Disclaimer: All belongs to the great and powerful Mouse.
Summary: Even for a Jedi there is a price for perfection, but what if fate offered a chance at a refund and what would be the cost?
A/N: Hello again! I'm sorry for the long wait, but life has been busy and this chapter has been a beast to wrangle. Even now, I'm not quite certain I succeeded and, as a result, the format of this story may change. Both Perfect and Imperfect were done in four parts and it was my intent for Human to follow this same pattern. However, after my difficulties with this chapter, Human may prove to be longer. (Shrug) It will be what it will be and, as mentioned earlier, updates will be slow but steady.
Thanks:
Maries de Sanctos: Awww, thank you and your wait is over.
Geri K: Yeah, these two boys are great at guilt and the road ahead will be long, but luckily our favorite pair is also an indomitable force when they set their minds to something. Now, they just need to set their minds to healing…
NostalgicFool: I'm so glad to hear you're so excited! And don't be too concerned about the boys… things are about to get rough, but they will get better… eventually.
Please R&R!
Part II – Naked and Afraid
Qui-Gon came to consciousness slowly, reluctantly as always. In his waking life there was only pain, in his dreams only nightmares, but in unconsciousness there was oblivion and he cherished the void, embraced it, for it was as close to death as he would be allowed for a long time. A low moan brushed past his lips and he sat up in his sleep couch feeling the bright sting of fresh injuries and the dull ache of old ones. He lifted a hand to his head, blunt fingers tracing the burning line of a laceration, but instead of feeling the crusty remnants of blood and torn skin Qui-Gon felt only a thin rise of flesh that promised a scar. The hand lowered to his chest where his examination continued. His tunic was gone, leaving him only in trousers, and his bare chest displayed a multitude of old damage, but other spots, newer ones, were covered with bacta patches and a long, tight wrap had been wound around his ribs.
Wary and addled eyes lifted from his medical dressings and began to flit across the sleep couch settling briefly on the soft, rich bedclothes and downy comforter before roaming over every item in the small space. The room was sparsely furnished: two sleep couches (the other empty, but neatly made), a desk, two chairs, a dresser, a kitchenette, and three doors which Qui-Gon assumed led to a refresher, closet, and outside. The entire room was exceedingly tidy and bereft of anything that resembled personal items or keepsakes. In fact, the only thing he could see that wasn't there for function was a small, closed box resting innocuously on the otherwise empty desk.
Curious, despite himself, Qui-Gon pushed back the warm bedclothes and placed his bare feet on the worn carpeting. He stood carefully, his entire body complaining of abuse and age, but he pressed forwards with wobbling steps until he reached the desk. Looking out into the space once more he waited, half expecting the room's owner to burst forth from the shadows berating him for his intent to breach his privacy. Qui-Gon stood still for several silent moments and when no such protestation came he turned his attention back to the solitary box. He reached out with thick and calloused fingers, tracing the contours of the box lightly as if afraid it might harm him after all, boxes held secrets and secrets could be dangerous things indeed.
With a deep breath of dreadful resignation, he lifted the hinged lid revealing a single data pad and several credit chips. Qui-Gon felt a small smirk form under his moustache in response to the anti-climactic ending. Still, this box seemed an ill omen and quickly his smile faded and his investigation continued. He ignored the money. Qui-Gon was many things, had committed many sins, but thief was not yet amongst his list. Instead he picked up the pad and thumbed it on hoping to gain some knowledge about his benefactor, but it was not to be. The glowing green script that stood out sharply against the black background demanded a passcode that Qui-Gon did not know and could not even begin to guess. With a sigh, he placed the pad back into the cradle of the box and shut the lid.
His investigation thwarted, Qui-Gon turned his attention to the 'fresher. As he stepped inside his eyes immediately set upon the countertop where a closed travel bag lay on one side and a collection of new, still hygi-wrapped toiletries sat on the other. It would seem that whoever brought him here also purchased him some personal necessaries. With a dogged intention not to examine his circumstances to closely, Qui-Gon closed the door and stripped out of his thin leggings and small clothes. He stepped into the shower and turned on the hot water. Basking under its spray, it was several moments before he remembered to clean himself. To be honest, personal hygiene had not been amongst his priorities of late, but someone had taken great care to tend to his needs and his injuries. The least he could do was not send them away with his stink. Ever mindful of his bandages, Qui-Gon scrubbed off the layers of dirt and filth from his skin before turning his attention to the mat masquerading as his hair.
