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The Ghost and Mr. Kenobi

by MrsHamill (mrshamill@gmail.com)

Archive: MA and my site, Mom's Kitchen (www.hawksong.com/~momskitchen)

Category: Romance, bucket-loads of angst and soppiness

Pairing: Q/O

Rating: R (barely)

Summary: Mr. Kenobi buys a house and gets haunted. What did you expect?

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.

Warning: This is a romance. There's no plot to speak of and there's not a whole lot of sex, either (I mean! He's a fricking ghost!). Know now that it's my intent to yank your heartstrings right through the seven layers of cotton and two of Kevlar you've got on; if you aren't a sobbing wreck by the end of this drivel, I haven't done it right. ;-)

Series: Absolutely not.

Notes: Shamelessly stolen from the 1947 film classic *The Ghost and Mrs. Muir* starring the beautiful Gene Tierney and awesomely twitchy Rex Harrison. You get to pick who's got which part. (Hint: go with your first guess.) Mucho thanks to Merry and Claude for their beta and help. This is dedicated to Ghostwriter, for reasons both obvious and sentimental, and Claude for basically telling me it was very good so shut up and post it already. ;-)

"This doesn't exactly look like a 'cottage,' it looks more like a manor." Ben Kenobi frowned at the endearingly shabby building perched on a cliff overlooking the Southron Sea.

"Then I don't think you'll be interested," replied the realtor, a little too quickly. She re-started the speeder and put it into gear. "I only brought you here because you said you wanted to see everything. It's much too far away from the town anyway."

"I'd at least like to look around," Ben said. "It is within my price range, yes?"

"Well, yes, but..."

"Then I'd like to take a look."

The realtor sighed and turned the speeder off. "Yes, sir," she said glumly.

Her reaction was completely out of the ordinary -- well, as ordinary as he'd observed her throughout the day he'd spent with her. She had been unrelentingly perky even as Ben had rejected house after house. He could almost hear her thinking, at times, that he'd best choose soon since he'd pretty much seen every available property on the island. For her to actively avoid showing him a house was strange and brought out the famed Kenobi stubbornness immediately.

He glanced at her. "Aren't you coming with me?"

She made no move to rise or to get her oversized datapad. "It's not locked, you should be able to go right in. I'll not accompany you, if you don't mind." Her gaze was on the road away from the house.

Exceedingly strange. "I don't understand."

She sighed again and finally turned towards him. "Look, I'm sorry, but I can't go in there. And if you'll take my advice, you won't either. This place is old and worn and I'm certain it smells inside and I'm also certain it hasn't been cleaned properly in about a century or more. What was wrong with Rose Cottage?"

What had been wrong with Rose Cottage was it was too small, too close to people, and far too... rosy. "There's something you're not telling me, Miss Gington."

She looked very uncomfortable. "It's... well. It's..."

Out with it, he said in his mind, rolling his eyes.

"It's haunted."

He blinked. "Haunted."

"Yes." She said it almost defiantly, thrusting her chin out at him. "No one goes in there because of it. And if you'll simply take my advice..."

"Pray, what or who 'haunts' this place?"

"I know you don't believe me, Mr. Kenobi, but I..."

"You cannot know whether or not I believe you because you do not know me, Miss Gington." Nor will you ever, he added silently. He detested unrelentingly perky people. "You said this place is haunted, I asked by what or whom."

She was losing her patience and Ben felt a vague sense of guilt for about ten seconds. She'd been driving him nearly to distraction with her flirtatious manners and her insistence on showing him what she felt he needed rather than what he wanted. He'd come to the island precisely because it was remote and sparsely populated. Luckily for him, she wasn't a native either, only a representative of the firm which owned a good chunk of the island and maintained it as a preserve for rare plants used in various pharmaceuticals.

"Fine. Go on, then," she snapped, turning back to contemplating the road. "Yes, it's haunted, by the former owner, the Jedi. His family had owned a good portion of this side of the island before--"

"What did you say?" he interrupted. "The what?"

"The Jedi. The man who haunts this ghastly place was a Jedi, one of the last, I believe. I hardly know for certain, there are records on the place if you want to check. They're probably in dusty old flimsiplast, so be my guest." She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the innocent road.

"A Jedi. That means this place must be... more than two centuries old. How extraordinary." He turned away from the speeder to look again at the large, sprawling residence. "You say it's not locked?"

"No." She wouldn't even turn to him and he raised an eyebrow and grinned.

"I'll go have a look. If you don't mind."

She obviously didn't, at least not anymore.

The house was indeed more than a cottage, yet less than a mansion. It sprawled on mostly one story along the cliff-top, a main building made of stone with three wings sloping off to the sides and behind. There was a kitchen garden in a sheltered corner out of the wind, and a decaying fence around the entire property. The main house had a partial second story to it, and the windows which faced the ocean were large but deeply inset.

The door was huge. It was weather-beaten wood and must have weighed a ton, but was so cunningly hung that it opened without squeaking and with only a strong push. Once inside, Ben found himself in a grand foyer with a staircase leading up just to his right and doors on either side, as well as at the end of the hall. The paneling was rich, dark wood and the floor matched, though with a glossier sheen. The door to the right led to a sitting room filled with sheet-covered furniture and through the door on the left he could see a huge dining table and a stone-faced fireplace.

There was dust everywhere. It was quite cold and a quick press of the buttons led Ben to believe the powerpacks were completely depleted. There were no outlets in the walls and no visible wires, but a cobweb-covered chandelier above the foyer pointed to electricity of some kind. The fireplace did look functional, so perhaps it had been a backup in case the packs went out during a storm. The island itself was famed for its storms which blew in off the Southron Sea, and the house, planted as it was on the northern cliffs, likely caught the brunt of them.

Isolated. Sturdy. Furnished. Not to mention isolated. Ben nodded; this was pretty much what he had been looking for.

He checked out the rest of the house in a cursory fashion, noting the work that would have to be done to the roof and some heavy smells of decay coming from the kitchen; hearing quiet scurrying which indicated mice or other small animals living in the basement; tested the windows (holding nicely) and the water pressure (could be better, must check the well), and caught himself smiling. Yes, this was indeed what he'd been looking for. It resonated somewhere deep inside him.

And if it was haunted, well, so much the better. He'd been meaning to try writing as a means to acquire more funds, and everyone liked a good ghost story. Plus he just knew it was going to piss off Miss Gington.

It did indeed piss off Miss Gington, though she tried hard not to show it.

The house was most definitely within Ben's budget to buy, especially once he'd pointed out a few things that he would insist on being repaired (at the estate's cost) before he would buy. There was quite a lot of negotiation involving that as no one from the town would agree to come to the house to work on it, but finally a crew from the mainland was flown in. It turned out to be three days of labor-intensive effort, but at the end of it, Ben had a house with a new roof, a well which had been cleaned out and capped, a broken sewage pipe re-laid and two large windows re-glazed. He was given the key at the end of it and told he was now the proud owner of the Jinn House and he was welcome to it.

The first thing he did was take an inventory of what he had and what he needed. Powerpacks were easy to buy and he also invested some of his dwindling cash reserves on a wind-powered recharging station. Food was cheap and plentiful as was gossip, and he found them both at the general store in town.

It seemed he was the source of speculation since buying the Jinn House. The genial older woman who ran both the messenger service and the general store told him half the town figured him to be a criminal on the run from the law and the other half thought him a foolish, wealthy man also on the run from something, probably female. Ben had smiled and asked her what she thought and her immediate comeback was that it depended on how much money he spent in her store.

She was more than willing to lend him her power tiller, though, so he could get the kitchen garden ready for planting. It was, after all, still spring, barely, though spring on the island was a fleeting thing. When he asked her about the ghost allegedly haunting his new house, her only reply was to give him the fisheye. But he still decided he liked her. Taciturn he could deal with; it was those who openly and carelessly censured he couldn't stand.

With the powerpacks giving heat to the house, it swiftly became a home to him. Most of the furniture was still in good shape despite being old, though he'd had to replace the mattress in the huge four-poster bed in the master bedroom, one of two rooms on the second story. The other room was an attached bath with an enormous claw-footed tub almost big enough to take laps in. The guest room (or perhaps servant quarters) downstairs, off the sitting room, he left closed off. He wasn't expecting nor did he want visitors of the overnight variety.

Still, it was far more house than he felt he could comfortably take care of. He decided to think about hiring someone from the town to come by once a month or so to clean, if he could find anyone brave enough to face the ghost he had yet to see. But in the meantime, he had a lot of work ahead of him to make the place livable and to find its treasures.

Once the mattress was delivered and toted to the second floor, he made up the bed with fresh linens and settled in to his first evening in his new house. He built a fire (a peat fire, wood was too precious to burn on the island) in the fireplace of the sitting room and took his dinner there, something simple from the foods he'd purchased that day. He'd not installed a dataset (not that it wouldn't have made much of a difference, the island was far enough south that the planetary net barely reached) but he did have an old-fashioned landline, connected to the town via a buried cable, for emergency contact. So rather than checking messages or reading current events, he snuggled into the plush armchair, stretched his feet to the fire and enjoyed his first night as a true homeowner, making mental notes on where he would begin to clean. Though perhaps he would be better served by making a complete inventory of the house, first. Or perhaps both. He found it was quite pleasing to have the problem.

The ghost had yet to make an appearance. Ben wondered if he would.

Finally feeling tired enough to sleep, Ben rose from his place and his near-trance. He banked the fire and closed the glass doors over it, then took his solitary dish and glass to the kitchen and put them in the cleaner before turning off the lights and going upstairs. In the bath, as he was going through his normal evening tasks he stopped, suddenly, caught by his reflection in the mirror.

He looked the same as he always did, he supposed, though there appeared to be something more to it. His short beard needed trimming, but it could wait, as could his hair, flopping in his eyes. His face looked too serious, or perhaps grim was a better word. The last time he'd contemplated his reflection, he'd been wearing expensive clothing and had been desperately unhappy. Sometimes, when he looked into a mirror, he didn't see his own ginger hair and blue-gray eyes; sometimes, he saw his father's face looking back at him. He hated those times, almost as much as he hated his father.

But this evening, he saw only weary eyes staring out from a face sagging with sadness. Too many changes in his life, he supposed, and wondered if he'd ever look fresh again, ever go back to civilization, to the decadent yet rigidly structured lifestyle which was worlds away from his present circumstances.

Abruptly, another face was overlaid on his -- this one longer, with a prominent, broken nose, gentian-blue eyes, graying hair and a scowl that could scare children, animals and adults alike. He blinked in surprise, shook his head and when he looked back, it was gone.

Interesting.

The house faced north-northwest, which explained why everything overlooking the cliff was reinforced; any gales would come from that direction, surely. It also meant the bedroom, which had large, uncurtained windows, would remain dim and pleasant long after dawn had broken on the other side of the island (the other side of the bedroom was taken up with an enormous walk-in closet; Ben's clothes barely took up a quarter of it). Ben woke slowly, happily relishing the lack of sounds in his new house. It felt so good to be alone, away from his huge and noisy clan, away from the silence of his father's glare.

Determined to be happy, or at least pretend to be, he rose and dressed. After a moment's thought, he put on old, nearly worn-out clothing and eschewed bathing; he had the feeling he'd become extremely dirty during the course of the day and it would make more sense to bathe afterwards. He took his breakfast in the large, warm kitchen, which was lit from the light of the sun since it faced the opposite way. There were clouds gathering, though, so he figured the day would be better spent indoors, cleaning and taking inventory, than out in the kitchen garden tilling and planting.

Sure enough, with an enormous peal of thunder which rocked the house, the storm broke about three hours after he'd risen. At the time, Ben was in the basement, carrying a notepad, checking over everything stored. The basement wasn't huge, but it was well-organized with shelves, smaller storerooms and even a tiny root cellar, which would come in handy if the powerpacks -- and thus his coldbox -- ever failed him. He found the controls for what looked like a house-wide sound system, and thought it might be a good thing to fix up so he could hear music whenever he wanted. The discovery explained the controls just inside every room of the house.

By far his best find was hundreds of real books, carefully preserved in metal canisters sitting neatly stacked at the bottom of the stairs. He would have to be stern with himself... he wouldn't start unpacking and reading until he'd cleaned the rest of the house. Or at least until the evening when he'd take a break. He could add his collection to the one he'd found and, once he'd cleaned the built-in bookcases in both the sitting room and the master bedroom, he could put them out where they'd be more accessible. Having books around always calmed Ben, and he needed all the calm he could get. He was too new at living alone to be certain of himself.

In the basement he found several things that would be of use to him, including three different-sized ladders and boxes of empty, clean jars, suitable for jarring fruits and vegetables, once he got the kitchen garden in. There were also boxes of decorations representing at least five different holidays, most of which were in excellent condition. He threw away some old, rotted wooden pieces and took the medium-sized ladder upstairs with a box of clean rags and started his housecleaning.

He'd finished the kitchen by lunchtime and after a cup of tea and a piece of fruit, took the ladder into the hall and began the careful cleaning of the crystal chandelier in the foyer. It was a magnificent thing and he was being extremely careful -- he had no idea if he could even replace any of the pieces, much less the entire.

However, his reflexes were pressed when, after a particularly loud clap of thunder, he turned to find a man staring at him.

Luckily, Ben's reflexes were superb and the delicate drop he was cleaning did not fall to the floor and shatter. "My goodness. You gave me quite a surprise." After a moment, Ben remembered he was about six feet off the floor and the man facing him was not on a ladder. "Oh! You must be the famous Jedi."

"You are in my house," the man growled. He had a very pleasant voice -- well, Ben assumed it would be pleasant if it weren't growling. "Get out."

"So sorry," Ben said, replacing the crystal drop and carefully backing down the ladder. "But it's not your house anymore. It's mine." He wiped his damp hands on his trousers. "I can show you the receipt, if you'd like."

"I don't care." The man, or rather, the ghost of the man, followed him down, floating where Ben climbed. "You are in my house and I want you gone." There was another house-rattling boom of thunder following his words.

