A/N: A little bit more language in this one than in others - I have a headcanon that Garen and Obi-Wan bring out each others' inner twelve year old boys.


"Oh,"

CRASH

"For,"

hhhHROOOOMKSHH

"Kriff's,"

BAKSSHHHH

"Sake!"

"For shame! Garen Muln, you filthy-mouthed bastard," called Obi-Wan Kenobi from the side of the dojo, beaming.

Garen ducked under one blade, two, and rebounded as quickly as he could, which was not quite fast enough. "Kenobi, you can suck my- damnit!"

Obi-Wan cackled, not caring how his face ached from smiling. Seeing Aola Tarkona wipe the floor with his best friend was, quite possibly, the most satisfying spectacle he had ever witnessed.

From a technical standpoint, Aola was not an exceptional swordswoman. Her style lacked the precision and refinement that her great-grandmaster Dooku held in such high esteem, and her fighting patterns could become predictable. However, when she'd turned eighteen five months ago, her master had upheld his promise and allowed her to begin training in the jar'kai style, wielding two lightsabers. It was like she'd never known anything else; with a violet blade in either hand, she'd become a nightmarish dervish in the dojo.

Obi-Wan had been bragging on her progress over lunch for months, and his friend Garen Muln had grown weary of it. "Force, Kenobi, when did you become a mother?" the dark-haired boy had rolled his eyes. "She can't be that good."

"She could hand your ass to you on a platter, Garen," Obi-Wan had replied, cheeks full.

"That a challenge, Kenobi?"

"Maybe it is. Want me to set you up?"

"If it doesn't scare her away."

Obi-Wan had snorted. "Bring your cloak. You'll want something to hide in when she humiliates you."

"I'll be the judge of that."

In retrospect, Garen thought privately, perhaps he should've weighed his words more carefully.

"Ha!" Aola crossed her sabers and caught Garen's blade in between, launching it back at him before crouching and swiping at his legs. He jumped and flipped over her, but when he landed she was already there to catch his overhead strike. She swung for his right shoulder, but he deflected it to the ground. If she had only been holding a single saber, the fight would've been over. Unfortunately for the elder padawan, Aola's left hand was as heavily armed as her right. She followed through where her deflected blade had left off, speeding toward his shoulder with a promising hrum. Garen growled, barely ducking in time.

Taking his rushed defense as an opportunity, Aola stepped back and staged a quick one-two strike with both blades. Garen, now wiser to the patterns of jar'kai, aimed for the outside saber and hooked his blade around it, pulling with all his might to throw his smaller opponent off-balance. She fell toward the ground, but used the momentum to spin on one foot and catch Garen's chin with the other. He staggered back, blinded for a moment, but recovered with practiced willpower to commit a swipe downwards toward her dominant hand.

This was exactly what she'd wanted him to do. Aola met his blade with one of her own, and used the other to latch around the opposite side. With a neat clench, she flipped Garen's lightsaber out of his hands and criss-crossed her own blades into an 'X', posed precariously around her opponent's neck.

With the same wilted spirit as his discarded saber, Garen let out a sigh. From the sidelines, Bant Eerin clapped. Aola was trying very hard not to smile.

"Solah," griped Garen, wrinkling his nose disdainfully at her purple blades. Aola disengaged them and shook her opponent's hand, grinning.

"That was fantastic, Padawan Muln – I didn't think I had a bantha's chance on Hoth of beating you."

"Frankly, Padawan Tarkona," the elder drawled, "neither did I. Honestly," He turned toward Obi-Wan, who was still grinning like a drunk lothcat, "where in the hels did you find this creature?"

Obi-Wan affected nonchalance. "She was half a chit in Boomtown."

"Oi!" the Twi'lek bristled. Obi-Wan ignored her.

"Saw her, thought she could kick your ass, turns out I was right."

"I'll beat your ass," Garen grumbled, stooping to fetch his weapon.

"Oh, no," Bant chimed in, smiling at Aola. "To the victor go the spoils – and the next fight." Aola beamed, bouncing happily on the balls of her feet. "Obi-Wan?"

