Archive of Our Own ^beta

"You argued with Dr. Che?" Bant shook her head and smirked behind her glass of white wine. "What did that cost you?"

"All I wanted was to check my blood pressure, and now I'm off work for twelve weeks!" Obi-Wan dragged his hand through his hair and paced in front of the windows of Bant's apartment, completely ignoring the spectacular view of the city’s river valley that made up for the terrible landlord. "She originally said six—"

"But then you opened your big, fat mouth—"

"And the vicious harpy doubled it. Effective immediately. What am I gonna do, Bant? The ambassador is going to kill me, I can't just leave the office for three months, there's a trade deal hanging in the balance—"

"Legally, Windu can't kill you, that would be murder," Bant offered. "And he can't ignore a doctor-ordered medical leave, or fire you for it, or demote you."

Obi-Wan made a strangled sound in his throat.

"Oh, for Chrissake, Obes, sit down before you have a stroke."

Too flustered to argue, Obi-Wan flopped down on the threadbare futon and hid his face in his hands. "There are probably five hundred emails waiting for me, and it's only been twelve hours."

"And someone will take care of it, but it's not your concern right now." Bant shifted forward, setting her drink on the coffee table next to Obi-Wan's untouched glass of wine. "Has it occurred to you that maybe you do need a break?"

Obi-Wan didn't lift his hands from his face as he replied, "I'm too busy to take a break."

"Do you know how stupid that sounds?"

With an indignant huff, Obi-Wan crossed his legs and settled his fists in his lap. "My work is my life, Bant. If I don't work, I have no life."

Bant frowned. "That is the saddest fucking thing I have ever heard and I just read the UN Climate Change report."

"The office changed my passwords. They confiscated my key card and my phone. Adi escorted me out of the building and handed my picture to security and she had the fucking nerve to tell me to enjoy my time off." He threw himself off the futon and resumed pacing. "I'm going to lose my goddamned mind if I have to just sit around for twelve weeks, but I guess that means we can hang out more than once in a blue moon."

A wince became a poor smile. "Well, actually, I found out they're sending me to Tunis for the summer."

Obi-Wan stopped and stared at her. "You got the consultant position with the Regional Seas Programme?" At her nod, a wide, brilliant smile broke out on his face. "Oh, that's wonderful, Bant! I'm so happy for you! When do you leave?"

"Thursday. I won't be back until September, maybe October." Bant cocked her head the way she always did when she thought she had a spectacular idea. "I have a favour to ask you."

Obi-Wan stared at the bookshelf, arms crossed tightly over his chest. How was it possible that there were so many gardening books?

He slid a soft cover, oversized book with glossy pages off the shelf and thumbed through it. An entire book on tomatoes? What the fuck was an indeterminate tomato? Was the tomato having a midlife crisis?

He was feeling more and more indeterminate the longer he stood, staring at titles like Lois Hole's Vegetable Favourites and The Vegetable Gardener's Bible and Practical Permaculture.

Why had he agreed to this? He had exactly no experience growing anything —hell, he'd killed a cactus once, and he'd heard someone say that was impossible—but now he was taking over Bant's community garden share so she didn't feel she had wasted $150 on the plot?

He had $150. He should have just given it to her and told her to get blitzed on the plane.

"Excuse me, sir, can I help you find something in particular?" The young woman with a blue and white striped hijab and a nametag that read Ahsoka offered him a polite smile.

"Uh, no?" He hadn't meant for it to come out as a question.

"Well, like, what kind of gardening are you doing? Flowers or vegetables?" She tilted her head, as if genuinely concerned about his garden reference needs.

Obi-Wan inhaled and made up his mind. "Vegetables," he said firmly. Vegetables were useful, and if he was going to go to all this trouble, he was going to have something edible by the end of it.

"Cool," Ahsoka replied. "Do you want a general reference for vegetables, or do you want another tomato book?"

"Hmm?"

The young woman pointed at the book in his hands. "That's a pretty popular one, but I think we might have another tomato book that's written by a local."

"I don't know. Can you have a garden with just tomatoes?"

"Why not? My grandmother has one that's just tomatoes, but she has four other garden beds. She's also from Lebanon, so…" Ahsoka shrugged, as if to suggest having an entire garden devoted to tomatoes wasn't exactly the norm around here.

"I don't think I like tomatoes that much," murmured Obi-Wan. His eyes scanned the spines, and a clump of identical books caught his eye. He tugged a copy out.

"Oh! Yeah, you should give that a try," suggested Ahsoka enthusiastically. "It's like, a whole thing where you plant a different thing in each square foot of your garden and it's supposed to be really efficient."

On the cover, a tidy garden of vegetables grew exactly where they should be. A friendly looking man with a giant moustache and a goofy hat smiled reassuringly that yes, Obi-Wan could grow a garden just like his.

Ahsoka had knelt down to the bottom shelf; she waved another book over her head at him. "You might like this one! It tells you what you can plant together to get better yields, or what plants you shouldn't stick next to each other."

Obi-Wan snagged the book from her hand. "That's a thing?"

"They wrote a book about it. More than one," replied Ahsoka, brushing at her knees as she stood. "There's also a good one about organic pest control, which has got to be better than handpicking potato beetles and drowning them in a tobacco can of gasoline."

"That's a very specific and disturbing image."

"Better me than you, hence the book recommendation."

Obi-Wan weighed the books in his hands. "I'll come back for that one if I need it."

"Cool, give 'em here, I'll ring them up for you." Without waiting for an answer, Ahsoka hauled the stack of books out of Obi-Wan's grasp and marched towards the front counter.

A little overwhelmed, Obi-Wan trailed after her. The till was already occupied; he stood behind a very tall man engaged in a friendly conversation with the store owner. A leash dangled from the man's hand; clipped to the other end was a black retriever sitting with his back to the till. His tail thumped against the floor as Obi-Wan approached. Behind the counter, Ahsoka wedged herself next to the elderly store owner. "'Scuse me, Jo, I have an actual paying customer."

The tall man snorted with laughter. "Oh, far be it for me to interrupt the wheels of capitalism."

"Commie," retorted Jo dryly.

"Oh, critiquing late stage capitalism makes me a pinko now?" The tall man edged over, however, so Obi-Wan could approach the counter.

"At least I'm buying local," Obi-Wan said, pulling his credit card out of his wallet.

"Yes, you are," replied the tall man. The faint hint of mockery caught Obi-Wan's attention; he glanced over to find bright blue eyes crinkled with laughter. "By the time you read all those, growing season will be over."

Obi-Wan Kenobi was a mid-level diplomat supporting a high-level diplomat, and he knew how to deflect, how to be polite, how to avoid conflict in tense situations where economies and treaties could be at stake, but the ridicule in this stranger's voice on top of the indignities of the past twenty-four hours was too much. He turned to Ahsoka, who was placing his books into a heavy paper bag. "Do you have any books about manners?"

"In the children's section," she replied with a furrowed brow.

Obi-Wan nodded and took the bag from Ahsoka's outstretched hand. He walked to the door. As he pulled it open, Obi-Wan glared at the tall man over his shoulder and said, "You'll have to bend down to find them, then."

After a night of furious reading and two hours hemming and hawing over whether seed tape would be easier than loose seeds, whether he wanted golden beets or red beets or pink beets, whether he wanted slow-bolting spinach or regular spinach (he still wasn't entirely sure what bolting was, but it sounded bad and he'd opted for the slowest bolting spinach he could find), whether the little ball carrots were actually worth it after the little flutter of excitement because they were so fucking cute, and whether or not he should try growing his very own pumpkin—a ghost pumpkin, it would be white, not orange like everyone else's—Obi-Wan stood at the edge of the community garden, wearing a backpack filled with everything he needed. He held up the map in the registration package Bant had left for him. Her plot rested in the far left hand corner, next to a sparse line of skinny aspens.

The sun was reaching its apex as he passed the handpainted sign hanging on the horizontal log fence that did nothing but demarcate the boundaries of the garden—Welcome to our Garden! Please don't pick our veggies but you are welcome to take donated produce from the sharing basket! A large wicker basket nailed to the fence post beneath the sign was empty save for a few clods of dirt. No one else was around. The plots were mostly bare save for a few containing…plastic boxes?

No one had mentioned needing plastic boxes. Frown tugging at his lips, Obi-Wan tread carefully along the path, avoiding the short stakes and neon tape marking out the plots. When he reached the far corner, he unfolded the map to double-check he was in the right spot, and slid his backpack off his shoulders.

First things first.

Obi-Wan unpacked his bag. Tape measure, in inches and metric in case any of the packets only had one measurement but not the other. Trowel with ergonomic handle. Seed packets, arranged alphabetically and held together with a wide rubber band. Gardening gloves with bright orange rubber palms and fingers. Square Foot Gardening , appropriately marked with sticky flags. Aluminum stakes and twine.

He could do this.

"I can do this," he muttered as he painstakingly measured out a foot by foot grid with the stakes and twine.

"I am gonna have the greatest fucking garden," he whispered as he labelled a handful of flat, white plastic markers with a pencil and drove them into the soil of each grid square according to the sketch he'd drawn—and torn up, and drawn again in pencil, and erased, and drawn again—last night over his take out pad thai and the last hipster beer Bant had left in his fridge.

"Oh, goddamnit," he grumbled as he tried to open the first seed package and managed to merely peel off half a layer of paper from the end flap. Seizing the package with more force, Obi-Wan tore the envelope in half.

A thousand seeds flew through the air like minuscule black hailstones.

"I hope you like arugula," came a rumbling, pinko voice.

Whirling, Obi-Wan found that fucking asshole from the bookstore standing on the crushed gravel path, holding a battered, red watering can and wearing a grubby dog leash around his neck like a scarf on an autumn day that had warmed unexpectedly. The rightful bearer of the leash sat at the man's feet, tail wagging so hard bits of gravel skittered into the bare gardens. The tall bastard wore a pair of brown cargo shorts and a t-shirt so worn and faded it proclaimed a tour by Elec—c Lig— Orchest— . A straw hat that looked older than Jesus Christ shaded a crooked nose and blue eyes crinkled in amusement.

Irritation darkened into a sourness Obi-Wan couldn't quite keep out of his voice. "Love it."

"It has a really high germination rate," the man said, as if that meant something.

"And?"

The man tilted his head ever so slightly; Obi-Wan had seen the deputy ambassador from New Zealand make the same gesture after a particularly ridiculous question from the Americans. "Pick it before it goes to seed, or you'll have it next year, too," advised the man with an almost-sigh, then patted his thigh. "Come on, Hondo, let's water the tomatoes."

The dog craned his neck to look up at his master and whined.

The man frowned. "No, I'm not leaving you here."

The dog's tail wagged harder.

The man stared at his four-legged companion with narrowed eyes, then scoffed. "Fine. Have it your way."

Hondo barked once, joyfully, and the man trundled down the gravel path towards the giant water cistern perched on a towing trailer parked at the other end of the community garden. Obi-Wan glared at his retreating back, then eyed the dog. "Seems to me an asshole like him doesn't deserve a nice pup like you," he told Hondo.

Hondo's tail wagged so hard his butt wiggled as he stepped closer to Obi-Wan, but stayed exactly out of touching distance. With a great canine huff, the retriever collapsed in a heap on the gravel. His long, pink tongue lolled out the side of his mouth as he panted; it looked like the dog was giving Obi-Wan a cheeky smile.

"You like tomatoes, Hondo?" asked Obi-Wan as he pulled the next packet of seeds out of the rubber band.

Hondo's tail scattered more gravel.

The rest of the seeds made it into the ground without any further disaster. Obi-Wan didn't even get any comment from Hondo's owner, who made several trips to and from the water cistern to soak the soil of his own garden—two gardens, it would seem, since he puttered around the garden bed next to Obi-Wan's and the bed next to that. Brushing dirt from the palms of his gloves, Obi-Wan stood, enjoying the stretch after being hunched over so long, and eyed the man as he watered a row of tiny green sprouts.

He couldn't help it. "Why not get a bigger watering can? Make fewer trips?"

"I get my 10,000 steps in this way," retorted the man without looking up from his baby plants.

A snort ripped through Obi-Wan, unwanted and unbidden but irrepressible. "That's not what the dog is for?"

As if knowing he was being discussed, Hondo whined. The man nodded to his dog. "Hang on, I'm coming." The man left his watering can on the ground and approached the animal. Stooping, he grabbed Hondo around the middle like a little kid would hug a dog and slowly lifted the dog up until he stood on all fours. "There ya go, buddy." At Obi-Wan's curious eyebrow, the man shrugged. "Bad hips. Can't go for long walks."

Feeling oddly ashamed, Obi-Wan reached down and stroked Hondo's soft, smooth head. "You're a good helper, though," he said apologetically. "Thanks for helping me plant my tomato seeds, Hondo."

"Tomato seeds?" repeated the man, who was looking at him with an indescribable expression. Obi-Wan couldn't tell if he was surprised or curious or about to bite off some scorching quip.

"Sungold," said Obi-Wan quickly, holding out the packet printed with a photo of bright orange-yellow cherry tomatoes. "65 days to maturity. I read that they're the best cherry variety. There's only like ten seeds in the package, though. I hope that's enough."

The man was silent for a beat too long for regular conversation, but his face was a blank mask. Finally, he asked, "Where did you plant them?"

Obi-Wan pointed to the four squares on the edge of the garden furthest away from the aspens. "They need sun," he said. Mel Bartholomew and his Square Foot Gardening had been very clear on that.

The man's face split into a wide grin. "What chapter was that in your book?"

Cheeks suddenly hot, Obi-Wan glared at him. "The one titled 'Go Fuck Yourself.'"

Hoisting his backpack full of dirty tools and clutching his packets of seeds in his sweaty fist, Obi-Wan marched out of the garden without a backwards glance, ignoring Hondo's bark.

At 1 a.m., Obi-Wan startled awake on his couch with the sudden realization that he hadn't watered his seeds.

Despite a poor sleep, Obi-Wan's body woke him up at exactly 4:45. Never once had Obi-Wan successfully used his snooze button; once he was up, he was up for the day. After checking his phone for emails, remembering that he no longer received emails other than the kind soliciting tax refunds and cannabis gummies, and groaning into his hands, he forced himself off his couch in a chorus of pops from his spine.

An hour later—he'd lingered in the shower and actually eaten food instead of inhaling a cup of coffee—he found himself standing at the front entrance of the community garden. A mix of anticipation and anxiety thrummed in his veins as he approached his garden plot. Were his seeds okay? Had not watering them ruined them?

Obi-Wan stared at the bare earth marked with the perfect grid. Nothing had happened overnight.

He exhaled, feeling oddly deflated. The books had said sprouting took a few days, depending on the plant, but he'd been nursing a tiny sliver of hope that maybe he'd see results today.

"Good morning!" A cheerful warble rang out behind him.

Obi-Wan nearly jumped out of his skin. The garden had been completely empty a moment ago. Hand pressed against his chest, he turned to find a tiny, wizened woman blinking owlishly at him from behind face-eating spectacles that had gone out of fashion after the 80s.

Her smile faltered. "I'm sorry, did I startle you?"

"No—well, yes, a little. I didn't expect anyone else to be here this early," Obi-Wan said.

"I'm always up with the sun," she told him with a vague wave of her hand. "May as well be productive. I've never seen you around here before."

"Oh, no, it's my first time," Obi-Wan said, gesturing to his plot.

The old woman's smile widened. "Lovely! Well, I'm Alma. Looks like we're neighbours!"

"Obi-Wan," he replied, extending his hand. Alma's hand felt like a delicate bird, all hollow bones and thin skin. "A pleasure to meet you."

"So," Alma said, peering around him at his plot, "whatcha growing?"

He told her, pointing at the marked stakes, and she hummed interested noises. When he mentioned the ghost pumpkin, she laughed, a delighted hoarse croak, and Obi-Wan found himself smiling. "It's supposed to be white on the outside but orange on the inside," he explained.

"You could make a Donald Trump jack o'lantern," she said with a wicked chuckle.

Obi-Wan grinned slyly and made the kind of pun he normally wasn't allowed to voice in public. "A Trumpkin."

"But why waste a perfectly good squash?" Alma's guffaw echoed over the garden. "Your plot's looking a little dry, Obi-Wan. There's no rain in the next twenty four hours, you know, and only a thirty percent chance of showers on Wednesday afternoon."

"What about Thursday?"

Alma shook her head; her floppy cotton hat bobbed against her skinny neck. "Forecast model isn't as accurate that far out. Don't trust it. Do you know how the water truck works?"

"Actually, no," replied Obi-Wan, but Alma was already stumping in that direction with a green plastic watering can bouncing against her thigh. Within three long strides, he caught up to her side. "You keep a close eye on the weather, hmm?"

