Master Apprentice Archive Future Days Quick search:

Future Days

by Laura McEwan (padawan_laura@yahoo.com>)

Archive - M_A Archive, my LiveJournal
Category - Qui/Obi, Angst, Hurt/comfort
Rating - PG-13/soft R
Warnings - sappy lovesickness
Spoilers - none
Disclaimer - These boys are mine only in my dreams, my bookshelf, and in my DVD player. They belong completely to King George of Lucas, in a galaxy far, far away. Money is no object, for none exists in my wallet.
Summary - Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan learn to live in the moment.
Feedback - I worship it. Like sausages, feedback is my very sacrament. ::wink:: Email or post in my LiveJournal entry of this story.
Notes - Dave Matthews Band lyrics: "Cry Freedom" from the album CRASH
Thank you - Ghostie and Master Briony for beta, my padawan Clara for sighing over pretty lines, and Kate and Mary Beth for medical terminology and descriptions.

FOR GHOSTIE

How can I turn away
Brother/Sister go dancing
Through my head
Human as to human
The future is no place
To place your better days

"This way," Obi-Wan whispered, indicating a direction over his right shoulder with a jerk of his head. Gathering their cloaks about them, the Jedi vanished silently into the dark and dank corridor.

"There's a light ahead," Qui-Gon murmured, stepping close to speak softly in Obi-Wan's ear. His breath was warm against Obi-Wan's neck in the chilly air. "I'll check the left." Obi-Wan nodded, his skin cooling as Qui-Gon moved away, oblivious to the effect his nearness had on his padawan. Obi-Wan turned his head slightly towards the space Qui-Gon had occupied to catch a lingering scent of his master, a barest glimmer of presence to savor before he set off to take his place on the right, to peer around the edge of the doorway.

The stone room before them was large and round and completely empty, with windows set high in the walls. Weak sunlight beamed through these to leave patches of light on the bare floor where rivulets of moisture seeped into the cracks in the stone, wearing small paths in the hard surface. Another corridor branched off from the left side of the room, as dark as the one they slowly emerged from, gripping the hilts of their lightsabers, ever ready.

Cautiously, the men circled the room, meeting on the opposite side before entering the new corridor. They checked for anyone who might be hiding within its shadows, but it was empty.

Obi-Wan leaned disgustedly against the wall. "Any sense of him at all?" he asked, reaching out with his own senses but feeling nothing.

Qui-Gon shook his head. "No. We've lost him." He peered into the dusty heights. "It appears we're underground. The windows are high enough in the walls that only a short section extends aboveground. What was this room used for?" Qui-Gon mused.

Obi-Wan knelt to examine a hole in the wall beside him, then looking beyond it to see others in pairs only a meter or so apart, with larger spaces separating each pair. "Shackles," he announced. "This was a holding cell, or dungeon, if you like."

Qui-Gon nodded in agreement. "Well done, Padawan. I had not yet noticed anything that low down the walls."

Obi-Wan grinned. "My shorter height gives me an advantage in this way, at least," he teased, as his very tall master chuckled at him.

"We all have our strengths, Obi-Wan. They, among other things, makes us each unique." Qui-Gon smiled at his apprentice as he strolled to the center of the room, boot heels clicking wetly.

Obi-Wan suddenly shivered, his skin prickling in warning. He took one desperate step towards his master, and Qui-Gon fell.

"Master!" Obi-Wan shouted, sliding to his knees as he skittered across the floor to the yawning cavern opening before him. "Master!"

In the darkness below him he could hear pebbles tapping as they bounced along edges of broken stone. The floor had weakened with time, the rivulets of water wearing through cracks in the stone. Timbers that had supported the floor from beneath had rotted away and a larger piece of stone had separated into many pieces, causing it to collapse onto itself under Qui-Gon's weight. Obi-Wan still could not hear the elder Jedi. He reached along the training bond. //Master!//

A faint buzzing crawled back to him, confused, and extremely weak. Alive, but fading. Obi-Wan panted out a frightened breath. Lighting his saber, he cautiously extended it into the hole to illuminate the wreckage and find his master, wary of the remaining floor beneath his knees.

The toe of one dusty boot was visible under shattered rock; there, a hand. Obi-Wan's chest hitched as he realized how still that large hand was. Not even a twitch. Oh, gods, he thought. I'm coming, Master. Hold on.

Fastening his saber to his belt, he dropped his robe and turned to his stomach to slowly lower himself into the chasm. Gingerly, he felt for stability with his foot, not wishing to cascade more debris onto Qui-Gon's body. Balancing carefully, he dropped to a crouch and felt for Qui-Gon's boot. He felt his way up his master's foot and leg, moving slabs and chunks of rotten wood, until he had uncovered all of one leg and part of the man's torso. The hand that had been visible rested on his thigh while the other arm was still lost somewhere in the wreckage.

Obi-Wan shoved a large slab off to one side, finally revealing Qui-Gon's face and chest. Battered and bleeding, his face and eyelids caked with stone dust, he lay as still as the stone surrounding him, and just as grey. Dim light from above highlighted the spiraling dust cloud, giving Obi-Wan the fearsome impression of a spectre of death hovering nearby.

