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When Feemor meets young Obi-Wan, one of his eyes is nearly black in color. The other is blue. Light blue, sort of like the sky as a thunderstorm clears. It is suiting. The force signature that hovers around Feemor’s new little brother feels like rain falling softly on a field of new greens and wildflowers.
It is a beautiful signature, which would be even more so if Obi-Wan wasn’t viciously tearing at the edge of his sleeve with his teeth.
Tearing. Not chewing. Not sucking like the tiniest crècheling or ripping like a senior padawan in a hurry. His teeth are well hooked in the threads, and he yanks his head back periodically with surprising force.
“Hi,” Feemor manages to say.
The mismatched eyes gaze upon him. There are tufts of gray material buried deep in at the roots of Obi-Wan’s hair.
"Hello," he say, bobbing his head in a bow.
“Is—is your master home?” Feemor asks.
Obi-Wan releases his grip on his sleeve, which, now that Feemor is looking at it, is covered in similar rips all the way up that arm and that arm only.
“No,” Obi-Wan says. “He's away. You will need to come back later. Goodbye."
He closes the door. Feemor crams a boot into the between it and the frame before it slams.
“Do you know when he’ll be back?” he asks.
Obi-Wan’s blue eye’s pupil widens as he stares through the crack.
“No,” he says.
“Ah, I see. So you’re home alone?”
“No. Bye.”
Feemor manages to get an elbow in through the crack.
“Hey, now,” he says, “Is that any way to treat your padawan-brother?”
He gets nothing.
“Me,” he says, thumbing back at himself for clarity. “I’m your padawan brother. Nice to meet you—Obi-Wan, yes?”
He offers the hand that has made it through the gate for Obi-Wan to shake. He doesn’t. He looks at it and tilts his head at it. It is an unusual motion that twists this way and that, this way and that, while the rest of Obi-Wan’s body recoils in slow motion.
This handshake is not happening.
“Can I come in?” Feemor asks.
The eyes snap back up to him.
On the table, there are several boxes, one of which has been opened and left where it is, sticky tape edges flying. Across from this box is a knife and a datapad in a red case, and in front of the case is the very same chair that Feemor sat in as a child. There’s supposed to be a cushion on it.
The cushion that is supposed to be on it appears to have been stowed (stuffed?) under the sofa. It is the only object under the sofa, which makes Feemor wonder if the incident leading up to its banishment from the chair was an act of war or peace.
He looks to Obi-Wan to find him climbing into the chair. Literally climbing. Feet on it and everything. He kneels in the chair and pokes at his datapad.
Something isn’t right. Feemor can’t put his finger on it, but it’s just now occurring to him that—
The door rattles.
The boy leaps from the chair to the table and produces a fucking blaster. Feemor lunges at him just as the door opens all the way. The sound—the sound—that Obi-Wan makes upon contact.
It’s eerie, spine-chilling. A rasping, a tearing. Feemor has somehow heard it before somewhere, this he knows in the recesses of his mind. His body knows this sound, but his brain cannot make it emerge from the lips of a human child, no matter how hard Feemor tries.
It isn’t a one-time deal either.
Now that Obi-Wan has begun making the hell-raising sound, he seems disinclined to stop. In fact, he is far, far more inclined to raise his racket to max fucking volume, so the whole floor can hear him.
“Feemor. Shh, Owen. Shh. You’re alright. Feemor, release him.”
Feemor’s body moves while his mind is still stuck. It remains hazy as he watches Master Qui-Gon approach the table to tug Obi-Wan off of it and onto the floor. He pulls him close so that his noisemaking is muffled by Qui-Gon’s robes. The screeching softens. The blaster, Feemor realizes, is now in Qui-Gon’s custody.
“” Qui-Gon soothes.
Obi-Wan burrows into his robes. Qui-Gon edges back a step only for that eerie-ass noise to start ripping through the air again. Obi-Wan struggles to remain where he is. In fact, he does a peculiar little twist and shove that somehow switches a flip in Qui-Gon's head that makes him kneel. Obi-Wan's screeching dies off entirely. He clambers up Qui-Gon's back onto his shoulders before Qui-Gon stands and adjusts their newly unbalanced weight.
Obi-Wan makes a short, cut off screech-yeld right by Qui-Gon’s ear, and the man laughs like this is comical. He wraps his arms around Obi-Wan’s shins to hold him securely in place.
“So,” he tells Feemor over Obi-Wan’s bony ankles. “You’ve met the new baby.”
