Chapter Text
Padawan Tholme stood with his arms folded over his chest, his Jedi cloak pulled up over his dark hair, and a lit cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth as a deliberate disregard for decorum. He’d been sent investigate an occurrence on Chibbier, and although this wasn’t his first solo mission, he’d be told this one was important. And what had he done? Oh, yes, he crashed his shuttle.
And by the way, he was completely, and utterly, fucked.
Tholme sensed a familiar Force Signature approaching his position, and he quickly pulled the cigarette from his lips, extinguishing it against his palm with a hiss as he took in the sight of the Jedi Master. His hair was slicked back, and he wore his usual smirk as he sauntered over as though he owned every tree on this seedy little forest world, before lowering his head in acknowledgement. “Padawan Tholme, it is pleasant to see you again. I see you are still engaging in your virulent smoking habits.”
“I wouldn’t call it a habit, Master, more, a, uh, imbecilic quirk.” At that moment, Dooku’s smirk only grew.
With a flick of his fingers, the cigarette floated up from Tholme’s hand and disintegrated in in-flight, leaving only a faint wisp of smoke. “How self-aware of you. Perhaps that is the first step toward wisdom.”
Well, with that problem evidently solved, Dooku shifted positions, adjusting his cloak. “Yoda informed me you were in need of some assistance. Is this true?”
Tholme scratched his head, hiding his eyes behind his wrist, “It seems I had some unanticipated complications when it came to landing the shuttle.”
Before Dooku had the chance to call Bantha piss on that excuse, they both heard sing song shouting coming from a veranda above them, leaving Tholme to beg and plead for the Force to strike him down. The two human girls that had taken him in, had apparently chosen Right Now to lean out of their door, to issue their Very Fond goodbyes. And look at that, of course the brunette was wearing only his undershirt.
He didn’t really have time to gage how bad this looked—especially as it wasn’t as bad as it looked—but the irritation in Dooku’s glare told him all he needed to know.
“It’s not…I didn’t, uh. I wasn’t here just because I was enjoying the company of the local resident’s master. Not that I’m saying their company wasn’t enjoyable, but I mean to say I—”
“Would you like me to find you a shovel, Tholme? I believe you will be able to dig yourself in to trouble a little faster.”
“—I found them to be very helpful during the investigation,” Tholme babbled sheepishly.
Really, he had nothing to be ashamed of here, he was merely doing his duty to the Republic, by forming proactive relationships with the wider community.
Kind of.
Dooku, however, being the experienced Jedi Master he was, obviously wasn’t buying a word of it. “Were they now?” he asked, in that condescending tone that often squashed Padawan’s spirits into the ground. “Then am I to assume that your informants were hospitable, and you properly expressed your gratitude in a way you’d be willing to write in a report?”
Dooku was giving him an out, a way to redeem himself after his own verbal idiocy, but alas, Tholme had never had an ability to keep his smart mouth in check, so of course he blurted, “Probably not.” A snicker escaped his lips before he could stop it, and he pressed a single finger to his mouth.
Time to shut up, Tholme.
Dooku motioned behind him, evidently choosing to ignore the comment—or maybe he was just planning on disciplining him later, who could tell? “In that case, you better bid farewell to your friends. Qui-Gon is onboard, we must not keep him waiting.”
Tholme wondered if it was too late to make up an excuse to stay. Surely there had to be someone else to come and extract him from Chibbier? Literally, anyone else.
The thing was, Jinn and Tholme weren’t so different in age, both eighteen and on the cusp of knighthood, and they’d spent a fair amount of time together since their youngling days. But Qui-Gon definitely wasn’t Tholme’s biggest fan, nor had he been since he wiped all the research off his data pads and replaced it with erotic fiction instead. It was just a joke, but Qui-Gon saw it as a declaration of war.
And, of course, Tholme had been hiding from him since.
By the time Tholme boarded the ship, Dooku had disappeared to the cockpit, leaving him to wander the corridors. He eventually found Qui-Gon meditating in the common space, seated cross-legged on the floor. The older Padawan’s serenity was palpable, but it vanished the instant he opened his piercing blue eyes to find Tholme leaning nonchalantly in the doorway.
“Hello, Qui,” Tholme drawled. “Miss me?”
Qui-Gon’s expression tightened. Perhaps this was a new record for him, thirty seconds in his presence and Jinn was already pissed. ”I hear you managed to crash your shuttle. I assume, based on the wreckage I saw outside the village, that it’s beyond repair?” “Don’t believe everything you hear, Jinn. I mean, I heard Tahl smashed a senator beyond repair, so…” Tholme hesitated, feigning innocence. “Unless that was true?”
Alright, make that thirty seconds and really pissed.
“If that is the case, then I wish her the best. Tahl and I are friends; if you require the reminder, anything more violates the Jedi code.” Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow, his grin the epitome of and fuck you too. ”Which reminds me, how is Master Saa? Or are you still trying to find ways to get her to notice you?”
