Hello, my precious readers. I apologise for the lack of updates; although to be fair, there has been so much political and social unrest where I live that I couldn't do much writing over the past month, because what I was protesting for was much more important. And then there's the mountain of work that the new medical school year has piled on me. But you've all been amazing and reviewed and favourited and generally reminded my thick self that I've got a responsibility to writing here too. So thank you all so very much. *bows*

And here we are, the last chapter of Tea and Deathsticks. In which I put as much Daddy!Qui fluff as possible to make up for the lack of it in the past seven chapters.

Replies to guest reviews:

ErinKenobi2893: SO sorry for the long wait. Don't worry, he's going to get all the stuff he needs. Thank you so, so much for sticking with me.

Onwards!

Chapter 8 – Tea that tastes of home

"Well, Obi-Wan. It appears that I shall have to amuse myself with historical conundrums for a while longer. This rain has interfered with the traffic conditions, and last I enquired, the Temple aircar is yet half a quadrant away. I suppose I should maintain the image of a responsible master and ask you not to wait for my return – though you and I both very well know you will wait up anyhow. Force keep you, padawan-mine; I shall return soon as I am able."

Qui-Gon Jinn's soothing chuckle fades into cityscape as Obi-Wan pockets his comlink and squints against the onrush of wind. His hands have long since frozen to the grips of the grav-bike; for some reason, his ability to maintain his core temperature with the Force is faltering. The timestamp on his master's message dates from over an hour prior; there is quite a need to hurry. Dark humour tugs at the corner of Obi-Wan's mouth. It is just as well that his numb fingers are glued to the acceleration bar.

Ten long minutes later, the grav-bike descends into the southern hangar of the Jedi Temple and deposits its single bedraggled passenger onto the smooth duracrete.

The night-shift hangar caretaker approaches. "Ah, good sir, how may I help– Sith-spawned stars, Kenobi!"

Coughing past the burning aftertaste of acid in his throat, Obi-Wan lowers his slime-streaked hood, mutters something similar to "Mind the radiation on that thing," and heads off into the Temple proper with a very firm step indeed, thank you very much.

The corridor seems much longer than he remembers...though come to think of it, he is having quite some trouble formulating any thoughts at all. In the blessedly empty turbolift, he briefly muses over returning to quarters and perhaps cleaning himself up a bit before heading to the healers, but just contemplating the distance of a return trip between Healers' Wing and quarters makes the persistent ache in his lungs grow stronger. It is quite unfair; it appears he shall have to choose between asphyxiating halfway to quarters and entering the devil's den of his own volition.

Hm. Healers it is, then.

The turbolift thuds to a stop on the second-level concourse, and the lift doors open to reveal a dozen fresh-faced younglings patiently waiting to return to the crèche after evening meal.

The Force stretches taut with expectation.

"Don't," he snaps at the foremost crècheling – a truly tiny Twi'Lek whose mouth opens wide in the beginnings of an awed gasp. Obi-Wan winces. This is far too unbecoming a display of impatience for impressionable young members of the Order. But perhaps because he presents far too intimidating an image – all of gloriously filthy cloak and learner's braid, war-buffed lightsaber gleaming at his waist. The youngling's mouth shuts with an audible click.

Obi-Wan steps primly forward past the minute assembly and their wide-eyed crèche master, his face ashen grey and dripping radioactive waste onto the pristine floors as if it is the most natural thing in the world.

The lights in the Healers' Wing are really too bright to be comfortable, but he sallies forth into the heatless flames anyhow.

He does not have the patience to mince words. "I need a course of detox pills," he rasps to the unfortunate padawan on reception duty. "Industrial radiation-grade – and there is absolutely no need to inform the master healers."

The young Iktotchi jedi gapes at him, her cranial horns framing her astonished features in a perfect firework of horrified surprise in the Force. "I...I think you'd better sit over there, Padawan–?"

"Kenobi," he mutters past clenched teeth, putting more weight on the elbow he has resting on the counter. "And I'm not an invalid – just get me the meds and I'll be on my way."

