Archive: M/A only, please.

Feedback: Sure! On or offlist is fine, constructive criticism welcome.

Category: Seriously AU, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Non-con and probably a buncha others I'm forgetting.

Character pairing: Q/O, O/other

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: Hooboy. There be ugly, dark things ahead, but I also promise a light at the end of the tunnel. Torture, rape, general unpleasantness, that sort of thing.

Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, I just play with 'em. And I'm mean.

Summary: When Bad Things happen to Good People.

/Indicates bondspeak./

He had lived so long without hope, he didn't recognize it when it finally arrived.

Through the rusted, flaking bars of his cell, he spotted his hope, wearing cream tunics and a dark brown cloak, its hood pulled forward, hiding its owner's face in the shadows.

The man in the cloak towered above his companion, someone the occupant of the cell recognized all too well.

"What about this one?" the cloak rumbled quietly.

Brelk turned his shaved head toward the cell and winced, carefully hiding his expression from the potential customer. "This one ... ." He sighed heavily. "This one's a handful."

"How so?"

"He's a fighter. I've sold him to a number of clients who claimed they wanted an untamed one, but they all brought him back, demanding refunds." Brelk chuckled, and the slave saw what might have been pride in the squat man's eyes. "And reimbursement for their medical expenses." He wiped the back of his thick, sweaty neck with the grimy cloth he perpetually carried. "Frankly, I'm surprised he hasn't been killed yet. They would have all been perfectly within their rights." He paused in his wiping, suddenly seeming to realize what he'd said. "Of course, none of them actually received refunds -- that's strictly against policy."

The cloak let out a non-committal grunt, orienting on the slave. "What's your name, boy?"

"Don't bother," Brelk said. "He doesn't talk."

"Why not?"

Brelk waved a hand in dismissal. "Something to do with the mindwipe. He can say a few words here and there, but it takes so long for him to get them out, he generally doesn't try."

The cloak moved closer to the bars. "Mindwipe?"

"I'm afraid it was necessary in his case. An extra precaution in addition to the collar. He fights too well as it is."

The cloak absorbed this in silence.

The slave stood perfectly still in the center of the cell, training his calm gaze on where he assumed the face of the customer to be. He was no longer intimidated by the parade of potentials Brelk trotted past his cell. They would either treat him well or not -- it made no difference to him. One dayy, he would find a way to escape the hell he had been born into just over a Standard year ago, or die trying. Both options held equal appeal to him at this point.

As the silence stretched, Brelk shifted uncomfortably. The slave didn't spare him a glance, didn't blink, keeping his eyes trained on the customer.

"Turn around," the cloak finally said.

The slave held his stare for another moment, then slowly turned, displaying every inch of his naked body to the hidden gaze of the cloaked man. As he completed the circle, he again lifted his eyes to the shadows under the cowl.

"Beautiful," the man said in a ragged whisper, and from the corner of his eye, the slave saw Brelk puff in triumph.

After that, it was only a matter of details -- credits exchanged hands, the keys to his collar and cuffs, the remote for his implant. Brelk followed them to the exit, fussing and clucking, reminding the customer that the slave was now his sole responsibility, no refunds, no exchanges, no exceptions. To emphasize his point, he shook a finger in the slave's face and told him to behave.

The slave's new owner ignored the heavyset man, lifting his face to the night sky as the door slid open. He glanced at his new purchase, then removed his cloak and draped it over the slender shoulders.

Knowing better than to feel gratitude for this small kindness, the slave took the opportunity to study his new Master. He was tall, at least a head taller than the slave, with rich brown hair and piercing blue eyes. He noted the details of the man's face dispassionately, letting his gaze travel over the man's body. The tunics were belted around a slim waist, but the overall looseness of the garments wasn't enough to hide the fact that the man appeared powerfully built.

His impression was confirmed as they moved into the moderately crowded streets. The man walked with a warrior's grace and assurance, the denizens of the city stepping aside for the pair seemingly without thought. The slave felt his composure waver momentarily. It would be difficult to escape from this one, he thought. Not without risking serious injury or death.