“Well, I’m hoping to pull the sympathy card from this shuttle crash. I could have joined the Force, you know.”
Qui-Gon didn’t dignify the remark with a response, choosing instead to close his eyes and return to his meditation. Tholme, undeterred, plopped into a nearby seat, his boots squeaking against the armrest—a deliberate irritation.
Dooku entered the room moments later, his presence commanding immediate attention. “Are you ready to depart?” he asked, his voice clipped.
“Ready as I’ll ever be, Master,” Tholme said with exaggerated cheer, punctuating his words with another squeak of his boots.
Dooku’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, then shifted to Qui-Gon. “Perhaps you could assist me with takeoff. I understand you prefer not to be disturbed while meditating.”
Qui-Gon’s irritation finally broke through. “Meditating or not, Master, I’d prefer not to endure his presence at all. Are you sure we can’t leave him here?”
Dooku’s expression was utterly serene, but his tone carried the faintest trace of amusement. “Let us be charitable, Qui-Gon Jinn. It would hardly be fair to the residents of Chibbier.”
Qui-Gon laughed as Tholme followed Dooku out of the room, rolling his eyes to himself, even though he did think that was pretty funny considering. As he reached the door, he turned his head to grin. “Looks like you’re stuck with me Qui, it seems it’s the will of the Force and all.”
The last thing Tholme saw as he entered the cockpit, was Qui-Gon’s middle finger.
Meh. He’d warm to him eventually.
**
Thankfully, the take-off was relatively smooth, even with the I-rarely-pilot Jedi Master at the controls who no doubt was not letting the I-just-crashed padawan anywhere near them.
A wise move, really.
Tholme was just thankful to be leaving the humiliation of Chibbier behind once and for all, although he did have to prepare to explain to his own Master why they were not only missing a ship, but also a portion of the intel, most of his equipment, and of course, his undershirt.
He could say he lost control of the shuttle in an unexpected storm. That he was violently mugged by a band of (very lost) Jawa’s. He gave up his clothing to an innkeeper who was cold one night because that is what Jedi do, or whatever. Well, he had a little time to come up with a creative version of the events, and that’s all that mattered to him. Although he wasn’t quite sure why his heart chose that moment to beat violently in his chest, because it wasn’t the worst situation he’d ever gotten himself into really. Perhaps he was nervous he’d failed his mission, or the fact that he could feel Qui-Gon simmering in the common space like a pan of overboiled Twi’leki rice.
As if reading his anxiety, Dooku’s sharp gaze flicked to him. “Are you well, Padawan?”
“I am just looking forward to clearing the system, Master.” Tholme sat back on his chair, tucking one of his legs up on to the seat and hugging his arms around his boot timorously. “How long do you think it’s going to take to get back to Coruscant?”
“Is there somewhere you’re required to be?” he asked, but there was a glimmer of humour in his expression. “I would estimate twenty-four standard hours, should all go as planned. I expect you and Qui-Gon will remain civil in the meantime? I am aware you have encountered your differences.”
Aka—don’t touch his shit, I can’t, and won’t, protect you.
Tholme held back a smile. “You have my word, Master,” he assured him.
Dooku made a noise that almost sounded like amusement. “We will be clear to jump to hyperspace within the hour. You are, of course, more than welcome to find something more entertaining for your curious mind to do in the meantime.”
Obviously Tholme didn’t need to be told twice, and he bowed his head as he left before heading back into the common space in search of some much-needed nourishment.
Inside the brightly lit room, Qui-Gon was no longer meditating, instead he was sitting and talking to someone on a commdisk, and Tholme bit back a snicker as he realised the blue shape was Tahl. Just friends, sure, Jinn.
“My Master is going to be leaving for Kashyyyk in the morning, so perhaps you can stay over? I’ll happily show how much I’ve missed you,” she crooned playfully.
Tholme really, really did try his best to pretend that he hadn’t just heard Tahl insinuate she was going to fuck Jinn stupid all night, because that wasn’t a mental image he needed. Instead, he very loudly banged the cupboards, so they’d realise he was there and hopefully change the subject.
“Oh, is that Master Dooku?” Tahl asked.
Qui-Gon glanced up with a scowl as Tholme began ferreting around for a mug to make himself a cup of a caf. “Unfortunately, not. We’ve picked up the most insufferable lifeform in the galaxy.”
“Be nice, there’s no point in you killing one another. Master Dooku wouldn’t appreciate the mess,” Tahl replied chirpily, leaving Qui-Gon to roll his eyes with a snort. “Anyway, I have to go; Rael agreed to read through my report, so I said I would go over this evening. I should probably find something nicer to wear than these old sleep clothes.”
Tholme froze, mug halfway to his mouth. Rael Averross? Now he was in for a treat. If anyone had a chance of blowing Qui-Gon’s unflappable ease when it came to Tahl, it was him.
