sick.”

Obi-Wan felt the weight of cloth over his lower abdomen and upper thighs. Reaching down, he felt the roughness of cloth under his fingers; his most intimate parts had also been efficiently cleaned, along with the rest of him, but he was now modestly covered with a draping cloth. His Master had not even violated his Padawan’s modesty more than what was required, and had quickly covered him again once he was clean. Remembering the hallucination he had just had, he furiously blushed again, thinking of his Master washing him there. His penis had probably been fully erect as his Master had cleaned him; he could only imagine what his Master thought. He closed his eyes.

Qui-Gon pulled Obi-Wan's hands off his lower abdomen. “You must not touch the wound there."

Obi-Wan was too weary to ask too many questions, but allowed Qui-Gon to bind up his abdomen with tight bandaging, and with the same efficiency he dressed Obi-Wan again, and lay him back down on the straw pallet.

“Rest now,” Qui-Gon urged.

Obi-Wan was too fatigued to argue, soon he fell back to sleep, caught in the undertow of the rising tide of fever.

Had it all been a dream? It seemed his feverish mind could imagine anything. He could not prove it either way, and he was desperate to know, for he knew he was dying, and he did not want to die without knowing.

The next time he awoke, his fever seemed much hotter, for he burned and shivered all at once, and the cramp in his abdomen was worse, now unrelenting.

His Master was there, closely watching his face. Obi-Wan could feel his Master’s concern, and also fear, which his Master was being very careful to conceal.

“water,” Obi-Wan tried to say.

Qui-Gon stroked his brow, tenderly, but shook his head, “Water would kill you now, Obi-Wan. Your wound…”

Obi-Wan licked his dry and cracked lips. He looked up at his Master, the noble face, the deep blue eyes dark with worry. Obi-Wan had to know. He was not afraid to ask, because everything else seemed like a dream, and perhaps none of it was real.

“was it a dream? that you,… and I?” he mumbled. He had to swallow. His mouth was dry, and he could not finish the words.

But he did not need to.

“No,” said his Master, huskily, “it was not a dream.” He leaned over, and kissed Obi-Wan very softly on his feverish brow. To the heat of Obi-Wan’s forehead his lips were cool and exquisitely soft.

Obi-Wan smiled up at his Master. His smile was trusting, boyish; but his eyes, in horrible contrast, were glassy and dilated, the whites almost completely bloodshot red.

“glad,” Obi-Wan muttered, almost incoherently, clutching at his Master’s hand. “so glad. nothing else matters. it is okay to die now.”

At this statement his Master had become angry with him. “No,” Qui-Gon exclaimed, harshly, holding his Padawan’s hand so tightly that his own knuckles were white. “It is not okay to die now. You are not going to die. You are going to live.”

Qui-Gon then had climbed into the straw pallet that Obi-Wan was limply lying on, and pulled Obi-Wan to him. “My Padawan. My Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon went on, fervently, “You will not die. You must hold on. They will come for us. Soon.”

In his dazed state Obi-Wan did not know who they were or if it mattered if they ever came, but he was comforted by the sound of his Master’s voice and the strong beat of Qui-Gon’s heart as he lay on his Master’s chest.

He could feel his Master’s large hands in his hair, and on his brow. There was love there, and more besides, for Obi-Wan could feel through his Master’s hands the flow of the Force, easing the pain of his wounds and clearing his mind a little.

“Stop doing that!” he protested, swatting at his Master’s hands, “too much. You will hurt yourself. Do not. I am dying, anyway.”

“Shut up, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon had said, emphatically, continuing despite Obi-Wan’s protest.
Obi-Wan, clasping his Master’s hands by the wrists, tried to pull Qui-Gon’s hands off him, but he was far too weak.

“Stop,” he insisted, angrily, “doesn’t matter. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Now shut up!”

The flow of the Force eased Obi-Wan so much that his pain actually almost disappeared for a while, and, still clutching at his Master’s hands, Obi-Wan went into a deeper sleep, beyond consciousness.


Then later, it could have been an hour, it could have been weeks, Obi-Wan had felt his Master’s hand on his arm.

