Archive: Yes
Archive Date: November 4, 1999
Author's Webpage: https://www.squidge.org/~pumpkin/
Disclaimer: mine they are not, dream a girl can
Feedback: is always appreciated.
Pairing: Q/O
Rating: Varies
Series: Snapshots
Summary: A series of "snapshots". The date listed
is the date the 'snapshot' was written/posted. Each piece is a
segment within the same universe, but they are not in any sort of order.
Each piece stands alone (iow-there are no "cliffhangers"). The snapshots
run the gamut from G to NC17. Some are several pages long, some only
a couple of paragraphs; some contain smut, many do not; they are different
styles with different voices.
October 01, 1999
I run down the dark street, automatically deflecting blaster fire. I can see the glow of Qui-Gon's 'saber about 15 yards ahead and slightly to my left as he does the same. The cobblestone road beneath my feet are uneven, taking more of my focus to traverse without tripping than I have to give. The erratic blaster fire comes from the old stone buildings that line the street like ghosts. Qui-Gon and I are caught in the middle, as we have been since we arrived on this Force-forsaken planet. We had been dispatched by the Council to investigate when rumours had led the Senate to believe that a centuries old treaty, which had led to an uneasy truce between the two races of Naphar, had been violated. What we had found upon our arrival was far worse than anything we could have anticipated. Horrible atrocities were being committed in the name of patriotism and freedom. Hate filled the very air we breathed, stifling even the Force. We had been here for six days before all-out war broke out. Our attempts at conciliation and negotiation had been met with scorn and mistrust, which had now escalated to outright hostility. No one would recognise that we had been sent in as peacemakers, observers, and so we stand alone.
Qui-Gon had called the Council this morning for an emergency removal, but the best they could do was two days hence. I'm not sure I'm going to make it two days. We've had so little sleep, so little chance to meditate and clear our minds and souls of the evil that rolls through this place like a fog, that I feel heavy and weak. I have never before felt so defeated and weary. I have never summoned the Force to me for strength and found it barely there, suffocating under brutality and hatred. This is the most scared I have been in my entire life.
I stumble around a corner, coming upon a band of northern youths brutally dismembering what is left of a southern Napharian with their bare hands. I cannot stop the choked sound of protest and horror that leaves my throat and they turn towards me, eyes wild and bloodthirsty. I turn to run and trip, half falling, but Qui-Gon has grabbed hold of my shoulder, dragging me back to my feet and urging me along. We turn another corner and douse our 'sabers, shrinking into the dubious protection of a doorway. I hold my breath as the mob rushes past our hiding spot; I am hanging onto Qui-Gon's robe like an anxious child.
The angry noise fades away as the cut-throat band disappears and I finally let my breath leave my lungs. I am trembling, from both exhaustion and fear. Qui-Gon pushes me deeper into the small alcove, cursing when the door he hopes to open with the Force turns out to have been bricked up from the inside. I pull what I can of the Force to me, steeling myself for another run through the streets, hoping that Qui-Gon has a destination in mind - somewhere we can safely await our rescue.
Instead of the dash into the street I am expecting, he pushes me into the farthest corner of the alcove, hiding my meagre view of the street with his body. He presses against me and I run my hands around his waist and hold on tight, thankful for the short respite, leaning into him for a few moments of much needed rest. I press my face against his shoulder and feel him lay his cheek against my hair as we cling to each other, bright lifelines in this dark world gone totally mad.
One large hand wraps around my braid, tugging gently. I look up at him, read his intent in his eyes a moment before his mouth covers mine. I pull back before he can turn the touch into a kiss.
"Master!" My voice squeaks. He shifts and I can feel his need pressing against my belly and his free hand has slipped beneath my waistband to grasp my naked buttocks, pulling me tighter against him. My body responds instinctively to his and, despite my shock, I am leaning up into him, rising to my toes and offering my mouth to him.
"My Obi-Wan," he whispers as his mouth once again reaches mine.
His kiss is infinitely gentle and, oh, so sweet and I feel tears come to my eyes. Trapped in this dread place, I had begun to despair us ever finding our way free of it. Rage, hatred and fear surround us so completely that I had imagined us lost, two tiny lights, within it's storm. But with one little kiss Qui-Gon is offering me all that is good and right and decent in his soul; he is pouring himself into me through the small connection of our mouths.
I deepen the kiss, greedily drinking his light, taking it into myself and feeling it strengthen me. His hands are stroking me through my clothing, making my flesh sing with pleasure. He opens my leggings, pushing the material of my robe and my tunics aside and pressing tightly against me once again. His cock is also bare and alive against mine. I grasp his shoulders, pulling myself up until I can wrap my legs around his waist. He grunts softly at the suddenness of my weight upon him, but it turns into a groan of pleasure as I shift slightly and his cock nudges against my opening.
I can only cling to him as he gives me another of those sweet, deep, soul-sharing kisses. His hands on my ass move me slightly and I can feel his cock pressing into me, hot and hard. I sob as he enters me, not because of the pain, although it does hurt a little given our lack of preparation, but because nothing has felt so right and good since our arrival.
He presses my back against the cold, hard stone, letting the wall take some of my weight. Hot, gentle kisses rain over my face and a large hand engulfs my shaft. I hold his shoulders tightly, digging my heels into his back as he begins to move, his long hardness pulling away and then pressing back into me. There is no pain after the first couple of strokes, but he doesn't increase his pace. Slowly and steadily he drives into me, his hand moving inexorably along my cock.
I'm slowly stretched tight with pleasure, the Force running into my body, filing my being with light and hope. My orgasm rocks me gently, filling me and flowing from me over the space of several minutes. I cling to Qui-Gon, feeling him stiffen and cling to me in return as his seed fills me. We hold each other, wrapped in a Force-bright bubble filled with love and laughter, hope and peace.
The darkness beyond Qui-Gon's shoulder doesn't seem so formidable anymore and I cup his cheek in my hand. I rub our noses together, and then our cheeks, ending the caress with a soft joining of our lips before reluctantly releasing the grip of my legs and sliding away from his body.
