Author's Notes: Dedicated to all those who never did figure out how to macrame. Something like a sequel to "The Great Outdoors".
DISCLAIMER: Star Wars and all publicly recognisable characters, names and references, etc are the sole property of George Lucas, Lucasfilm Ltd, Lucasarts Inc and 20th Century Fox. This fan fiction was created solely for entertainment and no money was made from it. Also, no copyright or trademark infringement was intended. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Any other characters, the storyline and the actual story are the property of the author.
Mace Windu stood in the open door to Qui-Gon Jinn's room, just staring at the interior.
His friend knelt in meditation in the room's centre, hands resting on his thighs, eyes closed, breathing slowly and regularly, a picture of serenity. Mace glanced into the bedroom, and shook his head. They had shared quarters for a while, before being t aken on as padawan learners. Qui-Gon's half of the room had always been a disaster; Mace's had always been painstakingly tidy. For such a disciplined, controlled man, Qui-Gon was really kind of a slob.
Beneath the window stood pot after pot of plants in varying degrees of bloom, threatening to take over the entire wall. A box in one corner of the room caught his attention. He leaned down to see a bundle of blankets, which rose and fell with the breath ing of... well, Force knew what Qui-Gon had dragged home, now. Mace only hoped it wasn't carnivorous.
The terrarium against the far wall was thankfully empty. Its previous occupants, a family of Iridian lizards-- complete with poisonous fangs, claws, and back spines-- had terrorised the floor following their escape one afternoon, and had been returned to their natural habitat shortly after.
"If they're well enough to run," Qui-Gon had explained, with his usual calm, "they're well enough to live free."
The workdesk was covered with books and papers and circuitry-- the result of various projects Qui-Gon was involved with. Mace couldn't see any real order in the chaos, but presumed that some order, of some obscure kind, was there.
"You're early," Qui-Gon said, without opening his eyes, or otherwise moving, although Mace could sense he had come out of trance.
"I finished my reports more quickly than usual. I've reserved one of the sparring rooms already.
"Thanks. Oh-- Master Billaba thanked me for volunteering," Qui-Gon added, standing in a single smooth movement.
"She did? For what?"
"For volunteering to work with the children. Again."
"You did? Well, good for you."
"Yes. Funny thing, though." Qui-Gon crossed his arms.
"What's that?"
"I didn't. Volunteer, I mean."
"No?" Mace asked, wide-eyed.
"No. And stop trying to look innocent. It isn't working. Even if I didn't know you, I wouldn't believe it."
"I'm hurt."
"It could be arranged."
"So... what is it you've volunteered for?" Mace asked, hurriedly.
"Chldrn'sartour."
"Beg pardon?"
The other Jedi opened his eyes. "The children's. Art. Hour," he said, enunciating each word very clearly.
"Ohhh. Well. Sorry I'll be missing that."
"Who says you'll be missing it?"
"You didn't!"
"I did. Have you ever used a pottery wheel, Mace?"
"Bastard."
"Watch the language."
"Traitor."
"Coward."
"Have you ever been to one of the arts and crafts sessions?" Mace demanded.
"Well, no. But how hard...." Qui-Gon cut himself off.
Mace nodded. "We'll need to practise sparring some other time, my friend. We have to come up with some kind of strategy."
"That bad?"
Mace's mouth tightened. "You have no idea."
"Master Qui-Gon!" a chorus of happy little voices cried, as he entered the bright, cheerful craftsroom. Despite himself, he was touched by their enthusiasm. Nonetheless, he gave silent thanks to the Force for guiding him to wear his oldest, darkest brown trousers and tunic.
Some of the children were clustered around a table with fingerpaints. More paint on them, than the paper, he noticed, but they were clearly enjoying themselves. Another bunch were working with what seemed to be miniature looms, turning skein after skein of coloured wool into... well. Into something resembling some sort of yarn-based craft.
He was amused to spot Mace in a corner with a trio of students, demonstrating the finer points of needlework. A very practical craft, for Jedi, of course; with the rough lifestyle Jedi so often led, clothing tore often, and there was rarely time to find a tailor.
"Hi, Master Qui-Gon."
"Hello, Lesandre. Good afternoon, Obi-Wan."
"We're doing pottery," Obi-Wan informed him. "Wanna see?"
"Of course." Qui-Gon followed them to a small table, where half a dozen children were rolling out, and pounding, and flattening, and otherwise abusing clay of various textures and colours.
"I'm making a bowl," a small Woostrian girl informed him. "See?"
"Very nice," he said, sincerely, although it looked rather more like a... something... than a bowl.
"You have to work it for a long time," Lesandre informed him.
"Here, you try," Narren Tatsai said, pushing a glob of bright green, slightly mushy-looking clay at him.
Qui-Gon regarded it somewhat dubiously. Six sets of eyes watched him eagerly. He knelt down beside the table, and dug his fingers into the material. It had a sticky, cool consistency, and stuck to his skin, getting under his nails in a not overly pleasant fashion. Satisfied, the children went back to their own projects. Only Obi-Wan continued to watch him closely.
