In Our Coats Beneath the Layers

by micehell

Title: In Our Coats Beneath the Layers
Category: Q/O; drama, AU, angst and schmoop
Rating: hard R/NC-17
Warnings: Implied rape of a minor is the big one. The smaller ones are unbetaed, er, and slightly weird.
Summary: Even in Bordertown he'd been different.

A/N: It's been a while since I posted here, but wth, it's fic, right? ;) This was a very belated birthday fic for Inya. It's an AU story based heavily on Emma Bull's Finder (which I highly recommend, though read the short story in Double Feature first, since it introduces the world and characters more fully), but you don't have to have read it to read this story.

He'd been almost six when he'd first heard of the Borderlands and those that lived beyond it (whispered about in hushed voices, scorn and fear in most, fear and longing in others), but he'd known he was different before that. It had almost been a relief to be able to put a name to what he was (fae, changeling, other). Almost.

Not that he wasn't human as far as biology was concerned. But magic didn't make distinctions like that, not when it chose. It always chose the Danae, woven into their DNA like a third strand. It also courted the mixed blood fae, magic the bridge between species. Humans, though... only the lucky ones were chosen.

The Borderlands had been a gate at one time, a strange shore that held Faerie at bay on one side, and the mundane World in check on the other. The Danae, with their magic, had sometimes used it to cross over to the World, had sometimes used it to lead a human back to Faerie, but no one had lived (could have lived) in that space between. Even the Danae didn't know why it had grown into a place of its own, where magic and mundane swirled and flowed, in and out and in like an erratic ocean, sometimes its boundaries more in the World, sometimes more in Faerie, but constantly there now, not just in between.

At the heart of it, always at the heart of it, was Bordertown. Prosaically named, but when Obi-Wan had first seen it, with its mix of Danae looking for a life they couldn't have in Faerie, humans looking for a life they couldn't have in Gary, Indiana, and the mixed bloods looking for a life they wouldn't be allowed to live anywhere else... it hadn't been love at first sight. There, among people considered to be freaks by their own kind (or without an own kind in the first place), he'd thought (hoped) to find a place where he fit in. Where he blended, part of the fabric, a piece of the whole. But even in Bordertown he was different.

He'd been thirteen when he'd left home, too young to know much of the world, and he'd been sheltered beyond that. Sheltered not out of love or concern, but rather out of fear (of the neighbors finding out their son was a freak, of what Obi-Wan might do, of Obi-Wan), which is what had driven him out into the world (and then out of the World) in the first place. There were only so many times you could see your mother and father look at you with wary eyes (and only the one time with his mother at the end of the driveway, Obi-Wan caught in her headlights, and the way the car kept jumping as her foot pressed down on both gas and brake at the same time, conflicting impulses fighting a war he couldn't ever win) before you figured being alone would be better.

Even so it hadn't been easy to leave, in ways he couldn't have imagined then (but could never forget later). He'd been so tired, years of trying to suppress the otherness in him like a millstone around his neck, and the thought of just lying down and letting go had been a siren's call. But he'd set off, one slow step and one slow step and one slow step down the road. A backpack and the tiny bit of money he'd had was all he took with him, not even carrying a real destination. Bordertown hadn't been his goal, more a possibility he'd held at the back of his mind, a last resort. He'd wanted someplace Normal, a nebulous concept at best, something his magic would never Find, and something his magic kept him from finding.

And so Bordertown was where he'd wound up. Stumbled in, really, literally falling over a stray bit of magic as he crossed over into the town. He'd learned a lot on the way, on that journey away from Normal: that the ketchup and jelly packs he stole from the 7-11 didn't really make the hunger go away, no matter how much he pretended, that you could clean up in public restrooms, but that you had to be cautious of who was around when you did it, that hitchhiking was just about the worst mistake he would ever make in his short life and that one mistake (horribly, inevitably) led to another... he'd walked one slow step at a time when he left his parent's house, but he'd been running when finally found the one place that might be home.

