eirianerisdar:

Right, this is horridly late, but I know most everyone still in school will have started school this week/will start next week, so here’s an addition to my Little Brother AU, a sunshine-and-daisies version of the GFFA where Obi-Wan is Dooku’s padawan, Xanatos never fell, and the whole lineage exists in an endless series of prank wars, dimples, and Dooku failing to maintain his poise. Link above if you want to read the previous instalments.

This one is set chronologically before any other; it shows Dooku choosing Obi-Wan as his padawan. It’s not quite classes, but it does have a teaching component.

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Winning Smile

It was only after he found himself carefully braiding his new padawan’s russet-brown hair that Dooku actually paused to consider the trouble he had gotten himself into.

By his own choice, no less.

Dooku had never gave serious thought to taking another padawan. Part of this was due to his previous, and only, padawan (because Qui-Gon Jinn. Oh, stars above, Qui-Gon Jinn). And partly, Dooku’s own duties as Sentinel and Jedi Shadow. His work often led him to the farthest and darkest reaches of the galaxy; such places and deeds were not fit for the bright-eyed, unsullied youth of the Temple corridors.

And when he had the rare chance to return, it was always to the report that his grandpadawans had gotten themselves into another glorious mess; Feemor’s fondness for “accidentally” upending bottles of pungent perfume onto Mace Windu’s cloaks and Xanatos’s penchant for underhanded humiliation of any (admittedly, usually deserving) party always reflected, in the end, upon Dooku himself.

And so he had remained without an apprentice for long, long decades.

Until now.

It began, as all these Force-fated moments do, with an accident.

---

Dooku would be the last to admit it, but something very akin to frustration was building behind his temples as he strode purposefully through the Archives.

If Jocasta Nu was not one of his oldest and fondest friends, he would have had a dour word with her regarding the upkeep of her archives; it did not reflect well upon her duties that there should be only one holovolume concerning the Force-users of the pre-Old-Republic Deep Core; it was even worse that the volume was not registered as checked out, despite its clear absence from the shelves.

Frowning severely, Dooku stalked out of the row of holovolumes and past the Initiate-level self-study cubicles, fire in his eyes and the promise of a very painful death curling at the edge of his dark russet cloak.

Around him, Initiates shrank back into their seats, Force-signatures flaring behind wobbly, juvenile shields; but he continued on regardless, mentally composing how best to voice his dissatisfaction to Jocasta Nu without incurring her fearsome wrath.

It was only after his sleeve brushed past something and a flute-like voice yelped somewhere near his hip that Dooku realised just how unbalanced he was.

He spun smoothly in place, eyes searching, but the inkpot, pushed off the edge of the table by Dooku’s careless sleeve, was already almost to the floor; a wave of sable ink was slipping from its opening, and the Initiate at the table had a hand outstretched, blue eyes wide-

-And everything froze.

Dooku halted, cloak settling around his ankles.

He stared.

The inkpot floated languidly on the currents of the Force, the small wave of ink cresting over its lip frozen forever in space-time, like a baseless sculpture of utter stillness.

The Initiate – a young human boy of no more than eleven years of age, with clear blue eyes and a chaos of russet-brown hair – grinned past a look of intense concentration, brows furrowed, as his outstretched hand shook with a telltale tremble.

His Force-signature was pure, focused light; a compressed supernova.

Dooku did not become aware he was staring until sweat began to bead slightly at the boy’s temples and a perfectly flute-like voice said, “Could you step back, please, Master?”

Dooku slid back smartly.

The inkpot smashed into the floor. A mess though it was, Dooku’s boots remained untarnished – something that would definitely have not been the case were it not for the Initiate’s quick thinking.

The boy slid out of his chair and bowed once, chubby cheeks pink. “I apologise, Master…?”

“Dooku,” Dooku replied, blinking the afterglow of the boy’s Force-signature from the backs of his eyelids. “That is not necessary. The fault was mine.”

The boy straightened out of his bow and blinked up at him.

And then he smiled.

Stars, Dooku thought.

If there were ever a pair of dimples that could charm the most severe of crèhemasters, this was it.

An actual supernova chose this moment to crest the horizon; Initiate and Master spun in unison, agitation bleeding into the Force.

“Madame Nu,” the boy whispered, eyes very, very wide.

Dooku realised, belatedly, that the tables around them were empty; all the other children had scented danger and fled accordingly.

Jocasta Nu descended upon them like a Force-wraith of the old legends.

“Initiate Kenobi,” she began, in a tone that was half severity and half fond exasperation. “This is the second inkpot you have seen to destroy in a week.”

The boy – Kenobi’s – ears turned scarlet. He stared at his feet and mumbled something, looking every inch the morose, regretful akk-pup. Jocasta’s eyes softened as she looked down at him.

It was enough to make something twist in Dooku’s chest, even – something that had not happened in a very long time.

