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Obi-Wan watched as his former Master turned, pulling items from the cooling unit, heating the stove.

Despite the heaviness in his heart, his mouth quirked in a smile. I must really be in dire shape. His cooking actually seems half-way appetizing.

Suddenly, Qui-Gon's head snapped up, turning slightly toward the main room. "You know, Obi-Wan, our bond has been quiet since your Knighting--but it's not gone."

Obi-Wan grinned, a ghost of a blush coming over his face. "What? I'd think you'd take that as a compliment."

Qui-Gon snorted, returning his eyes to the stove.

For a few minutes, Obi-Wan simply sat against the beaten softness of the couch, gathering enough energy to stand.

Then, with a last look at Qui-Gon, he slipped into the Padawan quarters.

He stood in the center of the room. The carpet was exactly the same, of course. A pale color tan, with thick loops that his feet sunk into.

His bed had been under the window, in the middle of the back wall. Now it was pushed to the corner, beneath a long shelf of awards, medals and trophies, and a canopy of shadow.

Obi-Wan took a few steps toward the couch, draped in dark, clouded sapphire where it had once been light azure. But the linens still fell in the same way, the bed still looked like the one of his apprenticeship. He smiled, lowering himself with careful slowness to the edge, only too aware of the fragile health of his body. A band of warm sunlight streaked across the small room, spilling over onto him, chasing away the gooseflesh that had risen on his chilled skin.

He ran his hand in a circle on the bed.

Gods…ten years've passed…and after a few minutes in this room I feel like a kid again.

Of course he'd spent his first few cycles in the creche, then the next handful in the initiate dorms. Those were the places where he played, where he explored, where he made friends and kept them.

But this was where he found solace from the ever-increasing rigors of his training. Where he came when the Universe seemed to close in on him, smothering him, squeezing the air from his labored lungs--or when his Master was so far away that it felt like all he had was space…too much.

He would gladly have given his last breath to hear words from the man then. Any words at all. They didn't need to be encouraging, bright sentiments. Hell, a syllable without the taint of indifference would have been enough. But none would come, and eventually Obi-Wan would forfeit, returning to the loving sheets of this bed. Burrowed beneath the covers, head cushioned, he could drift from reality, where his connection with Qui-Gon was a stilted, impersonal necessity, bordering on silence…He could imagine a life where he was more. Where he meant more.

Obi-Wan blinked, realizing he'd been staring, unseeing, at the ripple he'd made in the duvet. With a pale, slightly trembling hand…

Qui-Gon smoothed out the wrinkles in the powder blue comforter, while similar creases remained stubbornly at his brow, chiseled during the last few hours.

Obi-Wan licked his lips slowly, as though the exertion were draining him of his strength.

Perhaps it was.

The Padawan gazed up with hopelessly watered eyes at his mentor, seated at the side of the bed. Although his vision was blurred a bit by the stinging moisture, he could decipher the composition of the haggard countenance. His thin lips, pursed tersely, as normal, surrounded by a neat beard. The regal nose, no less dignified by the break down the bridge. And his eyes…Caught in a pool of amber light from the dim glow rod, they looked as though they quivered…

Clearing his throat, Obi-Wan mustered a tired smile. "I-I'm fine now, Master." Force, how that hurt. The letters scraped along his esophagus and he batted down a grimace. He wouldn't let himself appear weak in front of him…If he just blinked a few times, some of the focus returned…And if he held his head this certain way, it didn't feel quite as blisteringly hot in his forehead and cheeks.

Qui-Gon's hand, more giant than usual to Obi-Wan's fevered perspective, brushed across his temple. Then the Jedi dropped it, a frown pulling at his mouth. "No, you're not."

The tone wasn't strident. Not irritated, or even correcting. It was soft, like mellow strums of an instrument stroked in the half-dark.

Obi-Wan forced his drooping, itchy eyes to stay centered. He didn't speak, didn't so much as move, for fear he would shatter this unexpected moment.

He WOULD wreck the beauty, he knew. Eventually it would rupture and he'd be left to scramble for the shards, to hold on dismal, lonely days, trying to ignore the way they cut him.

But for now, it was pristine.

He watched as Qui-Gon retreated from the room, throwing a twin shadow on the wall. Obi-Wan laid, waiting, hoping, that this wasn't some cruel fault in his thinking. His Master was concerned, wasn't he? He was coming back?

Obi-Wan took a corner of the bedspread in his hand, twisting it between his sweaty palm and fingers. He didn't mean for Qui-Gon to discover his illness. He had been--or at least, he thought he had been--quiet when he coughed. He dampened his temperature with use of self-healing Force techniques, and it worked for awhile. For the past several days, Qui-Gon Jinn was oblivious to his Padawan's spiking fever, his raw, reddened throat and the general nausea that attacked him constantly.

