"I still cannot understand why you enjoy eating here."

Obi-Wan merely rolled his eyes at his Master's comment; after three years, he knew enough about Qui-Gon's sense of humor to know that the words were said good-naturedly, albeit with some –or all—truth. The Jedi Master had never really approved of his apprentice's friendship with Dexter Jettster, the four-armed proprietor of the diner which the boy was so fond of, as the two had met in the alley behind another former establishment the Besalisk had owned as a cover for running guns. Still, his padawan deserved to have a small treat after the long and arduous mission they had just endured; even Qui-Gon would admit it was one of the more difficult ones in their Master/padawan relationship.

Grinning, Obi-Wan responded with, "Because you promised, Master, and a Jedi never breaks his promise." Cheeky padawan.

"Hmm, there are a few exceptions to the rules," Qui-Gon rumbled, using the Force to draw a packet of sauce from the pile stacked against the edge of the table, "For instance, if a certain padawan happened to get sauce all over his tunic…"

The padawan in question waggled a finger. "Don't you dare. I've already had to get two tunics cleaned because of your inability to sit through one meal here, and I'm not adding this set to the pile."

"We'll see about that."

The smell of cheap, greasy food and a blast of cold air from the cooling unit greeted him as he entered the diner. It was small, to say the least, modeled after some kind of star ship with a scattered crowd of customers. Owen couldn't tell if business was slow that day or if this was the usual amount of patrons, but it looked good enough for a quick bite. He sat himself down at one of the booths, right behind a tall human with long grey hair, raising an eyebrow as he overheard small snippets of the conversation, where the man behind him moaned about how fattening and greasy the food was—well that wasn't appetizing at all. Wondering if he should have gone to Biscuit Baron across the airway, Owen slipped his schooling datapad out from his pack and placed the pack on the floor, intent on studying for his test in Galactic History while he waited for the service droid to hurry up already. He lost himself in the din of the crowded restaurant, frowning faintly at the complaining of the man behind him. Thankfully, he got up to go to the 'fresher after a few moments and let Owen study in peace.

Obi-Wan scanned the menu briefly. "Sliders, protato wedges and a glass of ardees, please."

"Sure thing, sweetheart," WA-7, Dexter's primary waitress droid, intoned in her monotonous voice program, "You want pickled gartro eggs on that?"

"No, thanks." The padawan shook his head; no matter how many times he ordered the same dish, every blasted time, the droid never remembered his revulsion to the Coruscanti delicacy. The droid wheeled away to the next table, the shock of aurburn all he could see of the boy sitting there, pouring over a datapad. Probably a student cramming for an exam minutes after his lunch break. Honestly, some people had the worst study habits. The Jedi apprentice went back fidgeting with the sauce packet Qui-Gon nearly emptied onto his clean tunic. Something felt odd in the Force, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

Owen glanced up from his work as the waitress droid—finally—arrived and greeted him in that flat voice they gave all droids. Just in time; his stomach was painfully empty, and he had only an hour until his final. "Cup of ardees, sliders and protato wedges," he said rapidly, going back to the work at hand. The droid was silent for a moment, as confused as a droid could seem.

"Didn't I already get you?"

"Er, no, I don't think so. Oh, and a side of gartro eggs, please."

Something must have been wrong with its programming; the droid craned her "head" to look at the table behind him, then back at the student. "Uh huh. Coming right up."

Owen flashed her a fake grin; he knew he should have gone to the Biscuit Baron.

By now, Qui-Gon had been in the 'fresher for a few moments, and his hunger was beginning to take over. Obi-Wan carefully stacked the sauce packets on the table in a neat little tower to alleviate his boredom. WA-7 maneuvered back to his booth. "Food'll be here in a second, those eggs are taking a little while."

The Jedi-in-training's eyebrows crinkled. "I didn't order any eggs," he protested.

"If you say so, honey." WA-7 went to greet a new pair of customers heading in through the doorway, leaving the padawan frowning behind. Owen was getting a bit impatient; patience was never his strong suit. He had to be back at campus in little more than a half hour. Catching sight of the service droid showing a couple over to a booth, Owen leaned over and tapped the droid when it passed him. "'Scuse me," the thoroughly-hungry student interrupted, "Is my food almost done?"

"Should be, without the eggs."

"But I wanted eggs."

"Honey, make up your mind," the droid said snappishly. Owen shook his head; maybe he should skip lunch today. The droids here obviously needed maintenance done, there seemed to be no hopeful prospect of food any time soon, and the boy behind him was shouting through the din of the lunch crowd. Owen had half a mind to turn around and yell for him to shut up before he made him shut up. Lunatic.

Obi-Wan watched, puzzled, as his Master exited the restrooms and headed for the booth in front of them. Was the man daft? His padawan was sitting in plain sight, for Force's sake! And there he was, strolling over to the other table like he belonged there. The padawan tried to call his attention over, but Qui-Gon seemed intent on exasperating someone else for a change.

Owen glanced up as a man slid into the seat across from him, then did a double-take as he realised he most definitely did not know him. The other man exhaled noisily as he sat down, eyes closed in thought.

"Can I help you?" Owen asked, thoroughly confused and starting to wonder if the man was a bit off his rocker. The man looked at him like he'd lost his mind—like Owen was the one that didn't belong there!—and frowned.

"Well, you're my padawan, young one, I should be the one helping you," he smirked, as if this entire conversation was one vast inside joke.

Slowly, Owen pulled up the emergency Coruscanti Police number on his datapad that would send a signal for them in case the man was truly insane. "Sorry—padawan?"

The man's frown deepened, before he leaned over the table and peered closely at Owen, whose thumb hovered above the emergency number. His eyes widened in realisation, that this indeed was not his table and he most certainly had not met Owen before. Shocked eyes flickered to the booth behind him, his face turning ashen as they returned to Owen's face. "What in the—"

"Master!" Obi-Wan hurried over to apologise for Qui-Gon's strange behavior to the poor boy who was caught in the middle of the Jedi Master's odd ways, "I've been calling you for ages! This isn't you table, leave the poor boy alone! I'm sorry, he can be a bit—"

He never finished his sentence, for the padawan had finally caught sight of the other boy's face and was now returning his slack-jawed expression.

This is really not my best work and I'm sorry for the delay! I've been having trouble writing Star Wars recently (you'll know if you've been following my other story Captured Heart) and I'm hoping by updating some of my forgotten ideas I can get back on track. Next chapter will probably come sooner than this one did. Any suggestions, comments, criticisms, etc., are always welcome!