Finally clean, he turned off the hot water with a sigh and stepped out of the small stall. A fluffy white towel was folded neatly on a rack to his left. He took it, unfolded it, and patted himself dry before tying it around his narrow waist. Hesitantly, he glanced at the mirror and was relieved to find the glass too fogged to display his reflection, but the humidity in the room had also made it stuffy, so Qui-Gon opened the door to cool off in the main room. However, as soon as he opened the 'fresher door the outer door opened revealing the figure of a man that haunted his waking life and terrorized his dreams.
Obi-Wan Kenobi was not prepared in the slightest for the scene that appeared before him or the multitude of conflicting emotions the vision engendered. After carrying his former master to the nearest hostel and tending to his wounds, Obi-Wan found himself unable to sleep. Instead he had simply passed most of the night and early morning staring at the unconscious figure lying supine on the other sleep couch. He had been lost in his thoughts during those twilight hours trying to suss out his feelings and determine just what he hoped to achieve by coming here. But enlightenment never came, his Force connection remained elusive and his own psyche stubbornly withheld the answers he so needed. Around sunrise, he admitted defeat and surrendered his disturbed vigil in search of food for firstmeal. The chore had proven a sufficient distraction for his troubled mind, permitting a modicum of peace as he focused only on the task at hand, but that shadow of serenity was banished the moment he stepped into the small abode.
Balancing the plates on one hand, Obi-Wan inserted his card key and stepped in the room only to freeze mid-movement as midnight blue eyes he had not seen in over a year stared at him. Both men stood stock-still, locked in a moment of surrealness, each seemingly incapable of bridging the gap between that moment and the inexorable birth of the next. In fact, it was the sound of a door opening or closing down the hall that anchored Obi-Wan back into reality. With a shake of his head and a clearly chagrined expression he stepped fully into the room closing the door behind him.
"I didn't realize you were awake or else I would have chimed first," he spoke with feigned casualness. However, the tension between the two men did not diminish in the slightest. In fact, to Obi-Wan it seemed to have grown even thicker. He noticed that Qui-Gon still hadn't moved, his eyes still locked on Obi-Wan, his expression unreadable. Obi-Wan bit his lip dropping his gaze to the floor. Then he remembered the warm weight in his hand.
"I… I figured you might be hungry, so… I got us something for firstmeal," he said taking a small step forward, but that small step produced a large reaction. The moment he moved Qui-Gon ducked back across the threshold, retreating deeper into 'fresher until his back was against the far wall. Obi-Wan frowned and hesitantly moved forward another single pace. Again the response was as immediate as it was disquieting. Qui-Gon shrank against the wall, curling up in a manner that Obi-Wan could only describe as cowering. He wasn't looking at Obi-Wan anymore. Instead, he had tucked his head into his knees, his ears covered with his large hands, his towel slipping open revealing a thinner thigh than Obi-Wan remembered. In fact, now that Obi-Wan really looked at him, his former master seemed… smaller. Atrophied. Almost… withered. It was as if the man was victim of some great wasting sickness and the past year had taken its toll in flesh. Never before had Obi-Wan seen Qui-Gon look so… old. Even his hair, at least what Obi-Wan could see of it, held far more gray than it had not that long ago and his current hunched position only added to his enfeebled mien. In truth, the man before him was someone who Obi-Wan barely recognized and his entire gut ached with the knowledge that he had caused the fall such a great man.
His hand trembled and the carefully stacked containers fell to the floor with a muted clatter and squishy thump. Then sudden noise caused the older man to flinch and the flinch drove a stake through Obi-Wan's heart bleeding panic into every cell of his being.
"I… I shouldn't of… I… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… I didn't… I didn't… I couldn't… I wanted… I'm sorry…"
The words left his lips in rush. He knew he was babbling, but he couldn't stop the words, couldn't stop the torrent of half formed self-recriminations from filling the space. He stepped back, out of the 'fresher. He needed to run, needed to flee, needed to put some distance between himself and the damnable truth that lay hunched and shivering in the corner, but his legs failed him dropping him gracelessly to the floor. Yet still he was determined to get away. He scrambled, crab-like to the far wall, pulling his knees in tight to his own chest, huddled-in much like the older man was.
Obi-Wan closed his eyes tight, but tears still managed to leak through his golden lashes. He held on to himself, rocking back and forth in a tiny ball leaning against the wall repeating his mantra of guilt, blind to everything except his panic and pain.
