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Hope the words come back to you. If it sparks any interest, QuinObi where Quinlan had to save Obi-Wan after being captured. Maybe the aftermath of that? Good luck!
“Quinlan,” Obi-Wan says, all polite surprise and social grace, like they're meeting in the halls of the Temple and not a desolate moon in the middle of Hutt space. “You found me.”
Quinlan rolls his eyes, dropping the guard whose handprint he used to get through the scanner. “Why do you sound so surprised?” he retorts. “You're the one who kept leaving bloody clothes everywhere, asshole.”
“There's no need for name-calling, Quin,” Obi-Wan reproves, like he didn’t know precisely how much of a heart attack it would give Quinlan to trip over the first bloody shirt rag and see visions of Obi-Wan being kriffing beaten. “And I was operating under the assumption that you would take the information I provided to the Council, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Quinlan echoes, a little grim, and ignites his lightsaber. Eyes the bars for half a second, then sweeps it down hard, right through the metal, and kicks the door open. “You thought I could watch them kick you around seventeen times and not come right for your sorry ass? It’s like you don’t even know me, Obi-Wan.”
Obi-Wan looks politely disgruntled through the two black eyes he’s sporting, but he still hasn’t stood up. “Quinlan, finding the syndicate’s backer is more important—”
Quinlan gives him his best smirk. “Lucky for me that Anakin was around, then, huh? All I had to do was point him in the right direction, pretend I thought you were dying, and let him go. That commander of yours, too.”
It’s a little satisfying to watch Obi-Wan go pale around all the bruises. “Quinlan Vos, you used my padawan as a wrecking ball—”
“More of a laser-guided missile,” Quinlan says, unrepentant, and crouches down in front of Obi-Wan, reaching up. The ysalamiri around his neck doesn’t look like it’s doing all the much better than Obi-Wan; its fur is dull, eyes clouded, and when Quinlan picks it up he can feel its faltering heartbeat. The Force-bubble it projects keeps him from picking up any hint of its past through its skin, and he’s glad for that. Can't do anything but stroke it lightly as the last few heartbeats fade, trying to offer a little warmth in the cold of space, and then carefully, gently sets it aside, brushing his fingers over its fur one last time as the sense of the Force trickles back.
When he looks up, Obi-Wan is watching him with an odd softness on his battered face, red hair in his eyes and mouth twisted in something that’s almost a smile. He doesn’t say anything, though, and Quinlan doesn’t push. Doesn’t really want to know what Obi-Wan is thinking right now, honestly, because it’s never what he wants but it always manages to be too clear all the same.
“You're an idiot,” he says instead, and brings his lightsaber up, then around, and slices through the chain holding Obi-Wan’s hands above his head. He shuts it off as Obi-Wan hisses, and leans forward, catching his elbows before he can pull his arms all the way down. “Easy. You know what muscle strain is.”
“Yes, well, forgive me for not wanting to be chained to the wall any longer,” Obi-Wan says, vaguely annoyed, but his breath catches painfully as Quinlan digs his fingers into sore muscles. He can't do much in the way of healing, but Aayla pulled enough muscles when she was a kid that he knows this. A little heat, a little easing of muscles that have locked up, and Obi-Wan groans a moment later, slumping back against the wall as his eyes slide shut.
“You have magic hands, Quinlan,” he says, and sighs in relief. “Please, never stop.”
“Normally I'm the one saying that,” Quinlan teases, and snickers when Obi-Wan’s boot thumps against the outside of his thigh in silent reproach. Carefully, he eases Obi-Wan’s hands down into his lap, then tips his chin to the side, checking the lump on the side of his head. “Let me guess, you mouthed off and got your skull bounced off something solid?”
“I never mouth off,” Obi-Wan lies with perfect dignity. “I offered an opinion they were inclined to disagree with, and they retaliated with excessive force.”
“You sassed them and got your ass kicked for it,” Quinlan translates. He remembers their missions as padawans, even if Obi-Wan tries to pretend he doesn’t. “Aren’t you supposed to be the diplomatic one?”
“I'm certainly more diplomatic than you,” Obi-Wan shoots back, and opens his eyes. For a moment, he just stares at Quinlan, gaze steady, thoughtful. Then, slowly, he lifts his hands with a faint wince to cup Quinlan's face.
“I'm astonished that you found me, Quin,” he confesses quietly.
Quinlan turns his head, can't physically resist the urge to lay a kiss against Obi-Wan’s palm. “Like anything was going to stop me once I realized,” he counters.
Obi-Wan snorts. His thumbs smooth along Quinlan’s qukuuf, heavy against the golden tattoos, and—
Obi-Wan’s not the type of person who will ever ask for something for himself. Quinlan's known that since they were kids. It’s always a little annoying, especially combined with Obi-Wan’s inability to realize that he deserves nice things, but usually Quinlan can roll his eyes and deal with it and not push. Pushing Obi-Wan is like trying to push a mountain, after all.
Right now, though, Quinlan's tired. He’s coming off a solid week of limited sleep, having to see images of Obi-Wan getting his face pounded in over and over again as he tried to track the syndicate members. The sight of Obi-Wan in the cell was both gutting and the greatest relief he’s felt since finding Aayla in her uncle’s possession, and he physically can't stop himself from reaching out right now. He grabs Obi-Wan, wraps his arms around him and hauls him in to a tight hug, burying his face in coppery hair with a huff.
“Kriff, Obi-Wan,” he mutters. “If you could not make me think you're dead for at least a month, I’d appreciate it.”
There's a pause, startled, and then a heavy breath against his cheek. Obi-Wan’s hand comes up, fisting tight in his dreadlocks, and he wraps his other arm around Quinlan's back, clutching at him in a way he hasn’t since he got back from Naboo with a new padawan, a new Knighthood, and a new grief in his eyes.
“Careful, Quin,” he says, for once a little less than perfectly composed. “Someone might come to the conclusion that you're not the wild, emotionally unavailable free love enthusiast you pretend to be.”
“Did you just call me a slut in flowery language?” Quinlan asks, grinning. “I think I'm obligated to dump you in a sand pit for that.”
“If that’s what you choose to take away from my words, I suppose I can't stop you,” Obi-Wan says airily, but he still hasn’t let go.
Quinlan turns his head, presses a light kiss to Obi-Wan’s collarbone. Gets a flicker of the past, quick and gutting, of Obi-Wan sitting beside him in a dingy bar, Quinlan practically draped over his lap, Obi-Wan’s fingers in his hair. Not one of Quinlan's memories, even if it’s the moment he looked up at Obi-Wan’s face and realized instantly, achingly, that he was in love, but—
Obi-Wan’s memory of the same moment, and an overwhelming sort of fondness, sweet and warm in his chest as he played with the beads in Quinlan's locs.
“Idiot,” he manages, even though it’s hard to get the word out. “I thought—”
Obi-Wan snorts, pulling back, and he touches the qukuuf again, then slides his hands up, fists them in Quinlan's hair. “Apparently I'm not the only idiot here,” he drawls, raising a judgmental eyebrow at Quinlan.
There's no response Quinlan can possibly give except kissing that stupid smirk right off his face.
Obi-Wan is Cal's father this, Obi-Wan is Korkie's father that, blah blah blah -
Hot Take: Cal and Korkie are twins.