A/N: Here we have the last chapter! Alternate names for this chapter include How much can Qui-Gon troll, Spice is Nice, and The One With The Plot. You'll understand when you read the chapter.

Chapter 3: Muja-flavoured Spice

"Welcome, kid. You'll be wanting some for your parents over there, too?"

It is a perfectly normal question, stated by a perfectly friendly shopkeeper, about a perfectly innocuous subject: Ice cream.

Obi-Wan forgets how to think.

The shopkeeper is still smiling down at him in a grandfatherly sort of way, probably taking the Obi-Wan's blank expression as shyness, and not blind panic.

Obi-Wan's brain approaches this new problem in a completely logical and utterly automatic train of thought.

Parent (noun): Father or Mother. Units of a family. Responsible for the care of their children.

Family (noun): A basic social unit consisting of parents and their children.

What does that mean, then?

Junior padawans are simply not equipped for this.

As the scientific, literal part of his brain seems to offer no means of escape, Obi-Wan allows the social-diplomat part to take over instead. He points at a tub of Muja-flavoured ice cream and holds up three fingers.

The shopkeeper grins widely, headtails undulating as he reaches for a scoop. "Good kid. Your parents'll love it. Will that be in cones or in cups?"

Obi-Wan takes a wild guess as to what that means and points at a triangular biscuit-like object with an even, checkered surface.

"Cones are a credit extra each. That alright with you?"

Obi-Wan nods, and watches with fascination as the shopkeeper deftly scrapes a shallow scoop across the surface of the tub, peeling up rich layers pale pink…stuff. The resulting large spheres are pressed into the 3-dimensional biscuit holders, and placed in a paper rack.

"That will be twenty-one credits, thank you."

The credit chip is handed over. There is a bright, cheery beep as the shopkeeper scans it.

There is a pause. The shopkeeper's eyes widen.

Obi-Wan quells his impulse to fidget. His mind flips madly. Is the chip dysfunctional? Are there not enough credits?

The shopkeeper holds out the credit-chip as though it is something fragile. His headtails are twitching as Obi-Wan accepts it.

"That's quite a tidy sum you've got there," the Twi'Lek says, oddly. "You don't…I mean, I didn't think, because of the way you're dressed. Are you royalty or something?"

Obi-Wan starts, shaking his head emphatically.

The shopkeeper suddenly blinks, as if catching himself. "Sorry," he mutters. "None of my business." His smile returns as he hands Obi-Wan the paper rack of cones. "You'd better take that to your parents before it melts."

Obi-Wan inclines his head and carefully balances the rack in his hands as he navigates his way back to Qui-Gon and Tahl.

Both Jedi masters seem to have picked up the uncertainty around his Force-signature. He is met with inquisitive glances.

"Thank you, Obi-Wan," Tahl says as she accepts his offering.

"Thank you, padawan." Qui-Gon easily takes both cone and credit-chip. Obi-Wan watches as his master stows the chip away in his boot. His boot.

A tidy sum of money, the shopkeeper had said. Given that…the chip most likely contains their entire mission fund for the next year.

That chip is now wedged between Qui-Gon's stocking and boot.

Sometimes Qui-Gon Jinn does things that Obi-Wan cannot fathom.

But their ice creams are melting, so Obi-Wan chooses to ignore the masters' questioning expressions behind a veil of curiosity over his serving of ice cream. The first bite sends frozen lightning up his jaw, and he clenches his eyes shut against a sudden ache behind them. It is like the front of his brain has frozen over.

Strangely enough, that does not discourage him from continuing to sample it. The blazing afternoon sun soon necessitates frantic efforts to consume the small, cold mountain before it collapses in the heat.

Obi-Wan soon finds himself with a pleasantly cooled stomach, staring at empty, sticky hands.

Qui-Gon and Tahl have somehow escaped such indignities, so he goes down to the water to rinse his hands alone.

The cool breakers have barely washed over his palms before a sudden voice breaks into a whisper behind him.

"Hey, kid, looking for some spice?"

Hands dripping water, Obi-Wan twists around in his crouch to find three teen boys of different species, grinning down at him from the half-circle in which they have trapped him in.

Obi-Wan is about to reach to his belt for his flimsy in order to reply that no, thank you, I have already had a very-well flavoured lunch – and then he spots the plastifilm-wrapped packet in one of the older boys' hands.

Oh. Not that spice. The other spice.

He channels what he knows of the behaviour of a truant youth – which is admittedly not much – and shakes his head, smiling in a cocksure but non-challenging manner. Or so he hopes.