His eyes never leave mine as he quickly refastens our clothing. He shines now, we both do, the Force once more strong and light within us. With one last touch to my cheek, and a soft smile that I can now return, he dashes out into the street, heading towards the edge of the city. I follow him. As I always shall.
October 03, 1999
I like to sit quietly in the South Gardens, not meditating, just being. The Living Force is strong here; strong and bright and humming with an energy that always soothes and revitalises me. My Master and I are never at the temple very long. Qui-Gon always deliberately avoided Coruscant after losing Xanatos and once he had accepted me as his padawan, the Council was too used to relying on his skill and experience in the field to change things.
We often travel from mission to mission, not even stopping over on Coruscant in between. Or if we do stop, it is never for more than a few days. But no matter how short our stay, I always find time to stop in the gardens.
Master Windu is sometimes here, gardening. Much of this beauty sprang from his hands. I wonder idly who tended the garden before he took on the task. Many of the Padawan's are nervous of Master Windu and his serious demeanour. They believe him to be cold and aloof, but they have never seen him in the gardens, tending to the plants in the same way Yoda tends to all of us.
We exchange a nod of greeting and I move on to sit beneath the canopy of the banna tree, the long, wispy leaves rustling in the wind as they always do. I close my eyes and listen to their whispers. We have only just arrived back from a mission to the Outer Rim worlds several months in duration.
I had only just opened my bag to unpack when Qui-Gon had turned from the communication console.
"Don't bother," he told me with a nod to my bag. "We leave for Dalraine within the hour." I'd nodded, shouldering my bag once again and come to the gardens. If I only had a half hour at the temple, I wanted to spend it here, in this place. I close my eyes and feel the Force around me. What my eyes show me is beautiful; what the Force shows me is truly magnificent.
I feel Qui-Gon come to stand beside me and I know it is time to leave.
"I am sorry that we are always away from the temple, Padawan," he says to me as I fall into step beside him.
"I'm not. I enjoy our missions, Master."
"You are so often away from home, I worry that you shall lose your centre."
"The Force is my centre, my home" I tell him quietly.
"Then you are wise and always at home," he says, lengthening his stride as we turn a corner and the spaceport comes into view.
"The Force and you," I whisper, following.
October 04, 1999
He is pale from exhaustion. His hands are trembling but sure, covered in blood, almost lost in the voluminous sleeves of the robe that flows like a cape from his shoulders.
They showed up a few hours ago, stumbling into the tent. Seeking shelter - they were wet and battered by the storm.
"I am Qui-Gon Jinn and this is my Padawan, Obi-Wan. What can we do to help?" I wondered briefly what a padawan was but didn't ask. I spread my hands helplessly, indicating the room at large. There were more wounded here than I could heal on my own and they would be a big help, even if all they could do was hold the hands of the dying.
But of course they could do more than that. Directing the boy to the stretchers at the far end of the hall, the one called Qui-Gon strode to the opposite side of the tent and they began to work. My grandmother used to speak of miracle workers - men and women who could heal by "laying on the hands". I had always smiled indulgently at her, all the while dismissing her words as the ramblings of an old and senile woman, inwardly scoffing at the idea of healing without instruments. But I could hardly dismiss what was in front of my very eyes.
The boy, Obi-Wan, moves to the next stretcher. The man there has been moaning constantly with the pain. He stills the minute the boy's slender hands touch him, pressing gently against the wounded man's chest. Obi-Wan closes his eyes, his lashes seem impossibly dark against his alabaster face. A few moments later he opens his eyes and gently brushes he hair from the injured man's face, bending to whisper softly to him before moving on to the next stretcher with a stagger.
I take a step towards him, ready to push him onto a stretcher of his own when Qui-Gon arrives at his side. He places his hand on the boy's back, rubbing small circles over the brown cloth of his robe. He speaks to Obi-Wan, something about the living force and the storm, and the boy nods, his back straightening, and he looks up into the man's face. Qui-Gon nods and gently ruffles the spiked hair, and both go back to their work.
I go back to my own healing, reading the instrument in my hand and working to quickly knit together the wound before moving on to my next patient. I wonder how long these two strangers will continue, how much of themselves they will give. Everything until the last is healed, I suspect.
He almost glows he is so pale. His hands are sure, precision instruments, carving a wake of well-being behind him like the robe that flows like a cape from his shoulders.
October 05, 1999
I hadn't seen Obi-Wan since he stood before us, bruised and defeated, just before his thirteenth birthday when we sent him away. He and Qui-Gon had been back a few times in the intervening two years, but never for long.
The double doors to the Council Chamber opened and in strode two Jedi; Qui-Gon with Obi-Wan by his side. I had to restrain the gasp that rose at the sight of them.
We had sent a boy to Bandomeer. It was a man who returned in his stead, standing serenely before us now.
He had grown. That much was expected, though not to the extend which was now evident. His robe hung high around his ankles, well off the floor and his bone thin wrists were exposed by the sleeves of both his robe and his tunics. The boots on his feet, while a fair approximation, were not temple issue. He'd always been tall for his age and with this further growth I imagined he had reached his full height. What remained now was for muscle and flesh to catch up to bone. He had that painfully gaunt and gangly look of teenage boys who have not completely grown into themselves yet.
And yet he walked with an innate grace, despite the awkward length. He came in with confidence, his gait matching his Master's longer stride; back straight, carriage easy. They reached the circle and bowed to us. Obi-Wan stood at Qui-Gon's side as if he belonged there. As indeed any of us could see that he did.
October 06, 1999
Obi-Wan gasps as her breasts press against the naked skin of his chest, his cock becomes harder and his eyes fly open. His hands travel along her back, awkwardly tracing the line of her spine over and over again. The room is as white and pristine in the bright moonlight as he feels and he is trembling.
"If you would prefer another," Anya says quietly, pulling back, cupping his face with her small, soft hands. "There were many who desired you, perhaps a young man instead? Or someone whose experience matches your own?" she asks diplomatically. Her wide lips are unadorned, as is the rest of her face except for the dark line of kohl which accentuates the length and thickness of her lashes. Her smile is kind, her eyes wise.
