Chapter Text
With the end of the Clone Wars and the Republic’s triumph, it was as if the whole galaxy finally exhaled. One of these exhales was admittedly Mace Windu’s—the rather grumpy Master had decided it was high time he retired, from his position as Head of the Jedi Council.
And when the rest of the Council had asked him to step up as Mace’s successor, Kit Fisto had agreed. A few years ago, he might have surprised himself, by doing so. But now—now he had a special reason. A reason beyond just a sense of duty to his peers, and the fact that Coruscant frankly needed a friendly face in that position, in this burgeoning era of peace and reconstruction—and few faces were friendlier than the grinning Nautolan’s.
But no, there was one more very big reason, and Kit had known it for over two years now.
He had known it ever since that indelible day, when he, a Jedi, had learned how to grieve with clones.
***
Kit had stumbled nearly blindly into the belly of the Nu-class shuttle, carrying him and the surviving clones home. They had escaped General Grievous, but they had lost Nahdar in the process, and also one trooper, Tune. Kit hadn’t taken his own clone troopers with him on this mission, and his late Padawan’s were basically strangers to him. But he felt some responsibility for them—indeed, would probably absorb them into his own company, now, as they needed a new Jedi to lead them.
The troopers were gathered in a ring—nuzzled in a ring, more like it, with all their armor off, stripped down to the black cloths beneath. Their cheeks were raw and damp, as they murmured together—words too low for Kit to hear, though the subject was not difficult to guess.
“I-I’m sorry,” the Jedi mumbled, tripping over the threshold with a decided lack of his normal grace, today. Though his pure-black Nautolan eyes were rather inscrutable to humans, he knew the lines above them surely conveyed his concern. “Am I intruding?”
“No,” Fil, the Commander, shook his head kindly. “We were just grieving Tune. —And Nahdar,” he added, voice hitching and sad—and to Fisto’s almost-shock, he extended his hand. Opening it from the circle, inviting the Jedi in. You need to grieve too, the unspoken words were clear; don’t be ashamed.
Kit had observed some of this behavior in his own clones—it often took new Jedi by surprise. Their Order was taught restraint, to focus on unconditional love over the personal. Oh, many close friends, Masters and Padawans, did hug or hold a hand or kiss a cheek, once in a while. Especially when out of sight of the most traditionalist sticklers. But the clones—well, while they showed strict discipline in their armor, in the thick of battle, not really touching much then—when off-duty, they converged like piles of puppies!
It came from their upbringing, some had told the Jedi. Jango Fett, the Mandalorian warrior host, had been very concerned about his clones getting enough affection, both mental and physical, as they grew. While Jedi forbade marriage, and considered familial bonds in general secondary to their duty, Mandalorians considered family absolutely paramount. Kit knew that much, too. And so, apparently, Fett—obviously realizing he could not pet and nurture thousands of little lives singlehanded—had asked that the more affectionate Kaminoans play nursemaid to the infant clones as they could. But also to place them together, as soon as safely feasible. Like… like little tookas in a box.
Clones grew up knowing each other as brothers, finding family in each other, even in toddlerhood—consoling each other with a hug or a nuzzle, especially when the nurses had to move on to the next set. And they never stopped doing this, even as adults. To them, it was completely normal. They were far more gregarious, far more comfortable with innocent touch, than many equivalent adult men of their species. They even slept in those same “puppy piles” when they could, many Jedi reporting how their troops kept throwing their barracks mattresses together on the floor! —But this was the first time Kit Fisto had walked in on them doing something like this, when they had a missing brother to grieve.
Fil’s little team of six had become a team of five now, and Kit’s compassion demanded he step in and complete the circle. He accepted the clone’s hand, his knees pressing into the nearest mattress, as he knelt on the floor with them.
“We had only been with Nahdar a few months, but he was brave and kind,” one of the other clones, Bel, suddenly offered. His brown eyes—now so red from tears—met Kit’s black. “We will miss him.”
“…Thank you,” Fisto breathed heavily, tilting his heavy head of tentacles. “I am very sorry about your brother Tune, too.”
“He is alive in the Force,” the clone opposite Bel, Niner, whispered. “We just have to make room for him, now.”
Kit soon learned that “make room for him” meant to hold each other tight, and imagine very hard that Tune was still with them. Imagine his touch, even as they felt each surviving brother’s. Clones, being the strange psychological offspring of both Mandalorians and Jedi, believed very strongly that souls went on. The word “Manda” referred to the Force in the Mandalorian tongue, and the clones believed all those brothers who were now “marching on” were taken to a safe place, in Its loving arms, for eternity. And that they could still look down and watch them, from time to time. Many Jedi believed the same, so it was natural they encourage this belief in their troops, just as Jango had. It helped them all to go on, in the midst of this war. But Kit had, once again, never quite seen this belief put so into ACTION before, in such a uniquely clone way.
When he had been taught about grief, as a Padawan himself, Kit’s Jedi elders had told him to mostly focus on the Force’s strength. To accept death as a part of life; to go on serenely, realizing all things had transpired as they should. Well, none of that was exactly wrong—but it was missing something. Some element of comfort. Kit realized, to his own shock, that the clones had found it. They had found it all on their own! And the Jedi, largely, had remained blind.
Detachment was an important issue to the Jedi. At its heart, it simply meant not allowing one’s own affections—for specific people or specific things—to prevent one from doing right by the Force. But from this concept had grown rules, about family, possessions, and loyalties. Jedi not allowing themselves much of the former two. Yes, Younglings were still allowed to see their parents, but not in the same compounds—the families continued to live on their homeworlds, coming for visits or holo-calls, while the children were nurtured in the Temple.