He'd been nineteen when he'd first seen Qui-Gon, clearly visible even in the dim glow of the magelight that hung over the far end of the bar, the little spell sputtering in and out as the magic ebbed and flowed (normal for the Borderlands, normal for The Cauldron, too, since they were too cheap to pay the extra for hybrid-magic/mundane tech). He'd looked up as Obi-Wan had entered, obviously waiting for someone, his eyes sliding away when Obi-Wan wasn't him, then sliding back again. The second look had come with a smile, far brighter than the beleaguered magelight, and Obi-Wan had smiled back (cautiously, always cautiously, because he'd learned too much on his way to Bordertown, along his way in Bordertown), feeling that smile (feeling those eyes) on him like a touch.

Obi-Wan would never have guessed Qui-Gon was Danae then. Silver, blue, purple, even plaid; he'd seen them with hair colored in myriad ways, but never one with gray mixed in with a deep (very human) brown. He'd never seen one with wrinkles, either, that quirked at the corners of Qui-Gon's eyes when he smiled (that smile that was another rarity among the Danae he'd met, that smile that made Obi-Wan smile back, even if cautiously). He hadn't found out until much later what the gray meant, what the wrinkles said, but he'd learned (too late or too soon, he couldn't decide) about the blood that flowed in Qui-Gon's veins before that smile had even waned.

Brock, as much a fixture at The Cauldron as the cheap lighting, had been quite happy to tell him that bit of news as he'd slowly (slowly, as if he didn't usually fill half the glass with foam) pulled the beer from the tap. "Give it up, Obi-Wan, he's out of your league. That one's full Danae and isn't going to go for a mutant like you."

If it hadn't been for the fact that The Cauldron was cheap, right down the street from Obi-Wan's place, and undiscriminating in their clientele (Danae, mixed bloods, humans, and elsewise allowed), Obi-Wan would have stopped going there years ago. But even as he'd ignored Bruck (who'd disliked him from their first meeting, that dislike distilled into venom when one of Bruck's chosen ones had chosen Obi-Wan instead), he'd sighed to himself, wondering why the attractive ones were always Danae. The foolishness of that thought had made him laugh out loud, since Danae always were (beauty as much a part of them as their magic), and humans (foolish, foolish humans) had been caught by that before. Caught, because humans, even the ones graced (cursed) by magic, were usually too mundane for them, of value as nothing more than momentary distractions. Obi-Wan, cursed (cursed) by magic, had never chosen to wear the fool's cap, and (cursed by experience as well) had chosen then to leave it behind at the bar along with that smile.

He'd not been celebrating his twentieth birthday the first time he'd actually met Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan had been over at Taco Hell, eating one of Bant's famous SinusBusters, and (theoretically) keeping his office hours, when Qui-Gon had approached his table, one of Bant's also famous cinnamon buns (the 'good' ones, that only had a touch of chipotle in them) placed in front of Obi-Wan like tribute.

"The young lady over there said it was your birthday and that you'd enjoy this." Both bun and statement had come with the smile that Obi-Wan still remembered, even months later.

It had almost made Obi-Wan laugh, a moment of dissonance that hadn't really left him with any other response. He'd finally ignored the question of why Bant would have mentioned his birthday (she was one of his few friends (his caution lost to time and the fact that he knew what she was running from, too), but they'd never celebrated birthdays, his or hers), why she'd said he'd enjoy the bun when she knew he hated them (calling her food famous was just a politer way of saying infamous, really, and the place was called Taco Hell for a reason), or why Qui-Gon had gotten it for him regardless, in favor of getting to the point. "What do you want?"

The Danae were enamored of ceremony, form and tradition (and manners) like breath to them. But Qui-Gon's smile had brightened at his rudeness, pulling up a chair and sitting just like any of Obi-Wan's other clients would, ceremony, form, tradition, and manners left behind him on the questionably clean floors of Taco Hell. "I understand that you Find things."