“Rael?” Qui-Gon repeated. He was a Jedi; he did not squeak when he spoke. But his words certainly came out in a higher octave than he’d hoped for. He cleared his throat. “Rael Averross?”
“How many Rael’s do we know?” Tahl laughed.
Qui-Gon stupidly chose that moment to glance up at Tholme, who mouthed the words, ‘Something nicer to wear for Rael’ with a wink. A fucking wink.
White hot anger flushed through Qui-Gon, and he turned back to Tahl trying to remain somewhat composed. He wasn’t jealous, but he was certainly surprised, and maybe, maybe, a little concerned.
Those words did not come out though, instead he opened and closed his mouth like a terribly bewildered fish. “But…Rael… he’s Rael.”
“He read through your last week, what is the difference?” she asked.
“Yeah, Jinn, enlighten us?” Tholme sung from the other side of the room as he dramatically dropped a sugar cube into the hot water, because clearly, he was loving every single minute of this citadel level torture.
Qui-Gon was about to become one with the Force. He could feel it. He was going to drop to the floor and suffer an eternity as a ghost, required to watch Tahl sitting in Rael’s quarters and twirling a strand of hair around her finger like all the girls did.
As if sensing Jinn’s inner conflict, Tholme took hold of his mug and stood behind Qui-Gon; whether it was to put the guy on edge even more or come to his rescue, he didn’t know. “Hey, Tahl. You’ve changed your hair. It suits you,” he spoke.
Alright, maybe he was rescuing him.
Tahl made an appreciative noise, running her hand over her dark locks. “Oh, thank you. I’m glad someone noticed,” she responded snippily.
Never mind, he took it all back, Tholme was still a traitor.
“I did,” Qui-Gon blurted defensively, because truly he could take no more. “I just thought it was inappropriate to comment on it.”
“Inappropriate?” Tahl questioned him. “Why would that be? Do you not like it?”
Tholme clapped his hands together as he left Jinn to suffer the wrath of his ‘girlfriend’ because his work here was most certainly done. So, he swiped a snack from the side and walked out of the door to investigate the rest of the ship.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t really anything exciting to look at, and as he ambled through the illuminated hallways, the thick flooring absorbed the noise, making his footsteps ghostly silent. The whole ship smelt clean, as though it had been disinfected to an inch of its life, and the grey bulkheads gave the place an ominous feel.
In fact, even the sleeping quarters seemed untouched; both rooms had perfectly folded sheets and only a single bag hooked on to the closet doors. Evidently Jinn was just as void of personality as this entire vessel, and even when he let himself snoop a little in his bag, he couldn’t contain his disappointment. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to find; a data pad with all his secrets, a death stick habit, maybe even some hidden, kinky fetish that would make even Tholme blush (although unlikely). Instead, he got boring, predictable, Qui-Gon Jinn, and his knee length, woollen socks.
Giving on that venture, Tholme decided to make his way to the cargo hold instead, and he picked up the datapad on the side and began to go through the inventory of the things that Dooku and Jinn had managed to salvage from Chibbier.
He must have been there for a while because he felt the ships engine judder as they entered hyperspace, and soon enough, the lights began to dim in sync with the Coruscant evening. He had planned on spending the entire night hidden away in the safety of the wreckage, but as time ticked on, he felt his stomach begin to lurch as he tried to swallow away the growing nausea.
This mission was just getting better and better. Because now, he was going to have to ask Dooku for an antiemetic because he was getting space sick like a youngling.
Qui-Gon would never let him forget this.
He threw down the data pad in a huff and went to find the Jedi Master, but by the time he’d made it to the cockpit, he was feeling better. Which meant—
“There you are. Qui-Gon was about to turn in for the night, I was going to send him to find you,” Dooku replied.
“Have you checked for any chemical leakages in the cargo hold?” Tholme asked, leaning into the room.
“Hold on a moment,” Qui-Gon spoke, turning back to the controls.
“Do you need to sit down?” Dooku asked, running his eyes over Tholme’s form with a concerned look (although he was probably only concerned that he was going to have to clean up some kind of bodily fluid). “You look quite pale, Padawan.”
Qui-Gon stood up and moved next to Tholme, accessing another control panel. “Master, I think he is right. Something is wrong with the ship.”
The nausea immediately began to return, and Tholme swayed a little as he leaned his head against the bulkhead, and he shut his eyes as Jinn began running a frantic diagnostic, listening to the sounds of the controls tapping.
Suddenly an alarm immediately began to blare, and Dooku swore to himself as he flipped the switches, manually overriding the mechanisms. He must have sensed something in the abyss that the other’s couldn’t, as with one last desperate attempt to gain control, he reached out to the Force, pushing both Tholme and Qui-Gon out of the room.
The Padawan’s flew backwards, landing in the common space with a thump. Qui-Gon rubbed his head out of confusion as the door swished shut, and an explosion ricocheted from inside the cockpit.