Obi-Wan blushes and shakes his head. He had been very flattered when the young Hedonian had asked him to be her partner for the later half of the planet's new year ceremonies, and while he doesn't want to insult her, a part of him cries out against this casual sharing of bodies.
Anya runs her hand along Obi-Wan's naked shoulder, and he watches as her painted nails trail over his collarbone. He takes in a shaky breath. The soft scent of jasmine and wood smoke is carried on the breeze that billows the gauze curtains and lightly caresses his skin.
"You are very beautiful," he tells her softly. It is the truth but he feels as though he is telling a lie.
"But not who you wish to be with."
"I..."
"Your body is willing," she says, trailing a fingertip over the erection stretching his trousers and he gasps, hips bucking of their own accord at the unaccustomed touch of another. She watches his face closely as she drags her hand up his flat belly and along his chest to rest over his heart. "But this belongs to another."
Obi-Wan quivers; his mouth has gone completely dry. He tries to speak but cannot and so he nods.
Slipping off the bed, she picks her dress up off the floor where she dropped it and pulls it on. Her body sways enticingly in the moonlight the diaphanous material almost clear, but Obi-Wan cannot help but feel relieved that she is no longer naked; that she no longer expects anything of him.
She brings his tunic to him and helps him slide his arms into the sleeves. Kneeling by the bed between his legs, she places a soft kiss on his abdomen before carefully bringing the folds of material over each other and fixing his sash at his waist. She leans forward and kisses him gently, her tongue sliding between his soft lips before withdrawing. Her hand delicately traces his cheek.
She climbs back onto the bed and sits across from him. Taking his hands in her own she grins at him, taking on the air of a co-conspirator. When she speaks her voice invites his confidence.
"Tell me about him."
October 07, 1999
A soft wind teased the flames higher, tossing the scent of burning cherry wood and ash towards the mourners. Obi-Wan stood quietly next to his Master, watching the Regent's wife tear her pale blue handkerchief to pieces. Her husband stood still as a statue beside her, face set in stone. The ministers of Rishan formed a semi-circle around them, watching the dead boy burn.
Obi-Wan's gaze moved to the blazing pyre and he swayed, almost imperceptibly, towards Qui-Gon before stilling. Qui-Gon's hands clenched, but he didn't reach out.
Under Obi-Wan's watchful eyes the fire took the body of the Regent's son. He had been only seventeen, the same age as Obi-Wan himself. He had been quick-witted and irrepressible; as likely to slip a frog down the back of a maid's dress as give her an order. He had been next in line to rule Rishan, though the heavy green brocade of the official robes of office really did nothing for his complexion, as he had pointed to anyone who would listen. He had been Obi-Wan's friend.
A fine rain started to fall as the fire died down and the mourners began to disperse. Obi-Wan lifted his face to the sky, letting the water run unfettered along his features. Stepping forward, he placed a deck of cards upon the still-glowing embers, his gift to the departed. They had played every afternoon during aft-break, whiling away the time teaching each other games of chance; winning and losing worlds to each other. Obi-Wan watched as the cards slowly smoked and then sparked, the flame catching and burning them away to nothing.
As they turned to leave, Obi-Wan brushed against Qui-Gon's side and the older man's arm circled his shoulders. The wind had died down and the only sound was the crunch of the their boots upon the cobblestones and the hiss of the embers as the rain drove against them.
October 08, 1999
He bucked, arching upwards, but sure hands and a touch of the Force held him fast. If he'd wanted to he could have overpowered the man holding him down. Instead he surrendered to the pleasure, letting it fill him. His body thrilled to the sensation of being given free reign - of letting someone else worry about control. He twitched as the Force tickled between their bodies - electric heat and pleasure.
Qui-Gon moaned and arched again as Obi-Wan's mouth trailed down his chest, the young man's lips were scant millimetres from Qui-Gon's flesh and he was blowing a hot stream of air over the older man's skin. Obi-Wan moved slowly, every inch of Qui-Gon subjected to the sweet torture of his lover's breath. Qui-Gon's nipples were teased to hardness and he strangled his scream as Obi-Wan's hot tongue finally flicked out across the top of one sensitised nub. Qui-Gon looked down, meeting the mischievous glint in the sea-green eyes with a wry grin.
"Obi-Wan..." asking, warning, pleading - he didn't know which and as the young man's lips curved into a wicked smile he forgot what he had planned to say. Breath hitching in anticipation, he watched as the point of Obi-Wan's tongue slid past his lips. Qui-Gon waited, breathless for the electric touch, but only Obi-Wan's eyes moved over him.
Obi-Wan shifted lower, his tongue almost dipping into Qui-Gon's navel, but retreating back into his own mouth instead. Qui-Gon's lungs drew in air with a desperate gasp, his head dropping back to the bed with a thump. Obi-Wan travelled back up along his body, still not quite touching him. Qui-Gon shuddered as the young man exhaled into his ear.
"I really must thank you, Master."
"Thank me?" Qui-Gon managed to half-form the question.
"For my recent lessons in patience," he breathed softly into Qui-Gon's ear. "Usually I'm too eager to take the time to really enjoy the banquet that you are. But tonight," he licked along the curve of Qui-Gon's ear, "tonight I plan to savour every dish."
Qui-Gon moaned and clenched his hands into fists. His body was thrumming in anticipation and demanding that he take control of their passion, that he flip the younger man and make sweet, hot love to him. At the same time he revelled in his Padawan's meeting him as an equal here in the privacy of their bedroom, leaving the master/padawan dynamics behind. He would not take this confidence from his lover, no matter how badly his own body begged him for release.
Obi-Wan chuckled, his lips nibbling along the underside of Qui-Gon's chin. He lifted his head and looked down at the older man.
"Should I tie you down?" he asked, eyes dancing, as if he had read Qui-Gon's thoughts.
