Chapter Text
As the pregnancy progresses, Obi-Wan grows rounder, drowsier, and ever more reluctant to leave the bed. This is normal behavior for an omega with child, so Qui-Gon is not overly worried. He sees to it that there is always a tray of food nearby, that there are plenty of blankets for Obi-Wan to swathe himself in, and firmly takes the ledgers of accounts out of the room so that Obi-Wan can’t work himself into exhaustion.
Obi-Wan does not particularly appreciate this, but given that his walking pace is best described as a slow shuffle, he has not the resources to retaliate or go behind Qui-Gon’s back.
Presently, anyways. Qui-Gon is sure that his clever omega will find a way to get revenge later.
For his part, Qui-Gon also finds that he begins to leave more and more work in the capable hands of his staff. It is extremely difficult to tear himself from Obi-Wan’s side. His alpha instincts clamor endlessly for him to stay close and to protect his mate and child in this vulnerable time. Fortunately, he’s never been a particularly social person, so he doesn’t have to send apologies to too many events, and his circle of acquaintances is easily put off with the simple explanation that his child is soon to be born.
Some things cannot be put off, though. One morning, Qui-Gon is drawn from the estate with the report of a quarrel amongst some of his vassals. He leaves Obi-Wan dozing in their nest and rides out to settle the matter before swords can be drawn.
So of course that is the day that his child chooses to come into the world.
Qui-Gon rides back to the estate to find it positively abuzz with action. At first he is confused, wondering who the name of the Force could possibly be coming to call. But then he sees Healer Che’s trusty gelding stabled amongst his horses and he understands.
He tosses Sapir’s reins at the nearest stable hand and races into the house. The stairs he takes two at a time, startling at least two servants, but he can’t even spare the attention to mutter an apology.
All that matters, the only thing that matters, is reaching Obi-Wan.
He skids into the hallway of the family rooms and shoulders into the Duchess suite and –
“Out!” Healer Che snaps, abruptly popping up in front of him.
“But – ”
“OUT!” she shouts firmly. Then when Qui-Gon still stares at her, aghast, she bodily manhandles him through the door. And then, for good measure, she slams the door in his face.
Which is when Qui-Gon remembers that, right, yes, alphas are typically banned from the birthing chamber.
There are exceptions, of course. No one would dare bar His Majesty from the birthing chamber when Her Majesty was in labor. And in the poorest of households, where every hand matters and there aren’t enough servants, alphas might be pressed into service to fetch hot water and clean cloths. But Qui-Gon is the Duke of Serenno – he has more than enough servants to carry out Healer Che’s bidding.
So he is exiled to the corridor, unable to do anything but fret.
And fret he does. The labor is neither short nor easy. Qui-Gon can’t hear much from behind the door, beyond steady chanting of push and breathe. But he most certainly can hear when Obi-Wan screams.
It’s unlike any sound he’s ever heard his omega make. Obi-Wan is so reserved, so unobtrusive, so quiet. It had taken Qui-Gon a month to hear him laugh, and even then, it had been a soft laugh, muffled behind a decorous hand. To hear Obi-Wan in such pain that he forgoes that reserve – it chills Qui-Gon to the bone.
His omega is in pain. His instincts clamor that he go forth to kill whatever is causing that pain – but he cannot. After all, Qui-Gon himself is the reason for this pain.
He paces up and down the corridor, ignoring the efforts of the servants to draw him away or distract him. He can’t bear to be even one step further away. If he cannot be in the chamber, helping to ease Obi-Wan’s pain, then he is determined to endure every moment of it with him.
And then, after one scream that threatens to curdle Qui-Gon’s very blood, he hears it: the faint wail of an infant.
A child. His child. Their child.
But just as soon as relief comes, the anxiety returns twice as strong. He does not hear Obi-Wan, and while it is entirely possible that his omega is now too weary to do much beyond laying quietly, he cannot help the fear. Death in childbirth is rare, especially with an omega as young and healthy as Obi-Wan and a Healer as skilled as Healer Che. But it is not impossible. Healers, after all, are not gods.
To have his child but to lose Obi-Wan – Qui-Gon is not sure he could bear it.
Fortunately, before he can sink too deeply into the madness, the door opens. Healer Che appears, weary and bloodstained, but smiling.
“Congratulations, Your Grace,” she tells him. “You have an heir.”
Propriety kicks in first. “I thank you,” Qui-Gon replies, mostly on instinct. And then, somewhat anxiously, he asks, “And Honorable Kenobi, he is . . .?”