"Well, I'm not going." Ben lifted the small pail of (now dirty) soapy water from the ladder's tray and carried it into the kitchen -- it was time to replace it anyway. "I find I rather like it here."

"Get OUT!"

There was yet another thunderclap and Ben looked up with a frown. "Good gracious. Are you doing that? That's quite a nice trick. How do you do it?"

"Are you DEAF?" The ghost was clearly becoming agitated. "Get out of my house!"

Putting the pail in the sink, Ben turned and sighed. "Look, I'm dreadfully sorry to tell you, but you're dead. Dead people cannot own property; it's the law. I realize it must be a blow to you, but there it is." Ben smiled. "Wouldn't it be better to be friends than to be enemies? After all, I do legally own this place now. And I really don't mind if you stay, it's not as if you'll be an expensive guest, and I suppose you do have a claim out of tradition, if nothing else."

The ghost just gaped at him, clearly discomfited over Ben's nonchalance. But Ben had been raised with a far worse thing than an angry ghost and there really was little that intimidated him anymore.

Being dead was terribly boring. It seemed he slept past entire decades at times. He'd blink and when he looked back, it was winter and snow was settling on the roof. Then he'd do it again, and a family of seabirds were roosting in the eaves. It wasn't exactly as though he'd wanted to be dead, after all, and he certainly didn't intend on haunting his ancestral home. That's just how things went, apparently.

But then there was a day when the sound of hammers and the whine of power tools pulled him out of sleep or whatever it was and he discovered a bevy of people crawling all over his home. They seemed to be fixing things that had worn out in the years and years following his death, so that was all right, but he was loath to find out why. They'd even cleaned and re-drilled the well so that it worked properly.

It turned out his worst fears were true -- there was someone moving in. A young man, solitary by the looks of it, remained after the workmen had left; he built a fire in the fireplace, replaced the powerpacks and stocked the kitchen with food. It was completely intolerable.

He knew how to handle interlopers. Over the years (how many? Could it be decades or perhaps even centuries?) many had tried to live in the house that was his by right and he had driven them all away. Show himself, snarl a little, use the Force to create some lightning and thunder effects, and they all ran away with their tails tucked between their legs (sometimes literally; it really could have been centuries he'd been dead).

This one, however, knocked him ass over teakettle. Instead of being frightened, he was merely startled. Instead of screaming and running, he'd responded quietly and used blasted logic. It was simply intolerable!

"Well, what do you say?"

The man was waiting for something, smiling in a friendly way, and finally he found his tongue. "Get out of my house!" Well, that was weaker than it was meant to be.

"Oh, please. Is that all you can say? The least you can do is tell me your name. I assume your family is Jinn, since this is called the Jinn House. Is that so?" Ben stared at the man but he remained silent. "Please don't be childish about this. I realize you've been alone a long time, but I believe you'll find me a comfortable roommate. Oh, and you can call me Ben. Ben Kenobi."

Ben Kenobi was an exceedingly handsome man. He had longish red-blond hair and a small beard that needed trimming. He was about average height or a bit smaller and was compactly made. His eyes were quite beautiful and with a start, he realized what he was thinking. Without fanfare, he disappeared to regroup.

He heard Kenobi's sound of frustration and frowned. Would nothing frighten the man? Hidden by his invisibility, he watched as Kenobi refilled his pail with warm, soapy water and went back to the job of cleaning the chandelier. He toyed with the idea of tipping the ladder over, but it took a lot out of him to affect inanimate objects and he wouldn't want to hurt the chandelier. It had been his grandmother's pride and joy, and he had to admit it was looking better than it had since before he'd died.

There had to be another way to get Kenobi out of his house.

Cleaning the chandelier ended up taking the entire afternoon. But Ben was so pleased at how it came out that he couldn't regret spending the time to remove and gently clean every piece of crystal. Now the entire foyer sparkled with reflected light which unfortunately pointed out every cobweb, every crack in the plaster and every mark on the wall. Ah well, he'd just do the foyer first in the morning.

While he fixed himself some dinner, he mulled over the ghost who'd finally made an appearance. Jinn -- if that's who he was, no one in town would even talk about the situation -- was certainly a striking man. Very tall, if his ghost was a true representation, and quite handsome in an imposing way. It was fascinating how he seemed to be able to control the thunderclaps Ben heard in the storm, which was long past.

He'd read about the Jedi in his history books. In fact, most of his collection (both in bound and electronic form) consisted of history, which was his favorite subject; he was certain he'd brought something with him that dealt with the old Order. While his dinner simmered, he went upstairs to root around in the trunk which contained his most precious possessions, his rarest history books. Sure enough, there was a tome dedicated to the rise and fall of the Jedi on Coruscant. While he knew it was too much for one sitting, he still propped it open on a handy trivet and read while he ate.

By the time he finished his dinner (which by then had grown cold), he'd made a serious dent in the book and decided to take it upstairs with him. The huge claw-footed tub looked too inviting to pass up and he knew his muscles -- twinging after so much unaccustomed work -- would appreciate it. Once clean, he padded to his bed without bothering to dress, and read himself to sleep.

The last thing he remembered was seeing a reference to a reasonably-famous Jedi from the end of days named Qui-Gon Jinn. He wondered if it was his ghost or if they were related.

He was used to doing things slowly. After all, he was dead, and while he didn't think he slept, he knew his consciousness could be a fleeting thing unless he exercised continuous attention. He'd followed Kenobi around, supremely surprised when the little twit turned out to have books of his own -- real, bound books! -- and watched as Kenobi chose one to read with dinner. The title of the book further startled him; why would Kenobi be reading about the Jedi? They were almost extinct in his time, they must be all gone by now.

The thought filled him with sadness. He'd hunted for the spirits of his friends and colleagues after he'd died but had never found any of them. He seemed to be the only one in the Force who had managed to hold on to his identity and he hadn't wanted to! It just seemed to happen and now, he was stuck with himself and his situation. He didn't have to like it, and he didn't, and he would make damn sure Kenobi wouldn't like it either.

Still, the man was certainly compelling. Watching a naked, damp Kenobi walk from the tub to his bed was enough to make even a ghost take pause.

Ben hadn't slept so well in what seemed like years. There was always someone around where he used to live; if not in the house or apartment, then right outside, on the street, under the glare of lights. On the island it was dark and quiet, the sound of the surf from below the cliff a pleasant white noise he could easily sleep through.

The storm of the day before had left the ground very soft and Ben decided to postpone the foyer cleaning in order to get the garden tilled and the plants he'd purchased in.

And there was another thing -- in the city, he would never have used his hands this much. Cleaning delicate things could be left to a housedroid who was far more careful than a human. While he'd had the option of a small plot in a community garden, it had held no allure for him. The community gardens were more a social club than something to use and most grew merely flowers. On the island, he could (and did) grow corn, as well as beans and tomatoes and many other vegetables and fruits.

By noon, he had the garden tilled and a good portion of the plants in. He'd been surprised but pleased to find carrots and onions still growing, almost feral. Up against the wall, under a kitchen window, he'd found a plant filled with prickles he'd first taken to be a weed. After further examination, however, he determined it to be a blackberry shrub, and he carefully cut it back and fertilized it.

He was a sweaty, smelly mess by lunch but pleased with his progress. Shedding his boots by the kitchen door so as not to dirty up his kitchen, he was surprised to find his ghost standing in the middle of the room, arms akimbo. "Well, hello again!" Ben said, moving to the sink to wash his hands. "You vanished so quickly yesterday that I never even got your name."

"Why are you still here?" the ghost demanded, scowling.

From far off, Ben heard a warning rumble of thunder. "Now, now, don't go tearing up the plants I just put in, please. I worked hard on that garden." After drying his hands, Ben went to the coldbox and got an apple. "Though I'd love to know how you manage to control the weather like that." He leaned back on the counter and took a big bite of his fruit, watching his ghost.

"I asked you a question!"

Ben sighed and swallowed. "I think we've been over this. I'm not leaving. I'm the legal owner of this place and I happen to like it here." He smiled as he ran his hands over the cold, smooth stone of the countertop. "It's quiet and peaceful and really quite beautiful. Those books in the basement, were they yours?"

The ghost seemed taken aback by the sudden question and answered. "Yes, they're mine... like the house is mine!"

"Ah. Then you must be Qui-Gon Jinn. I found an imprint with those initials in the first book."

Obviously flustered, the ghost of Qui-Gon Jinn faded from view. Ben sighed and went back to the coldbox to find himself something else to eat for lunch.

A name.

He had a name.

He was Qui-Gon Jinn.

In the master bedroom there was a large, overstuffed chair that was situated directly before one of the deeply-set windows overlooking the ocean. He remembered now, remembered how he used to love sitting in the chair, watching the clouds, the storms, the contrails of stratojumpers on their way north or east or west. He used to have a telescope and he'd sometimes take it to the roof to stargaze.

He remembered the Temple in the capital, remembered how big it was and how busy and how peaceful it had been. He remembered going to other worlds, remembered missions where he negotiated treaties, where he fought for the rights of others. He remembered how he was one of the last of the Jedi, an office, a tradition no one needed any longer in the days of peace. He remembered retiring and returning to the island, to his ancestral home, to live out the remainder of his life. And he remembered the Force.

Why hadn't he remembered before? He thought he had remembered, but it had been... suppressed, somehow. Could he have forgotten his own name since no one spoke it anymore? That was absurd. But perhaps... logical. How had he died? Why was he still an entity and not dispersed throughout the Force?

Looking down at his hands, he realized he could very nearly see right through them to the floor beneath and that they were tinged with the blue nimbus of a Force ghost. He was a ghost. He was dead.

Kenobi was right. He owned nothing any longer.

It must have been the next day when Qui-Gon finally materialized again. Kenobi was on his knees in the foyer, blotched with paint and armed with spackle, cleaning fluid and a handheld sander, fixing a gouge in the plaster. Qui-Gon waited until Kenobi looked up.

"Oh! You're back."

"It is my preference to be left alone," Qui-Gon said, though it wasn't what he had intended to say. "But you're right, I own nothing any longer. While I would also prefer to make your life miserable until you finally moved in disgust, something tells me it might not work." The Force told him that, actually, though there was no reason to tell Kenobi.

Kenobi's smile was sad. "I like it here, Qui-Gon. May I call you Qui-Gon?" When he didn't get a reply, he sighed. "There's no reason for us to be enemies. I recognize this must have been your home for some time -- why else would you haunt it? Can't we share space? I swear I'm not an intrusive person. I mostly just want to be left alone."

Well, that didn't seem normal. Why would a young man like Kenobi want to spend all his days as a hermit on the island? "This is the place for it. For being alone, I mean. Which is how I'd rather be."

With that, Qui-Gon simply vanished. He heard Kenobi sigh and get back to work.

If he absolutely had to have a roommate, one that was a ghost was probably the best kind to have, especially for one as solitary as he was. Ben spent the next few weeks happily exploring, cleaning and repairing his new home, until it gleamed. Sometimes, he'd feel a prickle on the back of his neck and if he turned quickly enough, he'd see Qui-Gon just fade from view. But the ghost didn't speak, merely glowered in silence.

Before he knew it, a month had passed and he realized he'd need to go into town to refresh his groceries. Ben took his battered, third-hand speeder out of the shed attached to the east wing and set off early one morning, mentally counting his money supply and wondering if he should try to get something like a dataset, at least for sending out manuscripts and queries. Assuming, of course, he ever got around to writing.

While he had been working, summer had come to the island. The rocky hillsides were green and violet with heather, and while it never could be considered a tropical climate, the air was warm enough for him to put all his windows down and enjoy the breeze. He resolved to open all the windows back at the house when he returned to catch the mildness. The place could use a little airing out, especially after his painting work.

In the town, he turned out to be quite a miracle. Apparently, when no one heard from him they just assumed he'd left. For him to turn up, whole, hale and hearty and looking for groceries a month after moving into the haunted house... well. Ben found himself amused by the looks of disbelief on the face of everyone he passed.

The lady at the general store gave him a surprised but pleased look when he walked in. "So, you're back."

"Yes, I am." Ben smiled at her and was pleased when she smiled back. "I've got a list, and I've got the tiller in the back of my speeder. Thank you for that, and can you tell me how much I owe you for the rental?"

She waved him off. "No charge, young man. Seems you're going to be here for a while, so I figure it was worth the loan. Now. What do you need?"

Ben spent several pleasant hours with the woman, Mrs. Beckham. During the course of their conversation, he discovered she was the widow of Mr. Beckham, who had been a native of the island, but she was not a native, even though she'd come to think of herself as being so. She had a son, a very handsome son if she did say so herself, who was presently at university in the capital. Ben was introduced to every person who walked into the store (and there were a suspicious amount of visitors seeing it was the middle of the morning in the middle of the week) and given advice on how to grow certain things and what he could and couldn't plant outside. Older men, gnarled and weatherbeaten, gave him suspicious looks while two young girls flirted with him.

It wasn't until he was just about ready to go that he brought up the subject of his ghost. He had a sneaking suspicion that Mrs. Beckham was simply dying to ask but wouldn't, her sense of propriety holding her back. As he loaded the last of the boxes in his speeder, he bade her goodbye until next month. "Oh, and by the way," he said, trying hard to control the grin that wanted to break through, "Mr. Jinn is fine and while I'm sure he wouldn't send his regards, I do it in his stead. He's a most pleasant landlord, I've found."

Leaving her gaping, he let the door close gently behind him and headed back home.

Now that the house was largely in order, Ben turned to unpacking some of the things he'd brought with him. He also started decanting the books he'd found in the basement, lovingly examining them for damage while brushing off non-existent dust and placing them on the bookshelves. His favorites went into his bedroom while most of the others went into the sitting room. He found a place for his reader on the huge, antique desk in the west wing's den, which held ample compartments for his files. To his surprise, there was an equally antique dataset in the desk, though it wasn't connected to the worldnet. That and his reader was all he needed to begin writing.