But, he reminded himself as they wound their way through the narrow streets, death was an acceptable option.

He tried not to shiver when his bare feet slapped against the cold metal of the sleek ship's ramp. His new owner had said nothing on the way to the port, had barely spared him a glance. Apparently, he was more than confident in both the power of the neural implant and his own fighting prowess. The slave noted that fact, filed it away. Overconfidence could be a useful weakness to exploit.

As the ramp rose up behind them, he observed his new surroundings with the subtle skills he had honed during his short life. It wouldn't do to appear too curious, too eager to analyze the exits, the objects that could be used as weapons. His eyes barely flickered as he took in all the details he could.

A new ship, he thought, well-apportioned. His new owner wasn't lacking in credits. From where he stood, toes unconsciously gripping the corrugated metal of the deck, he saw the cockpit to his left, a spacious hold directly in front of him, and what appeared to be either a mess station or a medical bay to his right.

He bowed his head as the man turned to face him, his brain already ticking off possible advantages to the ship's layout.

"Once we're underway, I'll let you out of those cuffs," the man said, stepping in close. "But before I do, you need to understand a few things." He reached out, and the slave tried not to stiffen in alarm as the man's large hands plucked at the edges of the cowl, slipping it back to his shoulders.

"Look at me," he said softly, and the slave raised his head, gazing up into the pale blue eyes. "I know you don't remember me, but I'm not your master, not your owner. I'm your friend, and I'm taking you back to where you belong, to the people that love you and miss you. I will not hurt you, but I expect to be treated with the same courtesy. Do you understand me?"

The slave stared, an unfamiliar ache spreading through his chest, tightening his throat. He was missed? He was loved? He had a home? This man was ... rescuing him? Could it be possible?

"Do you understand me?" the man repeated, his voice hardening ever so slightly.

The slave nodded, trying to quell his pounding heart.

The stars slid with a wrench into streaks of light and the man turned, smiling, the first the slave had seen from him. "Are you hungry?"

He nodded.

The man rose from the pilot's chair and gestured aft. "Why don't you use the fresher to get cleaned up, and I'll see what I can come up with in the way of hot food?"

He stood, holding out his cuffed hands.

"Ah, of course. I'd forgotten." The man quickly unlocked the cuffs, then smiled again. He had a kind smile, the slave decided, and the new ache in his chest flared a little higher.

"I'm afraid you're stuck with that collar for a little while longer. I don't have the skills you'll need to deal with the aftereffects." A line appeared between the man's eyes when he saw the raw skin revealed by the cuff's removal. "When you're done in the fresher, we'll take care of that. Wash them carefully."

The slave nodded, and made his way aft. A door at the end of the mess area slid open to reveal quarters with an attached fresher. He glanced around, taking in the wide bunk, the tidy desk with its state-of-the-art comm unit.

He stepped into the fresher, feeling the corners of his mouth slide upwards when he saw the controls for both water and sonics. He couldn't remember the last time he'd enjoyed the luxury of hot water. He palmed the water control, sliding it to its hottest level, then slipped the coarse cloak from his shoulders.

When the spray of hot water hit his chest, he couldn't contain a low moan of pure pleasure. Slowly, he turned around and around, delighting in the sensation of the stinging water. He roused himself long enough to pick from the varied selection of soaps and lotions, and spent long minutes washing his hair before moving on to his body, ridding himself of the stink of the pens.

He tipped his head back to rinse his hair, and let himself think about what his new companion had said. I'm taking you back to where you belong, to the people that love you and miss you. The people that love me, he mused, wondering who they were, what he was to them. Were they his family? His friends? Was he someone important? Did he hold a job, own a farm, have a lover or a mate? Endless possibilities stretched before him, and as the ache in his chest expanded yet again, he realized for the first time what it was he felt.

Hope.