"Hmm?"

"Why don't you go next?"

Obi-Wan's smile faltered. "What?"

"Yeah, Obi-Wan," Garen crossed his arms and strode toward his friend. "Why don't you go next?"

Obi-Wan opened his mouth and took a moment to say, "Well I suppose I could…"

"You hesitated," Aola said from the middle of the room. The three elder padawans turned to look at her. "What, afraid of a half-chit twi'lek?"

Garen snickered. Obi-Wan glanced at Garen and swaggered toward his younger friend. "You're going to regret saying that," Obi-Wan told her, unclipping his saber.

"You're going to regret the Boomtown comment."

"Ten says she wins," Garen whispered slyly to Bant.

"No bet," the Mon Cal replied, eyeing Obi-Wan keenly.

Garen shrugged, and the match began. The duelists fell in with enthusiasm, blue and purple flashing as they struck, parried, ducked, and leapt in a wild frenzy. Unlike Garen, who was a pilot first and a fighter second, Obi-Wan was the posterchild of budding saber mastery. He fought with Aola often, and they were both very proficient in Ataru, albeit in very different styles. Aola's unrefined jar'kai created a wild offense with a long reach, whereas Obi-Wan's growing Makashi sensibilities made his strikes less extravagant but ten times more precise. The resulting clash made for a close and wild fight, Aola whirling around her taller opponent like a planet orbiting a sun, while Obi-Wan swerved and leaped and flipped, striking only when he knew he could cut past her guard.

"She's dancing circles around him," Garen shook his head.

"I'm not so sure," Bant squinted at their mutual friend, who had both eyes riveted on his opponent. He certainly did not look concerned. "I think he's waiting for something."

"For what?"

Aola had just twisted to one side after a quick two-blade slash. Her outside blade blocked Obi-Wan's downward strike, but his saber rode along the length of hers, aiming for her hand. She twisted in the opposite direction to push his weapon away and dodge the inevitable strike. Obi-Wan suddenly dropped his blade, throwing Aola off-balance. He flipped his saber around and flicked the blade out of her hand. In her distraction, Obi-Wan stepped closer, placed one foot on top of hers, grabbed her wrist, and twisted. She yelped in pain and dropped her remaining weapon. When she looked up, Obi-Wan's saber was at her throat.

Bant nodded appreciatively. "That, I suppose," she muttered. Garen glowered.

"Nice try," Obi-Wan smiled. Aola glared at him.

"Solah," she grumbled. He let her go and she rubbed her wrist. "I really thought I had you that time."

"You gave me an easy in with that follow-through, it was far too wide. Anyone could've thrown you off balance," Obi-Wan told her as she collected her sabers. "You go wide every time. Work on that, and you might have a chance against me."

She was blushing, mostly because she knew it was all true. Feemor had told her such many times - but hearing it from a padawan, in front of other padawans to whom she looked up to was mortifying. Obi-Wan sensed her discomfort and stepped closer. "Still," he said, sidling up to her with a conspiratorial smile. He draped an arm around her shoulders and glanced very pointedly at Garen, making sure the other man noticed. He leaned down and whispered in her ear, "You knocked Garen Muln on his ass, and I'll be damned if I ever let him forget it."

Aola laughed, and Obi-Wan patted her on the back.

"What did you say?" Garen demanded, glaring at Obi-Wan as he passed by. "What did you just say about me, you smug wanker?"

Obi-Wan gave a satisfied laugh, engineered to aggravate. "Oh, nothing," he said. Garen followed him, seething.

"What did you say, Kenobi? Force damnit…"

Bant watched the boys leave and shook her head softly. She gestured to Aola. "Come on. We can watch them fight over lunch."

Happy to be included, Aola beamed and jogged into step with the Mon Calamari.

Up on the observation balcony, two masters stepped from their hiding places and watched the youths walk out together.