“The Honorable is well. Tired, as to be expected, but hale.”
The sheer relief that hits Qui-Gon is like being kicked in the stomach. He staggers back, breathing hard, and offers thanks to every god he knows. For Obi-Wan and the child to be alive and well – that is more than he could have ever dreamed of.
“May I see – ”
“Yes, my lord, you may,” she says, an indulgent quirk in her smile. “Come in.”
Thankfully, the commotion has mostly cleared out of the room. There are still servants scurrying around to remove things – basins of water, armfuls of cloths, stained linens – but Qui-Gon has eyes only for Obi-Wan.
Obi-Wan, and the tiny bundle he holds at his breast.
“Obi-Wan,” he breathes.
Obi-Wan lifts his head. His smile is radiant, even tinged with exhaustion. He’s the most beautiful thing Qui-Gon has ever seen. “Your Grace,” he says, proper as ever. “Come and see your daughter.”
Qui-Gon’s feet move without his permission. He’s at the bed and sitting on the edge in a blink of an eye. In another blink, Obi-Wan has transferred the tiny bundle of blankets into his arm.
“Oh, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon whispers. “She’s beautiful.”
“She takes after you,” Obi-Wan says.
“Force, I hope not,” Qui-Gon says with a snort. “May she take after you as much as possible. In mind and heart and looks. Have you decided on a name for her?”
Obi-Wan blinks. “A name, my lord? The sire chooses – ”
“Not for the firstborn. The firstborn is the bearer’s to name, for they are the sire’s heir,” Qui-Gon says. “What shall be her name, sweet omega?”
Obi-Wan thinks for a long moment. Qui-Gon does not rush him; he is content to hold their daughter, humming softly and brushing a gentle hand over her tiny head. It seems impossible that less than a year ago, he had never known the Honorable Obi-Wan of House Kenobi, much less that Obi-Wan would give him this most precious of gifts.
“Rey,” Obi-Wan answers finally, with a worried look at Qui-Gon. “For the rising sun.”
“A good name,” Qui-Gon says. He stands. “Bear witness: I present my firstborn and heir, Rey of House Jinn.”
“We witness, Your Grace,” the rest of the room choruses, followed by more congratulations.
Healer Che sweeps Rey away shortly after that, with mutterings about seeing to the nursery set up. She promises to bring Rey back, so Qui-Gon lets her go, albeit reluctantly. From the way Obi-Wan’s gaze follows Healer Che out the door, Qui-Gon suspects that he feels a similar, all-powerful urge to keep their daughter close.
Although Qui-Gon also suspects that Healer Che will cheerfully gut him if he lets Obi-Wan get out of bed, so he decides to distract him.
“I have something for you, Obi-Wan. A gift.”
Obi-Wan’s gaze snaps to him. “You needn’t have gotten me anything.”
“I most certainly did,” Qui-Gon says. “You have borne me an heir – an heir I, quite frankly, never expected to have. Thanks to you, House Jinn will live on. A gift is the smallest gesture I owe you. But I hope you will accept it in the spirit it was given.”
“Any gift will be more than I deserve,” Obi-Wan demurs.
Qui-Gon nods to his butler. They step quietly into the Duke suite and return moments later with box in hand, as efficient as ever. Qui-Gon bows and hands it over to Obi-Wan.
Obi-Wan opens it. It takes him a moment, for his tired fingers are clumsy on the latch, but eventually he lifts the lid. His eyes go wide; his breath catches. He closes the box immediately, as if it contained a snake and not a gift.
“Your Grace, I cannot accept – ”
“Yes, you can.”
“But this – this is – it’s too much,” Obi-Wan says.
Qui-Gon reaches over. Gently, he opens the box again, revealing Obi-Wan’s dowry pearls in all their glory. Baron Nod had had them merely strung on a thin necklace – the cheapest of all possible options, and one suited more for a tenth bedwarmer in a harem than a Baroness. Qui-Gon had had them polished and set into a fine collar, as befit a proper mated omega who had borne an heir.
In truth, as befit a Duchess.
“It is exactly enough,” Qui-Gon tells him. “It is what you deserved from the moment you were mated.”
“But this . . .” Obi-Wan swallows hard. “That is a Jinn sapphire, Your Grace.”
“It is,” Qui-Gon says, because there’s no denying what lays at the center of the collar, its crowning jewel. “I had my jeweler scour the vaults for something worthy of you. But if you do not accept my offer, he can remove it, and whatever alpha you choose may place their sigil there.”