He had not been looking directly at the apparition after he pulled himself into the corner awaiting his punishment, so when the dishes fell to the ground, the sound startled him. But still he dared not look up, he dared not move. Instead, he waited for the torture to begin, for the vicious barbs of the younger man's hate to tear into his body, flay his skin, devour him whole. And soon the words came, but they were not harsh and grating noise of his expectations. No, these words were unmistakably soft and nearly breathless. Confused and more than terrified, Qui-Gon dared to let his eyes dart up and back down again. What he glimpsed did not make sense, so he stole another look. What he saw confounded him beyond all measure. There was his scourge, his tormentor, his avenging spirit… crying against the wall.
A muscle in his hand twitched, reacting instinctively to reach out and comfort the man who was once his padawan, but Qui-Gon quelled the urge, pushing it down ruthlessly as he reminded himself that his touch only brought suffering and pain and no amount of denial would ever change that. Therefore, he reasoned that this… behavior from the apparition must simply be a new form of torture, another way to punish him for the grievous wrongs he had committed in the great and foolish life of Jinn.
Yes. It made sense. It was right. And yet…
It felt so very… wrong.
Minutes passed and the quiet sobbing of the younger man did not abate. Yet, Qui-Gon did nothing. However, when the sobbing shifted to desperate gasps for air something stirred in the former master and no matter how hard he fought to deny it, every fiber of his being demanded that he do something, anything to help ease the man's pain. Unable to completely resist the need to comfort, but fully aware that his touch would not be welcomed, Qui-Gon turned slightly to the sobbing wraith and uttered a single word.
"Breathe."
The word was softly spoken, little more than a gust of breath itself and Qui-Gon wasn't certain the young man had even heard it through his hyperventilation. So he tried again, this time louder and with what once had been his signature masterly tone.
"Breathe, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon repeated as he unfolded himself slightly. "Deep breath in… hold it… then slowly out, like drawing silk. Deep breath in, yes. And now out. Just like that."
Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, Qui-Gon watched as Obi-Wan's breathing began to level out as he struggled to follow the well-practiced exercise. When finally he appeared to be breathing normally, Qui-Gon allowed himself to relax, sinking back against the wall, but this time not huddled in a protective ball. His back was pressed flush against the smooth, cold surface, one leg shooting straight out the other bent at the knee, his arm resting upon it. The towel, no longer tied, rested loosely across his lap, betraying only the barest touch of modesty. His hair, still slightly wet, hung in limp tendrils around his face and shoulders. In truth, he must have looked a sight, but his appearance did not even register on his list of concerns. Honestly, his list consisted of only one concern, one question.
What new form of torment was this to be?
He shook his head then lowered his chin to his chest, closing his eyes. It didn't matter. Whatever happened, whatever new agony he was made to endure, he would because he deserved it. Deserved it, and so, so much more.
"Why?" came a strangled question. Qui-Gon raised his head to find himself staring into a pair of red-rimmed, blue-gray eyes. When he answered he gave no thought to what he would say. He had long since learned to only speak the truth to this phantom, words he owed to another, but would never be able to say.
"I could never stand to see you in pain… even when I know I am the cause of it."
"Wha… what? What do you mean?"
Ah, Qui-Gon thought to himself. This is how it shall be done. He was to list his crimes before the victim and then he would receive his judgment. He almost smiled. It was right this way.
"I am the cause, Obi-Wan. I failed you. I rejected you. I hurt you. Time and time again… so many mistakes," Qui-Gon's voice cracked forcing him to pause and swallow thickly. With his eyes averted, he began again.
"From the moment we met, it was clear to everyone that the Force wanted our pairing. Yoda saw it. Mace saw it. You saw it. You were a boy of just twelve standard and yet you were still far wiser than I. I took you on, but still I would not listen. I pushed you away over and over until… I caused that one last, unforgivable hurt… pushing you away for good." He could not stop the cracking of his voice, but he would not let that deter him.
"Everything… everything I touch… withers in my hands," he said, his voice trailing low into a whisper as his eyes closed. "I wish… I had never been trained… that the Jedi never found me… that…"
The older man tried to finish his thought, but the words caught in his throat making breathing difficult and further speech impossible. So involved he was in his own dark thoughts, Qui-Gon did not noticed the gentle voice near his ear telling him to breathe. It was only when the voice took on a more desperate, plaintive tone that his awareness was finally wrenched from his personal morass of despair and was forced to acknowledge something that existed beyond his skin.