Of course, now that he had time to write, he couldn't.

He'd originally thought the sitting room would be his favorite room, but after tackling the den one week (he had intended on taking only a day, but every drawer he opened revealed a new and exciting thing to examine) he had come to the conclusion that was where he would prefer to stay. There was a fireplace in the room, and the windows looked north, west and south for maximum light so it was also where he put his indoor plants. They flourished there, adding warmth and color to the room.

He'd often surprise his ghost, Qui-Gon, standing at one of the windows in the den. Every time he'd try to begin a conversation, the ghost would disappear without speaking. Finally, he just stopped talking, even if he saw Qui-Gon. While he would love to be able to learn about his ghost, he was in no hurry.

One bright afternoon, he had all the windows open to the freshening breeze from the Southron Sea and was watering the plants in the den, humming tunelessly to himself. When he realized what he was doing, he chuckled then muttered, completely to himself, "I must find a way to turn on that music system, somehow. I'm sure the plants would enjoy music that actually carried a tune."

"The controls are in the dataset."

The voice startled him enough that he almost over-watered the miniature orange. When he turned, he found Qui-Gon standing in front of the window, ignoring him. "I always suspected my singing voice was pretty bad. I guess that confirms it!" With another chuckle, he went back to watering and plucking off dead leaves.

"It's not bad. Not very good, but I've heard worse."

"Really? Do..." Ben turned back as he spoke but Qui-Gon was gone, yet again. He shook his head with a sigh and went to find the controls for the music system.

It didn't take him long. Shortly the house was filled with the classical music he'd always loved, since his own recordings were compatible with the ancient dataset's system. He found he could program the music to be in certain rooms at certain times, and could even program it to wake him in the morning. The house never ceased to astound him and he was more sure than ever that it was the place for him to be.

Some of the music files already loaded in the dataset were new to him. They turned out to be an eclectic assortment; most were classical or some variant but some were loud and oddly tuneless, with only a driving beat making them actual music. One or two of them gave him an instant headache and he decided to mark them as Do Not Ever Play in his head.

Having the house filled with quiet, beautiful music put the cap on homeownership as far as Ben was concerned. When he wanted silence, he could easily turn it off, but it seemed to be a perfect counterpoint to his life. Having grown up in a crowded, messy home, the clean lines and fresh air and peace fit him perfectly and he soon wondered how he ever had managed to cope without them.

He even had company, if he could call his ghost that. Qui-Gon seemed to be around more, or perhaps he was always there but not visible; whatever it was, Ben found himself glad for his quiet presence. Occasionally Qui-Gon would even do something for him -- once, Ben was certain he'd left a window in the den open overnight and feared to check his potted plants, as there'd been a cold breeze off the ocean. But when he got to the den, the window was closed.

Once, he'd been sitting at the dataset attempting to avoid writing by setting up a musical program for the day. He accidentally stumbled upon one the pieces he'd meant to avoid and winced as he immediately turned it off. "Really must delete that," he muttered as he went to the next piece.

"I'll have you know that's the very finest in techjizz," an annoyed voice said.

Ben looked up to find Qui-Gon frowning down at him. "You mean you actually listened to that stuff?"

"As I said, 'that stuff' is a period piece and considered one of the finest compositions of its time." Qui-Gon crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Don't you dare delete it."

"It's random noise!" Ben said. "The only thing that marks it as music is a tempo and the fact that at least one instrument -- though I hardly know I'd classify that as an instrument since it sounds more like metal bins clanking together -- is used in the recording. I'd much prefer something quieter with an actual melody." Qui-Gon opened his mouth to object but Ben continued. "And exactly what 'period' are we talking about here? A millennia ago?"

"I beg your pardon," Qui-Gon said frostily. "The composer of that particular piece wasn't a contemporary of mine, but he lived only about fifty years before I was born. It's hardly archaic."

"Qui-Gon, you've been dead for close to two hundred years," Ben said, rolling his eyes.

The expected retort from his ghost did not come. Instead, Qui-Gon looked shocked and saddened. "Has it really been that long?" he murmured.

Instantly contrite, unhappy at the stricken look on Qui-Gon's face, Ben backpedaled. "Near as I can tell... I'm sorry. That was rude of me. I suppose I thought you knew. You didn't?"

Qui-Gon moved to the window, which was open slightly to let the salt-laden breeze in. When he spoke, his voice was little more than the breeze itself. "On some level... I must have known. It's just... time moves differently for me, I think, now."

"I imagine it must," Ben said, his voice gentle. He stood and moved to stand beside his ghost, absently wishing he could touch Qui-Gon. "Why are you here, Qui-Gon? Not that I object to your presence, I just wonder why you've chosen to stay on. Surely there's something else waiting for you? Something or someone better, perhaps?"

Qui-Gon was silent for so long Ben wondered if he'd offended again, somehow. "Chosen?" he finally said, his voice still soft and far away. "No, I've not chosen anything. I don't clearly remember what happened. One moment I was sitting in my favorite chair upstairs watching a storm and the next, there were strange people in my house, doing things to it. I didn't want them there and said so, but my presence utterly terrified them." Qui-Gon linked his hands together behind his back. "It wasn't until some time later that I realized I was no longer corporeal."

How very strange. Ben knew little about the Jedi; they were far before his time. The book he'd read led him to believe they had been a quasi-religious order whose mandate of bringing peace to the worlds had been accomplished, rendering them happily obsolete. But if they had been religious... "I find I'm curious then, if you don't mind. Isn't there a heaven for you to go to?"

"Heaven?" Qui-Gon gave him another frown. "I don't know. I never really believed in such. I've looked for my friends, though, and haven't found them." He turned back to the view. "Perhaps I've been searching the wrong way. But, in answer to your question, no, none that I'm aware of. The Force seems to be empty save for me, for some reason. I have the feeling that I could, maybe..."

He seemed so sadly confused that Ben wished, once again, he could touch Qui-Gon, help him in some way. Finally Ben simply had to speak. "You'll always be welcome in your own home, Qui-Gon. Even if you have no say in whether to stay or go, I would be glad of the company."

Qui-Gon half turned again to look at him. As he vanished, he left his puzzled frown behind.

If someone had to purchase the old place, Kenobi was a reasonable choice. He wasn't completely moronic and, save for his taste in music, was an almost pleasant person. He liked keeping things clean, if not neat, and seemed to have a green thumb. It was nice to have growing things in the house again.

Quite suddenly, the days seemed to be passing at a normal rate for Qui-Gon. It was almost as though Kenobi were anchoring him to the material plane, which made Qui-Gon wonder if he would have, eventually, just faded away. The thought was vaguely troubling. True, he didn't actually want to be a ghost, but the thought of oblivion wasn't very pleasant at all. If only he could figure out why he was hanging about...

It was the little things Kenobi did that gave Qui-Gon a sense of place. The plants, the cleaning and painting, the week he spent refinishing the floor in the foyer, the music. The books. Those were the most important things. Qui-Gon had been very fond of real, bound books and was surprised to find someone so much younger than him shared that passion.

He could touch things again. When Kenobi had idiotically left the window in the den open one evening, he'd managed to close it before the plants had been affected. It still took a tremendous effort to affect any inanimate object, large or small. But closing the window came almost easily, once he'd given up actually trying. The secret seemed to be to just do it, not to think about it, but to simply reach out and do, just as he had when he had been alive. Perhaps it was merely his Force sensitivity doing it for him, he couldn't be sure.

There was one way to test it: the music files. Kenobi had shown a remarkable lack of taste to spurn his techjizz recordings, but there had been others he'd loved as much if not more. Early one morning he sat at the desk and tried to clear his thoughts, to just be in the moment and reach his ghostly will to the music controls. It took him a couple of tries before he had it, but then the pure, clear notes fell like gentle rain.

Kenobi, who had been in the kitchen eating his breakfast, came into the den once the music started. His face had a strange half-smile on it. "Is that a hammered dulcimer?"

Pleased that his 'roommate' would recognize the sound, Qui-Gon inclined his head. "I'd always wanted to learn to play that instrument," he murmured around a smile. "Never had the time."

"It's a lovely piece. Are there others?"

There were indeed. Kenobi played them all while sitting at the dataset, trying to write something and apparently failing. After several hours and the fifth or sixth muttered curse while backspacing, Qui-Gon couldn't stand it any longer. "What the hell are you trying to do?" he asked gruffly.

Kenobi pounded the heel of one hand against his forehead. "I'm trying to write," he said, his mocking tone annoyingly self-deprecating. "And obviously failing. Why did I think this would be easy?"

"What, writing? Who are you writing to?"

"Not who, what. I thought..." The words faded from his mouth and he sighed. "I thought perhaps I could make a go of professional writing, that I could earn my keep that way." He sighed again and leaned back in the chair. "I need to do something. I think I've got enough money for the rest of the year -- after that, well, I'm not too keen on eating turnips and squash every day nor burning the furniture for heat."

"I should say not!" Qui-Gon said, affronted. "Most of these pieces are far older than I am."

"I know, I know, it was hyperbole." Kenobi leaned back in his chair and examined the ceiling. "I wonder if they need an extra hand with the fishing boats? Or perhaps a lifeguard?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Are you that bad off?"

"Oh, I don't know... I might be able to stretch what I have if the garden comes in well. Then again, if it doesn't I might starve this winter and join you in haunting our home." Kenobi's voice was glum and incredibly irritating, and Qui-Gon decided he just didn't want to hear it any longer, so he faded out.

But the boy's dilemma continued to prey on his mind. Kenobi clearly had money because Qui-Gon suspected he'd bought the house outright rather than mortgaging it. So what was it, an inheritance that was running out or something else? And why was the blasted man here in the first place?

Kenobi was eating dinner while reading when Qui-Gon reappeared. "If you have so little money, why are you even here?"

Blinking up at him, Kenobi swallowed his mouthful before speaking. "For the solitude," he said. "For the peace and quiet. I told you that. I was just hoping to be able to earn a living by now. I don't want to leave."

"Well then, earn a living another way. What was your job before you came here?"

"I didn't have one." Kenobi put his eyes back on his book and his fork back in his mouth, leaving Qui-Gon nonplussed.

The next morning, Kenobi was sitting at the dataset again when Qui-Gon materialized. "If you've never  had a job, how were you able to afford coming here and buying my house?"

With a sigh, Kenobi looked up. "It's a long story. Suffice it to say the money I've spent so far and what I have left is... well..." He sighed again. "Call it an inheritance. Family money that came to me despite... despite anything else." With a determined look on his face, he turned back to the dataset and started beating out words.

There was definitely more here than met the eye, Qui-Gon thought. "Very well then, what are you trying to write? Because you're obviously not succeeding very well."

Kenobi looked up at Qui-Gon again, clear irritation on his face. "Thank you so much for that assessment," he said. "I'm trying to write a history book, if you must know. Based on the ancient Sith Wars. But I'm having a hard time trying to narrow a timeframe, not to mention a voice to use."

"Then don't write a history book," Qui-Gon said. "Apparently, you can't. Plus a history tome would require far more research than what you would get on the worldnet. I'm not even certain the Temple would have any more data than what's available. Write fiction instead."

"Fiction?" Kenobi rubbed his forehead as if it pained him. "Oh, yes, that would be so much easier. Pray tell, on what would I base a fiction story?"

Looking down, feeling oddly embarrassed, Qui-Gon said, "You could always write my life story. No one would believe it to be fact since... since I've apparently been dead for more than a century."

There was silence in the room for a while before Qui-Gon looked up. He saw Kenobi gaping at him. "Your life story? You wouldn't object to that?"

"I wouldn't have offered if I had now, would I?" Force, but the man could be obtuse. "There's obviously not enough written about the last of the Jedi or else you'd know more about us." He glanced at Kenobi for confirmation.

Kenobi was nodding, a thoughtful look on his face. "That's true. The Jedi are gone into legend now, just left as stories." His brow furrowed. "What little I know about your order I've gleaned from very old texts or children's stories on how Jedi lived. You know, things like coming to scare you if you were bad, or fighting off monsters with a glowing sword, or even taking over another's body." He looked up sharply. "Apparently that last is not true... is it?"

It was Qui-Gon's turn to gape. He opened his mouth and closed it, trying to think of the right terms to use. Finally, he said, "Well, no, not really, I mean, the Force allows us to do many things. But to move into another's body... that would be..." Damned alluring, actually, though Qui-Gon didn't say so. "Dark. It would be evil, coming from the Dark Side."

"So it is possible. Just not very probable?"

"Well... I... Look. Do you want to write my story or not?"

"I do, I do... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound ungrateful, but you just took me by surprise." Kenobi looked down at the dataset. "And it does sound better than hauling nets or gutting fish."

"They don't do that anymore," Qui-Gon said archly. "It was all automated in my time and I'm sure the restrictions are even more stringent now."

Kenobi rolled his eyes heavenward. "I can take a hint."

Ben was absolutely flabbergasted when Qui-Gon suggested he write the story of the last Jedi, which was immediately how Ben pictured the book. Qui-Gon had not been the most forthcoming of ghosts -- all right, it wasn't as though Ben had met many ghosts, but still. He knew it would require Qui-Gon to actually speak to him, on a daily basis, rather than just mope around the house as he had been doing.

Before even beginning such a task, Ben knew he'd have to get a feel for how the story would start and what the middle and the end might be like. In order to do that, of course, he'd have to learn more about Qui-Gon. So he took out his datapad and stylus and began to ask Qui-Gon questions, letting Qui-Gon ramble where he would.

It was fascinating stuff. Once Ben figured out to just be quiet and let Qui-Gon ramble in memories, he found himself taking so many notes his datapad filled up and he had to put another chip in. Qui-Gon had been everywhere, on-planet and off-planet, had dealt with kings and queens, ministers and representatives, politicians of all stripe.