“Obi-Wan. They have come for us. They are taking us back to Coruscant,” Qui-Gon had said, but he was not smiling, “But you are very sick. You will need an operation immediately upon our return. If the healers do not treat you immediately, you might…” he quickly changed his phrase, “it would be very serious. Do you understand?”

Obi-Wan was not sure he understood, but it seemed important to his Master, so he nodded feebly anyway.

Hands were on him, none gentle enough, as strangers picked him up and laid him on a bier. Afterwards, there was much pain, for although these strangers were trying to be careful, somehow their motions were jarring Obi-Wan down to the bone. The pain was so agonizing in his abdomen that he could not even speak a word of protest, but only clench his teeth.

Qui-Gon called for them to immediately lower the stretcher.

“Put him down—please! I will carry him,” Qui-Gon had insisted. He had then bent down and very carefully picked Obi-Wan up and held him securely in his arms.

Obi-Wan did not even have the strength to hold up his head, and only lay limply in his Master’s arms, his head against his Master’s chest.

“Only a little longer, my Padawan,” promised Qui-Gon. Through his hands came the flow of the Force, easing the pain a little.

Obi-Wan must have passed out again, for the next time he awoke he was in a cold room, and the lights were much brighter there. He was shivering against an unrelenting cold, which was so deep that it penetrated him down to his bones. The blinding light that burned his eyes offered no heat, and he realized, to his shame, that he was stripped of all his clothes, totally exposed to anyone who cared to look.

Even in the strange delirium he was mortified, and he feebly tried to cover himself with his hands, for he had never been totally unclothed with any other person except his Master.

“He is struggling,” someone said.

“It is the pain,” a crisp voice replied, “restraints, please.”

“Yes, Master Asklepia.”

His hands were strapped down at his sides, but still Obi-Wan’s fingers flexed, tightening and releasing in frustration. He could not open his eyes against the blinding lights.

“…please…” Obi-Wan called out, struggling futilely against his bonds.

“Yes, my Obi-Wan,” asked Qui-Gon, tenderly, “what is it?” For his Master was somehow beside him, although Obi-Wan could not see him, for it hurt too much to open his eyes.

“You are here…yes,” Obi-Wan muttered, “you said you would never leave me.”

“Never,” agreed Qui-Gon, gently stroking the hair back off Obi-Wan’s forehead.

“please…cover me.”

“Soon. Once it is over.”

“No. I am yours…only yours.”

There was complete silence in the room.

Even in his confused state Obi-Wan dimly understood he had said something terribly wrong. He could sense that under the bright lights there were many others nearby, and they were all watching and listening.

“forbidden…” he muttered, angrily, too confused to unsay what he had just said.

If Qui-Gon was upset with what Obi-Wan had just inadvertently revealed, there was no sign of it, for he remained silent, denying nothing. He only continued to stroke Obi-Wan’s hair with his hand, without even breaking the rhythm or hesitating for a moment.

Then another voice cut in, the same brisk voice of a stranger that had previously called for restraints.

“He is so out of his mind with fever, he has no idea what he is saying. We must proceed, immediately.”

Qui-Gon reached down to squeeze Obi-Wan’s hands through his bonds.

The next time Obi-Wan awoke it must have been many days later, morning sunlight bright through the window, and Qui-Gon was there, sitting up close by the bed, still holding his hand.

“You are awake,” Qui-Gon said, smiling.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan replied, weakly. “I am…back in the Temple.”

“Yes. In the Healing Section,” agreed Qui-Gon, “you have been here many weeks since our rescue.”

“Weeks?” Obi-Wan asked, startled. “Has it been that long?”

“Unfortunately, yes. But the Healers believe you will make a complete recovery.”

“I remember…I remember some sort of procedure.”

“The Healers had to drain your abdominal wound, as your blood had gone septic. During combat, one of the Pyadean weapons penetrated your viscera and you had peritonitis.”

“I remember being stabbed…I don’t remember what happened after that.”

“We were ‘pardoned’ for the crime of accidentally being on their planet,” Qui-Gon replied, with sardonic emphasis, “the Pyadeans hate strangers, but admire courage. After we fought, they insisted on releasing us to the Republic and offered what primitive medical care they had…which was not much.”

Obi-Wan pulled down the blanket. He was dressed in a thin night-robe, belted at the waist, and pulling it apart a little, he could see the lower left side of his abdomen, where he remembered the pain. There was a faint silvery line, almost perfectly healed.

