The Code In The Stars

by Teaandyogurt

Summary:

When a routine mission goes wrong, Padawans Qui-Gon Jinn and Tholme find themselves stranded aboard a failing shuttle with an unconscious Dooku. As oxygen dwindles and hope fades, the two must navigate not only the mechanical challenges of survival but also their own clashing personalities.

While Qui-Gon struggles to follow the will of the Force, Tholme counters with stubborn pragmatism. Together, will they find strength in each other’s resilience and vulnerability, or just make things a whole lot worse?

Notes:

So this is linked to You Can't Judge a Kiffar By his Cover. Either way, the moment I wrote that final chapter, I knew I had to write this.

So, here we GO

Chapter 1: A Sight for Sore Padawan Eyes

Summary:

Our hero's encounter trouble!

Padawan Tholme stood with his arms folded over his chest, his Jedi cloak pulled up over his dark hair, and a lit cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth as a deliberate disregard for decorum. He’d been sent investigate an occurrence on Chibbier, and although this wasn’t his first solo mission, he’d be told this one was important. And what had he done? Oh, yes, he crashed his shuttle.

And by the way, he was completely, and utterly, fucked.

Tholme sensed a familiar Force Signature approaching his position, and he quickly pulled the cigarette from his lips, extinguishing it against his palm with a hiss as he took in the sight of the Jedi Master.  His hair was slicked back, and he wore his usual smirk as he sauntered over as though he owned every tree on this seedy little forest world, before lowering his head in acknowledgement. “Padawan Tholme, it is pleasant to see you again. I see you are still engaging in your virulent smoking habits.”

“I wouldn’t call it a habit, Master, more, a, uh, imbecilic quirk.”  At that moment, Dooku’s smirk only grew.

With a flick of his fingers, the cigarette floated up from Tholme’s hand and disintegrated in in-flight, leaving only a faint wisp of smoke. “How self-aware of you. Perhaps that is the first step toward wisdom.”

Well, with that problem evidently solved, Dooku shifted positions, adjusting his cloak. “Yoda informed me you were in need of some assistance. Is this true?”

Tholme scratched his head, hiding his eyes behind his wrist, “It seems I had some unanticipated complications when it came to landing the shuttle.”

Before Dooku had the chance to call Bantha piss on that excuse, they both heard sing song shouting coming from a veranda above them, leaving Tholme to beg and plead for the Force to strike him down. The two human girls that had taken him in, had apparently chosen Right Now to lean out of their door, to issue their Very Fond goodbyes. And look at that, of course the brunette was wearing only his undershirt.

He didn’t really have time to gage how bad this looked—especially as it wasn’t as bad as it looked—but the irritation in Dooku’s glare told him all he needed to know.

“It’s not…I didn’t, uh. I wasn’t here just because I was enjoying the company of the local resident’s master. Not that I’m saying their company wasn’t enjoyable, but I mean to say I—”

“Would you like me to find you a shovel, Tholme? I believe you will be able to dig yourself in to trouble a little faster.” 

“—I found them to be very helpful during the investigation,” Tholme babbled sheepishly.

Really, he had nothing to be ashamed of here, he was merely doing his duty to the Republic, by forming proactive relationships with the wider community.

Kind of. 

Dooku, however, being the experienced Jedi Master he was, obviously wasn’t buying a word of it. “Were they now?” he asked, in that condescending tone that often squashed Padawan’s spirits into the ground. “Then am I to assume that your informants were hospitable, and you properly expressed your gratitude in a way you’d be willing to write in a report?”

Dooku was giving him an out, a way to redeem himself after his own verbal idiocy, but alas, Tholme had never had an ability to keep his smart mouth in check, so of course he blurted, “Probably not.” A snicker escaped his lips before he could stop it, and he pressed a single finger to his mouth.

Time to shut up, Tholme.

Dooku motioned behind him, evidently choosing to ignore the comment—or maybe he was just planning on disciplining him later, who could tell? “In that case, you better bid farewell to your friends. Qui-Gon is onboard, we must not keep him waiting.”

Tholme wondered if it was too late to make up an excuse to stay. Surely there had to be someone else to come and extract him from Chibbier? Literally, anyone else.

The thing was, Jinn and Tholme weren’t so different in age, both eighteen and on the cusp of knighthood, and they’d spent a fair amount of time together since their youngling days. But Qui-Gon definitely wasn’t Tholme’s biggest fan, nor had he been since he wiped all the research off his data pads and replaced it with erotic fiction instead. It was just a joke, but Qui-Gon saw it as a declaration of war.   

And, of course, Tholme had been hiding from him since.

By the time Tholme boarded the ship, Dooku had disappeared to the cockpit, leaving him to wander the corridors. He eventually found Qui-Gon meditating in the common space, seated cross-legged on the floor. The older Padawan’s serenity was palpable, but it vanished the instant he opened his piercing blue eyes to find Tholme leaning nonchalantly in the doorway.

“Hello, Qui,” Tholme drawled. “Miss me?”

Qui-Gon’s expression tightened. Perhaps this was a new record for him, thirty seconds in his presence and Jinn was already pissed. ”I hear you managed to crash your shuttle. I assume, based on the wreckage I saw outside the village, that it’s beyond repair?” “Don’t believe everything you hear, Jinn. I mean, I heard Tahl smashed a senator beyond repair, so…” Tholme hesitated, feigning innocence. “Unless that was true?”

Alright, make that thirty seconds and really pissed.

“If that is the case, then I wish her the best. Tahl and I are friends; if you require the reminder, anything more violates the Jedi code.” Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow, his grin the epitome of and fuck you too. ”Which reminds me, how is Master Saa? Or are you still trying to find ways to get her to notice you?”

“Well, I’m hoping to pull the sympathy card from this shuttle crash. I could have joined the Force, you know.”

Qui-Gon didn’t dignify the remark with a response, choosing instead to close his eyes and return to his meditation. Tholme, undeterred, plopped into a nearby seat, his boots squeaking against the armrest—a deliberate irritation.

Dooku entered the room moments later, his presence commanding immediate attention. “Are you ready to depart?” he asked, his voice clipped.

“Ready as I’ll ever be, Master,” Tholme said with exaggerated cheer, punctuating his words with another squeak of his boots.

Dooku’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, then shifted to Qui-Gon. “Perhaps you could assist me with takeoff. I understand you prefer not to be disturbed while meditating.”

Qui-Gon’s irritation finally broke through. “Meditating or not, Master, I’d prefer not to endure his presence at all. Are you sure we can’t leave him here?”

Dooku’s expression was utterly serene, but his tone carried the faintest trace of amusement. “Let us be charitable, Qui-Gon Jinn. It would hardly be fair to the residents of Chibbier.”

Qui-Gon laughed as Tholme followed Dooku out of the room, rolling his eyes to himself, even though he did think that was pretty funny considering. As he reached the door, he turned his head to grin. “Looks like you’re stuck with me Qui, it seems it’s the will of the Force and all.”

The last thing Tholme saw as he entered the cockpit, was Qui-Gon’s middle finger.

Meh. He’d warm to him eventually.

**

Thankfully, the take-off was relatively smooth, even with the I-rarely-pilot Jedi Master at the controls who no doubt was not letting the I-just-crashed padawan anywhere near them.

A wise move, really.

Tholme was just thankful to be leaving the humiliation of Chibbier behind once and for all, although he did have to prepare to explain to his own Master why they were not only missing a ship, but also a portion of the intel, most of his equipment, and of course, his undershirt.

He could say he lost control of the shuttle in an unexpected storm. That he was violently mugged by a band of (very lost) Jawa’s. He gave up his clothing to an innkeeper who was cold one night because that is what Jedi do, or whatever. Well, he had a little time to come up with a creative version of the events, and that’s all that mattered to him. Although he wasn’t quite sure why his heart chose that moment to beat violently in his chest, because it wasn’t the worst situation he’d ever gotten himself into really. Perhaps he was nervous he’d failed his mission, or the fact that he could feel Qui-Gon simmering in the common space like a pan of overboiled Twi’leki rice.

As if reading his anxiety, Dooku’s sharp gaze flicked to him. “Are you well, Padawan?”

“I am just looking forward to clearing the system, Master.” Tholme sat back on his chair, tucking one of his legs up on to the seat and hugging his arms around his boot timorously. “How long do you think it’s going to take to get back to Coruscant?”

“Is there somewhere you’re required to be?”  he asked, but there was a glimmer of humour in his expression. “I would estimate twenty-four standard hours, should all go as planned. I expect you and Qui-Gon will remain civil in the meantime? I am aware you have encountered your differences.”

