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Archive: MA, or ask me

Category: Q/O, Angst,

Rating: G

Warnings: Follows canon. (Sorry, Obi-Ki!)

Summary: After Episode III, Obi-Wan begins his exile.

Disclaimer: George's characters, not mine.

Feedback: Yes please

Note: Hugs and thanks to Bonnie for her brilliant beta. Love to Master Cuimne for listening and guiding. The title from "Laughter is the closest distance between two people." Victor Borge (1909 - 2000)

Tatooine. Obi-Wan - no, Ben, he needed to remember to think of himself as Ben - never expected to end up here. On reflection, he supposed that he'd always believed that he wouldn't "end up" anywhere; but rather that he would be killed on a mission. Force knew, he'd been ready for death on many occasions. Yet Tatooine was where he ended up. Knowing that it would be his home for a long time, he decided to make the best of it.

The supplies that he had bought in the spaceport would be enough to keep him for a while, and had been unpacked and stored neatly away. He looked around at the sparse room. "What are you going to find to fill your time, old man?" he asked himself out loud.

The small pack of odds and ends he had managed to scavenge before leaving the Temple for the last time lay where he had thrown it on the floor in a corner. He bent to retrieve it. His only possessions. He hadn't given much thought to what was in there since he carried most of what he needed in pouches on his belt. So what had prompted him to pick up the small, soft leather bundle from the back of a shelf in his room where it had lain for many years? In fact, Ben had forgotten all about it and blinked in surprise when he pulled it out of his bag.

Worn, well-used, and still carrying the warm trace of its original owner: his master, Qui-Gon Jinn.

The memory returned. The room was to be re-allocated and he cleared away all his recently-deceased master's spare clothes and few small objects gathered over a lifetime of wandering the galaxy, and consigned them to the recycler. Ben remembered apologising silently to Qui-Gon as they disappeared down the chute, his mouth set firmly, eyes dry, resolutely not thinking about what he was doing. The child at his side had been eager to help, to be useful, but Obi-Wan had been unable to give Qui-Gon's things over to any other hands, even though most of them were just being discarded.

It hadn't taken long to clear the small room, but Obi-Wan wanted to spend as little time in there as possible. He could hardly bear to look at the narrow sleep couch where they had spent so many nights entwined. He was sure that if he were to lay down, even on the bare mattress, he would feel something of the aura of his master. The thought was cut off; not released to the Force, exactly, but pushed somewhere away where Obi-Wan would be able to take it out and to examine later. When he was sure that he would be able to cope with it. That later had never come.

So when he returned to Qui-Gon's room for a final time, young Anakin in tow, and found the package bundled in its resting place, he merely scooped it up and made his exit as fast as he could.

In his new home in the desert, Ben stared at the inoffensive little package as if it were a baby krayt dragon complete with fangs. He considered simply consigning it to its fate at the back of another shelf, serving the remainder of its sentence begun at the Temple. After the past few days, he wasn't sure if his fragile hold on his emotions would slip completely. After Anakin. Amidala. The Darkness. The Empire. Then the four day journey with a crying baby. And now... Was now a good time to open and examine the few things that his master had thought worthy of wrapping up carefully, tucking away and saving?

Thirteen years, and it was still not time enough to be able to remember without pain. Not as sharp, perhaps, but there: a hollow ache in his chest where his love had lived, the cost of attachment.

Ben sat down heavily on a low chair, still holding his find. Suddenly decided, he tore at the soft leather strap which held the pack closed. The contents lay on the wrapping in his lap and he stared for a moment, not touching.

A broken pipe, white clay, in two halves: the long stem and the small bowl burned by use. Ben wondered if it had been broken when it had been put away or if his own careless handling had caused the damage. He had no recollection of Qui-Gon smoking and wondered what particular impulse had made the master keep such a thing. He would never know. He smiled briefly at the thought of his master sitting, pipe in hand, blowing smoke rings. He would look like one of the old wizards in the crèche tales beloved by the younglings.