A terribly loud beeping to his right – Obi-Wan swivels, somehow less gracefully than usual, to find another apprentice healer gawping down at the reader clutched in his webbed hand.

"You're maxed out on the radiation sensor!" he squeaks, the gills on his neck flushing pink with panic.

Blast it. Obi-Wan places Force-sensing as yet another ability that seems to be malfunctioning; how had he not sensed the Mon Cal padawan's approach?

Burn it all to Sith-spawned Moriband. He is a senior padawan, and he can order few junior padawans to do whatever he blasted likes.

"Hence the need for detox pills," he grunts, his breath coming shorter now. "Haste would be appreciated. Get to it." Good. That sounded...order-like. Authoritative.

But now the two younger padawans are both speaking at once – their overlapping voices somehow meld together into a starburst of colour behind his eyelids, and then a brighter, sterner Force-presence appears, and Obi-Wan groans past his lurching stomach, because he thought the Force was with him but this is entirely the Force's doing–

"Padawan Kenobi!" Vokara Che's voice somehow manages to form a perfect counterpoint between severe, worried, and exasperated. "What have you been–"

And then the plastiform floor stretches free of its moorings and flies impossibly towards his face, and Obi-Wan barely has time to brace himself because oh Force this is going to hurt–

Through the wide transparisteel windows of the private aircar, Coruscant appears as to be an endless forest of glow-lamps. Qui-Gon lounges against the upholstered seat, the very image of relaxed power; but his eyes are narrowed, and the fingers of one hand drum relentlessly against the synth-weave armrest, a restless rhythm of uneasy impatience.

He raises his head. "How much longer?"

"Another half-hour, at the very least," the Temple pilot replies bracingly. "I've overridden the traffic restrictions as you've asked, but we cannot travel any faster without endangering ourselves. My apologies, Master Jinn."

"No, it's quite all right." Qui-Gon's voice remains calmly pleasant, but should the pilot have glanced over his shoulder, he would have seen a shadow of worry flit over the Jedi's aquiline features.

"Blast it, Obi-Wan," the Jedi master murmurs. The vaguest sense of unsettled worry had plagued him throughout the latter hours of the history conference; he would have set aside time to find its cause had he not been so occupied with diplomacy. Were Obi-Wan present, he no doubt would have laughed heartily at his master's very pronounced bad feeling. Qui-Gon frowns. He had prodded his padawan's side of the training bond, but he had received no more than a muted sense of affirmation and determination; it was as though Obi-Wan had sunk into deep meditation.

Either that, or he has sorely underestimated his padawan's shielding abilities.

And then, over an hour ago, the uneasiness had shrank, like a star collapsing into itself; and then it exploded outwards in a supernova of reeling fear, laced with a venom of dread that turned Qui-Gon's stomach. It had been all he could do to keep a somewhat strained smile on his face and complete the last of the required farewells before his departure from the conference.

Fortunately, the Temple pilot was too well trained to voice any questions when Qui-Gon practically vaulted into the passenger seat and promptly ordered him to ignore all traffic regulations and return them to the temple as the hawkbat flies.

And now, as Qui-Gon tugs on the bond yet again – there is almost nothing on the other end. It is as though he stands on one side of a well-worn bridge and peers at the other side, only to find the opposite bank swathed in mist.

Fear is not an emotion Jedi should indulge in. He closes his eyes and seeks the solace of the Force. But wandering in the wild of the Force's embrace only emphasises the yawning unknown of the encroaching mist, and Qui-Gon finds himself wrenching free of its tendrils, surfacing into reality again with his nausea multiplied tenfold. The fact it is not truly his nausea that he feels only amplifies his dread.

And then there is nothing he can accomplish, save to wait.

He dreams of tea.

