Poisoned

"Obi-Wan hated puke.

The smell, the look, the sound—him bent over, black, worming liquid spewing from his body, the poison he had ingested wreaking havoc—it was too similar to the nights and demons he worked hardest to exorcize. As much nausea as Anakin experienced over the past two weeks, Obi-Wan was certain he would never, never get used to it."

Collecting himself, hunched over the low dining table in his shared Temple room with Master Qui-Gon Jinn, Obi-Wan smelled the pinpricks of blood long before he felt them seeping between his stitches and into his waistband. He poked gingerly at his side, mapping the edges of the knife wound with his fingertips through the cotton robes.

Damn, Obi-Wan thought. He took a deep breath, annoyed. Retching into the sink like a drunkard had torn the stitched-up wound over his hip back open. The temple healers were going to murder him—whatever healing they'd managed to do to the swollen, red-hot angry skin had been sent right back to square one.

He peeled back the layers of his padawan attire to get a better sense of the damage he'd done. The fabric peeled away wetly, tiny loops of the robe's fabric yanking at the thread. A small voice in his head screamed at him to call for his master—but not like this was really a good enough reason to get him involved? Ripping stitches isn't exactly life or death. It was simply a complication—an inconvenience—and really, the bile he'd rinsed down their small kitchen sink was just bad timing.

He just… he just needed…

Kriff, he felt so dizzy. And his stomach was roiling inside him. His hip burned.

They'd been off world for two… no, three days serving as an unbiased party in an upcoming tribal election—but now, Obi-Wan couldn't even remember the planet they'd served on, or what the outcome of the election had been. He had been in and out of consciousness after a blow to the head and the stab wound in his side, attacked on stage as his master desperately tried to keep the peace. With Obi-Wan's wounds, they had been forced to leave the planet. Even after he had let one of the planet's medics stitch him up.

Most likely, exactly what those barves wanted when they stabbed him.

An iron grip closed around his middle and twisted cruelly, and Obi-Wan folded in on himself, gripping his stomach and gritting his teeth—

Then he was vomiting again, except surely there wasn't anything left—not even the tea that Master Qui-Gon had left him when he went to be debriefed for their failed mission. That left him feeling sick all over again, tears running down his face because he was the reason the mission failed. It was him, it was always him, and now he was facing the consequences.

He wretched again, and again, and there was nothing left to wring out of him, and the smell was making everything worse and when he managed to peel open his eyelids and look at the mess he'd made on the table top, the liquid he'd spewed was black, and blackness was swirling at the edges of his vision—

"Obi-Wan," a deep voice said. "Breathe, Obi-Wan. Breathe."

As if. Obi-Wan was in an airlock. He fought for a breath through his clenched teeth, forcing the darkness to recede.

"He needs oxygen," another voice commanded. "Qui-Gon, for Light's sake, he's vomiting black—we need to move him."

Obi-Wan was melting, his muscles shaking, unable to hold his weight. He was wobbling everywhere, shuddering, shaking. The hand around his stomach twisted, a fire in his throat and he couldn't stop it. The darkness swarmed him, blocking out the hazy shapes surrounding him, holding him.

"Master," Obi-Wan sobbed. His hip had its own, all-encompassing heartbeat.

"I'm here, Obi-Wan." Strong hands closed gently around his shoulders, under his knees. "I'm going to get you to the Halls of Healing."

"I'm sorry, Master." Obi-Wan tried to bring his Master's face into focus, but the room was spinning, and he tasted blood between his teeth. He'd made so many mistakes—except these mistakes will cost lives, cost a planet, and he knew deep in his core that he was too weak to be the Jedi that Qui-Gon wanted him to be—and he was sobbing now, hands gripping the folds of his master's tunic, burying his face in the crook of his neck as he was rushed through the temple.

He didn't want to be seen like this. He was stronger than this.

It was just a few ripped stitches. He shouldn't—shouldn't be—

But then his master was gone, and he was lying on a cold mattress, and something was being pushed into his nostrils, eyes being speared by the brilliant white light of the Halls of Healing.

He was going to pass out.

"Was there poison in the wound, Vokara?" he heard his master saying.

"None of our scans detected any. He must have ingested it."

The Light called to him, a pathway out of the present suffering.

But there were hands shaking him. "Obi-Wan, you need to stay with us. What can you remember? Did you eat anything, drink anything that the ambassadors or servants from either party might have given you? Think, Obi-Wan."

His Master sounded far from serene. The thin line draped across his face was forcing cool air into his nose, down his throat. It was hard to remember anything. The… the head wound…

"There was water… Master, when they stitched me up… in the water... you gave me water… I didn't…"

"It's all right, Obi-Wan. None of this is your fault." His voice sounded farther away. "Does that give you enough to go on? A substance undetectable in water, no smell, no taste—?"

Dimly, Obi-Wan registered hands cleaning him up, the scratch of fresh clothes against skin, his slack limbs being moved so the healers had access to his ripped stitches. He felt the cramps building again, until he knew he was going to be sick—

His master's hands on his face.

"Sleep, padawan." The suggestion from the Force was a welcome one, chasing away the sickness and suffering. Obi-Wan drifted away.

"Padawan?" a comfortably low voice drifted from the abyss Obi-Wan had been sleeping in. "Are you with me?"

"Mmm," Obi-Wan croaked. He was cold here, and his mouth was full of the salty tang of cleansing liquid and disinfectant. His middle was sticky with bacta.

"How do you feel? You're looking much better."