"Oh, yes," nodded Alma. "My daughter got me one of those fancy phones and my grandson put one of those whatchamacallits—you know, the things on the phone that don't make phone calls—"

"Apps?"

"Right, apps, well, Henry put a weather apps on my phone and I can find out the weather for every hour of the day, and watch the radar, and I don't have to sit through the six o'clock news to find out if I have to come out here and haul water." They sidled up to the water cistern, and Alma tapped the spigot. "Alright, we ponied up for the fancy spigot last year—we used to have one of those regular taps, but there's a few of us old birds who couldn't twist it open, arthritis—so all's you have to do is put your watering can or bucket or whatever under the spout and turn the valve a quarter-turn, and only a quarter-turn. Close it before you move your container so you don't waste water, and voila, you've successfully filled a watering can."

Had Hondo's owner said those words, Obi-Wan would have bristled, but Alma's sweet voice held a bit of wry humour but no derision. To be honest, she reminded him of the elderly woman who lived next to him as a child; every day after school, the tiny Miss Yaddle had admonished him for growing too fast while stuffing paper napkin packages filled with cookies into his backpack. He grinned at her and plucked the watering can from her hand. "Why not get a hose?”

“Kept getting stolen,” she said with a shrug.

Obi-Wan nodded and wiggled the watering can. “So manual labour it is. I've had the lecture, now for the practical test?"

"Oh, now, I can manage," protested Alma without much force as Obi-Wan opened the valve. "Only fill it halfway."

"Halfway's not much water."

"I can't carry it if it's full. Too heavy."

"Then I'll carry it and you can teach me how to water a garden properly."

A moment filled with the sound of water beating against plastic, then Alma beamed at him. "Oh, all right. You seem to be a good student so far."

Obi-Wan spent the next hour hauling water and carefully soaking the soil in both plots and listening to Alma prattle on. "I'd never heard of a community garden like this, but there was a presentation at the senior's centre and I thought it might be good to get my hands dirty again. I used to have an enormous garden—made thirty or forty jars of pickles every year, and pickled beets and strawberry jam—but after Leo died, I couldn't keep up the house, and I moved into a little apartment. Not much room for a garden on my patio, so I had a few years of just growing herbs." She wrinkled her nose. "There's only so much parsley one person needs."

"I thought you could eat parsley? I mean, it's a garnish, but—"

"Sure, if you like the taste of grass." Alma shook her head, as if disbelieving of anyone who would consume parsley on purpose. "Qui-Gon always grows too much parsley. I tell him every year, 'no one wants that,' and every year it's the last thing left in the sharing basket until the kale is ready, but that man is as stubborn as the day is long and I think at this point he's doing it just to hear me bitch at him. Which," she added with narrowed eyes, "he needs on a regular basis or he gets ideas."

Obi-Wan shook the last few drops from the watering can spout and raised his eyebrows at her. Was he about to be sucked into community garden politics? Dr. Che would probably consider that too much like work. "Qui-Gon?"

"Jinn," Alma added, as if that explained everything. At Obi-Wan's shrug, she pointed to the plot next to his. "The seven-foot hippie with the dog? Haven't met him yet?"

Obi-Wan's shoulders slumped slightly but kept his tone appropriate for light banter at a cocktail reception. "Oh, yes, we've met."

"Alma!"

"Oh, speak of the devil himself," gasped Alma, turning towards the garden entrance and waving.

Hondo's owner—Qui-Gon Jinn, apparently—took ground-eating strides in their direction while Hondo followed more slowly, his tail wagging harder the closer he came to Obi-Wan. Qui-Gon was missing his ancient hat today; long bronze hair shot with silver trailed between his shoulders in a loose braid. A bright, genuine smile creased the corners of his eyes and pulled the edges of his mostly neat beard. "You're here about twenty-four hours early," he said, bending down to kiss Alma on both cheeks.

"No, you're an hour late," retorted Alma.

"Alma, it's Tuesday," said Qui-Gon patiently.

Alma furrowed her brow, then swore under her breath. "It's Tuesday. Well, Obi-Wan was here and he helped me, so you're off the hook this week."

Qui-Gon straightened, as if finally recognizing the third wheel of the conversation. "Oh," he said.

They stared at each other in awkward silence until Hondo shambled into the scene and pressed his head against Obi-Wan's thigh. Grateful for the interruption, Obi-Wan smiled down at the dog and scratched the gentle slope between his eyes. "Hey, pup."

Hondo's eyes half-closed in happiness while his rear hit the ground and his tail thumped against the gravel path. Obi-Wan caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and spied Alma giving Qui-Gon the kind of meaningful but inscrutable look that should have used a capital letter.

Qui-Gon, however, shrugged and turned to his garden plot. "Well, if the new guy's already usurped me, I'd better go plant a few more rows of carrots."

What was it about this guy that rasped over Obi-Wan's nerves like sandpaper? "I haven't usurped anyone," snapped Obi-Wan, his fingers scratching behind Hondo's ears as the dog pressed harder against his leg.

"Last week Jana Yee helped me plant beans before you showed up. You're not the only one who helps out around here, so get your head out of your ass." said Alma, then added, sotto voce to Obi-Wan, "See? I told you."

Qui-Gon rolled his eyes. "Jana Yee is four."

"And she did a fair sight better at a straight row than you did last year, I might add."

A grin born of schadenfreude split Obi-Wan's face so hard his cheeks hurt. Watching Qui-Gon get lambasted by a little old lady was doing wonders for his blood pressure. At least Obi-Wan could stake out a straight line! "I've got a tape measure you can borrow. If you want, I can show you how to use it."

Qui-Gon didn't reply, but he tilted his head slightly to the left as he stared at Obi-Wan. A tiny smirk lifted the edges of his lips. In the golden light of early morning, the fucking asshole had the nerve to look both gorgeous and ready to devour prey.

Unbidden, unwanted, unacceptable—a hot blush spread over Obi-Wan's face.

"You look like you've got a bit of a sunburn," Alma said. "You should put some aloe vera gel on it."

"Yeah, good idea," mumbled Obi-Wan, tearing his stunned gaze from Qui-Gon, who was still watching him with that maddening smile. Since he was not sitting at a negotiation table, it was perfectly acceptable to just leave.

"I'll see you later, Alma."

"Fucking arugula," whispered Obi-Wan.

His entire plot was a carpet of identical, tiny sprouts; the carefully spaced plantings of other vegetables poked out of the ground in linear patterns like blocks of a verdant quilt.

"That's a lot of arugula." Qui-Gon stood on the path between their plots, his arms crossed over a ratty Eric Clapton tee as he surveyed Obi-Wan's plot. At Obi-Wan's irritated look, Qui-Gon shrugged. "I mean, at least it's not mint. That stuff will survive the apocalypse. But you should really pull it before it gets any bigger."

Obi-Wan stared at his garden. An unexpected pang tugged on his heart at the thought of ripping all those little plants out of the ground after they went to all the trouble of sprouting in the first place. How could he kill all those wee baby plants?

In his mind's eye, the face of Mel Bartholomew frowned at him beneath his moustache and hat on the cover of Square Foot Gardening; the arugula was not where it was supposed to be. Chaos would ensue. Chaos meant failure.

"Do-should—" No, he did not want Qui-Gon's opinion. "I guess I'll rip it all out, then."

Kneeling along the edge of the plot, Obi-Wan swallowed a sigh and began pulling the slender green shoots from the soil and making a pile of plant carcasses next to him.

"In here," said Qui-Gon, tossing a plastic ice cream bucket that landed against Obi-Wan's foot. At Obi-Wan's raised eyebrow, he added, "Compost."

"Oh." He hadn't bought a book about compost, but most of them had mentioned it in overview. "I don't have a compost pile."

Qui-Gon brushed the back of his hand against his lips. "The garden has two past the water truck. Weeds go in the one on the left. Not weeds go in the right."

"Er, okay."

Qui-Gon turned back to his pair of plots, leaving Obi-Wan to murder arugula in peace and quiet. Every now and then, he heard Qui-Gon mutter something to Hondo, who sprawled in the middle of the gravel path to enjoy the sun. With three square feet arugula-free, Obi-Wan leaned back on his heels and wiped his forehead on his sleeve. His watch suggested nearly an hour had passed; his back twinged in warning, and he groaned out loud. This was going to take all fucking day.

"Want a hand?"

Obi-Wan's head snapped up as his mind searched for any hint of mockery—and found none. Qui-Gon waited at the edge of Obi-Wan's plot without even a smirk. "Why—"

"You'll be out here forever, and you don't have a hat." Qui-Gon seemed to peer at him more closely. "I thought redheads had to keep out of the sun."

Slapping the back of his neck in horror, Obi-Wan groaned again. "Fuck."

"Forgot your hat?"

"I don't even own that kind of hat," Obi-Wan groused, nodding at Qui-Gon's raggedy straw hat. "Or any summer hat, come to think of it."

"You're really not dispelling my theory about you," Qui-Gon said, a smile tugging at his lips.

Oh, here it comes. Shoulders tensing, Obi-Wan prepared himself for a verbal battle. "Oh?"

"Clearly you were kidnapped as a young child and kept in an underground bunker until very recently." Qui-Gon tossed a foam kneeling pad onto the ground an arm's length from Obi-Wan and settled down on it. The little grin playing over his face lacked malice—in fact, it made the fucking asshole positively adorable .

Why was he such a sucker for handsome older men?

"How dare you," retorted Obi-Wan, eyes narrowing, "imply that my underground bunker childhood was not concocted by my real parents."

Qui-Gon laughed. The sound echoed over the garden plots, loud and joyful, and Hondo gave a low woof and wagged his tail. Leaning over the square in front of him, Qui-Gon started pulling arugula sprouts. "Seeing the sun for the first time must have been quite the shock."

"As a redhead, I am locked in eternal war against the sun," said Obi-Wan, deadpan.

"Seems to me a hat would be a winning strategy."

"Sure, but I like freckles," retorted Obi-Wan, tossing a handful of arugula into the bucket.

"Me too," said Qui-Gon lightly.

Oh shit did he just—? Cheeks burning, Obi-Wan ducked his head and ripped some arugula out a little too hard; one of his lanky bean plants lay in his hand. "Oh, shit," hissed Obi-Wan.

Qui-Gon leaned over and poked the bean plant with a long, dirt-encrusted finger. "Whoops," he said, with no real edge of concern. "Just poke it back into its spot and tamp down the soil around it."

Obediently, Obi-Wan stuck the roots into the soil and pressed the dirt down. "Will it be okay?" he asked, trying to sound casual.

"It might be," Qui-Gon replied with a little shrug. "Might not."

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. "Helpful."

Qui-Gon grinned. "I should write a book."

"The Pinko's Guide to Laissez-Faire Gardening ?" Obi-Wan said with a derisive snort. "Gardening for Fun But Not Profit ? How to Grow Vegetables and Alienate People?"

"Oh, now I have to write three books?"

"Absolutely, but I get credit and 10% of the royalties for the idea."

"What makes you think I wouldn't just give them away?"

"You can afford to bankroll a series of self-published books just to give them away?" Obi-Wan couldn't help himself; he reached out at flicked the edge of Qui-Gon's worn sleeve.

"Fuck, no. I'm retired." Something flickered over Qui-Gon's face, maybe surprise at Obi-Wan's touch, then he grinned. "Pamphlets, then."

Obi-Wan stared at him. "How are you old enough to be retired?" he blurted out. Immediately regretting his rudeness, he rambled on, "Sorry, that's not what I—"

"Took an early retirement," Qui-Gon said easily, though his face was firmly fixed on the garden. "Spent too many years chasing the almighty dollar and decided my soul was black enough."

"Oh."

"But I recognize a fellow workaholic when I see one," added Qui-Gon, "so why aren't you at your desk, Obi-Wan?"

The way Qui-Gon said his name, rumbling in that Irish accent, sent a shiver down Obi-Wan's spine, and he found himself answering truthfully. "I'm on mandatory stress leave. My friend needed someone to take over her plot and I needed something to do so I didn't die of boredom."

Silence answered him. Obi-Wan glanced up to find Qui-Gon watching him out of the corner of his eye without missing a beat in the arugula removal operation. "I suppose you want to know what I do?"

"No," replied Qui-Gon.

"Oh," said Obi-Wan, oddly disappointed. He wasn't a braggart, but he'd earned a few dates here and there when his occupation came up in civilian circles. Well, two and a half.

"It's more fun if I guess." The devilish smile was back, melting all of Obi-Wan's brain cells the sun hadn't already cooked. "Nuclear weapons inspector?"

The ice cream bucket was about half-full. "Nope."

"KGB double agent."

"The KGB broke up in '91. It's the Federal Security Service and the Foreign Intelligence Service for the Russian Federation now."

Qui-Gon raised his eyebrows beneath his distressed hat. "That's not a convincing denial, Comrade, but I digress. CNN White House fact-checker?"

Obi-Wan nearly choked on his sudden guffaw. "I wouldn't need stress leave so much as a bullet to the head."

Qui-Gon laughed, too.

Arugula wasn't as bad as Obi-Wan thought it would be.

Two weeks into running headlong into vegetable gardening, Obi-Wan stood at the edge of his plot, hand pressed against his beard, glaring at four nearly bare squares. The tomatoes had sprouted, to his delight, and he had carefully watered them with seedling fertilizer. They'd been fascinating—delicate leaves atop weirdly fuzzy stems.

Now they lay on the dirt, decapitated.

"How's the local polar ice cap researcher?" Qui-Gon called, dragging a little green wagon laden with a bag of composted sheep manure and a few smaller paper bags crimped closed. Hondo's tail was wagging so hard as he approached Obi-Wan that it rotated in a perfect circle.

"Not even close." Obi-Wan rolled his eyes and bent to scratch the dog's floppy ears. "See for yourself," he retorted, gesturing at the mutilated plants.

Qui-Gon squatted down and picked up a limp stem with a furrowed brow. "Huh."

Curiosity warring with the urge to be unreasonably upset, Obi-Wan squatted next to him. "What?"

"Cutworms," declared Qui-Gon with a sympathetic cluck. "Usually they prefer things like cauliflower. Bad luck. You'll have to replant, unfortunately."

"I used all my Sungold tomato seeds," grumbled Obi-Wan. "There were only ten."

Qui-Gon was quiet for a moment, pensive, then said in a surprisingly gentle voice, "It's fixable."

Frustration bubbled through Obi-Wan's veins; it had taken so long for those damned seeds to sprout, and he'd have to start all over again! "I've never even heard of a fucking cutworm. How was I supposed to protect plants from things I've never even heard of?"

Slapping his hands on his thighs, Qui-Gon reached over and fetched a paper bag from his wagon. The paper crinkled as he opened it and poured a white powder into the palm of his hand. He squatted back down. "Try this."

Unimpressed, Obi-Wan raised his eyebrow. "Do I need to call the cops?"

Qui-Gon chuckled. "It's called diatomaceous earth. It's the equivalent of setting up a moat of broken glass for soft-bellied insects."

"Sounds gruesome." Obi-Wan reached out and pinched a bit of powder. It was barely abrasive between the pads of his finger and thumb.

"Oh, the gruesome part comes when your intruders slowly die of dehydration."

"Is there another option?" asked Obi-Wan. 

"Waiting out here at night and squishing them when they show up."

"I don't know if I want to kill them."

Qui-Gon stared at him. "They destroyed your tomatoes, Obi-Wan. They'll move onto the rest of your garden next. Cutworms can demolish an entire row of seedlings in a night."

"I didn't plant rows," Obi-Wan said faintly. The other tender plants were proud and green now that the arugula had been beaten back. A terrible vision of squares filled with decapitated vegetables filled him with dread. Qui-Gon waited patiently, absently dragging his finger through the handful of diatomaceous earth. The man knew what he was talking about, and he was right here—

Obi-Wan turned to look squarely at Qui-Gon. "What would Gardening: Utopian and Scientific say about it?"

With a choke of surprised laughter, Qui-Gon wobbled on his heels; Obi-Wan grabbed the man's upper arm to keep him from keeling over. Qui-Gon righted himself, kneeling in the edge of soft soil, and flicked his intense blue gaze at Obi-Wan's hand on his arm. Embarrassed and oddly gratified by the feeling of warm skin beneath his palm, Obi-Wan dropped his hand as if burnt. 

Qui-Gon's grin didn't falter, as if he didn't notice Obi-Wan's blush. "Well, in the off chance that I pen that particular pamphlet, I would probably suggest diatomaceous earth, and collars around any tender plants and new seedlings."

"Collars?"

