Choosing a Master

by MrsHamill (thamill@cox.net)

Pairing: Q/O
Rating: PG, I guess
Archive: MA and my site, Mom's Kitchen at www.squidge.org/~foxsden
Category: Humor
Warnings: None
Summary: It's choosing week at the Temple. Will Master Qui-Gon Jinn *finally* get chosen? Or will he be passed over yet again?
Disclaimer: What, you think I own these guys? Do I even look like George Lucas? If this is not what you expected, please alter your expectations. No such thing as random coincidence. No such thing as too much lubricant. (Thank you, Mark Morford.)
Notes: That dratted brown bird gave me this one, yet again. Took me long enough to finish it! Until I was about half-way through it, I had no idea how much it's like "The Choosing" by Master Eliz-Mar -- then I re-read that marvelous fic. Although I'm sure my subconscious pulled some of it out of my memory, I put my own twisted spin on it. If you want to read a beautiful, serious version of this silliness, go read that. Actually, just go read it anyway -- it's worth it. Finally, thank you thank you to Fox and Cam for mahvelous betas -- above and beyond the call!

Once upon a time in a Jedi temple quite a long ways from here, there was a lovely young initiate named Obi-Wan Kenobi. He had reddish-blond hair and eyes that were sorta green, sorta blue and sorta grey all at once, which made it a little tough when it came to filling out forms. He wasn't very tall, but that was all right, because he was going to be a Jedi knight some day, and use the Force, and with the Force to back you up, you don't need to be a tall, muscular, superhero type.

Even if Jedi *were* superheroes. Sorta.

The only thing wrong with Obi-Wan Kenobi was that he didn't have a master. And every initiate needed to have a master before that initiate could become a padawan, then grow from a padawan to a Jedi knight. Many of his friends had already chosen a master to love and train them, but Obi-Wan simply couldn't find just the right person, just the right master.

Every year at the same time, all the eligible masters and knights came back to the big temple on Coruscant to stand around for the choosing, waiting until an initiate might pick them as a master. They weren't allowed to approach the initiates, talk to the initiates, or in any way influence the initiates, because as everyone knew, the Force would draw the right master to the right initiate to make that initiate a padawan. But so far, Obi-Wan hadn't had the Force nudge, prod or even smack him in the direction of anyone. Not even Master Yoda -- who *everyone* wanted as a master because he had the best treats.

It was a puzzle, and it was becoming something of a sensation. For Obi-Wan Kenobi was considered a fine catch of an initiate, someone who would definitely go places.

If only he could find a master.

Once upon a time in that very same Jedi temple, there was a Jedi master named Qui-Gon Jinn. He was very tall -- *very* tall -- and strong, and had long hair that was brown with a little -- all right, quite a lot -- of silver, and a short, neat beard. He was actually a pretty famous Jedi knight, as he had done a lot of negotiation things and diplomacy things, and it seemed he was always being sent out by the Jedi Council for this crisis or that, which meant he was hardly ever home in the temple. And that suited him fine, except for one thing -- he was lonely.

Qui-Gon Jinn didn't have a padawan to train, to keep him company, to love.

Every year at the same time, he would come in from the cold (as his friend, Mace Windu, put it) and wander around in the Jedi Temple for the week of the choosing. He would see initiates all over the place -- initiates climbing the furniture and the garden sculpture, initiates hanging out of windows, initiates getting into food fights, initiates choosing masters left and right. But no one seemed to want him. No one seemed to want a master who was maybe a little bit (oh, all right, a lot) tall, maybe a little bit too old, and maybe a little bit too intimidating, what with that broken nose and his penchant for getting into trouble with the Council and all.

And then, of course, there was that matter of his former padawan, Xanatos. But the less said about *him*, the better.

So every year, Qui-Gon Jinn would come back to the Temple, and every year, he would fail to be chosen as a master by another year's crop of initiates. It was nearly enough to make a grown master cry. But he didn't, because he was a Jedi, and he knew the Force would provide.

If it didn't, he was going to become very cross with it.

