Chapter Text
At first, Obi-Wan thought nothing of the fatigue. Their previous mission had been long, swampy, and frustrating, and they hadn’t really been given a chance to recover: their pilot had arrived armed with a priority message from the Council, a new assignment from the Senate, and a heading to a neighbouring system.
Obi-Wan had slept for most of the flight, though he’d hoped to study some of the mission background.
“You didn’t wake me?” he’d asked his Master blearily as they debarked.
Qui-Gon merely shrugged. “You were tired,” he said. “Sometimes we must tend to ourselves before we can tend to others, Padawan.”
Qui-Gon reminded him of that often enough, but he, too, looked worn. Obi-Wan was certain Qui-Gon had gone over the mission briefing himself while his Padawan slept. That didn’t seem fair, but it wouldn’t do any good to point that out.
And anyway, he wasn’t in a condition to put up much of a fight: by the time they made it to their lodgings Obi-Wan was feeling lightheaded, and his shoulders ached. He fell asleep the moment his head touched the pillow.
The sore throat he awoke with the next morning was an unwelcome surprise. His limbs felt leaden and his head ached, but Obi-Wan struggled out of bed and into the ‘fresher. Then, because they had a little time before their first meeting with the party leaders and Qui-Gon had already claimed the task of preparing some sort of firstmeal, Obi-Wan folded himself back down on his bed to meditate.
The meditation helped, a little: some of the fatigue dissipated, and the headache moved to the background. Obi-Wan still didn’t eat very much. The local drink had an oddly sharp, green taste—not bad, but overpowering. The food was strangely bland.
Qui-Gon eyed him with some concern. “Are you well, Obi-Wan?”
“Just tired, Master. Nothing to worry about.”
Qui-Gon frowned, and brought a hand up to his brow like he’d done years ago, when Obi-Wan was much younger. Obi-Wan couldn’t help a small smile, warmed by the familiar gesture.
“Maybe a slight fever,” Qui-Gon said. “If it gets worse, tell me.”
So that you can remove me from negotiations and slog through them yourself? Not bloody likely, Obi-Wan thought. Within the safety and privacy of their quarters, Qui-Gon’s shoulders were slightly hunched. The dark circles under his eyes hadn’t improved much overnight.
But Obi-Wan knew better than to argue, and his years as Qui-Gon’s apprentice had taught him not to say I’m sure it’s nothing, so instead he bowed his head. “Yes, Master.”
The city streets were almost overwhelming—noisy, oversaturated with warring scents of goods and people and refuse. Obi-Wan marveled at himself a little: he was a native of Coruscant, after all, and no stranger to the sensory disaster of the Mid-Levels. By any measure, this city couldn’t even hope to compete.
Obi-Wan had learned from his time in Coruscant’s streets, too: he strengthened his shields, which helped him filter out the clamour of the crowd a little, and sort through the sensations. Qui-Gon sent him a curious look, but said nothing.
Obi-Wan had glanced at the basic mission brief after breakfast. By now he was beginning to group missions automatically into loose categories: sentient rights violations by corporations, sentient rights violations by governments, desecration of sacred sites, natural disasters, open conflict, revolutions, coverups, and so on. This one was a rare treat, he thought with heavy irony: sentient rights violation by a corporation, abetted by the government, brought to light by a natural disaster which was—arguably—caused by the desecration of a sacred site.
It was a mess. Protestors milled around the parliament building, some of them throwing distrustful looks at the Jedi or outright snarling. Obi-Wan suppressed a sigh. They were only here as mediators, but already people seemed to have decided that the ambassadors of the Republic would favour the mining company. He supposed that was typical enough.
Just inside, Qui-Gon paused. He rested a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder and squeezed. Years ago he might’ve warned his Padawan that they would not be able to accomplish miracles, or tried to prepare him for the fact that their influence at these negotiations was limited. By now, though, Obi-Wan understood.
“There will be three distinct parties at these negotiations,” Qui-Gon told him instead, in a quiet, measured voice. “Ina Gal represents the Elna settlement—their sacred site was disturbed by what the Bor Mining Group insists was a drilling error. The Elna fought to be allowed in the room, and were ultimately permitted to send Ina—provided she be recognised as a member of the Energy Minister’s team. Then there is the Miners’ Union, the Bor Mining Group’s lawyers, and—naturally—the Energy Minister speaks for the government’s interests.”
Obi-Wan nodded. “That wasn’t in the brief. Actually, the brief said nothing about representation for the Elna.”
“Correct. I would have insisted on it before allowing negotiations to proceed.”