In his day, though, the Jedi Order was slowly dying. Qui-Gon talked about a weakening in the Force (something Ben still didn't understand completely but which he promised himself to research) and fewer problems requiring their help. When Qui-Gon was just shy of sixty years, the last members of the Jedi Temple in the capital had been dismissed and the place turned into a museum, then later into an enormous palace of entertainment, knowledge and learning. Qui-Gon had returned to his ancestral home, content to live out his pension in peace and quiet.

"You didn't have a family?" The question popped out and Qui-Gon looked vaguely surprised.

"No, attachments were forbidden the Jedi," he replied. Ben thought he heard a note of wistfulness there but wasn't sure. "We made a commitment to the Order when we joined it; families would only get in the way of our usefulness. I was an only child and my parents were long since deceased. I believe I might have a few distant cousins somewhere, but no, I had no spouse or children."

Ben lost himself in the image that created -- how much happier he would have been had he been raised in a smaller family, one with fewer rules and restrictions and more love. It sounded wonderful.

After a few days of talking, Ben realized it was time to make his monthly trip into town for supplies. He mentioned that to Qui-Gon, asking the half-serious, half-silly question whether Qui-Gon wanted anything. To his surprise, Qui-Gon took him seriously.

"The only thing I want you to get is everything you need," he said quietly. "Come in here."

Ben followed his ghost into the den, then sat at the big desk when Qui-Gon asked him to. "Put your fingers under the desk, yes, like that, only hold on to the top of the desk with your thumb. Feel with your fingers... you should feel a slight indentation. Press it."

Mystified, Ben did so, and heard a solid click. "What...?"

"Open the drawer on the side where you pressed," Qui-Gon said.

When Ben did, he found a secret compartment built into the face of the drawer. It was partially open, and Ben could see where he could pull it down towards the base of the drawer. There was something shiny within, and when Ben reached out to touch he found it was coins. Heavy, silver-colored coins. "What on..."

"They're platinum. My great-great-grandfather, who built this desk and most of the house, was quite the miser and very paranoid. He made sure he always had enough 'real' money around, just in case." Qui-Gon looked away when Ben gaped up at him. "Since you're now the owner of the house, they're yours. There should be plenty to keep you in supplies until you reach your goal of self-sufficiency."

"Qui-Gon, I can't take..."

"Yes, you can." Qui-Gon's voice carried a hint of irritation, one Ben had come to recognize as the way Qui-Gon deflected emotion. "As I've said, the house is yours, so they're yours as well. You have to eat, Benjamin. I really don't fancy having to hang around you as a ghost for all eternity."

With that, Qui-Gon vanished, leaving Ben astonished.

Mrs. Beckham was pleased to see him; he could tell in the way she smiled at him. But he could also tell he wasn't going to get off the hook with any mysterious statements, either. He just hoped he could deflect her curiosity about his past -- he didn't really want to discuss his family with anyone.

"So, you're back again," she greeted him as he walked into her shop.

"Yes, back again," he replied with a smile. "With a list of supplies needed and a question -- are you hooked to the worldnet? I need to send a message to the capital."

"Yes, of course I am... you're not?"

"No, don't have to and really don't want to. Though... I may be using you as an intermediary more. I'm writing, well, trying to write, and may be sending off messages to an agent and publisher soon."

Her eyes lit up as he said 'writing' and Ben groaned internally. "Ah, so that's what you're doing here. I'm told writing is a solitary endeavor."

Ben smiled ruefully. "Yes, it is, and I think this place is perfect for it. Now, let me run through my list and give you a message to send..."

There weren't as many 'drop ins' as his last time, so Ben figured his status as a seven-day-wonder had passed, thankfully. Though Mrs. Beckham did grill him about his ghost, Ben suspected it was more a case of her trying to decide if the ghost was real or if Ben were crazy. Or both. He gave her half-answers and just smiled when she got a bit too close to the truth. In doing so, he realized he had his own mixed feelings about being around Qui-Gon, but set them aside for further contemplation later. Much later.

As usual, his visit took up most of the day. Mrs. Beckham was surprised when he gave her a platinum coin, explaining it was one of a small 'inheritance' he'd received from a collection he felt no attachment to. She was an honest soul, and he knew she wouldn't pass word around of the coins, not that he'd have to worry about thievery. Since she had regular commerce with the mainland, she took the coin in earnest of what he owed and said she'd let him know how much it brought the next time he came in. Since he was expecting a delivery before his next supply run, he asked her to send word to the house for him.

He returned in the middle of the afternoon. It looked as though there were another storm brewing as he unloaded his speeder; dark purple clouds were massing in the northwest, the direction most storms came from, and the temperature was dropping. He'd already been through several storms, and had been told by Mrs. Beckham that they were much worse in the winter.

When he walked into the kitchen, carrying the first of the four large boxes, he found Qui-Gon waiting for him. "You'll need to close the windows in the den," Qui-Gon said. "There's a storm coming."

"Yes, I saw," Ben replied. "Let me unload the rest of this and put the speeder away."

Qui-Gon kept hovering, as if he wanted to help. Several times, Ben had to bite his tongue to keep from asking for that help... Qui-Gon was becoming more and more real to him, especially after their talks about his life as a Jedi. Ben managed to get the speeder unloaded and put away before the storm broke; he hurried to the den and closed the windows just as the first big gust of wind hit. The miniature orange wasn't looking too happy, so he made a mental note to give it more fertilizer and to light a fire in the den's fireplace to add warmth.

Reappearing as Ben went back to the kitchen, Qui-Gon said, "I've checked and there were no other open windows."

Ben blinked but tried to keep the surprise off his face. "Thank you." He put the things which needed refrigeration in the coldbox then carefully lifted out a smaller box. "I'll put this in the den," he muttered, stepping around Qui-Gon with an absent, "excuse me."

"What's that?" Qui-Gon asked. He'd followed Ben to the den.

Opening the box, Ben took out the smaller pieces. "It's a chess set. I'd fallen in love with it the last time I was there, but couldn't afford it." He gave Qui-Gon a slanted look. "I thought we could play. Since it was technically your money that bought it, and all."

"I haven't played chess in years," Qui-Gon said, watching Ben set up the board and pieces.

The board was carved from heavy wood inlaid with lighter or darker strips; the grain going one way or the other in each square of the board. The pieces featured fantastic animals and people -- the black king was a dark sorcerer and the white king a robed magician. The knights were dragons and the pawns dwarves.

"It's exquisite," Qui-Gon murmured. "Hand carved?"

"Yes, it looks so. I think the artisan lives on the island and probably feeds the mainland at exorbitant prices. This set was covered with dust so I'm sure it had been there a while." Putting the last piece on the board, Ben looked up at Qui-Gon. "Would you care for a game?"

Qui-Gon gave him an almost surprised look. "Yes. I'd like that."

Benjamin Kenobi played chess well. He was a careful and thoughtful strategist and Qui-Gon found himself remembering tactics from years and years before, when he had been a young padawan in the Temple and first learned to play chess. He ended up losing, though it was close. As he tipped his king over, a loud grumbling came from his opponent's stomach and they both laughed.

"Perhaps it's time I made some dinner!" Kenobi said, rising. He started to add something, but censored himself with a smile.

Qui-Gon didn't follow him. Instead, he sat, staring at the board, contemplating strategy and games and life and death. He wondered for the millionth time why he was still here, why he was still whole and conscious and hadn't, in fact, moved on.

Assuming, of course, there was someplace else for him to move on to. At times, he suspected there was; at times, he thought he felt a tug from somewhere out on the great Southron Sea. But it wasn't a familiar feeling and it always passed.

There was a great rattling of pots and a loud, tuneless humming coming from the kitchen, and Qui-Gon smiled. Benjamin had become far less an annoyance and more a... a what, he didn't know. More than a simple roommate. A companion? A friend? Or more than that?

Closing his eyes, Qui-Gon slumped. There could be no 'more than that.' Qui-Gon was dead and Benjamin Kenobi was quite thoroughly alive.

Qui-Gon stayed in the den while Benjamin made himself some dinner and ate it. After eating, Ben returned to the den and sat at the dataset.

"I think I've got enough of an idea about the story that I can do an outline," Benjamin said absently, calling up a file. "If I can get that done tonight, perhaps you can look at it and give me some suggestions in the morning?"

Qui-Gon nodded absently. The storm was still raging outside, the rain coming down in sheets against the glass. These wild storms were one of the reasons why he'd come to love living on the island; they were strong and powerful and he could almost feel the Force gathering around him as the static cloud from the lightning struck the house's grounding rods.

"Qui-Gon?"

He turned to find Benjamin staring at him. "Yes?"

"I asked if you could look at the outline." Benjamin frowned. "Is anything wrong?"

"No, I'm sorry. I was thinking of something else." Qui-Gon turned his back on the storm and moved back into his half a life, wondering what he was missing.

They quickly fell into a pleasant routine. In the morning, they would talk and Ben would take notes. In the afternoon, he'd write a few pages and then work in the garden or they would play chess. Ben was used to rising early and often went running on the road to his house or along the cliff when the weather permitted. When it didn't, he'd do something else -- isometric or aerobic. The basement had more than enough room for a good workout and he began contemplating putting some sort of equipment there. He enjoyed keeping fit and was usually contained within himself when engaged in it; he'd often thought it a form of meditation.

Several times as he exercised he became remotely aware of Qui-Gon watching him. Once, he'd caught the saddest expression on Qui-Gon's face he'd ever seen and it bothered him profoundly. He didn't ask about it, though; their friendship was developing but there were still areas where he felt Qui-Gon would rebuff him. Despite being dead, Qui-Gon was still a very private person.

One afternoon he stopped tapping on the dataset and looked up at Qui-Gon, who was in his customary spot by the window in the den, staring at the world outside. It was a blustery day with clouds scudding across the sun and Ben thought it was the harbinger of autumn -- summer on the island was fleeting, three months if they were lucky. Much of his garden had already gone to seed and in another month, Ben knew he'd have to borrow the tiller from Mrs. Beckham to prepare it for the long sleep.

"Qui-Gon," he began tentatively, worried this might be an issue, "tell me of the Force? You've used the word so much in our talks, but I don't think I really understand it."

His ghost had turned when he began to speak and was regarding him gravely. "They don't teach about the Force any longer, do they?" he asked quietly.

"Not that I'm aware, no," Ben replied. With a grimace, he continued. "Though I had a rather... insular upbringing."

Qui-Gon frowned and began to say something, but then clearly changed his mind. He walked to their chess set and sat down on the white side, looking at the board before speaking. "The Force is... well, think of it as the energy which binds us all, which touches us all. Which resides in all of us. It is the driving force of the universe, of all life."

"It controls our actions?" Ben asked, still frowning.

"To an extent, though some would say we control it. But use of the Force can be for good or ill, Light or Dark. It depends upon one's motivations."

Ben stood and walked to their table, taking a seat opposite Qui-Gon. "In the stories you've told me, it almost seemed that you controlled the Force and used it to control the actions of others -- how they would think, what they would do. Is that an accurate assessment?"

To his surprise, Qui-Gon looked up and chuckled. "That was the most carefully worded question I think I've ever heard. Benjamin, you were born to be a politician."

Ben's pleasure at hearing Qui-Gon's laugh was shadowed by his confusion. "What... you've called me that before, I think," he said with a puzzled frown, "haven't you?"

"What, your name? That is your name, you told me when we first met."

Ah. Ben looked down at the pieces in embarrassment. "Well, no. Not... really." He closed his eyes and behind his lids saw the stern visage of his father. "Ben is... my, well, we call it a 'milk-name.' A childhood name, usually derived from our... our adult name." He swallowed hard. "The name given me by my... my father, is Obi-Wan."

After a long silence, Ben risked a glance up. Qui-Gon's face was suffused with sadness and compassion. "You've never mentioned your family except in round-about ways. You're here to escape them, aren't you?"

The question was gentle and Ben had to look away again. "That's a... well. Not completely, but yes. In a manner of speaking."

Qui-Gon slid a pawn forward two squares. "If you'd like to talk about it, I'm able to listen. I don't think I've got a thing on my calendar for weeks, in fact."

Surprising himself, Ben laughed. He slid out a black pawn to match Qui-Gon's move. "There's not really that much to tell. My... family is a powerful one. I'm the eldest son, the heir, so I'm expected to take a wife and produce many more little Kenobis. Unfortunately, my proclivities don't mesh well with that expectation."

A white knight wobbled then managed to leap over a pawn. Ben righted it to the proper square when it fell. "Thank you," Qui-Gon murmured. "As a Jedi, my only family were other Jedi. I do have some vague memories of living with my parents before being chosen for the Temple. This house was a surprise, though; I knew about it, but had never visited before I retired."

"Families can be difficult," Ben said. He took a shaky breath, calming himself, before meeting Qui-Gon's move with one of his own. "I imagine that's why the Jedi had a 'no attachments' rule."

"In part, yes. You were asking about the Force at the beginning of our conversation, and I would say you are very Force-sensitive. I imagine your midi-chlorian count is quite high." He moved another piece and Ben knew he was setting up to castle. He had become familiar with Qui-Gon's strategies over the last week or so.

"Midi-chlorians?" Ben blinked in confusion. "Don't you mean mitochondria?"

"No, mitochondria are completely different. Midi-chlorians are the Force's way of controlling Force acuity. Like mitochondria, they live in the blood stream but there are no farandolae in midi-chlorians and they have a far more serious effect on the pituitary gland." Ben moved as Qui-Gon spoke; Qui-Gon frowned down at the new configuration.

Ben spoke slowly, trying to understand Qui-Gon's words. Biology had never been his strong suit. "So if you have a high midi-chlorian count, your Force strength would be higher?"

"Essentially, yes." Qui-Gon slid his bishop out. "It used to be that everyone's midi-chlorian level was tested upon birth and the strongest were sent to the Temple for training."

"Ah, that explains it then." At Qui-Gon's puzzled look, Ben elaborated. "You've mentioned children going to the Temple for training, but I never really understood the mechanics of such a thing, why some were chosen and some weren't."