Grateful tears stung his eyes and he almost laughed at himself. He knew he hadn't been born a slave, had tried to tell T'min so endlessly on that first, miserable day when he had awakened with no memories of who or what he was. He couldn't even speak properly, could grind out only a few disconnected words, but T'min had understood him, had always understood him.

"If you can't even remember yesterday," T'min had said with calm, infuriating logic, "how can you be so sure you're not a slave?"

The tears came freely now, lost in the hot spray as he remembered T'min, the only one who had shown him anything of kindness, of gentleness, of love. His cellmate, the man who had soothed his fears, calmed his nightmares, had shown him in those first few tendays that pleasure could be mutual, tender and caring. Had given him a name, a name, he said, that meant "beloved" in his native language, a secret name to be shared only by the two of them. Namir.

And then T'min had been sold, and they hadn't even had a chance to say goodbye.

Shortly afterwards, Namir himself had been sold, to a portly older man with a taste for the finer things in life. Heavy, bejweled rings had flashed and twinkled from each of his pudgy fingers, rings he hadn't bothered to remove before thrusting those fingers inside Namir, ignoring the screams of anguish from his new pet. After several tendays of such abuse, and worse, Namir had snapped, attacking his new owner with a ferocity that had surprised them both. He had taken great care to break each and every one of those fingers.

He didn't bother to remove the rings.

A friend of his master's had previously expressed great interest in the new slave, and the portly man had decided to cut his losses and sell Namir. He supposed he was lucky -- what he had done would have condemned him to death under any other circumstances.

When his newest master had demonstrated his fondness for the whip, Namir didn't feel quite so lucky anymore.

He'd lost track of how many times he had changed hands, how many times he'd found himself back in the pens of Brelk's, how many times he had been brutalized, tortured, almost killed.

Reluctantly, he palmed the water control and the spray died. None of that mattered anymore. He'd been found, rescued, and even if he couldn't remember who he was or what he'd been, he was on his way to people who loved him, missed him. His new companion had shown no sign of desiring him -- he suspected the display at the pens had been an act designed solely for Brelk's benefit. Once aboard the ship, he'd been nothing but kind and considerate, giving Namir the space he needed, giving him freedom.

Freedom. The hope swelled again, and he fought back grateful tears as he reached for a large fluffy towel, scrubbing his face in the clean-smelling softness, gently patting his injured wrists dry.

He picked up the cloak and donned it again, wondering briefly if he would have anything else to wear during the journey, then dismissing the thought. He wiped the small mirror with his towel and inspected himself.

His hair, close to his scalp when he'd arrived at Brelk's, had grown to a medium length, its normal red-gold color water-darkened to a deep auburn. The odd lock of longer hair trailed down to his waist, a quirk that had seemed to amuse all of his owners. None of them had bothered to cut it, at any rate. One of them, a slender, elegant man who treated him as a doll to be played with, had even gone so far as to braid it, threading it through with shimmering ribbons and beads. It had made Namir extremely uncomfortable, for reasons he couldn't begin to understand.

He shook himself, determined not to dwell in the past any longer. He had no idea what awaited him in his new life, but his immediate future promised hot food.

Laughter greeted him when he walked into the mess area, and he paused uncertainly.

A fine net of crinkles appeared at the corners of the pale blue eyes that regarded him warmly. "I thought you might go for the water instead of the sonics. Did you enjoy it?"

Namir returned the smile helplessly, nodding. Although he saw nothing edible, he smelled spiced meat and fresh bread. His mouth watered in anticipation.

The man gestured to the metal table near the center of the room. "Have a seat and I'll take a look at those wrists."

Namir turned toward the table, hesitating when he saw there were no seats around it. He turned back with a puzzled frown.

The man was already moving toward him with blinding speed, but even if he hadn't been, Namir was frozen in shock.

The huge fist crashed into the side of his face, the force of the blow throwing him back against the edge of the table. Pain exploded through his head, lanced across his kidneys. Too stunned to draw breath, he could only stare through watering eyes at the man, his newfound hope burning to ashes in his chest.