All the initiates in the Jedi Temple looked forward to choosing week, almost as much as Qui-Gon Jinn dreaded it. This was because for many of them, it would be a sort of last hurrah. There wasn't a Jedi knight or master alive who would discipline an initiate for anything during choosing week (well, except maybe those who *had* padawans, but they had wisely fled the planet long before), so initiates could literally get away with murder. If they wanted. Of course, none of them *wanted* to murder (except for a small percentage who might have wanted to be Sith) because they were all good initiates.

Relatively speaking.

Little initiate Obi-Wan Kenobi -- well, little only in the sense that he might still have a couple of inches yet to grow; he was only fourteen and miracles *have* been known to happen -- was always fairly well behaved during choosing week. Yes, there had been that incident with the noodles and Master Windu's shorts, but that had been isolated, and he'd had nothing *at all* to do with the yak. He always diligently searched the ranks of masters and knights -- well, those in the first row (maybe it would have been helpful to have a few more inches, actually) -- for one that the Force would tell him would be his own -- his *very* own -- master. And he never, ever found him. Or her. But a him would be really nice.

He even went to Master Yoda for advice (and cookies). The Force had told him in no uncertain terms that Master Yoda was *not* to be his master, so he didn't worry about any problems with fraternization. But Master Yoda was stumped too, until little Obi-Wan mentioned something about how difficult it was to see past the first rank of masters and knights all vying for his attention -- well, all right, vying passively. They weren't actually allowed to *vy* you understand, it wasn't allowed, but they did tend to hover a bit.

"Size matters not!" Master Yoda yelled indignantly at him. "Short master you may end up with! Force will provide. Worry leads to the dark side. Eat some cookies you should."

It wasn't that he was worried, exactly. But maybe he'd look into buying some stilts.

Meanwhile, very tall Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn was beginning to feel quite depressed about the whole choosing week thing. No matter how he tried, no matter what he did, he was never, ever chosen. The initiates would turn their big -- or small, or beady, or multifaceted -- eyes to his location and just skim right past him. It was almost as if he wasn't there. It was very disconcerting and not a little discouraging. Not to mention poor for his ego -- which probably could have stood being reduced a peg or two, but that's beside the point.

He had even made up his mind at the last choosing week that he would simply give up the idea of getting another padawan. Being passed over yet again would just be too painful and humiliating. Of course, that's not what he told Mace Windu.

"I'm getting too old for another padawan," he had told Mace, before he was sent out on yet another round of missions after being *not chosen* yet again. "I think I'll just skip this next year."

"Bollocks that," Mace had told him. "You'll be here, even if we have to come and drag you. You'll have another padawan, Qui-Gon Jinn. The Council has foreseen it."

"Well, the Council has too much starch in its collective tunics," Qui-Gon said sourly.

"Only on Thursdays," Mace burped, taking another swig of ale.

So, as another choosing week fast approached, Qui-Gon Jinn was facing the fact that he would once again be wandering the halls of the Jedi Temple, hoping against hope that an initiate would find him worthy of choosing as a master.

At this rate, he'd even agree to be Bruck's master.

This would be Obi-Wan Kenobi's *fifth* choosing week since he became eligible to choose a master for himself. No one could believe it -- that a lovely, talented, accomplished, lovely, intelligent and lovely initiate couldn't find himself a master. *Coruscant's Incredible True Facts* holovid show had already come to interview him, and every time he walked into the commissary, the room fell silent and all the heads turned to watch him. The torsos usually followed -- well, except in a few cases. Generally, whispers also began.

Because, it seemed, a lot of the other initiates thought he was being Too Good for any master. They thought maybe he was holding out for a master like Master Gates, who was the richest Jedi in the galaxy and who was known for doing *fun* things like taking over small planets and generating huge space battles. Or Master Jones (or was it Master Smith?), who was famous for his (or her, it was hard to tell) exploits in undercover work. Or Mistress Bunny, who was, uh, very sought after. *Very* sought after. Ahem. But that's a different story altogether.

But that wasn't the case at all. Poor little Obi-Wan just wanted the Force to tell him who his master should be, and at this point, he'd even take Master Windu. But Master Windu hadn't even cut the braid off his first padawan, who was fifty-seven standard years old and whose braid reached the floor. So there wasn't much hope that he'd be free to be chosen again any time soon.

