Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Master, I--I'm sorry. I know it's my fault, what happened to Master Tahl. There's no way I can possibly atone for my role in her death, and I'll understand if you never want to see me again, if you decide to repudiate me, reject me again.” Obi-Wan practiced in front of the fresher mirror. Bandomeer, Melida/ Daan, and now New Apsolon. Three strikes, three rejections from his master. He bit down on his lip, trying not to cry--he was sixteen years old, too old to get away with tears--but bit down so hard that he drew blood.

A proper padawan wouldn't have these disasters in the first place, but now that he had, the least he could do would be to cause no more trouble as he exited Master Qui-Gon's life in disgrace. A porg taking flight leaves no ripples, stiff upper lip, keep calm and carry on, there is no emotion, and all that.

Thinking about it now, there was no way Obi-Wan could say any of the things he’d been practicing until now, not directly to Master Qui-Gon. Not out loud, not in words, anyway. But there was one way in which he could say them. Resolved, Obi-Wan left the fresher and took stock of the cooling unit in the kitchen.

This was, in many ways, Master Tahl's kitchen. Obi-Wan learned to cook here, from Master Tahl, but before that, when he was a brand-new padawan fresh from the horrors and traumas of Bandomeer, she had stood in this kitchen and cooked for him. She understood that he wasn't ready to talk about what happened with the bomb collar and undersea mines and the brand on Obi-Wan's arm, or about Xanatos and how heartbroken Master Qui-Gon was, what a poor excuse of a consolation prize Obi-Wan himself was compared to the ideal of that other boy, how embarrassing it was to require comforting when he was already thirteen, finally a padawan, so she had spared him--and his master, for that matter--by cooking for them and feeding them.

Her ghost still permeated this kitchen; not like a Sith infused their essence into a holocron or other object in days of yore, when there were still Sith in the galaxy, but more like a comfort blanket draped over everything. Guide me, Master Tahl. I still need you, Obi-Wan suppressed a prayer. She was one with the Force, no longer stuck minding hopelessly inadequate failed padawans like himself. Obi-Wan had no right to disturb her peace.

Good, Obi-Wan had everything he needed, as a quick check of the freezer proved. Fillet of cod was one of Master Qui-Gon's favorites. Fresh spinach, big yellow and red paprikas, plenty of rice, onions, tomatoes, raisins, parsley, pine nuts. Olive oil, black pepper, nuna broth powder, bay leaves, sage, thyme, marjoram, cooking wine. Obi-Wan wouldn't need to slip out to one of the rather disreputable markets near the Temple.

First things first. Obi-Wan measured out one cup of rice. Master Qui-Gon preferred brown rice, so he would use that. Obi-Wan poured the cup of rice into the metal inner pot of the rice cooker, washed the rice once–he only needed to wash brown rice once because there was no talcum powder, unlike white rice –and added water, just to the groove on the inner pot. He selected the “brown rice” function and now he could focus on the rest of the meal.

Obi-Wan washed the spinach but didn't bother to cut it, aside from cutting off the root. This side dish was quick and easy, so much so that it was one of the first dishes Obi-Wan had mastered, so that he started making it for Master Tahl when she was in the anemic part of the month. Even Bant acquired a taste for it, as Master Tahl’s padawan living with her and sharing meals with her. 

As Obi-Wan added black pepper, cooking wine–just a teaspoon–and a teaspoon of olive oil, don't forget the half teaspoon of powdered garlic, to the skillet before folding in the spinach, dusting the top with more black pepper and another teaspoon of olive oil, putting the lid on the skillet and turning on the stove, he thought about how Bant must be grieving, too. Master Tahl was HER master, after all. Maybe she wouldn't want to see Obi-Wan or receive dishes that stirred up memories, but Obi-Wan didn't know how else to apologize to a girl who was somewhere between a best friend and a sister. 

While the spinach was cooking (three minutes, then start turning the leaves over with a spatula), he would prepare the pilaf. Raisins and pine nuts didn't need to be processed, so he measured out a quarter cup of each and turned his attention to the celery he had almost forgotten. He had already used the leaves for something else, but he still had plenty of stalk. Obi-Wan cut about 15 cm of stalk, putting the rest away, and washed and diced the celery, adding it to the bowl where he was keeping the other ingredients that were already ready.

Ah, the spinach. He lifted off the lid and stirred the spinach around for a minute or so before turning off the heat. It was important not to overcook spinach. Master Tahl had taught him exactly what shade of green the spinach should be. No army green spinach in this house, she had admonished, smirking playfully, tossing her long twists. 

Obi-Wan separated out a portion to put in tupperware to take to Bant, and added the pine nuts, raisins, and celery to the skillet without washing it. Don't waste good nutrients, Master Tahl had said. He put in liberal shakes of sage (maybe a teaspoon total?), thyme, marjoram, more black pepper, and powdered garlic, and a bay leaf before adding the nuna broth powder and tablespoon of olive oil. The beauty of doing things this way was that he was cleaning up and cooking at the same time, so that he wouldn't have a big mess at the end. 

Obi-Wan cored two large tomatoes and tore them into little pieces with his hands, right over the skillet. The trick was to choose tomatoes ripe enough to do this. It was the tomatoes that needed to fall apart, not Obi-Wan.

And now for the onion. Just one large one would do. Otherwise he would cry too much, even if it was nice to be able to blame the onion. He cut it into quarters first, before tearing off the brown outer skin. This approach made it easier to be precise with the cuts he made to remove the core, saving more of the onion in the process. That just left dicing the onion and adding it to the skillet with about a cup of water, medium heat, for about 15 minutes, or until the rice was ready. 

While he was waiting, he would wash and tear the parsley to add at the end, and prepare the paprikas, one red and one yellow. Obi-Wan rinsed the paprikas and picked up the fruit knife that was the first knife Master Tahl had given him. With a practiced hand, he removed a circle at the top, cutting off the seeds, but keeping the rest of the top as a lid. Once he removed all the seeds from the paprikas, they would be ready. He might as well start thawing the cod while he waited for the rice to finish. 

Don't cheat with salt, Padawan. He could still hear Master Tahl's voice in his memory. If you take proper care, you shouldn't need much salt. Although Qui's cooking is so bad that salt can't save it. It's not his fault, though, his master didn't learn to cook either, because Qui's grand-master was Master Yoda, and frog and twig stew served with swamp scum just doesn't work for humans. He could still hear her wistful laugh. 

Ah, the rice cooker beeped. Obi-Wan reached for the kitchen mitten Master Tahl had made in his colors and brought the inner pot to the work area next to the stove top to scoop the cooked rice out of the inner pot and into the skillet. He mixed in the rice and put the lid back on for a few minutes while he washed the inner pot to put away. It was good to let the broth seep into the rice, anyway.

He lifted the lid again to start stirring the pilaf stuffing, using the wooden paddle that came with the rice cooker. A Jedi does not complain about the heat while cooking, and all that, but he definitely appreciated the kitchen mitten. Light blue and brick red were his favorite colors, and Master Tahl had reflected that in the kitchen mitten she had made for his use. 

Once the pilaf was ready, it was time to stuff the paprikas. A long-handled kaff spoon was good for this, for getting the paprikas absolutely full. Obi-Wan put the lids back onto the stuffed paprikas, put them into a fairly deep plexiglass serving bowl, added three cups of water, and put the paprikas into the microwave to steam for 15 to 20 minutes.

That left plenty of time to store leftover pilaf in tupperware, wash out the skillet, and make one more dish to take to Bant. It felt rude to only have leftovers to present, after all. It wasn't that Bant needed him to cook for her, since she had lived with Master Tahl and seen her cooking all the time, but food was love and Bant would understand. 

But before he could rummage about for the ingredients he had in mind, Obi-Wan felt Master Qui-Gon approaching. He would be home early today from his Ataru class. Obi-Wan shifted to setting the table and preparing the cod instead. Powdered garlic, black pepper, basil, oregano, and thyme in cooking wine (one tablespoon) and a drizzle of olive oil set the stage for the now-thawed fish. The fish didn't need more than 5 minutes anyway, certainly not on high heat. 

The microwave beeped as well, so Obi-Wan was able to have everything dished up and on the table, the kitchen clean, by the time Master Qui-Gon walked in the front door. He seemed lost in thought until the smell of the food registered. Master Qui-Gon lifted an eyebrow in inquiry. 

“It's on the table.” Obi-Wan wouldn't say more than that as he waited for Master Qui-Gon to wash up and come to the table, set for two but with a third placemat. HER placemat. 

The two Jedi ate in silence, neither willing to say anything about Master Tahl, since that would reek of attachment, but content to each wallow in private reverie. Obi-Wan thought of the joint missions in which the four of them had posed as a civilian family, the thrill of being able to call Master Tahl “Mum” in public as part of their cover, how much fun he had teasing Bant just enough to provide Master Qui-Gon with an excuse to say, “Be nice to your sister.” It wouldn't be the same without Master Tahl.

Master Qui-Gon appeared to be very focused on cutting open his paprika, knocking it down, and scooping up pilaf. He even held onto the stem and ate the lid, closing his eyes as the yellow paprika flesh fell away from the stem and into his mouth. Obi-Wan knew just how soft Master Qui-Gon liked his paprikas. 

When the food was all gone, Master Qui-Gon leaned back in his seat and flashed his sad smile. “That was good, padawan.” Just like when she made these dishes, went unsaid.

Obi-Wan bowed his head at the praise and set to work cleaning up. Washing up was a nice, mindless activity, perfect for a moving meditation. That was the first time in a long time that Master Qui-Gon had smiled at Obi-Wan in any capacity. Maybe, just maybe, Obi-Wan wouldn't be repudiated. At least, not for this.

Chapter Text

It wasn't too late yet tonight. Obi-Wan realized that he could still make his extra dish to take to Bant. There was still cabbage, dried kelp, krill, soy sauce, cooking wine, sugar, and powdered fish broth on hand, even thin fried tofu. Perfect. Maybe Master Fisto would like it too, possibly with beer. 

Obi-Wan liked Master Fisto, had happy memories of swimming class with him, but he wasn't Master Tahl, even if he was now Bant’s master. Besides, he tended to parade around shirtless and he was inconveniently sexy in a way that one didn't want to notice in the parent figure of one's sort-of sibling. 

Anyway. Focus on the present, Obi-Wan told himself as he added a tablespoon each of soy sauce and cooking wine, half a teaspoon of sugar, a shake of powdered fish broth, and a large tablespoon of krill to the skillet. He cut the kelp into thin strips, not waiting for it to rehydrate after a quick dunk in water, and added this to the skillet as well, with about a half cup of water. 

Obi-Wan turned on the stove, set it to low heat, and started to wash and cut the cabbage. He knew Bant liked this dish because it was one of Master Tahl's recipes, that she had created specifically to please both the Mon Cal and human palate. Hence the krill and the kelp.

He added the cabbage and turned the heat back up, putting on the lid for about five minutes. Once the cabbage started to lose its crisp rawness he would remove the lid and let some of the liquid boil off. Oh dear. He almost forgot the drizzle of sesame oil. 

As soon as he was satisfied with the dish, he picked out one of Master Tahl's tupperware containers. He wouldn't return ALL of them to Bant; he needed to feel like this was still Master Tahl's second kitchen. This sort of thing was subtle enough to get away with, yes.

Obi-Wan wrapped the two tupperware containers in a large cloth and headed down the hallway of the residential part of the Temple to Bant’s new quarters. Orphaned padawans moved in with their new masters, not the other way around. Perhaps it was for the best that Bant’s new quarters were Master Fisto’s apartment and thus wouldn't have so many memories. 

Master Fisto opened the door, smiled at Obi-Wan, and ushered him inside. “Bant's probably finished her homework and evening chores by now. We were just going to get settled in for our evening meditation. Come on in.”

