Credit to a 'guest' who left a prompt request... enjoy!

"No."

"It's required, Qui-gon. There's nothing I can do." His friend pauses. "We'll be brief."

"No."

Mace lets out an impatient huff. "Look, Qui-gon, I understand it was difficult –"

"No," Qui-gon says for the third and final time, finally glaring into Mace's eyes. "I will submit a written report within the hour, but there will be no debrief. I will not speak of it."

"As a Jedi Knight you are bound by certain obligations. Oaths. It's for the good of the Order, my friend." Mace's voice turns surprisingly gentle towards the end. "Written reports are cleaned up. Sterile. The debriefs are meant to fill in the gaps, to offer a… well… a feel for what it was like."

A tortured smile slithers its way onto Qui-gon's face, morphing his normally gentle features into something ugly and twisted. "Feel, Mace? If you don't understand what I'm feeling right now, then I'm afraid the debrief will be pointless. I am going to visit the Healers and then return to my quarters." Mace's brows furrow, but before he can interrupt, Qui-gon narrows his eyes and raises a hand to cut the man off. "And should anyone attempt to lure me back out, the result will not be pleasant."

Mace remains silent as the giant man brushes by him and limps down the dimly lit corridor. Truth be told, he had fully intended to somehow subdue his friend and drag him to the Council Chambers himself. For his own good, of course. The barve obviously needs help.

But Qui-gon's hand glistens with the shine of raw and blistered skin and Mace can make some fairly educated guesses as to the source of his limp.

Theta storm. One survivor.

Mace swallows and then lets out another huff, this one wracked by a shudder that drops from shoulders to shoes. So be it. Let the guy try to fix himself. Like he always does. He checks the time and then shakes his head. Best to get a few hours' sleep before the inevitable breakdown occurs.

"Blasted idiot," he mutters before slowly heading off in the direction of his own quarters.

***oo***

The earliest hours of the next morning find Qui-gon on the floor of his apartment, stretched prostrate between sofa and meditation cushion. His bandaged foot rests on the cushion, wrapped tightly in bacta patches and medical tape. They'd managed to dig all of the rock shards out of it, but now it's extra raw and screaming at him. His blistered right hand is loosely wrapped and heavily coated with some sort of cream. It's screaming at him too, but he ignores it.

Skin isn't supposed to do that, he thinks, frowning. Boiled eggs do that. First the shell, then the inner lining, then the soft, wet egg within… soft. Wet. He clenches his eyes shut as tight as he can and then opens them, stifling a sob as he does. Even awake it stays with him.

Theron. Luke. Shamia. They'd… melted. For two and a half days, they'd groaned and screamed their way into the Force. He hadn't been able to do a thing.

Well, strike that. He had done something. For Shamia only.

"Please, Qui-gon…"

Mercy? Relief? Healing, even? Is the bite of a lightsaber generous? He supposes it had been in that moment. Odd, that.

"Qui-gon?"

No.

"Go away," he spits, surprising himself with the venom in his voice. The words are a low growl. A warning. One he knows Mace won't heed in the slightest.

"I'm coming in, you stubborn fool." The door shudders and then something snaps within it. It takes Mace mere seconds to slip inside, ducking as he does. A ceramic mug shatters against the wall behind him. He frowns. "Qui-gon, stop. Seriously. This is getting ridiculous –" He's cut off by the force of a well-muscled (and well-bandaged) forearm pushing against his windpipe. His back meets the wall and he grunts, glaring.

Qui-gon glares back, blue eyes glinting in the dim lighting. "I told you to go away."

Mace thrusts an open palm towards his friend's stomach and watches impassively as Qui-gon jerks backwards and stumbles into his sofa. "I'm obviously not going to," he says. Glancing around, he's pleased to note that there is very little damage outside of the mug that had been meant for his head. "You're internalizing. Again." He returns his gaze to Qui-gon. "Congratulations, you now qualify for admission into a mental facility," he quips.

Neither of them smile, because it's not funny.

Qui-gon's glare doesn't waver as he rights himself. "There is no one else who could possibly understand. Not even you. It wasn't supposed to be dangerous. It was a blasted research mission, for Force's sake! Routine! People aren't supposed to die in the act of something routine."

"And yet they do every day."

"Why."

Mace sighs, looking away. "Such is the way of life, my friend. We don't have all of the answers. We can only trust the Force –"

"No." The single word is said so emphatically and with so much disgust that Mace visibly recoils. "We have it wrong. Something is wrong and if we do not ask why, then what are we doing?" The larger man pauses to take a deep, trembling breath. "What are we doing here, Mace? Answer me that."

Mace has no answer. Not under the sudden, weighted scrutiny in his friend's eyes and voice. He isn't even sure what Qui-gon is asking. Mace questions things. Some things. But not as much as the man before him. He would never be classified as rogue. "I'm not sure, Qui-gon. I'm sorry."

There's a whisper by the doorway, the only indication that someone else has arrived. "What's the verdict, Master Windu?"

Mace turns to find Master Dooku filling the door frame, his dark robes melting into the darkness of the corridor behind him. It's strange that with as much time as the older Jedi spends off planet, he's somehow always around when Qui-gon's mental state gets shot to hell. He sighs. "He's hurting, master."

