Qui-Gon sat on the floor, his back propped against the front of the couch, listening to Obi-Wan breathe. The boy remained curled up even in sleep, but when his father had lowered himself beside the couch he had shifted until his forehead just touched Qui-Gon's shoulder blade. It was the barest kind of contact, minimal and subdued, but Qui-Gon was encouraged. The boy had sought it out, though unconsciously. It was a good sign.
He was aware that Obi-Wan wasn't sleeping well, though, only dozing, slipping in and out, never high enough to be aware of his surroundings, never deep enough to dream. And again he heard that slight laboring sound in the boy's breathing, the shivering, ragged edge of it. He had hoped that getting Obi-Wan into a good environment with plenty of air, sunlight, and nutritious food might fend off the illness that was no doubt attacking his weakened body, but this sounded even worse then it had in the groundcab.
Again he remembered the wounds that marked the slender back, the angry, inflamed redness of some of the welts, how they had appeared swollen, barely closed, ready to burst. The infection was not going to heal without attention, and even now fever might be building inside his boy. He concentrated on the sensation of Obi-Wan's forehead against his back, trying to determine if it felt too warm. It was impossible to tell, the feeling too distant and muffled.
It was the same when he tried to touch his son with the Force. The distance was strange, though. It wasn't as if the gentle probes were slipping away, repelled by some kind of shield. They simply encountered . . . nothing. Something had cut the boy completely off from the Force. He was surrounded by a void, a negation of the Force.
Qui-Gon had never come across anything like it in all of his varied experience. It was new, strange, incomprehensible, and it frightened him. He utterly loathed this feeling of helplessness and impotence, and the fact that it was his own beloved son that he was powerless to help. All he could do was hope that the damage was somehow reversible, and suddenly, hope was not enough.
What had happened to his boy? It must have been something terrible to make him lose the connection he had always treasured. The Force had always come so naturally to Obi-Wan. He had lived in it free and joyful as a bird. It was fundamental to the boy's character, as much a part of him as those changeable eyes and bright reddish hair, the shy, lovely smile that was all the more beautiful for its rarity, his sweetness and courage and utter inability to harbor the smallest portion of selfishness or pride. A part of Obi-Wan had been erased by his ordeal, a large part, and Qui-Gon ached with the loss. Other aspects of Obi-Wan's spirit had also been tattered and torn—his innocence, his trust, his childlike wonder and joy with the universe—but this complete destruction of what had been most inherent to his life was the most grievous injury of all.
"Oh, Obi-Wan," he whispered, half in a sigh and half in a moan. "When will you trust me enough to share this burden with me?"
And he thought he heard a frail whisper, faint as the softest exhalation. Buried in the breathy sound might have been a single word, a single syllable. A word that gave him unsought hope, even as it promised very little, in truth. Soon.
It could have meant anything, really—two hours or two years. But at least it wasn't "never."
Qui-Gon turned around, very carefully, to seek his boy's face. Then he rested, his chest pressed against the side of the cushion, watching as avidly as he had listened. The youngster didn't seem awake—he remained still, his breathing the same, the tension in his slight frame no worse and no better. Had it really been Obi-Wan's voice he heard? It might have been only an illusory desire.
Or, perhaps, the encouragement of the Force.
Whatever it was, he would take it.
"It might not be a matter of trust, even."
Ah, that voice was very real, very firm, though quiet. Qui-Gon turned. Julune stood in the doorway to the hall, watching her men with fond eyes. She had been passing through the common room every now and then, much more often than was necessary for whatever task she had currently occupied herself with, Qui-Gon was sure.
She smiled at his bewilderment and treaded softly over to the couch, sitting herself by Obi-Wan's feet, which were still drawn up close to his body. Absently she reached under the afghan to touch the boy, frowning when she found the thin ankle she sought. "He's too cold," she murmured, and gently drew his feet toward her so she could rub them.
Obi-Wan breathed something like a moan and bent his head further into his little ball, though he didn't try to pull his feet away from Julune. The movement caused the top of his forehead to touch Qui-Gon again, this time very near his heart. The man raised a careful hand and rested it on the bright, tangled locks, keeping him there with the lightest pressure.
"What do you mean?" he asked Julune.
She scowled at him, more in play than in earnest, though he saw the serious glint in her dark eyes. "You know that Obi-Wan trusts you utterly. Even Dooku saw that, before. And now, when he escaped, who did he seek? Who did he call? Not the Temple. Not the Agri-Corps. He commed you. He came to you."
"To us," Qui-Gon murmured.
Julune inclined her head. "Even so. He knows where he is safe, and that is here. I'm sure that it's only a matter of time before he tells us everything. It's too close now, too raw and painful. I remember how I felt when my parents died. So many people tried to comfort me, tried to offer their condolences. I remember the soul-healer asking me how I felt, right after the burial. I opened my mouth to speak, and nothing came out. Not a breath, not a sound. My throat closed up, and my body felt weighted down under a thousand stones. I wanted to say something, to give voice to the terrible pain I carried, but I could not, not for all that was in me."