Before he could even think to move, he was flipped over on his stomach, the cold metal surface of the table searing his chest and genitals where the cloak had gapped open. His arms were spread out and held down by invisible bonds of pressure and as his breath returned, he heard the unmistakable sound of a vibroblade near his head. Ice-cold terror spiked his veins, and he let out a low, trembling moan.

"Foolish child," the man said in a soothing tone. "So easily beguiled, so willing to believe." The sound of the blade moved away, cutting through the rough cloth of the cloak as if it were no more substantial than spidersilk.

Namir felt a rush of cool air over his sweaty back and legs as the cloak fell away. He tried desperately to gather his wits, to think of a way to fight back, but all coherent thought fled in the face of his despair and rage.

He felt a hand petting his damp hair and shifted his head to that side, looking up at the man's face as he bent close to his victim, smiling. "I do wish I could remove your collar," he said softly, his hand trailing to the slender metal band around Namir's neck. "Your pain must be exquisite, and I would dearly love to share that. The betrayal you feel must be -- " His words rose to a shriek as Namir sank his teeth into the side of his hand.

A fierce, black joy flooded Namir as the man struggled to free his hand from the clenched jaws. He saw the man fumbling at his belt, and bit down even harder, knowing his time was short.

Agony ripped through him as his captor thumbed the neural remote, and his jaws opened, an anguished scream ripping from his throat. Every nerve ending he possessed was on fire, melting and running together, forming new paths, new agonies, as unceasing as his screams.

An eternity later, the pain stopped, and he lay spent, gasping and whimpering, tasting blood, uncertain whose it was.

"Well," the man said mildly, "Brelk did warn me."

Namir turned his thoughts inward, away from the voice, away from the pain. Torture was nothing new to him, and he would either die this time or endure it as he always had, by casting his mind back through his pitifully few memories, to the time when, however briefly, he had been happy.

When he had been loved.

One point three Standard years earlier ...

An itchy, tickling sensation ghosted past his ear. Still mostly asleep, he swiped at it, pleased when it stopped. Drifting back to his dreams, he grunted in annoyance when his nose began to itch. He rubbed at it furiously, dispelling the maddening sensation with suspicious ease.

When the itch began over one closed eyelid, he let out a deep, long-suffering sigh. "You are the most annoying man," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

Sweet, warm breath touched his closed eye, then silken lips touched his brow. "Some people might say it's endearing, rather than annoying."

Obi-Wan forced his eyes open and blinked at the glowing face of the chrono next to the bed. "These would be the people who are allowed to sleep until a decent hour."

The lips traveled to his ear, the hot breath sending delightful shivers down his spine. "Decency is entirely subjective, Padawan. You should certainly have learned that lesson by now."

Obi-Wan turned over, raising an eyebrow. "Are you going to spout platitudes at me until I scream or make love to me until I scream?"

A slow, lazy grin spread over his Master's beloved, bearded face, a sight that never failed to thrill Obi-Wan to his core. "I might be able to accomplish both simultaneously."

"Hard to talk with your mouth full," Obi-Wan breathed, and fastened his lips on Qui-Gon's.

As it happened, no platitudes found their way past Obi-Wan's tongue.

Several minutes later, as Qui-Gon slid deliciously inside him, Obi-Wan found himself wondering how he had ever lived without this, ever survived the eight long years of simply being this man's Padawan and no more.

He'd realized, of course, that he was hopelessly in love with Qui-Gon long before their last mission. He had also realized that it would be futile to hope that his love might be returned. But he'd been content to simply be with Qui-Gon, in whatever capacity, loving him quietly, unobtrusively, taking his joy in the little pleasures to be found in daily life with his Master.

He would be forever grateful to the nameless rebel on Ramisa who had nearly killed him.