The first time he'd done it he'd been five. His mother had been holding a party, in a flutter over everything and nothing (that need to look good in front of her friends, the neighbors, already there even before she'd wanted to hide him from their sight). He'd been too young to really know what a Salmon Terrine was, but as she'd talked aloud, listing the things she still needed to do, she had asked (made the mistake of asking) where she'd put the caviar.

It had been a mild tug at first, almost like a thought, pulling him towards the kitchen. As she'd looked (here and there, an anxious need to impress informing her search rather than logic), the tug had gotten stronger in him, like a string behind his breastbone, not quite pain, but not quite not, either. He'd followed the string, but it had led upwards, too far for him to reach. He'd called for her then, wanting help, wanting the tug to stop, but she'd gotten angry, irritated by his insistence that the caviar was in the top cabinet. It had only been after he'd started to cry, the strange sensation in his chest still not pain, but still not not pain, that she'd finally snapped. He didn't know what caviar was, she would never have put it that cabinet, she was going to check, just to keep him quiet, but when it turned out not to be there, he was going to get a spanking for bothering her when she so busy, all of that had been on her lips as she'd opened the cabinet door. There only been silence afterward, the tug in his chest fading when she'd found what she'd asked for, his connection to her fading as that silence had gone on for years.

He was twenty when Qui-Gon asked, and the not quite pain was the only part of that memory that had still been his. Work was work, though, and even Bordertown required money, another lesson Obi-Wan had learned well. So it hadn't mattered what the magic had cost him over the years, and it hadn't mattered that Qui-Gon was Danae (who usually hated to admit there was something a human could do (even one that was fae himself) that they couldn't); all that had mattered had been his fee. And his rules. "I get ten credits upfront. If what you're after is in town, that'll be all I charge. If what you're after is in the Borderlands, I get another ten credits for a travel fee, plus five more for a guide's fee. If what you want is in the World, I'll charge you another ten credits for the headache I get from not actually going and finding it, though I'll be happy to tell you what general direction the headache came from for free."

Most of his clients had argued about something in the rules. What constituted in town? Why did he get a guide's fee (especially if they didn't come with him)? That kind of thing. He'd usually answer them politely (the names of the streets he considered the borders of town, the fact that he was one of the few people who could find their way around the Borderlands (his talent not dependent upon the flow of the magic, working perfectly well in the World, too)), but, perversely, he'd known he'd be rude again if Qui-Gon asked about them. If he'd been being honest with himself, he would have admitted that it was a reaction to Qui-Gon being Danae, but attractive in a way that they never were (attractive in a way that humans rarely were, either), but Obi-Wan hadn't wanted that honesty, holding onto self-deceit like a present to himself.

Qui-Gon had said nothing, simply nodding his head in acceptance. Which had just irritated Obi-Wan further, so that the sarcasm that he usually tried to damp down with clients had come rolling out, the last of the rules carried along with it. "If you ask for something there are a lot of, you'll give me a really strong headache, which would be another twenty credits; ten for ignoring my rules, and ten for the curse I'd have Sere down on the corner put on you. Plus the question can't be for something you don't actually know exists. No nebulous things like 'a large fortune' or 'happiness', or other fairy tales like that. It won't give me a headache since it won't even work, but I will laugh at you and keep the initial ten credits."

Obi-Wan had congratulated himself on getting fairy tale in there, because the Danae hated it, but Qui-Gon had said nothing, simply nodding again (simply annoying Obi-Wan beyond measure). Goaded, Obi-Wan had added just that bit more disdain to his addendum. "No one true loves or the prophesied Heir to the throne of Faerie or any other myth you might have come across... nothing you don't know, literally, concretely, exists."