As he felt for Qui-Gon's pulse, Obi-Wan called out to the Jedi. "Master...Master, can you hear me?" He held the free hand within his own, but it lay limply, unresponsive and cool. The bond only returned the same weak buzz. He lay his head gently on his master's chest and then suddenly lunged forward, sealing his mouth over Qui-Gon's and pinching his nose shut. Blow: one, two, three, check. Nothing.

He tried again, calling on the bond constantly as he did so. //Master! QUI-GON!!// The man would not breathe on his own.

Obi-Wan continued the pattern for a few more cycles, then pulled his comlink from his belt and activated it. "Master Windu! This is an emergency."

Rescue had been thankfully quick; Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon were loaded onto a ship in a pouring rain and sent hurtling for Coruscant. A med droid had inserted a breathing tube while Obi-Wan had watched, clinging yet to the hand that would not respond. He had spoken soft words of comfort to the still, pale face of his beloved mentor, fingertips brushing wet strands of hair away from the ugly tube.

And now he paced, reaching one end of the healer's waiting area, then turning, angry at the audacity of the wall to be in his way, to complete the circuit back. He ran his hand through his hair in frustration, trailing down the braid. Wrapping the end around his finger, he tugged, much as Qui-Gon had often done...a reminder of the man he could not think of losing.

"Meditate, you must," a quiet voice spoke, and Obi-Wan turned slowly to face the small form of Yoda.

"Master Yoda...I..." he trailed off, frustrated with himself, for he had already tried and failed to do just that.

"Assist you, I will. Needs you to be centered, Qui-Gon does. Come." He gestured to the window at one end of the room.

"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan replied obediently, though wearily. With a last glance at the doorway through which several healers had rushed his master, he settled himself before Yoda and closed his eyes.

Within the stillness of shared meditation there came a small peace. Qui-Gon would live.

In the act of spiraling back up to full awareness there came a realization. Time was fleeting; Qui-Gon was mortal, and words must be spoken. To keep silent risked regret.

Obi-Wan sat beside his master, staring at the still, grey face. His vulnerability tore at Obi-Wan's heart. Always, his master had been strong and active, yet gentle and kind, and now...now he lay in a healer's bed unable to breathe on his own, with a broken pelvis, a concussion, and a broken left arm.

The young man tentatively reached out to brush back the hair on Qui-Gon's head, watching his face carefully for signs of a reaction to the touch, even though the healers had said not to expect any response for a time. They had placed a Force-supression bracelet on the man to allow him first to ease into consciousness and then to aid his communion with the Force once he finally awoke.

The silky hair caught in Obi-Wan's fingers and he rubbed it carefully, identifying the softness and colors. A warm sable brown, with grey and white liberally mixed in. He wryly grinned to himself; how many of these lightening strands was he responsible for?

He hitched his chair closer and closed one hand over Qui-Gon's. The other continued stroking, the repetitive action soothing. The sound of the respirator seemed to grow louder in the otherwise silent room, and Obi-Wan began to hum, and then sing, the urge to do so stronger than any sense of embarrassment he might feel if he were overheard. He sang as if to pull a sound curtain over the machine that kept his master alive, to deny its need.

He sang a call to the dawn of consciousness, to bring Qui-Gon back from the brink of forever gone. He sang of his love, of his pain, of his wish.

He sang to his love.

I feel so heavy. Attached to weights, swimming slowly through a thick, black muck, trying to surface, struggling against a fearsome darkness that insistently tugs at me, wanting me to feed it, dragging me back. But I want the light. I can sense it above me, warm with comfort and peace and I reach for it...

I can feel fingers, smoothing the hair back from my forehead, gentle, calming touches. A first blessed sensation after nothing but darkness. How long have I been in that darkness? I do not know. Nor why.

I cannot move, but the touch on my head allows me freedom from fear. I cannot open my eyes, nor speak, nor, apparently, breathe on my own as the feel of the tube down my throat and the involuntary rise and fall of my chest becomes apparent to my awakening senses. I cannot feel the Force, nor my training bond with my padawan, yet this does not distress me, for I can hear, and what I hear is the sound of the sweetest voice I know. Not that I have ever told him. Smooth and cultured, with an accent that is different, and yet not so different from my own, adding depth and character to the words he chooses, a passionate melody of rational thoughts and ideas, of jokes and laughter, of somber and sobering statements.

Or in this case, of actual singing. Soothing in its simplicity, sweet in its purpose, it is a warm cocoon for my ragged, weak being to slip inside. I do not know where I am or what is wrong, but I am comforted and I accept the comfort because I have no choice. How grateful I am that he his near as I wake.

I do not recall specifically any instances of my Obi-Wan singing, although I am sure I must have heard him in the past as I recognize the honey of his song. It warms me.

Ah, my padawan, what other talents do you hide and harbor that I have chosen not to see?

I cling to the touchstones of my suddenly shallow, limited life: his fingers in my hair and his voice in my ears. At this moment, they encompass the whole of my world.

The song continues, the cadence slow and the tone a touch sad, and gradually I am able to pick out words from the tune.

"...the future is no place to place your better days..."

Ah, a thought to ponder. A focus point.

Mentally, I settle in to dissect and reassemble that line of his song even as he continues to sing other words that escape my precise notice. The clicking of the respirator keeps an odd rhythm with the music of my Obi-Wan.