Obi-Wan thought about it, marshaling his sluggish thoughts together. “Hm. It might be more difficult for us to make sure the Elna are heard.”
“Because the Minister has already conceded to her presence, but only as a member of his own team—thus he can control Ina’s message?”
Obi-Wan nodded again.
“An excellent point, Padawan.” The warm hand on his shoulder squeezed again. “We’ll keep an eye on them.”
But from the very start of the negotiations, Obi-Wan had trouble keeping his focus on the moment. The air in the conference room felt stuffy, and full of strange scents. The only comfort Obi-Wan found in his now heightened sensitivity to smells was the ability to single out Qui-Gon’s scent, and focus on it to the exclusion of all others.
Beside him, Qui-Gon subtly shifted closer, until they were almost shoulder to shoulder. He didn’t ask questions, but occasionally Obi-Wan sensed his concern, and the gentle sweep of a Force probe.
During the first recess of the morning, Qui-Gon turned to him with a deep frown. “Obi-Wan?”
“I just feel a bit—off,” Obi-Wan said, not sure how else to explain it. He felt flushed, overwhelmed by too many scents. There was a slight twinge in his core and something that might have been faint nausea stirring in his stomach, but he’d attributed that to the headache. Really, it was nothing—or it would be, as long as he could get himself to focus.
“We have one standard hour,” Qui-Gon said. “That should give us enough time to find a med droid.”
“Master—”
“And if it’s just fatigue, I’m sure we can find a decent restorative tea,” Qui-Gon soothed, rising from his seat.
Obi-Wan shot him a dirty look, but followed his Master to his feet.
No sooner than he’d stepped away from his chair, though, the room went strangely grey. And then dark. He wondered, briefly, who’d turned out the lights.
He came to in what was unmistakably a medical ward, lying on some standard issue mattress—thin, uncomfortable, and covered with scratchy bedclothes. He felt… oddly sore. The headache had receded, but now his stomach ached in an unfamiliar way.
Still, overall it was an improvement. Before, he’d been overwhelmed by so many scents. Now, there was only the sterile recycled air of the med center—and Qui-Gon, sitting beside him.
Obi-Wan’s hand was in his. That was a comfort. He hadn’t been this seriously ill in years. Twenty-three years of age, and he’d so badly misread his body’s signals as to faint in the middle of the first negotiation session.
He could have laughed. Unfortunately, it seemed like Qui-Gon would insist on handling these negotiations on his own after all. Obi-Wan could protest all he liked, but he obviously no longer had a leg to stand on.
“Back with us, young master Jedi?”
Obi-Wan turned his head towards the stranger's voice, and blinked.
She wore a Healer’s uniform—or, at least, Obi-Wan thought the being’s hair was knotted in a way that signified them as being female, in Elna custom.
“H’lo,” he said, or tried to.
“Lovely to see you awake at last,” she said, smiling. “I am Healer Tikal. I don’t like working with unconscious patients as much, not in urgent care situations. But! In your case, I am happy to report that the situation is not dire. It is a late presentation,” she said—brisk and dry.
Obi-Wan didn’t understand. The words made sense, of course. But—secondary gender—no.
It was too late for that. For him.
Wasn’t it?
“What.” Qui-Gon’s voice was flat, and the word dropped like a stone into the pit of Obi-Wan’s stomach.
“Presentation of secondary gender. His first heat,” the Healer clarified. “It is a little late, I suppose, for your subspecies?”
Obi-Wan didn’t say a word. He couldn’t.
“Yes,” Qui-Gon answered for him.
“It may take anywhere from six months to a year for the heats to settle, and initially they may be quite harsh. I am not your primary healer, but I would recommend supervision until such time as your body grows accustomed to this new cycle.”
The Healer looked at Obi-Wan, took in the set expression on his face. “It helps,” she added. “To have someone who can remind you to eat, who knows what foods are least repulsive to you at this time. It helps to have someone familiar and safe around.”
Obi-Wan cleared his throat. “What about suppressants?”
“First, your heats must stabilize. But even afterward—you should be aware that not all Omegas are candidates for suppressants, so additional testing will be necessary.”
Slowly, Obi-Wan nodded. “I see.”
And he did. For another six months to a year he’d likely be Temple-bound, or—at best—he and Qui-Gon would be assigned fairly low-level missions. Then there would be testing, and Force only knew whether he would be able to take the suppressants. As far as he could remember, suppressants were a viable option for only about sixty percent of Omegas.
Perhaps the most damning fact of all: there were very few Knighted Omegas in the Order.