"It's a shame," Qui-Gon murmured. "We basically put ourselves out of a job by bringing peace to the world, to our worlds. But I never understood why rampant peace would put the entire Order out of work. There were always other things for Jedi to do."

There was no real answer to that, as Ben found he agreed with Qui-Gon.

Roughly ten days after Benjamin's last visit to town, the landline rang shrilly, startling them both. Qui-Gon moved automatically to answer before remembering he could not; luckily, Benjamin did not notice his aborted movement. The result of the call had Benjamin going into town early, just beating out another late summer storm on his return. What he brought with him touched Qui-Gon profoundly.

"Is that a dulcimer?"

Benjamin had taken the large box directly to the dining room and set it up on the huge, unused dining room table. He was in the process of tuning it when Qui-Gon finally found his voice.

"Yes. It belonged to my mother," Benjamin replied absently. He was using a small tuning fork to get the strings to their proper tune. "She taught me how to play. It was the last thing I remember her teaching me, before she died."

Qui-Gon remained silent while Benjamin finished tuning the instrument, the work of a good half hour. When he was finally done, he pulled the two tiny hammers out of their resting place and lightly tapped out a scale. The tone of the dulcimer was both delicate and deep; the wood of the box must have been almost paper thin to produce such a delightfully bell-like sound.

He must have been happy with the tuning for Benjamin immediately played a hauntingly familiar air after the scale. Qui-Gon stood behind him, entranced, feeling the notes almost like feather-like touches upon his soul.

The song ended. Benjamin had a smile on his face that was half-sad as he caressed the wood of the sounding box. "That was incredible," Qui-Gon murmured. "Please, play another?"

Benjamin did. He played away the afternoon as the storm raged outside. He played until it was time for dinner, and then afterwards, he played some more. He found a better place for the dulcimer in the sitting room on a stand Qui-Gon remembered having seen in the basement. The beautiful music filled the house in a way the electronic sounds had been unable to, becoming an almost physical presence. Had Qui-Gon been capable of tears, they would have fallen as freely as the rain.

Finally, it was quite late and Benjamin carefully set the hammers aside. "I'm too tired to hit the right notes," he said with a contented smile.

"Thank you, Benjamin," Qui-Gon said from his heart. He'd been incapable of leaving the room while Benjamin had played; it was as if he were tied to the instrument somehow. He reached his hands out and tried to touch the strings, but the best he could manage was a soft sighing sound.

"I've always loved the sound of the dulcimer," Benjamin said, his voice not much louder than the sigh of Qui-Gon's fingers on the strings. "Mother used to play all the time, even before I was born. She said I kept her up nights while still inside her, and the only thing that made me quiet was her playing."

"You're a wonderful musician," Qui-Gon said quietly.

"I'm nowhere near as good as she was." Benjamin's voice was wistful. "She would have loved this house, this island. Sometimes..." He didn't finish. Instead, he stood and stretched, his bones cracking. "I need to go to bed. Goodnight, Qui-Gon. I'm glad you enjoyed my impromptu concert."

Qui-Gon stayed in the sitting room long after Benjamin was asleep, after the peat fire had died to embers. He kept trying to touch the dulcimer but never managed to achieve more than a sigh.

Autumn came in with a deceptive mildness that allowed Ben to put his garden to bed properly. When he returned the tiller to Mrs. Beckham, she warned him about the storms of winter.

"That's what the landline is for, young man," she said. "Sometimes we get alerted to wrecks, and your house, being on the windward side, would be first contact."

"Wrecks?" Ben was aghast. "What kind of wrecks? What kind of fool would be out on the Southron Sea in the winter?"

"Fools, yes, that's about right," she nodded. "Cargohovers occasionally get blown off-course because their controllers are idiots and never checked the weather." She snorted, showing her disdain for anyone not taking the weather seriously. "Every now and then, a private aircar gets trapped by a storm, or an occasional illegal cargohover. Best keep your oilskins handy and dry, now. If you want, I'll add you to the owners I alert of bad storms by the landline and make sure you've got enough coal -- there'll never be enough peat for the whole winter."

"That would be a kindness," Ben said, nodding. "So the winter storms are much worse?"

She gave him the fisheye. "Young man, you haven't seen anything yet. Mind you stock up on peat and coal, now. Even with your wind turbine, you'll find your powerpacks running out. That's what the coal is for."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied. "I'll make sure I have enough. I suppose I won't be able to make regular monthly runs, either."

"No, you'll not. Whenever the weather clears, come see me."

The deceptive mildness lasted almost a month and a half before the first storm hit. Ben thought it a cyclone until he realized he'd gotten no warning from Mrs. Beckham via the landline. He commented as much to Qui-Gon, who nodded.

"This is just a warm-up," his ghost said. "The real weather won't start for another month or so. It's quite remarkable it's held off this long."

No matter how he had been warned, the first big storm of winter hit him like a metric ton of plascrete. He woke in the middle of the night to a screaming sound that was terrifying, and realized why the windows were so inset -- the ocean breakers were actually lashing at the second story windows, all the way up the cliff face.

He was glad he'd put the storm shutters up as Qui-Gon had told him he must. If he hadn't, the windows on the first floor might have actually broken in as the fury of the storm hit.

It lasted four days. Ben had to check the storm shutters twice a day and checked that his wind turbine was lashed down properly. He was reminded of an acquaintance he had made at school, a young woman who had gone into meteorology. She'd talked about storms where the wind couldn't be clocked because it had blown every measuring instrument away. That's what his first storm felt like.

And it was nothing compared with what was coming. On the fifth day, Ben put on his slicker and boots and made a quick tour of the outside of the house, making sure everything was still nailed down in one way or another. The sky to the northwest was an ominous shade of deep, dark purple and he wondered if that were coming or going.

It was coming. By the end of the day, the landline had gone off and Mrs. Beckham was reporting a real cyclone was approaching. Despite knowing the house had lasted something like five centuries in its location, Ben was too nervous to sleep and prowled the downstairs restlessly, checking and re-checking the windows, doors and fireplaces. He'd gotten used to the howling of the storm and the sudden silence outside was absolutely unnerving.

"You might think about using the oil lanterns downstairs instead of powerpacks, Benjamin," Qui-Gon told him. "We... you may be stuck in here for a week or more. I usually just had the essential things running off powerpacks, such as the coldbox and the water-heater. There's plenty of oil downstairs. I can show you how to light the lamps."

"You're doing nothing for my peace of mind, Qui-Gon," Ben had retorted. "I've never experienced such storms as this. A big part of me wants to tuck my tail between my legs and run like mad for the mainland."

Qui-Gon laughed. "If my ghostly haunting couldn't frighten you why should you be concerned about a storm? Trust me, this house has weathered the worst."

The cyclone approached slowly. The wind picked up speed almost stealthily, until it was bellowing around the house, as if furious at the detour. Ben could barely hear himself speak, much less think, so he retreated to the sitting room to read by the light of an oil lamp. Though he knew the house was secure, he didn't want to go upstairs and ended up spending the first night of the cyclone in the sitting room, dozing, his feet kept warm by a coal fire. He and Qui-Gon contented themselves with hand signals instead of speech, preferring to not compete with the noise of the storm. Luckily, chess didn't require any speech and they played for hours, losing themselves in the game, a distraction from the furor outside.

The eye of the cyclone passed over the island. It was one of the few times Ben wished he had an uplink to the worldnet, so he could see the weather pattern and find out how big the storm actually was.

Finally, after nearly a week of horrible wind and rain, the tattered remains of the cyclone scurried off, leaving autumn in its wake. Ben woke to near-silence and a cold he could feel in his bones. A check outside confirmed the temperature had dropped like a stone in the after-effects of the cyclone, and there was frost on the rich soil of his sleeping garden.

The landline went off shortly after the storm passed; it was Mrs. Beckham looking for volunteers to help repair a home that had been damaged in the storm. Bulking up in layers, Ben drove into town to help and to get more supplies, amazed at the lack of change on the island. He almost thought most of it should have been blown away or drowned, but it seemed much as it ever was.

There were two more cyclones that season, each about as bad as the first. Qui-Gon told him that was pretty mild, as he remembered seasons where six or eight had hit. Ben found himself glad the weather had given him a break so he could work his way up to a truly horrible winter some other time. He was pleased enough as it was to have survived his first intact.

His first winter on the island. One of many to come, he knew. He felt he should somehow be saddened about that, about all he'd given up in order to live in splendid isolation, but he wasn't. There were people he missed, but the ones he didn't far outstripped them.

They celebrated the shortest day of the year with a truly spectacular brandy that had been put away by Qui-Gon himself, before he'd died. Ben only had one glass before the sadness of the situation overwhelmed him -- Qui-Gon would never be able to taste the brandy he'd purchased, would never be able to feel the cold of the wind or the touch of another human. He'd become a friend to Ben, a close, dear one, and every time Ben realized anew that Qui-Gon wasn't really there, Ben felt a deep ache inside himself. After his one glass, he re-sealed the bottle, preserving it and setting it aside, making the excuse that it would be even better the next year. Something in Qui-Gon's expression told him he wasn't convincing.

The year turned and turned again, and before Ben realized it, spring was nearing. He was able to go out running nearly one day a week and the sun was warming the ground nicely. The wind turbine recharged his powerpacks and he put the oil lamps away, making a mental note to purchase more oil to replace what he had used.

The book was substantially finished. At the first break in the weather, he'd sent a sample chapter out to three different agents, seeking any interest. To his surprise, all three responded, each offering a substantial contract in return for the book and any others like it. He chose the best and closed the secret compartment in the desk: he was self-sufficient, finally. Qui-Gon's warm, proud smile at his accomplishment was far more payment than any cash would ever be, though.

He spent the spring, then, editing the book and preparing his garden, more than ever contented with the new life he'd chosen for himself. By mid-summer, the edits were finished and the agent promised the book would be published within a month.

Ben returned to the house with that news, excited and happy to tell Qui-Gon. "They're going to release it in both e-form and as a real, bound book... a limited edition, naturally. There's even been interest by the capital's historical society, they've already asked for a hundred of the bound books." Ben literally bounced from one side of the kitchen to the other. Qui-Gon stood in the door, his arms folded across his chest and a smile on his face.

"I'm so glad," Qui-Gon said when Ben finally wound down. "You've made my boring old life far more interesting than it was, you know, but I'm in favor of anything that brings back the Jedi, even if only in fiction."

"Far more interesting my left foot," Ben said with a rude noise. "Your life is far more interesting, Qui-Gon. You've done things that... well, probably no one else has done since the Jedi were disbanded. It's been a privilege and honor to be your chronicler."

"The honor was all mine, my Benjamin," Qui-Gon murmured, and Ben found himself almost blushing at the warmth in Qui-Gon's eyes.

"I've used that name, you know," he said softly. At Qui-Gon's obvious confusion, he elaborated. "It's called Padawan to Knight, a Jedi's Tale by Benjamin Kenobi." Ben turned his head away. "I didn't want to use the name I'm registered under; that's no longer my name, you know. Benjamin is." He glanced back up.

Ben would remember the look on Qui-Gon's face for the rest of his life. He thought that might have been the very moment he fell in love with Qui-Gon Jinn.

Qui-Gon watched Benjamin Kenobi all the time. He watched from the windows as Benjamin worked in his garden or ran along the cliff; he watched the man sleep and eat and listened to him play the dulcimer. Sometimes he'd be so caught up in watching Benjamin that he would lose track of time, would lose track of his place as they played chess.

He started out chiding himself for wanting to see Benjamin all the time but finally gave up and just indulged. Benjamin slept restlessly, tossing to and fro under the blankets on the bed. He preferred showers to soaks, though he allowed himself one good soak a week in the tub. He exercised properly, not because he had to but because he wanted to. Though he might not have had an exquisite singing voice, his hands could wring such beauty out of the hammered dulcimer it should make the angels weep.

Sometimes, Qui-Gon watched from within, not materialized. He watched Benjamin during the winter, alert for any signs of cabin-sickness, but Benjamin seemed to be immune. So many times Qui-Gon had wanted to touch Benjamin, wanted to share food and wine with him, wanted to dance with him. And it was all impossible. Benjamin was real, was solid, and Qui-Gon was little more than an echo in the Force.

And sometimes, Qui-Gon would watch while Benjamin masturbated.

The first time it happened had been an accident. The sight of a spectacular sunrise had made Qui-Gon want to share it with Benjamin, so he'd floated into the bedroom. The shower had been running and Qui-Gon had entered at the ideal place from which to see the bathroom and the shower stall itself. Benjamin had been facing away from him, the clean line of his wet body breathtaking in its beauty. Then he turned and Qui-Gon realized he hadn't been washing.

He didn't materialize. Instead he stood, rooted to the spot, watching Benjamin's hand pull on his erect member. Benjamin's head had been thrown back and water sluiced down his body as he came in spurts of semen that were immediately washed down the drain. He'd put his hand on the glass wall of the stall and panted; it must have been a strong orgasm, Qui-Gon noted clinically. Benjamin's penis was uncut, long and thick; beautiful, just like the rest of him.

When Benjamin explained why he was estranged from his family -- his words about his 'proclivities' had been quite clear -- Qui-Gon at first thought to reassure him that being a person attracted to his own gender was perfectly normal. He had told Benjamin about a rather embarrassing mission where he'd been all but thrown at a young woman in the thoughts that copulation with a Jedi might gain some status. The only way he'd managed to escape the situation was to admit young women were not what he was sexually attracted to. Luckily, there hadn't been any young men to throw and Qui-Gon got out of the situation with his dignity intact.

Benjamin had laughed but then a wistful expression suffused his face. "Were you telling the truth?" he asked.

With a smile, Qui-Gon nodded. "Yes, I was. Jedi are not supposed to be celibate, just unattached."

"Ah." Benjamin had turned away but Qui-Gon was certain he'd heard a sad, "Well, that figures."

As the winter lingered, Benjamin took fewer showers, conserving the powerpacks. But he'd wake in the night, sometimes, particularly during a bad storm. In those times, masturbation seemed to be his chosen method of getting back to sleep. And Qui-Gon watched from the shadows, wishing it could be his hand on Benjamin's shaft, or Benjamin's hand on his own.