Qui-Gon had finally done something other than nod at that, but it hadn't helped Obi-Wan's pique any. Because what Qui-Gon had done was smile again, amusement in his eyes, putting down a ten credit piece on the table and sliding it across to Obi-Wan as he'd said, "Oh, but I do know he exists. And I want you to find him... where is the prophesied Heir to the throne of Faerie?"

Much like his mother fifteen years before, Obi-Wan had wanted to be angry and to yell (though he'd deliberately avoided the thought of spanking, since self-deceit only went so far), but like his mother before him, he hadn't been able to say anything. Not when he'd felt that familiar tug, pain and not, pulling him to Find what no one but Qui-Gon had honestly believed was lost.

Obi-Wan had been twenty for a day when he'd decided he really regretted ever meeting Qui-Gon. Forgetting the attraction he hadn't wanted to feel for Qui-Gon (far too human to be Danae, far too accepting of him to be human), the man had traded on a strange combination of expectation, guilt, money, and (what Obi-Wan suspected of being magically-enhanced) pleading eyes to get Obi-Wan to break one of his own rules: Finding something out in the World.

Qui-Gon, with that confidence the Danae wore like skin, had been unconcerned with the attention they'd received. Had apparently welcomed it, since he'd worn his blood-black leathers, a silver crescent gracing the collar, obvious signs of a Danae from the High Court. It was something that few enough in Bordertown ever saw. Out in the World it was the type of thing they liked to pretend didn't exist. There the Borderlands, and Faerie beyond, were almost a secret (like Obi-Wan had been), something to be ignored by the normal. (Though for the outcasts and the misfits, or the countless teenagers wanting to be something other (anything other) than what they were, it was something to be whispered about, dreamed about, and almost never actually visited. Every couple of days one of the more determined ones would drag into Bordertown (like Obi-Wan had), dressed in fae fashions (that real fae rarely, Qui-Gon and the High Court notwithstanding, wore), with self-given names like Stormwind and Wildfire (that no one could honestly live up to, and that no one else could hear without laughing), and they usually stayed for a month or two before they stumbled back out of town, still yearning to be someone else, something magic could never give them.)

Obi-Wan, with the caution life had taught him, had worn jeans and a t-shirt and had still felt burned by all the eyes on them. He'd rounded his shoulders, hunching in on himself (as if it were his height that was drawing attention, rather than the giant in leathers besides him), one quick step and one quick step and one quick step back into the World, and he'd cursed Qui-Gon even as he tried to hurry him, on the trail of a myth and desperate to get back to as close to normal as he'd ever found.

But as much as Obi-Wan had hurried, and as much as Qui-Gon (and his freakishly long legs) had humored him, it had become apparent they weren't going back any time soon. The problem with Obi-Wan's talent (besides that it existed at all) was that there was nothing but direction to it. It pulled and he followed, and where it would wind up, or how far away it was, he'd only find out after he got there. The other problem was that the longer it took him to find it, the worse the not pain got, like an itch under his skin, an irritation growing with each quick step they had taken away from Bordertown and out into the World Obi-Wan had run from and Qui-Gon had never been a part of at all.

Obi-Wan had been twenty and two days when everything went to (mythical) hell in the (mythical) handbasket. The attack, when it had come, hadn't been from a source Obi-Wan had expected (no morons looking to take out anything not like them, none of the Religous Right, irritated about anything that put into question their religious orthodoxy). Instead it had been a group of kids, not much older than Obi-Wan (though years younger in experience), crying and scared, but determined. They'd worked themselves up thinking Qui-Gon was a demon that had come to collect their souls, payment for a deal they'd made when they were thirteen and bored, a rainy day and a Ouija board their idea of the height of rebellion.

It had been two o'clock in the afternoon, but it had also been Podunk, Iowa, and there'd been no one around to stop the farm-bred, horror movie junkies (idiots) but Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon themselves. They'd been hampered by not wanting to hurt the kids, but even though Qui-Gon's magic wouldn't work in the World, and even though Obi-Wan's wasn't exactly helpful in the situation, they'd won in the end, their own determination not to be killed (especially not for such a stupid reason) a strong magic in its own right.