The stray blaster shot had come from seemingly nowhere, slamming into Obi-Wan's chest, driving him to the hard plascrete ground of the port. He remembered lying on the ground, staring up at the landing struts of their transport as he tried to breathe. He'd been fascinated by the struts, studying them as if he'd never seen such a thing before, awed by both the complexity and simplicity of their design. Some remote part of his brain had been screaming in pain, another bit had tried to remind him that it might possibly be a good idea to call for his Master, already on board, while yet another section of his fractured mind attempted to recall the exact mechanics of drawing breath.

I must be in shock, he thought idly, truly appreciating the way the struts seemed to meld to the outer hull of the transport, the flawless design that allowed for beauty while retaining strength. Qui-Gon would appreciate this -- his Master frequently paused in their travels to admire such esoterica. /Master? You should really come see this. It's quite lovely./

He felt his Master's shields, still tightly drawn after the tense negotiations, and tried harder. /Master? I've found the most perfect thing. Come out and have a look./

/ ... Obi-Wan? Obi-Wan!/

He heard booted feet racing down the ramp, but couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from the architectural precision of the struts. He felt large, warm hands on his shoulders, his hair, his seared chest, and tried to point to the struts, but his hand wasn't cooperating in the least.

"Obi-Wan," a choked voice moaned, and he frowned. He knew that voice, but not that specific tone. It sounded like his Master, but in all the time they'd been together his Master had never once sounded afraid ... .

He dragged his gaze away from the shining struts and looked into his Master's face, astonished at the pure terror he saw there. /They're only landing struts, Master/ he sent, trying to soothe the fear he felt emanating in harsh waves along their bond.

He saw tears glittering in those impossibly blue eyes, and began to feel afraid himself.

His Master's hand passed over his forehead, then he didn't feel anything.

He'd awakened in the Healer's Ward on Coruscant some vague amount of time later, reeking of bacta. Qui-Gon knelt beside his bed, one hand clutching Obi-Wan's, his head resting against Obi-Wan's hip. His eyes were closed, his mouth slack, a damp spot on the bedclothes directly underneath it.

Obi-Wan had never known his Master to drool before, and felt absurdly touched. /Master?/

Qui-Gon's eyes fluttered open and he straightened with a grunt, looking momentarily disoriented.

Obi-Wan smiled at him, and then, for only the second time in his life, he saw Qui-Gon cry.

When the healers had fussed over him sufficiently, he was allowed to return to their quarters. After a tenday or so of Qui-Gon's particular brand of fussing, Obi-Wan found himself getting distinctly alarmed.

He'd been sprawled on the sofa in the common room, trying to muster something resembling interest in the datapad he held, a makeup lesson from his Languages course. With Qui-Gon constantly hovering in his field of vision, however, he found it next to impossible to concentrate.

With a heavy sigh, he tossed the datapad aside, folded his arms across his perfectly healed chest, and fixed his Master with a stern gaze. "Master, what in the name of all that is good and light is wrong with you?"

Qui-Gon blinked, then his countenance took on its usual cast of unspoiled serenity. "What do you mean, Padawan?"

"You know precisely what I mean. I'm fine, Master. I plan on remaining that way for quite some time to come. You don't need to keep an eye on me every single moment of the day and night."

Qui-Gon let out a long breath, closing his eyes. "You're right." He opened his eyes with a wry smile. "I apologize, Padawan. It wasn't my intention to make you uncomfortable."

"It's all right. I just don't want you to waste your energy worrying about me when there's no need for it." Obi-Wan cocked an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth quirking. "Unless there's something you and the healers aren't telling me."

Qui-Gon's smile widened. "Not a thing." He looked over Obi-Wan's shoulder, at the large window that looked out on Coruscant traffic, his gaze distant.

"Master?" Obi-Wan prompted gently.

Qui-Gon looked back at him, his smile gone. "Obi-Wan ... " He paused for a moment, looking more indecisive than Obi-Wan could ever recall, then sank to his knees beside the sofa. He took Obi-Wan's hands in his own and looked intently into his Padawan's eyes. "I love you, my Obi-Wan. And I never realized how much until I almost lost you."