"Master… no, please... it's not your fault. It was never your fault… Master, please don't… please…"
That voice, that beautifully accented, dulcet tone pleading so earnestly was not something Qui-Gon could ignore. He steadied his breathing and turned his watery eyes to the figure now beside him. The apparition seemed to radiate misery; an attribute it had never exhibited before. For several heartbeats, all Qui-Gon could do was stare and now that he saw the figure, truly saw him, he realized with more and more certainty that this visitation was supremely different from the rest. For one thing, the ghost of his former apprentice was not dressed in Jedi robes, but in sturdy, non-descript civilian attire. Secondly, his hair was not styled in a padawan cut and was long enough to hang in his face creating a curtain partially veiling his eyes. However, it was the specter's expression and body language that was most unfamiliar. There was no tenseness, no lips curled into a waiting snarl, no restless fingers uncurling and curling into ready fists. No, here there was only sadness, a deep and abiding agony that rested on the trembling form with the familiarity of well-worn leather.
A treacherous and dreadful seed of truth settled in Qui-Gon's belly. It raked lightly across his mind leaving thin welts of possibility, all throbbing with the steady pulse of what if. He rebelled against the horrifying concept even as the evidence of his eyes and heart sought to overwhelm the shrieking denial in his soul. It cannot be he railed. NO! NO! NO! But even as he waged war within himself, he knew the seed of doubt had taken root. He was already ensnarled within its grasp, the painful tentacles of truth piercing his mind with the blinding burn of a saber strike.
Whether in an act of ineluctable masochism or languorous submission, he reached out a trembling hand, extended a single, squat digit and touched… solid flesh.
Wanting desperately to remain unconvinced, he poked the apparition again and he, again, was met with the resistance of something incredibly and irreducibly there.
"You're… real…"
"Wha… what?"
"You're real…" he repeated, though whether it was to himself or in answer to the question asked Qui-Gon didn't know. All he did know was that the glassy blue-gray eyes that stared at him, confusion fairly rippling in their depths, belonged to a living, breathing, present Obi-Wan Kenobi.
"Maa-aster?" Obi-Wan whispered with an uncharacteristic stutter. To his mind, Qui-Gon had never heard anything more beautiful.
"Padawan," he whispered as he grabbed hold of the man beside him and pulled him tightly to his chest. It didn't matter that he was essentially naked or sitting on the floor of a refresher. It only mattered that his padawan was here, with him, whole and so very, very real.
"Padawan. Padawan," he repeated in whispers, unable to say anything more, as if that one word was the only utterance in the galaxy that could express the glorious rapture he felt in that moment. A sentiment that only magnified when he heard the responding "Master," murmured by his ear. After several minutes of just basking in the solid presence of the man lost to him so long ago, Qui-Gon pulled back enough to see his face. He raised a hand to cup a far too pale cheek and his heart warmed when Obi-Wan leaned into his touch. He stared into those changeable eyes and sighed in contentment.
"Gods, how I have missed you."
"You… you have?" Obi-Wan asked, unmistakable incredulity in his voice. For Qui-Gon, the sound was painful. It hurt to hear, to think that this man believed that he could disappear from his life and not be missed. But this is what he had created through his inadequacies and ineptitude. This pain was the lesson his teachings had wrought and it shamed him deeply.
"Oh, my Padawan," he replied clasping the youthful face between both his hands. "I have missed you every hour of every day. I prayed for you every day. I begged the Force just to see you again… and now you're here… oh, Force, you're here," Qui-Gon repeated as he pulled the young man to him again in a fierce embrace.
Obi-Wan felt like his senses were moving in slow motion. His world had been turned upside down then inverted then spun around quickly and finally shaken a bit just for good measure. As a result, the former padawan was thoroughly, utterly, and profoundly confused. Not so long ago, Obi-Wan would have been sitting in front of his terminal mindlessly compiling complex data entries and coding them for archive retrieval with little thought past if the afternoon had warmed enough for him to leave his jacket at his desk.
What he would not have been thinking about, much less doing, was sitting on a 'fresher floor, hugging his naked former master while sobbing and (Force above!) drooling on the older man's shoulder.
As surreal as things still felt, that bit of reality caused something in Obi-Wan's brain to begin firing again. He pulled away from the older man, wiping his face clumsily, his cheeks flushed red in chagrin.
"I…," he stammered helplessly. His eyes cast about for something to latch on to, though he studiously avoided the other man's eyes in doing so. Finally, something caught his attention and Obi-Wan said a silent prayer to the Force for the divine diversion.