Folded into a square of nubby brown fabric - a remnant of an old cloak? - a coil of braided hair, blonde, almost white, beads of achievement still in place. Xanatos' dark lock was missing. No doubt his own long braid would have ended up in there too, if... He sighed. If it hadn't been burnt on the pyre.

A flawed ilum crystal, bright green. Its imperfection would have made it unsuitable for lightsabre construction, but it had beauty nevertheless, its facets catching the yellow glow from the first setting sun and showering the opposite wall with sparkling ghost gems. Perhaps Qui-Gon had hoped to be able to use it in his sabre; it was possible the crystal could be worked to remove the flaw. But it was never cut and here it was left.

Ben recognised one item: he had given his master a small token on the first anniversary of becoming his padawan. Qui-Gon had explained that he needn't give him anything, but the fourteen-year- old had seen the smooth, polished stone among many others on a market stall on Kegan and been reminded strongly of the first gift Qui-Gon had given him: the river stone. Ben had almost forgotten about this incident, but was deeply touched that Qui-Gon had not only kept his gift but stowed it safely away.

Placing the stone down again, Ben surveyed the contents of the package. The final item of the valuables left by Jedi Master Qui- Gon Jinn was a folded piece of paper with the name "Obi-Wan, Hoche Incident" written in neat script on one side. There was something slipped in between the folds of the paper, its edge just visible. A holopic.

Ben held his hands folded together on his lap. His master had kept a holopic of him? The thought was slightly ridiculous; Qui-Gon was not outwardly sentimental. For all his clashes with the Council and his well-known rebellious ways, he held firm to the tenet of non- attachment. Even in his relationship with his padawan-lover, he had repeatedly told Obi-Wan that it would end; that they could not be together forever. The teacher insisted on teaching, even when they were lying in each others' arms. "Don't let it come to mean too much, Obi-Wan," he had whispered. "We can live in this moment, and know that I love you, but we cannot have more." Obi-Wan had truly believed that he had accepted the words; that it was enough. Until it had been taken from him.

Ben reached for the item and was disappointed to note that his hand shook a little. The picture slipped out and he held it up for examination, eyes widening in recognition.

They were at the Summer's End festival on the agricultural world of Hoche; honoured guests whose presence was believed to bestow good fortune and fertility on the land due to their "magical" powers. Obi-Wan was sixteen standard years; a grown man in his own eyes, mature and responsible, with the grave air of a well-trained padawan learner. The youth who looked out from the holopic was little more than a child to his care-worn older self.

Animals were slaughtered ready for the winter when their dried and salted meat would keep the people alive through the cold, dark months. The festival celebrated the harvest, the light and warmth of summer, while acknowledging the coming darkness and shortages - a time when the dead were believed to be close and the people recognised their own mortality. Most of the people of Hoche celebrated this by feasting, drinking and exuberantly rejoicing in life.

By the time the procession arrived at the Holy Place - an open, tree- lined area in the centre of the settlement - most of the participants were already drunk. The Jedi were waiting, along with a group of very merry dignitaries. Standing straight and tall next to his master, Obi-Wan tried to remain aloof from the happy throng around him. The dignitaries didn't seem at all put out when the people jostled and pushed among them, pressing gifts of food and drink into willing hands. Qui-Gon smiled appreciatively but declined most of the offers. He did, however, accept a fruit from a very attractive and very drunk young woman who threw her arms around his neck and planted a big kiss on his lips. Having extricated himself, Qui-Gon bit into the fruit and raised an eyebrow at his apprentice. "It's very good. Try some."

Obi-Wan's frown grew darker. "No, thank you," he replied primly: a mantra that he kept repeating whenever an over-enthusiastic reveller tried to press a cup or other gift upon him.