…Had Nahdar been like a son to Kit? Well, not exactly. Many masters and apprentices did grow to consider each other so (though again, they might not say the words outright), but Kit had had only had a short time to train Nahdar, before the little Mon Calamari had been knighted and sent to war. They hadn’t had time to bond quite that strongly. But they had certainly had enough time to consider each other friends. And it grieved Kit terribly, that he had not been able to save his precious little friend, this awful day! …Or perhaps even before. It had shocked him to realize Nahdar might have been falling to the dark side, seduced by the want of power. I failed you, little one, Kit Fisto gritted his teeth and finally allowed the tears to fall; I failed you. I am SO sorry!
“Nahdar,” he must have mumbled the name aloud, in his grief, just as the clones were choking, “Tune.” Fil gripped the Nautolan kindly as he heard the sob, and pulled him in tighter with them all. Kit didn’t fight it anymore. He didn’t care. There was nothing wrong with this. He was grieving with his fellow vessels of the Force, and they were holding him! He pressed his green arms around two of the clones, and let their brown arms envelop him likewise.
Warmth. Stability. HOME. He NEEDED this!
And he found—perhaps to his own slight amazement—that Tune WAS there. He did not doubt that Tune, like all sentients, had an eternal soul—but he might not have realized, until then, how CLOSELY the bonds of love had bound his soul to his brothers’. But he could tell—as a Force-sensitive, with his eyes closed—that there was a warm presence near the clones, pulsing with comfort and reassurance, as real as they had imagined it to be.
And suddenly, there was another.
“Nahdar!!” Kit’s eyes opened wide with hope.
The ex-Padawan had not been strong enough in the Force, to really produce a “Force ghost”—a blue, glowing vision unique to Jedi alone. But his soul was there, yes, with Tune’s, very close to Kit now. He couldn’t see it, but he could tell, through the sixth sense all Jedi had. And though souls in the afterlife could not breach the silence, without the Force’s will allowing it—to summon or demand words out of the mouths of the dead, was only a tool of the Sith—Kit could also at least tell, from the flush of warmth, that Nahdar was trying to reassure him.
That it was meant to be. That he was safe now, Force be praised—not a Sith, but a little Jedi at home in glory. Waiting for Kit. Waiting patiently. His master had his own life to live, still, and Nahdar wanted that for him. To go on. Again, no words were said, but Kit had the strong feeling it was so. And he finally felt something else, on top of this, that he had not felt since Grievous had shot the little Mon Calamari, hours ago.
Peace.
“What fools we were,” Kit suddenly gasped, “what fools!”
“Sir?” Fil wrinkled his human brows, concerned.
“N-not you,” Kit Fisto quickly apologized, waving his green hands. “The Jedi. I was just thinking… we’ve been teaching detachment all wrong.” His large, black eyes were wide and sincere, beneath his tentacles. “You’ve shown that to me today!”
It had not always been so. The Jedi had existed for millennia, and centuries ago—when Mistress Yaddle was a baby, and Master Yoda was fairly young himself—Jedi had been allowed marriages, and families, just like anyone else. But Sith were numerous then, and some Jedi feared that emotional attachments to relatives, would lead some of their kind to seek the Sith arts. Evil magics that could suck the life of one, to preserve another. …Or perhaps even just place loyalty to one’s family, over loyalty to the Force Itself, forbidden arts or no. It was not such a danger for non-Force-sensitives, but for those so plugged into Its essence—so they said—it was. And so, the rules had been adapted. Familial titles forbidden, beyond just that of Master and Padawan, or Youngling and Crechemaster.
And now, these clones and their brother had turned that idea completely round in Kit’s head. How stupid. How STUPID to think it safer, to forbid strong bonds—which most ALL of them still ended up nurturing, on one level or another, in secret, anyway—instead of just to teach Padawans of the evil DANGERS of Sith magic! How a loved one preserved through taking another’s life would then only have half a life anyway, a curse that helped no one.
And loyalty to the Force? Love for It conflicting with love for family? Kit shook his head at the inanity of it all. He had never been tempted to place Nahdar, or now Fil, or anyone he had cared for in the past, above the Force’s mighty Heart. It was the very thing keeping them all—the living, and the souls of the dead—in existence, binding them in love! How could anyone place a single sentient above It? They were totally different things—like a glass versus the water it held inside, not like a humanoid lover competing with another humanoid lover. How stupid.
…Fisto suddenly realized he had not just been meditating on Nahdar, but on the Force’s comforting Heart, too. He had been taught elements of this, at least, as a Youngling. How Reldoras was the Force’s avatar, Its humanoid form It had taken to grow closer to all sentients, but that Its ultimate Heart was something greater than a body, coursing through and controlling everything. And they could all imagine It—the vast, controlling, Heart part of it—in the way that felt most natural to them, so long as they remembered what It was—the fount of all existence, and all goodness, above every other thing.
Kit wondered if the clones saw It as a giant version of themselves, in some bright light of whatever color was most meaningful to them. He sometimes saw It as a giant Nautolan, or sometimes a warm and comforting whale, opalescent and shining, spreading Its fins, or Its arms, around them all. Filling all the spaces, buoying him in all the little remaining patches of his torso or face or shoulders or legs, that the clones hadn’t already covered in their strong embraces. Buoying the clones, too, embracing them. There was something strangely holy, strangely reassuring, in remembering that the Force was ultimately the Protector of those who protected YOU!