Becoming aroused as a ghost was a particularly exasperating thing. He could not touch himself and the object of his desire could not touch him either.

One morning in early spring, Benjamin was still abed long after the time when he normally roused himself. Qui-Gon floated to the bedroom to check on him and found Benjamin lying on top of the covers, nude, his eyes closed and his hand stroking his shaft.

"Qui-Gon?" His voice was barely audible.

Qui-Gon started; he checked to see if he was visible and thought he was not.

"I wish this could be you," Benjamin continued. "I know you watch me sometimes, I want you to watch me now. I want you to know how much I want... I want you. How much I wish I could have you here, inside me."

Qui-Gon was unable to close his eyes and the yearning he felt was tearing him apart.

"I'll never do this again, I'm surprised I found the courage to do it now," Benjamin continued, breathlessly. His face was red but his voice was assured, though soft. "If you don't want me to, and I know you probably don't, but--"

"I do." Qui-Gon hadn't realized he was going to speak until the words came out. "I do, my Benjamin. I do."

Benjamin's eyes opened and he turned his head unerringly towards Qui-Gon, though he couldn't see him. "Qui-Gon... I don't know, I want... I love... Oh!" With a gasping cry, Benjamin dug his heels into the mattress and arched, his come spattering his chest. His eyes closed again, he panted, catching his breath. "Oh... Qui-Gon..."

Qui-Gon left the bedroom, wishing he were capable of crying.

Benjamin never masturbated specifically for him again, though he continued to do so, occasionally, in the shower. Qui-Gon would watch but never speak. They never mentioned the matter again.

The first copies of the book arrived and Ben found he was even more of a celebrity than before. Five of his six advance copies he signed for people on the island who wanted them, including Mrs. Beckham (and her son Owen, she insisted). She must have read it immediately, for the next time he returned -- only a week later, to order a replacement for one of his powerpacks -- she tried to tell him how much she had enjoyed the book but couldn't. She settled for a kiss on his cheek, and Ben settled for being enormously touched.

His second summer was drawing to a close and Ben was in the kitchen, preparing vegetables and fruit for preserving. His garden had produced far more his second summer than his first, and he felt he had enough stock to keep him in food for the entire winter.

Qui-Gon was watching him and making comments on Ben's domesticity when the landline went off, nearly causing Ben to drop a jar. He traded puzzled looks with Qui-Gon before answering it.

"There's a... visitor for you, young man," Mrs. Beckham's voice told him. She sounded strained.

"A visitor?" Ben frowned; perhaps his agent?

"Yes. A young Mr. Muln. Says he knows you." Her voice dropped. "I'll not be sending anyone out to your house, Mr. Kenobi. I know you like your privacy. But he's pretty insistent on seeing you."

At the name, Ben had frozen. Garen? Garen was here? "I'll... I'll be there shortly, Mrs. Beckham. Thank you." Numbly he settled the instrument on its cradle. Garen?

"Who is it, Benjamin?" Qui-Gon's voice was soft and concerned.

"A friend. Someone... someone I never expected to see again." Ben cut the stove off and moved the pans to the side. "I need to go into town, Qui-Gon. I have to see what he wants. But I'll be right back." Ben wasn't in so much of a hurry that he didn't notice the stricken look in Qui-Gon's eyes, but he had his own problems to deal with.

All the way into town, Ben wondered why Garen would have tracked him down. They hadn't parted on the best of terms and Ben fully expected to have another shouting match when he saw Garen. But that didn't happen.

He pulled his speeder up in front of the store and found Garen standing on the porch surrounding it, impeccably dressed (as usual) with his hands in his back pockets. He looked very solemn, but smiled when Ben got out of the speeder.

"Ben." Garen stepped off the porch into the road and hugged Ben tightly.

After a moment's hesitation, Ben hugged him back. "Garen... what are you doing here?" He pushed Garen away carefully, grabbing his arms and shaking him gently. "And how did you find me?"

"Your agent. You'd be surprised what information lots of money can get you." He grinned and it was the crooked grin that always made Ben melt. "And is that any way to greet me? I come all this way, out to the end of the planet, and all you can say is 'what are you doing here and how did you find me?'"

"Those were my first thoughts, yes," Ben replied, making a mental note to fire his agent. He hadn't wanted to be found, damn it. And if Garen found him, others could.

"And a writer, no less, of a planet-wide bestseller." Garen seemed impressed on the outside, but he'd been Ben's lover for years and years; Ben knew he was looking at a facade. There was no way of knowing exactly how Garen actually felt. "Just how you always wanted to be."

"I suppose." Ben glanced around; the town really was small and they were attracting attention. "C'mon, let's go for a drive. We can find more privacy."

The island was brutal but it was also beautiful and Ben had come to love his new home. He drove Garen out to one of the higher spots, a rocky tor that still hid some heather and other wildflowers this late in the season. It was already getting colder, though midday was still warm enough for shirtsleeves.

They got out of the speeder and Ben indicated they should sit. The outcrop gave them a good view of the leeward side of the island and the great Southron Sea beyond it. Ben pointed out local landmarks and Garen made polite noises and neither were sincere.

"Why are you here, Ben?" Garen asked as soon as they were settled.

Never one to mince words, Ben remembered, Garen would always come right to the point. "I'm here because I'm happy, Gar. This life suits me."

"Suits you? Suits you? Since when? All alone on this Godforsaken rock in the middle of... Fuck, Ben. This doesn't suit you."

"And you know what suits me?" Even as Ben said the words, he realized Garen never really had known. Hell, he hadn't really known, not until he'd moved to the island and met his ghost.

"I know apparently better than you. You're not one to be isolated, you never were."

"No, I guess not," Ben mused. He plucked a small blue flower and twirled it in his hand. "I was always afraid to be by myself. I was never sure I would like the person I lived with." He recalled his first days on the island in his house and how pathetically grateful he was even for his ghost's presence. "Things change. People change. Turns out I actually liked the person inside me."

Garen's eyes narrowed. "Existential bullshit. You're hiding."

Ben swallowed and carefully didn't look at Garen. "Maybe. Maybe that's how it started. But I truly am happy here, Gar. I'm self-sufficient -- I have a multi-book contract and it truly doesn't take much to live here."

"It shouldn't. It's barely civilized, and I use that term loosely." Garen's voice held a world of bitterness.

"Don't begrudge me this, Garen."

"Why shouldn't I? You should be in the capital, you should be dressed in synthsilks and cloth-of-gold, not wearing some ripped and worn rags. You look like shit and you shouldn't. You should be living with me, in civilization, in luxury."

"If I lived with you it wouldn't be in luxury, Garen. My father--"

"Your father was the one who found you, through your agent. He told me that before he sent me here."

There suddenly wasn't enough air in the world as Ben's throat tightened. "What?" he asked faintly.

"The old bastard called me, told me he knew where you were through bribing your agent, asked me if I'd want to live with you again. Mainly he wanted to gloat, I suppose, that you ran away from both of us."

"I don't... why..."

"Hells if I know. He's always been unfathomable. But I wasn't about to decline. I want you back, Ben. I need you back." Garen had turned toward him, though Ben wasn't able to face him.

"No, you don't, you've probably had half a dozen lovers since I've been gone."

"And that's germane how?" There it was, that peevish voice Ben had once found interesting and even alluring. "There's only been one I've loved, Ben. Only one. Obi--"

"Ben. My name is Ben. In fact, it's Benjamin; haven't you read my book?" Finding his backbone was reassuring, and Ben finally turned to face Garen. "You never understood me, even while you patronized and humored me, put up with all my 'strangeness' you found so very 'endearing.'" Garen was looking at him with a stunned and gaping expression but Ben found once he started, he couldn't stop. "Walking away from you was the best thing I ever did, Garen. I have never been myself until now, never really been free. Now I am, and it feels damn good."

"You're insane."

"No, I'm sane. For the first time in my life, I'm sane. I had that rat-bastard who sired me controlling me and then I had you. Out of the frying pan into the fire, Garen." Ben stood and watched as Garen scrambled to his feet, carefully brushing off the seat of his pants, conscious of his appearance even when fighting with his ex-lover. "I don't know what you wanted to accomplish by coming here, but if it was to bring me back, you've failed." Ben walked to the speeder. "I'll take you back to town, I'm sure you can find someone to run you out to the mainland. Or did you charter your own boat?"

Garen was mercifully silent all the way back, though Ben could almost feel his seething anger. No one had ever told Garen no in his life, no one but Ben's father and now Ben, and it had to sting. But the truth was Garen was a spoiled, rich brat who needed to be controlling, needed to be needed and to run everything in his life, including his lovers. Ben thought that's what he'd wanted, but it turned out it wasn't.

He didn't get out of the speeder when they returned.

Garen gave him one last cold look. "I won't ask again, Ben. This is your last chance."

"Promises, promises." Ben had no idea where his sudden snarkiness had come from but he reveled in it, felt almost giddy with it. "You know where to find me now, I can't keep you from coming here. But I'd be careful about visiting... we're all pretty tightly knit on the island and it wouldn't take much to make your trip pretty damn miserable."

Frowning at Ben's words, Garen glanced around and realized how many people in the small town were watching the speeder. Most of them had set expressions of unfriendliness. Ben might still be an outsider to the islanders, but he was far more one of them than pretty-boy, rich-boy Garen Muln.

"Fine. Good-bye, Obi-Wan Kenobi. I hope you rot out here." Garen slammed the door to the speeder and walked into the store.

Benjamin Kenobi nodded and headed home.

When Benjamin returned from his meeting, he was somber and silent. He merely nodded to Qui-Gon and went back to his canning. Qui-Gon was in an agony of curiosity but knew it wouldn't kill him to wait. And Benjamin made him wait, until after dinner, until after their customary chess game, until Benjamin had washed up and gone to bed. He didn't climb under the covers and he hadn't put on any clothes after washing; the larger moon was just past full and setting and the pearly light made him seem more of a ghost than Qui-Gon was.

"My first lover was Padme Naberrie, my cousin," Benjamin began, slowly. "For as long as I can remember we were told we would be married to each other some day, that the bloodline had to remain pure." Ben's voice was very soft and Qui-Gon drifted closer to the bed, trying to hear. "I was thirteen and had figured out girls did absolutely nothing for me. But it was expected of both of us, so we figured we might as well experiment. Neither of us were thrilled at the idea of marriage, let alone sex; Padme has always been more of a sister to me than a cousin. Needless to say, it didn't go well."

Benjamin sighed and Qui-Gon had a sudden picture of friendship gone awry due to familial obligations. "My father is a very controlling person. He was not happy when I announced I would be going on to university in the capital -- what did I need with higher learning? I was destined to inherit the Kenobi estates and there was no need to learn to do anything but sitting back on my ass and getting fat. I didn't want that. I wanted to make a difference, I wanted to do things. And I needed to find out if I would ever be 'normal' for my father, the man whose idea of normal is to do only what's expected of you and nothing more."

"You are normal," Qui-Gon whispered. "You're normal and capable and intelligent and that your father couldn't see it is his failing, not yours."

"I know." Benjamin's eyes were open and focused on the shadowy ceiling or something inside his head. "I met Garen at university and fell in love. All I was doing though was trading one owner for another, because Garen was just my father, only in different clothing." Benjamin put his hands behind his head. "When my father found out I was living with Garen, he was livid. He came to our apartment and began screaming at Garen... not at me. He blamed Garen for 'corrupting' his son, for 'dragging him into a depraved lifestyle' and all that rot."

Benjamin went silent for a long time, but Qui-Gon figured he wasn't done, and eventually he spoke again. "Watching them fight opened my eyes. They were fighting over who would control me, over which one would ultimately keep me. I realized then, finally, that I didn't want to be kept."

He rolled to his side and propped his head on his hand. "I'd never been alone, you see. I was always pampered and surrounded by my enormous family. I decided to take a risk and see if the person I really was could come out, if I could live with myself by myself. That's why I came here... it's the most remote spot on the planet. Still so very cut off from civilization. Finding your house was pure luck and finding you was a godsend."

"There's no such thing as luck, Benjamin," Qui-Gon said. "The Force sent you here. You knew what you needed, deep down, and the Force just smoothed your way."

Smiling, Benjamin picked at the comforter on the bed. "Perhaps. Whatever it was, though, I'm happy for it. I thought I was seeking happiness, but now I think the whole concept is enormously overrated. I'll settle for contentment." His smile grew wider. "I'm very content, now, Qui-Gon. Your presence has allowed me to discover who I really am and I... find I like myself. Thank you."

Qui-Gon was without words. He had done nothing, Benjamin had done it all, on his own. He had run away from everything he was not and found himself alone and contented. Greater joy could not be achieved by any man, living or dead.

While Qui-Gon thought, Benjamin pulled back the covers of his bed and crawled into them with a happy sigh. "Lots to do tomorrow," he murmured as he composed himself for sleep. "I need to make sure I have enough coal and oil for the winter. And I have to finish the harvest and canning. Hmmm..."

It wasn't right. Qui-Gon had no right to keep such an enormously talented and intelligent man sequestered on their Force-forsaken island. He should encourage Benjamin to leave, at least for the winter, to go out on the mainland and be feted and honored as he should be.

While the thought of Benjamin leaving him, even for the few months of winter, made Qui-Gon ache in the bones he didn't have, he knew he was correct. He would talk to Benjamin about it. Soon.

Three days later, Qui-Gon still hadn't spoken of his concern for Benjamin. The man was like a little whirlwind, working on the house, putting up the winter storm shutters, tilling the garden, preserving for the winter. They still played chess in the evenings and sometimes Benjamin would play the dulcimer, but whenever Qui-Gon thought to bring up the subject of Benjamin's leaving, the words would stick in his throat.