*The future is no place to place your better days.* Perhaps my padawan does listen to me. Live in the moment, I've told him enough times. His prescience often propels him to cast his thoughts further ahead, to worry and fuss about possible happenings in a fluid future.

Better days. What does this mean? Are not our days what we make of them? Now is the time. Embrace the moment. Why would we put off having a *better* time when we do not truly know what the future holds? *Someday* may never come, especially in the life of a Jedi.

But is this not what you do to yourself, Qui-Gon? I ask myself as my thoughts slide to my repressed feelings for Obi-Wan. Inwardly, I grimace as I face my own truths.

The Code, the balance of power, the difference in our ages - all my excuses for not telling my padawan the depth of my feelings for him. Rules, yes, but I would be lying to myself if I did not acknowledge that the waiting is killing me inside. And the risk of being refused...I cannot think on it.

I will not rush his training, however; my need to taste of him is not worth a lifetime of work wasted in failed trials and broken spirits. Yet everytime I place a hand on his body to correct his positioning in a kata or brush his fingers as we pass food to one another, my skin is imprinted where it touches his, and I wonder that he cannot feel the heat of it.

I want him. I need his soul and vibrancy, and I cannot tell him. Padawan of mine, child of my heart. I cherish, so deeply, the boy he was. Watching him learn from his mistakes, taming his rashness. Seeing the confidence in his abilities build while limiting his arrogance. I observe all this with not a little pride, knowing I had a hand in the making of a Jedi. And in cherishing the boy, I've fallen in love with the man.

I desire his heart. He certainly has mine; he has held it in his young hands for longer than I wish to admit. I must tell him...before it's too late. If I can awaken further. I can no longer save my words for some future day.

The steady stroke of his touch lulls me back to the sleep he does not even realize I've awakened from. I am vaguely aware that he has stopped singing and is speaking, but I cannot make out his words nor to whom he is speaking...

Obi-Wan sang. He did not know what compelled him to do so, as he rarely ever did. He only knew that he should. Somehow, some way, he would reach his master, if by touch or voice or sheer will. The respirator clicked a steady rhythm, a droning, staccato reminder of just how injured Qui-Gon was. To see him lying so weak and pale in a hospital bed was a sight Obi-Wan fervently hoped to never see again. Vulnerable. An unworthy position for a man of Qui-Gon's strength and stature, at least to his worshipping padawan's eyes.

"Padawan Kenobi?"

Obi-Wan looked up, startled, to see Healer C'Laro checking on the respirator and Qui-Gon's vital signs.

"It's good to sing. Oftentimes it can be the trigger to bring a patient out of a coma. Keep trying."

"I don't wish to disturb anyone else, Healer."

C'Laro smiled. "There's no one else in the wing at this time. Besides, even if there were, I think they would be pleased to hear the songs. Beyond that, I would like to get him into a bacta tank, but I can't do that while he's attached to the respirator. Too risky if something should happen. The sooner he wakes up, the better."

Obi-Wan returned his attention to his master as C'Laro left the room again, jotting notes on a datapad.

"Master, please wake up. We have work yet to do, and there are things I must say. Things I should have said long ago but was too...afraid."

He threaded his fingers into the soft length of greying hair. How often he had brushed this hair for Qui-Gon after evening meditations, as an additional meditation of sorts for them both. Obi-Wan always reveled in handling such an intimate part of his master, while Qui-Gon relaxed under the gentle massage of the brush and his padawan's tapered fingers. Those were the times when Obi-Wan could voice his concerns over classwork, or a mission where he felt he'd made a mistake, and Qui-Gon would counsel him, listening and speaking in turns. Their training bond strengthened and became something more in these private, personal sessions as each man opened up to the other. Oftentimes Qui-Gon would tell Obi-Wan of his training as a padawan under Master Dooku and Obi-Wan thrilled to hear of missions and actions in the field from one who had participated in the outcomes rather than simply reading about them in Jedi History class.

I want more of those times, Obi-Wan thought. We're not finished with each other yet. I need you.

A soft tapping at the door pulled Obi-Wan from his reverie. Self-consciously he let go of Qui-Gon's hair and swiped at his face, just realizing the tears that had trickled down his cheeks into the scruff of whiskers. "Come in," he called softly, smiling weakly as his friend Garen entered the room.

"Hey," Garen whispered. "I came to see how Master Jinn was doing. Is he any better?"

Obi-Wan shook his head slowly, his sad gaze traveling back to rest on the silent, still form lying before him.

Garen stepped around the end of the bed and stood behind Obi-Wan, placing his hands on the young man's shoulders. "You look tired. Have you slept since you returned?" He began to knead at the tense knots under his palms.

Obi-Wan groaned appreciatively and dropped his head forward, chin to his chest, his hands draped loosely against his thighs. "No...I don't want to miss him if he wakes up at all. Garen?" he suddenly asked, grateful to not be alone at this moment. "Could I talk to you about something? Privately?"

Garen continued his manipulations, changing the angle as the muscles began to loosen under his fingers. "You know you can tell me about anything, Obi," he replied. "What's up?"

The young Jedi drew in a deep breath. "I think I'm in love with Qui-Gon. No, I don't think I am -- I know I am."

