texasdreamer01

Title and Platform: Stamp of Approval (AO3) (tumblr)
Recipient: thenegoteator
Rating: Gen
Fandoms: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Characters: Obi-Wan Kenobi, Mace Windu, Alpha-17, Anakin Skywalker, Yoda
Additional Tags: Jedi Culture & Tradition, Higher Education, Love-Hate Relationship With Coffee
Summary:
"Obi-Wan gets his Master's rank. There's a little more to it than that, though."

The blinking cursor on his datapad wasn’t mocking him. No, no it could not – Jedi-issued technology did not mock. Tease, maybe, but not this incessant, flickering tranquility.

It reminded him of Yoda.

He sighed, saving the file once more and shoving it off to the side.

One was not a Master until they completed the Trials, this was true. What the younglings of the Temple didn’t acquire a fine appreciation for until they apprenticed under another Jedi was thesis required to give something back to those that encouraged them on their path.

With the stacks of loaned data-sticks from the library neatly piled in an open container on his desk, Obi-Wan felt another bout of acute sympathy for the university students that accomplished this, seemingly, on the regular. The last time that he had written an essay of such thorough length was after his unconventional knighting.

Groaning, he pulled himself up from his chair, grabbing his empty caff cup and wondering how much of his ration card subsisted off of various low-grade stimulants and whether the healers could sense his blood pressure from across the Temple.

Probably. They were rather good at tracking him down when he skirted the truth on injuries.

Pleasant thoughts in mind, he ran a hand down his beard, peering through the cabinets for something quick to eat. His stomach grumbled for something fresh, but at the moment deadlines prevaricated the need for subsistence from the refectory. A pack of noodles in a vegetable sauce seemed the best compromise, and he filled both bowl and cup with water for the small, counter-top heating unit he had borrowed off of Aayla.

Listening to the unit work, Obi-Wan leaned against the counter, squinting at the table holding an atrocious amount of datapads that encompassed all of the work he had. Hopefully this thesis would be done soon, and then he could get back to his typical load of grading history classes, responding to whatever mechanical manuals Anakin had sent him, and the towering stack of forms Alpha had handed over to him for the running of an army.

Funny sense of humor, that man. He didn’t actually like that much reading, despite the ice-breaker of a quip during one of their first conversations.

Obi-Wan was tempted to blame Yoda. He was sure that would go over well.

Lost in his thoughts and attempting not to nod off on the spot, the ding of his food finishing startled him. He scrubbed a hand at his eyes, ran a hand through his hair, and deliberately did not look at the chrono.

Seventeen out of fifty pages. The coffee absolutely did not give the relieving jolt it should have at the knowledge of how many sections left he had to go.

Sixty-three out of fifty pages.

Anakin was laughing at him somewhere, probably. He consoled himself with the knowledge that his padawan would likely get a taste of his own medicine, grumbling to himself as he selected another colour to highlight a lengthy section.

When Alpha had inquired as to the status of his thesis, Obi-Wan had been sorely tempted to groan and toss the datapad at him. At least the data-sticks were returned, the rattling of that many crystals upon Jocasta’s service desk haunting him every time his eyes closed. The bastard had definitely laughed at him, swapping out completed requisition forms for new ones with a reminder that even a general needed more sleep.

At this point a Sith would be welcome. Either he wouldn’t have to complete this thesis, or he’d be granted a hefty sum of medical leave to stare at a wall that had nothing to do with his subject of choice.

Why, oh why, did he pick something he was interested in?

Sixty-one out of fifty pages.

This time Anakin did laugh at him, but quailed and feigned sympathy at his master’s fatigued scowl. Anakin also has some choice words for his decisions in highlighter colour, but at least the outside perspective was helpful.

Somewhat.

No, Anakin, the perspective of droids on historical Jedi military strategy was not useful. Even if it was interesting.

He bookmarked the links his padawan had left annotated on the thesis. Maybe for some leisure reading later.

Fifty-two out of fifty pages.

Well. At least he had a wall in medical to stare at. The trooper who had reviewed his vitals looked bewildered and impressed at how high his blood pressure, apparently, was.

Alpha had cheerfully informed him that minor shrapnel wounds that nicked an artery usually didn’t have such spray characteristics, and outside of the two troopers that had felt a little faint at the sight, the rest were taking bets on his continued medical improbabilities.

This time, at least, the running of an army was shifted onto Alpha’s shoulders. The man was nearly amusingly undeterred at the workload. Obi-Wan had asked him if commanders typically partook of caff, and bribed one of the few troopers willing to come by after that with a caramel candy Mace gifted him at the last war meeting to bring his personal datapad in.

Deadlines waited for no one, and at least the familiar stirrings of contempt at his page count could keep him company.

Forty-nine point eight-nine pages out of fifty.

It was his new favourite number.

This time he didn’t feel the need to fling the datapad out into deep space, but that was only because he was frantically double-checking all of his sources to make sure everything was in place.

He took a sip of caff out of habit. Eugh.

“Congratulations, Master Kenobi,” Mace said, smiling with his typical levels of compassion and no small amount of personal amusement, “A record of your thesis will join the Archives – it has been a while since we’ve had such an illustrious entry for mastership.”

Obi-Wan, thinking fondly back to the overly-sweet iced caff and triple-decker nerfburger with fries that he had enjoyed at Dex’s in celebration after a twenty-hour nap, frowned, “Master Windu?”

Yoda tapped his cane upon the Council floor, chortling, “Fifty pages, a challenge, it is not! Average, thirty-seven, it is.”

“Why I never-”