He was? Then why was everywhere he looked scanners and biomonitors poking and prodding him?

"Relax," Qui-Gon said. "Their poison is almost out of your system. We're long past the worst. You're welcome to go back to sleep."

"I hate this," Obi-Wan said, teeth chattering. "I hate—hate retching too."

"Hate is not the Jedi way," Master Che scolded.

"Ah, well," Qui-Gon said. "We'll let this one pass."

"I'm sorry, Master," Obi-Wan said, his bottom lip wobbling.

"There's nothing to apologize for. I was not mindful of the Force's warnings. From what we can tell, each party had you as its target to remove us from the neutral moderator's position. One party sent in an assassin in the chaos of the party talks. The other would have poisoned you during the festivities if you hadn't been so clever and avoided all of the food and drink. It wasn't until you'd already been injured that the second party took advantage to make sure we didn't return in time for the election. They poisoned the water I gave you, Obi-Wan, when I asked for you to take a pain reliever before we lifted off. It's I who should be apologizing to you."

Qui-Gon squeezed his hand. Obi-Wan tried to coordinate himself enough to squeeze back. A drunken smile crossed his lips, and he turned it on his master in hopes to use the relative vulnerability that the man had shown to his advantage.

"It's all right, Master. Can we go to our room?" he slurred.

"Not yet, my padawan. They've got you on medications fighting that infection you have in your hip, and one that's helping you break your fever. And…" Qui-Gon looked behind him, then lowered his voice. "You've yet to purge the last of the toxins. It's safer for you to be here, close to the professionals."

Obi-Wan's face heated. Then against his will, he felt tears prick once again at the corners of his eyes. He was better at suppressing his emotions than this, Obi-Wan hissed at himself. He'd already let his Master down enough in these past three days—enough for a lifetime—

"Obi-Wan," his master's face was soft and sad, and then his beard was scratching against his forehead as he leaned to press a kiss to the top of Obi-Wan's sweaty head. "You are forgiven, my young padawan. You are not in the wrong, but if it's forgiveness you seek in order to be able to sleep again, I will more than grant it to you."

It was that blessing, and the pull of the Force, that had sleep claiming him.

Obi-Wan slept for much longer than he had intended.

Two days, with only waking moment spent agonizing in the fresher, purging toxins, as Qui-Gon would say. But this time, when he woke, the fever had peaked and it wasn't his bowels that woke him. It was a real appetite.

"Good morning, Obi-Wan," his master said, winking. "How do you feel?"

"Food," Obi-Wan rasped. Then blushed. "Please."

He sat up, feeling lightheaded, and stretched until his hip pulled. He peeled back the cream Halls of Healing gown to peek at where the knife had cut him. The area was pink and raw with fresh scar tissue, but was no longer red and hot to the touch. And the stitches done by the on-planet medic were gone.

Qui-Gon was smiling. "Feeling up to some breakfast?"

Obi-Wan ate like a starved wookiee. The medical breakfasts were always bland, textureless, and far too nutritious for his liking, but he was far too hungry to care. He ate and thought about how he could convince his master to let him go home.

"You haven't asked me about returning to the residential levels yet, my very young padawan. You must be hungry."

"I'm ready now," Obi-Wan said through a mouthful.

Qui-Gon looked over his shoulder. There stood Vokara Che, Master Healer.

Obi-Wan swallowed, then slouched over in bed. "You don't need to do a final examination," he tried, but his teenage voice betrayed him with a crack.

"That doesn't work on me, Kenobi," Master Che harrumphed.

Obi-Wan was helped to stand, then every last part of him was checked over by sensors and biomonitors, two hypos were pressed into the side of his neck, and he was given a bottle of ointment to put on his stab wound scar.

"Turn him over to me, Vokara," Qui-Gon said, standing in the doorway as Obi-Wan was checked and rechecked by droid and healer alike. "I can handle him in his convalescing form."

The healer held a datapad out to the tall master, who placed his fingerprint on each of the forms. Obi-Wan hurried to dress in the Jedi robes he was given, then deliberately tied his hair back and took a breath.

He didn't want to see the state of their rooms. And yet, it was the only place that felt like refuge after it all.

Five minutes later, Obi-Wan was limping alongside his Master, who was most definitely taking smaller steps for him, along the Temple's corridors to the resident quarters. Their shared rooms were—

Clean.

No stains, no ruined furniture. No blood on the cabinets or cushions. Obi-Wan stared, mouth wide.

"I've had some time on my hands," Qui-Gon said, blue eyes twinkling, shrugging out of his robes. He handed them to Obi-Wan. "Here, let's warm you up with some tea."

Obi-Wan tucked his arms into the folds of the battered robe and sitting at the low table. Qui-Gon made tea.

"You know, we were given another mission upon your waking up," Qui-Gon said thoughtfully once they both had a steaming mug in their hands. "And before I tell you I turned it down, I want you to know it had nothing to do with the last mission, nor your wounds."

Obi-Wan's mouth opened, then closed again. Qui-Gon continued.

"I couldn't rest, while you were out," Qui-Gon said simply. "I don't think I've slept a wink. Sound familiar?"

Obi-Wan felt his face heat, remembering back to their early days as master and padawan, where he wouldn't leave his master's side, refusing sleep, refusing to go back to their quarters without Qui-Gon.

"Sounds familiar," Obi-Wan obliged.

"I need some rest, you need some rest. We'll meditate together for the next day or so. Then we'll see where the Force leads us."