Qui-Gon held his index and thumb about four inches apart. "Strip of cardboard or aluminum foil, this wide, stapled in a circle. Like if you were making a really shitty paper chain. Sink it into the ground about an inch around your plant."

"I have to go buy more seeds. I've lost two whole weeks," sighed Obi-Wan, standing and brushing his hands against his jeans. Qui-Gon glanced up at him. A smudge of dirt marred the bridge of his broken nose. "So, diatomaceous earth?"

"Yep." Qui-Gon's gaze did not budge from Obi-Wan's face.

"And foil circles?"

"Yep."

As if pinned in place by those blue eyes, Obi-Wan stammered, "Do-do I need anything else?"

Qui-Gon's lips quirked in a slight smile, which was enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes. Obi-Wan swallowed around his suddenly dry mouth. 

"Get a hat while you're at it."

Obi-Wan only had enough patience for two days of popping into every hardware store, hunting for Sungold tomato seeds, before he slammed a package of Sweet Million—not even yellow and no doubt tasting of defeat—and a cheap straw hat on the counter at the Home Depot along with his credit card.

Early morning, Obi-Wan decided, was much nicer when you were strolling into the community garden instead of dragging your sorry ass to your desk. The sun warmed his skin in a way it never did through a window. The breeze ruffled his hair, playful and gentle where air conditioning was indomitable from May to October.

He had only glanced at his email this morning.

With a contented little smile, Obi-Wan wandered through the garden gate and was immediately greeted from the back corner.

"Good morning!" called Alma, waving with a gardening fork clutched in her hand. He waved back.

"Hello there," said Obi-Wan as he sidled up next to the tiny woman. "Watering day?"

"Nope," she replied, pointing to the west "It's gonna rain like cats and dogs this afternoon."

Obi-Wan tilted his head at the perfectly clear sky. "If you say so."

"Oh, it will, mark my words. Just wanted to get some weeding in."

"I'm just going to plant a few things and I'll come help you," offered Obi-Wan, then found himself adding, slightly less casually than he'd intended, "unless you're expecting someone else."

"Who, Qui-Gon? No, it's Thursday, he's busy on Thursdays." With that tantalizing morsel of opaque gossip, Alma turned back to her garden and carefully eased herself down onto her thick, hot pink kneeling pad. "I won't say no to a bit of elbow grease, if you're offering."

"Of course. Be there in a minute."

Obi-Wan pulled the seed packet from his back pocket, suppressing the flash of irritation at the red cherry tomatoes on the envelope, then his jaw dropped.

Four foot-high tomato plants were growing in the last squares of his garden.

Perfectly centered, they were surrounded by circles of white diatomaceous earth and rings of aluminum foil.

His carefully written markers stood in the earth next to each plant.

"What the hell?" he said in a low voice, but the sound carried over the garden.

"What's that, dear?" came Alma's absent reply.

"Oh, er, nothing."

Obi-Wan may have exactly zero gardening experience, but he wasn't a complete idiot. There was no way a tomato plant could go from decapitation to lush, thriving plant in two days. Someone had planted tomatoes in his garden…with the utmost attention to detail and care.

He should be irritated. Annoyed at the presumption that he couldn't grow some goddamned tomatoes on his own. Insulted by the implication of his own incompetence.

There was only one possible culprit.

Every marker faced the same way, pressed into the soil exactly the same depth, outside the near-perfect powdery circles.

Warmth blossomed in Obi-Wan's chest.

"Those are looking good," Alma said. He hadn't noticed her approach. "You should stake them now, before they get too tall, though. I've got extras." She held out a few slender bamboo canes in one hand and clutched a beige tangle in the other.

"What is that?" Obi-Wan asked, poking hesitantly at a beige loop.

"Pantyhose," replied Alma matter-of-factly. "Best thing for tying up tomatoes. It stretches, you see, so it doesn't cut into the vine as it grows. You just cut up an old pair like you're making calamari."

"Now I know what to do with all my ruined pantyhose," said Obi-Wan dryly.

With a delighted cackle, Alma shoved the pantyhose loops into his hand and set him to work staking his tomatoes. A few other gardeners wandered in, greeting Alma; Obi-Wan brushed dirt off his gloves and shook hands, exchanging pleasantries and feeling much more at ease than he ever did in a boardroom, but every so often his eyes would slide to the garden entrance, hoping for a tattered shirt and a wagging tail.

"Have somewhere to be?" Alma asked.

"No," Obi-Wan reassured her, then offered his most charming smile. It had once earned him a concession from Iceland. "You seem to know everybody around here."

"Oh, yes. Don't tie that so tight."

Obi-Wan bent over the knot in his pantyhose, his fingers working to loosen it. "Do you find there's more single people, or families?"

Alma hummed thoughtfully. "Oh, maybe half and half. Most of the younger people are families with kids, most of the retirees survived their spouses, like me."

Leaping on the opportunity, Obi-Wan kept his voice casual. "Qui-Gon mentioned he was retired."

"Well, he's no widower," Alma chuckled.

Obi-Wan's heart dropped into his stomach like a lead balloon. He hadn't seen a wedding ring, but no doubt Qui-Gon would take something like that off before playing in the dirt. Fuckdamnitalltofuckinghellfuckingfigures— "Of course," is what actually came out of his mouth.

"Confirmed bachelor, that one," Alma went on, as if Obi-Wan hadn't spoken at all. "But if you're looking for a blind date, there's a nice young lady renting plot five. She's doing a Ph.D.in—oh, what was it again? I don't remember. Something to do with shrimp."

"No, thanks," replied Obi-Wan, the lead balloon dissolving as quickly as it had formed.

"You're sure?"

"I'm allergic to shellfish," Obi-Wan lied with a smile.

An empty calendar and the four tomato plants kept Obi-Wan in the garden all morning, even after tiny dictator Jana Yee took an immediate liking to him and made him carry her tiny yellow watering can so she could water her patch of sunflowers (to the apologetic flustering of her parents) and Alma tried to cajole him into joining her for coffee at the cafe down the street. When the Yee family waved goodbye, citing the building clouds, Obi-Wan heaved a sigh. Finally alone.

He couldn't stop staring at those four tomato plants.

It was nearly noon. Surely Qui-Gon wouldn't come this late in the day. Alma said he was busy on Thursdays. Obi-Wan was being ridiculous, hanging around a deserted community garden on the slight and pathetic chance he might run into the bookstore asshole who had made fun of him—

And who had perfectly replaced four beautiful tomato plants without saying a word.

And who had the most gorgeous eyes, made only better when he smiled.

And who had a pretty nice dog, too.

"Woof," agreed Hondo.

"Jesus Christ! " gasped Obi-Wan, pressing his hand to his chest as his heart skipped a beat.

Hondo wagged his tail and pressed his head against Obi-Wan's leg. Absently scratching the dog's ears, Obi-Wan couldn't help his smile as he spotted Qui-Gon dragging his wagon over the gravel path. Qui-Gon smiled back and wiped his palm on the edge of his dingy shirt. "How are you, Brexit backstop negotiator?"

Obi-Wan offered him a horrified look. "Forget stress leave, I'd be two feet in the grave at this point."

"I feel like I'm getting warmer, though."

"No, just…puttering, I guess." That had to be better than I was waiting to see if you'd show up like a fucking stalker.

Silence descended as they stood among the garden plots, watching each other. Today Qui-Gon had foregone his hat, but made up for it with a dilapidated pair of classic green Birkenstocks and a Buffalo Springfield shirt with a hole in the hem. A thick braid hung against his neck, end brushing against his broad chest. The twined bronze and silver strands looked silky and thick, and Obi-Wan wondered what it would feel like to push his fingers into that mass of hair. A million thoughts raced through his head—things like why did you plant tomatoes for me and why are you just enough of an asshole to keep me guessing and even how are you so fucking gorgeous wearing that fucking getup?

What came out of his mouth was "You just missed Alma."

As Qui-Gon inhaled, readying his reply, fat drops of rain plunked against Obi-Wan's head. Surprised, Obi-Wan tilted his head up, catching drops on his cheeks—

Strong fingers seized his hand and tugged insistently. Stumbling on gravel to keep up with Qui-Gon's long stride, Obi-Wan let himself be dragged towards the stand of aspens next to the garden as the clouds lost the battle with gravity. Rain roared against the ground, pummelling the meagre shelter of the branches above them. Obi-Wan was getting soaked—rivulets ran from the tips of his hair into his beard, soaking his collar and shoulders, sliding against his skin. He lifted his hand, catching rain drops in his palm and marvelling at the tickle without a single fleeting wish for his trusty black umbrella.

Obi-Wan laughed and wiped rain out of his eyes.

Qui-Gon was smiling at him—a real smile, where joy sparkled in his blue eyes and the edges of his teeth peeked through his lips—and his thumb brushed over the back of Obi-Wan's hand.

Maybe this was how plants felt when it rained after a drought.

Giddy and soaked to the bone, Obi-Wan stepped closer until he had to tip his face up to look into Qui-Gon's eyes. Qui-Gon dipped his head, his gaze becoming curious, but stayed silent.

"You planted tomatoes in my garden," Obi-Wan said, louder than he'd like to be heard over the rain.

"Sungold," replied Qui-Gon, his voice rumbling like thunder. "65 days to maturity down to about 40."

Obi-Wan shifted a little closer. "Why didn't you tell me to buy plants instead of seeds?"

"I had to save some material for my pamphlet," Qui-Gon replied. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened. "You won't buy it otherwise."

"Since when are you charging people for Gardens for the Interested Comrade?" retorted Obi-Wan.

Qui-Gon leaned down a smidge. His thumb traced a circle against the skin of Obi-Wan's hand, hot where the rain was cold. "Oh, I'm only charging you."

A sharp clap from the sky shattered the moment; Hondo whined miserably, shuddering and pressing himself into the narrow space between the men's legs. Qui-Gon dropped Obi-Wan's hand and hunkered down, petting the dog's slick back as he clipped the leash to Hondo's collar. "He's terrified of thunder," Qui-Gon stated the obvious with a hint of apology on his face. "I should take him home."

As Qui-Gon stood, leash in hand, Obi-Wan rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "I'll, ah, see you later, then."

"Of course," replied Qui-Gon with a smile and turned to leave.

The rain was washing away all sense of reason. Obi-Wan grabbed Qui-Gon's hand and lifted himself onto his toes to press his lips fleetingly against the wet skin of Qui-Gon's cheek. "Thanks for the tomatoes," Obi-Wan said, loosening his grip and stepping away.

That smile widened, then Qui-Gon hefted Hondo’s leash. "See you tomorrow," he called over the rain.

"Tomorrow," agreed Obi-Wan in a whisper.

Tomorrow showed up, but Qui-Gon didn't. Obi-Wan spent the entire morning in a cruel repeat of the day before, puttering around the garden, tossing less than subtle glances at the garden entrance and slightly grateful that no one else—well, Alma—was around to call him out for his pathetic behaviour. Time marched forward, and Obi-Wan found himself at a loss; he'd watered and weeded his plot, raked the gravel paths, turned over the compost bins, and it wasn't even noon yet.

His eyes slid from the garden entrance to Qui-Gon's plots.

Weeds were persistent bastards. Obi-Wan methodically made his way through Qui-Gon's plots, pulling up plants growing outside the neat rows of carrots and parsley and beans—he could identify with certainty dandelions, clover, and the tough, rooty bastards Alma had called plantain. As the pile for the compost grew, niggling uncertainty sprouted in the back of Obi-Wan's mind. Qui-Gon had said tomorrow, and it was tomorrow now, so where was he? Had Obi-Wan been too forward? Made a series of assumptions and come up with the wrong answer?

"Hi." At the sound of Qui-Gon's rumble, Obi-Wan yanked an entire dandelion out by the taproot in surprise. He turned to glance up (and up), expecting to see a little smile beneath that ratty hat and finding only a frown. No hat.

"Hello there," replied Obi-Wan, unable to hide the nervousness in his voice behind a trepidatious smile.

There was a harried air around Qui-Gon, screaming of distraction. His hair was escaping the loose bun nestled against the nape of his neck. The worn, heather blue tee didn't sport a logo because it was inside out. A deep crease formed between his eyebrows as he spotted the pile of weeds. "What-what are you doing?"

It wasn't accusatory, or disapproving; Qui-Gon sounded confused. Obi-Wan gestured to the dirt. "Um, I thought I'd weed a little."

"This is my plot." Qui-Gon didn't move.

Obi-Wan squinted at him. Something was wrong— "Where's Hondo?"

Qui-Gon's shoulders drooped. "Sleeping."

His heart gave a lurch. Was the dog okay? Was this why Qui-Gon was so unlike himself? Shit. Rising, Obi-Wan wiped his hands on the sides of his jeans and stepped over the row of carrots. "No one's that upset about their dog having a nap, so why don't you tell me what's really going on?" When Qui-Gon hesitated, Obi-Wan didn't think; he reached out and grabbed Qui-Gon's hand. "What is it?"

To Obi-Wan's astonishment, Qui-Gon's eyes were bright with unshed tears. "He couldn't get up this morning," said Qui-Gon, rushing his words like a river churning over rocks, "and I can't get him to the vet, so I-I came here."

The part of Obi-Wan that would have asked why the fuck did you come to the garden had been trained out of him over years of sitting in the back of conference rooms, looking bored while cataloguing every word, every gesture, every silence generated behind closed doors. In that simple sentence, in that moment, Obi-Wan saw Qui-Gon Jinn scared and uncertain and desperate for any sliver of help.

He squeezed Qui-Gon's calloused hand. "My car's parked around the corner. Come on."

Any other time, Obi-Wan would have taken his time, eyeballed the weird trinkets hidden in the square IKEA shelving next to luscious plants in mismatched pots, admired the rug that was definitely of Tunisian origin, made a crack about the collection of half-drunk tea mugs on the coffee table. This time, he hurried through the main floor of Qui-Gon's narrow townhouse, following Qui-Gon's broad back to the sunny spot next to the couch.

Curled up in a plush saucer of a dog bed, Hondo lifted his head and whined as the two men knelt on the floor. His tail still thumped, a little less enthusiastically than usual, as Obi-Wan rubbed his ears. "Hey, pupper. Heard you're having a rough day."

Hondo licked his wrist.

"Okay, I'm gonna lift you up, but you have to promise not to bite me." Obi-Wan glanced at Qui-Gon, as if the tall man could make that guarantee for his beloved pet. Qui-Gon shrugged.

"Don't bite Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon told Hondo.

"Woof," replied Hondo, his tail beating an even tempo on the floor.

"Here goes nothing," muttered Obi-Wan. Slowly and ever so gently, he scooped the dog up; staggering a little under the weight of an adult retriever, Obi-Wan stood, awkwardly holding Hondo under the dog's chest and belly. To his credit, Hondo didn't protest with his teeth; a soft, tremulous whine escaped his throat. "Good boy. Now, let's take you to the—"

"Don't say it," cut in Qui-Gon, shaking his head insistently. "Car ride?"

Despite his obvious discomfort, Hondo perked up his ears and wagged his tail a little. Obi-Wan smiled, glancing over at Qui-Gon, who offered a wan smile in return. "Yeah, let's go for a car ride."

The rest of Obi-Wan's afternoon involved thumbing through a stack of water-damaged National Geographic in the bright waiting room of the local veterinarian. A young girl with a kitten on a leash sat next to him, swinging her legs back and forth and throwing curious looks at him instead of the kitten trying to eviscerate its harness. "Where's your pet?" she asked after ten minutes of leg swinging.

"I don't have one," replied Obi-Wan, eyeing her over the diagram of the Krubera Cave system.

She wrinkled her nose. "Why not?"

"I work too much. It wouldn't be fair to a dog," replied Obi-Wan. "Or, god forbid, a cat."

"You could get a snake. Or a fish." The girl's eyes rolled up to the ceiling as she thought. "Or a hermit crab, or a guinea pig, or a newt, or a parrot."

"Parrots live about fifty years," Obi-Wan pointed out. "That's not a pet, that's a marriage."

"Huh." The girl seemed to chew on that for a moment. "I think you're in the wrong waiting room, then."

At that moment, Qui-Gon walked into the waiting room with Hondo's leash dangling in his hand. A curl of dread wrapped around Obi-Wan's throat until he saw the lack of panic in the tall man's face. "Nope, I'm good," Obi-Wan told the girl as he dropped the magazine on the top of the pile and rose from the moulded plastic seat.

Qui-Gon offered him a shrug. "She says it's his arthritis," he said quietly. "She's given him an anti-inflammatory and a painkiller, and he can go home."

"Where is he?"

"He still refuses to stand up, though," Qui-Gon said, as if Obi-Wan hadn't spoken. "I, ah, I hate to impose on you. Again. More."