"Hey, no worries. Tell us if you have any friends who are interested, yeah?"

Obi-Wan nods easily as he straightens, and one of them claps him on the shoulder good-naturedly before sidling off to the next promising-looking buyer.

The waves wash over Obi-Wan's feet, leaving them alternately warm and cold as he watches them zero in on a girl a little younger than Obi-Wan. A few moments later, she folds something into her tunic and one of the boys puts something else in his pocket. They stay there for a moment, talking and laughing, before the group breaks up and the three boys go elsewhere.

It continues, and looks to all the world like youths socializing.

Hm. Spice dealers. And dealing to younger teens, no less.

"Padawan."

Obi-Wan nearly slips down into the wet sand at the rumble of his master's voice. He rights himself hastily, ears burning.

Qui-Gon gives him a perceptive look.

Obi-Wan scribbles a line onto his flimsy, thrusts it into Qui-Gon's hands, and points in the direction of the three spice dealers.

The tall Jedi master peruses the flimsy for a moment, glances at the dealers, and then back at Obi-Wan again. His lips curve in what can only be described as a smirk.

Obi-Wan feels a thrill of anticipation. The Jinn-smirk is rarely seen, except when Qui-Gon has an idea. Not just any idea, but one that probably violates a dozen Order mission procedures.

"Come," Qui-Gon says, climbing back up the beach towards their little spot.

Tahl seems not at all surprised when her counterpart launches into his plan without even an introductory explanation. She returns Qui-Gon's smile with a barely-suppressed grin of her own, clarifies her role in the process, and begins packing up their belongings.

"Obi-Wan."

Obi-Wan trots after his master as Tahl hefts The Pot onto her hip and carries it in the opposite direction, back towards their airspeeder.

Qui-Gon's long legs eat up the distance to the line of tourist shops halfway down the beach. It does not seem to matter that he is barefoot, dressed sloppily in half-damp inner tunics and untucked standard-issue trousers; he walks with confidence and purpose.

They stop by a stall covered from floor to ceiling in eye-wateringly bright tourist clothing. The Dressellian shopkeeper stares at them as they approach.

"Hello," Qui-Gon says, drawing his lightsaber out of his sleeve and placing it on the counter. "We need to borrow a few things, if you don't mind."

The Dressellian's bulbous eyes widen. "Master Jedi!" he exclaims, still staring at Qui-Gon's lightsaber. His eyes slide to Obi-Wan and rest on the braid behind his ear.

Qui-Gon motions for silence. "Covert mission. I'm sure you understand."

"Of…of course! Help yourselves, I'll just– uh…take a break." The shopkeeper scurries off, pulling down the shutters of the shopfront as he goes.

In the slatted half-light, Qui-Gon turns towards the walls, the glint in his eyes only visible when the bars of dusty light flick across them. He taps a finger against his lips contemplatively, and then reaches for something on the wall.

"This will do for you, I should think."

Obi-Wan gapes at the item of clothing presented to him.

A lurid orange, short-sleeved shirt, made of material so thin the gaudy dye is clearly visible. There are vague, comical pictures of thranctills painted in bright purple over the whole thing, from collar to buttoned edges.

"Quite glaring, I agree," Qui-Gon says cheerfully, pulling his catatonic apprentice's arms through the sleeves. "But that's the point."

Obi-Wan stands, frozen, as Qui-Gon selects a neon-green shirt painted with vivid leaves of yellow and blue, and the words SPICE IS NICE! plastered across the buttoned front. The Jedi master pulls it on eagerly, creasing the collar just so. That done, he rolls up his trouser-legs to just below his knees, and does the same to Obi-Wan's.

Qui-Gon looks down at himself and then at Obi-Wan, makes an impatient noise, and opens a glass-fronted cabinet. The next moment, Obi-Wan blinks as something is slid onto his face.

"These are called aviators," Qui-Gon says. He smushes a hat onto Obi-Wan's head. "And this is a bucket-hat. Don't ask."

Obi-Wan stares as his master shakes out a pair of aviators for himself, too. A quick search of the counter drawers reveals a pack of stiklii gum. Qui-Gon crams a stick into his mouth and gives one to Obi-Wan, too.

Qui-Gon gives the both of them one more critical glance, and seems to be satisfied with the result. He pulls his apprentice towards the full-length mirror in the corner.

"Perfect," Qui-Gon grins.

Obi-Wan gawks at the two figures in the mirror. The orange of his shirt clashes beautifully with the green of Qui-Gon's. They stare at themselves from behind the wide, tinted lenses of their sunglasses. The bucket-hat is every bit as horrendous as it sounded, though it does hide his padawan braid.