The hands on his shoulders stilled for several moments, then resumed their gripping massage. Obi-Wan held his breath, suddenly afraid of the possible reactions to his revelation.

"When did you realize this?" Garen's voice was quiet, but accepting. Obi-Wan blew out his breath, relieved that his best friend was still there.

"I've known for some time, but I haven't said anything or acted on it. I was too afraid of what Qui-Gon might say, and the Code...well. I just kept quiet." Obi-Wan raised his head to gaze upon his master's face again, the tube and the respirator both suddenly large and loud in the room. "Now I wish I had said something. At the very least, he'd know. Garen...what if he never wakes up? What if I never get the chance to say what I've wanted to?" He turned and looked up at his friend. "What if he's lost to me forever?"

Garen swiftly pushed aside his concerns over Code and Council should they learn of this sudden development, not to mention the reaction of several female padawans who secretly had crushes on the handsome young man, and came around to kneel in front of his grieving friend, gripping Obi-Wan's hands in his own.

"Don't lose hope yet, Obi-Wan," he said firmly, his eyes focused on his friend's tired, damp ones. "The healers feel he will wake up, right? That the damage from the concussion will be temporary? You're so worn out, you're not thinking rationally. Please, sleep. For me? For him?" He gestured to the empty bed beside Qui-Gon's. "Lay there and sleep and I'll stay here with you both. If he shows any signs of awakening, I'll wake you up immediately. Please, Obi-Wan?"

His voice betrayed his worry as Obi-Wan looked into the concerned face of his dearest friend. While Garen's plea made sense, he had a vague idea that the healers had put Garen up to this, to get him to sleep. But he knew Garen was sincere.

Obi-Wan nodded. "All right," he agreed, "but could you fetch me some clean clothes first?" He pointed out the smudges and rips in his leggings and singlet, and indicating a pile of dirty tunics on the floor. "I'll sleep after I get a shower and some clean clothes."

"Of course," Garen said, glad to be of any help. He stood, pulling the other young man up into an embrace. Obi-Wan laid his head on Garen's shoulder, breathing in his vitality and strength. This contrast to Qui-Gon's fragility brought unbidden tears and he shuddered, trying not to release the burst of anguish that suddenly welled in his chest. Garen only held him tighter and Obi-Wan gave up his grief to the space of the room and Garen's tunic, clinging. The only sounds were that of his quiet sobs and Garen's murmurings of comfort, punctuated by the steady clicking of the respirator, like a clock measuring the length of Qui-Gon's forced breaths.

After several minutes Garen seated a calmer Obi-Wan back in his chair, brushed leftover tears from his face, and pressed a friendly kiss to the top of his head. "I'll be back soon," he said softly.

Obi-Wan nodded gratefully. "Thank you, Garen," he whispered, his eyes full of affection for his friend. "Thank you for being here."

"And where else would I be when you need me?" Garen teased gently. Obi-Wan grinned suddenly and Garen returned it before slipping out the door.

Within ten minutes Garen returned, various articles of clothing, including a cloak of Qui-Gon's, in his arms. Upon entry, however, his heart caught as he saw that Obi-Wan had lain his head on Qui-Gon's bed and fallen asleep, unwashed and unshaven, his master's hand held tightly in his own.

It's true, he thought. Obi-Wan is in love with Qui-Gon.

Placing the clothes on Obi-Wan's bed, he lay the cloak over Obi-Wan's back and then settled himself in a chair nearby to watch over his friend and his master while they slept.

*Hiss...clink. Hiss...clink.* The respirator beats its two-toned rhythm as I float back to consciousness, its sound the only one I can hear, yet I sense that I am not alone. There is the pressure of weight near my side, and gradually I become aware of my hand being held tightly and a flutter of breath against the small hairs on the back of my hand. It is a welcome sensation, both for the reality of my senses returning, and also for my padawan's warmth and nearness as he sleeps. I am grateful for his presence. No one else would hold my hand so besides the one who knows me best. He is a rock of stability in my fleeting, dark world and I cling to him as surely as he clings to me.

What was I thinking about before I slipped away?

Oh, yes. The future and the now. Better days. I need to make this day better. For him, for myself.

I take stock of the rest of my body. My left arm feels numb compared to my right, my pelvis is a source of pain that I was not aware of earlier, but my legs feel whole and unharmed. My head hurts.

My right hand lays within the palm of my padawan, and it is here that I try to make my silent consciousness known. Concentrating, and finding it far more difficult than I expected, I try to move a finger. It results in a small twitch but I rejoice in my success.

I pause, letting the respirator click and hiss a few times, then try again. Two fingers twitch this time and I feel Obi-Wan's hand move in response. Again, two fingers, and his hand presses warmly against mine. The weight of his head lifts from the bed and I feel his lips against my fingers.

"Master?" It is a whisper full of hope and longing, and I can hear the tears hiding behind the quavering question. Oh, my padawan, that I could just hold you, tell you I'm all right. Tell you I love you.

But for now, the best I can do is twitch my fingers again.

Oh, that blessed hand stroking my hair again. I try to smile but the respirator prevents me. I wish I could access our bond but the Force remains mute, detached from my control. This denied power suddenly distresses me where it did not earlier, and above my head an insistent beeping begins a worrisome signal.