But even someone as painfully careful as he was couldn't conceal it forever. After struggling through tonight's dinner, he rushed to the lavatory, where he had the unlucky chance to taste it all over again, as it was purged by his frail system. Worse, Qui-Gon had been standing at the door the entire time, his hand bracing the frame, as though he were caught between staying and--leaving?

Obi-Wan had rested his sweltering face against the cool seat, panting. Then he was surprised by the two arms that enfolded him, that lifted him from the freezing washroom floor and carried him into his quarters.

He was settled under the sheets, puzzled by his shivering when his face was so blasted warm, and his damp hair was quickly combed out of his eyes. Exhausted, he stayed huddled for a few minutes before relaxing, loose-limbed, on the mattress.

Qui-Gon was silent during the short while, never speaking until he argued his Padawan's euphemistic assessment.

In that…kind voice, almost…

Obi-Wan risked shutting his eyes. Almost parental. And 'almost' certainly didn't mean it was, did it? He exhaled carefully.

A cool, tender feeling against his cheek, and he opened his eyes with bleary confusion.

Qui-Gon was perched beside him on the couch, dabbing a wet, folded cloth on his overheated skin, rubbing his forearm with his free hand.

Obi-Wan's sore eyelids fluttered. He wanted to understand why he--a deserter of the Order, of his Master- was being shown this sincerity, this gentle care. But honestly, such comprehension could wait. For now, he was content to accept it.

Relief seeped into his forehead and he sighed. Beyond content.

"Is that better?" Qui-Gon asked, touching lightly on Obi-Wan lips with the cloth.

Obi-Wan only nodded, bone weary and muddled. The torridity was gone from his face, he could even feel the small breeze of the air conditioning. "Thank you." He whispered.

Qui-Gon hesitated for a split second, then leaned in close, kissing his forehead, a few fingers laying cool against his cheek. "Go to sleep, little one."

Obi-Wan looked up at the softly candid eyes, and unbidden tears sprung to his own.

Qui-Gon wiped them away, most likely excusing them as reaction to the sickness. "Go to sleep," And it seemed like he had glimpsed the fear in his apprentice's heart, "I'll be right here."

Obi-Wan blinked, gulping down a sore knot in his throat. "O-Okay…Yes, Master."

A smile. "I'll stay right here."

His eyes fell then, at last, to the sight of his Master, fulfilling that very promise.

Obi-Wan rose from the bed, wiping at his eyes. It was worth it, he reflected as he wandered at a slow gait. It was worth the nights, even the days, of solitary existence, cut off from most of his Master's mind and all of his heart…when he had those few times to cherish.

And it wasn't always a barren relationship. As the years wore on, they grew from an often awkward pair to a fluid, closely knit team, aware of each other's actions before they were begun, tuned to emotions and idle, fly-away thoughts.

There were obstacles, of course. Disagreements, occasions when Obi-Wan was nearly convinced of his initial view of where he stood in his Master's life, and so many missions of grinding worry and peril.

Obi-Wan studied the room again, brighter as the sun continued to ascend. This was the scenery of much misery. Xanatos, Melida/Dann--Tahl. Unlike his Master, this place wouldn't judge him, wouldn't dream of accusing him. These walls were unconditional acceptance.

These walls…belonged to Anakin Skywalker now.

A misted expression crossed over his features. Obi-Wan crossed his arms, taking in the array of achievements and mechanical projects populating the space. If the Chosen One turned out to be a true prophecy, an actual being (of which Obi-Wan had yet to be totally convinced) he supposed Skywalker was the embodiment of it. He smiled. The worlds would remember that boy, Obi-Wan suspected. And so they would remember his teacher.

It was all Qui-Gon had ever wanted. His legacy. For one so astute and wise, so powerful and compassionate, it wasn't much to ask.

Obi-Wan's gaze rounded to the bed again. He hoped young Skywalker didn't need to spend hours hiding from the Universe, as he had. He prayed that the child…well, adult, really…never questioned his position in Qui-Gon's soul. That he had many times where he felt like the center of the great man's universe.

You didn't want Xanatos to invade your life…So maybe you shouldn't invade HIS life with him.

While Obi-Wan and the infamous, corrupted man weren't exactly subjects of wide comparison, the basic idea was the same.

I've had my time here…Now it's Anakin's turn.

Obi-Wan smirked, glancing at an area of the wall slightly dented by one of the model starships he assembled as a boy. But we all leave our mark.

Qui-Gon stood at the door. He held a steaming pot between his hands. "Obi-Wan? You shouldn't be walking around so much until you're well."

Yes, Master. "Alright." With a mostly peaceful, albeit small, smile, he followed the man out of the room.