Aka—don’t touch his shit, I can’t, and won’t, protect you.

Tholme held back a smile. “You have my word, Master,” he assured him.

Dooku made a noise that almost sounded like amusement. “We will be clear to jump to hyperspace within the hour. You are, of course, more than welcome to find something more entertaining for your curious mind to do in the meantime.”

Obviously Tholme didn’t need to be told twice, and he bowed his head as he left before heading back into the common space in search of some much-needed nourishment.

Inside the brightly lit room, Qui-Gon was no longer meditating, instead he was sitting and talking to someone on a commdisk, and Tholme bit back a snicker as he realised the blue shape was Tahl. Just friends, sure, Jinn.

“My Master is going to be leaving for Kashyyyk in the morning, so perhaps you can stay over? I’ll happily show how much I’ve missed you,” she crooned playfully.

Tholme really, really did try his best to pretend that he hadn’t just heard Tahl insinuate she was going to fuck Jinn stupid all night, because that wasn’t a mental image he needed. Instead, he very loudly banged the cupboards, so they’d realise he was there and hopefully change the subject.

“Oh, is that Master Dooku?” Tahl asked.

Qui-Gon glanced up with a scowl as Tholme began ferreting around for a mug to make himself a cup of a caf. “Unfortunately, not. We’ve picked up the most insufferable lifeform in the galaxy.” 

“Be nice, there’s no point in you killing one another. Master Dooku wouldn’t appreciate the mess,” Tahl replied chirpily, leaving Qui-Gon to roll his eyes with a snort. “Anyway, I have to go; Rael agreed to read through my report, so I said I would go over this evening. I should probably find something nicer to wear than these old sleep clothes.” 

Tholme froze, mug halfway to his mouth. Rael Averross? Now he was in for a treat. If anyone had a chance of blowing Qui-Gon’s unflappable ease when it came to Tahl, it was him.

“Rael?” Qui-Gon repeated. He was a Jedi; he did not squeak when he spoke. But his words certainly came out in a higher octave than he’d hoped for. He cleared his throat. “Rael Averross?”

“How many Rael’s do we know?” Tahl laughed.

Qui-Gon stupidly chose that moment to glance up at Tholme, who mouthed the words, ‘Something nicer to wear for Rael’ with a wink. A fucking wink.

White hot anger flushed through Qui-Gon, and he turned back to Tahl trying to remain somewhat composed. He wasn’t jealous, but he was certainly surprised, and maybe, maybe, a little concerned. 

Those words did not come out though, instead he opened and closed his mouth like a terribly bewildered fish. “But…Rael… he’s Rael.”

“He read through your last week, what is the difference?” she asked.

“Yeah, Jinn, enlighten us?” Tholme sung from the other side of the room as he dramatically dropped a sugar cube into the hot water, because clearly, he was loving every single minute of this citadel level torture.

Qui-Gon was about to become one with the Force. He could feel it. He was going to drop to the floor and suffer an eternity as a ghost, required to watch Tahl sitting in Rael’s quarters and twirling a strand of hair around her finger like all the girls did.

As if sensing Jinn’s inner conflict, Tholme took hold of his mug and stood behind Qui-Gon; whether it was to put the guy on edge even more or come to his rescue, he didn’t know. “Hey, Tahl. You’ve changed your hair. It suits you,” he spoke.

Alright, maybe he was rescuing him.

Tahl made an appreciative noise, running her hand over her dark locks.  “Oh, thank you. I’m glad someone noticed,” she responded snippily.

Never mind, he took it all back, Tholme was still a traitor.

“I did,” Qui-Gon blurted defensively, because truly he could take no more. “I just thought it was inappropriate to comment on it.”

“Inappropriate?” Tahl questioned him. “Why would that be? Do you not like it?”

Tholme clapped his hands together as he left Jinn to suffer the wrath of his ‘girlfriend’ because his work here was most certainly done. So, he swiped a snack from the side and walked out of the door to investigate the rest of the ship.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t really anything exciting to look at, and as he ambled through the illuminated hallways, the thick flooring absorbed the noise, making his footsteps ghostly silent.  The whole ship smelt clean, as though it had been disinfected to an inch of its life, and the grey bulkheads gave the place an ominous feel.

In fact, even the sleeping quarters seemed untouched; both rooms had perfectly folded sheets and only a single bag hooked on to the closet doors. Evidently Jinn was just as void of personality as this entire vessel, and even when he let himself snoop a little in his bag, he couldn’t contain his disappointment. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to find; a data pad with all his secrets, a death stick habit, maybe even some hidden, kinky fetish that would make even Tholme blush (although unlikely). Instead, he got boring, predictable, Qui-Gon Jinn, and his knee length, woollen socks.

Giving on that venture, Tholme decided to make his way to the cargo hold instead, and he picked up the datapad on the side and began to go through the inventory of the things that Dooku and Jinn had managed to salvage from Chibbier.

He must have been there for a while because he felt the ships engine judder as they entered hyperspace, and soon enough, the lights began to dim in sync with the Coruscant evening. He had planned on spending the entire night hidden away in the safety of the wreckage, but as time ticked on, he felt his stomach begin to lurch as he tried to swallow away the growing nausea.

This mission was just getting better and better. Because now, he was going to have to ask Dooku for an antiemetic because he was getting space sick like a youngling.

Qui-Gon would never let him forget this.

He threw down the data pad in a huff and went to find the Jedi Master, but by the time he’d made it to the cockpit, he was feeling better. Which meant—

“There you are. Qui-Gon was about to turn in for the night, I was going to send him to find you,” Dooku replied.

“Have you checked for any chemical leakages in the cargo hold?” Tholme asked, leaning into the room.

“Hold on a moment,” Qui-Gon spoke, turning back to the controls.

“Do you need to sit down?” Dooku asked, running his eyes over Tholme’s form with a concerned look (although he was probably only concerned that he was going to have to clean up some kind of bodily fluid). “You look quite pale, Padawan.”

Qui-Gon stood up and moved next to Tholme, accessing another control panel. “Master, I think he is right. Something is wrong with the ship.”

The nausea immediately began to return, and Tholme swayed a little as he leaned his head against the bulkhead, and he shut his eyes as Jinn began running a frantic diagnostic, listening to the sounds of the controls tapping. 

Suddenly an alarm immediately began to blare, and Dooku swore to himself as he flipped the switches, manually overriding the mechanisms. He must have sensed something in the abyss that the other’s couldn’t, as with one last desperate attempt to gain control, he reached out to the Force, pushing both Tholme and Qui-Gon out of the room.

The Padawan’s flew backwards, landing in the common space with a thump. Qui-Gon rubbed his head out of confusion as the door swished shut, and an explosion ricocheted from inside the cockpit.

 

 

Notes:

next: trouble brews more

Chapter 2: By The Fabric of Their Cloaks

Summary:

Well of course the situation is about to get worse...

Just when things looked as though they couldn’t get any worse, they did, in fact, get a whole lot kriffing worse.

Qui-Gon was on his feet in an instant, his usual calm demeanour stretched thin as he yanked the control panel off the wall to bypass the emergency lockdown protocols. The door hissed open, revealing Dooku slumped unconscious amidst sparking wires and flashing alarms. Without hesitation, Qui-Gon threw himself down beside his master, scanning for signs of life. Tholme wasn’t far behind, sliding into the pilot’s chair and assessing the ship’s systems, which were lighting up like a Life Day tree gone horribly wrong.

Yeah, okay. This was bad. This was really, really bad.

With a deafening bang, the engines gave a final, tragic wheeze before falling silent. The ship lurched violently out of hyperspace, sending both Padawans scrambling to brace themselves. When the stars stopped spinning, they were plunged into an ominous silence.

“Jinn,” Tholme said, his voice edged with both urgency and frustration. He juggled between controls, his hands flying over switches in a futile attempt to stabilise the systems. “Jinn? A little help here?”

Qui-Gon didn’t so much as glance up, his focus entirely on Dooku. After verifying that his master was breathing, he exhaled slowly, seemingly unbothered by the chaos around him. “Tholme,” he replied serenely, his tone somehow detached, “Please don’t panic.”

“Please don’t panic?” Tholme echoed, his voice rising.

Qui-Gon ignored him and slid into the co-pilot’s seat. Together, they wrestled with the controls, but the ship stubbornly refused to cooperate. Finally, the emergency lights flickered and failed, plunging them into total darkness.

Neither Padawan spoke for moment, as though they were too busy holding their breaths to make a sound. Eventually, Tholme tentatively cleared his throat.

“I’m rebooting the systems now,” he muttered into the shadows.