"I think-" Qui-Gon's voice broke and he cleared his throat several times before attempting to speak again. Obi-Wan waited patiently, staring down at him. Qui-Gon cleared his throat again. "I think I shall be able to manage."
"Very well," Obi-Wan murmured as he returned to his exploration of Qui-Gon's throat. It sounded very much like a threat.
October 09, 1999
It's been a hell of a day. I finally return to my office and I turn on my monitor. Sliding into my chair, I pluck my diva beads from the table, enjoying the feeling of the delicate glass running through my fingers. I switch the monitor to receive the feed coming from the room where we've put the meddlesome Jedi. I've already pegged them as lovers and I'm hoping to catch them at it. Perhaps I'll make a vid to sell or maybe I'll just keep it for myself - they are, despite their mission, a lovely pair.
They have come here to spy on me, to put me out of business and I have no compunction at turning the tables on them, especially if I can find profit in it. I turn up the volume and hit record. The younger one, the padawan Obi-Wan as he was introduced earlier today, is sitting on his heels by the high back winged chair that dominates the room from it's corner. This puts him in profile to me. His hands are on his knees and his eyes are closed, thick gold lashes, dusted with red, lie darkly against his cheeks. He is wearing what I assume are a sleeping tunic and trousers - they resemble his day clothing, but are of a much lighter material. The off-white is almost diaphanous and contrasts sharply with the deep green of the chair. The end of the thin braid on his chest curls beneath the darker point of his nipple outlined beneath the thin cloth.
The other Jedi comes in. Master Qui-Gon Jinn. He needed no introduction as he is rather a legend in these parts, or perhaps more of a rumour. At any rate, most of us straddling the legal line here on the Rim have heard of the fierce warrior Jedi who is as adept with his weapon as he is with diplomacy. I'm more than a little worried that these two are going to succeed in closing me down. He's just a man I keep telling myself. The image on my monitor does little to reassure me of this.
He comes into the room wearing only sleeping trousers, the thin material barely hugging his hips and I watch with breathless anticipation, half-hoping they will fall off. The long expanse of his chest rises above them, topped by a bearded face. His enormous hands are currently engaged in plucking at the tie in his hair. He is an imposing figure, even without the rumoured background.
"Obi-Wan," he says quietly and suddenly I'm really glad I've turned the volume up. His voice is rough, gravely in a quiet, commanding way. The young man takes several deep breaths and opens his eyes. They light up at the sight of the older man and even through the lens the love is almost a tangible, palpable thing.
"Would you do my hair?"
"Oh course, Master." The young man gracefully unfolds himself and sits in the big chair. His Master assumes the position that Obi-Wan has just vacated and his pants are pulled tight across his thighs. I almost drop my diva beads and take a moment to carefully put them down on my desk before returning my attention back to the scene unfolding before me. No wonder the young man smiles so readily at Qui-Gon.
Obi-Wan lets his legs drop to either side of his Master and he pushes himself forward until his groin is tight against Qui-Gon's back. His trousers seem very white against both the dark brocade of the chair and the tanned skin of the bigger man. Nimble fingers work at the brown leather tie holding Qui-Gon's hair back from his face. As he released the tie, the long hair waterfalls down, covering the older man's noble features from my view.
Obi-Wan puts the tie down on and picks up the brush he'd obviously set on the chair earlier. He begins to pull it through Qui-Gon's hair, first working out the tangles. There is a feeling of ritual to the movements and I wonder how many times, how many hundreds of times, they have repeated them.
Now that the tangles are out, Obi-Wan's strokes are long and even, running from the top of Qui-Gon's head and straight down. I loose track of how long I sit and watch, but Qui-Gon's eyes are closed and I can almost hear him purring. I'm half asleep myself, the hypnotic movements of the brush lulling me. Obi-Wan is wearing an intense look of concentration; Qui-Gon's hair is his sole focus. There is a ridge between his eyebrows and he has caught his lower lip between his teeth. The only sound in the room is the drag of the brush through the silvering hair.
"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan's says, as if they've been having a private conversation that my equipment has failed to pick up. I jump from the sudden noise. He puts the brush down and runs his fingers through the hair for several moments. Then his fingers deftly part the hair into three and he braids it loosely end over end over end, tying it off with the discarded hair-tie.
"Thank you, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon says as the younger man leans forward to kiss the top of his head. He rests his cheek there, running his hands under Qui-Gon's arms and linking them together across his chest. Qui-Gon's hands come up to hold Obi-Wan's, completely covering them. The older man's eyes are still closed and Obi-Wan's drift shut as well.
I know somehow that I am witnessing something special, extremely private. It's as if it would have been less of an invasion if I had caught them making love instead of performing this rite.
They still have not moved twenty minutes later when my comlink chirps at me and I must attend to my business. With reluctance I switch the feed on my monitor, the wrinkled face of Della the Hutt replacing the twined forms of the Jedi.
October 11, 1999
Obi-Wan leaned over the sink, gazing intently into the mirror. The smooth glass faithfully reproduced his face and the room around him. Running his hand over his lower jaw, he turned his head first this way, and then that. He frowned slightly. Certainly he could feel that there was some stubble on his cheeks, but the raised tiles on the walls looked more in need of a shave than his face did.
A form appeared in the mirror behind him and he jumped. Turning, Obi-Wan flushed slightly at having been caught in close examination of his own face. His Master smiled and held out his right hand, offering a small, brightly wrapped parcel. Obi-Wan took it, turning the cube in his hands, watching the light glinting off the metallic paper. It wasn't often that Qui-Gon presented him with gifts. He looked up at his Master, silently questioning.
"It is an important day in a young man's life," Qui-Gon told him. "Did you think that I would not wish to mark it with you?"
Obi-Wan ducked his head in a slight bow, feeling oddly pleased. "How did you know?"
"I am your Master," Qui-Gon answered simply.
Obi-Wan nodded at that - an answer that wasn't. How very Qui-Gon Jinn of him. He grinned up at the older man, deciding to take the gift at face value. He attacked the paper with un-Jedi like abandon, letting the torn pieces fall like confetti to the floor. He carefully lifted the lid of the box, peering into it.