"He'll be a good teacher, I wager," Feemor said, eyeing Obi-Wan, who was still bickering with Garen. A short fistfight broke out, which ended with Garen putting Obi-Wan in a headlock, until a passing master reprimanded them for their unseemly behavior. Feemor chuckled. "Once he grows out of that, I suppose."

"Oh, he already has. It's only Padawan Muln who brings it out in him," Qui-Gon replied, grinning softly under his mustache. Former master and apprentice strode out of the dojo halls at a leisurely pace. "He's far more mature than I was at his age. He will be a fine teacher," he drew in a steady breath and confessed, "sooner than I would've thought."

Feemor lifted his eyebrows in surprise and turned to look at his master. Qui-Gon glancing sheepishly at the floor. "I've been thinking… I might recommend him for the Trials soon."

"Really?" Feemor's face lifted in surprise. "That's grand, Qui-Gon. What'd he say about it?"

"I haven't told him," the elder admitted. "I haven't told anyone. Except for you just now."

"Oh," Feemor looked away, "I see." The halls of the Jedi Temple were large and the crowds sparse. There was no one near enough to overhear their conversation. "A new thing, then?"

"It's been on my mind for… oh, six months or so."

"Six-" Feemor did a double take on his old master. "Six months, Qui-Gon? You should've told the Council by now."

Qui-Gon sighed in a rare show of insecurity. "I know."

His tone gave Feemor pause. He glanced at Qui-Gon's face and gave a small, sad smile. "You've gone soft, old man." Which was rich coming from a man in his mid-forties. Quieter, he added, "he has to grow up sometime."

"He already has. It's just… I'm not sure when it happened."

"If you think he's ready, Qui-Gon," Feemor advised, "He's ready. I know you two are close, but you have to set him loose eventually."

"Yes, I know…" Qui-Gon's eyes clouded and his lips turned in a subtle, slow frown. "It's just…"

"What?"

Qui-Gon shrugged. He did not have the gift of foresight; that was Obi-Wan's specialty. He certainly hadn't seen the future unfold before, like Ben. He was a disciple of the Living Force, focused incessantly on the Here and Now. And yet… "A feeling," he said at length. "I think he should stay with me for a little while longer."

Feemor cocked one eyebrow, unconvinced. "But who needs it more, you or him?" his query was met with silence. "If you let him go he won't leave, Qui-Gon. But if you hold on too tight, he just might want to." Qui-Gon breathed heavily through his nose and clenched his jaw. Not wanting to spoil their otherwise enjoyable conversation, Feemor drew in a brisk breath and said, "He'll make a first rate knight. I'm sure he'll be a credit to us all."

Qui-Gon nodded. He was familiar with the sensation of stubbornness and rebellion. The feeling of dread, however, that persistent, ringing sound of an oncoming storm, was entirely alien. Still, amid the unfamiliarity of the Not Yet, in the Here and Now, some things remained constant. "Yes," he told Feemor with proud smile, "I'm sure he will be."


"Obi-Wan!" Anakin, missing a front tooth and tunics horribly askew, abandoned his seat and rushed toward the door of the classroom. Several of his classmates craned their necks to see why.

Obi-Wan smiled at the door. "Hello, Anakin." The Wolf Clan's elder members - those above the age of nine or so - were all tinkering away with bits and bobs of machinery. At the front of the room, holo diagrams and schematics spun on slow axes. Some crechelings gazed up at them, brows screwed up in concentration. Master Talon Drekka, a mech-head Nothoiin with a knack for children, was going about the room, checking circuits and answering questions. He glanced up to see the visitor.

"We're making droids today!" Anakin beamed up at his much taller friend. At that moment, Master Drekka came to the door, golden skin more wrinkled than Obi-Wan remembered from their last class together. "We're not making droids, today, Young Skywalker," he said, coming to the door. "We're making simple circuits." Anakin sulked and muttered something, but Talon ignored him. "Good day, Padawan Kenobi," he said with a smile.

Obi-Wan bowed. "Master Drekka."

"It's been a while - still bemoaning the complexities of mechanical engineering?"