“Your efforts are pointless. They are as good as fried,” Qui-Gon replied matter-of-factly in response. He tapped at the panel, his face falling into misery. “Navigation appears to also be offline.”

“Same goes for primary controls, engines and… life support,” Tholme responded. He dropped his hand down by his sides, throwing his head back in frustration. “Great. So, we haven’t a clue where we are, and we are likely going to suffocate in a tiny tin can. I don’t suppose you have any bright ideas?” 

“Remain calm and centre your thoughts in the moment,” he spoke, which didn’t really go down well if the string of Huttese remarks were any indicator. “There isn’t much we can do until the system cools, and then we can reassess the damage. In the meantime, I’ll move Master Dooku.”

Tholme nodded his head, running his hand through his thick, dark hair, devoid of the Padawan braid his line of work never allowed him to have. “Perhaps you could also check the hyper drive whilst you’re there, there may be something we can salvage,” he suggested. The emergency lights flickered on in that moment, illuminating him a sickly green. Although maybe the spinning had something to do with that. “I’ll be honest with you, Qui; this isn’t really how I pictured dying.”

“Believe me, I’ll do everything I can to make sure we don’t.” Jinn grunted as he began to pull Dooku from his position, likely with a little help from the Force. He faked a smile. “I’d prefer it if your face wasn’t the last one that I saw.”

Tholme merely rolled his eyes because you know what, screw you too. 

**  

Qui-Gon carefully moved Dooku into the common space, arranging the Jedi Master on the floor with as much care as the grim situation allowed. A few spare cushions and his cloak provided a semblance of comfort, but the supplies they had on hand felt about as useful as a screen door on a flagship. But at least he’d managed to find a stim to stabilise Dooku for the time being.

Still, as Qui-Gon knelt by his master, inspecting his pulse for the third time, the hesitation gnawed at him. The Force had a way of guiding them into strange predicaments, but this? This didn’t feel the same. He refused to believe it had willed their deaths in the cold void of space—but the evidence wasn’t exactly looking good. Exploding control panels, failing systems, and a floating hunk of metal that was more coffin than ship? That was hardly an inspiring picture now, was it?

Placing a hand on Dooku’s forehead, Qui-Gon whispered, “You are one with the Force, Master. It is with you always.” The sacred words settled his nerves, though not entirely. Dooku was at least stable for now, but Qui-Gon knew there was little else he could do. That helplessness jabbed at him, and he quickly rose to his feet, leaving the common space behind as though action alone could end his anxieties.

The engine room was located in the belly of the ship, beneath the cargo hold. Qui-Gon slid through the hatch with practised ease, landing silently in the small, dimly lit space. The lights flickered in a weak attempt to acknowledge his presence, casting everything in an eerie green glow. He moved to the hyperdrive access panel and detached it, confirming what he already knew: everything was well and truly fried. The wires were fused in a blackened mess, and the acrid stench of burning components filled the room, making him grimace. Even the emergency life support seemed to be barely operational, and unless they got the primary systems back online, they’d likely freeze to death before they ran out of air.

“Such powerful optimism, Qui-Gon,” he muttered dryly. “Master Dooku would be proud.”

Still, there was little point in dwelling on what he couldn’t change, and after fiddling with a few melted circuits, he gave up and settled into a cross-legged position on the floor. Tools discarded beside him, he closed his eyes and reached out to the Force, seeking guidance—or perhaps just the patience to deal with whatever came next.

He was deep, blissful in meditation when the door clanged open. Tholme stumbled in, his boots crunching against loose debris, and promptly tripped over a stray hydrospanner. He caught himself on a bulkhead, muttering curses that would make a Hutt blush.

“Oh, good,” Qui-Gon said without opening his eyes. “You’re here.”

“I thought you were going to fix it?” Tholme snapped, clearly unimpressed by the serene figure sitting amongst the chaos.

“It’s unfixable,” Qui-Gon replied evenly, finally opening one eye to look at him. His expression said it all: Obviously.

Tholme groaned, picking up the discarded tools with far more vigour than was necessary. “At this point, I’d rather have died in the shuttle crash than face a slow, suffocating death with you.”

“Well, there’s an emergency pod in the hanger, if you step in to it, I’m sure a quicker death can be arranged.”

Tholme sneered before kneeling by the hyperdrive. At least on the bright side, whilst the life support system was offline whatever toxic gas that had been leaking into the ship was being contained, although that seemed like the least of his worries. So, he began to loosen the bolts to expose the wiring.

No, he didn’t know entirely what he was doing, but his life motto thus far had been confidence is key, and it hadn’t failed him yet. So, he willed the Force for guidance and simply hoped for the best, because else could he really do.

Qui-Gon though, for obvious reasons, of course, did not approve.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he warned him, his eyes still shut. “The wires are coated in a conductive metal. If you’re going to tamper with the primary propulsion unit, you should at least remove it first.”

“Are you trying to get me killed?” Tholme argued. “If I do that, I’ll be cremated where I stand.”

“Mm. If you say so,” Qui-Gon muttered.

Tholme, despite being very sure (mostly because he had made this mistake before), suddenly decided to second guess himself. As he reached towards the board to unbolt the unit, forming what he thought was quite a witty insult that would no doubt shake the other Padawan to his rotten core, a jolt of electricity suddenly shot through him, knocking him out cold.

**

“You know, I can do this myself. I’m not totally useless,” Tholme muttered, holding out his hand for Qui-Gon, who was diligently applying bacta to his burned skin. Tholme perched on the edge of the kitchenette counter, his cloak drawn over his head like a brooding Jawa, a deep sigh escaping him. He glanced down at the charred remnants of his sleeve and winced.

Qui-Gon glanced up, his brow raising slightly. “I didn’t say you were useless,” he replied, muffled slightly by the torch he held in his mouth. “But considering it took you a week to seek medical attention after breaking your ankle, forgive me for not leaving this in your hands. Time isn’t exactly a luxury we have right now.”

Tholme rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. It was hard to argue when Qui-Gon was right.

The bacta stung as Qui-Gon worked it into the burns, and really, Tholme did his best not to flinch, but his hand twitched all the same. He reached for the bottle of Dooku’s whisky that sat beside him, half-empty and no longer a secret. A few swigs had dulled the ache in his nerves—at least for now—and he figured a bit more wouldn’t hurt. When Qui-Gon glanced up with a disapproving look, Tholme raised the bottle in a mock toast.

 “Can I at least persuade you to join me?”

“You must be severely concussed if you think I’d agree to that,” he responded, still with the torch in his mouth. He wrapped Tholme’s hand in a bandage, before placing it down. “Besides, one of us needs to stay alert. We still have work to do.”

Tholme sighed and lowered the bottle. He didn’t even have the energy to make a snarky comeback, which probably worried him more than their dwindling oxygen levels. He watched Qui-Gon set the bandages aside, his movements calm and deliberate, as if they weren’t aboard a failing ship with death creeping closer by the second.

“Yeah,” Tholme said softly. “Thanks. And I am sorry.”

Qui-Gon paused for a beat, his hands leaning on the edge of the counter. His gaze tempered faintly, though his focus remained steady. “There is no gratitude nor apology required.”

Tholme gave him a half-smile before hopping off the counter, careful not to jostle his throbbing hand. “I’ll go check on the cockpit. Maybe I can figure out how to salvage some of this.”

Qui-Gon didn’t respond immediately, instead he reached out to check on Dooku. Tholme stopped in the doorway and glanced back, his voice quieter now than ever,  “So, what’s the damage now?”

Without looking up, Qui-Gon began listing their losses. “Three days of oxygen. Backup life support. Short-range communications. Lights.”

“Basically everything,” Tholme replied, leaning heavily against the bulkhead. “How much time do we have?”

Qui-Gon finally looked at him, his expression steady. “Twenty-four hours, give or take. Assuming nothing else fails.”

“Oh. Great.” Tholme took another swig of Dooku’s whisky, before ambling over to the cockpit. It was bad enough they now could only sit around and wait for the inevitable, but the fact that Qui-Gon was so unnaturally calm about the situation…well, it almost bothered him. He forced a shaky laugh. “You know, freezing to death was sounding better by comparison.”

Qui-Gon almost smiled, but his composure remained firm. “It’s natural to feel fear. Especially of death.”

The corner of Tholme’s mouth twitched, and he straightened up, the whisky bottle still in hand. As he turned for the cockpit, he paused, glancing back at Qui-Gon with mock seriousness. “Well, I’ll be in the pilot’s chair. Not touching anything. You know, in case you need company.”