“Do not fault the boy,” he said smoothly, stepping forward. “It was I.”

Jocasta’s gaze turned at once upon him, burning anew and skewering him in place. “You?” she said, looking not unlike the time he had said something rather foolish to her when they were Senior Padawans and she had promptly given him such a good walloping in the lightsaber arenas that he had limped for a week after.

“Yes,” Dooku replied, squaring his shoulders. “It was me, Jo.”

“Hmm,” Jocasta narrowed her eyes at him, like Krayt dragon going in for the kill. “See that it is cleaned up.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dooku replied, a trifle sardonically, and barely kept himself from wincing when she stuck him with another pointed glare as she turned to go.

In the careful silence in her wake, Dooku removed his cloak and knelt to wipe at the pool of ink. The laundry droids were likely to throw a fit, but it was better than allowing ink to further stain priceless larmalstone.

A much smaller piece of fabric joined his cloak a moment after. Dooku raised an eyebrow at the cream coloured tabard and the small hands studiously cleaning up the mess with it, but kept his comments to himself.

Initiate Kenobi did not meet his eyes either. The boy was intensely focused on the pool of ink; the tip of a pink tongue was just visible between his lips.

Dooku looked away before any traitorous words such as adorable could register properly.

Scrubbing away at the ink took longer than Dooku thought; as he worked, he glimpsed the title of the holovolume still set on the table and blinked in astonishment.

“Master Dooku?”

Dooku’s gaze snapped back to the boy; the fact Kenobi had sensed the change in his Force signature at all was nothing short of outstanding sensitivity.

“Your choice of reading material is rather unexpected, young Kenobi,” Dooku said, after a moment.

“Oh!” Kenobi’s ears turned pink again – Dooku noticed they did so rather often –  “I’m researching Pre-Old-Republic Deep Core Force-users. It wasn’t clearly mentioned in my classes so I decided to read up on it myself.”

“Hmm,” Dooku murmured, working at a stubborn stain.

“Am I…not supposed to?” a hesitant voice said.

Dooku’s head snapped up. “What?”

Kenobi had stopped scrubbing away at the floors. His hands curled around his ruined tabard. “I’m…sometimes the masters who teach my classes tell me I read too much. It’s not my level, they say.” His eyes blinked slowly, a film of moisture over the blue irises. “I put too much into my essays and when I ask questions they say it’s not within the scope of the course and don’t answer me. So I come here.”

Dooku stared.

And then, before he knew it, he was very, very angry.

Kenobi flinched, sensing the heat-filled flare in the Force.

“No, no, I’m not angry with you,” Dooku found himself saying, even as a distant part of him was yelling into the Force loud enough that he wondered if Jocasta would sense it and come ablaze with fury again.

Not that it would matter. There was enough fury in Dooku at this moment.

“Do not concern yourself,” Dooku said, as the two of them mopped up the last bit of ink and shattered ceramplast. “As it happens, your reading topic is also one of my recent research interests.”

A gasp. “Really?!”

It was astonishing. One moment, those eyes had been covered with a film of moisture; now they were shining with delight in a dimple-cheeked face.

For some reason or the other, Dooku found it extremely hard to look away. It was ridiculous. Inexplicable.

But then two hours later still found him sat at that same table with Kenobi – Obi-Wan, as the child explained very soon after – both as utterly delighted with the holovolume as they secretly were with each other.

Though neither of them voiced it.

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The change came soon after.

Several masters and knights specialising in teaching roles were found in the Temple refectory a month or so after, sharing seething battle-stories in low voices.

“Will you believe he charged into my classroom without permission-”

“-berated me for poor standards of teaching, no less-”

“-I had to revise my entire Galactic History syllabus with him looking over my shoulder-”

“-and the Council gave him permission too, for stars’ sake!” One Twi’lek Knight wailed, lekku writhing in agitation. “And here we always thought Master Dooku was the sane one in his lineage-”

“Ahem.”

The knight shrieked. Loudly.

Dooku looked coolly down at the assembly. Raised an eyebrow.

The knights and masters all avoided his gaze.

“I trust my point is made,” Dooku said. Then he smiled. Nastily.

And then he walked on. Behind him and slightly to his right bounced a young boy in a new cloak a shade or so darker than his russet hair, the new braid behind his ear so short that it stuck straight out behind him like an antenna.

“Padawan,” Dooku murmured, admonishingly.

The bounce in Obi-Wan’s step decreased slightly. Emphasis on slightly.

“Yes, Master,” he said, and smiled winningly up at Dooku.

Those blasted dimples.

The Force help Dooku when the rest of their lineage get their hands on him.

END

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This is a part of an AU of mine, Little Brother AU. For more instalments, click on the link! I’m not sure if the link works on mobile, but it definitely works on computer. Happy school days, everyone 🙂

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