"Well, I think you're being silly," his best friend Bant told him. Bant had chosen a master three years before, so of course she wasn't at the Temple for this year's choosing. But she called him every day of her mission and tried to talk him into taking a master. "You just need to close your eyes and point," she told him. "That worked for me."

"Bant, you knew who your master would be when you were *born*," he told her scornfully. So much for closing one's eyes and pointing.

As choosing week grew nearer and nearer, Obi-Wan grew more and more nervous. He meditated for hours, until he wore out the knees in all his pants and the master of initiates yelled at him. He spent hours and hours in the library, looking over the roster of available knights and masters, hoping to get a Force nudge in the right direction. But since there were over a thousand knights and masters available to choose from, and the records were sadly out of date, there wasn't much hope there.

He sighed, resigned to once again wandering around in a crowd of masters and knights, hoping that the Force would goose him or something.

Maybe he *should* get those stilts...

Master Qui-Gon Jinn reluctantly got off his shuttle and slouched into the Temple. He didn't want to be here and he certainly didn't want to go through with this again. However, he had been threatened and cajoled and bribed and actually given A Stern Talking To as well, so here he was. The thought of wading through a room crowded with initiates looking quite like a bunch of eager puppies tumbling out of a box made him feel all wistful, and hopeful, and completely sick to his stomach at the thought that they would all ignore him -- again.

As quickly as he was able, he made his way to his quarters, trying for corridors that would take him away from most people. It didn't help, of course, and shortly, before he could even get to the comfort and peace of his own quarters, Mace Windu found him.

"It's about time you got here," Mace said. "The choosing has already begun."

"Great. Thanks a lot for the info, Mace," Qui-Gon said sourly.

"Don't you want to know who chose Yoda?" Mace asked, sounding unnaturally cheerful.

"Yoda got chosen?" Qui-Gon said, stopping dead in the corridor. "I thought he decided to withdraw from the choosing."

"Couldn't go against the will of the Force," Mace laughed. "Especially when Bruck Chun fell to his knees and begged the little troll to be his master."

"Really?" Qui-Gon's spirits suddenly felt immeasurably lighter. "Well. Maybe miracles can happen after all."

"Miracles, shmeracles," Mace said, walking away from Qui-Gon, "it's just desserts!"

Qui-Gon dropped his satchel off at his quarters and made his way to the commissary for some dinner. He had initially thought to eat in -- maybe some pizza, or some Alderaan spiced wings -- but now, he figured he'd might as well go out to the commissary. Seeing Yoda wrapped around Bruck's finger was a sight he'd pay for. It was even worth risking his ego again.

It was a hopeful Obi-Wan Kenobi who walked into the commissary for dinner. He'd heard that all the eligible masters and knights were going to be there for dinner this night, hoping to see Master Yoda and his new padawan. Personally, Obi-Wan was thrilled that Bruck had finally chosen a new master -- Yoda would be his third; the other two had died mysteriously -- because it got him off Obi-Wan's back. And it was highly unlikely that Yoda would die on Bruck, so that meant the stupid wank would be stuck forever. Especially since Obi-Wan could hardly see Bruck ever being knighted. Why, he might just beat Master Windu's padawan's record for the Temple's oldest padawan!

The commissary was about half-full when he got there, with initiates, knights and masters, and a few already chosen masters with their new padawans -- there mainly to show off, Obi-Wan suspected. Obi-Wan took a tray and waited in line to see what the special of the day was -- no one had taken the large, red S.O.S. off the menu -- but unfortunately, Bruck's best friend, Bob, came in just after Obi-Wan and stood in line behind him.

"So, Kenobi," Bob said, bumping into him with his tray, "you going to *not choose* again this year?"

"Shut up, Bob," Obi-Wan muttered. He muttered it very quietly because he didn't want to get into trouble and he didn't want any of the available masters or knights to think he was a smart-mouth, even if he was.

"Bruck chose Master Yoda, you know," Bob continued, in his snide, little-boy's voice. There was no way anyone would ever agree to be his master, Obi-Wan thought, screwing his face into a grimace. Ewww... butterscotch tapioca. Better give that a miss. "I guess you're pretty torqued about that, huh."