Qui-Gon tilted his head. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Tholme gave a half-hearted salute, pointing his fingers at Qui-Gon in an awkward attempt at levity before disappearing down the corridor. Once he was gone, Qui-Gon turned back to Dooku, his calm exterior faltering slightly as his gaze lingered on his unconscious master.

“Please stay with me,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. The Force felt distant, but he clung to it all the same, willing it to guide them through the ominous darkness.

And for once, Qui-Gon allowed himself to feel the fear—if only for a moment.

 

 

Notes:

Oh my sweet little JinnBerry

Chapter 3: All In The Same Ship

It was a while later when Qui-Gon awoke to the sound of clanking, swearing and yet more clanking, and he fluttered his eyes open as he acclimatised to the dark. The temperature in space was always cold, but without the regulation of the heating controls, he could see his breath rush from his nose in a cloud before disappearing and vaporising into the air.

Dooku was still lying on the pillows, his chest moving up and down slowly as he breathed in and out, and Qui-Gon felt himself relax knowing he was still with them, though Qui-Gon’s fingers itched to double-check his pulse.

He didn’t. Instead, he climbed to his feet as he made it to the cockpit, trying not to shiver.

The cockpit door whooshed open, revealing Tholme sprawled under the control panel, tools scattered around him in a chaotic, but strangely efficient, mess. Hadn’t he said he wasn’t going to touch anything? Qui-Gon wasn’t even sure why he was surprised at this point.

Sensing the other padawan’s disapproval, Tholme pulled his head up, smirking as his green eyes glimmered with what Qui-Gon could only see as mischief. “Good to see you, Qui-Gon.”

He stepped closer, folding his arms and tilting his head. “How long have I been out?”

“Eight hours,” Tholme replied casually, as though he hadn’t just revealed they had less than fifteen hours of oxygen left.

That earned him a raised eyebrow. “And you’re dismantling the control panel because…?”

“I’m linking up the power cells,” Tholme explained, holding up a frayed wire. “At least the ones that aren’t fried. If I can reroute the energy, I might get the long-range communications online. I figure, if someone out there is listening, we’ve got a shot at getting rescued.”

Qui-Gon blinked, surprised. “That’s... actually a good idea.” He squatted beside him, glancing over the mess of wires. “Can I help?”

“Well, unless you can summon nerf burgers and fries from the Force, I’ll settle for a ration bar.” Tholme slid out from under the panel, smirking. “Or the rest of Dooku’s whisky. I’m easy.”

Qui-Gon shook his head, but his lips quirked in amusement. He stood and headed for the kitchenette, returning with a canteen of water and a ration bar, placing them beside Tholme without making any comments. Instead, he leaned against the bulkhead, rubbing his temple, as the thin air made his headache pulse.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t strained, but heavy nonetheless, filled with unspoken thoughts of what might come next.

“You know,” Tholme muttered, breaking the quiet, sliding a tool into place with a faint clink, “Tahl warned you not to murder me, but it’s looking more like this shuttle might do the job for you.”

Qui-Gon exhaled through his nose, his expression amused. “The Force works in mysterious ways.”

Tholme snorted, sitting up to accept the ration bar that Qui-Gon handed down. As he snapped it in half, Qui-Gon’s voice broke the silence again, this time softer, more curious. “Was it true?”

“Was what true?”

“The things you said about Tahl,” Qui-Gon admitted, shifting slightly as if unease had crept into his voice without permission.

Tholme smirked knowingly, taking a bite of the bar. “I thought you didn’t care? Something about the Jedi Code, wasn’t it?”

“If we fail to interpret the Code for ourselves,” Qui-Gon said, ignoring the jab, “Then what’s the point of autonomy? Besides, would you care if you learned Master Saa was… involved with someone else?”

At that, Tholme’s smirk faltered. “T’ra doesn’t know I exist, remember?”

“An yet, you keep calling her T’ra,” Qui-Gon observed, his tone pointed but not unkind. “That suggested the two of you are overly familiar to me.”

Tholme sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’re Jedi. We’re not allowed to care about what other’s do, especially the people we care about. Is there not a rule for that?” 

“Rules aren’t everything,” Qui-Gon replied quietly. His gaze drifted, his tone softening in a way that made Tholme raise a brow. “If we care deeply about someone, perhaps it’s because the Force has connected us for a reason. Is that why your Master pulled you from the Brentaal assignment, because of Saa?”

“Look, I was just being an asshole, Qui,” Tholme replied quietly, still tinkering as he expertly dodged the question. “It’s what I’m good at.”

Qui-Gon took a bite of his food, deciding not to shield his relief. “You say that as though you’re not good at a lot of things.”

“Now I know you’re hypoxic, you’re getting mushy on me.” Tholme slid out from under the control panel again, reaching for a data pad as he began to run his diagnostics.

“I mean every word. You portray an unusual image of yourself, but that doesn’t make you a bad Jedi.”

“Maybe I’m just not cut out for Temple Life. Or the Order in general, I don’t know,” he admitted, fiddling with his thumb. “But I’m told there’re some assignments on Kiffu. If—if—I pass my trials, I can see myself ending up there.”

Qui-Gon wracked his brain for what little information he had on the planet, which he realised wasn’t much. “I thought Kiffu was a hostile world?”

“Yeah, well, I think I can handle a Vos or two,” he mumbled in response. “How hard can it really be to tame a Kiffar?”

“I sense you’ll find out,” Qui-Gon replied dryly.

Their shared moment was interrupted by a faint hum from the control panel. Tholme slid back under it, connecting the final wire. “Right, I’m sending the distress call. Keep an eye on the panel. If this thing blows, it’s on you.”

“Encouraging,” Qui-Gon muttered, watching the electrical surge rise. The warning light began to flash, heat prickling his fingertips. “Tholme—”

“Almost there,” Tholme said, his voice tight with focus.

“Tholme,” Qui-Gon repeated, sterner now.

“Just… nearly…” With a triumphant yank, Tholme pulled the power core free as the screen flashed green.

Qui-Gon quickly rebooted the system, relief washing over him as the levels stabilised. “Were you successful?”

Tholme licked his singed fingers, leaning back against the panel with a weary smile. “I bloody well hope so. But only time will tell.”     

At that, they exchanged a look, but the same thought passed through their minds. Time wasn’t exactly something they had a lot of.

**

Qui-Gon Jinn would call himself a patient man. A very patient man. He prided himself on his ability to maintain calm in even the most chaotic situations. But there was something about the loud, repetitive thud… thud… thud echoing through the shuttle that made him want to bang  his own head against the bulkhead to see if it produced a more pleasing sound.

It took him another few minutes to finally decide he was, in fact, very bothered. He let out a long, beleaguered sigh and opened his eyes with a death-defying frown.

Of course, the noise was coming from Tholme.

What are you doing?” Qui-Gon demanded, his tone sharper than intended.

Tholme didn’t answer immediately. He tossed a ball against the bulkhead again, hopping—blindfolded—a few paces to his left to catch it. “I’m training.”

“For what, exactly? A game of intergalactic catch?” Qui-Gon retorted, folding his arms.

Tholme laughed, the sound genuine despite the tension of their situation. “I wouldn’t say no if the opportunity came up. Besides,” he added, throwing the ball again, “I thought you’d appreciate my unwavering trust in the Force during a time like this.”

Qui-Gon’s frown deepened. “Of course I do. I just don’t understand why you must prove it now. So loudly. And so—” he paused as Tholme narrowly missed catching the ball, fumbling it with a crash. “—unproductively.”

Tholme finally pulled off the blindfold and threw a pointed look over his shoulder. “Because I’d rather keep myself busy than sit here pondering the inevitable. You should try it sometime.”

Qui-Gon’s expression faltered, but he quickly covered. “You’re exerting yourself and wasting oxygen.”

“Oh, so now you’re calling me unfit?” Tholme replied, his voice dripping with mock offence.

“Well,” Qui-Gon said, brushing down his robes as he stood, “Since you brought it up, you are sounding a little breathless. Perhaps this is one too many cigarettes.”

Tholme glared, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re impossible.”

“Perhaps, but if you’re looking for a real challenge,” Qui-Gon continued, ignoring the jab, “You’re welcome to hand the balls to me.”

“So, you can throw them?” Tholme asked, narrowing his eyes. “You are joking.”

Qui-Gon’s face was unreadable, though there was a glimmer of something in his eyes that made Tholme deeply suspicious. Still, after a moment of hesitation, he shrugged and used the Force to push the box of balls over to Qui-Gon. Sliding the blindfold back over his eyes, he adjusted it carefully. “Fine. Just… warn me before you—”

Thunk. A ball bounced directly off the top of his head.