"Wow," he breathed, hands passing over the objects nestled together, fingers playing gently across the different surfaces.
"They were mine," said Qui-Gon, taking the thick, short brush, shaving cup and straight razor from the box, "when I first started to shave." His Master raised one hand to his own face and caressed his beard. Obi-Wan grinned up at him again before his expression became serious. He solemnly took the items as Qui-Gon handed them to him, setting them down on the wide edge of the off-white sink. The two Jedi looked at the items for a moment before Obi-Wan nodded, satisfied with their placement.
Obi-Wan let the hot water run from the tap, making sure it was very hot before filling the cup and setting the vessel down again. The steam rose from the running water, slowly misting the mirror. Qui-Gon leaned forward and wiped away the condensation from the glass as Obi-Wan turned off the water. Qui-Gon fumbled with the pouch on his belt and brought out a small bar of round soap, placing on the top of the cup. Taking one of the small hand-towels from the rack, Obi-Wan folded it length-wise before tucking one end into his waistband.
He swirled the brush around in the soap until it lathered, several of the small bubbles escaping and floating down into the basin, disappearing against the white porcelain. Bringing the brush to his face, Obi-Wan looked up and met Qui-Gon's eyes in the mirror. The older man smiled softly, warmly.
Obi-Wan lathered his face, nose wrinkling and the corners of his mouth twitching as the strands on the brush tickled. He looked up at his Master for approval. Qui-Gon tapped his own face, between his nose and upper lip and Obi-Wan ran the brush over the small stretch he'd originally missed.
"Just take your time, Padawan, especially at your chin and above your lip," Qui-Gon advised as Obi-Wan exchanged the brush for the razor.
Obi-Wan nodded, wiping the razor across the white towel at his waist like he'd seen the temple's barbers doing. Tilting his chin into the air, he placed the straight-edge at his throat and dragged it upward, scrapping away the skin of a boy and leaving behind the smooth face of a man.
October 12, 1999
The storm had raged itself out; the dawn come and gone without notice and still the wounded lay before us. The Master had opened several of the tent's side-flaps when our torches had sputtered out. A blessed breeze blew through, pushing the stench of blood and death out, leaving behind the rain-washed scent of hope. The muted light of cloud-covered suns illuminated the sick in the tent - far more were getting better now than were dying and it made my heart that much lighter.
That I am still standing, working on the sick, is thanks to the young apprentice who continues to diligently give his all to my people. An hour or two ago - I cannot be sure as time has ceased to be more than an insipid enemy- I was about to collapse, unable to continue standing, let alone tend even the smallest of wounds. The boy had come to me, taken my hands and looked into my eyes.
"You have the heart of a lion and the strength of a dragon," he said to me. He sounded so young and so tired, it was as if the colour had bled from his voice. His face was the same - solemn eyes grey in a pale, muted face. Letting go of my hands, he put one of his hands on my forehead, the other over my heart and closed his eyes. For a moment the world swirled darkly around me and then I felt a charge go through me. He gave me a small smile, and then he turned and, staggering slightly, went back again to his healing. I have worked steadily since, with renewed purpose.
"That's the last one," I say with some surprise to the man who has come to stand beside me. The Master puts his hand on my shoulder and nods down at me from his great height. We turn together towards his apprentice just as he begins to collapse.
I surge forward, but it is the Master who reaches him first, who catches his body just before it reaches the floor. He cradles the boy in his arms, crooning gently as his hands smooth along the ashen face.
"Master..."
"Shh, Obi-Wan. You have done well. Sleep." He says it very softly and yet my own lids start to droop as I watch the young man follow his Master's bidding.
"Qui-Gon," he breathes as the Master wraps his dark brown cloak around his apprentice.
I crawl onto a free pallet and succumb to the command that had filled the tent, bringing healing sleep to all.
October 13, 1999
Cropped hair. Long braid. Leather boots; knee high. Uniform cream tunics, leggings. Flowing brown robe.
Lean muscles. Whipcord length. Force strength. Lightsaber; blunt and hanging.
Just another padawan. His Master's Pet. My mirror.
The Key.
I spit on the ground as he passes.
October 14, 1999
He thinks I don't notice the way he looks at me, scrutinising me when I practice, when I eat, when I sleep...when we make love. Always watching as if memorising me.
This morning when we woke he turned to me, eyes drinking me in, lips simply drinking from me. Then he ran a hand over me, making me shiver, and his eyes followed, flowing down my body in a second caress. His hand lingered on my hip, his eyes mapping the shape of my cock and the way it rose toward him, my body mutely begging for more of his touch.
I cupped my hand on his cheek, silk and fur against my palm, bringing his eyes back to my face.
"I want to watch you," I told him. His nostrils flared, his hand on my hip tightened in a possessive hold and for a moment I thought that he would deny me, would insist on pleasuring me, on snapping another memory for his album. But he turned his head and nibbled at my palm, licking the centre and gently biting the pad below my thumb and then he was lying back, sprawling luxuriously on the bed at my side.
I shifted until I sat beside him, in typical meditation pose, though I do not make it a habit of meditating either in the nude or with an erection, and I slowly pulled the sheet from his body. He shifted as the air kissed his skin, twisting sinuously, surprisingly graceful for such a large man.
And large he most definitely is. From the abundant, greying hair to his attenuated, slender feet; from his oversized hands - too big, even for him- to the length of his torso; from the long legs that seem to fill the bed to his impressive cock, there is nothing small about him.
My hands curled around my knees, gripping them as I forced myself to stay still and only watch as he moved in the spotlight the sun from the window granted him.
His eyes drifted closed, though his mouth remained slightly open, his tongue wetting dry lips. His back arched slightly as his hands ran over the muscles in his chest, following curves and indentations - the paths I so loved to travel with my tongue. Index fingers slowly circled nipples and my own tightened in sympathetic anticipation; when he flicked both simultaneously, I arched, pleasure lacing through me as if it had been me he was touching.