Dooku nods, unperturbed. "I see." As in he knows. Has known. Always. Dark, intelligent eyes come to rest on his former padawan. "Qui-gon."

The Jedi in question is staring back with an odd, resigned look on his face, but more than that there is an added touch of relief. Mace feels confused and slightly hurt by that. It seems that the empty void Mace hadn't been able to fill is being easily filled by Dooku. "Master."

Against everything that this situation warrants, Dooku smiles. It's a tiny twitch of the mouth, but a smile nonetheless and Mace wants to know how. Just how.

The tension is broken by Dooku detaching himself from the darkness of the hallway and striding slowly into the small kitchen. He begins to busy himself with three mugs and a boiler. "Master Windu."

Mace has the brief thought that he doesn't deserve that title. Not right now. "Yes?"

"Would you care to join us?"

Join us. Isn't he the one joining them? But Mace knows that's not true. Dooku has entered the discussion so smoothly that it's as if Qui-gon had simply been waiting for him to show up and had been stalling Mace until he did. Mace looks at Qui-gon, sees the man watching Dooku with an unreadable expression resting on his face, and sighs.

There are three mugs on the counter, but Dooku has prepared only two. The older man turns to look at Mace and ticks a brow at him. Well?

Would you care to join us? Join us in this discussion of whys and hows and everything that the Order looks down upon. Join us in our borderline heresy, discussing situations as separate from the Force, larger than the Force even. Join us in discussing what you, Mace, do not want to discuss.

Mace hears what Dooku is asking. It's an invitation.

No.

Mace shakes his head, looking away from that dark gaze to look at anything else. "I'll leave you to it," he says. Catching Qui-gon's eye, he gives him a pointed look. "I'll stop by in the morning… when the sun is up."

Qui-gon nods.

Mace leaves, feeling Dooku's dark eyes on him until he is out the door. He stands there for a moment, leaning against the wall while he tries to get himself balanced again. Dooku's deep, cutting bass drifts towards him and he wonders if it's by accident or if it's by the Force's will that he hears what's being said.

Or if it's by Dooku's will.

"What happened?"

"You know what happened. I know you know," Qui-gon murmurs. The venomous note is completely gone from his voice.

"I want to hear it from you." Silence reigns and Mace waits patiently for his friend to reply. He doesn't know how many minutes pass before the boiler begins its low whistle. "I'll get the tea," Dooku says.

Mace curls his fingers into fists and continues to wait.

There is some jostling of crockery, the whisper of robes being positioned, and two identical sips as the Jedi drink their tea. The silence is almost companionable and Mace's feelings of hurt begin to transform into feelings of inadequacy.

"They – they melted. Master, their skin just… it just –"

"Did any of them ask you to end it?"

Mace swallows. Qui-gon's answering sigh is a heavy, tired, bone-weary sound. "Yes. All of them."

"Did you?"

"Just Shamia. I couldn't give it to the others, master, I couldn't. I never wanted to kill…"

"Drink your tea, padawan."

"No. I will not sit here and drink tea after what happened. After that…" he trails off into a half-choked sob. "Why. Why did it happen like that?"

Mace leans his head back and closes his eyes.

There is no world-weary sigh from Master Dooku, just another directive. Firm, but unexpectedly gentle. "Drink your tea, Qui-gon."

"I will not."

"You will."

"Why?"

He sounds like a child, Mace thinks.

Dooku must think so too, but where Mace would have told Qui-gon as much, the older man takes a different approach. "That you might honor them with your grief. Now. Take a moment to just cry, you foolish boy, and then we'll move on."

Mace opens his eyes, frowning.

"I don't see the point in –"

"They are dead. Come to grips with that now. Let it scar you, let it hurt, but I forbid you to wallow in it. Mace, for all of his naiive blunderings, was trying to get you out of this place you've put yourself in. You wouldn't let him, hence my presence here."

"You were on your way anyway."

"As always, you refuse to acknowledge my point."

"He doesn't understand."

"He doesn't try. There is a difference."

He knows I'm still here. Force, maybe they both do. Mace stands up straight, brushes down his robes and begins the long trek back to his quarters.

Would you care to join us?

Mace swallows, suddenly understanding what he'd really been asking.

Would you like to understand your friend, Mace? The maverick? The rogue? The rule-breaker? Would you like to understand why he does what he does?

Who could possibly understand that man? Mace would die for Qui-gon Jinn, but he honestly wants to beat some sense into his shaggy-maned head every now and then. Trusting in the Force is never just enough for his friend. Doesn't he know that for some things, the reasons, the Force-blasted purposes will never be clear?

But Qui-gon always needs to know. There must be a why behind everything.

Mace thinks that he maybe understands that. The need to know why… but to say that there is something wrong with the Order? With millennia's worth of teachings? Who would question that?

Well, apparently at least two: one an up and coming loose cannon and the other a fairly respected, very established Shadow. A Shadow whose chosen field of study and subsequent duties lend themselves to an unorthodox worldview. For good reason?