Tholme yanked the blindfold off, glaring as Qui-Gon’s rare laugh filled the common space. “I wasn’t ready.”

“Being a Jedi means you are always prepared,” Qui-Gon lectured, though his amusement was still evident. Then, quieter, he added, “A sentiment that Master Dooku takes very seriously.”

The smile faded from Tholme’s face. He glanced at Qui-Gon, whose calm exterior was cracking, his voice lined with a weariness that hadn’t been there before.

“He’ll be alright, Jinn,” Tholme said softly.

Qui-Gon looked away, his hands gripping the edge of his cloak. “We can’t say that for certain. I’d rather not fill myself with false optimism. If it’s the will of the Force, then…” He trailed off, his shoulders stiffening. “Then it’s the will of the Force.”

Tholme scoffed loudly, shaking his head. “That’s bantha shit.”

Qui-Gon blinked at him, startled by the bluntness.

“You care about Dooku,” Tholme pressed, stepping closer. “You don’t want him to die, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“He’s my Master,” Qui-Gon replied defensively, his voice rising slightly. “Of course I care for him. I value the sanctity of life—”

“Don’t give me that sanctity of life crap,” Tholme interrupted, crossing his arms. “You care about him. Not in some theoretical ‘value of life’ way. You care about Dooku. Why can’t you just admit it?”

Qui-Gon opened his mouth to retort but closed it again, his lips pressing into a thin line. Tholme sighed, his tone softening.

“Look,” he said, “We’re not going to die, Jinn. Sitting down and accepting our fate is just... stupid.”

“And what would you have me do?” Qui-Gon asked, his voice cracking slightly under the weight of the conversation. He gestured vaguely toward the control panels, the lifeless bulkheads, the dim emergency lights. “There’s nothing to do. We’ve exhausted every option.”

Growing more exasperated by Qui-Gon’s ability to roll over like a defenceless mammal, Tholme shook his head to himself as he sarcastically mumbled, “Maybe do what you do best. Meditate on it.”

**

It wasn’t as though Qui-Gon was counting, but another few hours had passed, and Dooku still wasn’t waking. Tholme had finally crashed out on one of the seats after much persuasion—something about “preserving energy” rather than “admitting he was tired.” Meanwhile, Qui-Gon had been running through their dwindling options on a datapad. The screen’s glow seemed to mock him with its lack of solutions.

Even he had to admit to feeling uneasy. They were down to ten hours of oxygen. Ten hours. If they didn’t think of a plan soon, none of them would be alive to see the next rotation.

The thought gnawed at him, and not for the first time, Qui-Gon found himself wondering if Tholme had been right. He hated the idea of giving in to hopelessness, but maybe accepting the Force’s will didn’t have to mean giving up entirely.

With a sigh, Qui-Gon threw the datapad onto the nearest flat surface, running his hands through his thick hair in frustration. His chest felt tight—whether from the depleting oxygen or the creeping weight of their situation, he wasn’t sure. Maybe both.

“What are you doing, Qui-Gon,” he muttered to himself. He straightened, glancing toward the cupboard, his resolve fraying.

Rummaging through its contents, Qui-Gon’s hands closed around several bottles tucked away at the back. He pulled them out—Dooku’s hidden stash of alcohol, of course—and carried them over to where Tholme was sleeping.

For a moment, he hesitated, wondering if this was the worst idea he’d ever had. This probably won’t help the oxygen situation, his inner voice noted. But then again, if I’m going to suffocate, I might as well do it with style.

Decision made, he gave Tholme a nudge with his boot. “Tholme.”

The other Padawan grumbled something unintelligible and swatted at him, pulling his cloak over his head.

“Tholme.” Qui-Gon nudged him again, harder this time. “Wake up.”

“What now?” Tholme groaned, voice muffled by his cloak.

“If it’s all the same to you,” Qui-Gon said, his tone lighter than usual as he uncorked a bottle with a satisfying pop, “I thought you might join me for a drink.”

Chapter 4: Cold Feet—Warm Drink

“Do you know what I want to do, one last time, before I die?” Tholme said suddenly, his legs stretched out in front of him on the cold ship floor. His voice was quiet, but the tone carried a wistful quality that made Qui-Gon glance up.

Qui-Gon took a slow swig from the bottle they were sharing, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before passing it back. “I’m not sleeping with you, if that’s what you’re about to suggest.”

Tholme barked a laugh, the sound sharp in the icy air. He clutched the bottle to his chest, shaking his head. “No, I wouldn’t want you to die disappointed.”

Despite himself, Qui-Gon’s lips twitched. “How very considerate of you.”

“Actually,” he murmured.  “I want to watch the sunrise. Is that pathetic enough for you?”

As Qui-Gon began to rearrange the empty bottles, he let one side of his mouth turn up into a smile. “That is quite pathetic.”

The weight of their situation settled over them again. They were down to their last five hours of air, and the eerie quiet of the powerless shuttle seemed to amplify the cold. Without any way to check for a response to their transmission, hope felt like a distant memory. Yet, they somehow managed to sit there, passing the bottle back and forth, occasionally laughing at their own grim humour.

“If we look on the bright side, there are worse ways to go,” Tholme said after a long silence, his voice thoughtful.

“Oh?” Qui-Gon asked, curious despite himself.

“Well,” Tholme began, tapping his fingers against the floor, “We could have been stuck on Coruscant tomorrow, watching Cinn Drallig do one of his riveting lightsaber demonstrations. Talk about a slow death.”

Qui-Gon chuckled softly. “You and Drallig used to be friends.”

“Used to be,” Tholme replied. “Forsaking your vows has a funny way of showing you who your people are.”

Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow. “Ah, T’ra Saa,” he said knowingly.

Tholme’s laugh was softer now, almost self-deprecating. “You’re sharper than you look, Jinn. Which isn’t saying much, because that hair cut makes you look like a sheepdog.”

“Fuck off,” he grumbled jokingly. “Um, I suppose in that sense I have been most fortunate. Dooku trusts that I will always follow the will of the Force, even if my heart causes me to stray. That and…he most certainly worries more about what I uncover in my research during my free time than whom I uncover.”

“Remind me to tell Tahl you drunkenly compared her to Sith legends,” he snorted.

“Complicated, mysterious and captivating?” he grinned.

“Oh, stop,” Tholme groaned, throwing a handful of ration bars at him. “You are insufferable.”

“Speaking of insufferable,” Qui-Gon said, leaning forward conspiratorially, the smell of alcohol on his breath, “Did I ever tell you I once saw Jocasta Nu leaving Dooku’s quarters at three in the morning?”

“Dooku?” Tholme whispered, his green eyes wide with mock horror. “Master Dooku? I always thought there was something between them.”

Qui-Gon held up a hand, barely able to contain his laughter. “I don’t wish to create scenarios based purely on assumptions, but it has come to my attention they’re unusually close.”

“But he’s so old,” Tholme mumbled clearly fixated on whatever horror was unfolding in his head. “How does that work? Does he need the Force to, you know, get it up…or?”

“Force, stop,” Qui-Gon laughed placing his head in his hands.

“But also, good for them,” Tholme said with a laugh.

As the laugher died down, an unsettled feeling loomed in the room, and as Tholme sighed, the the sound carried a hint of exhaustion.

Sensing the shift, Qui-Gon nudged him lightly with his foot. “Why a sunrise?” he asked quietly.

Even though he knew that Jinn wasn’t teasing him, Tholme still glanced over at the other padawan with his piercing green eyes, a self-conscious trickle flooding his chest. “I don’t know. I was on Jakku a while back—miserable place, by the way—and the sunrise gave a sense of hope, as though there would always be a new beginning. It’s funny what a burning ball of fire can do to one’s spirits, don’t you think?”

Qui-Gon stared back contemplatively, and although his brain was slowed from the alcohol and impending hypoxia, he understood.

“I do forgive you for what you did to my datapad, and I am sorry for holding it against you,” he blurted. “I have always liked you Tholme, but I do think you’re a pain in the arse sometimes.”

Tholme let out a sharp laugh, and it echoed loudly through the ship before vanishing into the ether. “Thank you. I think.”

With that, they both fell into a long silence. Eventually though, growing bored of the heavy atmosphere, Qui-Gon pushed out an impatient breath, before slowly clambering to his feet—a little uncoordinatedly considering the dubious amounts of whisky he’d been consuming. “Come.”

“Where are we going?” Tholme asked dumbly.

He crossed his hands together, letting his cloak hang over his wrists. “We’re going to see a sunrise. Obviously.”