Several days after Benjamin's visitor left, there was a strong rapping on the kitchen door. Benjamin traded a puzzled glance with Qui-Gon, but went to open the door as Qui-Gon vanished. There was a big, strong-looking young man standing there; he was filthy and wearing blackened clothing.

"You must be Mr. Kenobi," he said. "You'll pardon me if I don't offer you my hand, no sense in getting coal dust on both of us. I'm Owen Beckham."

"Oh! Mrs. Beckham's son, the one at university who walks on water." They both chuckled.

"That's the one, though Mum has a tendency to exaggerate. I've brought you your coal, if you could open the hod I'll back the truck up and dump it in for you."

"You've brought me... my goodness! She certainly put you to work quickly. I was expecting to pick it up myself." Leaving the back door open, Benjamin left the house and moved around to the side where the coal hod entrance was.

"No need, and I'll be here from now on, helping out; I've graduated and have come back home. Which is why Mum put me to work."

Qui-Gon did not materialize but followed them, listening as Owen Beckham described his degree in agriculture studies and how he had been hired by PalCorp to work on the island, in the preserve. He and Benjamin chatted for quite a long time, much longer than it took to simply dump some coal into the basement, and Qui-Gon had to struggle to keep his temper at the little twit's attentions. Why wouldn't he leave?

"I loved your book, by the way," the Beckham brat was saying as they finally closed up the hod. "It was wonderful. And I've more respect for you than you know; this place absolutely terrified me as a kid. You won't catch me hanging about."

Then leave, Qui-Gon snarled in his head.

"It's not so bad. It was Qui-Gon's house long before it was mine, I don't mind sharing. He's good company."

So there, Qui-Gon thought.

"That's what Mum said you'd said." The twit was giving Benjamin a look that was all disbelief. "Most of the island thinks you're mad as a hatter, though nice for all that. You're quite sure you're not suffering from fumes or something?"

Benjamin laughed, threw back his head and laughed out loud and Qui-Gon's heart clenched again. He couldn't remember ever hearing Benjamin laugh like that. Not once in the more than a year they'd been together. Benjamin had chuckled, had even giggled once though he denied it, but never had he really laughed.

"...to hear you say that," Benjamin was saying. He still had a smile on his face and Beckham was smiling too, his white teeth brighter for the coal dust that decorated his face. "I'll have to introduce the two of you."

Never, Qui-Gon said to himself.

"Well... I'm not too sure of that..." Beckham said, though he was smiling.

"And I'll need to pick your brains over some plants I'd like to try next spring." Qui-Gon remembered that, Benjamin had asked him about local plants and Qui-Gon hadn't known.

But Beckham knew. "I'd love to. Stop by some afternoon before or just after the first big storm. We can sit a bit and talk."

"Sounds like a plan." Benjamin started to put out his hand then thought better of it. "And get clean so I can shake your hand properly!" he said, and both laughed again.

With a jaunty wave, Beckham disappeared into his big truck and drove away.

Benjamin came back into the kitchen with the smile still on his face. "That's a nice surprise, someone from the island who's highly educated... and isn't that a pretentious statement?" Benjamin chuckled. "I think I'll stop by next week, see what the weather forecast is and shop for a new agent." Humming, Benjamin went back to his late summer chores, not even noticing that Qui-Gon wasn't visible or hadn't answered.

It was a typical fall, stormy and alternately cold as sin or deceptively warm. Ben had apparently found a good friend in Owen Beckham and they spent several days together before the first bad storm hit. Owen showed him some of the plants PalCorp had been working on adapting and gave him a few cuttings to grow indoors, in a pot. Ben hadn't known about the huge hydroponics station on the other side of the island or of the massive fields where plants were tested for hardiness before being shipped off-world. He found it fascinating.

He would come back from being with Owen and tell Qui-Gon about what he'd seen, what Owen had shown him. Qui-Gon had been interested but couldn't really show it. He'd realized fairly quickly what he felt was jealousy and chided himself; he had no claim on Benjamin. He was not living and Benjamin was -- there it was in black and white. He might want to keep Benjamin for himself but that wasn't fair to the man.

One evening during the first big storm of autumn, he finally plucked up his courage to ask Benjamin about leaving. "So, is this Beckham going to stay the winter here?" he asked, while making a show of studying the chessboard for his next move.

"Yes, he is," Benjamin replied absently. "He's been put in charge of the entire operation so needs to stay. Why?"

"Just wondering." Qui-Gon made a move that he didn't really see. "You know, you don't have to be cooped up in here for another whole winter. You could use some of the platinum and take a launch to the mainland."

"I know," Benjamin said. His voice sounded puzzled. "I'm happy here." He moved one of his pieces.

"Oh, I'm sure that's... not altogether true. I mean, I know last winter nearly drove you mad with boredom at times." He moved another piece, only belatedly noticing he'd left himself wide open.

"Qui-Gon, I'm where I want to be." Benjamin moved a piece. "Check. What's wrong?"

"Wrong? Nothing." Qui-Gon tipped over his king. "Sorry, my mind isn't on the game. Are you going into town after the storm breaks?"

"Probably not, why? Do you think I need something? What's wrong?"

Qui-Gon moved to the window and watched the rain lash against it. "You don't really belong here, Benjamin. You're young, talented, educated; you belong on the mainland, being feted and honored. Not here, playing friend to a two hundred year old ghost."

There was silence behind him for so long Qui-Gon wondered if Benjamin had left the room. He hadn't, and when he spoke it was almost a growl. "Don't you even start," he said. "Damn you. Don't presume to know what I want, I know what I want. I've come a long way from being someone's lapdog and I'll be damned if I'll let it happen again."

A clatter behind him made Qui-Gon turn to see Benjamin's chair overturned as Benjamin stood, glaring at Qui-Gon. "I didn't mean..."

"I don't care what you meant. The subject is closed." With that, Benjamin stomped out of the room, leaving Qui-Gon to contemplate his error.

It was one of the few times since coming to live on the island that Ben wanted to be off it. Not because he missed 'civilization' but because he didn't want to even think about Qui-Gon, much less see and hear him and knew he couldn't escape the man. The ghost. Whatever. Instead of leaving (which would have been one step from suicidal in the storm), he went into the basement and began exercising, forcing his body to bend and twist in ways guaranteed to make him sore as hell the next day. Sore muscles he could deal with. Anger at Qui-Gon he could not.

He had rigged up a punching bag in one corner of the basement. He hadn't used it much, but after hearing Qui-Gon's words, it came in very handy as a means of working out his fury. He'd thought Qui-Gon was different from those in his past, those who professed to love him. He had spent most of his life conforming to various ideals -- his father's ideal as an heir, Garen's as a lover. Garen hadn't wanted a lover, he'd wanted a rich, pretty face on his arm, at his beck and call. His father had wanted an heir who would do as he was told and not think for himself.

It was intolerable. He punched the bag with a series of jabs that actually hurt his hand. He was twenty-seven years old and living on his own, self-sufficient, contented for the first time in his life and still people wanted to control him. Just because he loved Qui-Gon was no reason for...

Ben froze in the act of hitting his bag and gasped for breath. He loved Qui-Gon. He leaned his sweaty forehead against the rough burlap of the bag and sagged, desperately trying to keep from crying. He was in love with a ghost. Force help him.

After a moment, he began breathing deeply and regularly, trying to calm himself. It worked to the extent that he no longer felt like collapsing in a heap and sobbing uncontrollably, which was an improvement. With a heavy heart, he turned off the lights in the basement and climbed the stairs, suddenly weary beyond imagining.

He took a shower and went to bed but did not sleep. Qui-Gon hadn't materialized and Ben was glad, he didn't know what he would do when he next saw his ghost -- cry? Scream? Run away?

Garen had been right about one thing, Ben had been running away. He'd thought he'd finally stopped, though, on the island in his house. There was nowhere else for him to run, save for off-planet, and he didn't have nearly enough money for that. Nor did he think it would be a good idea. He needed to face his problems, not flee from them.

He was still trying to figure out how to do that when he fell asleep.

There was no sign of Qui-Gon when Ben woke the next morning.

Though his muscles were indeed complaining, Ben ignored them and did some gentler exercises before breaking his fast. Then he went to the den and sat at the dataset to write. The outlines for the second and third books were done and he'd made good progress on the second book, so he picked up where he had left off and began writing.

Several hours later, he looked up and realized it was late and he was hungry again. The storm had seemed to be slacking off but by mid-morning had renewed itself in fury -- Ben found himself identifying with it.

The book was substantially done, to his surprise. He'd have to go over it but he felt it was pretty good. He was wandering into the kitchen for a snack when the landline went off, making him jump.

"Ben? It's Owen."

Owen sounded rushed and nearly frantic. "What's wrong?"

"The Coast Patrol just received word of a wrecked cargohover about a hundred miles offshore, lost with its crew of fifteen. Two have been rescued at sea but we're showing wreckage approaching us from the northwest on sensor. I'm putting together a rescue team."

"I'm on it," Ben said firmly. "Where do I meet you?"

"You don't, I'll pick you up. We've got the tractor out, it's the only thing that'll withstand the wind. We'll be there in about twenty or thirty minutes. Dress warm!"

Ben laughed. "Yes, mother. See you then."

When Ben turned from replacing the handset, he found Qui-Gon standing in the door of the kitchen. "First, you need to build a fire in the sitting room and put some blankets there," he said. His voice was grave. "And make sure you dress in layers."

"I know, but a fire? I don't have time!" Ben replied as he raced up the stairs.

"Make time! Trust me on this, Benjamin, please."

There was too much going on and Ben didn't have time for his irritation with Qui-Gon. He grabbed the comforter and the blanket he kept folded on the foot of the bed after he finished dressing. There was kindling in the basket in the sitting room -- he'd just filled it the other day -- and he tossed it and some coal onto the grate along with a long, burning match. Abandoning it to its own devices, he ran to the closet and pulled out his foul weather gear, including his hat.

Since he still had a couple of minutes to spare, he nursed the fire as best he could while buckling and fastening his oilskins. It had seemed to catch but he heard the air horn of the huge tractor outside and had to run without checking it.

The tractor was owned by PalCorp but was always available for use by the islanders in an emergency. It had tractor treads and enough energy to move against the wind, when Ben's own speeder would have been simply tossed off the cliff. The back of it had six other people crammed into it and Ben knew there were three more in the cab. All nodded as he crawled in and all were dressed the same, almost anonymous under layers of protection. One he knew for sure -- the nurse-practitioner who lived on the island year-round and who acted as physician for everyone. As tall as Ben and heavier, she was the only woman present.

It would have been ridiculous to try and speak over the scream of the wind and the rattle of sleet so no one tried. A warm container of tea liberally dosed with something far stronger was passed around; Ben took a sip to fortify himself. He had no idea what to expect, since this was his first rescue operation.

The sensor on the tractor was sufficient to allow them to 'look' a half-mile out into the lashing sea. Luckily for them, the tide was out so the waves didn't quite make it up the cliff, and they could move the tractor closer to the beach. They were grateful for the shelter of the tractor in the driving precipitation: icy rain mixed with ice mixed with wet, heavy snow. Everyone clustered around the cab, trying to make sense of the images on the sensor. Owen was the first to point to a bright blip and then to the water -- a large piece of flotsam. There were two figures clinging to it.

Two survivors were all they found in that long, cold evening, and one would probably not make it through the night or even back to town. Ben and another volunteer rode clinging to the tractor's bumper in order to provide space for the survivors, and Ben dropped off as the tractor lumbered near his house. He had to walk a bit but that was nothing compared to what the poor crewmen had done. He was incredibly tired.

He reached his house finally, soaked to the bone and chilled through. He staggered into the kitchen and slammed the storm outside, almost too numb to remove his oilskins.

"Benjamin, Benjamin..." He dragged his eyes open and saw Qui-Gon standing in front of him. "You have to get out of those clothes. You're hypothermic."

"Yes, I suppose I am," is what Ben wanted to say, but his lips weren't responding well to his commands. He fumbled a bit then managed to get the oilskins off, through the simple means of tearing them off over his head. That left him even more tired than before, which was incredible enough.

Qui-Gon's worried, blue face was right in his. "Benjamin, I can't help you. You must get your clothing off and get into the sitting room. Please."

"Can't..." Ben gasped. The door behind him was doing a pretty good job of holding him up but even that was beginning to give way. "Too cold..."

"There's a fire in the sitting room. The blankets are nice and warm. Wouldn't it feel wonderful to be warm and dry again?"

Ben moaned at the thought and made another effort to get his clothing undone. Who was the idiot who dressed him in seven layers of godforsaken cloth? And all of it sopping wet and icy cold. He managed to get most of his shirts off before giving up. "I can't..."

"Yes, you can. I know you can." Qui-Gon was right in front of him, still. "For me, Benjamin. Please."

"Want you... want you to do it..." Ben said. He was beginning to frighten himself; he was so cold. He needed to stagger into the sitting room where it was warm. There was a fire there. Qui-Gon had said so. "Want to touch you," he mumbled as he pushed off the door and headed for the hallway to the sitting room. "Want to touch you so badly..."

It was indeed warm in the sitting room. The fire wasn't roaring but the coals were bright red and glowing. He still felt muzzy-headed but the warmth went a long way to clearing it and he realized he was trembling so hard his teeth were clattering.

He went to his knees in front of the fire and reached his numb hands out. It felt so good.

"Get your boots off, Benjamin. You need to strip down completely and wrap yourself in the blankets." Qui-Gon was still there, always there, always reminding him what he couldn't have.

As he fumbled with the buckles of his boots, he tried to contemplate that thought. "I can't have you, can I?" he murmured. One boot came off with an extremely squelchy noise. "I want you. I love you, so much. So, so much." The other boot finally gave way and both of them were leaving big wet stains on the carpet. "That's going to stain, that saltwater," Ben said. He flopped back and began working at his trousers and the thermals beneath them. "Should move them away."

"The carpet has seen worse, my Benjamin," Qui-Gon said. His voice sounded worried.