"I can drive you home," replied Obi-Wan. "It's no trouble."

Qui-Gon sighed deeply and refused to look him in the eye. "Can you-would you carry him, please? I-I can't."

"Of course," said Obi-Wan without hesitation and couldn't help but return the relieved smile Qui-Gon gave him. "Lead the way."

On the way out of the office, Qui-Gon stopped to pay his bill while Obi-Wan and Hondo headed for the door. Obi-Wan passed the little girl, who now held her squirming kitten like a baby. The girl brightened at the sight of Hondo in Obi-Wan's arms. "I get it!" she said, as if figuring out a particularly complex riddle. "You don't have a dog, but your boyfriend does."

Blood rushed to Obi-Wan's cheeks and he thanked all the gods he didn't believe in that Qui-Gon hadn't heard her. "Uh—"

"Nichelle, leave the poor man alone," sighed the man next to her, whose nose and chin suggested parental lineage. "Sorry."

"Bye," squeaked Obi-Wan as he escaped through the automatic door with his four-legged cargo.

With Hondo safely returned to his dog bed for a well-deserved, drug-induced nap, Obi-Wan found himself standing in Qui-Gon's living room. Worry for the dog ebbed, only to be replaced with an odd sort of tension keeping Obi-Wan from making excuses and walking out the door.

Qui-Gon licked his bottom lip. "Want a beer? Or something?"

A drink meant he could sit on this very unused-looking couch and maybe Qui-Gon would sit next to him. "Sure, I'll take a beer. Let me guess, you have a local microbrew for which you traded a dozen eggs and some raw cloth."

"Not even close," replied Qui-Gon, the corner of his mouth lifting in a tiny smile for the first time that day. "Ten bucks and a jar of homemade pesto."

Obi-Wan gasped mockingly and pressed his hand to his chest. "Legal tender currency? I don't know if I can accept a copy of Marxist Mulching."

"Bold words for a NASA flight controller," said Qui-Gon over his shoulder as he disappeared into the kitchen. He returned with open brown bottles in each hand and held one out to Obi-Wan.

"NASA? I’ve come so far since my bunker childhood. My parents will be thrilled." Plucking the bottle from Qui-Gon's hand, Obi-Wan grinned and sat on the couch; to his delight, Qui-Gon eased himself down, too.

Silence fell over them, suddenly awkward. Obi-Wan lifted the beer to his lips and sipped—the beer wasn't bad, a little too hoppy, maybe, and not as dark as he liked it. Qui-Gon dragged his thumbnail against the edge of the label. "Thank you," he said quietly, without looking up.

"You're welcome."

The label curled beneath Qui-Gon's thumb. "You wasted your entire afternoon on us. You didn't have to."

"I know," replied Obi-Wan. The nervous fiddling of that thumb over the bottle needed to stop. "It wasn't a waste, though. I've been meaning to catch up on the National Geographic backlog. Apparently pandas aren't endangered anymore."

There. Qui-Gon nodded and finally took a swig of his beer. "That's good to hear. It was touch and go for a while."

"I think the lack of pandas touching might have been part of the problem," said Obi-Wan dryly.

Qui-Gon spluttered into laughter, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. "Aha!" he cried with a shake of his finger. "Panda bear reproduction scientist. No wonder you're on stress leave."

"I'm on stress leave because I argued with my doctor," Obi-Wan retorted, leaning back against the couch with a sigh.

Slowly, Qui-Gon settled into the couch, angling himself slightly to face Obi-Wan. "Really?"

Nodding, Obi-Wan swallowed a mouthful of beer—the taste was rapidly growing on him, or maybe it was the company?—and made a face. "She was all 'get out of the office before you have a heart attack.' Which I'm pretty sure is not how heart attacks work."

Silence from the end of the couch. Qui-Gon wore an inscrutable expression, then said softly, "It's a risk factor." Almost absently, he rubbed his palm over the left side of his chest.

Too surprised and off-guard to keep his face neutral, Obi-Wan widened his eyes. "You—"

"Had a heart attack a year and a half ago, yeah." With a little shrug, Qui-Gon turned his head so he couldn't meet Obi-Wan's gaze. "Technically, I died."

"Oh, shit," breathed Obi-Wan. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't—"

Qui-Gon smiled a little, but didn't look at him. "You didn't know. It's okay."

Obi-Wan sat and studied this man—this infuriating, delightful, gorgeous tapestry of a man who suddenly radiated so much loneliness and vulnerability that it made Obi-Wan ache. Without a second thought, he reached out and rested his hand on Qui-Gon's knee. Beneath the soil-stained denim, he was solid and warm, and Obi-Wan squeezed gently. At the touch, Qui-Gon finally turned back to face him. His bright blue eyes were filled with surprise.

Obi-Wan licked his lips and gambled. "Were you an obnoxious commie before, or did that come along with your resurrection?"

To his delight, Qui-Gon laughed, low and rumbling. "Dying puts a lot of things into perspective."

"Tell me." Obi-Wan drank from his beer bottle and brushed his thumb over the bumps of Qui-Gon's knee, back and forth. Soft, reassuring. Encouraging.

"Quit my job squirrelling away money for obnoxious billionaires so they didn't have to pay their fair share of taxes. It was spectacular, too, you would have liked the show, I think."

"Oh?"

Qui-Gon smirked. "I might have anonymously sent records to the IRS then stood on a desk and yelled before security escorted me from the building."

"That's fucking amazing," Obi-Wan laughed. Back and forth, his thumb traced a line across faded denim.

A fond, wistful look flitted over the older man's face. "That afternoon I didn't know what to do with myself. I didn't have to be anywhere. I didn't have clients calling me, or emails to answer, or a business lunch, or a stack of papers and some Thai takeout waiting for me in my empty house. I was depressed as shit. I was standing there on the sidewalk, three months after managing to live and a little out of breath, wondering what the hell I was going to do next."

Back and forth, unceasing. "What did you do?"

"I went home and stared at my front door for a good ten minutes before I turned around and went for the Guinness Book of World Record's slowest walk around the neighbourhood. And that's when I passed the community garden." A smile played over his lips. "I met Alma that day. I'd stopped to catch my breath, and she came over and talked me into taking over an abandoned plot. I could barely lift a shovel twice before needing a break, but she was very convincing."

"You'd never gardened before either?" Obi-Wan asked with an accusatory eyebrow.

Qui-Gon snorted. "Of course I had. I usually planted a whole garden every spring and treated it with benign neglect because I was busy."

"Revolutionary Benign Neglect won't sell very well."

"I'm giving them away, remember?"

Obi-Wan snorted. " I won't buy it, then."

"We can't have that."

The low murmur of reply sent a shiver down Obi-Wan's spine, and he was suddenly very aware that he was sitting next to this man he barely knew, joking and drinking beer and learning things about him all at once and under no circumstances was he going to move his hand away from Qui-Gon's knee, because fuck, he could kiss that smug little smile right off Qui-Gon's face—but Obi-Wan Kenobi had never done anything in his life without digging a little deeper. Bant, in a fit of pique as she watched him dance around Quinlan Vos as a teenager, had accused him of emotional cowardice. Obi-Wan had argued that it didn't hurt to take it slow.

As he stayed exactly where he was, he wondered if Bant hadn't been right. "So what did you do then?"

Qui-Gon rested his arm on the back of the couch and settled his jaw against his palm. "My house was still empty, waiting for me, and the thought made me sick. So I flagged down a cab and went to the animal shelter and adopted the oldest dog they had." Qui-Gon's soft gaze flicked across the couch to rest fondly on Hondo, whose head spilled over the side of the dog bed. The dog's breathing bordered on snoring. "I'd never had time for a dog before, but I figured we could go on really slow walks together."

Obi-Wan hummed in surprise. "I had assumed you and Hondo had been together forever."

"Nope. He belonged to an old widow, and when she moved into a care facility, her family dropped him off at the shelter. He'd been there a long time. Nobody wanted a dog over twelve. He sat very politely at the front of his cage, wagging his tail, as if to say, 'okay, I'm ready to go whenever you are.'"

"It's a nice story," Obi-Wan found himself saying.

"Two pathetic lifeforms finding each other?"

"Not pathetic," Obi-Wan argued, twisting his torso to glance at the sleeping dog, whose tongue had escaped his mouth and now rested delicately on the floor. "Perfect."

Warm pressure engulfed Obi-Wan's hand. He tore his gaze away from Hondo and stared at the long, calloused fingers covering his. Qui-Gon leaned forward to set his beer on the coffee table, but didn't lean back; he paused on the edges of Obi-Wan's space. The tip of his tongue swiped over his bottom lip. "Did you just call my dog perfect?"

Entranced by those unfathomably blue eyes, Obi-Wan nodded slowly. "What if I did?"

"Then I'd have to kiss you, that's what," murmured Qui-Gon, moving closer at a glacier's pace.

"And what if I kiss you first?" Obi-Wan couldn't help it—he offered a sly grin and closed the distance before Qui-Gon could have the last word.

Surprised at his own forwardness, Obi-Wan froze as his lips pressed softly against Qui-Gon's; perhaps Qui-Gon hadn't been expecting it, either, for he hesitated for a split second before his free hand rested gently against Obi-Wan's cheek. The world condensed into the warmth of Qui-Gon's lips, tasting of hops. When the inquisitive brush of tongue tickled Obi-Wan's bottom lip, part of him—the part greedily coveting all the blood—urged him to keep going, to kiss the man until morning and beyond.

The jangling, shrill call of a telephone shattered the moment. Qui-Gon pulled back far enough to rest his forehead against Obi-Wan's brow and muttered, "Goddamnit."

Obi-Wan nuzzled Qui-Gon's cheek above his beard. "Ignore it."

"Only three people have my number," replied Qui-Gon apologetically, pressing his lips briefly against Obi-Wan's before hauling himself off the couch and picking up the receiver of a sturdy bakelite phone collecting dust on the top shelf of the IKEA unit. "Yes?"

Incredulous, Obi-Wan mouthed, "You have a rotary phone?"

Qui-Gon rolled his eyes. "Yes, he's sleeping now…no problems…yes, I'll call tomorrow afternoon. Okay, thank you, good night." He set the receiver back on the cradle. "Yes, I have a rotary phone because I threw my cell at my boss and my cardiologist insisted she had to be able to call me, so I have a landline and Alma's old phone. She was going to give it to the Salvation Army before I rescued it."

Obi-Wan stood and crossed the few steps to twine his fingers with Qui-Gon's. "I don't know if you're insane or adorable."

"I could be both," retorted Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan grinned, but took note of the dark circles bruising the skin beneath his beautiful eyes.

"You look exhausted," murmured Obi-Wan, his suspicions confirmed when Qui-Gon's shoulders drooped slightly. "You should get some sleep. It's been a difficult day."

"Will I see you tomorrow?" Qui-Gon sounded more unsure than Obi-Wan thought all this kissing should imply.

Obi-Wan lifted their joined hands and pressed sound kisses to the backs of Qui-Gon's hands. "Of course."

"Hang on." Qui-Gon hurried into the kitchen, leaving Obi-Wan to stare after him with a furrow in his brow. When the tall man returned, he slipped a folded bit of paper into Obi-Wan's palm. "You're number four. Thank you, for today."

Curious, Obi-Wan unfolded the paper to find a series of numbers scrawled with what must have been a fountain pen. Warmth bloomed in his chest. Rising on his toes, he stole another kiss, longer and more thrilling than a you're welcome had any right to be.

With an eager spring in his step that had absolutely nothing to do with the prospect of seeing Qui-Gon or the memory of his lips, Obi-Wan walked into the garden the next morning to find Alma and Qui-Gon in some kind of important meeting—or rather, Alma was gesticulating wildly while Qui-Gon nodded seriously. Obi-Wan had once seen the senior representative from Lithuania and his counterpart from Poland in the same stance and decided to approach with caution.

"I won't stand for it, Qui-Gon!" Alma was saying, her thin voice reedy as it rose in pitch. "It's too late to start again!"

"Nobody pulled out your brussels sprouts," Qui-Gon replied patiently. "Unless it was Jana Yee so she wouldn't have to eat them at the harvest picnic."

"Jana knows better than that."

"It was probably a rabbit, Alma."

Alma scoffed. "A rabbit that walked past all my spinach and yanked out the sprouts, leaving them perfectly untouched otherwise? We have particular rabbits now? Someone was here last night, I'm telling you! Probably those same hooligans who stole the hoses!"

Qui-Gon looked like he was about to sigh, and Alma had her hands on her hips. Intervention was necessary. "Morning," interjected Obi-Wan, earning him a glance from Alma. Qui-Gon, however—at the sight of Obi-Wan, his eyes lit up, dancing blue like a river.

"Hi," the tall man said, almost shyly.

"Obi-Wan, tell this hippie that nothing just pulls out brussels sprouts and leaves them on the ground like a warning to others," Alma ordered.

Obi-Wan shrugged helplessly. "I heard you can kill potato beetles by drowning them in gasoline."

"I could kill Ronald Reagan by drowning him in gasoline," retorted Alma.

"Ronald Reagan's been dead for a long time," said Qui-Gon, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Unless we're dabbling in necromancy now?" Alma made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat, and Qui-Gon seemed to relent. "I will get to the bottom of this, okay?"

Alma eyed Qui-Gon with pursed lips. "I don't want you out here by yourself all night. If those hooligans show up—"

Qui-Gon lifted a finger to stop her and did not take his eyes off the old woman. "Are you busy tonight, Obi-Wan?"

Running a hand over his beard to hide his smile, Obi-Wan replied, "I'm never busy these days."

"Would you meet me here at 8?"

"Sure."

"There, Alma," said Qui-Gon. "Problem solved. I'm sure Obi-Wan and I can use shovels to fend off hooligans if necessary."

Alma took a step back, ran her considering gaze over both Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan, and broke into a wide, sunny smile. "Excellent. Thank you for your help, gentlemen. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm late for coffee with the ladies."

As Alma hurried out of the garden, Obi-Wan watched her go with the distinct feeling like he'd been utterly shanghaied. "What the hell was that?"

Qui-Gon snorted in amusement. "She's trying to set us up." Unable to stop the silly smile tugging at his lips, Obi-Wan glanced over at Qui-Gon to find the taller man grinning at him. "And no, I did not tell her that I was going to ask you out tonight anyway, because I find her pretend indignation highly entertaining and she needs a little bit of living vicariously."

Warmth spread outwards from his stomach."You were? Going to ask me out?"

Nodding, Qui-Gon leaned over to whisper in Obi-Wan's ear; the tickle of his breath against the shell of his ear made Obi-Wan shiver. "You're adorable when you blush, you know." Then he straightened and hooked his thumbs through the loops of his jeans, as if oblivious to the melted state of Obi-Wan's brain. "Now, I have to go home and check on Hondo and run some errands, so I will see you tonight."

"Okay. Yes." Rooted to the spot, Obi-Wan was further poleaxed when Qui-Gon brushed his lips against his flushed cheek and tossed him a brilliant smile before sauntering out of the garden.

It had been ages since anyone had taken an interest, had decided boring, workaholic Obi-Wan Kenobi was worth a little bit of chasing.

He glanced over at his plot and saw the four tomato plants, bushy and hale.

More than a little bit of chasing.

He bit his lip, unable to suppress his delighted smile, and wondered what did one wear on a first, nighttime date with a hot socialist to stave off the local mischief in a communal vegetable garden?

At exactly 7:55pm, Obi-Wan slipped through the garden entrance and got almost to his plot before stuttering to a halt in surprise.

Two camping chairs sat unfurled on the gravel path between Obi-Wan's and Qui-Gon's gardens. A little green wagon waited in front, holding what looked like lumpy paper bags—more diatomaceous earth?—and a soft-sided cooler bag. Obi-Wan frowned in confusion. Were they actually going to do some gardening out here? He glanced down at his thin brown merino sweater over a plaid button-down shirt and his second-best loafers and regretted not asking for more details.

Footsteps crunched from behind the water tank. "You're early." Qui-Gon's voice was pitched low, but carried over the open field. "A good habit for the Doomsday Clock setter."

"By my usual standards, I'm 10 minutes late," retorted Obi-Wan. As he turned towards the voice, his heart skipped a beat.

In the fading remains of dusk, Qui-Gon was beautiful. In jeans and workboots and a Fleetwood Mac tee that appeared completely intact, he sidled up to Obi-Wan with a smile too soft to be a grin. His hair was half-pulled back in a tail, the rest cascading over his shoulders; Obi-Wan's fingers twitched in anticipation of delving into that bronze and silver mass.

"Woof," interrupted Hondo, plodding his way forward to demand pets from Obi-Wan.