Obi-Wan gave a self-deprecating chuckle. "Only for my own sake, Master. I'm very glad to see others engaged by it - it comforts me to know my deficiencies will be amended by the younger generation."

Talon barked out a laugh. "Self-aware, humble, and tactful. They always said you'd make a diplomat - and not a shabby warrior either. I saw your fight with Quinlan Vos last thirdday, quite a show."

Obi-Wan bowed lightly. "I thank you for the compliment, master. I try to make up for others' deficiencies in the areas I can."

Talon laughed again. "I retract my humble comment. So what brings you here?" He glanced down at Anakin, who was fidgeting and obviously trying very hard not to interrupt the adults' conversation. "Come to listen to the excitable youth?"

"Not exactly. I've actually come looking for my uncle, Ben Kenobi. I was told I might find him here?"

"Not quite. He's a few doors down, teaching the younger ones some Sii-Cho katas."

"I see, thank you."

Anakin tugged politely on Master Drekka's tabards. "Can I show Obi-Wan what I made?"

Talon bent slightly to say, "Jedi do not boast, Anakin."

"No," said the youngling, "I wanted to show him how I'm making up for his deficiencies."

Talon threw back his head and guffawed. Obi-Wan pursed his lips and stared at the wall. "He's got you there, Kenobi," the master grinned, and patted Anakin on the back. "Five minutes, Anakin," he told the boy, and went back to his class, muttering, "Humble indeed."

"You ought to watch that cheek," Obi-Wan said through deep chagrin. If Anakin had registered the severity of his own wit, he didn't let it show.

"Look at this!" He said, running to one corner of the room to fetch something. He brought it back and held it up for Obi-Wan's inspection.

It was a droid. It was round, and had wings, and spindly arms, and a single, giant optical lens. It was painted very sloppily in green and white, though the underlying grey rubbed through on the sharper edges.

"What's this, then?" Obi-Wan asked, taking the deactivated droid in his hands.

"I made him!"

"Really?" As peculiar a device as it was, this in itself was impressive. "I thought Master Drekka said you weren't making droids today," he said.

"Nah. I made him last week. I mean I finished him last week. I'm making a circuit today that should let him talk."

"That's very impressive, Anakin," Obi-Wan said, and meant it. "What does it do?"

"I dunno yet. His name is RB-1."

Obi-Wan paused. "I'm sorry?" Surely Anakin hadn't named the droid after him.

"RB-1," the boy repeated, the striking homonym apparently lost on his young ears. "Like Remote Ball number One. I made him from an old junk training remote, see?"

"I see," Obi-Wan could see the familiar remote-droid traits beneath the additions, alterations, and paint. "That's very clever. You don't think there's a name perhaps more suited for it?" Obi-Wan could hardly bear to think of what Garen would say if he learned about the droid.

Anakin was crestfallen. "You don't like it?" He asked, pouting.

Obi-Wan was suddenly reminded that, as a close friend of Ben and as a senior padawan of some reputation, he was not only role model for Anakin, he was something of a hero. He fidgeted uncomfortably. "No no," he demurred, handing Arbie back to Anakin, "that's not what I meant. It's a perfect name." Which of course was not his actual opinion, but he couldn't just say that. Diplomacy had always come naturally to Obi-Wan. Children, on the other hand, had not.

Oblivious to his visitor's discomfort, Anakin beamed, gap-toothed and proud. "Thanks!" He said.

"Anakin, five minutes are up. Come on, it's time to start soldering."

"Go on, then," Obi-Wan nudged him with a smile. "Keep up the good work."

An empowered spring in his step, Anakin tossed Arbie away to clang on the floor - perhaps that's why the paint is scratched, Obi-Wan snorted at the thought - and leaped back into his place, attending to Master Drekka's every word.

Obi-Wan let himself out to find Ben's classroom. He found it and lurked by the door until the end of the session. As Ben's tiny students were putting away their training sabers, Obi-Wan slipped around the door frame.