Obi-Wan’s brow wrinkles. “Your offer?”
There is no proper way for how an alpha lord is to offer marriage to an omega who has just given birth. But Qui-Gon does his best: he slides off the bed and goes to one knee, the box proffered in his hands, sincerity in his heart.
He says, “Obi-Wan of House Kenobi, if you would have me, my hearth would be yours, now and forever.”
Obi-Wan’s mouth falls open. He stares at Qui-Gon like he’s grown two heads.
Finally, he stammers, “I – If I would – Your Grace, you must know that I am better suited as a bedwarmer than a Duchess.”
“What nonsense,” Qui-Gon says. “I am a noble lord; you are the son of a noble lord. You have the training to mind my hearth; I have the strength to work your fields. You have proven yourself capable of giving me an heir; I hope I have proven equally capable of giving you pleasure. We are equals.”
“But – ”
“If you would have me,” Qui-Gon repeats solemnly, “my hearth is yours. Now and forever.”
“I could tend to your hearth as a bedwarmer,” Obi-Wan points out. “I could even give you more heirs as your bedwarmer. There’s no reason to – to invite gossip and rumor by titling me. No one would think ill of you for keeping me as your bedwarmer.”
“I do not want a bedwarmer. I want a Duchess. And you, Obi-Wan – you are the Duchess I want.”
Obi-Wan stares at the collar. It’s a beautiful piece of work; Qui-Gon had given his jeweler a hefty bonus for completing it so swiftly and so beautifully. But he makes no move to accept it.
Which means Qui-Gon has to face a fear almost as great as Obi-Wan dying in childbirth: the fear that Obi-Wan may not want him.
“Of course,” he says awkwardly, “if you do not want me, I’ll not press you further. Once Rey is weaned, I can – I can find you a better husband, one more . . . suited to you. And you’ll always be welcome at Serenno to visit, or to – ”
“And what would you define as ‘more suited’, Your Grace?”
Qui-Gon looks away. He knows his faults; it doesn’t make it any easier to voice them. “Younger,” he admits. “Healthier. Better able to please you. And to sire heirs on you.”
“Oh.”
It’s as good as an answer. Qui-Gon forces himself to breathe out the pain of rejection. He’ll have a year with Obi-Wan until Rey is weaned; that will have to be enough. He slowly lowers the lid, already dreading having to see Obi-Wan with another alpha’s jewel shimmering around his throat, and clears his throat.
“I suppose I have my answer,” he says. “I’ll leave you to rest and not disturb you any – ”
“Your Grace,” Obi-Wan interrupts.
“Yes?”
Obi-Wan lifts his chin. Tilts his head. Bares his throat.
“My fields are yours, Your Grace,” Obi-Wan says. “Now and forever.”
Qui-Gon almost drops the box. He gapes. “Wait, you – ”
Obi-Wan’s lips curve into a smile. He tilts his head further, offering that beautifully pale, uncollared neck to Qui-Gon. He continues, “I will tend to your hearth. I will bear your heirs. I will serve you faithfully and service you at your pleasure. And in return, my fields are yours to work.” He pauses. “That means you can collar me, my lord. Unless you mean to retract your offer.”
With trembling hands, Qui-Gon opens the box again. He lifts up that beautiful collar, pearls glowing and sapphire shining. He closes it around Obi-Wan’s throat, and he thinks that they both stop breathing when the clasp clicks shut.
He had been wrong before, Qui-Gon realizes. Now, Obi-Wan is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
“It suits you,” Qui-Gon says softly. “My Duchess.”
Obi-Wan blushes. “I thank you,” he says shyly. He peers up at Qui-Gon through lowered lashes. “My husband.”
Fire sparks in Qui-Gon’s chest. He growls, triumphant and possessive. “My wife,” he says, and sets about to kissing his wife with everything he has.
Obi-Wan opens eagerly for him, like a flower before the sun. He lets Qui-Gon plunder his sweet mouth, lovely creature that he is, and his soft moans and whines are music to Qui-Gon’s ears. Qui-Gon pulls him closer and kisses him harder and –
Is smartly rapped over the head by a returning Healer Che.
“Ow!” Qui-Gon glares. “Was that necessary?”
“Seeing as you looked about two seconds away from ripping off his nightgown and ravaging hi like a feral wild best, yes,” she says tartly.
“I was not going to – ” Qui-Gon starts, and then stops as Obi-Wan hastily drags up his nightgown to cover the breasts Qui-Gon apparently uncovered. “Ah.”