And that was detachment right there. NOT a denial of affection, of vulnerability! Just a willingness to TRUST a loved one’s fate to the Force! Like Nahdar—taken when he should have been, not a moment too early nor too late. It was hard to think like that, yes—but it helped to remember this life was only a growing stage, and all would be well afterward. For the Jedi and the clones and everyone else. They all would one day touch again. Fil and Bel and Niner and Tune and their other two brothers. Kit and Nahdar. Everyone. They just had to wait.
…Patience. Patience and trust. That was all it took! Not denial, not fear (yes, FEAR of one’s emotions! Fear, the path to the dark side!!). Not even overly-strenuous discipline, in most cases. Just going with the proverbial flow—like the welcoming ocean currents of his home planet, Glee Anselm. Just patience with life and death, and trust in the Force.
Kit got up, breathing deeply, but smiling. He hoped his amphibious skin had not been too slimy against poor Fil’s human shoulder and cheek—especially when tears had started leaking not only from Kit’s eyes, but from his ear-gills! He chuckled sheepishly at the clone, but the man just smiled and squeezed his hand. “Tell us more about Nahdar,” he said.
And so Kit Fisto, Master Jedi, sat back down and obliged them. He told the clones the funniest stories he could possibly remember, of his time training his little Mon Calamari Padawan. They all laughed great rolling laughs, in their Concord Dawn accents inherited from Fett—laughs that quickly turned to hiccupping cries, and then laughs again. And Kit asked them to tell him of Tune likewise—and this, too, led to a chorus of sobs, and laughs, and then sobs again.
By the time they were done, Kit still felt a grief in his heart, but it was a good, full feeling—not the cold, empty, desperate thread it had been before.
“Thank you,” he told Fil and his brothers, and actually kissed the Commander’s hand in reverence, before he got back up again. The clone’s brown eyes were wide, at a Jedi showing him such a gesture of submission, instead of the other way around—but the Nautolan explained, “You have taught me so much.”
***
Fil became quite possibly Kit Fisto’s best friend, from that day forward. And then, when the war ended, and when the Nautolan Jedi donned the robe of Council Leader, he had only two words in his mind: Patience and Trust.
He would deal with the fallout of the war, with the reconstruction efforts the Jedi would be a part of—with all the headache and paperwork that would no doubt be blustering his way, like a miniature tornado. If Mace had dealt with the massive, constant storm of the war itself, well, Kit owed it to him, to at least handle this aftermath. But as for anything less-expected, any legacy he himself had planned, for his role in this honored position: Kit had only one.
He was going to redefine what “detachment” was, and what it wasn’t.
He was going to repeal the ban on familial relations.
***
Within two weeks, Kit was walking by the creche, hearing the grunting laughter of Poobas. Two thickset adults, not Jedi themselves, were kneeling over their furry toddler Youngling, tickling his feet. The apartments for parents and other guardians were still under construction, but it seemed some had already moved in, unable to wait a second more.
Kit leaned in through the doorframe to watch. The tiny Pooba’s adorable face was nearly in tears, as he wriggled on the floor, and cooed sheer love up at his family.
Master Fisto, throwing the dignity of his new position in the wind, took off down the hall skipping.
The Force felt so bright today he could sing.
***
On Kamino, the GAR clone facilities were finally being cleaned up and dismantled. The last young troopers had already moved out, as with the end of the Clone Wars, came the end of the program.
Jango Fett—and many of his clones, for that matter—were still welcome to live on Kamino if they wished, but most had found homes elsewhere, with their new friends and families (including each other) throughout the galaxy. Jango himself was undecided. He loved his and Boba’s cozy little apartment—the only home the boy himself had ever known—but without the troopers to train, filling the halls, the place felt a bit empty now. So, Jango had told Boba they were going on a long vacation. They’d see any planets the now-thirteen-year-old wished, and pay a particular visit to Jango’s remaining relatives on Concord Dawn. Maybe they’d end up there. Again, they’d just have to decide later, and have some fun doing so.
As they packed up the Firespray, Shaak Ti walked by. The Jedi was heading to a new home too—probably back to the Temple on Coruscant. Like Jango, all the little cadets she had once trained were now elsewhere, and that felt rather lonely.
That was the only thing that felt lonely, though, as she smilingly told her friend the news, about what Master Fisto had done for the future of the Jedi. And their new families.
Jango absolutely went to pieces. At first, Shaak Ti was taken aback, her white lips flying open. “Jango Fett—!!”
But then she realized Jango was happy—if rather smugly amused—in fact practically crying with mirth. Apparently, though he had never taken a spouse himself, the thought of some Jedi now having them frankly tickled him. As did—perhaps even moreso—the thought of the pitter-pattering of little feet, which would inevitably come afterward. Something Jango had managed to garner for himself, through other means.
“Kote bal briikasar!!” he crowed in Mando’a; “You flowery jetiise’ll finally be growin’ some proper Mandalorian spine, now that you’ll have little un’s to protect! And corral! HahahaHOOOOO!!!” The clone host collapsed laughing (paying no attention to Shaak’s protest that Jedi crechemasters, at least, already had some experience corralling Younglings). Apparently, since—apart from the general use of offense vs. defense—family bonds had been the most hotly-contested difference between Jedi and Mandalorians in the past, the hearty warrior felt certain he had “won this round.”
Shaak shook her montrals fondly, head-jewelry tinkling, and managed a chuckle herself.
It was a good thing Jango didn’t have his heavy armor on at the moment, as his already-rather-heavy frame had collapsed against his still-small son’s shoulder. He was absolutely weak in the knees from mirth. But Boba was smiling and giggling too, not minding, as he dragged his still-hysterically-hooting father up to the Firespray cockpit.