Qui-Gon was very swift to cover him back up with the blanket. “It is cold, my Padawan,” he said, quickly, not meeting Obi-Wan’s eyes, “so you must keep warm. But as you can see, with bacta tank treatments, you will probably not even have a scar. You are still very weak, particularly because you could not eat, but I am told by the Healers that you will do exceptionally well.”

“I am not doing well because of the Pyadean medicine, am I?” Obi-Wan asked, slowly, “Or even the Healers.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know perfectly well what I mean. You healed me. With the Force,” Obi-Wan said, flatly, a statement of fact, not a question.

“A little,” admitted Qui-Gon.

“I remember more than ‘a little’. When someone is as close to death as I was, it is very dangerous. You taught me that.” said Obi-Wan, accusatorily.

“Not so dangerous,” shrugged Qui-Gon. “And you weren’t close to dying.”

“I was. You could have died.”

“But I didn’t,” Qui-Gon said, firmly, trying to dismiss the subject. “So let us not worry about hypotheticals.”


“You wouldn’t let me do that for you, would you?” Obi-Wan persisted.

“No, I wouldn’t,” replied Qui-Gon, curtly, but then he went on, a little more gently, “But it is the responsibility of the Master to protect the Padawan. So you must think no more about it.”

“I owe you my life,” Obi-Wan said, softly, looking into his Master’s eyes, “Thank you.”

“You are very welcome,” Qui-Gon replied, looking back into Obi-Wan’s eyes for a long moment. It looked as if he might say something else, but then he seemed to remember himself, and then go on, more briskly, as he tucked the blanket around Obi-Wan’s shoulders. “But come now, no more talking. You must rest and regain your strength. I will stay here in case you need anything.” Qui-Gon then ruffled Obi-Wan’s fair hair with his hand.

He touches my hair…as if I am still a child, Obi-Wan thought, feeling the caress of his Master’s hand in his hair. Nothing…has changed. He was immediately ashamed at his own selfishness. He closed his eyes tightly and pretended he needed sleep, until his exhaustion drew him to a place where he no longer needed to pretend.

The next time Obi-Wan opened his eyes again, it must have been many hours later, for the shadows were long, but his Master was still by his side, sitting by the head of the sleep-couch, reading a datapad intently.

Some of his dark silver-shot hair had fallen forward, onto the datapad. Obi-Wan was close enough that he could have reached out his hand and stroked the silky strands with the tips of his fingers.

Certainly, there was nothing wrong with that. Obi-Wan had innocently played with his Master’s long hair for years; when he had been allowed to share his Master’s sleep couch he had twined it between his fingers and braided it as he had listened to his Master speak about the Force into the small hours of the morning. Other times, when it had become horribly tangled during a mission, Obi-Wan had sometimes helped to comb it out, taking a comb very gently to the tangled parts until it was smooth again, and then, wondrously, shyly, stroking the silk under his hand.

But Obi-Wan hesitated a moment, his hand outside the blanket but no further. For he suddenly knew that he not touch these strands, no matter how much he longed to, for he could not touch it without remembering.

That night, when Qui-Gon had finally given in to Obi-Wan’s repeated pleadings, and had allowed Obi-Wan to touch him. Obi-Wan had kissed and stroked his Master’s hair, along with every other part of Qui-Gon’s body, and, afterwards, Obi-Wan had buried his face in its softness, falling deeply asleep in its scent.

“What is wrong?” Qui-Gon asked, looking up.

Obi-Wan started. He had not realized that he had been staring, but he had been, his hand clasped absently around his blanket as he watched the gleam of his Master’s hair.

He swallowed and mumbled, “Nothing.” He quickly shut his eyes again.

Qui-Gon put his datapad down and quickly came closer to his side.

“Have you a pain?” Qui-Gon asked, his voice full of concern.

“No. Yes.” Obi-Wan said, shortly, never opening his eyes.

“Let me get some pain medicine for you—“

“No,” Obi-Wan said, his voice still clipped. He rolled over on his side so that he was facing the wall, “I just need some rest.”

Qui-Gon was silent for a moment. “Let me know if you change your mind,” he said, finally, sitting back down again.