They'd gotten out of town as fast as they could (one quick step and one quick step and one quick step further into the World), but they'd stopped early for the night, both of them bruised and bloody and looking like refugees from horror movies themselves. The clerk at the motel hadn't even blinked an eye, apparently a bastion of unsurprise, simply handing over the key and giving them the checkout time in a bored voice. The room had been small and decorated from a time before Obi-Wan's birth (before the Borderlands were more than a doorway), but it had been clean enough for what it was, and the shower had hot water enough for both of them.

After his shower had been when it had hit Obi-Wan, reaction putting a shake in his hands, water in his knees, and he'd almost fallen before Qui-Gon had caught him, nothing between bruised flesh but thin towels and a growing attraction that even Obi-Wan (his birthday two days gone) couldn't deny.

He'd done it before; lips and hands, the feel of heat and skin and sweat. But rarely, rarely, lessons learned hard to forget. He'd known he shouldn't do it there, either, the Danae not known for relationships, Obi-Wan unwilling to be a convenient body (rarely, rarely, hard to forget). But he'd been scared, hurt, irritated by the pull that wouldn't go away (tug tug tug, not quite pain). They all would fade if he'd go back. Back to Bordertown, where he knew who to be cautious of, where he rarely (rarely, rarely, hard to forget) got hurt, and where his magic would eventually give up (tug tug tug, not quite pain) if he didn't keep looking. As long as he stayed here he'd have to deal with the World again, he'd have to deal with the magic that had chased him from it in the first place... and he'd have to deal with Qui-Gon, standing close, breathing heavily, tall and comforting and not comforting at all, the attraction another tug tug tug at Obi-Wan's chest.

He'd done it before; choosing a course he'd known wouldn't get him what he really wanted, but needing to choose it anyway. When Qui-Gon had reached for him, slowly, so slowly, giving him time to say no, time to say yes (a magic none of the others had possessed), Obi-Wan hadn't pulled away, reaching back (not slowly at all) for heat and skin and sweat.

They'd wound up missing their checkout time, and they had new bruises between them, but Obi-Wan had chosen, the fool's cap firmly on his head, and he'd gone, quick step and quick step and quick step, out into the World with a mythical Heir in front of him and an all too real (all too temporary) lover at his side.

Obi-Wan had been twenty and a month (give or take a day here or there) when he realized he didn't really want to find the Heir. He'd known it wasn't healthy, the feeling that was deeper than the pull of his magic, but he hadn't known how to kill it, not without running (always running) back to Bordertown. But it had been far too late by that point, even though every step (slower step now, and slow again) they took was closer to a place it was dangerous for him to go, the magic drawing them there like Fate, Nemesis, its brother, close on Obi-Wan's heels.

It had been too late when he'd laid on yet another motel bed, Qui-Gon's body around him (too big, too strong, old fear just under his skin), not doing anything but talking, but not wanting to get up. Qui-Gon had been laughing at what he imagined the faces on the Court would look like when he produced the Heir, good enough at impersonations that Obi-Wan had thought he could identify them if he ever met them (unlikely, unlikely, Qui-Gon the only High Court member Obi-Wan had ever heard of in Bordertown). Obi-Wan had even laughed at the one called Mace, making Qui-Gon laugh again in turn.

It had been too late when Obi-Wan hadn't wanted to get out even knowing what Qui-Gon's stories meant. The High Court and the Heir, all part of Faerie, a place that he, even fae as he was, wasn't allowed to (wouldn't want to) go. They'd laughed and touched and given up another day of Finding to finding each other instead. Obi-Wan had allowed it, had welcomed it, even knowing (hearing) the end was coming.