"Ah, Obi-Wan, come to take a lesson from the younglings?" the elder Kenobi asked, provoking a round of childish giggles. Obi-Wan smiled for the younglings' sake.

"No, actually, I've come on an errand. Master Qui-Gon and I have just been back from a mission briefing, and before we left Master Windu asked if I might deliver this to you," he produced a datapad and handed it to his older self. "I gather he was a bit too busy to do it himself."

"The life of a councilor is a hectic one," Ben took the 'pad and tucked it into his belt beneath a tabard. "Thank you. And this mission of yours - where are you heading?"

"Nazzar. A minor quibble about trade alliance membership fees, I think."

"Hmm," Ben furrowed his brow, trying to remember. "I don't seem to recall that one at all."

Obi-Wan lifted an eyebrow. "Shall I take that as a good omen, or a sign that I'm embarking upon a new and uncharted future?"

Ben chuckled. "If anything, you should take it as a warning - your memory will horrible when you're my age."

Obi-Wan laughed with him. "I haven't seen you in a while. How was Alderaan?"

"Very well, very well," Ben refused to think of Palpatine. "Bail and his bride are happy, their world is happy, and I am happy for them. I had the treat of seeing Anakin's mother again."

"Really? Oh yes, she's from there, isn't she?" Which wasn't entirely true, but Ben had never felt compelled to tell Obi-Wan the full truth. "She's well, I take it?"

"Yes, very. I didn't have to seek her out, it seems she's taken up work with Bail's new wife, Breha. I saw her after the ceremony. She's doing quite well for herself."

"I'm glad to hear it. I actually saw Anakin just now, looking for you."

"Oh?"

"It seems he's built a droid and named it after me - though I'm not sure that he knows he has."

"Ah," Ben smiled, motioning for Obi-Wan to walk with him as he left the classroom. "Arbie-One?"

"You knew about it?"

"He was attempting to hide his inventions in the starship hangar. I convinced him to fess up to his crechemaster, but I gather she's let him go on with the project. He has a knack for machinery."

"He looked like the youngest in his class," Obi-Wan peeked into Master Drekka's room as they passed, now empty of all students.

"Oh, he is, by several years. But his masters are not ones to dissuade potential," Ben's face shone with understated pride, "and I'm not one to disagree with them."

Obi-Wan absorbed this in silence. He'd always wondered why Ben doted on Anakin so. It was clear that there was something special about the boy, and something personally significant to Ben. Obi-Wan had wondered briefly if Anakin had once been Ben's apprentice, but had thrown out the notion. Him? Take on a padawan in his mid-twenties? Anakin would be ready for apprenticeship in a few short years, but the idea of taking him on himself was ridiculous. Obi-Wan wasn't even sure he'd be a knight by then, and he knew beyond all doubt he wouldn't be ready to teach. In the end, he'd accepted Ben's affinity for the Skywalker boy as a fact of life, even if the unspoken questions nagged from time to time.

"Qui-Gon and I will be leaving in the morning. I suppose I'll see you when we get back?"

"Yes, I'll be grounded to teach classes for several more weeks, I suspect I'll be around when you return."

"Force, I hope so," Obi-Wan said. "A month of negotiations over membership fees? I shan't even imagine it."

Ben chuckled. "Qui-Gon will stage a coup before then."

"Oh," Obi-Wan seemed taken by an epiphany. "That's not a bad idea…"

Ben shook his head. "He's rubbing off on you more than you know, Force help us all. I need to go, and so do you. Safe travels, and Force be with you."

"And also with you, Master," Ben bowed lightly as they split paths.

"Don't let Qui-Gon do anything stupid!" Ben called over his shoulder.

"No promises!"

Which was, at least in relation to Master Jinn, about as strong a declaration as one man could make.


Once alone, Ben opened the datapad that Mace Windu had relayed to him. It was a classified, off-the-record dossier, and prompted him to open it with his thumbprint. Inside, he found a list of names. A note at the top read:

These are all of the Jedi in the Order that I would classify as 'grey'. If you know of any others, please add them to this list. I am unsure what actions we can - or should - take to monitor them, but I will continue to meditate on the problem. But as you know, awareness is the first step towards enlightenment.