At least Master Fisto was fully dressed. Obi-Wan nodded and flashed his version of Master Qui-Gon's sad smile. He made a beeline for the kitchen, knowing that Bant would come out of her room. 

“You made something, Obi?” Sure enough, Bant emerged from her room, subdued but stoic.

“One’s spinach and the other's cabbage.” Obi-Wan untied the large cloth on the kitchen counter, letting Bant and her new master see. Bant would recognize these dishes, even if Master Fisto didn't. 

“You know my favorites. You make them right, the way she did. Oh, Obi.” Bant clasped her old friend's hands. “Hey. I've got something for you. I'm allergic to honey and Master Fis–Kit,” she corrected herself, still getting used to having the privilege of using Master Fisto’s first name, “he's allergic to lemon, so the honey lemon jam is just sitting there. You don't go to the Halls of Healing when you should, so you should have the big jar.” Bant opened the cupboard under the kitchen sink and pulled out a large mason jar. 

You lost her too, went unsaid as she opened the jar for a sniff test. “It should still be good. It has cinnamon in it, too. The recipe is written on the laminated label. You need this more than I do.”

Obi-Wan joined in the sniff test. This potent jam had all the warming spices, especially ginger and cinnamon, honey for a sore throat, lemon for vitamin c. Master Tahl would add a teaspoon to a steaming hot mug of sapir tea whenever Obi-Wan or Master Qui-Gon had a cold and were too stubborn to go to the Halls of Healing. That was exactly the kind of mother-henning Obi-Wan already missed. 

“Thanks.” Obi-Wan surprised himself as much as Bant by launching a surprise hug. His sister understood. They would be all right. Eventually. Maybe.

Chapter Text

Satine sneezed as she entered the cave and started cussing under her breath, using Mando'a vocabulary unbefitting a duchess. Her day couldn't get any worse than this. Sniped at all morning, stung by an ultimately-harmless but still annoying drallfly in early afternoon, attacked by a highly-territorial crow later in the afternoon, then caught in a sudden downpour. At least she hadn't hit her head as she entered the cave. 

The only bright spot had been lunch, of course made by the younger of the two jetiise. Somehow he managed to create a plausible meal out of the random semi-food scraps they had been able to cobble together. He cooked dandelion leaves and grilled the small river fish that Satine couldn't even identify, and he had a sack of dry, round mochi to grill as the carbohydrate. The only thing missing was red hot chili sauce to make it properly Mandalorian. 

Satine wanted to dislike him, partly for political reasons, namely being convincing when she claimed to the Mandalorian public that she wasn't too close to the Republic and its Jedi enforcers, but mostly because he was so beautiful, so cute, so forlorn, that she wished he at least had a bad personality to help her keep from falling in love with him. That would be most inconvenient. But no, he had to be dutiful, serious, capable, kind, but also silly and funny, with just the right kind of snark to fit in with Mandalorian sensibilities. 

She was losing–no, had already lost, the battle to not fall head over heels. If it were just physical attraction, she could write him off as a chance hook up. She knew full well it was only a matter of time before she would ask if he were willing to get physical with her. The problem was that, whether he said yes or no, he already had her heart. The way to a Mandalorian woman's heart was through her stomach, apparently. 

There he was, adorable with his concerned frown. “Are you catching cold, your Grace?”

“I hope not.” The timing would be terrible, but part of her wanted to be ill if it meant he would take care of her. 

“Let me make you some honey lemon tea.” Confounded jetiise never had luggage but were somehow always prepared with their sponges and ear plugs and homemade marmalade. He had a small jar in a pocket, apparently. Satine could see that it was a family recipe. Master Qui-Gon didn't (shouldn't) cook, so Obi-Wan Kenobi must have had another jetii'buir.

“Your mother's recipe?” Satine asked as she sipped the tea. Curiosity killed the tooka, and all that. 

Obi-Wan’s sad little face scrunch was so cute she almost wanted to hug him as he fiddled with his padawan braid. “Uh, yes, from a certain point of view. My best friend's master.”

Satine noticed Master Qui-Gon's sad, droopy brows getting even droopier, even sadder. Aha. This person had been special to Master Qui-Gon as well. Satine put on her softest smile. “I appreciate you sharing something precious like that with me.”

“I was going to make dinner anyway.” Obi-Wan stopped fiddling with his braid and stood up. “Maybe I can bust out some of my provisions for a proper meal.”

Satine watched, interested, as he produced a small saucepan from inside his tabards, followed by a package of thin fried tofu and freeze-dried mixed vegetables. Satine saw that the package of vegetables promised carrot, shiitake mushrooms, lotus root, burdock, bamboo shoot, taro, and green beans. He added soy sauce, powdered fish broth, cooking wine, and sugar, no more than a teaspoon of each, partly because the freeze-dry process tended to concentrate flavors, but partly because he only had tiny bottles of each tucked into his obi. Three cups of purified water. 

Master Qui-Gon made a fire, setting up the stone “stove” for his jetii'ad to cook on, and counted out three round pieces of mochi to grill. Satine herself could do that part. 

It occurred to her that Obi-Wan cooking for her was his way of caretaking, of showing love. This thought made her smile, but it was bittersweet. He had never learned or never felt safe saying out loud how he felt, what someone meant to him. Maybe someday he would tell her “I love you” in words instead of through tofu. 

Given that cooking was his love language, perhaps if Satine made him a meal he would understand that she had already fallen in love with him. For that matter, she could reasonably say that she loved Master Qui-Gon as well, since he was Obi-Wan's jetii'buir, therefore HER buir–from a certain point of view. He was only eighteen, she was only nineteen, but she was already sure that she wanted to cook him something that said, “I wish I could ask you to marry me.”

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan sat in a daze, only vaguely aware of the battered army green wooly sofa he was occupying or the ugly macrame wall hangings surrounding him. This was the sitting room of the quarters he had shared with Master Qui-Gon for the past twelve years. Anakin was in class now, would get lunch with some of the other kids, leaving Obi-Wan alone. Any minute now, surely Master Qui-Gon would walk through that door and let out his sad rumbly laugh, saying it was all a mistake, but not apologizing for the worry and distress. 

Master Qui-Gon couldn't be gone. Not when Anakin needed him. Never mind whom or what Obi-Wan himself needed, it was Anakin who was important. But every time Obi-Wan reached for his padawan braid to toy with as a nervous habit, he would be reminded why and how it was missing. Master Qui-Gon wasn't going to knight him, not until the logistics of taking on Anakin made that a consideration. Obi-Wan still didn't feel like a REAL knight.

He was about to extract the “emergency” flask of tihaar from the folds of his inner tunic when the door opened. Obi-Wan had been too out-of-it to notice any Force-presences outside the door. “Master?” He stood up, still disoriented.

“I'm surprised I still have biometric access after all these years.” A tall, burly blond Jedi Obi-Wan didn't recognize stood in the front vestibule. This man looked about forty, and was also leaking grief in the Force, like Obi-Wan himself. 

“Uh, hello there?” Who are you? went unsaid.

“Oh, sorry, Knight Kenobi. You don't know me. I'm Feemor, Master Qui-Gon’s first padawan.” Feemor flashed a sad smile that looked just like Master Qui-Gon. 

“Before Xanatos,” both men found themselves saying in unison. This time Obi-Wan returned the sad smile. “Why don't you come in, have a seat, a cup of tea, maybe lunch, if you're not too busy.” Obi-Wan shook himself. It might help to have an ori'vod like this, someone who truly knew Master Qui-Gon. 

“Thank you, I think I will.” Feemor also shook himself as he came into the main part of the apartment, rubbing his blond crew cut as a nervous habit. “You have sapir?”

“What else?” Obi-Wan escalated to his sad chuckle. “And Master Tahl’s honey lemon marmalade if you have a sore throat.”

“That stuff is good in tea, good on toast, good with curry as chutney.” Feemor matched the sad chuckle. “I finally get to meet you. I spent most of the last fifteen years in the Outer Rim so I never got to meet you, but I did hear all about you. I'm sorry I wasn't around to be the older brother you probably could have used.”

“The mission comes first.” Obi-Wan shrugged, but inwardly it felt good to be acknowledged. “I hope what you heard about me was mostly good, or at least neutral?”

“Are you kidding me? Long before this whole Sith-killer business, I was hearing stories about your diplomatic successes, the menagerie of pathetic lifeforms you managed and rehomed, your prowess as a painter and singer, but above all tales of your culinary triumphs. On top of the stories about the wars and pirates and various disasters, of course. And that doesn't begin to cover the awe-inspiring fact that you're actually the first Mandalorian Jedi in centuries. When Master Qui-Gon took you on, I did a bit of research into you, in case Master Qui-Gon had taken on another Xanatos, in which case I wasn't sure I could pick up the pieces again, especially without Master Tahl.” Feemor closed his eyes as he inhaled the aroma of sapir tea. The sofa was just as he remembered it, as well. 

“He never did completely recover from Xanatos. Or Master Tahl. I don't want to do that to Anakin. He's got enough pressure and stress as it is, being the Chosen One, plucked from Tatooine at nine years old. I didn't find out about the pod race until later.” Obi-Wan kept meaning to contact Padme and get a coherent account of how Anakin ended up being in Master Qui-Gon's custody. The way Anakin told it was a confusing jumble and Master Qui-Gon probably wouldn't have been much clearer. 

“Tatooine? Huh. I spent so many years in the Outer Rim looking for my missing padawan but that's one of the few Outer Rim planets I haven't been to,” Feemor frowned into his tea.

“It's a sithspit planet. Zero out of five stars, do not recommend, in terms of a vacation spot. Twin suns, sand, and Hutts. That's about all there is. Oh, and Krayt dragons. No water, though.” Obi-Wan had stayed with the ship but hearing Anakin talk about the sand was enough. 

“Hutts, did you say?” Feemor shuddered. “Where there are Hutts, there are usually criminals of all kinds, but especially slavers.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes went wide. Slavers. Of course. Suddenly Anakin started to make more sense as a traumatized child. “You think your padawan ended up on the slave market?” Obi-Wan deflected from his own thought. That was something to ask Anakin about later. “It's not impossible. I've been rescued from slave markets plenty of times.” Never mind what kind of slave he was to be sold as. 

Feemor stared. “That–. That's not a normal padawanship. Bandomeer, Melida/ Daan, Jenna Zan Arbor, and New Apsolon I knew about. None of that was standard either, but I didn't know you were sold or nearly sold more than once.”

Obi-Wan rolled up his sleeve to his shoulder. “These are the most representative brands you see on Outer Rim slaves.”

“There are four brands on your bicep. From four different slave markets or corporate owners. I'm not surprised about the Offworld Mining, Co., one, but I didn't know about the others. They're not mining companies. Some of these are brothels. What was Master Qui-Gon doing when all this was happening to you?” Feemor did not bother to hide his alarm. 

“Busy following the Living Force.” Obi-Wan shrugged.

Feemor groaned. “As always. I brought a holoalbum of images of Master Qui-Gon from when he was young and some from his padawan years, but now I'm not sure if you’ll want the reminders. I also visited Master Dooku, and he's not taking it well at all. Master Qui-Gon was his most successful padawan.”

Obi-Wan quirked an eyebrow. “I never met my grand-master.”

Feemor groaned again. “No offense, but you're twenty-five, newly-orphaned, suddenly saddled with a traumatized child prodigy from the Outer Rim. You can't possibly manage alone. You need your lineage.”

Obi-Wan let out his sad chuckle again. “My aliit, in a Mandalorian sense.”

Before Feemor could say anything more, his stomach growled loudly, causing the two padawans of Qui-Gon Jinn to let their sad chuckles warm up into something happier. “That is NOT what I was going to say.”