Tholme felt his eyebrows crease, because he wasn’t sure what was obvious about that, but he stood up anyway, blindly following Qui-Gon into the cockpit. Once inside the room, he sat down on the pilots’ seat whilst Jinn closed his eyes, reaching out to the Force. The ship slowly began to turn, and soon enough, Tholme sighted a star, a long way in the distance.

They watched it in silence for about half an hour, disappearing behind the planet with a beautiful, bright display. But Qui-Gon didn’t feel any sense of hope. Just, emptiness.

It wasn’t until Tholme started to laugh, that Jinn thought perhaps it had finally happened Tholme had well and truly lost his mind. 

He raised an eyebrow. “What, dare I ask, is amusing now?”

“Hey Qui…” he slurred, “What is sitting in the cargo bay?”

He felt himself frown. “Are you really interested in going through the inventory?”

“Qui-Gon,” he commanded.

“I’m not sure. Supply boxes. Unusual amounts of toilet paper. The parts of your ship we managed to salvage…” Qui-Gon felt his mouth drop open. “Oh.”

“How much air do we have left?” Tholme inquired, placing his feet on the ground, immediately sobering.

“Four hours,” Qui-Gon responded eagerly. “Perhaps if we can relink the power cells from your shuttle to ours—”

Tholme cut in, “Then we can maybe stabilise the life support system, but most certainly reactivate long range communications—”

“And send out a tracking signal so someone can find us,” Qui-Gon finished.

“Just do me a favour…” Tholme mumbled, heading towards the door, “Stay away from the electricals’ this time.”   

**

In the end, it took longer than they had hoped (though the delays were mostly thanks to Qui-Gon pausing every so often to announce how nauseated he felt). Between the dwindling oxygen, the biting cold, and the whisky still clouding their minds, neither Padawan was operating at full capacity.

Now they sat in the common area, surrounding Master Dooku’s still form. Both were at peace with the knowledge that they’d done everything they could. Yet, peace didn’t erase the biting fear in their hearts, nor did it ease the silence that settled over them, thick and oppressive, broken only by their uneven breaths.

Tholme lay on the cold floor, his head tilted toward Qui-Gon as his chest rose and fell in shallow, laboured movements. Each exhale was visible in the freezing air, a faint cloud of condensation that vanished almost as quickly as it appeared. His limbs felt heavy, the kind of weight that wasn’t just exhaustion but something deeper, something final.

Still, when he met Qui-Gon’s gaze, his green eyes held a flicker of warmth, even as his lips—blue-tinged and cracked—twitched into a faint smile. “How’s he doing?” Tholme rasped, his voice barely audible.

Qui-Gon sat cross-legged beside Dooku, his hands resting lightly on his master’s chest, drawing on the Force to keep him stable. Or at least as stable as possible in such a dire situation. His face was pale, the usual calm of his expression marred by an edge of frustration and helplessness. He glanced at Tholme, and for the first time in hours, he didn’t bother masking his worry.

“Stable, but unresponsive,” Qui-Gon replied, but his voice wavered slightly at the end. He leaned closer to check Dooku’s vitals again, frowning as he noted the chill of his skin. “I’m not sure what else we can do without proper medical attention.”

Tholme hummed softly, acknowledging the statement but lacking the energy to respond properly. He closed his eyes for a moment, his breaths becoming more uneven. When he spoke again, it was barely a whisper. “I’m sorry, Qui-Gon.”

Qui-Gon looked up sharply, his brow furrowing. “Save your apology. We’re going to be alright.”

But the words sounded hollow even to his own ears, and he knew Tholme could feel it too. The ship was growing colder by the minute, their bodies already struggling to draw enough oxygen from the thinning air. Qui-Gon’s fingers tingled from the chill, and his chest felt tight, each breath a little more difficult than the last. Still, he refused to let the weight of reality crush him.

Tholme, however, seemed to have made peace with it—or was at least pretending to, he didn’t know. His head rolled slightly to the side, his eyes unfocused as his lips parted in a shaky exhale. “You’re a good friend, you know,” he murmured. “Bit of a pain, but… I like you.”

Qui-Gon blinked, startled by the sudden admission. “Don’t start saying your goodbyes now. You’re going to be fine.”

Tholme’s laugh was weak, little more than a huff of breath. “There is nothing wrong with being prepared.”

“I mean it,” Qui-Gon said firmly. “You don’t get to give up on me now.”

Tholme’s gaze softened, though his eyelids were growing heavier by the second. “I’m not giving up. Just… I’m really tired.”

The words sent a jolt of panic through Qui-Gon. He crawled over, kneeling beside Tholme and gripping his arm tightly, as though anchoring him to the present. “Don’t fall asleep. Stay with me.”

Tholme managed a faint smile, though it was tinged with exhaustion and something close to defeat. “Relax, Jinn. I’ll just… rest my eyes. Wake me when the help arrives. I’ll pretend I was alert the whole time.”

Qui-Gon’s grip tightened, his own breaths becoming shaky. “Tholme, please.”

But Tholme didn’t answer. His eyes fluttered shut, his body stilling as the cold seemed to seep deeper into his skin. For a moment, Qui-Gon felt the sharp sting of dread pierce through him, raw and unrelenting. The Force around them felt heavy, muted, and for the first time in years, Qui-Gon felt truly helpless.

“No,” he whispered, his voice trembling as he shook Tholme’s shoulder. “Tholme. Don’t you dare leave me here.”

Still no response. Qui-Gon bit down on the rising lump in his throat, forcing himself to take a deep, steadying breath. He reached out with the Force, searching for some thread, some sign of life still clinging to his friend. It was faint, but it was there—like a fragile twinkle in a sea of lost stars.

He stayed there for what felt like an eternity, his hand resting on Tholme’s arm. The weight of responsibility pressed down on Qui-Gon’s shoulders, but for the first time, he didn’t know what to do. If the Force had brought him here, to this moment, it was because there was still something he could do. He had to believe that.

Even if the galaxy felt impossibly dark, impossibly alone, Qui-Gon held onto the faint glimmer of hope that somewhere, somehow, help was on its way.

 

 

Notes:

That ending was dramatic, but bare with me

Chapter 5: As Mad As A Master

Summary:

"Jinn decided at that point he was most certainly dead, because he was sure that was Tahl."

There was a voice. Qui-Gon was sure of it.

Was this what happened when one transcended into the Force? Were loved ones there to greet you, to guide you toward the eternal? It seemed plausible—though oddly comforting for someone who still hadn’t entirely made peace with the idea of dying. Although the texts certainly never suggested that—

“Qui? Can you hear me?”

That was definitely Tahl. Qui-Gon decided, somewhat reluctantly, that he must already be dead.

“I know you can hear me,” the voice came again, sharper now. “And if you don’t open your eyes right now, I’ll tell Rael what really happened to Dooku’s beard trimmer on Ry—”

With a groan that sounded more like a strangled wheeze, Qui-Gon’s eyes fluttered open, the bright, sterile lights above him slicing into his retinas. He winced, blinking rapidly as his vision began to clear. A familiar figure leaned over him, her eyes sharp with worry.

“Tahl?” he rasped, his voice barely audible. His head drooped to one side, but he forced himself to focus on her. “Is it really you?”

“It’s me,” she said, gripping his arm tightly enough that he suspected she might be trying to reattach his soul to his body. Her expression softened, though, her lips curving into a gentle smile. “Force, I’m so glad you’re alright. We were so worried.”

Qui-Gon blinked again, glancing around the unfamiliar medical bay. The sharp scent of antiseptic hung in the air, mingling with the hum of machinery monitoring his vitals. He tried to sit up, but the wires and a faint wave of dizziness kept him anchored. “Where am I? What about Master Dooku? And Tholme?”

“Dooku’s stable,” Tahl replied, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder to keep him still. “And Tholme…” She rolled her eyes. “He insisted he was fine, but you know him. He could lose an eye and he would still try and walk it off.”

Qui-Gon managed a weak chuckle. “Oh, I know.”

As he tried to shift again, Tahl pressed him back down, this time with a little more force. “Oh no, don’t even think about it. I need at least one patient to behave, and you’re it.”

“But Tholme—”

“Will be doing the same the moment I can trust you to stay in bed,” she interrupted firmly, smoothing a strand of his hair out of his face. She leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead. Her voice softened. “Don’t make me worry about you more than I already have, Qui-Gon.”

He stared up at her, the warmth of her touch and her words filling the spaces that had been cold and empty just hours before. The tightness in his chest eased, just a little.