“There will be no sex until I have cleared the Honorable,” Healer Che says.
Qui-Gon can’t resist correcting her. “The Duchess,” he says, and the glow of happiness he feels at finally calling Obi-Wan by that title for real instead of in his dreams is beyond compare.
From the way Obi-Wan blushes, he feels the same.
Healer Che is a professional, though. And as such, unmoved.
“Congratulations,” she says. “But do not dare to lay with the Duchess until I give the word. Or else I’ll not hesitate to geld you, you hear me?”
“Yes, Healer,” Qui-Gon says meekly.
Healer Che gives a few more instructions after that. Most of them revolve around rest, good food, and more rest, so it’s easy for Qui-Gon to nod and agree. Obi-Wan is a little more hesitant, but Healer Che reminds him that bearing a child is hard work – with slightly graphic detail – and eventually cows him into agreeing as well.
“ . . . Would she really geld you?” Obi-Wan asks curiously once she’s left.
“Oh, absolutely,” Qui-Gon confirms. “After all, I now have an heir. So I am not in, shall we say, desperate need of the ability to sire more children.”
“The typical arrangement is an heir and a spare, you know.”
Qui-Gon fights to stay calm. The idea of siring another child on Obi-Wan is alluring beyond belief – to see Obi-Wan grow round and heavy with child again, to have multiple pattering footsteps around the estate, to know that Obi-Wan would want to be bred by him again.
But: “If that is not what you desire, then I shan’t force it upon you,” he tells Obi-Wan. “Rey is enough for me.”
Obi-Wan bites his lips. He fidgets with the coverlet. He looks nervous, as he hasn’t looked since Qui-Gon first brought him to Serenno. It makes Qui-Gon brace to hear a rejection. To hear that while Obi-Wan is a dutiful omega, he does not wish to fulfill that particular duty anymore.
Then Obi-Wan says, “And if I . . . desire another?”
That fire of possessiveness and triumph roars up again. “Then I’ll give you another,” Qui-Gon promises recklessly. “I’ll give you anything you want, anything.”
“My fields are yours,” Obi-Wan says. He presses a hand over his stomach, a soft little smile on his face. “I would have you work them again. A few more times, I should think. You did say that the Serenno estate was designed for a dynasty’s worth of children.”
“By the Force, don’t – ” Qui-Gon pinches his nose. “Don’t tempt me like that, my duchess. Not until Healer Che clears you, I beg of you. Have mercy.”
“Healer Che needs to clear me to be knotted, yes,” Obi-Wan says. His smile curves wickedly. “But you will have needs, my husband, and I’ll not have those needs go unanswered. I can service you in . . . other ways.”
“Have mercy, my duchess,” Qui-Gon begs. “Please.”
Obi-Wan laughs. It is a bright, clear sound, one of pure joy. Qui-Gon revels in it, even as he has to remind himself quite firmly that now is not the time to be getting aroused. His omega is happy. He has pleased his wife. For an alpha, there can be no greater calling.
“As my lord husband requests, I obey,” Obi-Wan says demurely, as though he hadn’t been leading Qui-Gon down the road to temptation a minute before. “Might I ask you instead to hold me? Or is that too banned?”
“You minx,” Qui-Gon says.
But he does get into bed. It’s careful work, trying to get under the blankets and arrange himself so that Obi-Wan is comfortable without jostling Obi-Wan too badly, and more than once he hears Obi-Wan hiss in pain. As soon as they are finally settled, Qui-Gon apologizes with his hands – massaging those stiffened shoulders, caressing that lovely back – until Obi-Wan is boneless and sleepy in his arms.
“My sweet duchess,” Qui-Gon says, kissing him. “You have worked so hard for me. Sleep now. I’ll take care of you.”
“Yes, my husband,” Obi-Wan yawns, his eyes already fluttering closed.
Obi-Wan slips into sleep just like that, like the utterly perfect creature he is. Qui-Gon holds him and feels unbelievably blessed. He had thought, once, that House Jinn would end with him; that his line would die out and Serenno would pass to a distant cousin. Now he has a duchess and an heir – and hopefully, in the future, more children to come.
It’s almost enough to make him want to thank Baron Nod for demanding that he oversee an annulment request.
Almost.
“His loss, my treasure,” Qui-Gon murmurs, stroking Obi-Wan’s cheek. “You’re mine, my duchess. Now and forever.”
FINIS