Obi-Wan got up. “Let me make lunch. Cooking for someone is a pleasant meditation. I do enjoy cooking for Anakin, and I think he appreciates it. More privacy than the refectory.”

“If you insist. Do you mind if I give myself the grand tour of the apartment, to lose myself in reverie?” Feemor also stood up, having finished his tea. 

“Oh, go ahead.” Obi-Wan knew what it was to need to wallow. He wouldn't begrudge his vod that.

Obi-Wan measured out a cup of rice to start the rice cooker, then rummaged through the cooling unit. Bok choy, imitation crab sticks, and smooth tofu made a good dish, but here was some baby bok choy. Ah, here was another stir-fry possibility, in the form of brown beech mushrooms, carrot, onion, leek, snow peas, broccoli, baby corn, celery, and shrimp. That would be the main dish. Baby bok choy would do as a side. 

He washed the baby bok choy but didn't bother to cut free each individual leaf. There was no need. Obi-Wan added powdered garlic, powdered ginger, fish broth powder–a shake of each–and two shakes of five spice before adding a teaspoon each of cooking wine and soy sauce, then a tablespoon of sesame oil. He turned the stove on high heat, then added the baby bok choy before putting the lid on the skillet. He might need to add sesame oil when he started stirring the baby bok choy after about two minutes.

Sometimes he added shiitake mushrooms, but today he didn't have any on hand, so krill would have to do, probably a sprinkling once the baby bok choy was cooked and moved to a serving plate. Four large stalks/ bulbs should be enough for two adults. 

Obi-Wan next turned his attention to the other dish. He washed the carrots, not peeling them before cutting them into wedges, then the celery, also cut diagonally, the baby corn, the brown beech mushrooms mostly needed to be washed and cut off the root, and he could cheat with frozen broccoli.

At this point he opened the lid on the baby bok choy, added a drizzle of sesame oil, and started stirring the vegetable for another two minutes or so before turning off the heat, carefully lifting the vegetable with his spatula, and transferring to a serving dish. A liberal sprinkling of krill completed the dish. 

Obi-Wan added another shake each of the powdered spices to the same skillet, a drizzle each of cooking wine and soy sauce, and a cup of water. He dumped the brown beech mushrooms, celery, and carrots into the skillet to make room on the cutting board. Cut the onion into large chunks, avoiding the core, cut up the leek, and shell the snow peas. He added the frozen broccoli and shrimp once the onion turned translucent, and the dish was done after seven to ten minutes. Sometimes he added arrowroot powder to get a thicker sauce, but today he wanted a lighter finish.

Meanwhile Feemor had inspected the fresher, which was never this spotless before, and the padawan bedroom where he himself had lived. There were droid parts in a medium-sized pile on the floor, relegated to a corner. The current occupant of this room must not be the hyper-organized, spic-and-span type. Xanatos wasn't messy but he wasn't overly tidy either. 

That just left the master bedroom. Obi-Wan was clearly the obsessively tidy type, judging by this room. The bed looked like it belonged at a five-star hotel, the way it was perfectly made, and everything was spotless, perfectly organized, even the closet–except. Feemor's eye went to a battered apron draped over what appeared to be an old burlap bag. Was this something of Master Qui-Gon's, maybe a favorite poncho? 

Feemor found himself lifting off the apron and opening the burlap bag. To his dismay he found a collection of half-empty bottles of hard alcohol. Master Qui-Gon had never had much taste for alcohol. Obi-Wan was a Mandalorian, born on the poor backwater planet of Stewjon. That was a hard-drinking culture. Feemor frowned. Obi-Wan needed better coping tools than this. 

Anyway. Feemor shook himself back into the present, replaced the items he had moved, and rejoined Obi-Wan in the living/ dining/ kitchen portion of the apartment. “The food smells good. Is that one of your secret weapons as a diplomat? You cook for people and mind-trick them into solving their problems? I've also heard that you sing like a bird and can mind-trick people through song.” Feemor wasn't teasing his padawan-brother. Not really.

Obi-Wan let out his sad laugh. “Maybe I should have made lasagna for the Sith assassin who went after Master Qui-Gon and me, should have sung him a song. More orthodox methods failed, after all.”

“I didn't mean it like that.” Feemor frowned and held out his hands in apology. 

Before either of them could say anything more, Obi-Wan's comm went off. He wasn't thinking clearly as he let the holocall connect and the blue figure of a woman flickered to life. Feemor knew he hadn't met her, but she seemed familiar, perhaps from news footage. 

“How are you feeling, cyare?” The woman addressed Obi-Wan, loving concern permeating every syllable. “I'm not a jetii so you don't have to pretend that losing your buir doesn't affect you.”

Before Obi-Wan could dismiss her concerns, Feemor stepped into the frame. “He's struggling. He has a stash of hard alcohol in his bedroom closet and the bottles aren't full. I can see he's sober right now, but drinking is a dangerous coping strategy. Is there anything you can do for him?” Feemor didn't even know this woman, barely knew Obi-Wan, yet he found himself talking to her like this. 

“This is Feemor. I just found out today that he was Master Qui-Gon's first padawan,” Obi-Wan supplied, happy to have something other than himself to talk about. Master Plo knew about Satine and the twins, but most Jedi did not–for obvious reasons. 

“Nice to meet you, Ori'vod Feemor. You're my big brother then, too, since you're Ben’s brother.” Satine smiled until something outside of the range of the holocall caught her attention. “Bo! Put that down, it's dangerous! Stop trying to wrestle your brother. Be nice to Korkie.”

In the next moment Feemor stared as two children appeared in the frame. Both of them looked suspiciously like Obi-Wan in the face. The blue holoprojection made it impossible to see colors, but it seemed possible that these children had light hair and eyes like Obi-Wan. Feemor eyed Obi-Wan, eyebrow raised. 

“All right. I'll admit to it. My wife and children.” Obi-Wan pinched the top of the bridge of his nose. “She reached out to me while I was still in Theed, right after it happened, told me about the twins. She also offered to adopt Anakin in the event that the Council rejected him and I had to leave the Order to train him. Because the Jedi braiding ceremony binding master to padawan is legally equivalent to Mandalorian adoption according to the laws of the Mandalorian system, so that Anakin is technically my son on Mandalore.”

“Any children my husband adopts become my children as well.” Satine squeezed Bo in a tight hug, foiling her daughter's attempt to pinch her son. 

“Master?”

Obi-Wan turned around and saw Anakin standing in the sitting room, still holding his holobooks. Had his afternoon classes been canceled, or had he been excluded from the other kids’ friend groups at lunch? 

“And there he is, your jetii'ad.” Satine smiled. “Hello there.”

“She wants to be my new mom? But I already have one back on Tatooine. Mister Qui-Gon didn't have enough wupi-wupi to buy her, too, so we had to leave her behind with Watto.” Anakin sniffed.

“Watto? Who’s Watto?” Obi-Wan asked, getting a distinctly bad feeling. 

“My owner before you. He still owns Mom.”

Obi-Wan groaned. “I don't own you. I'm responsible for you, for your welfare and education, but I don't own you. I should have known you had been a slave. You don't have the scars that I do, so I dismissed the possibility.” Why didn't you tell me, Master, that Anakin was a slave? Didn't you remember what that was like for me? That kind of trauma needs to be addressed as soon as possible. 

“Your mother is still a slave?” Satine was horrified. She had heard Obi-Wan's stories of Bandomeer, had been quietly involved in slave liberation herself, tracking down enslaved Mandalorian citizens. No Mandalorian could bear to be in chains, and any Mandalorian who sold a fellow Mando’ad into slavery was dar’manda. “We've got to get her out.”

Feemor's head was reeling from all these revelations, but he still picked up something familiar about Anakin's Force-presence. That was strange, since he had never met a slave boy from Tatooine before. Tatooine. He still hadn't been there in his search for his padawan. She had gone missing about a decade ago; Anakin Skywalker was nine years old. Was it possible? 

“Your scars?” Anakin was frowning at his master. 

“Whip scars, bomb collar scars.” Obi-Wan admitted, loosening his tunic at the neck to allow Anakin to see the bomb collar scar. 

“What about the scar from having your detonator out? Or do you still have it in your body?” Anakin asked, clearly nervous about having this surgery himself. “Did it hurt? Did you have painkillers?”

Now Obi-Wan frowned. “I never had a detonator. The bomb collar serves the same function, and my owner chose that option. If you have a detonator, we need to take it out. I'm sorry. If I had known, I would have seen to it right away.”

“Who's that boy?” Little Korkie asked, pointing at Anakin.

“That's Ori'vod Anakin. Daddy's jetii'ad,” Satine cooed.

Obi-Wan wasn't sure he wanted Anakin to know already about Obi-Wan's Mandalorian family, but if he had trouble making friends at the Temple, having younger siblings on Mandalore might help. “Anakin is three years older than you and Bo, Korkie.”

Anakin smiled at the idea of a little brother and sister. And this lady who wanted to be his new mom seemed nice. Maybe he could use a backup mom, like a ship often had a backup engine. 

“You said your mother is on Tatooine, right?” Satine addressed Anakin directly. “If it's wupi-wupi you need, we'll figure out a way.”

Feemor fished out his datapad and showed Anakin an image of his missing padawan. “I'm looking for this person. She was my padawan but she was captured and probably enslaved.”

“That's Mom.” Anakin remarked, matter-of-fact. “I can tell you where to find her. But maybe you should ask my friend Aayla’s master to help. He goes to Tatooine a lot, and brings back little treats from home for me. Aayla brings them to class.”

“Quinlan Vos,” Obi-Wan supplied, for Feemor's benefit. “I've known him for more than twenty years. And if we can't do it as a Jedi mission, my wife can make it a Mandalorian operation, if she's the one officially requesting Jedi assistance to recover enslaved Mandalorians, and we include your mother in that.” Obi-Wan stroked the stubble on his chin. 

Feemor grinned. “Now that's Master Qui-Gon's padawan. He would come up with a scheme like that. If the gambit costs too many credits and Mandalore can't afford it, we get Master Dooku involved. He's got access to family wealth on Serenno. Master Dooku is struggling with losing Master Qui-Gon, too. He might benefit from a project like this, as a lineage bonding exercise.”

“Who is Master Dooku?” Satine asked. The name was vaguely familiar. 

“My jetii'ba'buir. He was involved on Galidraan.” Obi-Wan winced. Galidraan. That was a sore spot for all Mandalorians, of course, but it especially hurt as a Mandalorian Jedi, all the more so with members of his own jetii'aliit involved.

“I remember now. Maybe you should invite him to dinner, food-trick him into doing something positive for the galaxy.” Satine suggested.

“Speaking of food. Have you eaten, Anakin?” Obi-Wan asked. He needed to know if he would need to make more food. 

“I ate with Aayla. But only one of my afternoon classes was canceled, so I should get back.” Now he had something exciting to share with Aayla. Anakin was a Jedi like his mother before him.

“Uncle Feemor and I hadn't eaten yet.” Obi-Wan remembered, surprising himself by using a family title–from the kids’ perspective, no less–on his padawan-brother. Anakin could use an Uncle Feemor. So could Bo and Korkie. “And I'll contact Master Che about having your detonator out.”

There was no time to wallow in suppressed grief. Not when there were positive things he could do to further Master Qui-Gon's legacy, to make the galaxy a better place. But one couldn't fight on an empty stomach. Luckily, Obi-Wan had already put a nice meal on the table. He might have to warm it up, but it was ready.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan braced himself. The Halls of Healing meant dealing with Master Che, who was one of the few people in the galaxy who could genuinely frighten him. A lot of that was because of a certain Dr. Zan Arbor, but Master Che herself was plenty terrifying even without prior medical trauma. 