***
The sliding door of Obi-Wan’s quarters opened. He waved an arm companionably, from where he was making tea on a divan. “Anakin! And Senator Padmé. How nice to see you both together,” he smiled.
The younger Jedi and the senator gulped, looking at each other. Then, they dared—perhaps for the first time in front of Obi-Wan—to hold hands, squeezing each other’s fingers for support.
“M-Master…” Anakin began, taking a step closer to his old friend; “we have something to tell you.”
Obi-Wan smiled as pleasantly as ever, feigning obliviousness to their fidgetiness. “What is it?”
“We’re married!!” Anakin and Padmé both blurted at once, the quickness of their breaths showing they had fought to get it out.
“Hmm, I rather suspected,” Obi-Wan continued very calmly, the grin beneath his mustache growing wider. He poured the tea.
Anakin gaped. “H… how did you know—?!”
“Well, I didn’t exactly know how you officially got married, or when. But I’ve certainly noticed you two giving each other bogling eyes for the past three years,” his master chuckled. “I’m not blind, Anakin.”
Anakin sucked his lips back sheepishly—apparently embarrassed of the stealth skills he once proudly thought he had. Padmé just giggled at Anakin—her beautiful brown eyes indeed looking quite like a bogling’s in that moment, shiny and sweet.
Obi-Wan extended his hand to her, smiling as openly as ever. “Sit down, my dear. Isn’t Master Fisto’s news wonderful? And fortunate, for you two!” he couldn’t help but chuckle wryly again, in his elegant flute of a voice.
“It is indeed, Master Kenobi,” Padmé had to giggle softly again, as she eased herself onto one of the floor-cushions opposite him. Something in her voice was still quite breathless and eager, though. “And—actually, well… this is excellent timing, because there is something very important I have to tell both of you. E-especially Anakin,” she turned to her Jedi husband, as he plopped down beside her.
“Yes?” his own, blue eyes were kind and expectant, as he took her hand in both of his.
Padmé almost seemed to lose her nerve. She apparently had rehearsed this line for weeks, but gabbled it now—wanting to find the absolute best, most memorable way to say it.
“What is it?” Anakin chuckled again, puzzled but loving, urging his wife gently. “Spit it out!”
Padmé turned to their bemused audience in desperation. “O-Obi-Wan? Since the new regulations mean you can call each other family now… are you and Anakin like father and son?”
Obi-Wan beamed nearly as lovingly to Anakin, now, albeit platonically, as Anakin and Padmé had to each other. “I suppose we are,” he nodded, “after a fashion.”
Anakin melted, exhaling a thankful smile at his master, whose eyes twinkled. Padmé’s own eyes grew warmer with her own exhale and smile, as she apparently saw her opening. “Well then,” she straightened herself up on the cushion and beamed, as broadly and confidently as she would have in front of a Senate audience; “Master Obi-Wan, you’re going to be a grandfather!”
Both sets of blue Jedi eyes popped open.
Obi-Wan’s continued to stare, while Anakin fainted.
***
“Oh, Ani!”
When Anakin came to, Padmé was bending over him with concern, patting his cheek, though apparently she had also been talking to Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan himself was crossing his legs, smiling as calmly as ever and sipping his tea.
“It’s twins,” he let Anakin know, mustache-ends tweaking upwards once more.
Anakin fainted again.
***
After being deployed across the galaxy to countless planets, during the Clone Wars, not only the clones but also some Jedi, now, contemplated where, indeed, they ought to live. Wolffe, Boost, and Sinker had gotten a flat on Bespin, and offered for their Jedi, Plo Koon, to move in with them. He rather thought he might. Bespin had many gasses that it was easier for him to breathe, even without his species’ mask, at certain levels. But of course, most importantly, he loved those boys very much.
At the moment, they were showing off their new holovision to him by having a movie night, snuggled against him on the couch. The Kel-Dor smiled behind his mask. He didn’t mind. He knew clones saw cuddling as normal even as adults—and frankly, even if they hadn’t, why, if they needed to rediscover their childhood for a few hours, he would let them. He was discovering something too—if this was what fatherhood meant, he welcomed it.
Sinker leaned his silver-dyed head against Plo’s shoulder, while Boost grabbed his elbow, beaming as the holovid started (some story about a bunch of Ortolan treasure-hunters getting trapped in a tower, and a Gungan princess helping them escape). Contrary to Sinker’s claims, Boost did bathe even when not on leave—but now, well, they were on leave permanently anyway! He smelled like a rose—a very large, goofy one. Plo chuckled and stroked an orange hand over him. His clone son.
Wolffe strode by, tossing a giant bowl of popcorn into Master Plo’s lap, then plumping himself on the couch-cushion beside Boost, to reach over and enjoy it.
“Well now… what’s this?” the Kel-Dor’s soothing voice rumbled, as Wolffe grabbed a handful of popcorn and began cramming it messily in his mouth. In the middle of the popcorn-bowl was a card, clearly meant for the Jedi to find.
Happy Father’s Day, it read. The Aurebesh letters were multicolored, but the clones had painted the gray wolf emblem of 104th, on the inside of the card.
“We didn’t know what day it actually was on this planet,” Sinker mumbled, making himself more comfortable against Plo, “but we found that one day at the mall, and thought you deserved it.”
“…It was Boost’s idea,” Wolffe then put in stiffly—he had a gruff image to maintain.
Boost grinned as widely as the gap between his hair-stripes was long. “Liar liar! It was your idea, Wolffe. You old softy!”
Wolffe pouted, but finally melted a bit, as Plo tweaked his cheek.