An old man, laughing like a mad thing, approached carrying a huge overripe chi chi fruit, its tough, deep-red tough skin softening in places. He attempted to bow, stumbling to regain his balance, offering Obi-Wan the fruit. It was the size of a moshball, and obviously heavy, the old man struggling under its weight.

"No, thank you," said Obi-Wan through clenched teeth, but the man chose that moment to lose the fight to stay upright and began to collapse in a drunken heap. Obi-Wan reached to grab him but his master got there first, leaving Obi-Wan with an armful of overripe chi chi fruit. Qui-Gon lowered the man to the ground where he continued giggling from his position at their feet.

"What am I supposed to do with this, Master?" Obi-Wan hissed, holding his bounty out. The fruit chose that moment to carry out its genetic purpose: to spread its seeds far and wide. It burst.

For just a moment there was silence among the immediate crowd as they looked at the padawan. Although the hard, tough skin of the chi chi fruit is red, the sticky flesh, seeds and juice inside are a rather beautiful shade of bright green. Obi-Wan was splattered in this bright green mush. It dripped from his hair down his face and from the tip of his nose; it ran down his chin, throat and inside his tunics; its wetness seeped through the fabric of his sleeves. He blinked it out of his eyes and licked his lips, trying to think of something to say that might regain a scrap of dignity.

But then the laughter began.

Everyone around laughed. Soon, they were hanging on to each other, tears streaming down their faces, or bent double holding their sides.

Obi-Wan didn't move. His master's mouth twitched slightly, his lips pressed tightly together. Then he smiled. His shoulders began to shake and he gave up trying to contain it. He laughed along with the rest of them. Eventually, the Jedi master sank to the ground and sat next to the fruit's original owner who by now was lying flat on his back pointing up at Obi-Wan, mouth open, crying and apparently having difficulty breathing.

"Is he quite alright, Master?" Obi-Wan asked, attempting to bring some decorum back into the proceedings. He shook his head to flick away a gob of pulp out of his eyes. Realising that he was still holding the remains of the fruit, he dropped it at his feet, splattering his boots and the two figures on the ground with more sticky green mush.

Qui-Gon shook his head, slapped Obi-Wan on the thigh and squeezed his eyes shut, laughing continuously.

The people of Hoche took this event as a very favourable omen. They were transported with amusement and happiness, cheering and slapping the sticky padawan on the back and shoulders. Someone recorded the event - a holopic. Qui-Gon had obviously acquired it and kept it.

Ben imagined his master taking the picture out from time to time and chuckling at it: the suffering expression, the unflattering padawan haircut flattened by green goo, one particularly large glob caught in time, about to drip from the end of his nose.

Ben smiled. The boy in the picture did look ridiculous. More than ridiculous. He began to chuckle. The colours were as sharp as the day the image was captured: bright green mess almost matching the furious bright green glare of the frustrated teenager.

Ben laughed. How could he have not seen the funny side, all those years ago? He remembered the long shower he took afterwards, scrubbing the mess from all over himself. It seemed that it had found its way into every nook and cranny of his body. Yes, it had been very funny. He laughed out loud at the image and at the memories it conjured up.

He laughed until he could hardly breathe. He shut his eyes as the tears came. Every time he had it under control, he looked again at the poor boy in the holopic and it started again. Tears flowed down his face. He wasn't sure exactly when the tears of mirth changed to something else. Or when the shaking changed to body-wracking sobs. When everything he had held inside for so long, ready for the "later", finally broke free.

***

The suns set leaving the room in darkness. Gathering the valuables up, Ben rose from the chair and lit a glowlamp. Drained, tired to the bone, he placed the items on a table ready to return them to their pouch. His trembling hand reached for the holopic. The pain had not gone, but neither was it buried away in a deep part of him where it might surprise him again. It was... nearer, more immediate, but he felt able to deal with it at last. At this moment, Ben felt closer to Qui-Gon than he had for a long time.

A faint sound, seemingly from a distance, reached his ears. It had been years, but he would recognize that chuckle anywhere.