"Whatever," Obi-Wan said, rolling his eyes. To the four-armed Besalisk behind the counter, he indicated some mystery meat, some kind of purple stuff that looked maybe like a vegetable, and some bread. Cheese, too. Couldn't go wrong with bread and cheese. Even if the cheese was a little green.

Bob needled him all the way through the line, then followed him from it. Finally, Obi-Wan stopped and turned to give Bob a look. "I think your time might be better spent trying to talk someone into being your master, Bob," he said, keeping his voice controlled and lofty, "rather than following me around. I don't think I'm qualified to be your master. Yet." Several initiates around them giggled, and Bob looked at him crossly.

"'Your time might be better spent,'" he parodied Obi-Wan in a falsetto. "Look who's talking, the world's oldest initiate!"

"Oh, shut up, Bob," several of the other initiates said loudly. They were all too young to choose masters yet, and all of them liked Obi-Wan (he was old enough to sneak into the masters' kitchen after curfew and get real food for them).

Unfortunately, some of the older initiates (who thought Obi-Wan was just being stuck-up) chose those as fighting words, and before long, a full-fledged food fight broke out, to Obi-Wan's dismay. There was no way he'd be able to look over the masters and knights if the initiates started flinging food -- they would all leave. And the commissary during dinner was the best place to choose among them -- they'd all be sitting down and he'd actually be able to *see* them for a change.

"Oh, come on, everybody, don't," he said loudly, trying to get the initiates to settle down. But there's very little that will settle down an initiate at choosing week, and food fights are pretty much to be expected -- which is normally why so few of the eligible masters and knights actually go to the commissary to eat during it.

Before he knew it, poor little Obi-Wan was hip-deep in mystery meat and butterscotch tapioca, sadly resigned to missing out -- once again -- on actually seeing all the masters and knights.

The commissary was only half-full when Qui-Gon arrived, and he was able to get a tray and make it through the line quickly, especially since nothing behind the glass display looked remotely edible, not even the cheese. He chose a few things for form's sake, making a note to himself to order out for pizza later, and then looked for Master Yoda.

He found Yoda in the corner, surrounded by other Jedi. Bruck Chun sat next to the wizened old master, and the contrast between his blazing white hair and Yoda's sickly green skin was quite, uh, striking. If that was the proper term.

As Qui-Gon approached, a spot opened up across from Yoda as one of the other knights rose to leave. Qui-Gon pounced and smiled sweetly to his ex-master as he sat down. Yoda glared back.

"It's so wonderful to see you so happy, my master," Qui-Gon said. "I'm glad to see the Force has finally helped you find another padawan."

A sweetly smiling Bruck laid his head on Yoda's diminutive shoulder. "Off you will get," Yoda muttered to his new padawan, who reluctantly sat up straight with a small pout. "Sarcasm becomes you not, padawan," he said to Qui-Gon, who tried -- he really did -- to hide his smirk.

"That's not sarcasm, master," Qui-Gon said, as earnestly as he could, given he was snickering inside. "I really am glad for you. I'm sure Padawan Chun is the perfect fit for you. I hope you'll have many happy years together." As many as, if not more than, Mace and his padawan, Qui-Gon added to himself.

At a noise behind them, Bruck looked up sharply over Qui-Gon's shoulder. Qui-Gon ignored him, since Yoda was speaking again. "Chosen as a master *you* will be, and soon," Yoda told Qui-Gon. He attempted for a serene look, but it was ruined by his glare to his new padawan, who had begun to fidget beside him.

"Well, if you say so, master," Qui-Gon said, grimacing as he stirred the so-called food around on his tray. "Personally, I'm beginning to think that the Force doesn't like me very much."

"Beside the point that is!" Yoda said irritably.

"May I be excused, Master Yoda?" Bruck said breathlessly. Qui-Gon frowned; there was some sort of commotion starting behind him, but Yoda's face kept him focused forwards. He could not remember *ever* seeing that particular expression on Yoda, and it was entrancing -- a mixture of irritation, embarrassment, resignation and smug surety all rolled into one.