"Hypothermia." From somewhere, Ben dredged up a lecture he'd heard on that subject. "The best thing is to get the sufferer naked and wrapped up in warm blankets, preferably with another person who is also naked. The transfer of energy works best that way." He'd managed to get his trousers off, though they tangled in his feet. "You should get naked and wrap yourself around me. I'd like that. I want that. I'm never going to have that, am I?"

The devastated look on Qui-Gon's face made Ben want to cry. "Oh, my Benjamin..." he murmured.

The blankets which had been draped over a chair slid off and covered Ben. With one last effort, he managed to roll himself into them, reveling in their warmth and wincing from the prickles of skin coming back to life. "It's all right," he whispered. "It's all right. I have enough of you. Love you, so very much."

When Ben woke up, it was early morning and the storms had finally passed.

Ben woke stiff and sore, but warm. He knew it had been Qui-Gon's forethought that had kept him alive in the aftermath of the rescue operation and resolved to make sure at least one fireplace had the makings of a fire in it at all times.

He spent part of the morning cleaning up from the night before, then used the landline to call into town before eating.

"Ben! I'm glad to hear your voice. Everything go fine?"

"Yeah, I'm here in one piece. What happened to the survivors?" With one hand, Ben put water on for tea.

"One didn't make it." Owen sighed. "Depa said his injuries were just too severe. The other has a fighting chance. The Coast Patrol is sending a VTAL out here in about half an hour to evacuate him to the mainland."

"Were any others found?" Ben sighed too, wishing there had been another way to ensure their survival.

"Haven't heard of any. It looks like it'll be just the four -- well, three. And if they survive they may end up in prison; I'm led to believe it was an illegal run they were on."

"Oh, what idiocy," Ben said. "I will never understand how people can put themselves in that much danger."

"Human nature, my friend." Owen's voice was wry. "I've got to run, need to go up to the farms to check on the plants. Let me know if you need anything."

Ben replaced the handset and leaned on the counter, looking out the small window while waiting for his water to boil. The sun was shining through a rack of clouds and the wind looked to be nearly as strong as the night before, though less wet, thankfully.

Qui-Gon appeared as he poured the hot water over his tea leaves. "Are you all right?"

Ben gave him a brief smile. "I'm fine. One of the two we pulled out last night didn't make it. The other might, though." Avoiding Qui-Gon's eyes, he opened the coldbox and began rummaging through it. "Thank you for insisting on the fire last night. It might have saved my life."

"Pretty much standard survival tactics, I'm afraid. They were beaten into my head at the Temple." Qui-Gon was standing in the doorway to the kitchen and did not come closer.

"Well, whatever it was, I'm grateful. I think I need to make sure there's a fire laid all the time during a storm. Never know when it might come in handy." Finding some fruit, he pulled it out along with a loaf of sweet bread.

"That would probably be wise."

The silence grew between them until it was like an impenetrable wall of solid plascrete. When Ben finally screwed up the courage to look up and break it, Qui-Gon was no longer there.

When he had been alive, things were straight-forward for Qui-Gon Jinn. He was a Jedi Knight; he served the Force and the Temple and worked to bring peace to the Federated Worlds. He was a diplomat and a fighter of wrongs. As a Jedi, he didn't have the luxury of attachments to anyone and that was how he liked it. He'd retired to his isolated home and had died there, though that part was a bit hazy.

Why was the Force making him linger? The only thing he felt now was pain, where there had been little to none while he was alive.

Benjamin loved him. That would have been difficult enough to deal with except he loved Benjamin back, with all his heart. How was he supposed to... to... exist like this? To be in love with a man he could not touch and could barely feel?

For Benjamin's sake, he tried to maintain a normalcy. They moved back into their familiar patterns for the winter which slowly crept up on them, and if Ben were spending more time in town than he'd done the year before, Qui-Gon didn't remark on it.

There had been three cyclones by the turning of the year and at least two more were predicted. In their enforced isolation, Qui-Gon talked and talked, telling Benjamin all about life in the Temple, about life as a Jedi Knight, about his missions. He made sure Benjamin knew everything, enough material for five books or more, if he wanted to extrapolate. It helped pass the time and it ensured Benjamin would be able to keep writing and selling books, no matter what happened.

Benjamin opened the bottle of brandy again on the shortest day of the year and toasted Qui-Gon, though his eyes were sad and held the shadows which had never gone away, not since he'd admitted he loved Qui-Gon. Qui-Gon gravely acknowledged the toast and firmed his resolve.

The evening after a particularly bad storm -- but not a cyclone -- Benjamin had gone into town to visit with his friends. When he returned, he'd looked so much more relaxed and Qui-Gon knew, it was time. He didn't show himself at all as Benjamin went about his evening routine, though Benjamin called his name and frowned as he looked around the house.

Once Benjamin was asleep, the light of the larger moon limning him in silver, Qui-Gon leaned over him. He could feel nothing from the warm body permanently just out of his reach, but he could sense the bright spark of Benjamin's mind.

"My Benjamin," he whispered. "How I love you. You're brave and intelligent and strong and you've made a life for yourself here on this island, probably better than I ever would have done." Concentrating, he managed to lift a wisp of hair from Benjamin's forehead but wasn't able to do more. "All I am doing is holding you back. You need to live, my Benjamin, live your life among those who live like you. Not like me."

Benjamin frowned in his sleep and tossed his head. "No, do not wake," Qui-Gon said, his voice as soft as a breeze, putting a mild Force compulsion behind his words. "Let me do this for you, Benjamin. Let me help you make your choice. You must choose life, Benjamin, that's as it should be, despite any reckoning. You cannot continue to live half a life with me, you must live your life completely. And that's why I'm going away."

Qui-Gon reached out again to try and touch Benjamin, but all he felt was a vague warmth. "I can't help you any longer, Benjamin, I can only confuse you further and destroy whatever chance you have left at happiness. You must make your own life amongst the living, Benjamin, with Owen or someone else, someone living who will live with you, who will make your life, your living, complete in the ways I cannot. Someone who can love you fully, in soul and body. I don't know what's out there waiting for me, but I have to leave to let you live."

Benjamin made a little noise and Qui-Gon soothed him more. "Benjamin. Listen to me." He leaned so far over he was nearly merged with Benjamin, wishing he could indeed merge, knowing he couldn't. "Hear my words. You've been dreaming... dreaming of a Jedi Knight who haunted this house. You've dreamt of talks you had with him... even a book you both wrote together... but, Benjamin, you wrote the book... you and you alone." Benjamin whimpered again, but Qui-Gon continued, pressing his words into Benjamin's mind. "The book you imagined from his house, from his books and his life. It's been a dream, Benjamin, that's all. A lovely dream. And in the morning and for all the mornings in the years to come, you'll only remember it as a dream. And it'll die, it will pass as all dreams must at waking."

Folding in on himself, Qui-Gon tried to kiss Benjamin but only failed again. "How I love you, my Benjamin," he breathed. "Be happy in your life, Benjamin. Live."

When Ben woke, his pillow was wet and it was not from sweat.

There was an ache in his chest that would not go away and he didn't know what precipitated it. As if in a daze, he walked downstairs and looked around -- something was missing and he didn't know what it was. He became frantic, and when he realized he was, he stopped and took a deep breath, then another. Once calm, he began a methodical search of the house, starting at the basement, covering every room and looking for something out of place. Something gone.

Everything was as it should be. There was nothing missing, nothing he could pinpoint. In the den, the white king was on the floor and he absently picked it up as he continued to search. Finally, he reached his bedroom and sat in the huge, overstuffed chair which looked out the window at the Southron Sea. He realized his hand hurt and when he looked down, he saw he'd been squeezing the chess piece so hard he'd nearly cut his skin.

That's when he remembered. That's when it all came crashing down.

He knew what -- no, who -- was missing. And he knew why.

Folding over, clutching his pain to his belly as his hand clutched the white king in his hand, Ben sobbed. He fell to the floor, gasping in agony, barely able to breathe, calling the name of a person who was gone and who would not be coming back. The anguish was almost impossible to withstand, he thought he was going to die of it. Far, far worse than Garen's machinations, his father's duplicity, knowing that his love was gone threatened to rend Benjamin's very soul.

"Better half a life with you than no life without you," he whispered, but no one heard him.

The predictions were right; there were two more cyclones that winter. During his enforced isolation at the house, Ben wrote his way through the storms, eating when he wanted and exercising rarely. He packed up the chess set and put it in storage in the basement, unable to even look at it. The dulcimer in the sitting room gathered dust; Ben would not even go in there.

Between storms, he went into town to defeat the agony of being all alone. He had found a new agent and was sending chapters to him via the Beckham's store. He was assured the new book would be just as big as the old one. Owen Beckham would take him to the farms and the hydroponics labs and would talk cheerfully for hours about his 'babies'. Ben thought about asking him to play chess but then didn't -- Owen was more of a checkers person anyway.

Spring came in with a suddenness that was breathtaking, like a steamroller leaving heather in its wake. Ben tried a few new plants in his gardens and some new fertilizer as well. At midsummer, he attended Owen Beckham's wedding to a young woman he'd met at university, Siri. They were very happy together and Mrs. Beckham immediately began training her daughter-in-law on how to run the general store.

Ben spent the summer working in the garden or running along the cliff. There was nothing to keep him tied to the house any longer and once or twice he contemplated moving to the mainland for the coming winter. His broken heart overruled him and he stayed on, living in the only place that had ever felt like home to him.

He received word one day that summer that his younger brother, Anakin, had married Padme and become the scion of the House of Kenobi. He thought Padme had probably sent the note; there had never been any love lost between himself and Anakin. He sent them a short note, congratulating them and sincerely wishing them well. Anakin was a good choice; unlike Ben, he'd always loved Padme but not in a sisterly way.

Fall came in and Ben spent a couple of weeks harvesting and preserving. The new fertilizer worked wonders and he had more of a crop than ever before. His second book came out to as much praise as the first, and he had already begun the next. Very late in the year, Mrs. Beckham suffered a stroke that paralyzed her right side. Ben helped out in the store while Owen and Siri flew Mrs. Beckham to the mainland for treatment, then helped them modify the house for an invalid. The older woman came back to the island after her treatment and said nothing would keep her from dying on her beloved island.

Ben agreed with her.

At the turning of the year, Ben found himself trapped in the house with a cyclone raging outside. Moving without conscious volition, he pulled out the bottle of brandy and poured himself a measure, draining it in one gulp. The fiery liquid burned away all his carefully constructed walls that kept his pain in so he took another drink, then another. His dreams were all about pleading with Qui-Gon to stay, begging him not to go, watching him fade away into the distance.

In the morning, he felt like shit and resolved to never drink that much again.

The year turned inexorably and in the spring, Siri was pregnant. Summer progressed by the girth of her stomach but it was never fast enough for Ben, who became ever more alone in his empty house. He thought of it bitterly as a final retribution from his father; the boy who wanted to be alone finally was.

One afternoon he thought he heard a sound from the sitting room, some kind of faint sighing noise. He walked in to find a wayward breeze -- probably from the open door to the house -- had snuck into the sitting room and was disturbing the dust which lay on the dulcimer. He walked in and gently fingered the strings which were badly out of tune.

Unbidden, all he had lost came crashing down on him and he collapsed in a heap on the dusty chair, too ripped up inside to even weep. He remembered playing for Qui-Gon until his hands were sore; tune after tune as Qui-Gon watched, entranced. The pain of the memory tried its best to shatter him but he held fast, pushed it back down behind barriers, locked it away. Then he put the dulcimer in its case and stored it away in the basement with the chess set.

The first storm of fall came in hard and unexpected, catching many people by surprise. Ben got a call on the landline and heard Owen talk about debris washing up and three cargohovers and a private aircar all hurt by the storm. Ben promised to be ready, then went about dressing and getting his oilskins out. He almost took a couple of blankets to the sitting room, almost set a fire in the fireplace, but stopped. Something stopped him and he just didn't, just left the house into the teeth of the wind to meet the tractor.

There were nearly twenty lives lost to the freak storm and many of them washed up on the shore of the island. Owen had brought a survival tent which he set up in the lee of a huge rock on the beach, since he wasn't sure how he could get more than a couple of injured people back to town in the tractor at any one time. They found seven people right away, though two were dead. One was hurt badly and Owen loaded her and two others in the back of the tractor and immediately left for town. If he hurried, he told Ben, he could get back within the hour. Ben nodded and pushed him to the cab, reassuring him everything would be all right.

The rescue team split up, one staying in the tent with the survivors and the dead, and the rest moving up and down the beach. Ben fought his way up the beach as far as he could go, to the spot where the breakers got too close to the rock and it was too unsafe. He had no sensors with him, but he had his binoculars and he watched carefully over the heaving sea.

He was about to give up and go back to the tent to get warm again when he spotted something, a long metallic-looking object being tossed from wave to wave. It was headed almost right at him and there was something, a dark mass, attached to the middle of it. He watched it come closer and closer before wading into the water to grab it, wrestling it out of the sea's clutches and onto land.

The mass was a person. Ben couldn't tell if the person were alive or dead, he could barely prise the man -- he thought it was a man -- the man's grip off whatever he was clutching, some sort of light-metal strut, perhaps from an aircar. Ben used his radio to signal for help and found out that the tractor was back and several of his co-rescuers were heading for him.

A particularly rough and high breaker buffeted them both. Ben managed to get the man unattached from his object and dragged him further up on the shore, out of the water's reach. He was a tall man with longish, lank hair and it looked like he'd been in the water for a dreadfully long time. But he was alive. Ben could feel a weak pulse and the man was breathing; in fact, he coughed up half a lung's worth of sea water when Ben turned him over.

The other rescuers were coming, Ben could just see them through the storm which appeared to be finally ending. He cradled his survivor to his chest, keeping his face out of the weakening rain, crooning it would be all right, that others were on the way. A shudder wracked the man and Ben looked down, into his face, concerned.

Gentian-blue eyes opened, familiar eyes over a prominent broken nose. The man coughed but managed to croak a single word: "Benjamin."

end