"If you roll it out so that it's long, you can coil it," he said.
"Coil it?"
"Like a snake."
"Like a snake," Qui-Gon echoed.
Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. *Grown-ups,* he thought, clearly enough for the Jedi master to hear.
Qui-Gon repressed a smile. "Will you show me?" he asked, meekly.
Obi-Wan leaned over. "Watch. You do it like this." He rolled the glob of clay against the tabletop, until it was a single long tube. "Now, you coil it."
"Like a snake," Qui-Gon said, understanding.
"Exactly." The boy sounded pleased at his quick comprehension. He rolled the tube back into a ball. "Now you try."
Obediently, Qui-Gon rolled and coiled.
"Very good," Obi-Wan said, his tone one of approval. "Now you can make a jar."
"Ah-- by putting a bottom on it. Yes, I see."
"Here," Lesandre said, offering a handful of eye-shatteringly bright blue clay.
"Thanks." He smoothed out the clay into something like a circle, then gently settled it over the upper end of his jar. He carefully smoothed the edges down-- until a too-rough movement of his index finger poked a hole in the side. "Damn." He scraped t he blue clay off, and smoothed the hole over. He replaced the bottom. Another hole. "Damn."
"It's okay," Obi-Wan said, soothingly. "It's a lot harder than it looks."
"Yes, it is."
Mace glanced over, and grinned widely. Qui-Gon was bent over a pile of clay, as attentive to his work as if he were building a lightsaber. The little Kenobi boy appeared to be offering advice, which the Jedi master was taking to heart. *Yes, that'll do nicely,* he thought.
"Master Mace?"
"Yes, Tegan?"
"Can we go out in the hall to paint? I want to paint the sunset."
"Go right ahead," he said. "Just be careful, all right? I'll be out to check on you in a moment."
"Damn." The pot looked a lot more like a... well, something other than a pot. The different clays were all smushed together, and he'd lost all hope of attaching a bottom.
"Don't worry, Master Qui-Gon," Obi-Wan consoled him. "Pottery isn't for everyone. Maybe you're more the painter type. Why don't you try that, instead?"
Rueful, Qui-Gon stood. "I think I'll take your advice. Enjoy your work, Obi-Wan. And thank you for your lessons, and your patience. You make a very good teacher." The boy lit up at the praise.
He was halfway to the door, when a small hand caught at his tunic.
"Sir?"
"Yes, Obi-Wan?"
"I made this for you-- when they said you and Master Mace would be here today." He offered Qui-Gon a small, green tube of clay. Qui-Gon took it from him, careful not to crush it in his fingers.
"I'm sorry, Obi-Wan...."
The boy, recognising his confusion, explained. "It's a holder, for your hair. You can slide it up, over an elastic, see? So it'll look better."
"Ohh. Yes, I see. Thank you, Obi-Wan." He bowed very slightly to the young student, who bowed back, small face very solemn.
Mace looked over at him. *I've sent some of 'em outside to paint. Why don't you join them?*
*I think I will, yes.* He walked out into the hall, where a handful of students were busy painting their versions of the Coruscant skyline at sunset. He raised his hands behind his head, and sorted out the tied-back section of hair, sliding Obi-Wan's gift up to cover the simple band of elastic. It caught slightly, but seemed to fit.
One of the children noticed him standing there. "There's some more paint, sir, and brushes," she said, gesturing to the side.
"Thank you, Tegan," he said, formally, helping himself to a plain sheet of white paper, a brush, and a container of black paint. He couldn't go wrong with that, surely? Of course not. He knelt-- wanting to remain on the children's level-- and considered the cityscape. Ah, yes. The Isstannen embassy's distinctive lines. That would do.
Working carefully, he painted, concentrating on the simplicity of the construct, rather than the detail, as befitted the medium. *This is really quite fun,* he decided.
"That's really... interesting, sir," Tegan said, a little hesitant.
"Well... thank you."
"It's... the... the Temple?" she asked.
He looked at his work. "It's the Embassy," he corrected her, gesturing at that building.
"Ohhh. Okay, I see it now. It's very good, Master Qui-Gon." She smiled at him, only a little patronising, and went back to her own painting.
"Painting you are, hmm?" said a voice-- at ear-level, for once. Qui-Gon turned to his master.
"Yes, Master Yoda."
"Very nice, it is. A starship, it is?"
"No, Master Yoda."
"Oh." The revered Master peered more closely. "A Rancor?"
"No. Master Yoda. It's the Embassy building."
"Yes, yes. See it now, I do. Very..." Yoda trailed off. "Master Qui-Gon, clay you have in your hair."
"Sir?" Frowning, Qui-Gon reached behind himself to touch his hair. Sure enough, what felt like clay was matted into it.
Yoda leaned a little closer. "That holder you wear. Not fired, it is. Wet, it was, still."
*Damn.*
Part 1 Part 2