Staring at the blankness of the wall, Obi-Wan finally fully understood how it would have to be between them.

What had happened between them had only happened due to strange circumstance, a night of comfort before execution.

If we are to die tomorrow, it does not matter what we do, Obi-Wan had said to his Master, placing his hand deliberately on Qui-Gon’s.

But they had not died.

To ever do such a thing again—impossible! If it was ever discovered, even so much as suspected—the both of them would have been utterly disgraced. It was an apechthema, an abomination, a sin against the nature of the Force. It was not a matter for forgiveness, a matter for immediate expulsion from the Jedi Order.

Worse still, the Jedi Council would never understand. They would assume, naturally, that as Qui-Gon was older, more experienced, the Master, that he must have taken advantage of his Padawan’s innocence, and seduced him into betraying the Code.

They never would have believed that all the advances had come from the young and inexperienced Obi-Wan. But it had been the truth.

Obi-Wan had first tried to kiss his Master the night of their anniversary, the Sokrateion, when he had returned from a cantina after drinking far too much. Qui-Gon, although kind, had properly and very firmly pushed him away. There had been, in his reaction, not the slightest suggestion that such advances were welcome, or that his feelings for Obi-Wan were anything other than a Master for a Padawan.

And then, that night, Obi-Wan had known that they were to die the next day, despite Qui-Gon’s efforts to protect him from such knowledge. Obi-Wan was not afraid to die, if he could die with Qui-Gon, but he did not want to die without being close to the one person he had always loved. He could bear dying, if only once his Master returned his kiss.

So he had reached out his hand, to place it on top of his Master’s.

His Master had correctly pulled his own hand away. His voice had been gentle, but unyielding; he had said that they should keep to the Code to the very end, to stay true to it even to the death, as they had in life.

But at this rejection, Obi-Wan had openly wept for the first time in front of his Master, his eyes wet with unfamiliar tears.

I only wished to be close to someone before I die, he had sobbed, I have never been close to anyone.

Qui-Gon could not remain indifferent to such pain. Against that, he would set aside everything; the Jedi Order, the Code, even his dearly held honor. What did any of that matter, when his Obi-Wan so desperately needed him.

So Qui-Gon had replied, finally, deliberately, Be close to me, then.

Holding his crying Padawan in his arms, Qui-Gon had, at last, returned the kiss that Obi-Wan had offered him the night of the Sokrateion. This night before dying, he would make his Padawan feel completely loved and secure, first, with the forbidden kissing, and then, having sensed the almost overwhelming sexual tension in Obi-Wan’s young male body, the most dangerous and intimate of caressing.

But after Obi-Wan had found his release, Qui-Gon would have wisely held back. He, too, felt desire, but he never would never have violated his Padawan’s innocence, or led him into even the slightest wrong, no matter how excruciating such physical need became.

But Obi-Wan pressed him on yet further still, reaching for him, pleading, Teach me. Teach me about sexual relations. Please. About…making love.

And Qui-Gon, who resonated with other’s emotions, who had empathy even for strangers, was utterly helpless to resist such vulnerability and pain in the Padawan who he loved.

The Council would be unable to see the truth; that Qui-Gon, far from seducing his Padawan, had only committed such a grievous transgression of the Code because he loved Obi-Wan so much.

It was unjust that although the Council would severely punish them both, Obi-Wan would still get some small amount of sympathy, being young, and thought to not know any better—his name and reputation would be completely ruined, and he would be denied advanced responsibilities, in all likelihood for many, many years—but it was still possible he would be allowed to remain a Jedi. But his Master, who was so full of love and compassion for his Padawan that he would commit an apechthema, cast aside his own beliefs rather than abandon Obi-Wan in his pain, no he would be immediately cast out, expelled from the Order, perhaps even banished from Coruscant, his name blackened forever.

His Master, the great Qui-Gon Jinn, one of the greatest among the Jedi, who had sacrificed his whole life to serve others without thought to himself, shamed, and cast out!

His Master, who had not hesitated to risk even his own life for Obi-Wan, by healing him through the Force.

No! Obi-Wan could not let that happen. It would never happen again. That night would have nothing to do with their continued relationship as Master and Padawan. It would have to remain some unreal and fantastic experience that was outside their lives, with no more substance than a dream; touching nothing, leading to nothing.