Tikal eyed him for a moment longer, then sighed and stripped off her gloves. “We could keep you here under observation, but I don’t believe it is necessary. Most people prefer to be released into the care of their family and friends, at this point. Unless you would prefer otherwise—?”
Obi-Wan slowly shook his head. He definitely did not relish the idea of sharing his humiliation with strangers.
The Healer turned to his Master. “I take it you do not have—ah—Heat aids on hand?”
“No.”
“We’ll provide a kit,” Tikal said decisively, and left the room.
Qui-Gon sighed, and took Obi-Wan’s hand in both of his. “Padawan? You seem… troubled.”
‘Troubled’ was a word for it. Obi-Wan looked at the warm hands wrapped around his and thought of the look he’d seen on Qui-Gon’s face. Remembered the flat way his Master’s voice had fallen across the room—his utter disbelief at the Healer’s diagnosis.
It was difficult not to think of it as a death knell. All of his Master’s teachings, all those years of training, gone to waste.
“Padawan?”
“Well,” said Obi-Wan, and swallowed down the lump in his throat. “There goes my brilliant and promising career as a Knight of the Jedi Order, I suppose,” he choked out.
Qui-Gon tensed. “No. No, Obi-Wan—look at me.”
His grip on Obi-Wan’s hand tightened, and when Obi-Wan dared to look again his Master’s face was earnest and open.
“Attend to me, Padawan: this change introduces new challenges, but it does not make your Knighthood impossible.”
“Omega Knights are rare in the Order,” Obi-Wan pointed out, “sooner the exception than the rule.”
“And you, Obi-Wan, are exceptional.”
“I—” Obi-Wan stopped. He stared at his Master, wrongfooted.
“You have always dreamed of Knighthood,” Qui-Gon said, “and I gave you my word that I would see you Knighted. I mean to keep that promise.”
For years, Obi-Wan had known that his place was at Qui-Gon’s side. He’d thrown himself into missions alongside his Master, committed himself wholly to learning from him. As a young Padawan, Obi-Wan had been grateful to Qui-Gon for giving him a chance, and had sought ways to offer up that gratitude: making tea, preparing meals, taking notes on mission briefs and adding his own extensive research. More and more, these days, Qui-Gon treated his Padawan as an equal partner on missions.
Any doubts he might have had, that Qui-Gon cared for him or valued their partnership, had been laid to rest years ago—so Obi-Wan thought. And yet, his Master’s words struck deep within him and made his heart soar.
Qui-Gon seemed to take his silence for uncertainty. With a quiet huff, he left the chair and joined Obi-Wan on the bed, urging him close. Obi-Wan acted on instinct, curling into the comfort his Master offered. The same instinct led him to press his face into his Master’s throat, seeking out the comforting scent of a familiar Alpha— teacher, protector, friend. That was an accident; the hand that came up to hold him there, resting easily on the side of his neck, was not.
“Everything you have always wanted, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon whispered. “I will see you through every trial. You are no weaker for this.”
Obi-Wan didn’t quite believe it, not yet. But he believed his Master, and that would always win out.
They took a private shuttle back to their lodgings, for which Obi-Wan was immensely grateful. Even pressed against Qui-Gon’s side, he was still acutely sensitive to the scents of other beings. Qui-Gon wordlessly tucked him closer under his arm, and said nothing when Obi-Wan shamelessly nosed against the base of his throat again.
By the time they made it back to their rooms, Obi-Wan was unsteady on his feet. Qui-Gon steered him in the direction of his room and handed Obi-Wan the ‘Heat kit’ to unpack while he rifled the closets in search of more bed linens.
Obi-Wan sank down onto the bed with a shaky sigh, and tried to clear his head. Tikal had given him something for the nausea, and it did help, but now he was discovering all the other ways in which he was uncomfortable.
Temple courses on reproductive health had decidedly fallen short of reality, Obi-Wan decided.
“Don’t set that on fire, please,” Qui-Gon teased him—from the threshold and around an armful of blankets and pillows, “Healer Tikal was very kind to provide it and I have no idea where to source replacements in this city.”
Obi-Wan had indeed been studying the contents of the kit with a baleful glare. The antipyretics and pain relievers were not a surprise, and neither was the birth control med. There were scent blockers—“for later,” Tikal had said.
There was also a bottle of lubricant that looked very generous in size.
The kit included a toy, as well: a phallus with a fake knot. Obi-Wan eyed it dubiously. “Is it—” necessary?
“It will help.”
Qui-Gon was brisk and businesslike about making preparations, never giving Obi-Wan enough time for embarrassment or anxiety. In the midst of searching for linens, he’d placed an order for a delivery of nonperishable foods. While waiting for the delivery, he packed off his Padawan into the shower.