“The war was a horrible thing—but you three are the greatest blessings it ever brought me,” the Kel-Dor rumbled warmly again, enough to lull his three clone sons nearly to sleep.
***
Some clones and Jedi were still busy with the Reconstruction Corps, visiting hurting planets and helping them to rebuild. One such company was the 327th, who were out for a walk on Lah’mu, just after helping a village there set up a new communications center. It was an absolutely splendid day—the sky was an utterly beautiful blue, as were the waters of the lake, which they had suddenly stopped to admire.
But no blue was as beautiful, to Commander Bly, than that of his Aayla. He watched the Jedi, as she smiled at the water-sparkles, and dared to grasp her hand. “Aayla—” he coughed, “w-we’ve been together for a long time, during the war and now, and… and I was wondering…” his brown face flushed, beneath the yellow swashes of his cheek-paint, though he was still smiling.
“What is it, Bly?” Aayla creased her forehead, in kind but equally-smiling concern.
Apparently losing the ability to speak, the clone simply fell to his knees—still grasping one of Aayla’s blue hands in both of his. He stared up at her humbly, still with a big, slightly goofy smile.
“Bly!” Aayla gasped.
Bly just jerked his head several times to the left of them, indicating she should look at their squad.
The boys of the 327th were grinning like loons, well-prepped for this. They each held up a large piece of posterboard, with a single yellow Aurebesh letter apiece.
Aayla made an insanely high squeaking noise, hands flying over her mouth, in happy shock. Somehow, blue as they were, her Twi’lek cheeks could flush as visibly as her clone commander’s, as she read the message he had had his brothers spell out for her.
W I L L
Y O U
M A R R Y
M E ?
***
Now that most Younglings—those who weren’t orphans, at least—had their parents staying with them, the crechemasters of the Jedi Temple had something of a break. They still trained their tiny pupils on Jedi basics, before they entered Padawanhood, of course—but after hours, they had a bit more time to sleep! Or just catch up on reading.
Obi-Wan Kenobi trundled into one of the creche’s sitting-rooms, where his old master reclined contentedly studying a holocron, his crutch lying near him on the floor. The place was deserted, apart from the two of them—quiet, in the soft light.
Qui-Gon Jinn had originally meant to train Anakin himself, but after losing his leg on Naboo, he was no longer fit for strenuous travel and missions. And so Obi-Wan had stepped in, while Qui-Gon had taken to watching over the Jedi toddlers, just as Yoda and the other crechemasters did. He still talked with both Obi-Wan and Anakin, and had settled several disputes between them, early on—yes, they had been so lucky to have their dear old master, both of them.
But Obi-Wan suddenly realized, he perhaps had not told Qui-Gon enough, how much he loved him. In the hectic years of the Clone Wars especially, when visits had become fewer.
Now with the Clone Wars over, and with Master Fisto’s new repeals, Obi-Wan wondered if there were even more special words, he could finally utter to his master.
“Still so quiet, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon cracked an eye kindly, and slightly humorously, at him; “I barely heard you come in.”
The lines of Obi-Wan’s own face crinkled slightly, at the eyes, as he returned Qui-Gon’s smile. It was hard to believe how old they both had gotten. Their beards were almost the same, and Qui-Gon’s long hair had more gray in it than brown, now; and Obi-Wan’s, while still a brighter auburn, was cut in a conservative style that his younger self would have found very boring. He chuckled and eased himself next to his master on the seat-cushion, just as he might have those many years ago.
They talked of what Qui-Gon saw in the holocron, at first, studying it companionably together, Obi-Wan’s head on Qui-Gon’s shoulder. But then their conversation drifted to Master Fisto… and then to families in general… and then Obi-Wan finally dared to ask, if Qui-Gon might finally call him his son.
He realized, now, all along, how he had wanted to be so.
Qui-Gon’s blue eyes were deep with love, as they met his old Padawan’s. “Oh Obi-Wan,” he murmured soothingly, “I always saw you as my son. I just never said the word aloud, because I was worried it might embarrass you. After all,” he chuckled fondly, and reached up unthinkingly, to tweak the place where the Padawan braid had once hung behind Obi-Wan’s ear, only to find it gone; “you were always such a rules-stickler.”
Obi-Wan laughed aloud at that—just as fond, but half-indignant. “Me? A rules-stickler?!” His voice was just as elegant (moreso than his master’s) when he was joking or ranting, as it was when he was calm. “I only looked that way because I was always being compared with that Padawan you landed me with, Anakin the Defiant, Terror of the Council!” he laughed again. “Or with you, the most bullheaded and chaotic master in the quadrant—” his voice suddenly changed from humorous to very quiet and tender, as he half-sniffled and smiled: “Father.” He buried his face in Qui-Gon’s hair, unashamed.
Qui-Gon smiled just as quietly, and closed his eyes. He hooked his bearded chin over Obi-Wan’s shorter head, and held him there, gently but tightly, for a full ten minutes.
***
By the end of two months, Master Fisto was well-instated as the new Head of the Jedi Council. He sat comfortably in his chair, flipping through his datapad, reviewing requests from his peers. One of them had been submitted anonymously—perhaps still out of fear of the “old guard”—but it nearly made him fall out of his seat, nonetheless.
A proposition for a wedding chapel, to be added to the Temple halls!
…Well, after all, there had been nearly thirty Jedi requesting marriage, with each other or with non-Force-wielders they knew, over the past month, Fisto reminded himself. He grinned his toothy grin, and righted himself.
They could make it all pretty, with décor representing every race in the Republic. Carvings of his native seaweed, bells the humans liked to use for marriage-feasts, peaceful thrantas from Alderaan, spreading their wings above the altar… Kit smiled broader, already imagining it.