It had been too late when Qui-Gon, slowly, so slowly, had pushed into Obi-Wan's body, Obi-Wan's yes already given (the one he'd never given before). It had hurt, too much flesh (too much fear) to make it not pain, but Qui-Gon had eased the way with slick and touch and sound, his voice a constant murmur (yes, and good, so good, and mine) in Obi-Wan's ears, his hands comfort and pleasure, Obi-Wan's skin lighting up in their wake, his cock rising again at their call.

Another motel, another bed, and it had been past too late when he'd pushed into Qui-Gon's body (yes, and good, so good, and mine, and nothing Obi-Wan had ever had). Cooling down afterward, the sound of Qui-Gon's shower in his ears and the pull of the magic growing, growing, its end near, Obi-Wan hadn't been able to regret his choice (hadn't been sure he ever would). Even knowing the things that Qui-Gon didn't (the name of the next town, what had happened there), with the pull of the magic (horribly, inevitably) leading back to that worst mistake of his life, and a broken heart the best outcome of this trip he'd been able to imagine, Obi-Wan had realized he didn't regret having met Qui-Gon at all.

Obi-Wan had been twenty and a month (give or take a day here or there) and one day more when they'd found Anakin. It had been almost anti-climatic; a small, unprepossessing child, a mother who'd easily believed her child was a prophesied heir (either because she'd known he was a Changeling, or because she'd been more than a little crazy, Obi-Wan couldn't quite guess), a mundane existence that both of them were quite willing to give up, even if it meant leaving the World behind.

Obi-Wan had been twenty and a month (give or take a day here or there and one day more) plus another hour past that when Fate or bad luck or just being a human touched (cursed) by magic once again wrecked his life.

She'd been surprised to see him (surprised to recognize him after seven years), but he'd known (known like Finding) that he'd meet her there. He must have changed, growing up as well as older, but she hadn't looked any different than the first time he'd seen her, her face weathered and not quite beautiful, but oddly striking in its way. But it'd been the star on her chest that had always made the strongest impression, and the law on her side that had made Obi-Wan run from her before.

He could have tried to run then, could have left Qui-Gon and Anakin and the maybe-crazy mother behind without a word, but he'd already made his choice in a cheap motel room just about a month (give or take a few days and a day more plus an hour) before.

She'd given him a moment to say goodbye, the sympathy he'd seen in her eyes seven years before (but hadn't been able to trust) still showing, but the cop in her keeping careful watch over him as he did it.

When Obi-Wan had imagined this moment (cursed (cursed) by magic, he'd learned to be prepared), he'd thought he'd give a quietly dignified speech, one last kiss goodbye, and then fade into the background. And he'd tried. Had tried to be calm and reserved instead of embarrassed and awkward and afraid. But he hadn't even been able to look in Qui-Gon's eyes (what would be there? Pity? Repulsion? The Danae could be curt, even callously cruel, but they didn't kill like humans did. Like Obi-Wan had). He hadn't been able to do more than stammer out a confused apology and an entreaty for Qui-Gon to take the others and go.

What part of his imagined goodbye he hadn't managed to screw up, Qui-Gon had instead. He'd ignored Obi-Wan's attempt at a grand gesture, instead going over to Sheriff Billaba to talk to her. Obi-Wan had debated following, or maybe getting in the squad car already (or even just lying down and letting go, twenty years and all those days, hours, and minutes weighing more with every one), but he'd stood there instead, numb at the thought of going to prison, of living in such a tiny cage (after he'd already escaped one once).

Qui-Gon had come back with a cautious smile on his face, approaching Obi-Wan like he would a stray (stray dog, stray human), but it had faded when he'd gotten close enough to touch. Obi-Wan should have pulled away at that, should have kept his distance with the end in sight, but he stepped into it instead, the last month's lessons stronger than what he'd learned before. He'd let Qui-Gon hold him (softly, always softly, always giving him a choice); he'd let Qui-Gon take the weight of all those years for a while.