"Excused you are not," Yoda told Bruck. Since Bruck was already halfway to his feet when the little troll spoke, he sat back down very inelegantly, almost as if yanked by invisible hands.

"I fail to see how that's beside the point, my master," Qui-Gon said, trying hard to hide his smile at the renewed pout on Bruck's face.

Yoda was clearly being drawn in several directions, and the noise-level behind Qui-Gon was increasing in volume. "Please, Master, I need to be excused..." Bruck said breathlessly. "I can bring you some more purple bloodwort pudding if you'd like..."

"Fine, fine, go," Yoda replied irritably. Bruck leapt to his feet and ran around the table. "Point is that master you will be," he said emphatically to Qui-Gon, banging his stick on the table. "Self-deprecation uncalled for, it is. Something like that." Yoda was either making less or more sense than normal, Qui-Gon thought.

The noise level behind Qui-Gon was reaching critical mass, and suddenly Qui-Gon realized that all the un-paired knights and masters who had been at the table were beating a hasty retreat. With a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and a loud warning from the Force (that also appeared to be snickering), Qui-Gon turned in his chair to see a large, yellowish-orange, blobby missile heading directly towards his head.

The last straw, of course, was Bruck racing to Bob's 'rescue.' The younger initiates had overwhelmed him and his cadre of older initiates by dint of more and nastier food flung -- it appeared as though they had been expecting just such a thing to happen, Obi-Wan thought grouchily. He was trying to stay out of it, trying most sincerely, too... backing himself into a corner of the room and trying not to be seen. It would have been easier had there been a large -- or even medium-sized -- bush nearby, but since there wasn't...

But when Bruck got into the fray, Obi-Wan had to take a stand. The once-again-padawan was much larger than all the initiates, and his arm was as good as his aim. He heaved some purple gooey stuff over to the younger initiates' table, then appeared to be ready to heave the bowl too, something that would never do... foods, especially soft foods, were one thing, but a bowl could really do some damage. Obi-Wan glanced frantically around, spied a bowl of someone's uneaten butterscotch tapioca, and quickly hefted it. "Quit it, Bruck!" he yelled, figuring to give Bruck some sort of notice.

"Up yours, Oafy-Wan!" Bruck shouted back, but at least he was no longer aiming his bowl at the initiates. Instead, he was aiming it at Obi-Wan. In a self-defensive first strike, Obi-Wan expertly flipped the bowl out, flinging the contents towards Bruck in one compact, sickly-smelling glob.

Bruck ducked.

The butterscotch missile sailed over him and smacked directly into the head of a tall man -- a Jedi knight! -- sitting across from Master Yoda. The tapioca covered nearly his entire head -- hair and all! -- and began to drip down onto his tunics.

Obi-Wan froze in mortification. He had tapiocaed a Jedi knight! Bruck turned and began to laugh, and the rest of the room continued on with the ruckus. But all Obi-Wan wanted to do was melt into the floor, mortified that he had done something so awful. He'd never get a master now, he just knew it... once this got around, he'd be tossed out of the Temple altogether!

Yoda stood and moved around the table, serenely managing to avoid every scrap of flying food in the now-full-fledged food fight. Bruck was still laughing, but he stopped and yelped when his new master whacked him with his gimer stick. When Yoda turned to say something to the still-covered knight, Obi-Wan fled the room.

"Get washed you should, my former padawan," Yoda said loftily. He had hit Bruck in a tender spot with his stick and then grabbed the boy's ear when he doubled over in pain. "Good for the complexion is tapioca. Smooth skin like me you will have. Come, padawan, much we have to do tonight." Still holding on to Bruck's ear, Yoda walked out of the commissary, regally ignoring the flying food and the fact that his padawan was basically crawling on all fours in order to keep up with him and not lose his ear.

Qui-Gon swallowed as he felt the tapioca begin to seep down into his undertunic. This was simply not his day. With a resigned sigh, he rose and, after wiping off enough tapioca so that he could see, made his way out of the commissary.

The main gym was just down the corridor, and he had some clean tunics stored in his locker. Rather than dripping all the way to his apartment, he made for the gym and the showers there, planning on changing then making his escape. Surely there was a ship of some kind he could steal to get off Coruscant -- to hell with packing. He *knew* it had been a bad idea to be here during the choosing week.