This datapad is not linked to the Temple Network, only I will receive any changes you make. I should tell you that this kind of data harvesting on our own is, while not against bylaws, heavily frowned upon. Operate with discretion, I advise storing it somewhere private.

That made Ben smile. He liked to think that his influence on the Korun master was, if anything, theraputic when it came to rule-following. He scrolled down the list. Thankfully, it was a sparse list. Dooku was there, as were Pong Krell, Sifo Dyas, and a few others that Ben did not recognize. He added Asajj Ventress, and paused in thought. He knew that, much like Quinlan Vos, Asajj had not been raised in the Jedi Temple. Should history be allowed to repeat, she would never interact with another Jedi aside from her master until his untimely death. He made a small note underneath her name:

A padawan to Master Ky Narec. Currently on Rattatak… I would suggest, if possible and when convenient, recalling this team to the temple. Her greyness may be a want for socialization. She was raised a slave.

It was not unlike Anakin's old childhood, Ben mused. It would take care and patience to overcome those hurdles. But that power was not in his hands, not now. His mission lay elsewhere. He scrolled back up to find Dooku's name on the list, where Mace had left a short paragraph of notes.

Relatively close with Master Sifo Dyas, who demonstrates a more neurotic obsession with dark times. As you know, we will need to keep an especially close eye on Dyas, but Master Dooku has changed his timeline enough that I do not know where we ought to begin or end. He is very interested in the Sith as an academic subject, and even when on the council, he was aggressively neutral when discussing our fight against the Dark. He is a fine sentinel for this reason. I do not know enough about him to say more; you will have to fill in the gaps.

Unfortunately, with Dooku, finding the gaps and filling them in would be a long and delicate process. The man was a difficult study, with dozens of skeletons no doubt hidden carefully away in a closet behind shields a parsec thick. Nuance was the name of the game, and even for Ben's considerable skills in diplomacy, it would be a challenge. But Ben Kenobi had never been one to back down from a sufficiently interesting challenge.

"He can't be that busy," he told his plants, shrugging into his cloak. "Obi-Wan's off-planet, and Anakin's too busy with his coursework for Dooku to hover. So unless he's resumed his duties as sentinel, he won't have a good reason to turn down lunch." Ben paused in his thinking, and eyed his dorva vine, which was grown nearly down to the floor. "You're right," he said, squinting carefully at his envisioned stratagem. "I'll need to pick a very fine wine."


Over the next few weeks, Ben occupied his mornings with teaching younglings and padawans, leaving his afternoons free to share tea and meals with Yan Dooku. Whether the man was lonely or merely entertained by Ben's indulgence of his refined tastes, Dooku seemed to genuinely enjoy their meetings. Unfortunately, Ben had to keep constantly on his toes, shielding his intentions - and his identity - from perhaps the only man in the Order whose sheer intellect could intimidate him. In the back of his mind, he found himself wishing more and more that he'd gotten to know the man as Obi-Wan knew him. More and more, he wondered to what extent Dooku had shaped Obi-Wan into a new version of himself.

"You and your nephew are uncannily similar," Dooku had joked one evening over chess and wine. Ben had glanced up at him in some surprise. Eventually, he said,

"I would claim family resemblance, but I'm sure we spend enough time together for proximity to be a factor as well."

"Strategy is not picked up by osmosis, Ben. It can only be taught." Dooku carefully placed his rook in an innocuous square ahead of Ben's knight. Ben stroked his beard and evaluated the board.

"I was unaware you played chess with him often." He moved his bishop to anticipate Dooku's rook.

"Chess, no. But I fight with him often. The overlap between the two is striking." Dooku slid his own bishop across the board, near to but not threatening Ben's king.

"I will take that as a compliment, Master Dooku. You yourself have said that Obi-Wan is a prodigious talent."