Tea from Alderaan, brewed from mountain air; tea from Dantooine, fresh and mellow as the wild grasslands; Tea laced with Chandrillan honey, served in a cup so fragile that the liquid seems precious as molten gold; Tea of Mandalore, refined and delicate and full of history; Tea from Naboo, tasting of swamp and sea and river, and an unknown bitterness that resonates in the Unifying Force. Tea from Stewjon, that to him has forever tasted of memory, though he does not understand why.

Tea steeped by Qui-Gon and served in two plain ceramic bowls – from any planet, any world, any galaxy, even – but it always tastes of home.

He smiles faintly, and slumbers on.

Waking is strange; there is a sensation of warmth on his skin, but his throat and chest seems frozen. He draws in one slow breath, and then another, as slow and careful as a coming and receding tide. Curiously, the cool breeze on his face does not cease even when he exhales; there is a cold stream of air passing from mouth and nose down the back of his throat, pooling in his lungs like glacial water, clean and pure. It almost tastes sweet after the acidic aftertaste of toxic fumes. Opening his eyes takes an eternity and a herculean effort, but eventually he finds himself blinking slowly at a white expanse of sheets, and the softer white light of the glow-lamps embedded in the wall.

He discovers that turning his head to face the other way would take strength beyond his capabilities, so he closes his eyes again and seeks to expand his awareness.

It is somewhat embarrassing when he realises that a hand has been resting in his spiky hair for some time, and that the long fingers are rustling through the newly clean locks, lulling him back towards sleep...

The hand pauses in its motions. "Padawan."

He struggles out of the tempting embrace of slumber, because that voice is important, and he should reply to it with a title of some sort. But then rubber edges dig into his face when he opens his mouth to speak, and he grimaces. He abhors oxygen masks; they are really no different from muzzles–

"Obi-Wan." There is the faintest pulse of humour, somewhere far away in the echoing wastes of the Force.

Obi-Wan. Two syllables that mean self.

A shifting of coarse tunics and cloak, and then Qui-Gon appears at the periphery of his vision. Obi-Wan manages a weak smile that slips slightly when he tries unsucessfully to focus on his master's face.

The Jedi master's leonine features are unreadable, but his there is something of amusement in his voice when he murmurs, "Well, young one, when I left this morning you were in superb health; care to explain how I returned to find an invalid?"

Obi-Wan tries to reply; he really does. But his tongue is heavy in his mouth, and he tries to burrow into himself in shame – because he is not supposed to try. There is only do or do not – success or failure.

"It was a rhetorical question, young one." The words come out quicker than normal, as though Qui-Gon is somehow regretful. Obi-wan frowns past his mask, because that does not make sense at all, but then a calloused thumb touches his knuckles, brushing across them gently, and he is distracted enough by the sudden contact that his thread of thought flies into the Force, never to be seen again.

Obi-Wan closes his eyes. The glow-lamps are awfully bright.

Qui-Gon speaks again, his voice light. "Would you like me to tell you what has transpired since you fainted," – and there is a subtle jest here, but Obi-Wan cannot respond as he wants and it is really quite annoying – "or do you wish to wait for Master Che to come and inform you herself?"

What a stupid question, Obi-Wan grumbles to himself. The former, of course.

The hand in his hair moves down to his ear and tweaks it gently, as if in reprimand, and though Obi-wan cannot speak, his mind responds with an automatic and silent Yes Master, sorry Master.

Qui-Gon's laugh cascades through Obi-Wan's awareness like sunlight through the mist. "You forget that your shields are entirely lowered, padawan."

Oh. Well. That isn't his fault; not really.

"You've been put through the entirety of the detox procedure," Qui-Gon continues. His hand still grasps Obi-Wan's fingers; his thumb runs over the younger knuckles in slow, infinite circles. "You will be glad to know that the painful part of the procedure is over; you've been scrubbed within an inch of your life, so I'm told. It seems that wherever you were, you at least had the good sense to use your rebreather – inhaling radioactive substances is far worse than simply walking among them."

The words fall like echoing crystals into Obi-Wan's mind, each well-defined but somehow melding into a pattern that cannot be observed as a whole. Meaning becomes a vague intuition, nothing more.