Their quiet moment was interrupted by the sound of the door whooshing open, followed by a loud groan. Tholme staggered into the room, draped in a blanket like some kind of miserable Tuskan Raider. He flopped onto the bed next to Qui-Gon’s, throwing an arm over his face.

“Tholme,” Tahl said, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “Have you finally decided you’re not well?”

“No,” Tholme replied, though his bloodshot eyes and pale complexion suggested otherwise. “I feel sick. That’s all.”

“That’s what happens when you ignore medical advice,” she said, crossing her arms. “Stay put. I’m going to get you some water. And if you try to leave, remember: this shuttle is small, and I will find you.”

With a flick of her hand, she sent another blanket flying at him before turning on her heel and leaving the room. Tholme groaned louder, as though the extra warmth was an insult to his autonomy.

“Has she always been this terrifying?” Tholme asked, peering out from under the blanket.

“Oh, absolutely,” Qui-Gon replied, his expression softening. “It’s part of her charm.”

“Alright, I get it,” Tholme interrupted, pulling the blanket back over his head. “You’re in love with her.”

For a moment, Qui-Gon said nothing, his smile turning thoughtful. “I may be,” he said at last.

Before Tholme could respond, the door opened again, and Rael Averross strode in, his sharp gaze taking in the scene. His arms were crossed, but the corners of his mouth twitched, betraying his amusement.

“Well, well. Look who’s alive and complaining,” Rael said, his tone teasing. “Good to see you both awake. We’re landin’ on Coruscant in the mornin’. Bet you’ll be glad to get your feet back on solid ground.”

“Not sure I’ll ever want to travel through space again,” Qui-Gon muttered, his voice quiet but sincere.

Rael snickered. “I don’t blame you. But just so you know, you both owe me a drink. I missed a night with an Alderaanian singer because of you two.”

Despite the tension that still lingered in the air, the room felt warmer. It wasn’t just the relief of survival—it was the bond forged between them, stronger now than it had been before. Even with the weight of their mission still hanging over them, they found a moment of lightness.

And for the first time in days, Qui-Gon allowed himself to smile—truly smile.

**

Later that evening, the ship had settled into an eerie quiet. Both Padawans had been left alone to rest, but sleep eluded Qui-Gon. He tossed and turned for what felt like hours, his body heavy with exhaustion but his mind refusing to relent. Every time he shut his eyes, fragments of the mission played out behind his lids—explosions, the icy void of space, Tholme’s laboured breaths, and Dooku’s still form.

Across the room, Tholme was curled into an impossibly small ball, his knees tucked to his chest like a tiny snitmouse. Occasionally, he twitched or kicked out, performing what could only be described as sleep acrobatics. For a moment, Qui-Gon considered waking him to suggest he take up Ataru, but the thought quickly faded.

Tonight, he didn’t feel like talking. Nor did he feel like resting. So instead, he lay still, staring at the stars streaking past the viewport in endless, hypnotic lines. They should have been soothing, a reminder of the galaxy’s vastness and the flow of the Force. But tonight, they only made him feel smaller, the weight of everything pressing harder on his chest.

Eventually, unable to bear his restlessness any longer, Qui-Gon slid off the bed and padded quietly into the adjacent medical room. The lights were off, casting the space in soft shadows. The gentle hum of the ship reverberated through the floor, a faint vibration that felt grounding in its constancy.

As he approached the bed, he could just make out Dooku’s figure, lying rigidly on his back. Cuts and bruises marked his pale skin, and a long burn stretched across one side of his face. Despite his injuries, his master exuded the same commanding presence that had always made Qui-Gon feel both awed and comforted.

“Master?” Qui-Gon whispered, hesitant. “May I sit with you?”

“Qui-Gon,” Dooku’s deep voice rumbled, calm but firm. Even in his weakened state, it carried an authority that pulled Qui-Gon forward. “Come.”

Qui-Gon lowered himself into the chair beside the bed, his posture unusually small, as if the weight of the room demanded reverence. “You did well, Padawan,” Dooku said after a moment, his voice softer now.

“All because of your teachings,” Qui-Gon replied quietly. He studied the lines of Dooku’s face, the faint smile that played at the corner of his master’s lips despite his injuries. It was a dangerous, knowing smile that reminded Qui-Gon just how little escaped Dooku’s notice.

“I hear you are healing,” Dooku said. “Do your injuries trouble you?”

“No, Master,” Qui-Gon lied reflexively, but the truth came tumbling out a beat later. “A little, I suppose. But my concern is for you.”

Dooku’s piercing gaze met his, holding him in place. “You are troubled, indeed. I sense great conflict in you, boy.”

For a moment, Qui-Gon said nothing, the words caught in his throat. When they finally came, they were heavy with shame. “I was afraid, Master. I thought you were going to die, and I—”

“You cannot prevent the cycle of life, Qui-Gon Jinn,” Dooku interrupted gently. His tone carried neither reproach nor judgement, only a deep, steady conviction. “We are instructed to endure the moment, for the will of the Force cannot be prevented. Our paths are dictated, and what happens tomorrow cannot be stopped.”

Dooku reached out, his hand resting firmly on the top of Qui-Gon’s head. The simple gesture carried an intimacy that transcended words, grounding him as he leaned forward, bowing his head against Dooku’s shoulder.

“To fear may make us irrationally stupid,” Dooku continued, his voice low and resonant, each word deliberate. “But it also brings balance. It makes us wise and resourceful, driving us to seek solutions we might never have considered otherwise. You feared for me, yes—but it was that fear that pushed you to act. To protect. To save.”

“I still don’t understand,” Qui-Gon muttered, his voice muffled against the fabric of Dooku’s clothes. The admission felt raw, vulnerable, but he trusted Dooku enough to let it out.

“You will,” Dooku said softly, his tone carrying a weight that felt both ominous and reassuring. “In time, you will.”

Qui-Gon remained still, the warmth of his master’s presence anchoring him against the tide of his emotions. The hum of the ship filled the silence between them, but it wasn’t empty. It carried the quiet understanding of a bond forged through trials, through trust, and through shared vulnerability.

“I won’t let you down, Master,” Qui-Gon said eventually, his voice steadying.

“I know,” Dooku replied, his hand still resting on Qui-Gon’s head. “You never have.”

With that, Qui-Gon felt the tension in his chest begin to ease. He sat back, the weight of his master’s words settling over him like a blanket. As he gazed out at the stars streaking past the viewport, their endless motion no longer felt overwhelming. It felt like a reminder of the Force’s flow—a reminder that even in the vastness of the galaxy, their bond remained constant.

**

As predicted, the ship landed on Coruscant the next day, its engines hissing as they cooled in the crisp morning air. Master Dooku was immediately whisked away to the Halls of Healing, with Rael barking orders to every healer, aide, and passing Jedi within earshot.

Or out of earshot, considering how loud he could be.

Qui-Gon descended the ramp slowly. As a medical droid approached to assess him, he batted it away with a flick of his wrist, earning a disapproving tut from Tahl.

“Don’t even start,” she said, crossing her arms. “You’re going to the Halls of Healing, so save your energy. I’d rather not have to drag you there.”

“Listen to your girlfriend,” Tholme added, stretching his arms above his head as he hopped lightly down the ramp. “No offence, but you look like shit.”

“Although I sense that there is, in fact, much offence intended,” Qui-Gon replied with a faint smirk, “I’ll take the advice. But only if you come along as well.”

“I’m fine,” Tholme insisted, though slight limp told another story.

“You should go,” Tahl said, her tone firm but warm. “I don’t want either of you falling apart. Who else’s credits will I steal during Sabacc?”

“Considering you cheat, I’m sure you’ll find someone,” Tholme muttered, earning an appreciative snicker from Qui-Gon.

Tahl began leading them toward the main doors, but Tholme’s steps slowed, his gaze catching on a familiar figure waiting on the platform. T’ra Saa stood a few paces away, her human form shifting subtly with the weight of emotion she carried. Her eyes caught his, and for a moment, the world seemed to still.

“Heads up,” Tahl murmured softly, but Tholme was already frozen in place.

 

T’ra steadied herself, smoothing her robes as she walked toward him. The usual calm grace of her movements gave way to something more desperate as she reached him and threw her arms around his neck in an embrace so tight it made him stumble.

For a moment, Tholme’s brain stalled, unable to process the public affection. But when her hand threaded through his dark hair, clinging as though she feared he might disappear, his arms finally wrapped around her, returning the gesture.

“I’m so pleased you’re alright,” she said, her voice low and filled with a quiet intensity. Her grip didn’t loosen, and he had the distinct feeling that it wouldn’t for a while.

“I told you,” he replied, his voice lighter than he felt. “I’m hard to kill.”