"You forget they have already talked to you," Qui-Gon chides when he notices Obi-Wan's frown. "You must not be recognised as anything but a clueless tourist."

Qui-Gon bundles their inner tunics into a corner and tugs him outside. Obi-Wan follows automatically, as though he is dreaming.

The three spice-dealers are still there, working their trade.

Qui-Gon saunters up to them, chewing noisily. Obi-Wan attempts to imitate his master's easy amble, and hopes it does not look too fake.

"Hey, there," Qui-Gon says, pitching his voice to a mid-rim drawl. "We're a bit lost, I'm afraid. Do you mind giving us some directions?"

"Not at all," one of the dealers replies easily, though the wariness in his expression rather betrays him.

"Which way to the tourist information centre?" Qui-Gon punctuates each word with a jaw-cracking snap of stiklii gum.

The dealers relax under the general air of laid-back cluelessness Qui-Gon exudes. As they point out directions, Obi-Wan ambles pointlessly behind them, as though bored.

A well-faked trip, and Obi-Wan falls heavily against one of the spice-dealers. Credits spill out of the young Nautolan's pockets as they both hit the sand.

"Hey!" the dealer shouts. "Watch it, kid!"

"That's an awful lot of money you got there," Qui-Gon comments.

"We run one of the stalls over th-oomph!"

The latter half of that sentence is lost as Obi-Wan, in the pretense of trying to get up, careers helplessly into the speaker and knocks him into the dunes, too.

Plastifilm packets cascade onto the sand. A few crack open, releasing the unmistakable stink of low-grade Spice into the midsummer air.

The five of them stare at the pile for a moment.

"You must sell some very special merchandise at that stall of yours," Qui-Gon says off-handedly.

Obi-Wan discovers he is now the recipient of three sets of murderous glares. He rises and takes this opportunity to raise his aviators just a little, grinning at the three teens in a sheepish you-told-me-to-bring-you-people way.

"You!" One of them shouts. "You wouldn't buy!"

A crystalline laugh rings through the air.

All five males turn in place, and are met with a sight both beautiful and terrifying.

Tahl Uvain advances towards them, clad in full Jedi regalia. Her boots impact the sand soundlessly, but the pennant of her cloak sweeps over the dunes behind like a darkened storm-front. Her eyes are pools of green-gold fire above a wicked smile.

The three spice-dealers stare at her face for a moment, and then all zero in like flies at a bug-zapper to the lightsaber at her belt. Immediately, they turn pale.

"Thank you for spelling that out so nicely," Tahl says, flicking off her comm-recorder. "I had you on possession and possible business without a license, but then you went and admitted to dealing to underage sentients, too! It'll make everything so much more efficient."

One of the dealers breaks free of his reverie and attempts to run. He gets exactly two paces in before running into six feet of neon-green shirted Jedi master.

The other two seem to finally understand what has happened, and begin to whimper.

Tahl beams at Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan. "My boys," she says happily, "That was fun. Let's do that again."

Obi-Wan looks between the two older Jedi, amused.

Tahl's voice breaks him out of it again. "But what in the stars do you have on your head, Obi-Wan?"

The journey back to the Temple is tranquil, the silence of contentment filling the little speeder.

Obi-Wan leans back against the plush seat, The Pot secure in the seat beside him. Qui-Gon pilots from the front, aviators clashing incongruously with his Jedi tunics. Tahl has slid down in the front passenger seat, her hair spread out to dry on the wide headrest as she props her boots up on the dashboard before her.

The sun is setting on the Western Sea to their left, and everything is gloriously warm. The colossal sundial of Coruscant's towers sends massive bars of alternating gold and shadow lancing across the airspace.

Obi-Wan slides a pair of aviators over his eyes and wraps his cloak firmly around himself. He senses Qui-Gon twist around to check on him, but he has already surrendered his hold on the world and dropped into sleep.

The last sunlight of midsummer's day slips below the horizon as the Jedi turn away from the shore and ride the air currents home.

FINIS

Thank you all for reading. I hope you had as much fun reading this as I did writing it, because writing something lighthearted and meaningless was a really good break. Thank you, especially to those who reviewed! I'm flying two days after I post this, but I'll have time to write some of The Silent Song while I'm on holiday.

Once again, for those who missed it, I've changed my tumblr to eirianerisdar tumblr com (replace spaces with dots) so if you're still following my old url, change over. I've posted a couple shorter oneshots there already.

Love you all. 3