Obi-Wan’s hands clench and relax in the back of Qui-Gon’s hair. His noise-making has settled to a hiss.
“What the FUCK was that?” Feemor asks.
Qui-Gon pats at Obi-Wan's knee.
“First liquid clarity,” he says.
Qui-Gon makes tea. He’s always making tea, it’s his default action when an emotion is in the process of making itself known or scarce around him. Feemor would usually sit at the table and talk to him, but not today.
Today, he has to try desperately to piece together the words to ask why his so-called little brother has shut off like a light on his master’s shoulders. He might have died. His hands no longer clench; they’re pale and helpless where they hang on either sides heavy swaths of long hair.
The short robe that Qui-Gon draped over his head sways with the old man's movements.
“A fun trick for now,” Qui-Gon says conversationally. “Won’t work when he’s older, sadly.”
He’s died, Master. Feemor hasn’t seen so much as a twitch in three minutes.
“Fee.”
“Huh?”
“He’s not dead.”
Feemor will believe it when he sees it.
“He’s sleeping,” Master Qui-Gon says. He shifts Obi-Wan’s weight so that he can pull back the edge of the robe to reveal the limp body nigh-sliding off his shoulders, and lo and behold: the boy’s spine rises and falls with peaceful evenness.
“You startled him,” Qui-Gon says.
“He had a blaster,” Feemor says.
“Yes, he has gotten used to carrying one. It is out of fuel.”
Feemor collapses into the old, cushion-less chair.
“This is what Melida/Daan is doing to children now?” he asks.
Master’s eyes slope.
“Indeed,” he says, returning to the boiling water on the stove.
Obi-Wan’s fingers finally twitch. Qui-Gon pours the tea and brings the pot over first before returning to the counter to pick up two cups. He sits slowly, careful not to jostle Obi-Wan too much as he adjusts his gangly knees.
Feemor flicks his eyes pointedly between the back of the boy’s head and Qui-Gon’s face. Qui-Gon strokes Obi-Wan’s skull as though it is delicate as porcelain.
“Master.”
“We are of a similar species.”
Feemor gathers his jaw from the table with understanding and grace.
“BIRD?” he blurts out, pointing.
“Shhh.”
“Birdboy?”
“Feemor.”
“He’s so fluffy.”
Qui-Gon sighs.
“He is an owlet,” he corrects. “A Stewjoni. They are tawny with spots. His genes are quite affected, even more than it appears on the surface.”
Feemor loves his master, but he does not care. He would like to hold the chick now, please.
“Owlet.”
Chick chick chick chick chick chick chick please.
“Fee.”
“Will he cheep?” Feemor asks. “Does he peep at you?”
Qui-Gon stares in thunderous silence.
“No?” Feemor asks.
“No.”
“Damn. But that sound he was making earlier? Was that—was he crying for you?”
It is not often that Feemor sees Master Qui-Gon drop a stormy mood to behave so demurely. He’s more than happy to be awkward or obnoxious, but this, Fee is coming to see, is personal.
They’ve only talked about Master Qui-Gon’s species a few times, and even then, mostly out of medical necessity. For the majority of Fee’s youth, the topic felt off-limits. But then with Xanatos arriving with the habit of throwing full-out tantrums, stealing the caps of pens and people’s earrings, and compulsively repeating things people said to him in the exact same tone, eventually Master Qui-Gon had had to be more frank than he was comfortable with—in large part so that Feemor didn’t murder his younger padawan-brother on sight.
Qui-Gon is of a rare genus of owl-humans who live only on a moon in the Stewjon system. If left to his wholly natural devices and urges, he would grow white feathers all over his face and chest and inner arms. That does not happen, however, because Master Qui-Gon rather likes being able to shower, to sleep at night and eat more than just raw meat.
He takes medication.
Feemor gets it. If he was an owl-person, he too would opt for decreasing the plumage in favor of eating potatoes.
“Obi-Wan is of a very similar species,” Master Qui-Gon says. “And he is quite young.”
“Baby,” Feemor croons.
“It is his instinct to, er, screech, I suppose you might say, when an intruder enters the nest.”
Aha.
“This is his peeping,” Feemor translates.
“I suppose you might say so,” Qui-Gon admits. “I’m afraid it’s not overly endearing. We are called hissing owls for a reason.”
“Hiss, Master,” Feemor pleads.
Master Qui-Gon deadeyes him. Obi-Wan sniffles in his hair.
“Please?” Feemor tries.