Maybe, as Council Head, they’d even call on him to be the officiant! So many ceremonies, so many new families started with a gentle pronouncement, which he would be so honored to say, every time….
The more Kit thought on it, the happier he got.
***
Two months after that, Barriss Unduli helped her new mother, Luminara, down the hall. She was an orphan, and so she wanted to bear her mistress’ name, now. They had been all each other had, once… but now, their family was growing.
“I’m all right, Barriss!” Luminara’s laugh was fond, almost ticklish, at how protectively her Padawan—her daughter—clung to her arm, around every corner. Their black Mirialan robes swished side by side, nearly merging with each other, Barriss’ grip was so tight.
But after all—Luminara cradled her belly softly with her free arm—it wouldn’t do to rush, yes. And it was sweet, how excited Barriss was now, to have a sibling.
She had been asking all the other Padawans for baby names, left and right. Luminara didn’t have the heart to tell her, that she and Gree had already picked one out.
But… after all, they might still change their minds, if Barriss and her friends found one that was simply too pretty to deny.
***
For all her feisty spirit, Obi-Wan had strangely never seen Ahsoka so meek, as the day she had shown back up at the Temple, at the dormitories’ doorsteps. She was the perfect picture of disciplined, late-ish Padawanhood, draped in her brown cloak (still a little too long at the edges—perhaps why she wore it so infrequently, during their days on the field).
“Master Obi-Wan…” she began, clasping her orange hands, blue eyes wide and soulful; “what with Master Anakin on Naboo now, waitin’ for his twins… I was wondering… could I stay here with you?”
Obi-Wan’s auburn smile broadened gently, to match her soft tone. “Of course you can, dear one. Why would you think you’d need my permission, to live in the ancestral home of all of us? All Jedi are welcome at the Temple.”
“But I meant with you, specifically!” The little Padawan’s lekku almost twitched, now, in nervousness. “I still have a year or so of trainin’ to do, before I’m really a Knight… and I know Anakin’s still sendin’ me holocrons…” she bit her lip; “but I thought…” her eyes shone with love for the middle-aged Jedi, whom she honestly had always thought of as her grandfather, at least of a sort. “Maybe you could teach me, the rest of the way? Let me walk beside you… as another Padawan?” her little impish giggle came back, to be matched by Qui-Gon’s growing smile behind them both. “O-off the record?”
Obi-Wan felt the Force-bond flushing with warmth between them all—even his old master’s beside him, flowing like ribbons, to grasp him and Ahsoka both. He bundled the still-somewhat-little Togruta into his arms, to match. “I’ve missed you, dear one,” Obi-Wan’s fluting voice was the warmest of all, somehow, between the Force-threads and the robes. He laid his head over his grandpadawan’s shoulder.
Qui-Gon’s hand, meanwhile, came to rest—gently, heavily—between the montrals of Ahsoka’s head. “And I am anxious to get to know you further!” his own voice, that slightly deeper and rougher baritone than Obi-Wan’s, was full of both love and amusement. He had only met her once or twice before this, as a Youngling, but he had heard so much about the exploits of this youngest member of his lineage. Ahsoka seemed a little Jedi quite after his own heart. Obi-Wan would soon have a run for his proverbial credits, at being the favorite “grandfather!”
But Ahsoka still seemed to have one question, as her broad smile, from the human duo’s embrace, faded just a smidge. “—Clones can live at the Temple too now, right? They’re being made guards?”
Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon’s mustaches both twitched with further warmth. Now that the war was over and they were at peace, the Temple had more than enough guards—both the traditional, golden-masked Jedi ones, and the newer, bare-faced clones—but so many Jedi had clone friends who wanted to stay with them, they’d managed to find little nooks and crannies for them all to fill at the Temple, be they instructors or janitors or even just Obi-Wan’s fellow tea-makers and morale-givers.
…Cody would have been one of them, if he hadn’t fallen for a certain doe-eyed senator from Pantora. Obi-Wan had been their best man, and he now deeply enjoyed every new little ping on his comlink and holoprojector, filled with excited holos and sunshiny texts from the clone who had become his brother in all but blood. Still, Cody’s physical absence was yet one more reason Obi-Wan was especially happy to see Ahsoka coming back into his embrace today. As fulfilled as reconnecting with his old master—his FATHER, now, Obi-Wan reminded himself—had made him, he HAD missed the new family he had found for himself, during the Clone Wars. And Ahsoka was a piece of that made new.
“Of course they are, dear one,” Obi-Wan reassured once more. “The clones are the firmest friends the Jedi have ever had. No clone will ever be turned away from the Temple.”
Ahsoka’s voice was almost ethereally calm, then, as she strode past her grandmaster and great-grandmaster—smiling brightly, on her way to unpack her things. “Well, that’s good, because I brought my honor guard.”
Obi-Wan squinted. “Your honor guard?”
Qui-Gon perked at the sound. There was a sudden hubbub getting nearer to them.
“Right this way! Now remember, boys, the Temple is not a battle-camp, these Jedi like things just a little calmer than General Skywa—”
Captain Rex, and the several identical men behind him, were all dressed in the golden-crest armor of the new, clone Temple Guards, shining and clean, white cloaks trailing behind them. This did nothing to disguise the fracas happening in the foyer nearby.
“Kix, get him down from there!”
“Oh, Tup, buddy, you knew you shouldn’t go climbin’ those giant statues without a way t’ get down! Dogma, help me out here—”
“You think I can climb down any better than him?!”