Quick feet approach and my hand is released as different hands rest on my head and heart. Don't let go of my hand, Obi-Wan, please, keep touching me...

"Hypo," says an unknown voice, and just before the soft darkness descends on my consciousness again, I hear my padawan, close to my ear.

"He was awake. I know it." Wet warmth on my face. "Come back to me, Master." Fingers in my hair, and then nothing.

"He was awake. I know it," Obi-Wan said, his voice catching as he struggled for composure. "He moved his hand and then the beepers went off."

C'Laro nodded, busily logging notes in Qui-Gon's datapad chart. "He became agitated for some reason. Possibly, he realized he couldn't access the Force. The hypo will wear off soon." He reached across Qui-Gon to pat Obi-Wan's hand. "If you feel he's awake again, tell him he'll get his Force control back when he's stronger and to remain calm in the meantime. He'll listen to you."

Obi-Wan stared at C'Laro's back as the healer turned and walked briskly away. A heavy sigh left his body as he applied a deeper meaning to the healer's final comments. Would his master listen to other things his padawan had to say?

He reached out to lay his hand against Qui-Gon's pale cheek, gently rubbing his palm against the beard, soft and prickly, both at once. Distinctly Qui-Gon.

"Obi?" Obi-Wan startled, having forgotten about Garen sitting nearby. "You were asleep when I came back in," Garen explained. "Do you want to go clean up now?"

The padawan rubbed at his chin, realizing he had not tended to himself since they had returned from the mission with Qui-Gon barely alive. "You'll come get me if he wakes up?"

"I promise. Go. You'll feel better." Garen handed leggings and a single tunic to Obi-Wan, who stood, Qui-Gon's cloak slipping to the floor. The young man blinked in surprise at its presence.

"I thought you might like that. A part of Qui-Gon to wrap up in."

Obi-Wan felt tears of gratitude welling up again and gathered Garen into a fierce hug. "That means so much to me," he whispered. "What would I do without you?"

"You'd still be needing a shower. Now go." Garen gave Obi-Wan a gentle shove toward the 'fresher door. "I'll stay right beside him until you get back."

After picking the cloak up off the floor and burying his face in it for a brief moment before laying it across Qui-Gon's legs, Obi-Wan shuffled to the 'fresher, looking back one last time at his master before closing the door behind him. Garen could hear water running a few minutes later.

He seated himself in the chair Obi-Wan had vacated and took it upon himself to speak to the silent master.

"Master Qui-Gon, I don't know if you can hear me, but this is Garen. Please try to wake up. Obi-Wan needs you. More than you may realize. It's very important that he speaks with you and you really should be awake when he does." He stopped, feeling awkward for talking to someone who couldn't respond, and looked over the form of the revered Jedi.

The massive chest rose and fell with the aid of a machine, bruised where the stones had crushed him. The tube down his throat delivered air and oxygen to the still body lying on the bed, and a smaller tube in his arm kept him nourished. His skin was pale and his eyes were slightly sunken into their sockets.

Garen closed his eyes against the image that he knew would be seared in Obi-Wan's memory forever. The loss of strength and vitality. The near loss of a master's life.

But he could also see Obi-Wan's love for Qui-Gon. Beyond any rational thought or fear of rejection by the older man, beyond any sense of propriety, of the Code, or of the Council. He loved him, and had nearly lost him. How fleeting time was, how quickly a moment could pass before necessary words were spoken or reasonable actions taken.

"What have I been waiting for?" Obi-Wan's voice was quiet behind him and Garen rose to allow his friend to reclaim his seat, noting that Obi-Wan had forgotten to shave. "Have I lost my chance, putting my dreams off for a future day?"

Garen embraced a still-damp Obi-Wan from behind. "No, of course not. He'll wake up. You'll see." He tightened his arms briefly before letting go completely. "Obi-Wan, will you be all right if I leave for a few minutes? There's something I need to take care of."

Obi-Wan flashed a smile at his friend, although his eyes were still reddened from emotion and lack of sleep. "Certainly. I'll be fine."

Garen replaced Qui-Gon's cloak around the tired young man. "I'll bring you back something to eat when I return."

"That sounds good," Obi-Wan sighed. "I do feel a bit hungry." How long had it been since he had eaten? He remembered C'Laro saying something about it, but he'd ignored him in favor of willing Qui-Gon back to consciousness.

Garen nodded and left the room, pulling out his comlink to contact his girlfriend. "Saraahn? Could you meet me in the upper garden, on our bench? There's something I need to talk to you about." He smiled as he slipped the comlink back in his pocket. Even in his state of great emotional distress, Obi-Wan gave unwittingly good advice about relationships.

Obi-Wan shifted in his seat, drawing Qui-Gon's hand against his chest in his need for touch. Qui-Gon was much warmer than the day before, after being trapped in an underground prison. Refreshed by the shower and the support of his friend, and strengthened by the Force signature in the cloak he wore, Obi-Wan resumed his singing, stronger and clearer than before.

Singing. I could get used to hearing the melody of my padawan for the rest of my life.

I float towards the music, stepping higher with each bright note, a brilliant staircase to the light, and suddenly my eyes are open, barely slits, but open.