“No.”
Damnit.
“Is this a sleep suggestion?” Feemor asks.
Qui-Gon huffs.
“Not quite,” he says. “It gets dark, and his body assumes it is time to sleep. In time, he’ll begin to develop the opposite cycle.”
Feemor can barely contain his giggle. He gestures at the holes in Obi-Wan’s sleeves.
“He’s hungry,” Qui-Gon says indulgently. “So he’s shredding what he’s got at his disposal.”
“Why doesn’t he just eat?” Feemor asks.
“He finds doing so uncomfortable,” Qui-Gon says. “Melida/Daan is not a prime location to find a meal in these days.”
Right. So?
“When he wakes up, we’ll give him something to quell the picking,” Qui-gon says simply.
“He’ll grow out of this, too?” Feemor asks.
Qui-Gon grimaces and weighs the thought with his head.
“Not for a while,” he says. “Probably another 8 years.”
“So you’re effectively his bird-father now,” Feemor says.
“Shush you. He is my padawan, just as you were.”
“I’m human,” Feemor points out unnecessarily. “I don’t scream until Dad comes back from the neighbor’s.”
Qui-Gon scowls and fucks around with his hair to pretend he’s not doing it.
“The relationship is slightly different,” he admits, “But only because Obi-Wan has not grown up around other indigenous Stewjoni people. He has no examples, only instincts to work from. He must be appropriately socialized first. Then, we will...address the screeching.”
“You going to teach him how to fly, Master?” Feemor teases.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Qui-Gon says.
It is several more visits before Obi-Wan stops screeching when Feemor unlocks the door. It is a sign, in its own way, that Obi-Wan has come to recognize Feemor’s force signature, which he is deciding to think of as a good thing.
Obi-Wan’s feelings on it are opaque. Feemor thinks that the greater part of him actually likes to screech. His pupils certainly like to dilate. The black eye is allegedly lightening. Master Qui-Gon says that it will eventually catch up and match with the blue eye.
Feemor has his doubts.
He tests them by making kissing noises that rip Obi-Wan’s attention away from whatever it is he’s focusing on. Against his better judgement (and all-consuming suspicion), he has come to associate the noises with receiving a treat.
Feemor is a benevolent older brother. His pockets are full of treats that Master Qui-Gon has forbidden him from feeding certain owl chicks.
Bones, namely. Feathers, too.
This kid loves nothing more than to chew bones. He can’t digest them, no, and if he doesn’t chew them thoroughly enough, they get stuck in his throat in a soft filtering pocket which Master Qui-Gon has to badger him to empty. But Feemor has witnessed exactly one owl pellet that has originated from this household, and he intends to change that.
Obi-Wan is slowly coming around to making that dream a reality.
These days, he perks up when Feemor arrives to say hey. He visibly fights the urge to flatten himself against Feemor’s front for a cuddle--too old for that. Too mature.
But when he does occasionally give in, Feemor gives him a reward.
Some people call this classicially conditioning. Feemor calls it being resourceful.
He has learned that while owls can’t necessarily be trained to do tricks, Obi-Wan is human enough that he is not immune to being indulged here and there and indulging Feemor in return.
Feemor gives him his bones and his feathers and the occasional frozen bit of snake he has picked up in his travels.
He quickly becomes the most favorite and adored older brother he has always meant to be. In only a few months time, Obi-Wan's startled screeching can be quelled by Feemor’s hands as well as Qui-Gon’s.
Master Qui-Gon comms Feemor when he’s 7 hours from breaking atmosphere a few months later to ask him if he can do him a favor.
The answer is yes. Feemor doesn’t need to hear the rest of the statement.
Qui-Gon tells him to listen anyways. He’s been called off to a mission by the council; it is time sensitive and he can’t wait, but Obi-Wan has an appointment with a specialist in the University Hospital. Master Che referred him and threatened Qui-Gon’s balls and happiness if he missed it on account of this specialist being nigh impossible to get ahold of on a good day.
If Qui-Gon gives Feemor temporary guardianship, will he be able to take his brother to the appointment?
Obviously, yes.
And Feemor would like permanent guardianship, thank you.
Qui-Gon says no.
Feemor says yes.
Qui-Gon says thank you.
Feemor reminds him that he’d said yes.
Qui-Gon tells him that Obi-Wan is with Master Windu for the time being, bothering Padawan Billaba and doing homework.
Feemor sadly accepts the crumbs he has been dealt.