However–

There is something of memory in this moment; of the fingers in his hair and on his palm, of a fresh-faced young padawan seeking the steady anchor of his master's presence. Obi-Wan groans. How is he supposed to rest in the present moment if the present involves the past?

"And Master Che has seen to it that you were sedated, as I'm sure you're aware – or perhaps not," Qui-Gon chuckles. "There are quite a cocktail of meds in your system. I'm afraid it will be at least three days before you are released from captivity."

Three days? That is much too long when time flows so sluggishly as it does now.

"Tell me of your adventures when you are more focused," Qui-Gon invites. "It should also prove an opportunity for you to explain why I found fragments of porcelain in the 'cycler when I returned to quarters, and why the scent of fine tea clings to the floorboards in the kitchen."

Oh. Drat.

"I suppose it had something to do with this." Qui-Gon raises a wax jar for his padawan to inspect. With a shock akin to a fist to the gut, Obi-Wan realises the container's seal is already broken; sickening despair worms into his veins.

"Padawan."

The word stills him; he subsides with a bowed head.

"I confess, padawan-mine, that I am disappointed."

Horror and shame sends cold fire lancing into Obi-Wan's limbs; he raises his head, suddenly able to focus after so long wandering in half-awareness.

Qui-Gon's smile is gently jesting. "I rather thought you would not mind that I sampled the tea before you could open it yourself. Are you quite so attached to this very fine blend of Noorian Blossom Sapir that you would begrudge your master his enjoyment of it?"

Bewilderment prevents Obi-Wan's understanding for a long moment. Only when Qui-Gon's smirk widens to a full-fledged grin does Obi-Wan breathe again, and begin to smile. He falls back against the pillows, suddenly exhausted with relief.

"My apologies, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon chuckles. "I should not have done it, no matter how tempting the jest."

A short pause, and the Jedi master speaks again.

"Noorian Blossom Sapir."

It is something wonderful, Obi-Wan muses, that three words can carry so much memory and joy and sorrow all at once. The thought gives him enough breath to speak. At the twitch of his padawan's fingers, Qui-Gon shifts the oxygen mask to one side and leans over to hear the hoarse words.

"I spil' it," Obi-Wan slurs. "All ov'r the kitchen. M'sorry, so went t'get more." He knows it is not the best of explanations, but he is so blasted tired, and the effort of speaking has set the world tilting dangerously again.

Qui-Gon's gentle Force-probe slips under his young charge's fragile shields, conjures up the scattered lights of the access tunnel, the burning aftertaste of acid rain and the rustle of creatures at the end of the world. The Force-probe is withdrawn, and the plastiweave chair creaks as Qui-Gon settles his weight further into it.

The silence drags on for a long, long while; Qui-Gon appears sink into contemplation. Obi-Wan fights the temptation to slip back into his dreams. Warm, calloused hands replace the oxygen mask over his face, and the rush of clean air is nearly enough to send him over the edge and into the endless gulf of the Force again.

And finally, a murmured, "Sleep, Padawan." And there is something new in those two words: pride and exasperation, or humour and gratitude, or perhaps–

–a hidden sleep suggestion.

Drugged to the gills he may be, but Obi-Wan is not pleased in the slightest with this new development. He cannot afford to fall asleep now – not when he has not even had a chance to apologise for his many failings.

A thumb on his brow, and a chuckle. "You are forgiven for the spilt tea, little one – and you have more than made amends, by what I see."

Little one. A nickname from his younger days.

Obi-Wan smiles minutely and falls into the waiting embrace of slumber.

Qui-Gon watches his apprentice sleep for a long moment before rising from his chair and crossing over to the sideboard. His fingers trace the edge of the tea-canister and come away scented with the fragrance of Noorian Blossoms.

"Blast it, Obi-Wan," he murmurs. "Do not endanger yourself so - you forget you are much more precious to me than a memory ever could be."

Not a soul could possibly have heard him; Obi-Wan's Force-signature is muted in the exhausted slumber of those yet to heal, and the corridor outside is empty.