"You're looking better," remarked Obi-Wan as he stooped to scratch the gentle plane between the dog's eyes.

"Can't beat pharmaceuticals," said Qui-Gon. "Now, our reservation has opened up, would you like to follow me?"

Obi-Wan glanced up to find Qui-Gon patiently holding out his elbow. With a grin, Obi-Wan straightened and slipped his hand around the man's arm. "How exclusive is this place?"

"No one even knows about it," Qui-Gon replied, deadpan, as he walked five steps and stopped in front of the folding chairs. "And here we are."

Obi-Wan gingerly sat down on the camping chair, relaxing only when it didn't collapse beneath him, and Qui-Gon flopped into the other chair with less concern for structural integrity. "Would you care for this evening's drink special?"

"That depends. Am I required to harvest a beehive with my bare hands or grow my own hops?"

"Well, first of all, I would never deny you basic beekeeping safety equipment, but mead is not on the menu tonight. As for the hops, we do not have that kind of space, so I went to the trouble of rustling up two options for your perusal." Qui-Gon leaned forward, unzipped the soft cooler, and pulled out a bottle. "A pale ale, brewed less than five miles from this very spot, by a lovely set of identical triplets who do not accept credit cards."

A snort of laughter escaped Obi-Wan's nose. "Are you serious?"

"I would not lie about not accepting credit cards. They disagree with predatory interest rates."

"That's the first option. What's the other?"

"Not a pale ale man, eh? Well, that's why I got this, too." Qui-Gon dipped his hand into the cooler again and pulled out a brown glass bottle with a familiar red label. "A little taste of home, perhaps."

"Wow," said Obi-Wan, a discredit to his occupation as words escaped him.

"I don't think anyone's ever been speechless over an Innis & Gunn," chuckled Qui-Gon as he opened the beer and held it out. "Wait 'til you see what's on the rest of the menu."

Obi-Wan took the proffered drink, his fingers brushing over Qui-Gon's. "You didn't deep fry anything, did you?"

"No. I had trouble battering the Oreos."

"Irish bastard."

Qui-Gon grinned, his eyes sparkling with good humour even in the navy haze of newborn night as he held out his cash-only beer. "Sláinte. "

"Do dheagh shlàinte," Obi-Wan replied, tapping the rim of his bottle against Qui-Gon's and taking a swig. For a second, he thought he might be homesick, but when he watched Qui-Gon bring the bottle to his lips with a little smile, Obi-Wan realized the tightness in his chest was a deep fondness—past physical attraction, past passing interest—that made his head spin. "The rest of the menu, then?"

"Ah, only the finest for my handsome gentleman companion." Resting his drink in the camping chair's mesh cupholder, Qui-Gon grabbed a paper bag and opened it with a flourish, then held it out for Obi-Wan's inspection.

"Beer and popcorn? How very fancy," he said dryly, but grabbed a handful of fluffy kernels.

"I'll have you know I got that from an expert on growing popcorn," grumbled Qui-Gon. "He's a pretty big deal in the local popcorn business."

Impressed, Obi-Wan tossed a kernel in his mouth and enjoyed the explosion of buttery salt on his tongue. "Really?"

"Surely you've heard of Orville Redenbacher," laughed Qui-Gon, and Obi-Wan threw a handful of popcorn at him. Hondo's tail swept across the gravel as his tongue snatched errant kernels off the ground.

"You're terrible."

Qui-Gon glanced up at the sky, grinning. "Yeah, but you need someone terrible in your life."

"I've never had anything terrible in my life before," admitted Obi-Wan.

"No torrid affairs? Never failed trigonometry, or got lost in a foreign country, or eaten bad oysters? Never jumped out of a perfectly good airplane?"

"I hate flying." Obi-Wan wrinkled his nose. "I take the train. I went to a quasi-religious boarding school from a very young age. No affairs, torrid or otherwise." He sighed heavily. "My life outside of work is boring, Qui-Gon. I'm a boring person living a boring life. I work, occasionally sleep, and work some more. I have no family here and exactly one friend who I can see if we schedule three months in advance."

Silence settled between them for a long moment before Qui-Gon hummed. "I don't know you as well as I like, yet, but I know a few things. You are dedicated to the things you do. When you do something, you put your whole heart into it, and that's a rare thing."

"How do you know that?"

Qui-Gon reached over and gently insinuated his fingers between Obi-Wan's. "Do you know how many gardening books you bought?" he said, with such obvious fondness that Obi-Wan had to swallow hard. "A library's worth, at least, just so you could grow some vegetables. It was sweet, and then you verbally eviscerated me as easily as breathing."

Glad for the dark to hide his embarrassed blush, Obi-Wan cleared his throat. "S-sorry about that."

"Don't be," said Qui-Gon. "At that moment, I'd never been so attracted to someone in my life."

Shocked, Obi-Wan stared at him. Qui-Gon winked, and Obi-Wan gathered enough brain cells to say dryly, "Well, that's telling."

"Maybe I just want someone clever and gorgeous and ready to call out my bullshit at any moment."

"You already have Hondo."

"Sure, but he'll eat garbage if you let him." Qui-Gon settled back in his chair and tipped his face up to gaze at the sky. His hand was warm against Obi-Wan's. "It's good, you know, wanting to learn as much as you can about a new hobby. I did the opposite; I took up too many hobbies and now I'm at best poor to mediocre at all of them."

Obi-Wan scoffed. "I wouldn't call your garden mediocre."

"Because I'm not growing eggplant or broccoli or watermelons. I grow easy things for this climate, and instead of benign neglect I have the time to baby them. I'm no mysterious plant guru. I look shit up on Google just like everyone else, and the more mistakes you make, the more you learn."

With an affected gasp, Obi-Wan shot him a wide-eyed look. "You use Google?"

"Don't tell the revolution," retorted Qui-Gon. The sound of feet scuffing pavement echoed over the garden, and Qui-Gon murmured, "Ah. Right on time."

"Who's that?" Obi-Wan squinted into the darkness, making out a gaggle of short people walking along the garden's fence.

"Hey boys," called Qui-Gon jovially, waving his arm above his head.

The group stopped, and to Obi-Wan's surprise, they all waved back. "Hey, Mr. Jinn!" shouted a young teen's voice.

"Do you know everyone around here?" muttered Obi-Wan.

"I don't own a tv," Qui-Gon replied, then called, "None of you pulled up any plants in here, did you?"

"No," chorused the boys.

"Alright. Off you go. No grand theft auto." Laughter rang out amidst a chorus of goodbyes, and the gaggle of boys ran down the street. Qui-Gon grunted in satisfaction. "There. The local mischief cleared on all charges." At Obi-Wan's raised eyebrow, he added, "They picked tomatoes last year, once, because they didn't realize the plots belonged to people. They were horrified to find out they'd stolen food when I talked to them. Good lads, the lot of them."

"You never thought it was them," Obi-Wan said, "so why are we out here in the dark?"

"Because something did pull those plants out, and I think I know what. Why, you don't want to hang out in the dark with me and the cabbage?" Qui-Gon leaned close, shoulder brushing against Obi-Wan's; the heat coming off the man sent a shiver through Obi-Wan's body. "Cold?"

"Um—" He was a decently useful diplomat rendered to helpless noises by a single-word question asked with genuine concern. Christ, he was useless. "I—"

"Here." Qui-Gon rummaged around the wagon and uncovered what seemed to be neatly folded blankets until he shook one out and popped it over his head, then held the other out to Obi-Wan.

"Did you just put on a poncho?" asked Obi-Wan in disbelief.

Qui-Gon shrugged. "It's warm, and it lets you blend into a crowd."

"No one has ever blended into a crowd while wearing a poncho. People probably look like they're ignoring you because secretly they're all thinking, 'oh God, is that white guy wearing a poncho unironically?'"

"I am, in fact, wearing it with zero irony," retorted Qui-Gon, tossing the folded fabric onto Obi-Wan's lap. "Take it or leave it."

With a smug smile holding a hint of defiance, Obi-Wan shook out the rough wool poncho and wrapped it around his shoulders like a blanket. Qui-Gon scoffed mockingly, but was unable to hide the amusement in his twitching lips. The impulse was too strong; Obi-Wan leaned forward and pressed his lips to the corner of Qui-Gon's mouth. "I'll take it," he murmured, perched precariously over the arms of the camping chairs.

Qui-Gon turned his head, the tip of his nose brushing against Obi-Wan's. Warm fingers swept into Obi-Wan's hair and settled on the back of his neck, nudging him ever-so-gently to close the gap between them.

The chairs were flimsy and the armrests got in the way and the poncho slipped off his shoulders, letting chilled night air infiltrate down to his skin, but all of it fell away with the softness of Qui-Gon's lips and the butterfly-brush of his thumb against the spot behind Obi-Wan's ear. Slow and tentative, Qui-Gon kissed him like he might break, like he was precious, like he was worth taking the time—no one had ever kissed him like that before, and no one had ever pulled back, eyes gleaming with moonlight, to readjust a poncho around him with decisive care. 

When Obi-Wan was tucked in to his satisfaction, Qui-Gon leaned back in his chair and pointed to the sky. "Do you know the constellations?" he asked, his voice a low, husky rumble.

"A few," answered Obi-Wan, tilting his head back. "See those four stars there?"

Qui-Gon shifted his hand. "Those ones?"

"No." Leaning in, Obi-Wan took his hand and moved it so it pointed in the right direction. Then, feeling bold, he didn't shift away; he settled his head in the curve of Qui-Gon's shoulder. "That's the Big Box. And those other four stars, over there? That's the Little Box. And right there, is the Giant Line."

Beneath his ear, he felt the vibration of Qui-Gon's chuckle. "You mean Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, and Draco?"

"No, I'm pretty certain it's Big Box, Little Box, and Giant Line. The really important one is Dude's Suspenders."

Qui-Gon groaned dramatically. "Orion's Belt. You can't even see that this time of year."

"I know that," retorted Obi-Wan, grinning into Qui-Gon's shoulder. "Dude's Suspenders is that one there."

"Jesus Christ, that's the top half of Hercules."

"Which is where one would wear their suspenders."

"I guess astronomer is definitely off the table of viable occupations for Obi-Wan Kenobi."

"So what you're saying is that you wouldn't buy my pamphlet guide to the night sky."

Qui-Gon shifted beneath him, and suddenly a strong, heavy arm slung over his shoulder and curled around him. "You couldn't pay me to take one." 

"What if I gave them out for free?"

The broad hand squeezed against Obi-Wan's ribs, enough to be felt through the poncho blanket. "I would take all of them."

A sappy smile tugged at his lips as Obi-Wan tilted his head up to glance at Qui-Gon. "All of them?"

"And then I would recycle them so no one would ever learn about the Dude's Suspenders. Honestly, Obi-Wan."

Qui-Gon's exasperation was so fond that Obi-Wan had to do his best not to giggle, because he was a grown man with a professional career, and failed miserably. He turned it into a cough but didn't miss the way Qui-Gon's hand tightened against him. "What are we on the look out for, then, if not hooligans?"

"If I were a foolish man—"

"If?" retorted Obi-Wan in mock disbelief.

"If," Qui-Gon continued, putting on a snobbish air, "I would likely assume we have a groundhog in the neighbourhood and take the usual steps to solve the problem. However, since the only things that were disturbed were exactly two Brussels sprouts plants and not, say, all of the tomatoes in every garden, and I am not, in fact, a complete moron, I have one culprit in mind."

"Oh, do go on, Mr. Holmes."

"Alma did it herself. She doesn't even like Brussels sprouts; she only plants them because she likes the challenge. It was all a ruse, my dear Watson." Qui-Gon dropped back into his normal voice and added, "But it made for a nice first date, don't you think?"

The rough weave of Qui-Gon's poncho scratched his cheek as Obi-Wan snuggled a little closer. The thick mass of hair, temptingly close to his face, smelled of rosemary. He looked up to where the perfectly clear sky displayed its tiny white jewels, felt the even, reassuring motion of Qui-Gon's chest as he breathed, tasted salt on his lips, and thought his heart might burst.

"It's okay," replied Obi-Wan with a laugh, "I guess."

A week of torrential rain crawled by, unceasing and unseasonal. Ponderous grey clouds pressed close, smothering and malignant as they inundated the earth with more water than it could hold. Rivers flowed in the gutters.

Obi-Wan paced his apartment like a caged tiger, running his hands through his hair and unfolding and refolding the little piece of paper scrawled with Qui-Gon's phone number. He should have called the day after their date like a proper gentleman, made arrangements for another date like a normal human being. He could have called the day after that and asked Qui-Gon to go for coffee. He could have showed up at the man's house with a bag of expensive take out and a couple of Guinnesses and an apologetic smile, but it would appear that his bravery only came when he was too distracted by Qui-Gon's eyes or Qui-Gon's hair or Qui-Gon's hands to focus on his anxiety.

It had been a week. A week, cooped up in this godforsaken apartment he'd never really decorated, worrying about his tomato plants and if Qui-Gon thought he was a good kisser and why hadn't Qui-Gon called, either? Had the other man decided Obi-Wan really was too boring to pursue?

He picked up the phone and dialed.

"What?" Normally even-tempered, Adi sounded exasperated.

"Hi, Adi."

A pause. "Pretty sure you're not supposed to be calling me right now," she chided. "Shouldn't you be relaxing?"

"I am relaxing."

Adi snorted, crackling over the phone. "Bullshit. You sound more wound up than before. Why are you bothering me, Obi-Wan?"

"Just…just wanted to know how things are going. Without me."

"Everything's fine. You don't need to worry."

Obi-Wan scoffed. "And unofficially?"

"Goodbye, Obi-Wan. I'll see you when you get back."

The other end of the line went dead, and Obi-Wan stared at the screen in his hand with a hint of indignation and a heap of guilt. Obviously Adi was being run ragged as she did his share along with his. It wasn't fair to her, taking up the slack as he wandered aimlessly through his apartment and did exactly nothing productive.

The paper with the precious phone number was getting damp in his palm. He should call. He should go to the garden and see if Qui-Gon was there.

He should go to the office, check in with Mace, bring Adi one of those coffee drinks she liked that contained more sugar than coffee. Maybe check his email, just to see if he'd gotten a response from—

A growl escaped his lips as he stuffed his phone into his pocket and grabbed his trenchcoat out of the front hall closet.

It was raining so hard Obi-Wan kept his gaze on his running shoes, which were quickly becoming soaked and increasingly splattered with mud. The rain pelted against his umbrella in a thunderous roar.

A warm hand wrapped around the hand clutching the umbrella handle. Obi-Wan skidded to a surprised halt. Qui-Gon's face, limned with a yellow rain jacket's hood, poked beneath the edge of the umbrella. "You're awfully deep in thought."

"What?"

Qui-Gon smiled. "You walked right past the entrance. I called."

"No, you didn't," replied Obi-Wan, shaking his head. There was a droplet of water running down the crooked bridge of Qui-Gon's nose. "I should have, but I didn't, but you didn't either, and I don't know what that means."

A puzzled frown drew Qui-Gon's brows together. His hand slid away, leaving Obi-Wan's fingers cold. "I-I don't follow."

"You didn't call me."

The frown deepened for a moment before Qui-Gon's impossibly blue eyes widened. "Obi-Wan, you never gave me your phone number," he said gently. "Believe me, I would have called you. I meant I called your name, just now."

"Oh." The odd tension in his body quivered. He wasn't relieved—he was, to a point, but the relief was shallow in the face of the deep disquiet threatening his peace.

Qui-Gon hunched awkwardly and slipped under the umbrella. Obi-Wan lifted the umbrella to accommodate the man's height, but Qui-Gon stepped closer and kept his head close to Obi-Wan's. "You've hit the wall, hmm?" he said, soft and kind and understanding. Obi-Wan shot him a confused look. "You've finally had too much time on your hands and you don't know how to cope."

The words rang in Obi-Wan's ears, full of arrows that pierced him with truth, and he slumped forward, resting his head against the broad, rain-slick chest with a groan. "I'm an idiot."

"Hardly," retorted Qui-Gon, his warm breath brushing against Obi-Wan's ear. "I told you I recognized a fellow workaholic. The same thing happened to me."

"You're saying I should get a dog?" muttered Obi-Wan against yellow nylon.

"Oh, no. I hit the wall about six weeks after I got Hondo. It was the first big snow of the season, and we were stuck inside for a few days. I was on hold with the office, ready to beg for my job back just for some semblance of normality."

Strong, deft fingers combed through Obi-Wan's hair, soothing and rhythmic. "What"—Obi-Wan swallowed a sigh—"what did you do?"