“Just ask one o’ these Jedi blokes to levitate ‘im!” (This was followed by rough laughter that could only be Hardcase’s.) “I can’t wait to get levitated every day, m’self!”
Obi-Wan’s eyes crossed.
Oh, sages of old.
What with Anakin busy having custody of Padmé and their little unborn twins… Ahsoka now apparently had full custody of the 501st.
The very loud, very rowdy, very (with the only partial exception of Rex) rule-breaking 501st.
Qui-Gon’s smile grew between his beard, clasping a hand over it, so his old Padawan wouldn’t see him laughing. (If he wasn’t mistaken, that last noise had been a crash and an alarm bell in the distance.)
Oh yes, the old maverick thought with relish, life was about to get quite pleasantly more interesting for them both!
***
Depa Billaba tittered quietly into her sleeve, as she felt her still-small Padawan hiding under her cloak. They were together in a lush, vine-lined courtyard in the Federal District, watching the newly-elected Senator Cham Syndulla (successor to Orn Free Taa) and his daughter. The Twi’lek man was talking with some of his aids, while his green-skinned daughter, Hera, had wandered over to the courtyard fountain. She peeked over its marble edge, humming happily, and then even splashed her hand in it, rather impetuously. She giggled.
Caleb peeked out of Depa’s robe, as if charmed by the sound, but then ducked closer to her again. They had played together, some, Caleb and Hera. He had met her a few days ago. But now he seemed to be growing far shyer. Depa thought she knew why.
“It’s all right, Caleb,” she chuckled soothingly, squeezing her little son’s shoulder. It’s all right for you to have a crush now. Just like it’s all right for you to call me “Mother” now, remember? The Council fixed things. They FIXED it! You don’t have to be afraid anymore. She kissed his cheek. “Now, go on!”
Caleb gulped, but darted boldly from his mother’s robe, carrying something behind him. He made it to the fountain, but only managed to squeak, more a noise than a word, to make Hera look up. The little Twi’lek remained silent—but her perky, open smile melted Caleb’s heart.
The little Padawan beamed mutely in return, extending the flowers in his hand—three huge starburst blossoms, purple, orange, and green, that he had picked himself from the Temple gardens.
Hera’s green eyes lit up, in a happy gasp. “Arni'soyacho!” she squealed, and hugged the three flowers to her.
Caleb assumed “arni’soyacho” was Ryl for “thank you,” but he wouldn’t have cared what the response was. The fact that Hera was happy with his gift was enough. His little human feet nearly flapped and took off, he felt so much like he was floating on air.
“Come see me again tomorrow!” Caleb even found the boldness to shout over to her, as Hera ran over to her own parent’s robe. She waved excitedly back, to her apparent new beau.
***
Kit Fisto had never forgotten that moment with the clones, which had set all of this into motion. Besides teaching him the value of family, he also thought it an incredibly valuable meditation. It had saved him from the depths of grief—but in times of complete ease, with no reason to cry at all, it was still just as healthy. He was eager to share it with all of his fellow Jedi—and anyone else willing to learn, too, for that matter!
He called it “clone-style meditation”—in honor of Fil and his little company, yes. But mostly because the remaining Council sticklers simply would NOT have let the title “CUDDLE meditation” fly. That was exactly what it was, though—focusing on the Force’s Heart simply holding one, smiling and loving—letting It cuddle all the fears and darkness and worries of tomorrow away! And of course—such scandal!—it could be done alone or in groups. Groups all cuddled together, just like the clones had taught him.
Kit took great pleasure in guiding his fellow Jedi through this now, and their non-Force-sensitive friends (for they, too, were still the Force’s children, even if they did not have telepathic or telekinetic gifts). Just cuddle in the arms of the Force’s Heart, he would explain, and in the arms of those around you, too, if not doing this alone. Let the Force “fill the gaps,” and cushion you all—just like It had done for him and Fil and Bel and the rest, and Tune and Nahdar resting in spirit with them. And then, he would go on, think of absolutely nothing else, except Its love for you and those you care about. No time, no planets, no surroundings, no activities—perhaps even names and numbers and language itself forgotten—nothing but the simple flow of the Force’s heartbeat, warm and caring, knitting you all together and to Itself in sacred happiness, sacred love.
It was incredibly refreshing, and some Jedi now said that all their other meditations paled, compared to this one. Whether done alone or with partners, it was all anyone ever needed!
Qui-Gon Jinn and the other crechemasters knew it well enough by now, to instruct the children in it themselves, of course. But this particular morning, Master Jinn had wanted to introduce one of his pupils to Master Fisto anyway. For the lesson, but also just because of her special circumstances—something the Council Head might take an interest in.
Rinni Founkin was a true rarity—a young Jedi who essentially had been raised by clones, rather than the other way around! Due to some very convoluted and unfortunate circumstances, she had been knighted far too early. But due to the Force’s providence, three clones had taken it upon themselves to protect her. This little family of four had paid little heed to the laws about “detachment,” at least as it had previously been defined—they had considered themselves a daughter and her three fathers even before the war was over. Now, they even called each other as such—“Daddy, Papa, and Buir,” and “our baby!” And they even had a collective nickname—the “Peapod Squad.”
Rinni was thirteen, now; and though her title as Knight could not be taken away, Qui-Gon—who had been her favorite crechemaster—and Yaddle—also a dear friend—still taught her unofficially. Via occasional messages and holocrons they sent her, or, during the quartet’s occasional visits to Coruscant, in person like this.