Qui-Gon watched her closely. Julune didn't speak of her parents often—she had lost them to a speeder accident when she was very young, and he was surprised that she remembered this much. But he had always known that she was a special woman. It really shouldn't be a shock that she had such clear, visceral memories of that terrible event.
"What happened?" he whispered, willing to take whatever she was willing to give, but not wanting to push her.
She smiled gently, with only an edge of sadness, her hands still moving slowly and steadily under the afghan. "In a few weeks, I was able to come to Uncle Javis when I was sad. He held me and rocked me, without saying a word, if I only reached up my arms to him. Later I was able to speak about it, though at that age I didn't have many of the words I needed to express myself. It came, Qui-Gon, slowly but surely. The ability to grieve must be learned, but with enough openness and support, anyone can find their way. We just need to give him time."
"Yes. As much as he needs."
Qui-Gon looked back down at the boy who just barely touched him, trying to make out the bruised features half-hidden against his raised knees. And he sighed. "I'm worried about those welts," he confessed softly. "Some of them definitely looked infected." He touched one finger to a portion of the smooth forehead that didn't rest against him, and frowned. "He might be a little warm. I'm not sure. In any case, we really ought to get him to medical attention before it gets any worse."
Julune nodded, but her eyes were worried. "You heard how frightened he was, how he didn't even want to talk to Master Yoda, who could certainly pose no threat to him. I really don't think he needs a stranger poking at him right now. It's more important to make sure that he feels safe and secure in his surroundings, at least at first."
Qui-Gon sighed. "You're right, of course. I simply don't want him to have to battle another fever so soon. He's already weak and shaky. I hate to think of what a bad illness could do to him right now."
"You know, I do have some medical training of my own." She smirked at him. "I never got that all-important certificate, but I'm not completely unschooled."
"Oh. Yes." Qui-Gon deflated slightly. "I didn't forget, honestly, I just thought . . ."
"You're just worried, and you want the very best for your son." Julune gave him a sunny smile, eyes sparkling. "It's only been a couple of hours, but you're a very good father, Qui-Gon Jinn. I see that I made my choice very well."
He crinkled his face at her, doing his utmost not to blush and squirm under the praise. "Well, and look at you. Rubbing his feet! Did you ever foresee yourself sitting on a couch, talking about some of your hardest memories and rubbing the cold, bony feet of a teenage boy?"
She sighed melodramatically and leaned back into the cushions. "Oh, the things we do for love."
"Yes, the things we do for love."
They fell silent then, just watching their boy sleep. Qui-Gon felt a little lighter, part of his load lifted, or at least shared. He still longed for healing for his precious child, but at least now he was more confident that it would come. They would try to deal with things on their own for a few days, anyway, and then see where that took them. Again he felt that little surge of joy and completion. Everything was going to be all right now. Obi-Wan was home, truly home.
Julune finished her foot-rubbing and stood carefully—so as not to disturb the boy—and returned to whatever she'd been doing. Qui-Gon remained sitting by the couch, watching. After a time he noticed Obi-Wan's eyelids fluttering, and knew that the boy was waking, surfacing from his light, restless slumber. Qui-Gon held himself very still, all but holding his breath. Then came that stillness again, that frozen anticipation that told him that Obi-Wan was awake, but unsure of his surroundings.
Still he waited, wanting the boy to make the first move, to gauge his reaction and measure how comfortable he had become in his new home.
Eventually Obi-Wan drew in a shaky breath, his eyes still shut, face still hidden. "Master?" It was a hushed whisper, tentative and wary.
Qui-Gon brushed his hand over the boy's cheek. "No, Obi-Wan. I'm not your master, and I never will be."
Obi-Wan relaxed with sigh, melding into the cushions. "My Qui-Gon."
A slow, broad smile spread through Qui-Gon, illuminating every particle of his being. "That's right. Your Qui-Gon."
One eye slowly opened, sleepy blue-green smiling back at him. "Papa Qui-Gon."
A small hand, quivering slightly, emerged from its shelter between thigh and chest and under afghan, reaching up to touch Qui-Gon's cheek with the delicate brush of a night-flyer's wings. The callused pads of fingertips that had seen hard labor trailed through his beard, across his chin, over his lips, and alighted on the little dip of the break in his nose, resting briefly there before rising again to touch the gentle wrinkles beside his eyes, one after the other. Qui-Gon bent a little closer to let the gentle, wondering touch explore his forehead, and then it fell away. And there was Obi-Wan smiling up at him, a real smile, true and bright.
"Not a dream," he murmured.
"That's right." Qui-Gon let his arm curl around his son's head, reaching inward to brush the hair off his forehead. "Any time you need to make sure, feel free. I'll always be here, not a dream."
"Thank you."
Obi-Wan leaned his head slightly forward, again resting against his chest. They stayed there in peace for a moment that could have been forever, though in truth it was all too brief. And just for that moment the stones of grief were lifted, weightless, touching nothing.