But the patient this time was Anakin, not Obi-Wan himself, although he might end up agreeing to renew some vaccinations in order to encourage Anakin to get his own shots. The boy had no medical records of any kind, no citizenship anywhere. The “handmaiden” Padme might be possible to guilt into granting Anakin Naboo citizenship, as one of the heroes who saved her regime during the invasion. No, he wouldn't need to manipulate her. She would probably be easy to convince, since she had a kind heart like Satine.

Here we are, the reception area of the Halls of Healing. “We’re here for a scheduled surgery, for my padawan, Anakin Skywalker.” Obi-Wan addressed the padawan-healer manning the front desk. 

“Oh yes, you're in the system. Master Che will come get you. And say, aren't you the knight in the ‘Wanted’ poster behind me?” The Pantoran boy eyed Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan grumbled. “I know, I know, there's several booster shots I've missed, and that I've missed my annual physical five years in a row, but I'm twenty-five and healthy. But I do understand why I'm supposed to get those things, so we can talk about scheduling later.” Obi-Wan realized that he needed to set a good example, and that his offspring needed him to survive. 

Anakin was giggling now, nerves gone. The scary blue Twi'lek lady who always stuck him full of needles was also going to take his detonator chip out. And she explained the needles, too. There were a lot of horrifying diseases in the galaxy, and Jedi were constantly coming and going, often on missions taking them to planets with underdeveloped public health infrastructure. It would be easy for them to carry diseases everywhere. Jedi were all species, genders, and ages, too. A Twi’lek Jedi might be immune to diseases that could kill Togrutas, for example, so it made sense to inoculate all Togruta Jedi in case they came into contact with someone or something carrying those diseases. The shots were designed to keep Anakin safe from diseases that affected humans. 

While they sat and waited, Obi-Wan and Anakin looked at the cooking holomags together, planning the meal to celebrate the detonator extraction. Buir Obi-Wan didn't need any convincing or explaining to understand why Anakin's detonator being removed was a big emotional moment. He was a freedman himself, he understood viscerally, literally at gut level. It felt so much better to have something other than “Master” to call him, too. Not many other Jedi knew any Mando'a, which was wizard. Just as Anakin was bilingual–Huttese and Basic–so was Buir Obi-Wan, but with Mando'a and Basic, plus extra languages like Ryl. Aayla understood Ryl.

Before they could solidify the celebratory dinner menu, Master Che herself appeared in the waiting area. “Follow me. Examination Room Aurek.”

The room was larger than Obi-Wan had anticipated; it had been a long time since he had been here. A long time. The equipment seemed different as well. Master Che must have succeeded in getting more of the budget allocated to updating the Halls. Being feared had its uses. 

“First we scan you to see details of where the detonator is. I know it's in your right thigh, but I need to see more detail than that. Once I've seen what I'm dealing with, we’ll put you under, and I'll take that thing out. You’ll wake up a couple hours after I've sewn you back up again, assuming the situation doesn't allow for laparoscopy. If it does, the recovery will be even quicker. We have plenty of bacta, anyway. You might have to spend a night with your leg dunked in bacta. I'll keep you informed every step of the way.” Master Che went over the process with her patients.

So far it didn't sound too bad. Obi-Wan allowed himself to hold on to hope that he wouldn't have to postpone the dinner too long. 

“This is the scanner. I'll have to ask you to change into this gown, and make sure you're not wearing anything metallic.” Master Che handed Anakin a small teal garment. This way they wouldn't have to worry about forgotten droid parts in his pockets. 

“There it is!” Anakin's eyes were wide with wonder. They didn't have to guess, or worse, cut him open without anesthetic and root around in there, like they would on Tatooine. The detonator was embedded, with scar tissue developed around it, right at a spot that sometimes hurt when there was a sandstorm coming. The placement made sense. 

“This shouldn't be too hard to remove. Unless you have a bad reaction to the anesthetic, you should be able to go home by evening. I know you're planning a dinner to celebrate.” Master Che smiled. “Meanwhile Kenobi here needs to be examined himself. We can wait on the booster shots, because we don't want Anakin to get the diseases we'd inoculate you against, at least not while he's recovering from surgery. But the ‘Wanted’ poster stays up.”

Anakin let his Force presence slam into Obi-Wan's in an overly-enthusiastic Force-hug. Surgery and the Halls of Healing wouldn't be too scary as long as he had Buir Obi-Wan with him, and the medical procedures his buir would be having made a nice excuse for his presence, that didn't make Anakin look too much like a baby. 

“Right. I'll let you change–you too, Kenobi, here's yours–and I'll take you to the treatment room area.” Master Che set a timer for five minutes and left the room. 

Obi-Wan realized that he had never stripped in front of Anakin before. Now that Anakin knew about the bomb collar, the tooka was out of the bag. Obi-Wan focused on getting out of his robes, down to his boxer briefs. Sure enough, Anakin's gaze cataloged the scars on Obi-Wan's body, then the brands. Anakin's expression clouded as he seemed to recognize some of the logos branded onto Obi-Wan's arm. Tatooine was a hardship planet, of course, such that many of the slaves there had been sold and traded many times already, with Tatooine a final destination, a knacker’s yard of sorts. 

“You boys ready?” Master Che’s voice was never blatantly friendly, but no one expected it to be anyway. 

“More or less.” Obi-Wan helped Anakin with the hidden strings to close his gown. The door opened and Master Che came back in, ushering master and padawan back out into the hallway, leading them to their next destination. “Here we are, Skywalker, you climb onto this gurney. The injection might hurt a little at the point of entry, but you'll be asleep fairly quickly.”

By the time Anakin's surgery was finished and he woke up again, Obi-Wan had been through a blood test, urine test, vision test, hearing test, blood pressure test, height and weight check, chest x-ray, and electrocardiogram. At twenty-five he wasn't required to drink barium for a stomach cancer screening and the healers would leave his prostate alone. “See? That wasn't so bad,” Master Che had smirked.

“We dunk your leg in bacta now. Your master can go prepare your celebratory meal, maybe tell your friends to come see you.” Master Che patted Anakin on the shoulder. 

“I'd like to see Aayla. If she can come.” Her master was probably on Tatooine right now with Uncle Feemor.

Obi-Wan was already changed back into his usual clothes, ready to go. He also needed to plan a dinner for Master Dooku. Even aside from asking him to fund Feemor, Quinlan, and Satine's slave liberation gambit, Feemor had said that Master Dooku was also grieving Master Qui-Gon. 

“Oh, before I forget. I brought the holoalbum of our lineage for you to enjoy while you're in bacta.” Obi-Wan handed the item to Master Che to put on a small table in front of Anakin. “And remember that if you need the fresher, the IV stand comes with you. Press the nurse call button if you need anything.” Obi-Wan reminded. Don't make a mess trying to escape in a traumatized panic like I did. 

Once Obi-Wan was back in their quarters by himself, he checked on the lentils he had been soaking. Good, they would be ready. He replaced the water one more time before starting the cooking. Master Tahl's spinach, of course, Master Qui-Gon's favorite cod dish, a cucumber yogurt mint leaf salad that was similar to tzatziki, and the main attraction was red lentil soup, with carrots, tomatoes, onions, celery, and parsley. 

Obi-Wan started thawing the fish as the first step, cutting up the cucumber into small wedges, tearing the mint leaves into little pieces, and adding them to a bowl containing plain yogurt. This part was quick and easy, as was the spinach and cod. 

By the time the spinach was done and the two side dishes safely stashed in the cooling unit, the fish was thawed enough for Obi-Wan to pick out two fillets and return the rest to the freezer. Now it was time for the soup. Obi-Wan diced the onions, carrots, and celery–one onion, two carrots, half a stalk–and added them to a pot. He added the powdered garlic, marjoram, cumin, basil, oregano, sage, and thyme, not forgetting the bay leaf, powdered nuna broth, or teaspoon of cooking wine and pinch of salt. 

Now he could strain the lentils and add them, bringing the soup to a boil, then turning it down to low heat and adding the olive oil, just a teaspoon. Slow-cooking would take care of the rest. He would cook the fish once Anakin came home. 

Meanwhile Anakin was poring over the holoalbum. He recognized pictures of Mister Qui-Gon, of course, and even childhood images of Buir Obi-Wan, and Uncle Feemor. There were some of the Chief Archivist with her arm around a dark-haired male Jedi wearing an impressive black cape. According to the caption, this was Master Dooku about thirty years ago. It was wizard to be able to claim all these people as family. Anakin had always wanted a grandma. There were even images of Mister Qui-Gon with his arms around a beautiful Jedi lady with green striped eyes, chocolate skin, and long black twists. Her full, round lips were puckered up as if she were about to kiss Mister Qui-Gon. This was Master Tahl Uvain, according to the caption. There were other images of Mister Qui-Gon and Master Windu goofing around together as young boys, and images of a beautiful young man with black hair–Xanatos Du Crion, according to the caption. Here was Buir Obi-Wan as a teenage boy, a blonde girl wrapped around him. The girl was familiar–oh. Duchess Satine of Mandalore, Buir Obi-Wan's wife.

The people in the images seemed happy together, and blatantly familial. There was nothing stuffy or cold about them. Anakin relaxed. 

In the evening Obi-Wan returned to the Halls of Healing to pick up Anakin. He would probably have to answer questions about the holoalbum, but that was all right. It felt lighter, freer, to have so few secrets from his padawan. 

Obi-Wan found Master Plo in Anakin's recovery room, explaining the holoalbum, explaining attachment. For a moment Obi-Wan braced himself, well aware of his lineage’s reputation, but what Master Plo was saying wasn't what Obi-Wan had feared. Sure, Master Plo knew the secret of Obi-Wan's wife and children, but that didn't mean he would paint Obi-Wan's family situation in a positive light, as a role model to emulate. Cautionary tale, perhaps. But no, Master Plo was talking about a difference between gentle, respectful love, and dangerously obsessive attachment. Obi-Wan listened to the explanation, not interrupting, glad to finally have a coherent theory. 

“Ah, Obi-Wan is here.” Master Plo stood up and smoothed his tabards when he reached a natural break. Of course he had felt Obi-Wan's approach. “Come along, Aayla. You're staying with me while your master is away.”

Obi-Wan smiled at his padawan's friend and Master Plo as they left, then knelt beside Anakin's bed. Anakin was sitting up in bed, one leg dangling off the end and dunked in bacta. “Find out all of our family secrets?”

“Yup. Uncle Plo explained everything. It was wizard!” Anakin grinned.

Master Che discharged the patient and the two of them returned home to the quarters that used to be Master Qui-Gon's. Obi-Wan started cooking the fish, serving the rest of the food and setting the table in the meantime. Once they were both seated and the meal underway, Anakin remarked, “it's not Mom's, but it still tastes like home, like family.”

Chapter Text

Kalevala was a good place to hide rescued slaves, especially Kryze Hall. Of course it was her ancestral residence, with many bedrooms and a large kitchen from the days when the Duke had servants, but those features were also useful for a shelter. Certainly the bounty hunter she had hired–exclusive contract–to help rescue slaves thought so. He had been a slave himself, was one of her first rescues, in fact. Letting him replenish his aliit through slave rescues was the least the New Mandalorian administration could do to compensate him for Galidraan. She never told her prime minister, either. Prime Minister Almec was a bit of a snob, not to mention a stuffed shirt. He wouldn't understand. Besides, Satine had read the Jedi account of Galidraan, thanks to Ben, and there were concerning discrepancies between Prime Minister Almec’s account of his role and what the Jedi report said. 

“Alor Fett. I'm getting the jetiise involved in this new round of rescues.” Satine told the bounty hunter. The Queen of Naboo was also involved, but that was a secret. 

“Good to know. Because you know how I feel about jetiise. I wanted to make them pay.” Jango sighed. This wasn't what he had in mind, but slave rescue was important enough to him that he could accept it. Alor Kryze had found a way to make the jetiise pay–literally. Their labor and credits poured into causes he agreed with would have to do. 