For my Master’s sake, I must not even think of it, Obi-Wan promised himself, firmly, closing his eyes tightly, I must forget.

At that moment Obi-Wan swore to himself that he would act as if nothing had changed, although everything had.

Qui-Gon came to visit Obi-Wan every day in his convalescence, watching over his Padawan as he slept, seeing to his every comfort, bringing delicious food he had prepared with his own hands to tempt Obi-Wan’s feeble appetite.

Obi-Wan was always on edge, yearning to see Qui-Gon, but equally dreading it. He did not know how to act, everything he did felt awkward and clumsy and somehow artificial. Everything he said sounded stupid to his own ears. He found himself laughing too long and too hard at Qui-Gon’s jokes and stuffing down without tasting the meals his Master had made, as if he could force down all the pain in his chest, as well.

When his Master left, he would dwell on each minute aspect of the encounter, inwardly cringing at the stupidity of everything he had said, and searching for hidden meanings in Qui-Gon’s every gesture.

Despite himself, he would find himself wondering, Does he think of…that night at all?

He did not seem to. Qui-Gon was the same kind, sensitive, thoughtful Master that Obi-Wan had always had. There was no difference.

Sometimes, looking into his Master’s face, as Qui-Gon would tell an amusing story, Obi-Wan would feel a touch of resentment. He would think, How can he forget about what happened so easily? It must have meant nothing to him. But he would always quickly catch himself, and chastise himself for such unworthy feelings. What did I expect? He forgets, as he should. As I should.
He would remind himself, harshly, I must forget.

But such resolutions were difficult to keep.

“No, thank you,” he had said, politely, to Asklepia, after the Healer had examined him.

“You do not wish to have any Bacta treatments?” she asked, raising her black brows.

“I would rather not,” he replied, again most courteously, adding, “although I am very grateful for your concern.”

“But I don’t understand,” she had said, frowning, “you are medically stable, of course. But if you don’t get the Bacta, you will never lose that scar.”

She had looked down again at his abdomen, which she had exposed during the examination, and frowned again at the silvery line that made a pale crescent along the lower left side.

He almost covered it, protectively, with his hand, before he realized how ridiculous he looked.

He cleared his throat, uncomfortably. “But maybe I don’t want to get rid of the scar,” he had said, awkwardly, “maybe I will just keep it.”

She drew brows together, incredulously, “You can’t really mean that. Are you nervous about being submerged in the Bacta? For of course you want to get rid of that scar.”

I don’t. But how could he explain to her that he wanted to leave his body permanently marked in some way, as a reminder of what had happened on Pyades? Something very important had happened on that planet, something that had changed him forever, but he could never speak of it to anyone, not even his Master, especially not his Master, but at least he could bear on his body some silent testimony to the fact that he had been forever altered.

And, despite all the promises he had made to himself, when he was not careful, behind his closed lids he would sometimes see his Master’s uncovered form, and the white scars that Qui-Gon bore along his right arm and left thigh. Scars Obi-Wan had kissed, gently, reverentially, with his own mouth, making his Master sigh with pleasure.

He wanted to have at least this with his Master, to share this kinship and this memory with him, even if they could never speak of it.

Asklepia broke into his thoughts, “Are you okay, Obi-Wan? You looked out of it for a moment.”

“I am fine,” he managed, pulling his robe tightly closed. “I want to go back to my room now, if you don’t mind.”

“Certainly,” she agreed, “but let me know when you want the Bacta.”

When he had returned to his convalescence room, Qui-Gon had been sitting at the bedside, and it was an unpleasant surprise. Interacting with his Master had become awkward, and painful, but at least when Obi-Wan was more in control of his emotions it was tolerable. Obi-Wan’s thoughts, his memories, right before in the examination room had brought up all his feelings, making him intensely emotional and vulnerable. He would have liked at least a few minutes to push it out of his mind, and compose himself mentally, before interacting with Qui-Gon again. But Qui-Gon was already sitting there, smiling up at him, and there was no time to fully control his feelings, which would make this interaction a particularly painful one.

But, of course, he could show none of this, so he smiled brightly at his Master. “What a pleasant surprise!”