My light. My padawan. Seated beside me, holding my hand, he sings from the heart and I know he sings for me. His eyes are closed and I note stubble on his chin, a brighter red-gold than his hair, and but for the dampness of his hair I would believe that he had not left my side. Such devotion for his old master. My heart swells with my love for him, and I twitch my fingers in his.

Red-rimmed eyes open and a smile slowly spreads across his face as he realizes I am awake. "Master," he breathes, a relieved whisper from a worried soul.

Ah, my Obi-Wan. I am sorry to have upset you so. I wish I could speak in some way.

My half-open eyes must have said something to him, for he leans in to smooth my hair again. "Your Force access has been suppressed for now. You are on a respirator to help you breathe. Blink for me if you understand."

I obey my padawan, finding irony in doing so. He is in charge now.

He smiles at my response. "My master. Welcome back." His voice is soft and his hand continues its gentle work while I fight the desire to close my eyes and surrender to the caress. I want to see his face; I want him to see me.

I summon what little strength I possess, stunned at how weak I truly am. I am gratified to find that I can raise my arm, albeit shakily. He allows me to carry his hand to his face so I can touch him, and he turns my hand so that my palm presses his cheek. Tears spill from his blue-grey eyes, and I am surprised to feel wetness trickle down my own cheek.

The physical effort has tired me far more than I expected and my velvet blanket of sleep beckons again.

*I love you,* I whisper across the silent bond, although he can't hear it. I slip away, my hand still held against warm, damp skin and prickly stubble.

It's night. The room is mostly dark with only a dim light from somewhere beside me. It shines on the russet hair of my padawan in a muted glow. His body sits in a chair and his head lies on my bed. His face is relaxed but for the creases in his forehead; a sure sign of his worry, if I know my boy.

My hand is held loosely in his, so deeply asleep is he, and again I work to move my arm and rest my hand on the side of his head, my fingers settling amongst the soft spikes of his hair. I stroke his temple with my thumb and he murmurs, turning toward the touch, the worry lines smoothing a bit as his dreams shift to more pleasant ones.

Proud. Yes, I am proud that I can help him in this small way, my padawan who sleeps by my side, wrapped in my own cloak in this healing room. Would that he could sleep by my side in my own bed, arms wrapped and legs entwined with mine so I could breathe his scent throughout the night.

I feel fully awake now, far more alert than I have been in my past surfacings, and I try to recall how my body came to be in this condition, and for how long.

*Hiss...click. Hiss...click.* The respirator annoys me and I turn my eyes in a vague effort to escape the sound.

My eyes fall on a high window, and I lie here watching as the sky outside lightens with the dawn, thinking on my life to this point.

I have long been in a state of flux, neither happy nor unhappy. I was content enough with my life as a Jedi, with the negotiations and the bureaucracy and all that, but something was missing. Something - personal, and private.

Before my eyes, the gawky boy who had wormed his way into my heart was suddenly a man, sleek muscle and smooth skin, dimpled chin and flashing eyes, a smile that could melt the most iron-hearted warrior, and a quick intelligence and dry sardonic humor that balanced with my matter-of-fact manner. I surrendered the rest of my heart the day I realized I loved him, more than a father figure, more than a mentor. I was but a man behind the saber, and he was more than a boy - much more than I ever anticipated or bargained for.

And now he is here, a grown young man, sleeping with his head resting on my bed, worried and frightened for me. Would he return the same love I would offer him? I am not young. And I am his master.

Fool, I am. He would never love me that way or attach himself to an old man. He worries because he loves me as his teacher, his friend.

As if he heard me, my padawan stirs and smiles at me through sleepy eyes. "Good morning," he murmurs, reaching up to clasp my hand that still rests against his face. "Have you been awake long?"

I blink once at him, feeling foolishly owlish.

"Hmm. How about once for yes and twice for no?" His smile is warm, comforting, and sleepiness is overtaking me again, but I struggle to stay awake as I do not wish to leave him just yet.

I blink once again and he squeezes my hand. "Don't fight the sleeping. It's the best thing for you to heal. You know this," he says, teasingly accusing, repeating back words to me that I'd spoken many times during his childhood illnesses. I blink once, again, then frown.

What happened? Why am I here?

"I promise, when you wake again, I'll tell you what happened," he says reassuringly, understanding my unspoken question, and I submit to his decision, to his hand on mine, and drift away to the soft oblivion again.

"Master?" A soft whisper brushes against the incoherent images jumbled in my dream. In it, the voice comes from my padawan, lying naked in my bed, holding out a spoon to feed me ice cream.

"Master? Can you wake up?" The whisper becomes more urgent and the ice cream sweetness is his voice near my ear. The dream slips away; I try to retain the lovely image in my memory before I become fully conscious. I feel a hand on my cheek and my eyes open.

A smile of relief. "Master, you frightened me. You've been asleep for nearly two days. The healers were concerned that you were slipping back into the coma and asked me to try to call you back."

Two days? Two days since I laid my hand to his face? As I look, I see the stubble there has grown much more than I expected.

"It looks like he put himself into a bit of a healing trance, Padawan Kenobi. He doesn't need to access the Force to do that," a voice on the other side of me explains. I slowly turn my head to see. "Good evening," he says to me, a smiling humanoid with green skin. "I'm Healer C'Laro. Your vital signs are improving greatly, possibly due to the length of time you've slept, and I'm hoping that in a few hours we can remove the breathing tube and see how you do on your own."