"Prodigious, yes, but he has much to learn." Dooku moved his rook behind Ben's knight. Ben took it with his bishop, but it cleared the way for Dooku's queen to march right up to Ben's king. "Checkmate."

Ben let his mouth fall open slightly. He eventually nodded in defeat. "Point taken, Master Dooku."

The older man grinned, no malice behind it. "A prodigy only grows better with practice, Master Kenobi. Another?"


It was only two weeks before Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon returned from their mission, both sauntering into the temple in high spirits and happy to be home. Unfortunately, the high spirits were not destined to last.

"Padawan?" Qui-Gon asked concernedly one morning after he woke to find Obi-Wan absent and his door closed. As a younger man, the padawan had slept in whenever he was allowed, but lately he'd begun keeping his own morning schedule. It was nearly mid-day. "Obi-Wan? Are you alright?"

No response. He let himself into the room and found Obi-Wan sprawled in his bed, arms tangled up in the sheets. He was running a high fever and was in no state of mind to be going through any morning routine - be it his or anyone else's.

"Nazzaran Flu," had been Vokara Che's pronouncement. "Unusual at this time of year. I'd say he picked it up on your journey and it's been been incubating ever since." She looked down at her incapacitated, red-eyed ward with sympathy. "I can give you a vaccine, Master Jinn, but I'm afraid it's too late for bleary-eyes here. He'll have to wait it out."

"I see," Qui-Gon said face wrought in parental concern. He watched Obi-Wan blink heavily through his fever and the light healing trance Vokara had put him in. Vokara dug about in her hypospray cabinet before coming up with the correct bottle.

"He'll need to be isolated for at least eight days until he's no longer contagious," she instructed, putting a shot to Qui-Gon's neck and deploying the vaccine without ceremony, "After that, he can interact with just about anyone - though I'd advise his friend Bant to steer clear, aquatic species react horribly to the virus even after the contagious stage has passed - but he'll be about as much use as a split kyber. Make sure he gets plenty of rest and fluids."

"I bow to your wisdom, Master Che. I promise to remove him as soon as he becomes conscious. I wouldn't want him to stay and barter with you for his release."

The head healer grinned. "Probably for the best. I suppose not all Kenobis can be model patients."

"Between the two of them," Qui-Gon said, taking a seat beside his bedridden apprentice, "I think they balance out well."

"It's a very lopsided balance" she amended. "If his fever does not break within two days, let me know."

"Of course."


Eight days passed, and then ten, and then two weeks, and Obi-Wan was still confined to the sofa. He had no energy, his inner ear was shot, his head spun whenever he closed his eyes, and if someone had asked him to do anything more strenuous than blink or complain about his misery to Qui-Gon, he wouldn't have been able to try - Master Yoda's maxims be damned.

Unfortunately for Obi-Wan, the Council did not always let the illnesses of grown padawans dictate the mission queue of their masters.

"Called for assignment?" Qui-Gon had frowned upon answering his comm. "My apprentice is sick. I will have to seek an exception."

"I understand Obi-Wan's condition, Qui-Gon," Mace Windu told him, "but the Council is still requesting you for this assignment. We determined a replacement last week, but he still needs a team partner. All things considered, we thought you would be the best fit."

"All things considered?" Qui-Gon asked, curious. He glanced at Obi-Wan, who was sulking on the couch and pretending he wasn't eavesdropping.

"The replacement is Ben Kenobi. Seek an exception if you like, but I think he'd appreciate your company on this one. Besides, you'll like the mission. It's a nice, horrible jungle planet where you can reconnect with nature."

Obi-Wan did not budge, but Qui-Gon could sense his sudden, silent relief at having to stay home. "What's the mission?" the master asked, mentally reprimanding his apprentice.

"Alaris Prime," Mace told him. "You get to help a clanful of wookies start a colony on a planet infested by gundarks. Interested yet?"

Qui-Gon's smirk was only fueled by his apprentice's subdued aura of horror. "Does Ben know you've called me?"

"He's the one who suggested it."

"Well then," Qui-Gon shrugged, "when should I report to the council?"