"Your bandages… they need redressing," he said standing quickly. He turned to the counter and began to rummage through his travel bag stalling as much as he dared while he gathered his wits and tried to steady his breathing. After a moment, he heard the shuffle of limbs and the rustle of cloth behind him. Obi-Wan found the roll of bacta bandages, but he didn't turn around just yet. Instead, he closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. Why was he so disturbed? Isn't this what he always wanted? To find out that, not only did his master miss him, but that he wanted him. He was wanted. Qui-Gon had said so. Repeatedly. So, why did he feel so… off balance?
Obi-Wan shook his head as if he could physically dislodge the discordant thoughts and emotions then took another deep breath before he mustered the courage to turn around and face his former master. Even as he did so, he found it impossible to bring himself to look into the once familiar deep, blue eyes of the older man. Instead, Obi-Wan focused on his task, replacing the worn bandages with a gentle, but clinical detachment. Qui-Gon said nothing under his ministrations, only flinching once or twice at the particularly nasty contusions around his ribs. When the task was done, Obi-Wan stepped back while Qui-Gon took a few light stretches, testing his range of motion. After a few moments of silence, the older man finally spoke.
"Thank you," he said, his rich baritone both a balm and an irritant to Obi-Wan's soul.
"No need for thanks. You've patched me up more times than I care to count," Obi-Wan offered in an attempt at levity, but he found his own words cut too close to the quick.
"If only I had not caused such injuries as well," Qui-Gon answered and, in an instant, Obi-Wan knew his face had betrayed him. He watched as Qui-Gon's brow wrinkled and his eyes seemed to dim with Obi-Wan's wince at his words. Obi-Wan wanted to say something. He wanted to ease the hurt he caused in the older man by his careless expression; after all, it was he that had caused the greater injury, the greater insult, but Obi-Wan could not find the words and his mouth remained stubbornly shut.
"I've made you uncomfortable. My apologies," Qui-Gon said at last. Obi-Wan was thankful for the older man's tact and kindness at not pointing out his weakness any further, but he still found himself unwilling to subject himself to the man's scrutiny. Soon his gaze drifted down to the messy heap of plates just outside the doorway.
"I'll let you finish your ablutions and while I clean this up," Obi-Wan said as he exited the small 'fresher and knelt down to sort through the mess that would have been their firstmeal.
"Let me help you," Qui-Gon started as he stepped forward, but Obi-Wan's wide-eyed look of panic seemed to stop him in his tracks.
"No, no. Please… I've got this, Master… Jinn," he replied hastily returning to his task without looking back up at the older man.
"As you wish," came the low reply and Obi-Wan was granted a few more peaceful minutes of silence as he sorted and disposed of the refuse of their morning.
Qui-Gon struggled to swallow the hurt he felt with Obi-Wan's every wince and flinch. It was all too clear that the young man was uncomfortable around him, his body language telling what his deferential words would not. A small part of Qui-Gon's mind admitted that having the real Obi-Wan here and afraid of him was in some ways worse than any of his torturous hallucinations.
He watched silently as Obi-Wan picked the dishes off the floor, sorting salvageable items from those he was forced to dispose. To anyone else, perhaps, the scene would have looked dull and bereft of any information regarding the young man's state of mind, but Qui-Gon did not spend all those years living with Obi-Wan to not be able to pick up on some of his more subtle signals of disquiet. Obi-Wan was focused. Too focused. Which meant that he was stalling for time to gather his thoughts.
Qui-Gon acknowledged the wisdom of such action and decided to do the same. After a slow, deep breath he closed his eyes. As much as Qui-Gon was relieved, grateful even, to see his once apprentice he was not so naïve or selfish to think that this reunion would be pleasant or long-lived. On the contrary, it would be painful for both men, but it would also be mercifully short. It had to be. As long as Obi-Wan was near him he was in danger. Qui-Gon swallowed thickly. Dear Gods yes, it would hurt to have Obi-Wan leave him again, but he would not hurt the man any more, not if he could help it.
On this, Qui-Gon would vow his life.
Qui-Gon stepped out of the refresher and watched as Obi-Wan, having dealt with the wasted food, busied himself with tidying in the room in general. At the moment he was making up Qui-Gon's sleep couch and the former master was struck with a sudden wave of nostalgia. The moment almost felt normal.
Almost.
"Obi-Wan," he called out softly, but when the young man continued to make the bed, Qui-Gon called out again this time louder. "Obi-Wan, stop this. We need to talk."
"I don't know what to say, where to even begin," was the soft reply.
"Perhaps… perhaps, we can begin with firstmeal."