By the time Obi-Wan came out of the ‘fresher—admittedly, feeling much better, though he hadn’t expected to—the tiny kitchen was fully stocked.
Obi-Wan goggled at the neat shelves. “There’s enough food here to last a week,” he said faintly.
Qui-Gon stepped towards him, almost in time to block Obi-Wan’s view of a heaping bowl of fruit. “I would rather be overprepared, where the matter concerns your health and comfort,” he said, automatically raising his hand to Obi-Wan’s brow.
Unable to help himself, Obi-Wan grinned, and leaned into the touch. “Thank you, my Master.”
Qui-Gon blinked at him, apparently surprised by his reaction, then smiled.
Obi-Wan wanted to say, You worry too much. He wanted to say, I’ll be all right. But he didn’t want to lose Qui-Gon’s touch on his skin. And a part of him had missed this: Qui-Gon taking care of him, keeping him close, making sure he was fed and watered and comfortable. Just the thought of it filled him with a sudden, intense longing.
Dratted hormones, Obi-Wan thought. He didn’t need to be held like a youngling. He just wanted—
“Bed, I think,” Qui-Gon said quietly. The expression on his face was serious now.
All the lightness Obi-Wan had felt a moment ago dried up like a puddle under a hot sun. Qui-Gon would herd him into his room, leave him there, and go back to the negotiations. We are Jedi first, Obi-Wan reminded himself, but it was a small comfort. Qui-Gon would go on to do his duty, and Obi-Wan would not be able to assist him—didn’t even have the usual detailed notes to share with his Master. The reality of it stung.
Qui-Gon, at least, didn’t seem to be in a rush to leave and lock the door behind him. He made a circuit of Obi-Wan’s room, checked the contents of the kit again, plucked one of the soft cushions from the armchair and added it to the stack of linens Obi-Wan wasn’t even sure he needed.
Again, Qui-Gon’s obvious concern warmed Obi-Wan right through. “I’ll be fine,” he said at last.
Qui-Gon started, a little guiltily. “I should have brought more towels. I—did you want to handle this alone?”
Something in his voice gave Obi-Wan pause. It snagged his attention like a nail catching cloth—uncertainty, with a thread of something like guilt.
“I thought,” Obi-Wan said slowly, “that you would continue to attend the negotiations, since there are no other Jedi teams in the area.”
Qui-Gon shook his head. “The Council views this situation as a medical emergency, and will dispatch another team. The local representatives have agreed to a recess until the new team arrives.”
“Medical emergency.” Obi-Wan swallowed down the bitter taste that came with the words. In any case, there was a much more important question he wanted to hear the answer to. “So you’re not… leaving?”
“No.” Qui-Gon hesitated. “Not unless you want me to.”
Relief flooded him in a rush, so fast that Obi-Wan’s knees nearly buckled. Nearly— in a heartbeat, Qui-Gon was with him, supporting him, slipping the loosely tied tunic off his shoulders, encouraging him to get into bed.
He wouldn’t have to do this alone, after all. And Qui-Gon would be the one to see him through it. Obi-Wan couldn’t ask for more. There was no one else he could trust like this.
“Please stay,” Obi-Wan half-whispered.
Beside him, there was a sudden silence. A stillness.
“If you’re sure,” said his Master.
A whimper escaped him. An embarrassing loss of control, Obi-Wan could feel the blush on his face and down to his chest.
“All right,” Qui-Gon whispered.
He was gone for a moment. But then a large, warm presence settled on the bed next to Obi-Wan, and stretched out. Qui-Gon curled his body around him, skin to skin, his arms looped under Obi-Wan’s, his chin hooked over Obi-Wan’s shoulder.
He was held, completely.
Like a signal left imprinted in Obi-Wan’s mind by ancient instincts, the realisation triggered the start of an autonomic reaction: his rapid heartbeat slowed, his breathing evened out.
“Master…”
“Hush, little one,” Qui-Gon rumbled, and his arms tightened. The gentle compression on his ribcage was a welcome relief.
Obi-Wan arched his back up, into his Master’s chest, and purred.
Qui-Gon laughed softly. “Very good, Omega. Try to rest now, Obi-Wan.”
Obi-Wan thought there was no way he would be able to rest. His throat was still sore, and an ache had settled low in his belly, throbbing faintly.
But his Master was with him, holding him, and Obi-Wan felt—safe. Protected. The warmth of Qui-Gon’s body chased away the soreness. Lulled by the gentle rhythm of his Master’s breathing, slowly, Obi-Wan gave in to his exhaustion, and slipped into a peaceful doze.