In the last month or so, Obi-Wan has learned a Defensive Behavior. It is called toe-dusting. It is the funniest fucking thing that Feemor has ever seen. It’s sort of a combination of hissing, clicking, and a slow don’t-you-fuckin’-try-me dance that involves a lot of head swiveling and a great show of Obi-Wan looking down and away from the ‘aggressor’ to give them a chance to rethink their decision to fuck with him, the mighty, mighty owl.
If only he didn’t have tufts of down in his eyebrows.
If only he had real feathers on his arms instead of a thousand sharp ridges, threatening to be pin feathers.
Master Windu and his senior padawan watch him with a stoicism that screams fondness as Obi-Wan ‘protects’ them from Feemor when the latter opens Master Windu’s door.
“Hey now,” Feemor says. “That’s not very nice.”
Obi-Wan clicks at him four times in rapid succession.
“You know me,” Feemor reminds him.
The rhythmic bobbing settles enough for Obi-Wan’s light-eye’s pupil to widen and constrict. His shoulders fall like a broken bridge.
“Fee!”
Adorable.
Feemor stoops to absorb the impact of his brother crashing into him. He crouches lower and Obi-Wan, delighting at receiving permission, scrambles awkwardly up onto his shoulder, with bare feet pushing hard against Feemor’s knee.
He swings his leg gracefully over to the other side of Feemor’s neck and settles in, tucking his toes into the sides of Feemor’s ribs.
They’ve practiced this so it’s less desperate and painful. Feemor stands and Obi-Wan’s sharp nails scrape his neck.
His brother isn’t heavy and never has been. In fact, this is exactly the reason that they are going to see a specialist.
Obi-Wan's weight has been decreasing over the last few months, even with a non-civil war-induced diet of foods that he can actually digest. Master Che has examined him to pieces. She’s tested his blood, she’s examined his eyes, she’s put him through strenuous activity, and she’s found nothing outside his established diagnoses.
“I am distraught and betrayed,” Master Windu says.
“I will return him in due time, Master,” Feemor promises.
“Depa is not so affectionate or trusting any more.”
“She still loves you, sir.”
"She still loves you, Master," Padawan Billaba drones over the top of her pad.
Master Windu is skeptical. Obi-Wan waves at him.
“Please refrain from disgracing this Order in the eyes of the external medical establishment,” Master Windu tells him.
“Yessir,” Obi-Wan says.
“No hissing.”
“No hissing.”
“Bye now,” Feemor says, turning around.
Obi-Wan ducks as they negotiate the door frame.
The specialist pins Obi-Wan down in a manner that makes his eyes huge, but his body sort of rag-doll-ish. This man knows how to handle his birds. Obi-Wan screeches at him a little, but quiets as the man conducts a scan of his body and rewards him for staying still with a sticky cube of something that smells rancid.
Obi-Wan goes silent with pleasure at this reward. Something about it utterly entrances him the way that Feemor's bits of jerky do not. The specialist can move him any which way he wants so long as the cubes keep coming.
“He’s got significant bone loss,” the man eventually says. “Unsure why. We’ll need to run some more tests. The last thing we want is for brittleness to set in this early on.”
He lets Obi-Wan up and gives him another sticky treat.
“I’d like to monitor him, if you don’t mind,” he says. “It’s rare to meet someone with such significant gene expression.”
Oh, Feemor doesn’t like the sound of that.
“I will consult his master,” he says.
“Of course,” the specialist says.
Obi-Wan stare listlessly out the window on the ride home. He scratches at his arms subconsciously and shivers. Feemor lays his cloak onto his shoulders.
This kid is sick.
Sick, sick, sick, sick, sick.
And sad.
Sad, sad, sad, sad, sad.
His arm is broken. He fell in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. It was a normal fall, the type of thing that happens when one junior padawan pushes another just that much too hard as a joke. There is always an instance of someone slipping off a bench or tumbling into a pond. The instances of that unhappy victim landing to the sound of snapped bone is far, far less common.
Everyone is sorry about what happened there with the exception of young Padawan Vos, who is devastated. Master Tholme has spent a day and a half trying to get him out of his room. Vos, however, is pretty much convinced that he’s shattered his buddy to pieces, and to be fair, the break isn’t especially neat or clean.
Obi-Wan’s bones in general are soundly fucked. No one realized how badly until the specialist did his scans. Obi-Wan’s feelings on this, however, aren’t particularly strong; they mostly surround the inconvenience of the cast latched onto his arm now, which, coincidentally makes a satisfying sound when he raps on it.