“You know it's more complicated than ‘Mando’ade good, jetiise bad.’ My husband is both. There were Mandalorian traitors involved in Galidraan. We have to look at individuals. Anyway, we'll need to stock up on ingredients, in order to feed the rescues when they come through here.” Like Satine herself finally got to feed Ben during that year on the run, as a culinary marriage proposal. Like she fed Jango himself to recruit him. 

“They eat our food, then become slave liberation operatives themselves. Spreading the movement one meal at a time.” Jango hadn't anticipated this part of the process, hadn't realized that it had been successfully used on him, until he was already neck deep in Alor Kryze’s schemes. The food was too good for him to care. 

Satine smirked. She remembered that meal she had fed Jango at the start of her recruitment process. A dish little Korkie then called “shrimps and rice” was very nice. Seafood was the way, in Satine's experience.

A rice cooker made the cooking process easy. A half cup of rice per person, and while that was cooking she had prepared the other ingredients. She had diced one white turnip, a quarter stalk of celery, half an onion, a third of a leek, and six okra per person. Okra could be “shaved” or “defuzzed” by rubbing them with salt. Six cherry tomatoes per person, two good shakes of black pepper and powdered garlic, a pinch of salt, a drizzle of any plant-based cooking oil, a tablespoon of cooking wine, and a shake each of basil, oregano, and dried parsley into the skillet to start, stewed on medium heat for 10 minutes. During that time one just needed to devein the shrimp and rip off the shells, unless one had gotten lucky and found pre-shelled shrimp on sale. 

Then it was a matter of adding the shrimp to the skillet and waiting for the rice to be ready to add. Satine had mixed this concoction up and served it to Jango, making sure he had access to as much hot sauce as he needed. It was surprisingly easy to get him to help her track down Mandalorians held unfairly abroad and to liberate them reasonably peacefully. 

Really it was thanks to Ben and the access he granted her to Jedi accounts of Galidraan that she had known to look for Jango Fett in the first place. Once she had Jango, she had been able to identify other dispersed victims of Galidraan, including a few from the jetii side. A woman named Komari Vosa, who turned out to be part of Ben's aliit, could then be rescued from Baltizaar. She had been confused and rather violent, but “shrimps and rice” had helped her, too. Now she was part of Satine's slave liberation team, a sort of freelance jetii. A Mando'ad with twin jetii’kade could be very persuasive, even without having to use her sabers. 

In fact, “shrimps and rice” had been Satine's marriage proposal to Ben. Her chance had come when the three of them had found a mostly-abandoned tenement block during that year on the run, with access to modern cooking appliances. Master Qui-Gon had to set them up to “borrow” power from neighboring flats, then promptly left the two young people alone while he went to investigate a threat. 

Ben had an attack of the scruples about using the borrowed power, and seemed to be miserable with some kind of allergic reaction, possibly to pollen, so Satine had finally had a chance to cook for him. As he took his first bite, Satine had popped the question. Ben's look of surprise, confused alarm, and guilty joy was too cute as he said yes, with the understanding that the relationship would be long-distance. 

By the time Satine had washed up after dinner, Ben seemed to be feeling better. Well enough, anyway, to say the traditional Mandalorian wedding vows, but with the part about raising warriors changed to raising “guardians of the peace.”

Satine shook herself back into the present. She had food to cook, rescues to plot. Really she should cook for Ben again, to comfort him after the loss of his buir.

Chapter Text

Yan Dooku was lost in thought, busy debating with himself. His friend Senator Palpatine was now Supreme Chancellor, and he had implied that he had a lead regarding Master Sifo-Dyas’ disappearance, that he had uncovered a terrible secret that he didn't trust anyone else with, and had said Yan Dooku was welcome to visit anytime. As someone from Naboo, where Qui-Gon was killed by the first known Sith in centuries, he was a logical choice to lament to, since Yan couldn't show other Jedi the depth of his grief. 

But the Supreme Chancellor was busy, surely, and wouldn't have time to listen to a grieving old man vent. Yan Dooku was brought out of his reverie by a knocking on his door. He got up out of the easy chair, stretched, and answered it. 

“Yes?”

“Hello, Master Dooku. I'm Obi-Wan Kenobi. Master Qui-Gon's last padawan. I came to invite you to dinner. My–our–loss hit me hard. And I wanted to introduce my little padawan.”

Yan Dooku twitched his mustache in an almost-smile. “You want to do lineage-bonding. Come in, we can discuss scheduling.”

Obi-Wan let out his sad chuckle as he followed his jetii’ba’buir into the apartment. This was one of the small ones, designed for young solo knights or masters who didn't currently have padawans. Perhaps Master Dooku didn't want to take a new padawan after Komari.

The apartment was compulsively tidy, except for the holobooks. Here was a kindred spirit. Obi-Wan smirked a little as he took a seat on one of the heavy antique wooden chairs upholstered with damask. 

“So. You want to invite me to dinner. I'm frankly surprised. I thought you would want nothing to do with me. Qui-Gon kept me away from you. And there's the issue of Galidraan.” Yan Dooku sighed. “That mission remains my biggest regret. We needed to gather our own intelligence.”

“Well, yes, Galidraan does sting, even now. I wasn't there at the time–I was on Melida/ Daan, another nightmare mission gone wrong–but I've had to process Galidraan as someone whose personal background and identity encompass both the Jedi and Mandalorian sides. But I'm more or less a New Mandalorian. That's the best fit in terms of how to be a Mandalorian as a Jedi trained in diplomacy.” Obi-Wan wouldn't mention his wife. Not yet, anyway.

Master Dooku stroked his beard the way Master Qui-Gon did, the way Obi-Wan himself increasingly did as his beard grew in. “You've put a lot of thought into this.”

“Yes. I would imagine that you've put a lot of thought into balancing your Jedi identity with your heritage as a member of the Count of Serenno’s family. My new padawan came to us at nine years old, from Tatooine. He will need examples of how to integrate the various pieces of his life.” Obi-Wan matched the beard-stroking. 

Yan pondered this. He had left open the option of leaving the Order and returning to Serenno to claim the position of Count, if his siblings couldn't manage while his nephew was still too young. Konstanza could probably do a decent job as regent even if Yan’s nephew had to assume the mantle of Count before he was ready, but Yan needed the escape hatch. Tatooine wouldn't do as an escape hatch for in case the Jedi Order didn't work out for Obi-Wan's padawan. Oh. There was always Mandalore. Obi-Wan's Mandalorian citizenship would enable his padawan to build a life there if needs must. Perhaps for Yan himself–no. Not after Galidraan, not even as Obi-Wan's grandfather of a sort. 

“Hmm. Interesting. I would like to meet your boy. Would tonight be too soon? I'm afraid I'm a lonely old man with not much to do.” Yan could always go to the Archives; in fact, he did spend a lot of time there. But Jo was busy, on duty, and couldn't get away with spending all of her time in the rare volumes vault making out with him, or even just comforting him.

“No, it's not too soon. Do you have any food allergies or anything you don't like, or anything in particular you'd like me to make?” Obi-Wan asked. 

“My stomach is less tolerant of greasiness, richness, hot sauce, and too much salt and sugar as I age, but other than that, as long as you're cooking for the human palate and not Master Yoda's, it should be fine.” Master Dooku twitched his mustache a bit more, forgetting that Obi-Wan wouldn't recognize this as a smile.

Obi-Wan laughed outright. “If I invite Master Yoda I'll accommodate his needs, but no, I don't serve swamp scum or twig-and-frog stew to human visitors.”

“It's settled then. Seven thirty, Qui-Gon's quarters.” Yan Dooku proposed.

“All right. I’ll see you tonight.” With that Obi-Wan stood up, aware that he shouldn't wear out his grand-master at eleven in the morning. 

When Obi-Wan returned to his own quarters, he saw that he had a message from Satine. Discarded padawan turned Mandalorian bounty hunter Komari Vosa, slave rescue expert, had found a young woman around Obi-Wan's age who had been an orphaned Outer Rim padawan. Asajj Ventress had been given a few options: she could be a Mandalorian, perhaps as Komari's younger sister; or she could be sent to the temple on Coruscant for the jetiise to figure out what they could do for her. Either way, she needed to be fed in the short term. “If you do meet her, especially if she chooses to return to the Jedi, I need to warn you that she's stunningly gorgeous, drop dead sexy, responsible for more than one bisexual awakening.” Satine was smirking.

“Including yours, I presume. Welcome to the club.” Obi-Wan smirked back. Satine was one of the few people who knew this fact about Obi-Wan. It was largely irrelevant as a Jedi, which was why he didn't usually discuss it, but relevant for his marriage. Now Satine had finally figured out something about herself that Obi-Wan had long suspected. 

“What's happening today? Did Anakin get his detonator out?” Satine asked.

“He did, and is mostly recovered from the surgery. We're having ba’buir Dooku for dinner tonight, in case we need to charm him later into ponying up, if you can't afford our schemes.”

Satine smiled. “Tell him hello from me and from Komari. She doesn't hate him, has processed what happened to her. Jango got her out of a bad situation with that weird cult before she could Fall. She could still be a Jedi if it works out that way. Since you're proving that it's possible to be both Jedi and Mandalorian. We Mandalorians are in a legal grey area in terms of not being Republic subjects but still enjoying rights equivalent to Republic citizenship, so we can get away with things the Jedi usually can't, like liberating slaves in the Outer Rim. A few Republic politicians have been making private donations to the cause, glad that I can do what they can't. There are ways around bad rules and corrupt systems.”

“Master Dooku is sorry for Galidraan. He said so directly, knowing I'm Mandalorian, so it might not be hard to get him involved. He also admitted that he's lonely. I could see that he's grieving, too.” Obi-Wan stroked his beard. 

Meanwhile, Yan Dooku was finishing his lunch, alone again in the refectory. At least now he could look forward to dinner with Obi-Wan, but the afternoon was long and empty. Perhaps he could visit Supreme Chancellor Palpatine after all. 

He returned his lunch tray and made his way to the Senate building, glad that it wasn't too close, so that he could spend time walking. It would be best to be useful and productive, of course, but he didn't currently have any missions lined up. If the Council expected him to spend all this extra time at the Halls of Healing in grief counseling, they didn't know him at all. 

When Yan Dooku reached the Supreme Chancellor's office and announced himself to the droid, the door opened right away, as if he had been expected. That was nice. Yan followed the droid through the antechamber, noting the interesting statues and artifacts that weren't there under Finis Vallorum. This decor reminded Yan of some of his favorite vaults at the Archives, therefore pleasant times with Jo. He did miss Sifo, but Jo was also special. Yan was here to find out more about what had befallen dear Sifo, see if he might be brought home, yes.

The final set of doors opened and Sheev Palpatine stood up to welcome his visitor, indicating the red plush chair in front of his desk. As soon as the droid served tea and left them alone, the Supreme Chancellor steepled his fingers. Uh oh, bad news about Sifo.

“I'm afraid your friend Master Sifo-Dyas hasn't been seen lately. It was a false positive. Of course we'll keep looking. I'm sorry. I know that he was dear to you.”

You don't know the half of that, went unsaid. Jo wasn't the only person Yan enjoyed joint moving meditations with, after all. But it was generally prudent not to admit to having lovers as a Jedi, especially as a throuple. Civilians rarely understood. 

“I'm sorry to hear that. Sifo has been known to wander off, following some vision, then turn up later having discovered a new archaeological site. He's a bit of the absent-minded professor type, and we love him for it.” Yan limited his remarks, doing his best to stay positive, keeping calm. 

“I'm sorry I don't have more news, especially at a time like this, when you've already lost Master Jinn. He was your student, wasn't he?” Sheev Palpatine's look of gentle concern was such a comfort. 

