Obi-Wan woke up in a bacta tank. He could feel the nerves in his saber-hand twitching violently, and he tried to push through the fluid, blinking out into the dim room.
Qui-Gon was there, meditating on the floor, and Obi-Wan tried to speak around the breath mask over his nose and mouth. "Mmmsta."
His Master lifted his head. "Padawan."
A medical droid bustled in and eased Obi-Wan out of the bacta, freeing him from the mask. "Master, I saw--there was a senator, and he showed me the future, and--"
"Padawan," Qui-Gon said, "you should not have left the Temple."
"You should not have left," Qui-Gon said, and one huge hand came down out of nowhere, clamping over Obi-Wan's face, the pressure of his fingers inhumanly strong.
And Obi-Wan knew, looking up at the face of the man he loved, that this was illusion; that Qui-Gon was not here, not wearing this body--
--and the vision ripped through him again, taking him away on the power of it, and suddenly, the hand clamped over his mouth was black-gloved, and he himself was bearded and old and a Knight--the last of the Jedi Knights, perhaps, and this, his former apprentice, bent on killing him.
"Vader," he whispered, and the hand gentled, became Qui-Gon's, cradling his face tenderly.
"Don't you know," his Master said, "not to drink drugged wine?"
"I love you," Obi-Wan murmured against that warm palm. "You know. *That* way."
"Mm," said Qui-Gon. "And you're having visions. All in all, a good day."
"Mrph," replied Obi-Wan, and fell asleep when his Master bent down to kiss his lips.
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