"I hung up when I heard the hold music loop. Then I spent all afternoon ordering hard copies of seed catalogues and shovelling snow for exactly five minutes at a time and reminding myself that I have permission to just…exist." Qui-Gon's fingers stilled as he pressed his forehead against Obi-Wan's temple. "You have permission to just exist, too. Your worth is beyond your work."

There was no quip ready on his tongue about the proletariat; Obi-Wan closed his eyes and sighed wearily. "Now what? I desperately do not want to go back home."

Qui-Gon's left arm slid around him while the right seized control of the umbrella. "Your feet must be soaking wet. Let me guess, you don't own a pair of wellies?"

"Yeah, yeah," Obi-Wan grumbled, snuggling his shoulder a little deeper into the curve of Qui-Gon's body as they began to walk. "Put it in Pumpkins and Posthegemony. 'Before embracing the decline of American dominance, be sure to rustle up a pair of rubber boots.'"

"Sound advice," replied Qui-Gon, tightening his grip on Obi-Wan's hip, "for the guy trying to make Bing happen."

Wearing another man's shirt and pyjama pants should have felt overly familiar, an uncomfortable feat of intimacy for two people who'd only shared a few kisses and an unconventional first date, but the thing that had Obi-Wan nervous was his bare feet against the floor of Qui-Gon's home. He tried not to wiggle his toes against the smooth weave of the Tunisian carpet as he wandered hesitantly into the living room. Scrubbing at his hair with the fluffy grey towel helped cover some of his disquiet, and he distracted himself further by examining Qui-Gon's shelves. Books, seemingly organized by subject when not grouped by height or even colour. A pair of blown glass teardrops containing some kind of plant--real, even though it looked almost plastic--not anchored in soil. An old record player—and an extensive collection of records with worn paper edges that spoke of being well-loved. Obi-Wan peeked under the cover of the record player to find one of the B-sides of Simon and Garfunkel's The Concert in Central Park waiting on the turntable.

Seven-foot hippie with the dog, indeed.

"Dry now?" From the kitchen, Qui-Gon appeared with two steaming mugs. Hondo trailed after him with the stilted gait of stiff joints, and curled up in his bed as Qui-Gon settled on the couch.

"Mostly," replied Obi-Wan, still hyper-aware of his bare feet as he joined Qui-Gon on the couch and gratefully accepted a mug. A hot curl of lemon and honey wafted over his face, carrying the bite of whiskey. "Oh, Christ, I haven't had a hot toddy in years ."

"Good for what ails you," Qui-Gon said sagely as he took a tentative sip and hummed approvingly. "Whether it's getting caught in the rain or existential crisis."

"I thought that was pina coladas."

"I'm out of coconuts." Qui-Gon tilted his head in amusement and added, "And those little paper umbrellas, which we all know is the only reason anyone drinks pina coladas."

"They should serve scotch with umbrellas," mused Obi-Wan, enjoying the warmth between his hands and the soft way Qui-Gon was looking only at him. "Shake things up a little."

"I would pay actual money to see you order that in public."

Obi-Wan grinned. "I would order a scotch with an umbrella just to see you use actual money."

Qui-Gon licked his bottom lip and hid his smile behind his mug. "I'll hold you to that."

The brief appearance of that tongue struck Obi-Wan like a match head against sandpaper. He plucked Qui-Gon's drink from his hands and set both mugs on the coffee table, then shifted his body against Qui-Gon's side. Before he could think better of it, Obi-Wan leaned in and kissed that bottom lip. A soft, surprised noise rumbled in Qui-Gon's chest before he wrapped his arms around Obi-Wan and pulled him into his lap. Heat seeped through the thin, worn material of the borrowed tee as Obi-Wan pressed closer; he licked the seam of Qui-Gon's mouth, the heady taste of lemon and whiskey urging him on as much as the firm sweep of Qui-Gon's palms down his spine. As he explored the contrasts of soft and sharp in Qui-Gon's mouth, Obi-Wan's hand found its way to Qui-Gon's still-damp braid and tugged gently.

Qui-Gon gasped into Obi-Wan's mouth and jerked his hips upwards. "Hang on," he murmured. "Just—hang on."

"Sorry, I-I—sorry." Embarrassment flooded through Obi-Wan, setting his cheeks aflame. Dropping his gaze, Obi-Wan leaned away so he could slink back to the other end of the couch.

Qui-Gon's arms, wrapped around Obi-Wan's waist, held him fast. "I don't want you to go," he said slowly, "but I think maybe we should talk about how you're doing before we go any further."

Obi-Wan looked up to find Qui-Gon's bright blue eyes filled with concern, at odds with his swollen lips and the distinct hardness pressing against Obi-Wan's thigh. "You want to have a serious conversation while I sit on your lap?"

"Yes," replied Qui-Gon seriously. "Before our date, when was the last time you touched another person that wasn't a handshake?" When Obi-Wan paused, seriously considering the answer and coming up disturbingly blank, Qui-Gon nodded. "I thought so."

Something inside Obi-Wan insisted that this was ridiculous, that simply sitting in another man's lap and talking was stupid, but those large hands started stroking along his sides, too firm to tickle. It was grounding, and felt oddly more intimate than kissing had been. He let himself curl forward, urged by the gentle pressure of Qui-Gon's hands against his ribs, and settled his forehead against Qui-Gon's shoulder.

Silence settled between them, taut and anticipatory; Obi-Wan must have left his ability to let a silence hang at the office, because he said quietly, "It's difficult."

Qui-Gon's voice was barely above a whisper. "What is?"

"Existing. Taking up space." When he closed his eyes, the sharp, woody scent of rosemary clinging to Qui-Gon's hair filled his nostrils. "My whole life, I've had expectations—be the best student, get the best internship, land the impressive position, change the world. Now I'm thirty-five years old, I work eighty-hour weeks, and that's all. It's been so long since I just sat down and read a book—fuck, I think it might actually be years since I read something for fun. And, as you just pointed out, I'm actually a lonely, touch-starved wreck."

"I didn't say any of that," rumbled Qui-Gon. His hands stopped, settling on Obi-Wan's hips.

"You did," replied Obi-Wan, "from a certain point of view."

"I might have…implied"—the hands moved, but before Obi-Wan could protest, Qui-Gon wrapped his arms around him with a comforting squeeze—"that I had concerns about your emotional state due to social isolation."

Obi-Wan snorted. "You sound like my boss."

"He was worried about you?"

"No, he just likes verbal equivocation. I think he was too busy and stressed himself to worry about his underlings beyond our performance." Obi-Wan turned his head slightly, and with one ear pressed against Qui-Gon's chest, he could hear the faint, regular beat of the man's heart. The thought of that rhythm stuttering and ceasing sent a shudder through him. "You understand loneliness, to see it in other people."

"I've had my fair share, yes. I wish someone had seen mine." Qui-Gon tilted his head, brushing his forehead against Obi-Wan's. His breath ghosted over Obi-Wan's cheeks. "I can try to ease that loneliness, if you'll let me."

"I don't know what you want from me," admitted Obi-Wan, trying not to sound so bloody tentative and failing miserably.

"I want…" Qui-Gon brushed the tip of his nose against Obi-Wan's cheek. "Did you know you have the sunniest smile I've ever seen? When you smile, when you really mean it, it's like you come alive. When you're really pleased, you do this little head wiggle—"

"I do not!"

A grin unfurled across Qui-Gon's face. "Oh, yes, you do. It's the most fucking adorable thing I've ever witnessed. That's what I want, Obi-Wan. I want you to be happy, and if you want, I will do my damnedest to make it happen."

Buffeted by sentiment no one had ever before expressed to him, Obi-Wan closed his eyes.

There, in his mind's eye, were perfect Sungold tomatoes, planted stealthily without any thought of recognition or reward other than his smile.

Swallowing hard, Obi-Wan sat up so he could look at Qui-Gon's face. Deliberately, he tucked a few errant strands of bronze and silver hair behind Qui-Gon's ear and trailed his hand down to rest against the tall man's chest. Through the worn cotton, his fingers caught the edge of a raised scar. He wasn't the only one being given an unexpected opportunity.

Qui-Gon was watching him with a hint of nervousness in his eyes, as if he didn't know what Obi-Wan would say but was desperately hoping for a certain answer.

Obi-Wan let a slow smile spread across his face until it nearly hurt his cheeks. "Keep up the good work."

Bright sun woke him a moment before a sloppy tongue ran up his nose. "Urgh!" Obi-Wan wrenched his eyes open to find a pleased Labrador watching him, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. "Goddamnit, Hondo, why?"

The dog's tail thumped on the floor.

Obi-Wan pushed himself up off the couch, a hand-knit blanket he didn't remember slipping off his shoulders. He didn't remember falling asleep, either—they'd been talking and snuggling and listening to records while Qui-Gon ran his fingers through Obi-Wan's hair. Muzzily, he blinked the sleep from his eyes.

The unmistakeable aroma of freshly ground coffee hit Obi-Wan's nose before a hand thrust a cup in front of him. "Good morning," Qui-Gon murmured.

"Oh, I think I love you," Obi-Wan said thoughtlessly, seizing the cup with both hands and inhaling before the full force of what he'd said lit up his brain. "I-I mean, the coffee"—no, that was insulting—"what I meant was, I love you for bringing coffee"—why do you keep saying love—"not that I only love you for coffee"— Jesus Fuck, Kenobi —"I-er-thank you? For coffee?"

Qui-Gon smirked at him and toasted him with a mock salute. "Nothing said before the ingestion of caffeine is considered on-record."

"Thank God," muttered Obi-Wan, burying his face in his cup. Dark and bitter, the coffee was perfect as it burnt the tip of his tongue. "How'd you know I take it black?"

"Lucky guess. Maximum wakey power." Qui-Gon blew across the surface of his cup before taking a tentative sip. "If you like the blend, I can take you to the roaster. They've got a stand at the farmer's market."

Obi-Wan surveyed the tall man. The morning light streaming through the windows gave Qui-Gon a halo as wild tendrils had escaped his braid overnight. There was a soft, utterly relaxed aura about him, compounded by the slightly rumpled plain green tee and hideous red plaid pyjama pants and the white ceramic mug that proclaimed "Not Paint Water." He sat next to Obi-Wan, close enough for their knees to touch. Fuck, he was gorgeous. "Everyone knows your name at the farmer's market, don't they?"

"Not the guy who sells root beer. He's an ass," replied Qui-Gon, scoffing. "Who pays six dollars for a root beer, even if he does have it in a giant wooden barrel with an antique tap?"

"You like the antique tap."

Qui-Gon growled into his coffee. "It's cute and he doesn't deserve it."

"That kind of criteria might work against you," Obi-Wan teased. "I mean, you're cute and I don't deserve you, either."

"Yeah, you deserve someone twenty years younger," retorted Qui-Gon with an unexpected edge too jagged to be a true joke.

Startled, Obi-Wan frowned. "Are you serious right now?"

With a minute shrug, Qui-Gon expertly avoided looking anywhere but his coffee. "You should be with someone who doesn't have the heart of an eighty year old."

"I seem to recall last night you saying you want to make me happy," Obi-Wan said in a low voice. "And I'm pretty sure I agreed to that, so why the sudden change of heart?"

Qui-Gon glared at him.

Obi-Wan glared right back. "I'll intend my pun; I'm no coward." Gentling his tone, he added, "Do you want me to leave?"

"No!" Eyes wide, Qui-Gon shook his head emphatically. "I-I just don't want you to, when it sinks in that I'm not the healthiest fish in the sea. I'm still terrified to lift heavy things. I take so much medication and spend too much time at my doctor's office. You deserve the chance to walk away before it…hurts."

Part of Obi-Wan wanted to yell at the man for being stupid—Obi-Wan would not be scared off, he was a grown ass man who could make his own choices, thank you very much—and the other part wanted to pull Qui-Gon into his arms and do everything he could to chase away that doubt. The miserable look on Qui-Gon's face made the decision easy.

"What I deserve," said Obi-Wan slowly, putting his cup down next to Qui-Gon's, "has nothing to do with what I want." He took Qui-Gon's hands and pressed a kiss to each palm. "I'll prove it, too."

Obi-Wan tugged on Qui-Gon's hands as he sank down against the couch cushions; after a moment of hesitation, Qui-Gon followed until he covered Obi-Wan's smaller frame. The escaped strands of Qui-Gon's braid tickled Obi-Wan's face. "Hello there," he murmured, before arching up for a coffee-flavoured kiss. "You—are—so—gorgeous," he said between kisses, "and you—don't—even—realize it."

Qui-Gon hummed against his mouth. "That was my line," he said against Obi-Wan's lips before diving back in.

"Don't you think I deserve a devilishly handsome man?" asked Obi-Wan breathily as Qui-Gon nibbled his way up Obi-Wan's neck. "An experienced man who knows his way around both kissing and coffee? God, you make good coffee." Qui-Gon chuckled, a soft vibration beneath Obi-Wan's ear. Obi-Wan let his hands drift down to the hem of Qui-Gon's shirt and snuck them under the fabric. Hot, smooth skin met him along with a soft groan and a thrust against his thigh from Qui-Gon. "I've reconsidered, I definitely deserve you."

"Do you always talk this much when someone's on top of you?" grumbled Qui-Gon against Obi-Wan's neck.

"Only when I have to convince my partner that I am, in fact, into him because he won't take my word or other evidence for it," replied Obi-Wan, bending one knee to let Qui-Gon settle more heavily against his hips.

"If I do this"—Qui-Gon ground against him, exquisitely slow and hard through the thin layers of cotton pyjama pants—"will you stop using multi-syllable words?"

"Might do," gasped Obi-Wan.

"Better," Qui-Gon remarked with a smirk, wiggled his hips, and thrust again.

A moan ripped from his throat, and Obi-Wan's hands found purchase on Qui-Gon's ass. "Fuck," he hissed.

Qui-Gon kissed him hard without breaking the torturously unhurried rhythm of his hips. "Not yet. I didn't expect a beautiful redhead in my bed. Clothes on until we can be safe."

"Yes, absolutely, just—don't stop," panted Obi-Wan, riding too perilously close to the edge to worry about disrobing.

To his utter delight, Qui-Gon didn't stop.

Panting and feeling boneless, Obi-Wan smiled as he kissed Qui-Gon's mouth. "You're very heavy."

"I don't want to move," retorted Qui-Gon. "You're an excellent addition to my couch."

Before Obi-Wan could reply, a tongue swiped over his cheek; both men hollered in disgust and scrambled up. Qui-Gon dragged his palm over his face and glared at his dog. "Goddamnit, Hondo!"

There was a bean. Long and green, with the hint of a curve towards the bottom, it was the epitome of legume perfection.

Obi-Wan turned to Qui-Gon and gesticulated at the square of bean plants. "There's a bean!"

Beneath his battered hat, Qui-Gon looked up from where he was thinning carrots and smiled. "Check the others. Where's there's one, there's probably a bunch hiding. Beans are sneaky like that. Make sure you hold the stem while you pick them, or you'll damage the plant."

"Thanks." With an interested hum, Obi-Wan gently lifted the leaves of the other plants. To his delight, Qui-Gon was right; at least a dozen beans waited quietly for his discovery, including one on the plant Qui-Gon had rescued. Carefully, Obi-Wan plucked every bean of decent size and stared at the meagre collection that didn't even cover the palm of his hand. "Holy shit," he whispered.

Qui-Gon joined him, brushing dirt and carrot leaves off his hands; Obi-Wan held out the tiny harvest for inspection. "Look at my precious beans, Qui-Gon. I grew beans."

Crinkles appeared at the corners of Qui-Gon's eyes as a grin unfurled across his face. "You're almost officially a gardener, Obi-Wan."

"Almost?" Obi-Wan raised a challenging eyebrow.

"You have to eat something straight out of the garden without washing it to get your accreditation."

Obi-Wan laughed. "Well, in that case—" He made a show of choosing the best green bean and bit into it with a flourish. Crunchy and sweet, with a surprising hint of a fuzzy texture on the outside, it was possibly the best thing he'd ever eaten. As he chewed, he offered the other half to Qui-Gon, who leaned forward and seized it from Obi-Wan's fingers with his teeth. "Do I pass muster?"

"Expect your certificate in the mail," said Qui-Gon, pressing a swift kiss against Obi-Wan's lips before wandering back to his carrots.

Arms akimbo, Obi-Wan frowned at the giant leaves blotting out the sun for his lettuce. He frowned at the yellow fruit sprouting from the earth like an eldritch monstrosity. He poked at a yellow flower, and frowned when it fell into the dirt.

"Woof," said Hondo next to him, staring at the plant as if in solidarity.

"I don't even like zucchini," Obi-Wan grumbled. "Why is there so much zucchini?"