It has become the objection of his entire focus lately, and that is probably for the best. So long as he is preoccupied with stuffing things down it to get at that constant itch he is not coming up with new, more creative ways to break more bones.
Qui-Gon and the specialist, meanwhile, have come to be at odds. Qui-Gon would like Obi-Wan medicated. The Specialist says that he’ll offer therapy, but no medication, and so Qui-Gon asks for a second opinion from a Stewjoni, Serenoan, or Galecian doctor.
Master Che agrees with him, but she can’t say that out loud because she has a reputation to maintain, and she contractually cannot find it funny that the University Hospital is now embroiled in increasing hostility with her staff. She writes a very formal missive explaining that, while they appreciate the University Hospital’s support over the last few months, Qui-Gon, as Master, holds Obi-Wan’s medical rights in the outside world. That comes by the law passed by of the Coruscanti government. The hospital cannot revoke his rights now that he’s entertaining a decision they don’t agree with.
Qui-Gon, as per usual, doesn’t care. He repeats his request for a Bird-person doctor; not a human who’s studied them. A real bird-person.
He is refused.
He thanks the hospital and has Obi-Wan’s cast removed so that Master Che can put one on herself.
Obi-Wan then spends a good two months escaping the one cast only to break an ankle and end up in another. He’s entered puberty solidly now and it seems this has kicked his body’s processes into overdrive.
He’s getting more fragile and more avian by the day.
One day Feemor combs a hand through his hair and ends up with a palm full of down. Obi-Wan doesn’t notice. His hair is coming in brown at the roots now, and his scalp feels rough under Feemor’s fingers.
There are feathers growing in there. Adult feathers. They’ll push out the hair if Obi-Wan doesn’t start meds, Master Qui-Gon says. They’ll circle his face, too, darkening its edges and slowly covering his throat.
Obi-Wan scratches at them furiously. He picks at them until they bleed at their bases.
Where before his fragile bones didn’t seem to bother him, he is now in more obvious discomfort. They are trying to grow and stretch despite their brittleness. Master Qui-Gon lets him hide in his robes and cram himself against his ribs when the pain becomes too much to bear. It is much closer than Feemor is used to seeing his Master be with any one person. He doesn’t normally like to be touched for prolonged periods. Even hugs get to be too much for him.
But Obi-Wan is triggering things in Qui-Gon. The man has become overprotective to the point of hissing at Master Windu when he approaches with even a lick of stealth. It is a terrifying sound. Obi-Wan’s little shrieks are nothing compared to the great rip in the sky that Master Qui-Gon is apparently capable of unleashing.
Master Windu holds palms out in front of him and uses calming tones, and in reponse Master Qui-Gon tilts his face dangerously just an inch or two further than it ought to go. The sound frightens Obi-Wan; it blanches his skin and propells him to burrow deeper into Qui-Gon's side so as to keep himself from being the next target.
Honestly, it seems like they both need medication (or in Master’s case, a higher dosage), for their combined anxiety if nothing else.
The bird doctor cannot come quickly enough. And she does come, thank stars and gods all around.
She comes with a neck that is completely smooth; soft with beautiful, creamy white feathers, and instead of having Obi-Wan brought to her office, she comes to the Temple and sits down next to him on the couch while he is absentmindedly flicking a stylus between his fingers.
He startles at her proximity.
She asks him in a thick accent if he wants a cuddle. He clearly does not, but she lifts her arm anyways and tells him to come in close, it will make him feel better. Neither of them budge for a good two minutes before Master Qui-Gon gestures for Obi-Wan to follow the order.
Obi-Wan isn’t used to the feminine members of his species; he does, however, have his baby chick drive still, regardless of puberty’s hard work on him. Once edged close enough for contact, he tucks himself into her side and the warning sounds he is subconsciously making in his throat die off as she lowers her arm.
“Poor thing,” she croons. “How much?”
“27%,” Master Qui-Gon says.
“Poor, poor thing. You’re safe—”
“Obi-Wan.”
“Obi-Wan—Obi-Wan? In this day and age?”
“His people are northern.”
“Ah.”
“Well, then. Owen, yes? Or are you a Benny?”
Obi-Wan peeks out from his safe place.
“He goes by the full thing,” Qui-Gon says.
The doctor is not impressed but doesn’t let on to her young patient.
“Let’s see those pins,” she tells him, cupping his head and pulling him forward so she can peer into his hair.