He doesn't try. There's a difference.

Mace grunts to himself and glances out a window. Coruscant's lights blink back at him and he stops to stare at them for a moment. Theirs is a planet that never sleeps, never rests, never stops. Drink your tea, padawan. Take a moment. Rest. Grieve. Stop trying to move on so quickly. Stop rushing.

Master Dooku understands. Somehow he understands that man. Odd, because the two of them are nothing alike. Mace considers this and then turns around, heading back towards the mess he'd just left.

***oo***

When he arrives, he finds the two Jedi right where he'd left them. Both heads, one decidedly grayer than the other (Dooku can't be more than thirty-five can he?), swivel in his direction. The oldest of the three smiles into the silence that follows. It's more than a tick this time, something not remotely a grin, but just as warm. Mace finds it strange that it should come from so cold a man.

Qui-gon still doesn't smile. His signature still trembles with sorrow and flits about in scattered bits of Force-energy. He speaks first. "Twenty credits, master."

Mace feels his mouth drop open and his eyes widen against his will.

Master Dooku's odd smile turns wry as he nods. "Of course. I'll have it within the hour."

The two mismatched Jedi watch their comrade until he huffs, clearly uncomfortable. "How can you –"

"About that," Dooku interrupts, smile slipping, one hand gesturing towards the kitchen. "Now that you're here, we can begin."

Mace looks in the direction Dooku is pointing and feels a warm sort of tremble crawl down his spine. Qui-gon had won the bet, and Mace had felt gratitude towards his friend that he'd trusted him to return. Now he doesn't know what to feel, because the third mug that had formerly been unused is now steaming with warm tea, ready to be consumed. Both of them had trusted him to return.

"Master…" he starts, slowly turning his gaze back to Dooku.

Dooku nods towards the mug. "Get your tea, Mace. You'll need it." Brace yourself.

Mace only nods. In thanks? In acceptance? In submission? He isn't sure. He's in foreign territory with these two. "Okay."

He gets his tea and sits on the floor next to them. What follows is the dreariest discussion he's ever been a part of: one shot through with images of theta-wrought suffering, the inner turmoil of the storm's only survivor, and the mostly objective approach of another who's seen too much of the same thing in different forms. Eventually, they circle back to the center of it all: why.

Dooku answers with a slow sip of his tea and a hard look at them both. "Is the Force not enough for comfort?" When neither of them answer, he sets his mug down, steeples his hands together, and rests his chin in them. The movement ages him at least a decade and is enough to indicate that he is just as tired and bone-weary as they are, even if his calm demeanor hasn't shown it. "You are asking the wrong question, Qui-gon. Senseless deaths happen far more often than they should and we are always left to wonder why. Get away from that. It does you no good."

"It's a valid question –"

"For another time," Dooku finishes. "Tell me, Qui-gon. Mace. In what do you place your hope? Is it solid? Will it last? Will it endure? Can you still hope in a universe where death – senseless, brutal, agonizing death – is a reality?"

Mace blinks, a ready Jedi answer on the tip of his tongue. He never speaks it out loud.

Is the Force not enough for comfort?

Not this time. Qui-gon looks thoughtful. Mace just feels sick. Two men, questioning teachings that have stood for thousands of years… He wonders what he's stumbled into the middle of. It had begun as a night of nightmares, flashbacks, sorrow and turmoil. Now it's somewhere different, somewhere foreign and dangerous. Mace thinks that now is a good time to leave.

He needs to get back to a familiar place.

When he rises to his feet, two sets of eyes follow his movements. Dooku ticks a brow at him again, but Qui-gon only watches him with a suddenly warm gaze. Mace frowns and opens his mouth to say Force knows what, but his friend beats him to it.

"Thanks for coming back, Mace."

He opens his mouth, closes it, repeats the movement a few times before deciding to remain silent. Qui-gon smiles. It's a small thing, as Dooku's had been, but far warmer and with a hint of his friend's odd humor. Mace nods and then looks at Dooku.

The older man is looking at Qui-gon through narrowed eyes, as if he's just as surprised at Qui-gon's smile as Mace had been at his. "One question. Before I leave."

Flinty eyes flick back to his face. Mace wonders if he'd imagined the warmth that had been present earlier. "Yes?"

"What do you hope in, master?"

The smirk that follows is wry, sharp, and full of hidden meanings that Mace doesn't have the energy to search out. "A fair question. One I have yet to answer for myself. I only know that for me, Master Windu, the Force is inadequate. Powerful, yes. And yet…"

He doesn't finish. He just trails off, glances down at his tea, and remains that way.

And yet…

Huh.

Mace swallows. A brief surge of anger almost makes him lash out – hypocrite! – but he refrains and looks at Qui-gon one last time.

The stubborn, foolish barve is still smiling, but his eyes are sad now. The touch of humor disappears as he gazes between his former master and his close friend. When he finally speaks, it's with a quiet confidence that has no place in the convoluted, messy blunder of a conversation that had just taken place.

"I'll find it, master. Mace. I'll find us something to hope in. Something unwavering."

Mace leaves.

The Force is enough. It always has been and it always will be.

And yet…