It didn't take long for him to clean up and change. He pulled his still-damp (but oddly softer than normal) hair back into a loose ponytail and left the gym, heading for the launch pads. With luck, he could grab a ship and by tomorrow morning be halfway across the galaxy.

Unfortunately, it appeared that some sort of dignitary was due at the Temple, and there were guards all over the place. Either that, or the Council was expecting Qui-Gon to make a break for it. Spying Mace Windu, Qui-Gon took cover behind some large canisters before the man could see him, hoping to get a chance to get to one of the smaller ships. Perhaps if he stayed hidden...

"Ouch!"

"Oh, I'm sor--" Unknowingly, Qui-Gon had bumped into and stepped on the foot of another person who was also apparently hiding out from Mace Windu -- no big surprise there. He turned and was shocked to see -- no one. Then he lowered his gaze a few feet and saw a bowed head of reddish-blond hair, hovering somewhere near his mid-section. He blinked. "I'm terribly sorry," he said quietly, making sure his foot was firmly on the floor.

"Thanks, but that's all right, sir," he heard a young voice whisper breathlessly. It was obviously an initiate, but the young lad wouldn't look up at him.

"I didn't mean to take your hiding place, but I need to stay out of sight for a few moments," Qui-Gon continued. The hair reminded him of something... "Wait, if you're an initiate, why are you hiding? And why here?"

"I need to get away," the boy said, and his voice sounded miserable. "I'm never going to be able to choose a master now, so I might as well just leave."

Qui-Gon blinked in confusion. "What?"

The initiate sniffed and turned away. "I... I can't find a master, it's been years and years, and now I've gone and covered a knight with butterscotch tapioca and the Force will *never* let me find my master now..." the last word ended on what sounded suspiciously like a sob.

Oh. Dear.

When little Obi-Wan fled the commissary, he didn't really have any idea of where he was heading. He first thought to go back to the dorm, but the master of initiates would simply force him to go back out (the man was obviously tired of having Obi-Wan in the dorms). Then he thought to go to one of the meditation gardens, but they were all filled with unpaired knights and masters, all showing off different katas or sparring in the hopes of attracting one like Obi-Wan -- only clearly better behaved than Obi-Wan. So that was out.

Ducking into a recessed alcove off a seldom-used hallway, Obi-Wan leaned back against the window and allowed himself a moment of self-pity. The Force was *never* going to let him get a master now that he'd covered that poor knight in butterscotch tapioca. Maybe if he had been a few years younger, he would have gotten away with it (since there would always be 'next year' to think about). But he'd been an initiate for so long that people were beginning to talk... saying that maybe he wasn't meant to be a Jedi, and that maybe he should be sent off somewhere, to the Agricorps maybe, or to the pleasure boys guild.

Attractive as the latter sounded, it had always been Obi-Wan's hope to become a Jedi, and if the Jedi were ready to send him off somewhere, he'd rather go by himself than suffer the humiliation of being forcibly ejected.

Snurking back his tears and snot, Obi-Wan firmed his spine and resolutely made his way to the launch pads. He'd find a way to stow-away aboard a ship and be off Coruscant before anyone was the wiser, before they could reprimand him for his unconscionable acts. Act. Whatever.

But when he got to the hangar, he found it teeming with guards and council-members. He ducked behind some large drums and frowned, trying to figure out what he should do now. Peeking out between two of the containers, he failed to notice when a large figure backed into the same hiding space with him, until his foot was trod upon. "Ouch!"

It was a knight, a Jedi knight who was actually apologizing to him. Obviously, the knight didn't know whom he was dealing with, or he wouldn't have been quite so solicitous. Trying to hold back his tears, Obi-Wan reluctantly filled the man in on his humiliation, hoping that he'd just leave and let Obi-Wan find his own way off Coruscant.

He wasn't leaving, to Obi-Wan's surprise. In fact, he was standing very still, and from the way his boots were pointing, Obi-Wan assumed he was staring at him. He wouldn't confirm that, however, since that meant looking up.