Kit smiled his famous broad, green smile as Qui-Gon ushered the four into his quarters. Rinni, Tenner (“Daddy”), Chops (“Papa”), and Flare (“Buir”) had retired to Scarif post-war, on the latter three’s pensions; and even though it still hadn’t been quite a year, the effects of life in a tropical paradise were already quite visible on them. Rinni at least had her customary brown Jedi robe, but the three clones’ jackets looked rather ramshackle—probably the only colder-weather clothing they owned, apart from their old black skivvies. Rinni’s Theelin skin, pale and purple-spotted, was probably protected by sunscreen—and while all clones had inherited Jango Fett’s copper-brown skin, these three had an especially deep, rich cast to theirs.
Numerous naps in comfortable hammocks or on the sunny beach, and unlimited servings of fruit pancakes with whipped cream, were also quite apparent—Rinni was a bit chubbier than when the Council had seen her last, and as for her three guardians, their bellies had apparently been growing at the same rate as Luminara Unduli’s (who was now six months along) and Padmé Skywalker’s (who was proverbially ready to pop)! Oh, and Aayla Secura’s, too, now. (She was no doubt being bombarded by clone-style baby name suggestions, like “Kicker,” “Cutie,” “Blowup,” and “Bumblebee,” courtesy of her husband and the rest of the 327th.) Chops—the pink-haired one—in particular had a tummy that looked roomy enough to house the Skywalker twins themselves. But of course, if Kit had overheard their conversations correctly, Chops was the cook of this little family—the one responsible for all those delicious fruit pancakes.
Fil—who had perched companionably on the armrest of Kit’s Council chair—suddenly looked down at his own stomach, a bit self-consciously. (It was not as large as the “Peapods’,” but he might have had to hold his breath just a bit, now, if he wanted to get back into his wartime breastplate.) Kit turned his head aside and grinned into his knuckles, so his friend—his brother, now—wouldn’t notice him giggling at him. Kindly, of course.
It was a shame they hadn’t thought to invite Niner, this particular afternoon—he and Tenner might have bonded over their names. Fil’s little team of five all lived with Kit, now—they ran a demolition business downtown, themselves—and he often asked them to participate in these meditation-teaching sessions, just as they always did at home. Still, even Fil by himself would do marvelously today.
The Nautolan and his clone sat down on the floor-cushions, now, opposite the little Theelin and hers. “Reach out with your mind, and your heart too,” Kit spread his palms gently, motioning to both Rinni and Fil. He put one of his green arms around the latter, who grinned and scooted into him, obliging. “Picture the Force’s Heart in whatever shape works best to you, and imagine It holding you, just like your Daddy and your Buir are doing now!” The kind Council Head had even remembered which was which, as Tenner and Flare had grinned and followed Fil’s example—scooting and clasping themselves around Rinni’s sides.
The young Theelin’s eyes opened wide. “It’s that easy?” her little mouth was an “O.”
“It’s that easy!” Kit nodded, his smile as rich and reassuring as his voice.
Rinni herself grinned now, and settled back to meditate, enjoying the warmth of Tenner and Flare around her, and beginning to imagine the Force clasping her—and them!—just as tightly. The black-haired and blond-haired clones did likewise, closing their eyes peacefully and beaming.
Chops, however—Force love him—had other ideas. He had fumbled rather hungrily at Flare’s side, unable to reach Rinni quite as strongly, and felt a bit pouty about this. Suddenly, he lunged.
The “Peapod squad” were immediately laughing and squeaking, falling off their meditative perches, as a bit of a “cuddle-fight” broke out. Flare squeezed their little Theelin Jedi like a crashball he was protecting, tickling her, her mouth open wide in glee. Chops pushed Tenner aside and installed himself in his position, meanwhile. Rinni decided to play along, and slipped soundly from Flare’s embrace—after giving him a big nuzzle—into Chops’. Her pink-haired guardian positively beamed, as she made herself comfortable in his lap—sinking into his big, soft belly like a pillow. He wrapped his arms around her very tenderly, providing a “blanket” to go with it.
The clone brothers—who truly were as loving to each other as they were to their little treasure—suddenly did the same to Chops, draping themselves around either of his sides. Tenner nuzzled his tattooed chin over Chops’ shoulder; Flare headbutted his chest, but only very gently. Their brown hands clasped to meet in the middle—Chops’ middle, to be precise, where Rinni lay—and they all pulled a little tighter, locking themselves together. Becoming one big, squishy bundle of family—all four of them smiling even broader than before, awash with contentment and warmth.
By the time the “Peapods” had gotten themselves into this quiet position, able to meditate again, Kit and Fil’s hands had involuntarily drifted over their equally-smiling mouths—melting, almost shocked at the level of sweetness they had just witnessed. They didn’t think they’d ever seen a group look so peaceful, sleepy, happy, and loved!
It was enough to make Kit jealous, and he grabbed Fil to satisfy that, squeezing his own clone family like a big plush doll. Fil tried not to giggle aloud and interrupt the Peapods’ meditation. As he and Kit drifted off—enjoying the Force’s love as well as each other’s, in the same meditation as they were teaching these new friends—he thought he heard the Nautolan sigh. A deep, deep sound of thankfulness.
Kit Fisto bowed his green head humbly, thanking the Force for Its blessing, and for letting him be Its conduit. All of this new outpouring of love, in every Jedi’s life, had come from It; he had merely been Its servant, showing the way. It would have found someone else to repeal the old laws, he knew, eventually, if he hadn’t. (And it had been a voted decision—though his vote had carried much weight.)
But the simple fact that the Force had used him, and he had moved with It correctly, was enough to keep Kit Fisto’s heart singing for centuries. It really did feel good, to do good!
And that was the Jedi way, was it not?