“Yes, he was. I still miss him terribly. We didn't always get along, but he was still my boy, my padawan. I raised him.” It was nice to be able to talk about this with a non-Jedi who wouldn't rebuke him for attachment or try to clinicize natural grief. Obi-Wan understood, yes, but he had his own grief. 

“What if I told you that I know the secret of infinite power to change the galaxy in ways that the Senate and Jedi Order cannot, due to bureaucracy, and the power to defeat death, in the event Master Sifo-Dyas is found rather the worse for the wear. You need not lose him, too.” Sheev Palpatine had a slight smirk in the midst of a very serious expression. 

“I would require more details in order to make up my mind whether I believe that or whether you might have finally cracked under the pressure of your post.” Yan let both eyebrows rise. 

“Have you ever heard the Tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise?” Sheev Palpatine pressed.

Yan frowned. He had read all of the biographies of the well-known Sith of old, and he would have recognized the name if he had heard or read any such thing. “I don't remember there being anyone of that name.”

“I should think not. It's not a story the Jedi would tell.”

Meanwhile, Obi-Wan was busy planning the special dinner for three. Master Nu would know what Master Dooku liked, judging by the old pictures in the holoalbum Feemor had brought. “Surprise me” was the hardest request of all. A little of this, a little of that was the safest option. 

Obi-Wan washed and peeled two long thin stalks of burdock, glad for his roomy kitchen that made it not too inconvenient to work with stalks that could be three quarters of a meter in length. He cut the stocks down to three to five centimeters, soaking them in water as he prepared the boiling solution: a half cup of apple vinegar and two cups of water. He would work on the other dishes while he softened the burdock on medium heat. 

He washed and cut a white turnip into slivers, washing and cutting the leaves and stalks to cook separately, then turned his attention to the bamboo shoot. He had gotten a ready-shucked one that just needed to be cut, the white gunk washed out of the “shelves” inside, to be paired with snow peas that needed to be washed and shelled. That left the honey ginger stewed pumpkin and carrot shirishiri, in terms of little dishes. The rice and miso soup were straightforward enough, and that just left the yellowtail teriyaki. The more colorful the better. Purple eggplant might have been nice as well, but there was probably plenty of food already. 

Obi-Wan swore a little under his breath as he tried to cut the pumpkin quarter into bite-size pieces. Really it wasn't so much pumpkin as it was kabocha squash, but the name was less important than cooking it just right. He wound up cheating with the Force in order to push his cleaver through the tough deep green skin, revealing the orange flesh and white seeds. Obi-Wan would save the seeds for something else. 

Carrot shirishiri was also a fair amount of work, involving as it did soaking dried shredded daikon radish and using his peeler to get the carrots into thin strips. The prepped ingredients took up most of his counter space as he started the rice cooker and waited for the burdock to reach just the right softness. 

Oh, right. Dessert. Obi-Wan had three large Granny Smith apples on hand, plus plenty of raisins of two colors and thin-sliced almonds. He could remove the cores of the apples, stuff the hollows with raisins and almonds, and steam them in the microwave, since he didn't have an oven. If Master Dooku couldn't eat that much, he could always take home whatever he wanted. With this much variety surely there would be something he liked. 

Ah, the burdock was finally ready. Obi-Wan stopped the heat, poured the contents of the skillet into a strainer sitting on standby inside the sink, and got out the seasonings, adding the rinsed burdock, a teaspoon of soy sauce and sweet cooking sake, a tablespoon of cooking wine, dried red shiso leaf flakes, and half a tube of plum paste, adding a half cup of water to help mix the ingredients, before turning the stove back on medium heat. This time it wouldn't be more than ten minutes before the plum burdock was done.

Obi-Wan rummaged about in the cupboards for the little dishes of varying sizes, colors, and shapes, not to mention the lacquer trays and soup bowls. He wouldn't forget the chopstick rests either. Most of his “for company” tableware was either inherited from Master Tahl or collected from flea markets and antique shops by the same Qui-Gon Jinn who collected pathetic lifeforms. 

The burdock was finally done. Obi-Wan used the long cooking chopsticks to pick out the little logs for each of the tennis ball sized pink porcelain bowls with scalloped rims that suggested plum blossoms. Presentation was important. 

Once all of the burdock had been served up and the little dishes moved to the trays he had already set up on the table–opting for purple linen placements–Obi-Wan rinsed out the skillet and adding a tablespoon each of soy sauce and cooking wine, a half teaspoon of powdered fish broth, dumped the bite-sized bamboo shoot chunks and a cup of water into the skillet and started to boil them on high heat, turning the stove down to medium after about five minutes, at which point he added the snow peas. The white square bowls about the same size as the rounded pink ones, yes. After about three minutes he picked out the cooked bamboo shoots with the long cooking chopsticks, arranging the snow peas in the little bowls.

He could leave the broth as-is as he added the turnip slices and stewed them on medium heat. Obi-Wan pounded the small of his back as he watched the turnips change from solid white to translucent. He left the heat on as he transferred the turnip slices to flat rectangular plates and added the stems of the turnip instead, cooking them on their own for about three minutes before adding the leaves. Obi-Wan stirred the greens once a minute or so for the next three minutes, then finally turned off the heat and placed the cooked greens on the same flat rectangular plates, next to but not touching the turnip slices, then sprinkled white sesame seeds over each plate, in a loosely curving diagonal line from one corner to another. Now these plates could be added to the trays on the table. 

Now that the broth had boiled down considerably, it was time to add a liberal several shakes of black pepper, a teaspoon of sweet cooking sake, and a drizzle of sesame oil. Obi-Wan opened a can of tuna, dumped the contents into the skillet, and poured water into the mostly-empty can, trying to dislodge every last morsel. He poured that into the skillet, added the shaved carrot, and started cooking on high heat, turning the stove down to medium heat after about one minute. It was still possible to make a feast even with only one burner. 

He arranged the pumpkin chunks into three small but fairly tall bowls, added the powdered ginger, a pump of honey into each bowl, a teaspoon of sweet cooking sake and a drizzle of lemon juice–to keep the pumpkin from disintegrating–and about a teaspoon each of water. Obi-Wan could cut corners with the microwave for this one. He placed the three bowls inside the microwave, covering them with a large dinner plate, and set the timer for five minutes.

By this time the carrot shirishiri was nearly finished. The daikon had nearly melted. Obi-Wan had little eggshell blue bowls for this dish. All of these little dishes were best eaten at room temperature, anyway. The rice cooker went off, but Obi-Wan wouldn't dish up the rice until Master Dooku arrived. He could place the tablespoon scoops of miso into the lacquer bowls, adding the dried kelp and little dried tofu cubes, but he wouldn't pour the hot water yet, either.

The pumpkin finished, opening up the microwave. Obi-Wan cored the three apples, adding cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves to the bottom of the now-hollow fruit before stuffing them with raisins and almond slices, stopping a few times to add more spices. He added a few drops of vanilla extract to the top of each apple, placed them in a large bowl, adding a cup of water, and placed the apples, bowl and all, into the microwave to steam for twenty minutes.

Obi-Wan tore off three leaves of frill lettuce as garnish for the yellowtail teriyaki, which was the last dish. He added a tablespoon each of soy sauce and cooking wine and a teaspoon of sweet cooking sake to the skillet, half a cup of water, and three fillets of yellowtail. Fish was awful if overcooked; five minutes was enough. He transferred the fillets to rectangular yellow plates, arranged the lettuce around them, and added them to the table setting. Obi-Wan surveyed the feast he had made and smiled. The only thing left was cleaning up the kitchen and getting the tea ready. 

Obi-Wan settled on sanpin tea, choosing one tea bag each of oolong, green tea, and jasmine tea. This blend went well with many dishes, and having three people made it an obvious way to have the right amount of tea. Sapir was really more of a morning blend, and the memories were challenging at night. 

At seven twenty-five Obi-Wan added the hot water to the soup bowls, using the long cooking chopsticks to break up the clumps of miso paste, and served the rice. The rest of the hot water was just right for the teapot. He would boil up some more hot water for the hot water dispenser, making it easy to replenish the tea in the tea pot. 

Master Dooku arrived, right on time, a little bit of disquiet leaking from him despite his expert shielding. He must have had a rough day. Obi-Wan could relate to that. He ushered Master Dooku inside, letting Anakin inspect the table one more time. “I'm glad you made it tonight.” Obi-Wan smiled. 

As soon as Master Dooku saw the food, his mustache twitched. “You made all that? It looks like an expensive restaurant. Or like her cooking.” Apparently Master Tahl had cooked for Master Dooku as well. Obi-Wan flashed his sad smile in response.

In fact, there were three pairs of chopsticks, too, one for Master Qui-Gon, one for Master Tahl, and one for the padawan. Obi-Wan had placed Master Qui-Gon's pair at Master Dooku's place setting, choosing Master Tahl's for himself. Anakin was now the padawan, of course.

Even though the meal looked like a lot of food, that was mostly merely a matter of there being a lot of different dishes, so that the overall portion size was normal. Master Tahl had taught Obi-Wan that. The secret to hosting an effective feast. 

“I was quite shaken up this afternoon, when I visited my ‘friend,’ the Supreme Chancellor.” Master Dooku began, once dinner was well underway. 

“He's your friend too? He's my friend. Wizard.” Anakin grinned. 

Master Dooku sighed. The boy in front of him was a supernova in the Force; it wasn't a surprise that the Sith master would take an interest in that, given the obsession with power. Obi-Wan needed to be careful, not let such a young padawan spend too much time around a creepy old man claiming to be the child's “friend,” never mind the fact that Sheev Palpatine was a Sith lord. 

Before Master Dooku could say anything–would Obi-Wan even believe him?--Obi-Wan’s comm went off. Master Dooku furrowed his brow at the breach in etiquette as Obi-Wan answered the call, only to be faced with the familiar face of Knight Feemor, with a male Kiffar Jedi Master Dooku didn't remember the name of, a pale skinned bald woman he didn't know, a woman with short blonde curls and two red-headed (?) children who looked suspiciously like Obi-Wan, a dark-haired woman he didn't know, and–. Komari Vosa was in the holocall.

“Mom! You got Mom!” Anakin beamed, his joy slamming into everyone in the Temple at a rather painful intensity. 

“All thanks to the Duchess of Mandalore and her secret allies,” the Kiffar man smirked. “Are you sure your wife has never been a Jedi, Obes? She knows our ways and how to get around the red tape so well, has her own slave liberation network.”

Master Dooku raised an eyebrow in inquiry. Obi-Wan's wife ? The Duchess of Mandalore was Obi-Wan's wife? And she was engaging in slave liberation. Sheev Palpatine had talked about Jedi not having the power to fight injustice and corruption at length over the course of Master Dooku's friendship with that man, but here was another way to get around that, besides building a Sith empire: the Mandalorian angle, especially the peaceable New Mandalorians. 

“Hello, Master.” Komari smirked.

“Hello to you, too. Where are you living these days, what are you doing?”

“I'm not sure if I'm still a Jedi–Feemor says I am, that being repudiated by one's master isn't the same as expulsion from the Order–but I'm a New Mandalorian slave liberator now, with Jango Fett. He was there at Galidraan, you probably would recognize him. I'm doing what Jedi should be doing but often can't.” Komari seemed at least neutral, if not downright happy. 

“We got Anakin's mother out of slavery in Hutt Space. She doesn't remember anything before being presented to Gardulla the Hutt as a gift slave, but she's my long-lost padawan.” Feemor smiled. “I have reason to believe she's been mind-wiped, but at least she's safe.”

“We also found an orphaned former padawan who has also been a slave. Did you know Master Ky Narec?” Komari asked.

“I vaguely remember him.” Master Dooku frowned. 