“For me as well,” replied Qui-Gon, still smiling, “You are back early. I thought I would have to wait quite a bit longer for you, because they told me you had a Bacta tank treatment today.”

The last thing Obi-Wan wished to discuss was the Bacta, so he said, a little more shortly than he intended, “I decided not to—today.”

Qui-Gon looked mildly puzzled at his tone, but did not remark on it. “Are you tired, Padawan?”

“A little,” conceded Obi-Wan, climbing into his sleep-couch and definitively pulling up the blankets.

“Then I won’t keep you. I will come back later, after you have rested.”

“Fine,” said Obi-Wan, indifferently, closing his eyes.

“Do you need me to get anything for you before I go?”

“No.”

To Obi-Wan’s relief he heard his Master stepping away towards the door, but the his Master added, “Obi-Wan?”

“Yes?” Obi-Wan said, resolutely keeping his eyes closed.

“I am glad you are looking so well. The Healers tell me you will be coming home soon.”

I can never go home, Obi-Wan thought, keeping his eyes closed for a moment.

But then he opened them, so he could smile cheerfully at his Master.

“I am looking forward to it,” he said, enthusiastically. It was both the truth and a lie.

“So am I,” replied Qui-Gon, warmly, before departing.

Finally alone, sighed, deeply. He grateful that his Master had been quick to leave, so he no longer had to pretend, smiling, and speaking cheerfully about inanities. He felt a thousand years old.

He pressed his flushed cheek against the coolness of the linen covering his pillow, squeezing his eyes tightly closed.

And when I leave here, it will only get worse. At least sometimes now I can try to dwell on him, but soon, I will always be at his side. I will never be apart from him.

But I cannot live anywhere else. Even if the Council would allow it, there would be too much talk. Too many questions I cannot answer.

He shook his head, ruefully. And what I am thinking is impossible. I could never be apart from him. Despite the pain. I could not survive it.

I must always be beside him…and manage the best I can.

Obi-Wan slid his hand down over his abdomen and gently placed it over the scar, the raised skin puckered rough underneath his fingers.

He smiled. I will never let them take this from me. This is what I can never say to him. That I belong to him, forever.

He touched the scar very delicately with the tips of his fingers, in a tender caress, as if it were not part of his own body, but rather Qui-Gon’s.

Comforted a little, he drifted asleep.

When Asklepia made her rounds to check up on her patients, she was gratified to find that her patient was asleep, for his sleeping schedule had been very irregular at best. Going into the room, her feelings changed to worry, for his sleep seemed deep but restless, the sheets tangled around his legs, his face warm and with a light sweat on his forehead as if he was to go back into his delirium.

She felt his forehead, which was warm, but not hot, and she took his weak but steady pulse at his right wrist. She nodded in satisfaction that the fever had not returned.

Then, reaching for the sheets to straighten them out, she was struck by the position of his left hand, the fingers splayed over the left side of his abdomen, protectively covering the scar. This posture of his left hand seemed very strange to her, so gentle over the wound that had almost killed him.

Asklepia was a true Healer, with sure instinct when in came to her patients, moreover, she was of the Lorridan Near-Human race, with their intense perception, and would have been very observant even if she had not been Force-sensitive. But Obi-Wan had been one of her few patients who were utterly closed to her, completely emotionless and detached, but with impeccable politeness.

At least, he had been that way until she had asked him about being submerged in the Bacta to remove the scar, and his strange, guarded, refusal.

But maybe I don’t want to get rid of the scar, he had said. And for a moment, his expression had been tormented, as if haunted by some memory, his blue eyes dark with an overwhelming desolation.

She had thought, at that moment, His body is healed. But somehow he is still deeply wounded.

But then he seemed to remember himself, and had quickly concealed his emotions, his face becoming expressionless and disinterested. It was so sudden and so complete that she did not have any time to question him further, before he tied his robe tight and strode back to his room.

Looking down at her patient, his head thrown back in a restless sleep, his hair darkened by sweat, his hand so strangely, so protectively positioned, she thought, What happened to you on Pyades, Obi-Wan?

Because something happened to you. Something other than being wounded, I know that much.

It is as if your heart has been cleaved in two.