The doctor examines Obi-Wan’s records and tests his grip strength. She looks at his nails and his shredded sleeve and asks him if he’s got a pellet for her. He does not; the mere thought is embarrassing to him. His pale skin goes beet red from the bridge of his nose to the tips of his ears. The doctor tells Qui-Gon that she’s going to need a pellet and goes on to examine Obi-Wan’s arms and chest. They’re bumpy like his hair. He starts doing his contained throat-screeching in distress when she moves his arms, and a break is taken so that he can rush off and stuff himself into the nest of pillows on his bed and calm down.
“He’s got very pronounced features,” she says.
“They are hurting him,” Qui-Gon says.
“Yes, they’re rearranging where his calcium and proteins are being deposited.”
Master Qui-Gon sighs.
“I don’t want him to suffer,” he says. “The life of a jedi is strenuous on the muscles and limbs. It is imperative that he is able to suppress anxiety and retain an air of calm.”
“There are many families who would be more than happy to adopt a child with such gifts,” the doctor says.
“Yes, his own even,” Master Qui-Gon replies.
They stare at each other.
Feemor decides to start making tea.
“He’s northern, you say?” the doctor asks. “Not much sunlight up there. Are you northern as well?”
“Galecian.”
“Slightly more sunlight there.”
“What of medication?” Qui-Gon asks.
“I’m hesitant with someone so young. He is fifteen?”
“Nearly.”
“I would usually wait until after the pins are fully grown,” the doctor says. “But given the state of his bones and the lifestyle you two lead, I’m not sure that there is a choice—unless he enjoys a rousing snap every second leap.”
“He does not,” Qui-Gon says.
The doctor sighs.
“It pains me to hide away the gifts our ancestors give us,” she says, “Normally, I comfort myself in saying that the children are still brought up in the culture, but in this case I’m hesitant, you understand. Were you raised in the culture, Master Qui-Gon?”
“I’m afraid I was not,” Qui-Gon says, even though this is so obvious Feemor could puke all over this stove.
“So you understand my hesitancy, then?”
“I do,” Qui-Gon says.
“I would say that the most humane options are to allow him a path which does not threaten his bones or, as you say, medication.”
“Obi-Wan will become a jedi knight, that is the path he has chosen,” Qui-Gon says.
The doctor sighs.
“Alright,” she says. “We’ll start on a low dose and see how he does. Let’s get him back here to see what he thinks.”
Obi-Wan has no strong feelings about medication. His feelings are mostly involved with being less itchy all the time. The doctor lets him pet her feathers and asks him if he wants to grow his like hers.
He considers it. He asks her if they’ll stay forever if he does.
She explains to him that they will always be trying to grow out like hers, but if he takes a pill everyday, they’ll stop growing. If he does not take the pill, they’ll start again. And yes, they’ll be itchy and pinchy until they’re all the way out and groomed neatly like hers. She asks Obi-Wan if he thinks he can keep his feathers neat.
The two-toned, empty gaze she receives makes her smile.
“Maybe one day,” she says.
“Will I get orange?”
“No, dear.”
“Are you sure?” Obi-Wan asks urgently.
“Tawny,” she tells him. “Tawny with spots, you’ll be.”
Obi-Wan vehemently does not wish to be any more orange than he is already. His early years of being called carrot-top are behind him. He wishes never to relive them.
He says he wants to take the meds, and so he gets his first prescription. The doctor, before leaving, pets Master Qui-Gon down all over and tells him that his own instincts and pins will settle down once Obi-Wan feels less vulnerable to him, but if they don’t, to give her a call.
And that’s it.
She leaves without taking tea with them. Master Qui-Gon walks her out. Obi-Wan waits until the door has closed before hopping up onto the counter to perch and lay his cheek on Feemor’s shoulder.
“What’s it like to be human?” he asks.
“You’re going to hate it,” Feemor tells him with a grin.
The calcium is stopped in its path and redirected to Obi-Wan’s bones. They grow stronger—additional treatments help.
He stops hunting the mouse droids (mostly), stops bopping around the halls late at night while everyone sleeps. Stops growing pins all over his chin and neck. The thick crown of his head thins out into only hair.
Even his one black eye finally lightens to the same pale blue as the other.
He looks, from the outside, totally and completely human. Just like Master Qui-Gon, but a thousand times scrawnier.
Feemor smiles at him and he smiles back.
“How’s being human?” he asks every time they meet.
“I’m not,” Obi-Wan tells him.