“This is Asajj Ventress, his orphaned former padawan. She isn't sure yet whether she wants to complete her training under someone else as a Jedi, be a bounty hunter, become a pro domme, or become a Mandalorian. I've already claimed her as my sister.” Komari smirked. “If you complete her training, she'll be my padawan-sister, even if you don't want to take me back.”

Master Dooku opened and closed his mouth several times. Komari was never this flippant before, at least not in a relatively constructive direction. On the other hand, having two female padawans almost simultaneously would be an excellent excuse to avoid Sheev Palpatine. The whole idea that Yan had been deemed a likely candidate to become a Sith apprentice was horrifying. 

“All right. You win. Come home, Komari, unless that would get in the way of slave liberation. I finish your training, and then I'll be available for your friend there, should she want to resume her training.”

“She can still liberate slaves, if she does things like I do. I only tell the Council about half of the things I do. I do one official mission for the Order, then two unofficial ones for me, choosing ones we Jedi are always aching to do but officially can't, for bureaucratic reasons. I don't tell the Council for plausible deniability reasons. If one of my unauthorized missions becomes a problem, I'm solely responsible. That way I protect the Order as a whole.” Quinlan crossed his arms. “Komari, like Obi-Wan, is also a Mandalorian now, so she can do things in that capacity.”

Master Dooku let his shoulders drop. “I hadn't thought of that. It's nice to know there are better options than joining the Sith.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Master Dooku frowned. He hadn't meant to say that. 

“Joining the what?” Obi-Wan was frowning too. 

“The Sith. I was approached to join, by the Sith master himself. It left me quite rattled.” Master Dooku realized that the tooka was already out of the bag. He might as well share the incident that left him disoriented. 

“The Sith master is someone you know.” Satine was frowning now. “Is it the red-skinned man who–no, never mind, Ben took care of him back in Theed.”

“The Sith master is someone we ALL know. Maybe not Ms Ventress, but all of the rest of you.” Master Dooku rubbed his nose. “I thought Sheev Palpatine was my friend. I thought wrong.”

Anakin gasped. That nice, warm, friendly grandfatherly man, a Sith? It had better not be. 

“He told me directly. I have no reason to doubt him. He–. I–. He left me quite muddled, thinking that perhaps I should join the Sith in order to achieve our Jedi ideals, but now that I'm surrounded by members of my lineage and their friends and even spouses–” here he glanced sideways at Obi-Wan– "things are much clearer. Qui-Gon wouldn't want me to become a Sith.”

“No, I should think not. You are needed as our granddad, Master Dooku.” It was Satine who spoke. “Feed him and tell him no, with food, if it's too difficult to say out loud. A culinary mind-trick.”

“Satine proposed to me through food,” Obi-Wan supplied. “I apologized to Master Qui-Gon after Master Tahl's death through food, too. I'm inviting you to be a part of our family through food right now. Speaking of which, we haven't finished dinner yet.”

Chapter Text

Under no circumstances was Master Yoda to know the truth about the “human dishes” he was to take to the Supreme Chancellor's office as his “congratulations on assuming office” gesture. Even if Master Yoda did try them, he would not be affected. 

Obi-Wan didn't have an oven, but Satine’s Coruscant townhouse did, and Obi-Wan of course had the keys. It helped that Satine happened to be staying there on official business. Her ship had contained quite a few extra Jedi as well. Master Dooku's quarters were simply too small to accommodate not one but two adult padawans, forcing him to move. He was so busy with that move that he could not visit Supreme Chancellor Palpatine and had sent his old Master instead. 

Komari and Quinlan had their shady networks on Coruscant to supply questionable food items from around the galaxy, sold as legitimate food to non-human shoppers. This was where Quinlan and Asajj came in, yes, as humanoid but non-human individuals. Never mind whether either of them saw their shopping trip as a date, like Komari suspected. 

Supreme Chancellor Palpatine enjoyed mushroom pizza, to everyone's surprise. Anakin was able to find these things out so easily. And of course who wouldn't love ice cream? Obi-Wan would do the actual cooking, of course, wearing gloves and a mask throughout, even for the brewing of a special blend of Corellian iced tea. 

It was a simple matter to add the oleander leaves to the tea leaves in the flimsi teabag, using unsterilized honey of questionable sanitation to sweeten the brew and camouflage the taste. One might as well add ground apricot, peach, loquat, and plum pits to the teabag, for a rich texture–and of course a chemical compound very similar to cyanide. Botulism was lovely, but the honey wasn't guaranteed to have botulinum.

Obi-Wan washed and cut the portobello, porcini, king trumpet mushrooms, and three varieties of amanita toadstools, then soaked them in thallium while preparing the puffer fish slices. The molokhia nuts would make a nice, poisonous accent, especially mixed with peppercorns. The cheese was just normal, cheap cheese, the kind that turned to plastic if dunked in formaldehyde, not that Obi-Wan would do that.

Add tomato leaves to garnish, and the poison pizza was ready to bake. Oh, oh dear. Obi-Wan had almost forgotten the arsenic to add to the tomato paste on the pizza. Why be stingy with poison? One might as well add anthrax, too.

Once the potluck of death was ready–including Master Yoda's stew, served with swamp scum, with plenty of twigs and delicious frogs and poison toads–Master Yoda would take the “food” to the Supreme Chancellor's office for a nice, friendly meal. Poison was to be shared freely with friends, yes. 

The rest was up to Artoo to hijack into the Supreme Chancellor's office security, locking all windows and doors with a new code that only Artoo himself knew, not to mention the security holocameras. Oh yes, don't forget to disable the “help” buzzer.

When Supreme Chancellor Sheev Palpatine was finally found dead in his office after the Senate recess ended, it was sad and shocking news. Then again, he had been an older human and surely the stress of the Invasion of Naboo had taken its toll. There was nothing for it but to hold snap elections–again.

Chapter Text

Once Ben was satisfied with the fifth deep-clean of the kitchenette of Satine's Coruscant townhouse, he sank into an easy chair in the sitting room. He had certainly never deliberately cooked with all those different kinds of poison that affected the human body in different ways, but they were dealing with the Sith master. The creepy way he always wanted to see Anakin was something Obi-Wan, Master Dooku, Feemor, and of course Anakin's mother would rather see nipped in the bud. 

Now Satine was busy in the kitchenette, making non-poisonous dishes, simple hearty fare. “I know you never got a chance to grieve your Buir properly. Let me take care of you, for a change.” Satine had loomed over her seated husband and booped him on the nose. 

She washed and cut the turnip leaves, mixing them with komatsuna greens, while waiting for the thin-sliced thin-fried tofu to crumble a bit into the teriyaki sauce in the skillet. Once she added the greens she would be careful not to overcook them. Two to three minutes was enough.

Satine washed and sliced the actual turnip itself, adding it to the pot. Two turnips, one for each diner. Two carrots as well, and two potatoes, which she soaked in water after slicing, before adding to the pot. Half an onion, diced, half a leek, also diced, four large sausages, enoki mushrooms, half a stalk of celery–keep the leaves to add at the end–seasoned with a pinch of salt, half a teaspoon of pepper, a drizzle of any plant-based cooking oil, a tablespoon of cooking wine, don't forget the bay leaf or the oregano. This would be a very rustic, very basic pot-au-feu, to be served with baguette slices. Perennial favorites from all over the galaxy. Never mind whether the combination was coherent as a meal. 

“But what if he wasn't a Sith, was guilty of nothing more than being a bit creepy? Master Yoda can get away with saying, ‘mysterious are the frailties of the human body,’ but not us.” Obi-Wan sat with his head in his hands. “That would just be murder. That's not who I want to be.”

Satine flashed her sad smile as she put the food on the table. “We saw the footage. That man is not innocent. I don't like killing people either. But he did enjoy that last meal.”

Obi-Wan accepted a squeeze from his wife. He knew that he had a tendency to ruminate, to take on everyone else's burdens, to worry about things no one else did, but having his wife here to provide loving care helped. 

“If you want to eat, the food is ready. If you want to cry, I'm right here. I'm feeding you because that's your love language and therefore easy for you to process, but I'm not going to treat food as a substitute for open, emotional communication. Go ahead. The toughest, bravest verde aren't afraid to cry it out, especially not in private.” Satine knelt in front of him, arms still wrapped around him, and let one hand migrate up from his shoulder, up his neck, and into his hair, as she stroked his hair with one hand and rubbed his back with the other. 

Really his entire jetii aliit needed therapy. Now that they had neutralized the threats of the Sith, Ben and his aliit might finally have the bandwidth to consider it. Satine herself had definitely benefited from therapy, as had many a war-traumatized Mandalorian. After all, a Mandalorian lived to fight another day, and all that. Good food, comfortable bedding, appropriate exercise, and decent healthcare–including dental and mental–were the way to make that happen.

Chapter Text

Anakin couldn't stop smirking. It was funny to watch his old master in a tizzy like this, a kitchen dervish. The welcoming party was tonight. Right now it was still mid-morning. Uncle Plo was the one officially hosting, even though technically he wasn't even part of their lineage. That didn't matter, he was still part of the family, and besides, he was the one who had found Ahsoka. 

Strictly speaking, Padme, Satine, and Buir Obi-Wan's biological children weren't part of the lineage either, but they were invited, as family. Buir Obi-Wan kept telling Anakin to take his time with Padme, not rush into marriage, but of course he approved of the match itself. Buir Obi-Wan had been eighteen getting married, although it did work out and he didn't regret it. He wasn't following his own advice about not rushing, in the sense that he had taken a new padawan less than a week after knighting Anakin.

Said new padawan was a Togruta, a carnivore. Hence the alarming amount of meat in the freezer. Most of the rest of the family was human, except for Master Yoda, who would be bringing his own frogs, so Buir Obi-Wan had chosen dishes that combined meat with vegetables, with a few tofu and fish dishes added in for older generations of humans who couldn't digest so much oil and fat anymore. Master Dooku was bringing not one but two dates, and all three of them were octogenarians. 

“Is there anything I can do to help, as a brand new ori’vod?” Anakin asked.

“Figure out how many people there are so that I know how much rice to cook. Master Yoda doesn't eat rice, but everyone else does.” Buir Obi-Wan was grouping ingredients by dish. It would take a while to make a huge feast with only one burner, then to carry all that food to Uncle Plo’s quarters or the party room he'd reserved. Probably the latter. 

Anakin counted on his fingers. “Probably twenty-one or twenty-two people.”

“Thank you.” Obi-Wan frowned as another thought occurred to him. “My rice cooker can only make up to five cups of rice at a time. Mobilize other rice cookers, say another four or so. Does Padme have a rice cooker? I know Satine has one in her Coruscant townhouse. That's three rice cookers. If Feemor has one, or your mother, then we can manage. Collect rice cookers and set them up in the party room. Rice should be fresh, hot, when served.”

Anakin smiled at the mission. “I can do that.”

Obi-Wan started with the bean sprouts. Six packages cooked three at a time should be enough to feed twenty-one to twenty-two people, given the number of different dishes he was serving: eight dishes plus dessert, although one of the dishes would be made and brought by Satine, mutton on bamboo skewers, dusted with white sesame seeds. She had promised not to make it too spicy. 