T’ra pulled back just enough to glare at him, her amber eyes sharp. “You should realise by now that your humour is frequently lost on me.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but her hand on his chest silenced him. She smoothed a stray thread on his tunic, her fingers lingering just a second too long for propriety. It was such a small gesture, but to Tholme, it felt monumental. As though it were proof that the one single night they had shared months before had meant just as much to her, as it did to him.

“You are going to the Halls of Healing?” she asked softly.

“Well…” He glanced toward Tahl and Qui-Gon, who were trying and failing to look inconspicuous. “I have a feeling you’d help drag me there if I said no.”

“I certainly would,” T’ra replied. Her voice was calm, but the way her fingers traced the fabric on his chest spoke volumes. She leaned closer, her lips brushing his cheek in a soft kiss. “Let me know when they release you. I’ll come by.”

He blinked, her words and actions rendering him briefly speechless. “But what if the Temple talks? You had a reputation to uphold, Master Saa.”

T’ra’s smile turned playful, almost devilish. “Let them talk,” she said simply, turning and walking away without another word.

Tholme stood frozen for a moment, his thoughts tangled. When he finally turned back to Tahl and Qui-Gon, they were both watching him with matching grins.

“Not a word,” he warned, his tone flat as he waved his hand to open the door.

“Don’t worry,” Tahl said sweetly, patting Qui-Gon on the arm. “I made Qui promise not to embarrass you.”

“But I,” she added with a mischievous smile, “Did not make such an oath.”

Qui-Gon chuckled, his tired features brightening. “You’re an easy target, Tholme. Truly.”

Tholme groaned, stuffing his hands into his robe pockets as they entered the Temple. But as his thumb caught on something sharp, he winced and pulled it out—a bottle cap from Dooku’s whisky. He turned it over in his hand, his expression unreadable.

He wasn’t one for souvenirs. They always felt sentimental and soppy, two things he adamantly denied being. But as he rolled the cap between his fingers, he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away. Maybe it was a reminder of survival, of the unlikely camaraderie he’d found with Qui-Gon, or maybe it was just the memory of laughter in the face of death.

Whatever it was, he slipped it back into his pocket and followed the others into the Halls of Healing, where laughter and teasing filled the air—a welcome reprieve from the weight they’d all carried.

Notes:

Alright, one more chapter to go, and this will be finished by New Year. Potentially,I may reword/rewrite some of it later on in the year should I get bored, but that seems like 2025 T's problem

(update in 2025, it was my problem, i fixed it a little)

Thank you for reading <3

Chapter 6: Whisky Is Thicker Than Blood

Summary:

Flashforward and who hasn't had a crush on one of their teachers right?

Quinlan Vos exhaled as he stepped out of the shuttle, his boots crunching the grit beneath his feet as he gazed around at the empty shipyard. Well, empty except for the figure standing a few feet away with that little peeved forehead scrunch of his that told him he was probably in trouble.

Still, Quin was no stranger to trouble, so he just crossed his arms, smiling lazily. “Hey, Kenobi.”

“You are late,” Obi-Wan declared.

“Late? I mean, you called me for an extraction,” he reminded him, rolling his dark eyes. “I don’t know what you expected.”

“That was two days ago,” he snapped. “What—or whom—have you been doing?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he retorted, before his face slowly broke into a wider smile, creasing his tattooed nose. “I missed you, man.”

“Vos, may we climb onboard or not?” Obi-Wan asked, sighing as he tilted his head.

Now, Quin was often accused of having selective hearing, although it was mostly by choice, but the ‘we’ certainly did not slip his attention.

“The kid is here?” Quin asked, looking behind Obi-Wan and seeing…well, no one.

“Yes, he—” Obi-Wan glanced around, panic striking his eyes. “Anakin? Anakin?”

“Master, have you seen these?” Came a voice as a sandy haired boy ran over, clutching several engine parts in his hands with a grin as wide as the galaxy, making him look far younger than his thirteen years. As he skidded to an immediate halt, he paused as he glanced at the Kiffar, dressed in all black civilian clothes. which told Anakin he has been doing something cool and probably illegal. “…um, hi Master Vos.”

“Quin,” he corrected, dragging the final syllable out slowly.  “It’s only ‘Master’ when I’m in trouble.”

“Well then, Master Vos, may we climb aboard or not?” Kenobi asked.

Obi-Wan didn’t have enough time to revel in Quin’s immediate irritation, and instead he took that as his cue to usher his Padawan onboard before he could say anything inappropriate that would no doubt fry his young ears.

Obviously, Kenobi knew what to expect when he stepped up the old, creaky ramp, but he couldn’t help pausing as he reached the darkly lit corridor with a long sigh.  It had been just over ten years since he first stepped onto Tholme’s ship, and nothing ever seemed to change. The knickknacks and pictures were firmly stuck to the bulkhead; Tholme and Master T’ra Saa; Quin and an Eopie—and now another row, this time involving pictures of Quin and Shylar and many, many of Padawan Aayla Secura. 

…oh…

And Qui-Gon.

Swallowing away the rise of sudden emotion, Kenobi urged Anakin to put down his findings somewhere far out of the way, before finding Quin and Aayla in the cockpit. Of course they were bickering over something, and an involuntary smile broke out across his face at the sight.

“When are we going to be back on Coruscant?” Aayla asked, her thick accent punctuating her words.

“If we go by Quinlan’s clock, perhaps we’ll finally make it in a month,” Kenobi jibed, sitting down and making himself comfortable.

Aayla didn’t see that to be funny though, and the sixteen-year-old merely tightened her lips as she continued to paint her fingernails the colour black. “So, am I going to make it to the temple celebration or not?”

“Yes,” Quin grumbled, squeezing either side of his head as though he’d heard that question more times than he could bear. “I don’t know why you want to go to that, Blueberry. It’s just a bunch of Jedi that like that get together and talk about how great they are.”

“Excuse me, I attend every year,” Obi-Wan snipped.

“Yeah, my point entirely,” Quin crooned, dramatically placing his hand on the control board as Aayla summoned his nails for decoration too.

 “Do you think…do you think Master Koth will be there?” Aayla asked, her Force signature briefly squirming.

“Eeth?” Quin demanded moving as his hand as it smudged the paint. “Old man Eeth? Why do you care?”

“No reason,” she replied, flushing a deeper shade of blue, which only made Quin lock eyes with Kenobi with confused scowl.

Apparently, futility trying to change the subject, Aayla looked towards the door, her Lekku swinging over her shoulder. “Where is Anakin, Master Kenobi? I promised I would show him around.”

Summed by his name, the young teenage boy appeared, grinning wildly with an oil covered face. Quin wasn’t an idiot (at least, in this sense); he was very aware his young apprentice attracted attention wherever she went, and chosen one or not, that smirk immediately put that kid on his Shit List.

“Do you want to help me build something?” Anakin asked.

“Sure,” Aayla spoke. And just because she was the only person in the universe who could get away with it, she poked Quin’s shin with her heeled boot. “I kind of want us to keep him.”

“Why, do you need a pet? Because I’ll ask Tholme to get you a loth cat,” he grumbled.

As Aayla trotted off with a chatty Anakin in pursuit, Kenobi moved to the copilot’s chair with a long, weary sigh. “Suddenly I understand why our master’s spent so much time hiding in their quarters.”

Wordlessly, Quin slammed his fist against the control panel, and a hatch popped open revealing a half empty bottle of brandy. Although the force of his thump rattled the bulkhead, and a framed picture with a bottle cap dropped down and into Obi-Wan’s lap.

“What is that?” he asked, picking it up.

“I don’t know,” Quin mumbled, reaching for the bottle. “It’s been there as long as Tholme has had this ship, you know how sentimental and soppy he is. Just put it anywhere, I’ll put it back up later.”

“It makes you wonder the stories this could tell,” Kenobi replied, running his finger over the sheen, thinking that maybe it was framed to keep someone’s fingers off it. He wasn’t psychometric like Quin, nor would he ever want to be, but would he be an idiot to say he could almost feel his old Master behind this glass?

Sensing the immediate pangs of longing, Quin paused before sliding the bottle over. “Are you alright?” he asked.

“I shall be,” Obi-Wan replied, placing the picture down with a sad smile. “For now, let’s just focus on making it back to Coruscant in one piece, shall we?”

“Yeah, what can go wrong?” Quin mumbled, starting the engine.

Obi-Wan merely sighed. “I really hate it when you say that.”

Notes:

Thank you for joining me on this ride <3 Hopefully you enjoyed it

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of What happens In Hyperspace