Obi-Wan stared into eyes that held all the soft colors of twilight, and was suddenly very, very glad he was sitting down.

"If you had ... if you had died -- "

When his Master's voice broke, Obi-Wan's heart almost did the same. "Master," he whispered.

"I know there is no death, I know it," Qui-Gon continued. "But I don't want your Force-ghost, Obi-Wan. I want you."

"You want me," Obi-Wan whispered, almost mindlessly. He appeared to have forgotten how to breathe again, and dimly hoped he wasn't suffering a relapse.

Then Qui-Gon's lips were on his, and breathing didn't seem quite so important after all.

That had been almost a quarter-year ago, Obi-Wan thought, or at least as much as he was capable of thinking with Qui-Gon filling him, making him writhe with such pleasure it shocked him anew every time they made love. Every thrust, every caress, every whispered endearment was so pure, so right, so good that Obi-Wan thought nearly dying was almost a trivial price to pay.

Qui-Gon exploded inside him, crying out, and Obi-Wan went up in flames with him.

And really, he thought, no amount of platitudes could elicit quite the same kind of scream from him.

Obi-Wan bit down on a jurberry, watching his Master chew. He loved watching Qui-Gon chew. Admittedly, he loved watching Qui-Gon do all sorts of things, like breathe, sleep, read, scratch himself.

"What's your schedule today, Padawan?"

Obi-Wan forced his gaze away from Qui-Gon's mobile lips and let out a pained sigh. "I've got diaper patrol in the creche all morning, then physics and astronav all afternoon."

Qui-Gon nodded thoughtfully. "The creche training is an excellent way to connect with the Living Force. That should be fun."

Obi-Wan managed to stop his eyes from the roll they so desperately wanted to perform. "Master, have you ever actually smelled Malastarean babyshit?"

Qui-Gon chuckled. "Frequently. Master Yoda somehow got it into his little green head that I must adore babies, as the Living Force was so strong in me. I've spent far more time in the creche than I think you'll ever have to endure."

"My sympathies. What about your schedule?"

"Initiates sabre-training this morning, then I have ... an appointment in the early afternoon."

"Appointment with who?"

"Whom." Qui-Gon stood abruptly, clearing away his breakfast dishes. "Healer Fetra."

Obi-Wan frowned. Healer Fetra was a Soul-Healer. Why would Qui-Gon ... ? He closed his eyes as realization sank in. Today was the anniversary. He'd been so caught up in the bliss of their new relationship, he'd completely forgotten. Although Obi-Wan had only been with him for eight, he knew Qui-Gon had visited a Soul-Healer on this date for the last fifteen years.

He stood, picking up his dishes. Qui-Gon stood motionless in front of the sink, his gaze far away. Obi-Wan set his dishes to one side and slipped his arms around his Master. "You know I love you, don't you?"

Qui-Gon turned in the circle of his arms, pulling him close. "I know."

Obi-Wan rested his head on Qui-Gon's shoulder. "Do you know how much?" he whispered.

"I think so," Qui-Gon said softly, his hands stroking Obi-Wan's back.

"Then let me clear up any doubts you might have." Tightening his arms around his Master's waist, Obi-Wan dropped his shields.

Qui-Gon gasped, sagging back against the ledge of the counter. Obi-Wan went with him, refusing to let go as he flooded his Master's mind with all he possessed.

"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon moaned, then dropped his own shields.

They ended up clasped together tightly, on their knees on the kitchen floor, each man reeling as the other was fully revealed, fully received. Obi-Wan felt something new and vibrant insinuate itself along their training bond, something that sparked hot and vital between them.

When it was over, Obi-Wan reached out a shaking hand to his Master's face, damp with tears. Qui-Gon did the same for him, and only then did he realize his own face was wet.