I blink once. Anything to turn off that damnable clicking noise.

C'Laro looks quizzically at me, and Obi-Wan hastens to explain, "He blinks once for yes and twice for no. I think he's a bit too shaky for any writing."

"Ah. Good. I gather you are anxious to turn that noisy thing off." C'Laro pats me on the shoulder. "For now, let your padawan and his friend talk to you and move your right arm a bit. Get the blood flowing. We'll work on your left arm and legs after bacta treatment."

I blink once again to acknowledge, and turned my head slowly back to Obi-Wan. He grins at me, clearly amused at the idea of being in charge of my body for a time. Oh, my padawan is entirely capable of getting my blood flowing. I only hope I don't embarrass myself.

I see Garen appear behind Obi-Wan and he smiles at me. "Good evening, Master Jinn. I hope you are feeling better."

I blink, and note that he has placed his arm around Obi-Wan, a gesture I feel is a rather intimate touch, but then, Obi-Wan has been obviously upset. Am I feeling jealous of their closeness now that I've fully admitted my feelings about my apprentice to myself? For as often as Garen has shared our quarters for study sessions, sleepovers, and several meals, returning the hospitality in kind in his own quarters, it is not unrealistic to expect that they have grown very close to one another. But to the point of intimacy?

Oh, stop, I tell myself. Don't jump to conclusions. Doesn't Garen have a girlfriend? Saraahn?

Do I even know if Obi-Wan prefers men to women?

Obi-Wan suddenly looms over me, raising my arm and then lowering it again slowly.

I feel absurdly like a puppet, my physical self manipulated by my padawan, but if I can be released from this silent prison by these methods, then I will do what I must.

I focus on Obi-Wan as he commits to his task. Gentle hands grip my arm as he flexes and bends it, his fingers straightening out mine and allowing them to curl naturally again. Unwittingly, he moves at a tempo that matches the respirator and I hate that sound.

Sing for me.

I arrest the movement of my arm and he looks at me, concern that he has hurt me showing in his lovely eyes. I move my hand so my fingers touch his lips and he smiles briefly. "What is it, Master? Have I hurt you?" I blink twice. No. "Do you wish me to stop moving you?" No. I drag a finger up his throat, over the prickly stubble, to his mouth again. Sing. Please.

Understanding floods his face, and he blushes. Glancing at Garen, he bends to my ear. "You wish me to sing?" Very deliberately, I blink once.

A smile spreads across his face. "Whatever you desire, Master." My Obi-Wan. Sing for me.

The beauty of his voice fills the room. The noise of the respirator fades away as tones of honey and gold replace it. I grip his hand in gratitude and close my eyes to listen, the sound of it a cool breeze against my face, gentle water lapping at my skin as I bathe in a warm lake, a soft, soft bed where I can sleep with my Obi-Wan nestled warm and snug beside me...

Obi-Wan ended his song as he watched his master drift off to sleep again. Gently he laid Qui-Gon's arm on the bed and sat, never taking his eyes off of his master's relaxed face.

Garen began a gentle massage that dropped Obi-Wan's head to his chest and he was silent as Garen spoke.

"I didn't know you could sing, Obi. And very well, too." Garen's touch grew firmer. "If I didn't already love Saraahn and you Qui-Gon, I'd be pining for you after hearing that."

Obi-Wan chuckled briefly. "I've been singing to him. I couldn't stand the sound of that machine, and I thought that maybe...he'd hear me." He raised his head and gazed at his master, a small smile gracing his face. "It seems he did."

"He'll hear you in the other things you want to say, Obi-Wan. He will."

Healer C'Laro raised the head of the bed so that Qui-Gon was partially sitting up. "Does that bother your pelvis much, Master?" he asked of his patient, watching his face closely for signs of pain. Qui-Gon blinked twice, then slowly experimented with moving his head from side to side.

"All right. While you were sleeping those two days, I've been weaning you off the vent. Most of your breathing is on your own, and you are doing quite well. I'm going to pull the tube out now. You may want to cough and your throat is likely to be irritated. Are you ready?"

Qui-Gon's eyes shifted to his apprentice standing by his bedside, Garen hovering behind. Obi-Wan gave him a reassuring smile and slipped his hand into Qui-Gon's, giving it a squeeze.

Looking back at C'Laro, he blinked once.

"All right, here we go."

C'Laro detached the breathing unit from the tube and began to tug the tube forward. Qui-Gon gagged and then coughed. Obi-Wan gripped his hand harder, watching with wide eyes as his master slowly drew in a breath completely on his own.

"Slow...slow...good. It'll get easier here in a bit." C'Laro listened to Qui-Gon breathe without much apparent concern. "I'll remove the Force inhibitor if you seem to be breathing well."

"You're doing fine, Master." Obi-Wan spoke quietly and Qui-Gon raised his eyes to meet his padawan's green ones. His face was pinking up and he clutched at Obi-Wan's hand as if to meld it to his own.

"Obi...Wan...sing..." he rasped out, before closing his eyes to focus on the process of relearning to breathe, wishing he could draw the Living Force around himself like Obi-Wan had wrapped Qui-Gon's cloak around his own body.