He fingered the small nubs for a moment longer before letting both hands drift downward, smoothing over his abdomen. Taut muscles flexed beneath the stroking fingers; I could feel the heavy weight of desire tighten in my own belly and my breathing was growing ragged, matching his. He didn't linger long on the flat expanse of his stomach and soon his hands moved down, following the inviting curve of his hips.
I gasped as he trailed a single finger over his erection, from root to tip, stopping to tease the slit before moving to run down the small vein that bisected the underside of his cock. He stole the breath from my lungs as I realised that he was touching himself the way he knew I liked best to be touched. My knuckles went white as my hands tightened their hold on my knees and I had to hold back a sob as he continued to tease himself with only the tip of one finger.
I was panting quite loudly, my cock aching for release by the time he stopped tormenting me. He wrapped one long-fingered hand around his shaft, the other sliding down to fondle his sack. His hand moved faster and faster until I had to look very carefully to see more than a blur but my concentration was rapidly scattering to the four corners of our bed and I didn't think I'd be able to withstand the torture much longer; my hands were numb from staying my need to reach out and touch him, touch myself, touch.
Crying my name as his standard, he came, his hips pressing his cock up into the passage of his hand. White, almost clear fluid flowed from him, painting his stomach and chest with his pleasure and I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer as my own orgasm swept through me, broad brush strokes streaking my belly.
I panted harshly, trying to catch my breath, to regain the equilibrium so utterly stripped from me without even a touch - I had been my own undoing. When I finally opened my eyes, it was to find his eyes open once again and staring at me.
He thinks I don't notice the way he looks at me, scrutinising me when I practice, when I eat, when I sleep...when we make love. Always watching as if memorising me. I wonder if he notices that I do the same?
October 15, 1999
I picked up his trail again this morning. He was with his Master this time. A step to the side and behind - the dutiful little lamb. I could feel his aura in the force around him - peace and happiness- and I immediately hated him for it. Just one more thing for the list.
It's a long list.
I stalked after them as they went about their business. How bold they were, how assured as they invaded my world, visiting the shops I frequent, walking the streets where I tread. I was at first surprised that they didn't recognise my signature within the Force, but then I remembered that they both thought me dead. My hand drifted to my face, fingering the tracery of scars that covered it, leading down into my shirt.
The boy's face is smooth and unlined. I suppose some would call him beautiful. I have no doubt his Master would. I have no use for beauty, though I would like to twist his until my scars seem mild beside his. And then I would send him back to his Master. What would he make of his little lamb then?
Oh yes, he is the Key.
And none other than their precious Force has delivered him to me.
October 17, 1999
Obi-Wan ached.
His arms ached. His legs ached. Every muscle in his stomach ached. Even his padawan braid ached. He desperately wanted a hot bath, a shower, a massage, or even just to move. For a moment he considered losing his centre and falling, but he knew that would only bring temporary relief. He had never completed the immobility exercise, but Qui-Gon would not let him fail this time simply because he was sore.
He was naked, eyes closed; his arms held out perpendicular to the rest of his body and he balanced on the ball of one foot, his other leg straight out behind him. He was dimly aware of Qui-Gon nearby, sitting in his chair reading and drinking tea, but his focus was inward as it needed to be to remain so still.
He'd almost had it but his discomfort had made him loose focus and he needed to start the breathing over again. In, slowly, hold it for a count of sixty and out slowly, wait for a count of sixty and then repeat, letting more and more time go between breaths. He let his dislike of this exercise go - it wasn't important. He let his pain go - it wasn't important. He let time go - it didn't matter. He sharpened his focus and then sharpened it again until there was nothing but stillness in the Force.
Suddenly he felt as though he were the Force as the stillness within him and without came together and he knew for a fleeting moment the caress of the power he had dedicated his life to.
October 19, 1999
Obi-Wan flung himself down on the bed with a loud sigh, the bunk raising an indignant squawk of metal grating against metal. Qui-Gon kept his features impassive and continued to compose the report he was to deliver to the Council when they arrived back at Coruscant. He forced his fingers to keep on with their task even though his Padawan had vacated the bed once again and was now prowling around the small room. The clump of his boots accompanied his movements, giving Qui-Gon an aural map of the youth's movements.
Another loud sigh and metal protest as Obi-Wan once again flung himself at the bed. Qui-Gon pulled patience and calm around himself like a cloak. His voice, when he spoke was mild.
"If you are intent on pulling a bunk from the wall, I would appreciate it if you returned to your own quarters and subjected the bed there to the punishment."
"Sorry, Master." The tone was petulant enough that Qui-Gon could well imagine the pout that accompanied it. He had to close his eyes and breath deeply to keep that calm cloak around himself as the boy began pacing once again. He followed the movements with his eyes this time, drawn to Obi-Wan's cream-clad body, bright against the dull gunmetal grey of the ship - the flame to his moth.
"Is there a problem, Padawan?" he finally asked, needing to break Obi-Wan's restless steps before he lost his own calm and gave into the impatience the moody teenager was inspiring in him.
"I'm bored," said Obi-Wan, dropping heavily into the metal deckchair next to Qui-Gon's. He leaned against his Master's shoulder, looking idly at the datapad in front of him. Qui-Gon very carefully saved his report.
"Lightsaber dri-" Qui-Gon began, only to be interrupted.
"Not enough room."
"The minor free form katas."
"Did them. Twice. And the abridged first through fifteenth forms."
"Our ship-"
"Is tiny and I've explored it from end to end to end. Our pilot told me to stay out of his hair and his cockpit." Obi-Wan's voice was a cross between resentful and indignant and Qui-Gon had to hide his smile. He could well imagine Obi-Wan, with all his adolescent curiosity and mood swings driving the pilot to sending him away; he let himself wish for a moment that he could do the same before releasing the emotion and focusing again on his Padawan's tedium.
"I am sure there are lessons-"
"But Master, I'm well caught up with my temple assignments, besides they're"
"Boring," Qui-Gon finished along with his student. "Very well then, I suggest meditation." He held his hand up, calling for silence when Obi-Wan would have spoken. "I believe you could use some work on the topic of patience. Specifically on not interrupting people."