"We're going to be late," Qui-Gon finally said in a trembling voice.

"Yes," Obi-Wan said dazedly. "Diapers. Babies." He reluctantly pulled away, forcing his legs to lift him. "We really have to work on our timing."

"Agreed." Qui-Gon rose unsteadily, straightening his tunics.

"Can you come back here for noomeal? I don't think I could handle sitting across from you in the dining hall today."

"Yes," Qui-Gon whispered, brushing his lips across Obi-Wan's. He reached out and ran a hand through the spiky hair, smiling. "Yes."

Obi-Wan captured the hand, brought it to his lips. "I love you, Qui-Gon Jinn."

"You are my heart, Obi-Wan Kenobi."

One last smile, then Obi-Wan was on his way out the door, headed for the creche at top speed.

Obi-Wan looked down at the sweetly gurgling . . . thing he had just diapered, hoping desperately he'd managed to swaddle the correct end. He had run through the list of all the non-humanoid species known to him, at least in their adult forms, and hadn't managed to line up this baby's characteristics with any of them.

He turned to ask the Creche Master where they'd found the child and froze, his eyes widening in horror.

One of the toddlers, a Bothan child of no more than two, had evidently grown tired of waiting her turn with the group of Padawans assigned to creche duty that morning and had efficiently removed her own diaper, thank you very much. What made Obi-Wan's blood run cold was the fact that she was vigorously rubbing the soiled cloth over the head of her nearest agemate, a humanoid boy whose expression of revulsion no doubt mirrored Obi-Wan's.

"Oh Force no," he breathed, then the relative peace and quiet was shattered by an ear-splitting howl of outrage from the boy. As if on cue, the entire creche erupted into bedlam, the older toddlers taking inspiration from the Bothan girl and removing their diapers, clean or not. The babies all began screaming and yowling at once, and before Obi-Wan could even think to move, the precious bundle of light he'd just changed wrapped a slick tentacle around his wrist and bit his thumb, hard.

He yelped and jumped, belatedly thinking to send soothing waves of the Force into the infant, who gurgled sweetly again, and relinquished its hold on his wrist. He gathered the baby into his arms, raced it from the changing area to its cradle, then rejoined the chaos, retaining enough of his wits to snatch the little Bothan ringleader up before she could inspire more mayhem.

The Creche Master was nowhere to be seen, and all Obi-Wan had to work with were five frantic Padawans, three at least six years younger than him, the remaining two his agemates. He spotted Ganic, herding a group of toddlers toward the bathing station and felt momentary relief. Where was -- ?

Something warm and soggy struck the back of his neck and he was almost afraid to turn around. The Bothan girl in his arms giggled and clapped her hands delightedly, and he held her out, away from his body and what he was sure must be dripping down his shoulders and back.

He glared over his shoulder, utterly unsurprised to see Bruck Chun's smirking face.

The Creche Master chose that moment to make her too-long-delayed entrance, and it only got worse from there.

Qui-Gon's comlink chirped just as he left the salle, having spent a productive morning with a very promising group of Initiates.

"Jinn," he said crisply, nodding to the Fencing Master as he strode into the corridor.

"Master, I won't be able to have noonmeal with you -- I have to stay and help the Creche Master clean up from the explosion."

Qui-Gon felt resignation and disgust through their training bond, and decided not to ask just yet. "That's fine, Padawan. I'll see you this evening after your classes." He sent a wave of love and reassurance along the bond, clipping the comlink to his belt.

He turned in the direction of the dining hall, disappointed. But perhaps he could catch a meal with Mace or Adi or even his own Master, something he hadn't done in far too long.

He thought about his upcoming appointment with Fetra as he walked, surprised when the idea didn't bring the usual feeling of dread. Perhaps he was finally making peace with what had happened. Or perhaps, he thought, I'm just a silly old man in love, and everything looks brighter because of it, even this.

Laughing quietly to himself, he didn't notice the vivid blue eyes that followed his progress down the corridor.