Finally, the knight spoke, and Obi-Wan felt a shudder go down his spine. My goodness, what a terrific voice the man had! "I'm told..." The knight began, "that butterscotch tapioca is very good for the skin."

Very good for the... oh, no. The Force wouldn't...

With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Obi-Wan dragged his eyes up from the floor. He skimmed up tall brown boots with buckles along the top, and saw dark brown leggings tucked into them. Those led to a cream colored stola. Up and up went little Obi-Wan's eyes, finding a utility belt, a tabard covering a tunic, and finally, a head emerging from the tunic. Craning his neck, Obi-Wan saw a neat beard covering a strong chin, then a prominent, broken nose, and finally, a pair of eyes that were the deepest blue he'd ever, *ever* seen. Well, ever seen since the commissary, when he'd caught a bare glimpse of them before they -- and the silver-shot brown hair above them -- were covered with tapioca. Whoops.

Obi-Wan blinked, and the knight before him blinked too. There was a sudden dearth of air -- as if several thousand beings had all inhaled at once. Birds took wing, stars burst into being, and from somewhere, a one-hundred-piece symphony orchestra began playing Rachmaninoff at full volume. And that was really very odd, since Rachmaninoff wouldn't be composing anything for a very long time to come in a galaxy far, far away.

"Wow," breathed Obi-Wan.

"I'm told," Qui-Gon said, trying to imbue his voice with comfort, "that butterscotch tapioca is very good for the skin." It was obvious that this initiate was the one who had covered him with butterscotch in the commissary, and further, it was quite obvious that the boy was feeling extremely bad over it. Qui-Gon was certain it wasn't his fault, and after all, no actual harm was done. Even butterscotch tapioca washed out of tunics.

The initiate froze, then slowly, gradually, dragged his eyes off the floor and up Qui-Gon's long frame. It took quite a while, as Qui-Gon was very tall, and the initiate was very short. Well, not *that* short. Anyway.

By the time the boy's eyes made it to Qui-Gon's, Qui-Gon was a goner. The initiate was simply the loveliest boy he had ever seen, and his Force aura was just wonderful. And when he saw the initiate's sorta blue, sorta green, sorta grey eyes, a symphonic orchestra with at least eighty pieces began playing something really disgustingly sweet. It must have been coming from one of the speeders.

"Wow," the boy said, and Qui-Gon blinked.

"What's your name?" Qui-Gon murmured, still frozen, wishing that whoever had the radio on would turn it the heck down. Or better... off.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi," Obi-Wan Kenobi replied. "Will you be my master?"

Feeling a sappy smile spread over his face, Qui-Gon said, "I would love to be your master, Obi-Wan Kenobi."

"What's your name?" Obi-Wan asked.

"Qui-Gon Jinn," Qui-Gon Jinn replied.

"Master Qui-Gon," Obi-Wan said, as if trying it out. There was a huge smile on his face that Qui-Gon knew was mirrored on his.

"Yes, my padawan?" Qui-Gon said, breaking through his paralysis by holding out his hand.

"Wow," Obi-Wan breathed, taking Qui-Gon's hand. "You called me padawan!"

"That's right," Qui-Gon said. "If I'm to be your master, you will be my padawan." The music suddenly cut off with a squeal, and Qui-Gon breathed a sigh of relief. "Do you like pizza, padawan?" Qui-Gon asked.

"I love pizza, master," Obi-Wan replied.

"Then let us go get some," Qui-Gon said, gently tugging his new padawan away from the landing pads and into their future.

Hand in hand, Obi-Wan Kenobi and his new master, Qui-Gon Jinn, re-entered the temple, and the first thing Qui-Gon did was to call Dex's Diner to get them some pizza delivered. The next thing he did was to register them as master and padawan -- by teleunit, rather than in person, as he figured he could wait for the I-told-you-so's until the next day.

Then they ordered a whole new set of padawan's clothing to be delivered to their quarters, where they went to get their pizza.

And after that, well, they lived happily ever after. At least until little Obi-Wan grew up into a really gorgeous young man who was the walking embodiment of sin and all that stuff, and Qui-Gon began noticing him.

But that's an entirely different story.

The End