Obi-Wan sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging, looking every inch the intractable teenager even as he somehow managed to appear contrite.
"Yes, Master," he answered heavily. But the stormy eyes that briefly met Qui-Gon's were not entirely rebellious as a hint of gratitude shone in them.
Qui-Gon watched as his Padawan folded gracefully down into a meditative pose next to the bunk. Obi-Wan took a deep breath and closed his eyes; Qui-Gon could almost see the tension seeping from the youth's muscles as he cleared his mind to enter a contemplative state
Qui-Gon fully understood what Obi-Wan was experiencing - even Jedi were subject to the hormonal changes that marked adolescence. But he would be very glad when he had his Obi-Wan back.
With a sigh of his own, he turned back to the patiently blinking cursor on his datapad.
October 21, 1999
I come out of the bathroom after my shower, leaving the small steam-filled room with some reluctance as I've forgotten my robe. As I enter the bedroom, I find my Master finally returned from yet another meeting with the Council and suddenly the room doesn't seem so cool after all. He's half undressed - his belt and sash over the back of a chair along with his robe and outer tunic. His inner tunic hangs open, gaping, leaving the long expanse of his magnificent torso to play peek-a-boo with my hungry eyes.
"Obi-Wan," he breathes my name as I come to a stop in front of him and one hand comes up to ever so softly cup my cheek, his thumb brushing under my bottom lip with a touch that just barely whispers across my skin. The softness and gentleness of this large and fierce warrior bring me to my knees in front of him. I'm possessed by sudden need and I push him roughly towards the wall behind him, my hands grasping briefly at his hips before sending him back. He moves slowly backwards at my urging, watching me as I come towards him, still on my knees. I feel wanton and wild, needy; I'm naked with my sex hanging heavily between my legs, thickening and growing heavier as I stalk towards him. He has to stop when he reaches the wall, back pressed up against it. I stop when my face is planted in his crotch and I begin to mouth his growing erection, hot and insistent beneath the linen of his trousers.
He gasps, moans, and then his hands are stroking over my head, running through my damp hair and I can tell the moment he locks his knees in place to keep from sliding to the floor. I growl in pleasure and triumph and warning and he shivers as the vibrations go through him. My hands are eager but sure as I undo his leggings, pulling them down until they get caught on the top of his boots and I just leave them there, tangled in his legs.
I pull back slightly and tease his shaft with my tongue, lightning quick licks - guerrilla attacks as I'm there and then gone again. I lean down and nuzzle his sack, breathing in the earthy, rich scent of him, blowing the air out through my mouth over his hot flesh. I run my lips over the head of his cock, leaning back and looking up at him as I lick the small drops of his liquid from my now damp lips.
He growls and one hand winds itself around my braid, tugging my head forward as the other wraps around the back of my neck, cradling my skull. I resist for a moment until he looks down at me, meets my eyes and I let him see how hot it makes me to be kneeling in front of him like this, the bottom of his open tunic brushing against my cheek. Eyes still holding his, I move slowly forward, making an 'o' of my mouth and letting it slide over his erection. His eyes close as my lips gently push back his foreskin and his hands clench.
I close my eyes too because I want to feel this, feel all of it. Feel the bumps and lines and harness and softness and sheer long length of him. I keep moving forward, past the glans, past bulging veins in silky, hot flesh; I go until I'm sure I'm going to gag. I breathe deeply, once, twice and a third time and relax, pushing forward and taking him deep into my throat until my nose is snug against the wiry dark hairs.
He's making these soft, strangled noises and his hands are opening and closing around my braid and head. I pull back just as slowly, tasting him in reverse and then I look up at him again. All the way up to his face which he has thrown back against the wall and his mouth is gaping open and half closing like a fish out of water with his hair spilling around his face and down his neck. He's whimpering now with his eyes closed and this needy expression that's begging, even if he doesn't realise it. I say softly, very softly "do it".
His hands close tight, his right still wrapped in my braid and pressed hard against my neck, his left still cupping the back of my neck, my head, now holding me in place as his hips begin to move. Slowly at first, long even strokes into my mouth, over my lips, past my teeth, along my tongue and into my throat and back and forward again. My hips are moving in time to his, my cock is so hard and I want to touch myself but I'm bracing my hands against his thighs and I can't seem to convince them to move, to loosen my grip. I just ride it out, knowing that I will come when he does, that his climax will trigger my own.
He speeds his thrusts, moving just a bit faster, and I hollow my cheeks, increasing the suction. He cries out, hands tightening further as his thrusts grow hard and frantic and he's using my mouth, using me. My hips are lunging wildly into the air and my breath is loud in my ears, it sounds like a steam engine, coming down the track, inevitable, bearing down on me like our orgasms are bearing down on us.
Everything around me fades, even the hands, my beloved's hands in my hair, on my head, disappear. Everything is gone but his cock; hard, urgent, relentless, plundering my mouth, bucking into me, and my own cock; hard, urgent, relentless, desperately humping the air. Our orgasms hit us; he screams and I try to but his seed is spilling down my throat, burning down my throat and into my belly, into me.
He's leaning against the wall now and I pull away, letting his penis fall from my mouth with reluctance - I want to live with him inside me and I smile a secret smile as I realise that part of him is inside me still. He looks down at me, eyes almost black with our passion. I don't have to wonder what he sees as he looks down. I know I must look as debauched as he does, with my cum on my chest and on my thighs, my lips swollen and dripping the overflow of his pleasure. I slowly slide my tongue out and along my lower lip, greedily pulling the drops into me, not wanting to lose a single one. He shudders and his knees unlock and with a very ungraceful drop he falls to the floor and into my arms.
We should go to bed before we fall asleep on the floor, before the room becomes too cold, but for now I can't do anything more than live in the moment and hold him, boneless and sated, in my arms.
October 24, 1999
Shifting to sit with his back against the trunk of the large tree that sheltered their camp, Qui-Gon sighed heavily. His bones settled softly, each one seeming to report in of it's own accord to remind him of it's unhappy existence.