Oh, right, the bean sprouts. Obi-Wan had an IH stove that beeped angrily if he lifted all or part of the skillet off the heat and couldn't use cast iron, which meant that he would have to use a skillet instead of a wok and long cooking chopsticks to stir like mad, since he couldn't toss. But he was nothing if not adaptable, and that applied to his cooking, as well. He beat two cloves of garlic with a rolling pin as if they were Sith villains, which made them easier to shell, and cut about a centimeter off of one end of his ginger root, carefully peeling it with his knife, and then giving it hell with his rolling pin. He put these into the skillet, added two tablespoons of cooking wine, a tablespoon of soy sauce, mystery powdered broth, a tablespoon of sesame oil, a quarter cup of water, and a half cup of dried tree ear fungus, started the heat on medium, then turned his attention to the bean sprouts themselves. These were green pea sprouts, actually, and the best part about them was the way they grew back if one put the roots in a bowl of water and kept them in the sun. Obi-Wan cut the sprouts off from the beans, washed the sprouts, and added them to the skillet. Restaurants used either a horrifying amount of oil or arrowroot powder suspended in water or wine–which could harden into a gloopy mess when cool–to achieve that appetizing glaze, but Obi-Wan would use the timing method, stopping the heat about a minute before perfection, which meant the dish would cook to the right color and consistency as it cooled. 

There. Obi-Wan turned off the heat and transferred the bean sprouts to a large serving dish, then repeated with the other three packages of bean sprouts. Next would be the bok choy, tofu, and imitation crab stick dish he had perfected. The skillet wasn't big enough to accommodate two whole heads of bok choy, of course, so he would make half at a time. He repeated the first step of beating the kriff out of garlic and ginger with his rolling pin, which stress release was one reason he loved cooking in the first place, added the two tablespoons of cooking wine, a few shakes of mystery powdered broth, a half tablespoon of sesame oil, a quarter cup of water, and then started preparing the imitation crab sticks. Twenty sticks cut into quarters to start, and 600g of white smooth tofu, which he would let crumble naturally. Obi-Wan cheated with the Force as he cut the big head of bok choy in half vertically, using a mean-looking cleaver. Once he got it into quarters it would be much easier to wash and cut into bite-sized pieces. When most of the bok choy was ready he started the stove on high heat, adding the bok choy once all of it was processed. He put the lid on the skillet and let it steam for about five minutes, then transferred the finished dish to a large serving plate, and repeated the process. 

Next up: pepper steak, made with pork instead of beef. Obi-Wan started with 200g of vacuum-packed thin-sliced bamboo shoots, which he added to the skillet right after the garlic and ginger, tablespoon each of cooking wine and soy sauce (although hoisin sauce was better, if he could source it), a couple shakes of powdered mystery broth, a tablespoon of sesame oil, and a quarter cup of water. Obi-Wan halved each of the eight bell peppers, removing the seeds, then cut them into thin vertical strips. Next he removed the cling film from eight thin slices of pork loin, slicing these vertically before they thawed. At this point he started the stove on medium heat and added half of the bell peppers, putting a lid on the skillet. Now it was time to massage some cooking wine, black pepper, and soy sauce into the semi-thawed pork strips, coating them in arrowroot powder, before adding them and the rest of the bell peppers to the skillet. Six minutes. Then he would repeat the process with the other half of the ingredients. 

At this point Anakin returned, so Obi-Wan asked him to carry the finished dishes into the party room, placing one of each type of dish onto the lazy susan on each of the two tables. This meant making several trips, of course, and Anakin would also be responsible for place settings and the seating plan, not to mention making sure the karaoke equipment worked. 

And now for the cashew nuna. Obi-Wan cut two slices of thigh meat into bite-sized chunks, adding them to a bowl to marinate with black pepper, cooking wine, and soy sauce, massaging arrowroot powder into the meat, and leaving it to sit for twenty minutes while he added the garlic, ginger, sesame oil, and thirty grams of cashew nuts to the skillet, which he put on low heat while he chopped one onion, two carrots, and three bell peppers to add to the skillet. Obi-Wan remembered that he had a large jar of rare-on-Coruscant water chestnuts, so he added a quarter cup of those. By this time the meat was ready, so that it was a matter of adding it to the skillet, turning up the stove to medium heat, and stirring for about five minutes, then round two. 

Next would be the sweet and sour beef and eggplant. Again there was the marinating process, this time involving 100 g of thin sliced beef, cooking wine, black pepper, and one and a half tablespoons of arrowroot powder. Eggplant needed to be blanched separately first, to remove the bitterness. This could be done with oil, but water was a way to reduce calories, since eggplant absorbed less oil if blanched in hot water first. Either way it was a quick process to wash, remove the tops, cut into large chunks, and blanch the eggplants, three long ones of medium girth. That just left adding the garlic, a pinch of salt, two tablespoons of soy sauce, one tablespoon each of cooking wine and sugar, a teaspoon of rice vinegar, and the beef, which he had already cooked in oil and removed once from the skillet. Stir fry all ingredients together for a couple minutes, and repeat with the other half of the ingredients. 

Satine sent a progress report: her mutton skewers were ready, as were her surprise sesame balls. These were sesame-coated balls of fried mochi with red bean jam filling, traditionally served in pairs. She had made forty-five of them, one of them as a spare in case someone dropped one. Otherwise Ahsoka would be awarded the extra one. Picking up Satine's dishes and Satine herself, plus the four Kryze-Kenobi children, was a job for Anakin. 

Obi-Wan rolled his shoulders as he gathered ingredients for the fish dishes. First up: sea bream, the soft, subtly sweet white flesh that melted in one's mouth one of Master Dooku's favorites. One fillet per person, cut into threes, bone removal being the hardest part of the process, with half of the fish placed in Obi-Wan's largest casserole dish at a time. He cut up the garlic and ginger very small, adding these to a mixing bowl with two tablespoons each of soy sauce, cooking wine, and sugar, a tablespoon of rice vinegar, and a teaspoon of arrowroot powder, which he stirred into a state of suspension and poured into the casserole dish. He covered the top loosely with cling film and microwaved at 900 watts for eight minutes, then repeated, placing the fish on a bed of lettuce each time.

One more seafood dish. Obi-Wan added extra ginger to the skillet, two slices this time, again pulverized with his rolling pin, with a tablespoon of cooking wine, a couple shakes of powdered mystery broth, a teaspoon of sesame oil, and plenty of black pepper. He cut half an onion into bite-sized pieces, slicing half a stalk of celery diagonally, again aiming for bite-sized pieces, cored and cut a red paprika into bite-sized pieces, and inspected the frozen mixed seafood. Shrimp, scallops, squid, and octopus. He would use the whole bag of seafood, 300 g. He started the heat with the vegetables first, adding the seafood when the onions turned translucent. Obi-Wan stirred for about five minutes and the dish was done. Transfer the finished seafood dish to a serving plate and repeat. 

That just left the appetizer, soup, and dessert. Obi-Wan placed two boiled dumplings in each soup bowl, putting them on a tray for Anakin to carry into the party room, then set to work on the actual soup itself. He washed and cut into large chunks 150 g of spinach. Better add plenty of kelp for Bant, since Obi-Wan knew she was coming. He added fifteen grams of dried kelp, a teaspoon of white sesame seeds, a couple shakes of black pepper, a teaspoon of sesame oil, a tablespoon of cooking wine, and a pinch of powdered mystery broth to a large-ish pot. Obi-Wan added a pulverized slice of ginger and started the heat on medium, adding a half cup of water. Once the kelp unfurled he added the spinach and cooked for about two minutes. He divided the result into two tureens and repeated. There would be two tureens on each table, and four hot water dispensers, for people to dilute the concentrate into actual soup. This was the safest way Obi-Wan could think of to transport soup. 

Next he would make dessert, letting it cool and harden in the cooling unit until it was time to serve. Round one. Obi-Wan boiled two and a half cups of water, turned off the stove, then added fifty-five grams of sugar, stirring it into a state of suspension. He would let the syrup sit while he dissolved a sheet of gelatin in ice water, then boiled another one and a half cups of water, adding another fifty-five grams of sugar and the gelatin, stirring well, before taking the pot off the stove. Once the mixture cooled a bit he added two cups of evaporated milk and a few drops of almond essence, and stirred again. Next he divided the mixture into eight ice cream bowls, the ones with stems, and put them in the cooling unit. Time to repeat the process with rounds two and three. 

Anakin returned at this point to carry more completed dishes to the party room. “Oh, before I forget. I think we need tea. I was thinking three kinds of tea, oolong, pu’er, and jasmine. Seven to eight teabags per teapot is probably not practical, so we should probably gather at least six, if not more, teapots. I know you still have Master Qui-Gon's collection, but that's probably not enough.”

“Good point. Ask Master Dooku. He has his own collection. Feemor might have some too, if it's still not enough.” Obi-Wan was more of a planner than Anakin or Master Qui-Gon, but that wasn't saying much. “I'm finally starting on the last dish, paradoxically enough the appetizer, served cold at each place setting, instead of on the heated lazy susans.”

Anakin saluted and smiled, carrying the seafood dishes. They were doing well in terms of the time schedule. None of this was standard procedure for welcoming a padawan, but there was more to it than that. Over the past decade more and more of Sheev Palpatine's dastardly schemes had come to light, so that this was also an anniversary dinner, a celebration of survival. 

Obi-Wan minced 3,600 g of white tofu, forty-four cherry tomatoes, and eleven cucumbers; it was fun to beat the cucumbers with his rolling pin first. The purpose of this was not stress release, of course, but to make the cucumbers absorb the sauce better. They just needed a teaspoon of vinegar, a tablespoon of soy sauce, and a teaspoon of sugar. He would mix these ingredients in a bowl before opening his jars of preserved century eggs, fermented with tea and sodium carbonate. Heat-fermented pine-patterned eggs didn't smell of ammonia and the yolks didn't harden too much. Two quarter slices on each little plate, with the marinated tofu and vegetable mini cubes arranged around the slices, and all they needed now was a sprinkle of sliced green onion. Obi-Wan placed as many of the little plates as he could onto the tray for Anakin to carry. 

He would check the desserts in the cooling unit again while he waited for Anakin to return with the tray. So far so good. Obi-Wan stretched, smiling at having completed all that cooking. He actually liked cleanup, which Anakin assured him was weird.

Once all the appetizers had been carried into the party room, it was time to pour the syrup onto the nicely-congealed almond jelly, add the goji berries and mint leaves, and carry them into the party room as well, where Satine had set up the ice chests. This way nobody would have to interrupt the party to carry desserts. 

Now Obi-Wan himself could freshen up and move to the party room, where Jedi guests were arriving, while Anakin went to pick up Padme. Non-Jedi needed a Jedi escort to enter the Temple, after all. 

Master Plo brought Ahsoka herself, while Feemor arrived with Shmi and his second padawan. Bant shook her head to see Quinlan standing so close to Asajj, while Aayla rolled her eyes and engaged Komari in small talk. Master Dooku was no better than Quinlan in terms of keeping his hands off of Master Nu, while Master Sifo-Dyas tisked softly. As soon as the Sith master was killed, the visions and voices stopped and Sifo’s mental fog lifted, allowing him to come home. Sometimes he still got rather disoriented when he meditated too long, but nothing like before. 

The last to arrive, besides Padme coming from outside the Temple, was Master Yoda. Human food was mysterious, not especially appetizing or flavorful, but the century egg looked promising. As far as Master Yoda was concerned, most shared meals with people of other species were BYOF–bring your own frogs–affairs, anyway. At least this meal was colorful and he could feel the love that went into its planning and production. 

Ahsoka let her face erupt into a broad grin at the sight of so many different kinds of meat. Her new master was aware of her needs and happy to find a way to include and accommodate everyone, regardless of species.

At the end of the meal, over dessert, Quinlan began to clamor for the karaoke machine to be turned on. Before he could choose a song, however, Komari grabbed the handset and microphone. “It's a good day, for singing a song, yes it's a good day from morning to night!” She wasn't the best singer in the galaxy but she more than made up for that with enthusiasm. 

When it was Ahsoka's turn, she meant it when she sang, “I've got no mansion, I've got no yacht, but still I'm happy with what I've got: I've got the sun in the morning and the moon at night. I'm doing all right!” Life wasn't half bad. The Jedi Order had survived unscathed and was finally in a position to truly make things better. But above all, Ahsoka now had a family.