The voice had been soft, too, the same murmur that Qui-Gon used in bed, comfort this time instead of need. "Is what she said true? Did you really have to kill a man in self-defense?"

Obi-Wan had been thirteen when he'd left home, too young to know much of the world, and he'd been sheltered beyond that. He'd set off, one slow step and one slow step and one slow step, with only a backpack and a tiny bit of money to call his own. It hadn't taken long before he'd used the money, before he'd used up most of his naivet�, a World full of people who only cared about the magic of money, who only cared about their own, teaching him more than he'd ever learned in school and more about himself than he'd really wanted to know.

He'd lost the last bit of naivet� (the last chance in his search for Normal) when he'd accepted a ride from the wrong guy. Norm he'd said to call him, and he'd been huge, but fat and friendly, and Obi-Wan had thought he'd have nothing to fear. It was a mistake he'd learned from by having it burned into his skin, driven into his flesh, and it had only been afterward, the knife coming towards him, that he'd learned the final lesson; just what he'd do to stay alive.

But Obi-Wan hadn't been able to tell Qui-Gon any of that, hadn't been able to get the words past remembered horror and offered comfort. The Sheriff had seen him then, must have known what had happened if she were calling it self-defense, must have told Qui-Gon at least part of it if the sympathy in her eyes (that maybe he could trust) and the understanding in Qui-Gon's (that he trusted even knowing he might regret it) were anything to go by.

Obi-Wan had been twenty and a month and another week when he figured out that the hand of Nemesis on his shoulder was mostly paperwork; the closing of an open case, the prosecutor's decision to not prosecute. It had taken about a week for Obi-Wan to be able to walk free from the biggest mistake of his life, standing in a World he didn't have to fear as much as he once had.

It would have been everything Obi-Wan could have hoped for if it also hadn't been just about a week after Qui-Gon had finally taken the Heir, no longer myth or prophesy, back to the High Court, leaving Obi-Wan to go back to Bordertown, slow step by slow step by slow step, alone.

Obi-Wan had been twenty and six months when Qui-Gon came back to Bordertown. He'd walked into Taco Hell, a mirror to Obi-Wan in jeans and jumper, and sat down next to him as if the last five months hadn't happened.

He hadn't even waited for Obi-Wan to greet him (which might have happened) or complain (which definitely would have happened), he'd just started his story (in same languorous voice he used late at night, in between bouts of sex, when he'd tell Obi-Wan about Faerie, or about his favorite flowers, or about how one of his toes was longer than its match on the other side), though only after he'd signaled to Bant that he wanted a cup of her (jalapeno flavored) coffee.

"I was already what humans (though not so much to the Danae) would call old well before you were born. Well before the Borderlands were there, too. It was... difficult, that life before either one of you. I'd always been more in touch with nature than with magic, wanting to live in tune with the world around me rather than using magic to bend it to my will. This made me, as you might guess from what you know of my people, rather an outcast. They wear glamours like skin, changing with their whim, or change the world around them to complement their hair color, while I, basically, just don't care. I was born with brown hair, and I kept it brown. As age crept up on me, as it does for all Danae, long-lived as they are, I let it show. If the High Court did something I didn't like, I let that show, too. It was a relief for all of us when the Borderlands formed, when Bordertown appeared with its own misfit magic, and I finally had a place to belong that wasn't there."

Bant had put the coffee down, leaving again without a word to fill in the silence that fell while Qui-Gon took a drink. He'd grimaced afterward, shaking his head to get the taste out of it. Obi-Wan had smiled at him, all of this familiar (even the story in its way), and had let him continue without asking questions that might well be answered.