Obi-Wan sat in the chair and wrapped both hands around Qui-Gon's, bringing it to his lips. As he continued to stare at his master, he shut out the room around him, the healer, Garen, everything, and focused only on Qui-Gon. Softly, he began to sing, leaning in as if only he and Qui-Gon were in the room, and a small smile crept onto the injured man's face. Eventually, Qui-Gon's breathing became less labored and more normal, the rasping quieting, and he relaxed against his pillow until the song ended.

"Tell me now what happened," he asked, his voice gritty but stronger.

Obi-Wan shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with the recollection. "Do you remember being on V'Renian?"

Qui-Gon thought a moment, his brow creasing. "We were underground..."

"Yes, in a dungeon, we determined. Then you walked to the center of the room and the floor collapsed and took you with it. I knew it was going to happen just before it did and I...I couldn't get to you in time." Obi-Wan's voice quavered, just for a moment, guilt tinging the edges of his words. "You were covered in rotten timbers and slabs of stone and when I finally got you uncovered you weren't breathing."

"Your padawan saved your life," C'Laro interjected, releasing the inhibitor bracelet from Qui-Gon's wrist, "breathing for you until help arrived. Now, let me know if Force access comes back too quickly for you and I'll put the bracelet back on."

Qui-Gon closed his eyes again and reached out with his mind. The Force swirled towards him in strong images of greens and blues, ready to embrace his being, to return to him a power as important as the breath he had lost. Out of the maelstrom a single strand stood out, beautifully golden and quivering with worry and sorrow. Gently he touched at it, sending reassurance to his padawan.

Obi-Wan twitched, visibly reacting to the reconnection, tears of relief shining in his eyes. "After you fell, all I could get from you through our bond was a buzzing that just got fainter and fainter." Obi-Wan's voice grew very quiet. "I truly felt I was losing you."

"Ah, my Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon loosened his hand from his apprentice's grip in order to run his fingers across the beard that had filled in rather rapidly the last few days. "You will never lose me."

Obi-Wan could not answer, but instead radiated joy at the return of his master, relishing his voice and touch.

Garen silently realized that now was the time for master and apprentice to be alone. He rose and whispered in the healer's ear, startling C'Laro from his incessant datapad entries. With a wry glance at his patient, C'Laro followed Garen from the room.

"I heard you, you know." Qui-Gon's voice still held a slight rasp. "I heard you singing. I woke once but couldn't open my eyes, or move, so I listened." He touched his apprentice's lips, mimicking his gesture when he had asked Obi-Wan to sing earlier. "It was a lovely way to wake." The master smiled. "I was able to pick out one line and think on it a bit. 'The future is no place to place your better days.' What is your interpretation of that statement?"

Obi-Wan looked faintly surprised at the question. He took a deep breath and answered, ever the perfect padawan. "It means we shouldn't wait for someday to happen. Today is the day."

"Now is the time?" Qui-Gon asked to verify his padawan's statement.

"Live in the moment, Master."

Blue and green gazes locked together, and for that moment the world disappeared. There existed only two men, joined by hand, both wanting the same things but both too bound by tradition and fear of rejection to speak of matters of the heart.

Well, then. Actions speak louder.

"Live in the moment, Padawan," Qui-Gon whispered, pulling Obi-Wan closer until his lips parted and Qui-Gon touched them with his own.

Hot tears spilled from Obi-Wan's eyes as the truth of the kiss hit home. Cautiously he lowered his shields, fearful of flooding the re-established bond, and sent his love and desire back to his master.

"I-I need to tell you, Master -- before it's too late -- before it's ever too late again. I love you," he breathed, his heart pounding so loud that surely Qui-Gon could hear it. "And I don't care if I have to wait until I'm knighted to say it again. I'll willingly wait, as long as you hear me now and know that I mean it."

"Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon's eyes twinkled. "I just kissed you. Don't you think that perhaps I feel the same way?"

Obi-Wan wasted no time in pressing his lips to Qui-Gon's again, tasting of the man he'd loved for so long. "Tell me," he whispered, tangling fingers in the silky hair he'd stroked for several days. "Tell me."

"I love you, Obi-Wan. I will no longer put off saying that until some unknown future day. I love you, and have for a long while now."

He tugged Obi-Wan down until the younger man was lying next to him on the bed, his head tucked into the curve of Qui-Gon's shoulder. Carefully Obi-Wan laid his hand on Qui-Gon's bruised chest while Qui-Gon's hand stroked at the reddish beard of his padawan.

"I like this," Qui-Gon murmured. "Will you let it grow after you are knighted?"

"Let's get me knighted first. But possibly, I could, if you like it so." The apprentice fell silent for a moment before asking the question he feared.

"What of the Code and the Council, Master?" Obi-Wan asked, his voice full of dread.

"We'll worry about that when the time comes. Focus on the here and now. Obi-Wan?"

"Yes, Master?"

"Sing for me again?"

Qui-Gon could feel the smile against his shoulder. "Whatever you desire, Master."

Qui-Gon drifted back to sleep, dreaming of other things he desired from his Obi-Wan, with the man pressed against him on the bed and that sweet voice singing in his ear.

Today was a better day.

~end