The last thought was unbidden, and did not seem to make sense, considering his recent situation. Obi-Wan had simply been on a mission with his Master, and then wounded by hostile alien beings. Yet the strange thought resonated true to her.

She remembered his agitation in the procedure room, thrashing upon the bier. She had strapped him down, thinking his distress had been due to his considerable pain, until he had cried out. For then she had understood his anguish had not been from his pain, but from modesty, for even in his confusion he had been futilely trying to conceal his naked body from their eyes, from everyone, except…

I am yours…only yours.

There had been a minute of shocked silence in the room, because it had almost seemed, for a disorientating moment, that he had been making that declaration to his Master. But of course Obi-Wan had been so feverish, so deep in delirium, it was impossible to know to whom he thought he was speaking.

She realized now that his Master had not expressed surprise at his Padawan’s statement. He had merely continued to stroke Obi-Wan’s hair, saying nothing.

With a flash of understanding, she thought, Master Qui-Gon knows what happened to him. Whatever hurt him, his Master knows.

And the whole thing was very strange, for Master Qui-Gon seemed to have nothing but the most tender concern for his Padawan, and had not left Obi-Wan’s side, even to sleep, but it was obvious that Obi-Wan suffered from a profound loneliness.

Perhaps it was a lover. It is forbidden to the Jedi, but all too common. But whoever it was, it obviously ended badly. But you would think that Master Qui-Gon would still be able to offer compassion and comfort, despite Obi-Wan’s transgression, if only out of consideration for his Padawan’s obvious pain.

She would have been irate at Qui-Gon’s insensitivity, due to a Healer’s concern for her patient, yet, that did not feel entirely correct to her, either, for what she knew of Master Qui-Gon, he seemed a profoundly compassionate man, hardly one to harshly judge another’s faults. And there had been nothing in his treatment of Obi-Wan that suggested anything other than the deepest concern and caring.

Indeed, she had also seen the signs of deep Force-healing in the wound, which had healed remarkably quickly. When Obi-Wan had first been laid out on the table, she was surprised how healthy the wound had looked, considering what sort of wound it was and how it had almost killed him. She had recognized the signs of a Force-healed wound, and she also knew that to use the Force to heal such a serious injury when the patient was close to death was exceedingly dangerous, but Qui-Gon had not hesitated to do so.

He loves his Padawan, certainly…

She then remembered how gentle Qui-Gon’s hands had been, softly stroking the hair back from Obi-Wan’s forehead. Her perceptive mind fixated on that gesture. There had only been love in his gesture, no condemnation, even as Obi-Wan made his feverish declarations to his unknown beloved.

For a single moment, remembering the caress of Qui-Gon’s hand on Obi-Wan’s hair, she had the beginnings of an idea that was so impossible, so ridiculous, that she dismissed it entirely from her mind before she could completely formulate it.


She shook her head, and sighed. I am very tired. It makes me imagine all sorts of things. Looking down at her patient, his sleeping face, she sighed, How can I help you, Obi-Wan? You need to let me help you. Somehow.

At least you are sleeping. With efficient yet caring hands she untwined the sheet from between his legs and pulled it over him, before lowering the light.

Hygeia, her Padawan, was waiting outside the door with Asklepia’s medical instruments.

“How is he?” she asked.

“As well as can be expected. But no more visitors today,” Asklepia ordered.

“His Master was to return this evening—“

“No one,” countered Asklepia, sternly, “Not even his Master. When Master Qui-Gon returns, you can tell him his Padawan is sleeping.”

“Yes, Master Asklepia,” Hygeia conceded, bowing her head, “I will tell Master Qui-Gon when he comes.”

“Good”, replied Master Asklepia. She made to turn away to go on to the next patient’s room, but then, after a single moment’s hesitation, turned back, and then added, “In fact, tell Master Qui-Gon I think it best that he stay away—at least for a few days.”

Hygeia blinked. “And if he asks the reason?”

Asklepia was irritated at Hygeia’s puzzled expression, because she herself could not explain her intuition that she should separate her patient from his Master, at least for a little while. So her answer came out more sharply than she had originally meant.

“Tell him—tell him that his Padawan needs his rest. I am sure he will understand.”

“Yes, Master Asklepia.”

Nodding with satisfaction, the Healer strode off to care for her next patient.

Part II: Homecoming