Qui-Gon commits the secret to the Force for keeping, and departs with the jar of tea tucked under his cloak.

"Ugh, Master. That's sore."

"If you are feeling too fragile, my very young padawan, we could always return to the healers."

"No, thank you," Obi-Wan retorts as he massages his aching knee and glares at the offending corner of the coffee table.

Qui-Gon turns to close the door to their quarters, but not before he casts a critical eye over the young Jedi slouched against the sofa. "Hm," he comments to himself.

Obi-Wan is instantly alert. "What is it?"

"Perhaps it would be best if we returned to the healers; you are doing a splendid job of imitating a boneless duracrete slug."

The aforementioned boneless duracrete slug peels himself off the cushions with difficulty. "They said I would be tired for a few days longer, Master."

Qui-Gon watches his padawan flop indolently supine, and raises an eyebrow. "I'll make tea."

"A splendid idea," the tuft of golden-brown hair protruding from the mess of cloak and blankets mutters. But there is a trace of genuine happiness in those muffled words, and Qui-Gon does not miss it.

Obi-Wan does not emerge from his cocoon when Qui-Gon sets a delicate porcelain tray on the low table, or when the older Jedi begins the first steps of the simplest of tea ceremonies.

Sunset turns the towers of Coruscant into a many-jeweled sundial, sending columns of gold and evening blue wheeling over the two Jedi, until they too become markings on the sundial of the Force, their long, silhouetted shadow-edges resting on the hour lines of wisdom and tradition.

"Obi-Wan."

At the call, Obi-Wan shakes himself out of his light doze and straightens, blinking, to the sweet scent of Noorian blossoms. Qui-Gon smiles mildly and hands him a warm curve of ceramic, and Obi-Wan accepts, inclining his head as he was taught to do, years before on the first day of his apprenticeship. Qui-Gon settles back on the opposite couch with his own serving.

Obi-Wan brings the tea to his lips; the cup tastes of the earth it is fired from, and the tea of Noori. They sip at their in companionable silence, content to watch the silvery coils of steam and to rest in the warmth of sunset.

Qui-Gon sighs appreciatively. "This is quite a tea," he remarks. "This is true Noorian Blossom Sapir, then."

"You shouldn't be surprised, Master," Obi-Wan grins. "It came from a rather unique source."

"Ah, yes." Qui-Gon sets down his teacup. "As you are well enough to have returned to quarters, I see nothing hindering me from receiving a proper retelling of your adventures."

"Well, Master, I–"

The tall Jedi cuts him off with a single glance. "I'm very much looking forward to your explanation of a few things in particular." He reaches within his cloak. "How you came by these, for example."

Obi-Wan gapes at the small fan of deathsticks resting on Qui-Gon's broad palm.

"I nicked them off a three-year old Balosar," he blurts.

Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow.

"I did," Obi-Wan retorts. "I didn't take any, if you were wondering. And I'll tell you everything, though it may take quite a while."

"Well, we have a ways yet to finishing this pot of tea," Qui-Gon comments blandly, though as he raises his cup to take another sip, Obi-Wan catches the edge of Qui-Gon's smile, hidden behind the ceramic rim. "But most importantly –did you learn anything from this, Padawan?"

"Yes. The Force leads you whither it wishes, there is wisdom and beauty in the most unexpected of places, and..."

"Padawan?"

Obi-Wan grins. "Tea is universal."

Qui-Gon barks a laugh. "Very well, you have my full and undivided attention as of now."

"I'll get the story underway, then. But Master..."

"Yes, Padawan?"

"After I tell my tale...I would be honoured if you could come with me to the place where I found this tea. There's someone I'm sure you would like to meet."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan grins. "He's very much like you."

FINIS

And that's it! Tea is universal! Thank you all for your patience in following me in this indulgence of my love for tea. I shall update The Silent Song soon as I can, if study allows. Your reviews are all appreciated, and thanks for reading!