"Because that's the nature of zucchini," Qui-Gon said, pulling his wagon laden with green zucchini from his own plots. "Although I often think it's more a reflection of the hubris of man."

Obi-Wan couldn't tear his gaze away from his plant. "How's that?"

"Every year, we plant something that produces an exorbitant amount of bland, watery vegetable that no one really likes." Qui-Gon paused thoughtfully. "Plus, it's like growing giant dicks, so there's that."

With a snort, Obi-Wan gestured helplessly at his plant. "What am I going to do with all these dick vegetables?"

Qui-Gon wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"No. No no no no," insisted Obi-Wan viciously. "There will be no further sexual innuendo regarding vegetables. Now, to the actual problem of what am I going to do with twenty pounds of zucchini, because 'eating it' is not an option." His gaze tracked to the fence, where the sharing basket held a few bunches of radishes. "That's an option."

Qui-Gon scratched the back of his neck. "Actually, it's not. Garden bylaws have forbidden any and all gardeners from dumping their zucchini in the sharing basket."

Squinting at him suspiciously, Obi-Wan said, "I'm almost afraid to ask."

"According to Alma, there was a bumper crop a few years ago, and there was literally a pile of zucchini two feet high at the front entrance." With a grimace, he added, "And then there was a heat wave."

"Yikes. Well, what the hell am I supposed to do with all this zucchini?"

"Freeze it."

"To what end? I already told you, I don't like zucchini."

"I have a pretty great double chocolate zucchini loaf recipe. We could bake half a dozen loaves, and stick them in the freezer."

"My freezer is full of ice cubes, sad frozen dinners, and a bottle of gin. Maybe room for one baked good."

A gleam appeared in Qui-Gon's blue eyes. "You, my darling, have never played the zucchini game."

"I thought I said no more vegetable innuendo."

With a grin, Qui-Gon pointed at the offending plant. "Pick all of those. We're going for a walk."

Ten minutes later, Obi-Wan found himself holding an ice cream pail full of yellow zucchini, Qui-Gon at his elbow and Hondo shuffling between them, tail wagging against the men's legs. As they turned a corner, the garden disappeared from view. Obi-Wan frowned at the vegetables, then at the street lined with tall townhouses, then at Qui-Gon. "What are we doing, Qui-Gon?"

"I told you, we're playing the zucchini game." Unbothered, Qui-Gon plucked a single zucchini from the pail. Pausing briefly, he opened the tidy mailbox in front of a brick-faced house, gently placed the squash inside, closed the little door and flicked up the red flag. Casually, unhurriedly, as if he hadn't unabashedly left a vegetable in a stranger's mailbox, Qui-Gon continued his stroll.

With a mix of astonishment, horror, and a touch more admiration than was probably proper, Obi-Wan hurried to catch up with him. "Did-did you just do what I think you just did?"

Qui-Gon grinned at him, full of mischief; Obi-Wan cleared his throat, trying not to blush as that expression imprinted onto his mind for all time. "The zucchini game," Qui-Gon said as he stuffed another zucchini in an unsuspecting mailbox, "is a time-honoured tradition among home gardeners, stemming from three facts. One, that zucchini is prolific as hell. Two, no one is physically able to eat that much zucchini. "

A brief pause to unload another zucchini. Obi-Wan watched as those long fingers quietly closed the mailbox door. "And three?"

"Despite encountering the same problem annually, gardeners are stubborn bastards who keep planting zucchini every fucking year."

Obi-Wan laughed. "So instead of one person volunteering to grow the zucchini, we have to go to such lengths as to trick strangers into accepting our surplus vegetables."

"We've skipped ahead; giving the zucchini to strangers is actually step four of the game. Here, you try." Qui-Gon nodded at the next mailbox, a metal box on which someone had painted a fantastical rose garden. With a quick glance around for witnesses, Obi-Wan shoved a zucchini into the depths of the mailbox and hurried away. "God, you'd make a terrible spy."

"Maybe it's ruse to make you think I'd make a terrible spy," retorted Obi-Wan.

"A good spy wouldn't suggest that," argued Qui-Gon.

Rolling his eyes, Obi-Wan offloaded another zucchini on the next poor mailbox. "Why did we skip steps one through three, then? Saving it for Five Year Squash Planning ?"

"If only."

They crossed the road, Hondo at the end of the leash, ears flapping with every step. The yellow squash dwindled in the pail as they made their way down the other side of the street, hiding zucchini like wicked postal workers. Qui-Gon held up a zucchini, admiring it in the sunlight. "First, you give some to your friends. They're unlikely to say no because they care about your feelings. Then, you give some to your neighbours, who are also unlikely to refuse a home-grown gift out of politeness. If you still have zucchini left, you foist it off on your enemies—this may take planning, but if you offer it in public, like in the workplace, they might have to accept out of social pressure to be gracious."

"Qui-Gon Jinn, you are a diabolical, manipulative bastard."

"Thank you," replied Qui-Gon sweetly, shoving a pair of zucchini into the last mailbox on the street and heading back towards the garden.

As they approached the garden fence, a delighted screech and whirlwind of blue overalls and pigtails met them. "Hondo!" cried Jana Yee, skidding to a stop on her knees in front of the dog, who dutifully began licking a smear of jam off her cheek. "Yuck," she said through her laughter.

"Jana, where's mum?" asked Qui-Gon.

"She's coming," replied Jana, waving noncommittally down the street, where a slight figure in a huge straw hat dragged a child's wagon up the sidewalk. The little girl pushed herself off the ground, wiping her hand across her face and leaving a dirt streak behind. "Hi, Mr. Qui. Hi, um—"

"Do you remember my friend, Obi-Wan?"

Jana nodded solemnly. "You helped me water my flowers. Hi, Mr. Ober, Mr. Oboe—" She frowned. "Mr. Ben." 

Obi-Wan smiled at her. "Hello there, Miss Jana. How are your sunflowers growing?"

Wrinkling her nose, Jana shot him a grumpy look. "They're not tall yet. Sunflowers are supposed to be tall."

"I'm sorry to hear that," replied Obi-Wan sympathetically. "I know how they feel."

"Next year I'm gonna plant a maze of sunflowers and everyone can get lost, but mommy said no, and I don't think that's fair." Her slim, black pigtails bounced as she looked at Obi-Wan. "Right?"

"Er, I guess there's some logistical problems with that," said Obi-Wan, unsure what to say under her unblinking gaze. "The garden isn't big enough for a maze, I think." She stuck her lip out, clearly disappointed in him and his lack of sunflower maze solidarity. The little chin started to wobble. Oh, fuck, was she going to cry? Hastily, he knelt down. "Here, I have something for you."

Obi-Wan held out the ice cream pail with the final zucchini; Jana reached up on the toes of her ladybug boots and peered interestedly inside. "What's that?"

"Magic wand," he replied seriously.

A gleeful smile split her round face as she reached in and drew out the vegetable. "Bibbity, bobbity, boo," she whispered to herself, waving the zucchini in a circle before performing a perfect bayonet thrust into the air. "Thanks Mr. Ben!"

"You're welcome," he replied to her back as she dashed away, leaping and twirling with her zucchini in hand.

Next to him, Qui-Gon watched the little girl prance away with an amused smile. "Did you just pawn that zucchini off on a preschooler, Ben?" he said, with a delighted emphasis on the new nickname.

"She was going to cry," replied Obi-Wan defensively, then added with a drawl, "Qui."

"Terrible performance for a first-year kindergarten teacher."

"Perhaps," Obi-Wan allowed, wagging the empty pail in front of Qui-Gon, "but the zucchini is gone."

August passed in a blissful haze of hot days spent puttering in the garden beds and cool nights spent between the sheets of Qui-Gon's enormous bed.

Obi-Wan groaned in satisfaction as Qui-Gon kissed his way back up, his beard tickling Obi-Wan's ribs. "You're fucking amazing."

"Oh, is that what we were doing?" hummed Qui-Gon. "Shit, I was supposed to be doing my taxes."

"Ass."

"I mean, I can do that too, but give me at least half an hour to recover."

"You are the worst," retorted Obi-Wan with an exaggerated sigh. Threading his hands through Qui-Gon's glorious mane, Obi-Wan tugged impatiently. "Get up here."

Obediently, Qui-Gon slid up and nuzzled the delicate spot beneath Obi-Wan's ear. "God, you're bossy," he breathed between nips at Obi-Wan's flushed skin. "Which means you're either the director of the FBI or the president of France."

"Neither, I'm afraid," replied Obi-Wan, sliding his hands over Qui-Gon's ribs. "But I do love a good macaron. There's this place down the street from work, they make the most amazing pastries—"

Qui-Gon paused long enough that Obi-Wan turned his head to look at him. Hesitation was clear in his blue eyes. "You have to go back soon, don't you?"

With a little nod, Obi-Wan replied, "Monday next."

Quiet fell over them, tense even as Obi-Wan stroked Qui-Gon's back and Qui-Gon pressed his forehead against Obi-Wan's jaw. "What-how do you feel about it?" asked Qui-Gon softly.

An excellent question. After the stilted call with Adi, Obi-Wan had done his best to put all thoughts about the office—all the work, all the guilt—into a deep hole at the back of his mind and filled that hole with every moment spent with Qui-Gon. "I don't know. Part of me is dreading what I'm walking back into. Part of me is still pissed off that I ever left."

"And?" Qui-Gon splayed his hand against Obi-Wan's belly, and Obi-Wan's eyelids fluttered at the warm, comforting weight.

"And what?"

"It sounds like there's an 'and.'"

Obi-Wan's fingers squeezed the round globe of Qui-Gon's ass. "How is it you read me like a bloody book? There are people out there who would probably kill for that ability."

Instead of a wicked comeback, Qui-Gon was thoughtfully silent for a moment. "I listen to what you're saying. I listen to what you're not saying. And I care about the answer."

Simple words. Simple words, honestly meant, brought a lump to Obi-Wan's throat. Unable to reply, he ghosted his fingers over the raised scar running down Qui-Gon's sternum until he could collect himself. "And part of me doesn't want to go back, but that's not possible."

"It's always possible," murmured Qui-Gon.

Obi-Wan smiled into the top of Qui-Gon's head. "You gonna make me your kept man?"

"Is money the only thing keeping you there?" The question was low and serious, and Qui-Gon began rubbing slow circles over Obi-Wan's stomach.

"No. To be honest, the money's shit, but people are counting on me."

"What if no one was counting on you? What if everything came down to what was best for you?"

"For all the late nights and ridiculous scheduling, I like what I do, Qui. I'm really good at it, and I don't want to stop."

"Okay." Qui-Gon raised himself up onto his elbow; a cascade of hair tickled Obi-Wan's face, and he tucked the long strands behind Qui-Gon's ears. "I don't have the right to ask you this, but I will anyway. Promise me you'll remember that there's more to life than work."

There was worry on that handsome face—worry that went beyond concern for Obi-Wan and circled back again—and Obi-Wan heard what Qui-Gon was actually asking. "I won't forget you." Obi-Wan stretched up and pressed a long, lingering kiss to Qui-Gon's lips. "I promise."

The apartment was stale. Wrinkling his nose as he pulled his key out of the lock, Obi-Wan dumped his handful of mail and his cell phone on the kitchen counter and opened the nearest window. Spending every night at Qui-Gon's made Obi-Wan notice the air of vague abandonment that had settled in his home along with the dust. He needed to vacuum, and pick up some groceries, and check to see if his shirt needed ironing before tomorrow morning.

He wanted to pick the last ice cream bucketful of ripe tomatoes, and check if the remaining ghost pumpkin had succumbed to blossom end rot like the others.

A loud buzzing interrupted his thoughts. Obi-Wan answered his phone without looking at the caller ID with a smile. "Hello there."

"Uh, hi," replied Adi, sounding a little confused at his overly friendly greeting.

With a wince, Obi-Wan moderated his tone. "What's up? I'll be in tomorrow, bright and early—"

"I know, Obi-Wan, and I'm so sorry to do this, but I really, really, really need you. Today. There's been an emergency session called, Mace has already left to go down to New York, and I'm drowning in prep materials and phone calls and the intern went back to school yesterday." A little pause as Adi took an audible breath. The desperation in her voice matched the time Mace addressed the head of the International Monetary Fund; neither of them had slept for two days to get everything prepared. "Please, Obi-Wan, can you come in? Now? Please?"

Obi-Wan was already half-way out the door, shrugging into a jacket worthy of the rapidly-cooling days of almost-autumn. "Yeah, of course, Adi. I'm on my way."

Adi met him at the front doors, thrusting his security pass into his hands and dragging him towards the elevator by the elbow as Obi-Wan offered a hasty hello to the security guard. He tossed "G'night, Mel!" over his shoulder before the elevator doors closed. In the poor light of the elevator, Adi looked utterly wrecked; dark circles hung below her eyes, and she'd shoved a pair of pencils into a messy bun to keep her hair out of her face. A skinny pair of reading glasses dangled from the neck of her shirt—a surprise, given she had always vehemently denied needing them. A smudge of blue ink marred her cheek.

While he was glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, she was openly eyeballing him from head to toe. "You look a million times better, Obi-Wan," she said over the elevator's stilted announcement of the passing floors. "You look like a human being again instead of a wraith."

"Thanks," replied Obi-Wan weakly. The sheer exhaustion radiating from Adi—was that because he'd left? Guilt rose in him, hot and prickly. "I-I'm sorry I was gone so long."

Adi didn't say anything, but she gave him a jerky nod. To his relief, the doors rumbled open, revealing the dimly lit and his oh-so-familiar home away from home. Nothing looked out of place; the artificial ficus still stood in the corner, at odds with the bouquet of mostly fresh gerbera daisies perched on the end of the unstaffed reception desk. The hint of dust and chemicals from the commercial carpeting hit him down to his bones; Obi-Wan sloughed off his jacket and made a beeline for the door that led deep into the office warren, full of cramped offices, meeting rooms and copy rooms and a break room Mace had baptized with a real espresso machine.

Obi-Wan flicked the lights on as he barged into his office and tossed his jacket on the coat stand he'd wedged in the corner next to a narrow bookshelf crammed with neatly labelled binders. His feet stuttered to a halt as he noticed his desk.

Behind him, Adi cleared her throat. "Yeah, I took over everything current, and I put everything else in a document box and locked it in my office in case there was sensitive stuff."

Obi-Wan shot her a frown. "I never leave sensitive stuff out on my desk, Adi."

"I know that," she said apologetically. "It was just in case. You, er, left in a hurry. Anyway, let me brief you on what's up."

Easing into the rolling office chair with the extra lumbar support—no one had adjusted the height or seat angle, thank God—Obi-Wan fished out his notebook and blue pen from the top drawer. He set his phone to Do Not Disturb and set it facedown on the desk. With a decisive click of his pen, Obi-Wan nodded. "I'm here."

Deep into addendum hell stemming from Resolution 73/263, Obi-Wan squeezed his eyes open and shut a few times, then blinked blearily at the clock. He frowned. "Adi?"

"Yeah?" From the open office across the narrow hall, Adi glanced up from her laptop. The screen glare reflected in the lenses of the reading glasses perched on her nose.

"Did the batteries in my clock die while I was gone, or is it actually three o'clock in the morning?"

She checked her watch. "They might have died, because it's actually 3:37." With a groan, she stretched her arms above her head. "I'm starving and frankly, I need to eat before I build a time machine and go back to murder Putin's mother so I can go to bed."

"No need for homicide. Just stop the beginning of the Cold War and you're all set."

Adi grinned sardonically. "Oh, that's all? Fuck it, I'll prevent nukes while I'm at it and we can all sleep great." She picked up her desk phone and dialled a number without looking at the keypad. "Spring rolls or egg rolls?"

"Surprise me," Obi-Wan said as he pushed away from his desk. The espresso machine was calling his name.

Slogging through report after report, pulling out pertinent information and minutiae for Mace's preparatory materials, and a container full of spring rolls and plum sauce from Dex's down the street had Obi-Wan yawning by eight in the morning. His little cube didn't have a window, but it did have a desk filled with stacks of paper. Pillowy, inviting paper.

He could put his head down for a minute.

An odd sound—a paper bag crinkling?—startled Obi-Wan awake with a heaving inhale. "Oh, shit," he groaned, rubbing his face, "I only closed my eyes. What time is it?"

"Ten," replied Adi with a quirk to her lips that seemed fondly irritated. "You were like a sad Sleeping Beauty. I didn't have the heart to wake you."

Obi-Wan's gaze focused on a paper bag resting on top of a stack of file folders. "What's that?"

Adi shrugged. "Security dropped it off for you, so it's probably not anthrax."