"But such happiness is not for outcasts such as I, or at least not then. With the growing number of mixed blood children, most of whom can't or won't enter Faerie, and the growing number of Danae that have left as I had, the Court has been having problems filling their numbers. And, if I know them, worrying about their power if things continue on as it has been. Which would mean nothing to me, but my family is an old one, and I'm the last of my line, and the Court, in all their meddling glory, used this to decide that I couldn't abdicate my position after all. I don't remember Yoda's exact words, but he basically told me I either had to take my seat in the Court, or I had to find someone who would, ha ha ha. The laugh being because the bloodlines, outside of the mixed bloods, are all well-known, mapped back for millennia on millennia, and if there'd been someone else to take my place, they'd have already asked them."

Qui-Gon had absently taken another sip of the coffee, and Obi-Wan had just let him, too amused by the look on his face afterward to warn him beforehand. Voice a little rougher from Bant's idea of coffee-appropriate flavor, Qui-Gon had said, "So it would have been the end if I hadn't been who I am, which is someone who doesn't use magic the way the other Danae do. When I'd first come to Bordertown, I'd talked to the others who'd fled Faerie, too. Danae who were also misfits, and the other fae who'd lived there but chafed under the Danae's rules. One of them, a sprite far older than even I, taught me all kinds of natural magics, some that even work in the World, not dependent on the user being fae at all. It was a truth spell, a lot of research, and a myth that no one believed that led me to the knowledge that the prophesied Heir not only wasn't just a story, but that he actually already existed. Not that the knowledge did me much good, since I had no idea who he was nor where he was, and so had no one to show to the Court even if he'd agreed to go. But just about when I'd given up hope, I heard a story of a human, fae-touched, who had a magic I'd never heard of before, one that could Find anything. So long as you knew it existed. Which I did. So I went to find this Finder, and find the Heir he did. Yoda was quite happy, and now I'm quite free."

Obi-Wan had laughed at the succinctness there at the end, summing up all that had happened in so few words. But even as he'd laughed, he'd wanted to ask what that freedom meant for them. Old doubts about the Danae, even misfit ones, made him afraid to ask, but as he'd always seemed to, Qui-Gon answered the question without being asked, his touch slow (always slow, giving time even when Obi-Wan hadn't known he'd need it), an invitation, a promise, a firm hand up until he could take Obi-Wan in his arms and kiss him with five months' worth of suppressed desire.

If it had been a romance novel, the kind Obi-Wan's mother used to read, Qui-Gon would have said that Obi-Wan was his soulmate and his one true love (and other myths that no one really believed, but that Obi-Wan was sure Qui-Gon could somehow make real anyway). But Qui-Gon hadn't done any of that, simply grabbing Obi-Wan's backpack from where it had been hanging on his chair, and leading him, quick step and quick step and quick step, back home.

Obi-Wan was twenty-one when they opened the new shop. Qui-Gon had insisted on calling it a birthday present for him, and Obi-wan had let him, knowing he'd get his real present later. Their rooms were in back, shaded by the trees, kept completely private by old magic. But even though there was an office up front, neither of them ever used it, preferring the huge yard instead.

Qui-Gon's plants ran in racks along one side of it, in little pots and big ones and sometimes shoes for some reason that made sense to Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan, when he didn't have a job going, had a table under the tree on the other side of the yard, the temperature there (suspiciously) always perfect, and only easy showers ever fell on the yard, just enough to water the plants and trees (and always, always while they were asleep). Obi-Wan would sit at his table, (theoretically) keeping office hours, but usually watching Qui-Gon work (his shirt off, long, beautiful muscles moving underneath sunkissed skin).

When Obi-Wan had a job that took him out into the Borderlands, Qui-Gon would usually follow along after him, like the World's tallest dog. If he had a job in the World itself (not often, not often, and he charged a hell of a lot of money if he did go), Qui-Gon would put on his leathers (only the silver crescent removed) and go and scare the locals wherever Obi-Wan went.

And at night (or sometimes the afternoon, and occasional mornings as well), regardless of where they were, one or the other of them would take the other's hand and lead them to bed, where they'd laugh and fuck and dream together (always together, always).