With a disapproving glare, Obi-Wan snatched up the bag. Carefully, he unrolled the top and peered inside. "Oh," he said softly.

"What is it?"

He pulled a single green zucchini from the bag—small and smooth and still bearing its delicate yellow blossom—and a cluster of perfectly ripe, golden cherry tomatoes. Tucked at the bottom of the bag was a long, narrow tract of white paper. In careful handlettering made by a fountain pen, the pamphlet announced How To Grow Vegetables and Alienate People .

Setting the squash on the sheaf of printouts, Obi-Wan opened the pamphlet with a tightness in his chest. Inside the fold, there was a line drawing of a zucchini plant and a sketch of a single cherry tomato with the stem still attached—both beautiful in their simplicity and the shimmering emerald ink. A steady hand filled the pages.

Zucchini, or curcurbita pepo , is botanically a berry but culinarily a vegetable. People love it when you point this out. Due to its frustrating tendency to overabundance, gardeners often play the zucchini game, where they offer their harvest to their friends, neighbours, mortal enemies, and complete strangers until there remains a single zucchini.

The single zucchini must be presented to the gardener's beloved—not because it is the best specimen, picked while still tender and sweet, but because it is a promise that there will be no more zucchini to offload.

Tomatoes—also botanically fruit but legally considered vegetables for trade reasons in America, thanks capitalism—were once called "les pommes d'amour" or love apples, probably due to a miscommunication between Italian and French because most of Europe thought tomatoes were poisonous. It was also not because they looked like hearts. People enjoy having their obscure romantic symbolism explained away with linguistics.

Sungold tomatoes are an F1 hybrid. It is unparalleled for taste, and though it requires careful attention to prevent cracking, it is the only variety I will buy year after year. It's worth contributing to the wheels of capitalism, but at least buy organic.

Laughter sputtered in his chest as his vision blurred. Then his brain kicked in. "Security dropped this off?" he demanded, seizing the zucchini in one hand and the tomatoes in the other.

"Sorry, what?" Adi's curious gaze tore away from the vegetables in his hands. His mouth wasn't working properly, so he waved the squash in a frenzied sort of charades. "Oh! Yeah, Mel said someone tried to come up to the office, but he made them leave it for you at the front desk."

Obi-Wan forced himself to swallow. "How long?" he choked out.

"A few minutes ago."

Without another word, Obi-Wan dashed out of the office at full tilt, hands full of technically fruit.

He spent the longest forty-eight seconds of his life in the elevator.

Ignoring the odd looks from Mel the security guard, Obi-Wan flew out of the lobby and skidded to a halt.

Through the lunch rush of people strolling and rushing along the sidewalk, Qui-Gon stood like a statue. Waiting. His bronze hair gleamed in the noon sun, while his breath clouded a halo around his head in the chilly air. His eyes followed Obi-Wan's dramatic exit from the building, but he stayed perfectly still until Obi-Wan shouldered his way through the crowd to face him.

"How did you know I worked here?" was what came out of Obi-Wan's mouth instead of an actual greeting.

The peaceful façade cracked as one side of Qui-Gon's mouth quirked upwards. "I googled you, Obi-Wan, the day I learned your name. It took me about three seconds to find your LinkedIn account."

"Oh." With that unimportant piece of business sorted, Obi-Wan helplessly held out his hands. "You brought me vegetables."

Qui-Gon nodded slowly. "I couldn't get ahold of you last night."

A furious search of his memory—he hadn't taken any calls, Adi hadn't mentioned any messages. With a sudden horrible realization, Obi-Wan reached for his phone. With a noise of frustration as he juggled a handful of tomatoes, Obi-Wan placed the vine in Qui-Gon's outstretched hand and yanked the phone out of his back pocket.

Do not disturb was still on. One voicemail waiting.

"You left a voicemail? I didn't know people did that anymore." Gods, he should stop talking — "I'm sorry, Qui, I didn't mean to make you worry. Do you want to meet at the garden tonight? I'll call you when I'm done here—"

"Ben," Qui-Gon said softly with a curious frown. "Did you check the weather yesterday?"

"No. Why?"

"There was a hard frost last night. Everything above ground is done, except the kale."

Hard frost. The official end of the garden. The tomatoes were dead, and Obi-Wan didn't even know what they would look like now. Had the precious remaining tomatoes dropped from their vines? Was everything slumped against the earth, waiting to become compost? An odd sadness settled over him. There was no reason to go back to the garden now, which made coming to the office easier.

Qui-Gon inhaled sharply, and Obi-Wan realized he'd muttered that last bit out loud. With an inscrutable expression, Qui-Gon took a deliberate step backwards. "There's a work party tonight, around five o'clock. If you can't make it, you have to have your plot cleared out by the end of the month or you'll lose your deposit."

"I only meant it's easier to focus on work now—"

"So much so you're here a day before your medical leave is over, too busy to return calls and clearly not having slept?" Qui-Gon's tone was mild, but the bite was unmistakeable.

"It's important," Obi-Wan argued, hackles rising. "I needed to be here, I needed to get the work done."

"No," retorted Qui-Gon, cheeks flushed. "You didn't need to be here yesterday. You wanted to be here. That's fine. You told me you didn't want to stop. I should have taken you at your word. I guess I'll see you when I fit into your schedule."

Before Obi-Wan could formulate any response that wasn't simply choking noises or profanity, Qui-Gon spun on his heel and joined the river of people rushing over the sidewalk.

Fucking hell, he'd fucked this up.

He could still see the crown of Qui-Gon's head; it wasn't too late to go after him—

"Obi-Wan!" Adi was leaning out of the door, waving frantically at him. "Mace just called for you!"

Curling his hands into fists, Obi-Wan growled at himself. Qui-Gon turned the corner.

"Coming, Adi."

The rest of the day crawled by. If looking at the clock wore it out, Obi-Wan's timepiece would have fallen off the wall by two in the afternoon. Every time he turned a page, he wondered what Qui-Gon was doing. The tomatoes and the zucchini rested in a wide-bowl mug he'd scrounged out of the break room.

Halfway through an email to Mace, Obi-Wan absently plucked a tomato and popped it into his mouth.

Sweet acidity bloomed over his tongue, tasting of the golden height of summer.

As he chewed, he remembered the surprise of perfectly transplanted Sungold tomatoes sporting aluminum foil collars. He picked up the vine and brought it to his nose, inhaling the peculiar, not quite grassy scent unique to tomato plants.

A memory plucked at him—Qui-Gon hadn't planted any Sungold in his own garden.

The vine in his hand held the last remnants of Obi-Wan's plants, picked before frost damaged them beyond salvage—picked in the nick of time and personally delivered with a handmade pamphlet expounding the heavy emotional implications of a zucchini.

It wasn't summer he was tasting; it was love.

Who was the asshole now?

"I'm a fucking moron," he whispered to the tomatoes. Obi-Wan gently nestled the vine in the mug next to Qui-Gon's final zucchini, locked his computer, and shrugged on his coat. With the mug in one hand, he waved to Adi at her desk with the other. "See you tomorrow."

She glanced up in surprise. "You're leaving?"

"I'm turning over a new leaf," he replied with a thin smile. "You should try it, too." Ignoring her stuttering attempt to recall him, Obi-Wan strode out of the office and took the stairs all the way to the front glass doors.

By the time Obi-Wan walked up to the garden entrance, the sun was low in the sky and the wind was stealing the remaining warmth left in the air, but that hadn't stopped the community gardeners. Pausing to lean against the rough fence post, he turned up the collar of his too-thin jacket. It seemed as though every member had turned up with spades; with a vibrant cacophony of laughter and chatter and the metallic brush of steel turning the earth, people uncovered their bounty.

A gleeful shriek hit his ears as Jana Yee raced along the path, clutching a neon green plastic pail. As she passed him, she stopped in an almost cartoonish double-take. She marched up to him and grabbed his hand. "Come on, Mr. Ben, come see my sunflowers!"

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, glancing around for any sign of Qui-Gon as the little girl dragged him along the path.

"See?" Jana dropped his hand and motioned to a meagre patch of very short sunflowers in a myriad of yellows and rusts. Puffing out her chest with pride, the girl waited for his assessment.

"They're very pretty," Obi-Wan told her, not quite knowing what she wanted to hear. "You clearly took very good care of them."

Jana blew a raspberry. "They're not pretty, they're tall ."

The sunflowers were no more than three feet high—but they had finally overtaken Jana's petite stature. Obi-Wan smiled at her. "From a certain point of view, they are absolutely very tall, Jana. Next year you're going to have to grow them even taller."

A serious nod. "For the maze."

"For the maze," agreed Obi-Wan.

"There you are!" Alma's thin voice caught his ear, and he turned to find the elderly woman leaning on a spade. "Haven't seen hide nor hair of you in a while. Some of us were worried."

Obi-Wan tried to cover his wince with a cough. He could guess exactly who "we" was. "I, ah, got caught up at work," he said apologetically, "and time ran away with me."

"Hmm." Alma narrowed her eyes at him.

"Er, have you seen Qui-Gon?" he asked, too faintly for a trained diplomat.

"Yes." The flat tone of voice suggested that she, too, had figured out who the asshole was.

Obi-Wan swallowed a sigh. "Where is he, Alma? I need to talk to him."

"Tell you what: help me dig up my potatoes and I'll tell you where he is."

As Obi-Wan reached out to grab the spade from her outstretched hand, a rumbling voice behind him froze every muscle in his body. "Alma, Obi-Wan's a busy man. Let him deal with his own plot."

Obi-Wan couldn't bear to turn around and face the owner of such disappointment hidden behind soft, reasonable words. "I want to help out," he said, deliberately easing the spade from Alma's gloved hands. "I want to make time for my friends."

Alma's eyes flicked over Obi-Wan's shoulders, her mouth pursed. She said nothing, but Qui-Gon said quietly, "Is that really what you want, Ben?"

Whirling, Obi-Wan stuck the spade into the earth and gathered the courage to look Qui-Gon in the eye. Tonight, Qui-Gon sported a lopsided knit cap pulled over his ears and a zippered fleece jacket to ward off the wind. There was a smudge of dirt across the bridge of his nose, as if he'd absently wiped the back of his glove across his face. Those blue eyes, blue like the summer sky in July, were inconsolably sad. 

"Yes. I want lots of things, Qui-Gon. I want to successfully grow pumpkins. I want to walk into a home at the end of the day, not just a nearly-empty apartment. I want to go to the farmer's market with you and listen to you rail against the evils of capitalism and barter ridiculous things and join your feud against the root beer man. I want to find you new records, maybe something from this century to broaden your horizons. I want to take Hondo on walks that don't involve zucchini laundering. I want to wake up next to you every morning for the rest of my life."

Obi-Wan barely registered Alma's soft gasp as Qui-Gon threaded his fingers through Obi-Wan's hair and kissed the words right out of his brain. Qui-Gon's nose was cold against Obi-Wan's cheek, and his gardening gloves were probably leaving dirt in Obi-Wan's ears, but Obi-Wan's heart felt ready to burst. Someone wolf-whistled, followed by a smattering of enthusiastic catcalls, and Qui-Gon broke the kiss and rested his forehead against Obi-Wan's. "I'm sorry I got so upset over a missed call. I was worried."

"You were right to be worried," replied Obi-Wan softly. "I went right back to doing the same shit as before. I don't want that, Qui. I really don't."

Qui-Gon pressed a kiss to Obi-Wan's brow, a brand of warmth against the cutting wind. Obi-Wan shivered, and it wasn't entirely because of the autumn chill. "You're freezing."

"Yep."

"Stay right there." Qui-Gon dashed two plots over to his wagon.

Alma shuffled a little closer with a tiny, smug smile. "Allergic to shellfish, huh?"

"A rabbit that only eats Brussels sprouts, huh?"

The smile became triumphantly smug. "Whatever it was, you seem to have solved the problem. I haven't had any more rabbits."

Qui-Gon hurried back, thankfully glove-free, and before Obi-Wan could protest, pulled a poncho over Obi-Wan's head. The heavy wool was a comforting weight on his shoulders, and kept the wind to a frosty tendril. "You have a lot of wants," Qui-Gon said as he rummaged inside his jacket, "and you should know that you already have two of them. First of all, I present you with this."

In the dim light of dusk, Obi-Wan nearly gasped at the ghostly orb cradled in Qui-Gon's hands. "My pumpkin!"

"It's a little too small to carve properly, but it is otherwise a lovely specimen."

Obi-Wan plucked the pumpkin out of Qui-Gon's hands. The stem was still prickly, but the white flesh was miraculously smooth and unblemished. "I have the greatest fucking garden," whispered Obi-Wan in awe.

Alma snorted.

"And secondly, this is yours. If you really want it."

Obi-Wan tore his gaze away from his miracle pumpkin to find Qui-Gon holding out a house key in his palm.

Qui-Gon licked his bottom lip, but his quiet voice was sure. "I want you to come home, too, Obi-Wan."

"Woof." Hondo had finally made his way to join them. The dog's tail twirled in circles as he pressed his head against Obi-Wan's leg, demanding ear scratches.

"I may be a diplomat, but I cannot argue with the dog," replied Obi-Wan, a heart beat before Qui-Gon seized him by the waist.

Their kiss tasted of sweet Sungold, a promise of a harvest born of toil and love.

Epilogue

It always surprised Obi-Wan, even a year later, when Qui-Gon took the time to put on an outfit that didn't involve thrifted band tees or his Birkenstocks. In the dim light of the gastropub—half-way between home and work and the only place Qui-Gon would agree to go since they carried the triplets' brew on tap—Obi-Wan admired the way Qui-Gon had pulled his long hair into a loose knot at the back of his skull, and the idle tap of his long fingers against the table, and the faraway look in his bright blue eyes as he stared out the evening window wearing a grey collared shirt and slacks with an actual belt.

Still so fucking gorgeous.

"Someone so handsome shouldn't be drinking alone," Obi-Wan said casually, leaning on the tall table.

Qui-Gon lifted his eyebrow and replied coolly, "I'm not. I'm waiting for someone."

"Lucky me." Draping his jacket over the back of the empty chair, Obi-Wan slid into the seat with a smirk. "Last time I checked, I am someone."

With a chuckle, Qui-Gon's face transformed as he grinned. "How very philosophical of you. Also, you're terrible at pickup lines."

"Yep." Obi-Wan plucked the leather-bound menu from the holder and flipped through a page of meagre, overpriced cocktails before Qui-Gon tugged the menu out of his hands.

"I already ordered for you," he said. "So, how did it go?"

Obi-Wan did his best not to wiggle uncomfortably in his chair. "Well…"

"Obi-Wan Kenobi," said Qui-Gon sternly, "did you or did you not tell Mace that you were not working any more overtime? Did you or did you not present your doctor's note?"

"No, I didn't." Obi-Wan flinched at the angry flare in Qui-Gon's eyes. 

"We talked about this. We talked about this endlessly, we practiced, you promised—"

"I quit."

Qui-Gon's jaw actually dropped, and Obi-Wan wished he'd had the forethought to open his camera app. "You…you…what?"

With a shrug and a weak smile—his stomach still felt queasy at the fresh memory of Mace's deeply disappointed expression—Obi-Wan said, as if sealing it into reality, "I quit my job today."

Slumping back in his chair, Qui-Gon stared at him, eyes wide as saucers. "Holy shit, Ben."

"Yep."

The server appeared at Obi-Wan's elbow and slid a drink in front of him. "Enjoy," she said with an odd inflection, as if she wasn't sure he would enjoy it at all.

A tumbler with two fingers of scotch, a single, enormous and perfectly cubic piece of ice, and three cheerful paper umbrellas sat on the table. The wrinkly feeling in his stomach vanished as Obi-Wan laughed. "You seriously expect me to drink this in public?"

“It was your idea.” Qui-Gon glanced around the nearly empty pub; it was too early for the majority of the hipster clientele. "It's only embarrassing if you poke out your eye."

"Easier said than done." One by one, Obi-Wan fished out the umbrellas and held them between his fingers like a little bouquet. "I've been thinking."

"About what?"

Obi-Wan drew a steeling breath before words tumbled from his mouth. "What if we got married and bought a farm and just grew vegetables and maybe got some ducks and a goat?"

Stunned silence. Qui-Gon was a statue carved from shock.

Wincing, Obi-Wan tried to fill the void. "I mean, never mind, it was a stupid id—"

Qui-Gon slid his palm across the table until it bumped against Obi-Wan's drink. Without taking his eyes off Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon lifted his hand.

A ring lay on the tabletop, glinting copper in the poor light.

Qui-Gon said, ever so softly, "Goats are herd animals. We can't have only one. I’ll get you a book."