And Obi-Wan looked worse than he felt.
Qui-Gon watched as the young man came back up the slight path, plates, cups and utensils still dripping slightly, the moonlight turning them into bits of flashing silver.
"Leave them by the fire to dry," Qui-Gon suggested, "and come sit here with me."
"Yes, Master." The words were proper enough, but the tone held that hint of laughter just around the corner. Qui-Gon smiled and patted his legs, spreading them invitingly. Settling between them, with his head cushioned on one large thigh, Obi-Wan closed his eyes and rubbed his cheek almost absently against Qui-Gon's groin.
"Are you trying to kill me?" he asked the older man.
"Whatever do you mean?" said Qui-Gon as he began to run his fingers through the short hair on his Padawan's head. The moon through the leaves, the crackling fire several yards away, all conspired to highlight the dark circles in the fragile skin beneath Obi-Wan's eyes.
"We haven't had a vacation in several years and when we finally have the time to indulge ourselves and rest...I have to tell you that this little 'camping trip' has been far more work than the majority of our missions."
Qui-Gon chuckled at the plaintive tone, recognising the dry humour hiding beneath it, and let his fingers move deeper, rubbing against Obi-Wan's scalp as they trailed through his hair. "It has been rather strenuous."
"Rather strenuous?" Obi-Wan's eyes cracked open as he rubbed his head up into Qui-Gon's gentle stroking. "More," he insisted before returning to grumbling. "You have always been a Master in understatement. Rather strenuous? I'll have you know there isn't a part of my body that doesn't hurt. I imagine you would say that what I am feeling is a 'little achy'."
Qui-Gon said nothing, but his other hand joined the first on Obi-Wan's body - this one running over his face. He worked diligently, weaving the Force into his touch, slowly working the aches and pains from Obi-Wan's head and face before moving down over his neck and shoulders.
"On the other hand," Obi-Wan purred as he stretched his body sinuously, hands running along Qui-Gon's legs, "I could get used to this."
"Even if you had to climb Mount Zaki every day?" Qui-Gon teased.
"I would climb it twice a day to find you at the top." Obi-Wan lifted his lids, eyes gazing up at Qui-Gon with burning intensity. He pressed his cheek more firmly against Qui-Gon's groin, rubbing against the bulge that had increased in girth over the last few moments.
"I thought you were tired."
"That was before you started playing the wizard with your hands," Obi-Wan replied as he twisted and rose to his knees. Pressing his length against Qui-Gon's abdomen, an unmistakable brand, his mouth met Qui-Gon's in a long, leisurely kiss.
Qui-Gon initiated the second kiss, this one deeper and harder, as his hands slid down and efficiently freed first Obi-Wan's and then his own erection. Never breaking the kiss, Obi-Wan put his knees on the outside of Qui-Gon's thighs, bringing their cocks to the same height.
Moaning into Obi-Wan's mouth, Qui-Gon slid his hands beneath the top of Obi-Wan's leggings and grasped his ass, pulling their shafts tightly together. Obi-Wan threw his head back as he began to circle his hips, Qui-Gon taking advantage of the position to worry a patch of pale skin into a rosy tattoo.
Obi-Wan kept the pace slow and Qui-Gon cried out, in both pleasure and surprise as his orgasm crept upon him, washing over him in an almost gentle explosion. He watched Obi-Wan's face as the younger man came shortly after, catching him to his chest as he sank, boneless. The Force blanketed them gently, kept them warm and comfortable.
The leaves in the tree above them rustling in the wind, Obi-Wan whispered his name as he slept.
October 25, 1999
Wind howled across the desert plain of R'nchal, angrily blowing sand and debris before it. Obi-Wan pressed his face close against his Master's chest. He could feel the older man's face pressing against the top of his head, breath stirring his short hair; the big body pressed his back hard against the small outcropping of rock that was their sole shelter from the storm. Qui-Gon's cloak was wrapped tightly around both of them, holding them in a dark, protective cocoon.
Obi-Wan didn't want to die, especially not like this, smothered by sand on this hot and cold world. He couldn't help thinking that 14 was far too young to die.
"There is no death; there is only the Force." Qui-Gon's voice was soft but the words vibrated through Obi-Wan's skull and he heard them.
"Yes, Master," he answered mildly, trusting the older man would hear him as well. He gave in to the pull of his Master's arms, pushing his face deeper into Qui-Gon's chest, nose pressed against the flesh beneath the tunics. He breathed shallowly; the air was slightly stale, but blessedly sand-free. It smelled like his Master; warm and alive. Obi-Wan held onto the scent as his arms clung to the larger body, feeling the sand piling, higher and higher, against Qui-Gon's cloak.
October 26, 1999
Obi-Wan waited until the last of the class left the room before moving to the front. The lights had been turned off, but it was a bright outside and the sun was shinning in through the windows. Obi-Wan liked the way it made the dust and chalk specs dance around.
"Question have you, young Obi-Wan?" asked the teacher as the boy came to a stop in front of him.
"Yes, Master. Would you show me how to make a lightsaber?" Obi-Wan tried very hard to keep the emotion out of his face the way the masters and knights and even the padawans always did, but he could feel excitement inside him and it made it very hard to stand still. He knew he couldn't hide anything from Master Yoda anyway - the old Jedi could see right through you like you were glass. He had heard some of the older initiates saying that the Force gave him eyes in the back of his head, but Obi-Wan had checked and the two in front were all that Master Yoda had.
"Hmmm? A lightsaber you want?" The large green ears moved separately, one coming forward as the other swivelled sideways. Obi-Wan couldn't hide his grin; he was secretly convinced that the old Master did it on purpose to make the little children giggle. The fact that he would frown and hrumpf, often banging his cane on the floor once or twice, whenever they did giggle only made them laugh all the harder.
"Yes, Master."
"Ready, you think you are?" Master Yoda looked at carefully.
"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan answered again - he thought those were the two words he used most often along with 'no, master'. He didn't look away from Master Yoda's stare - he really wanted to make his own lightsaber and knew that he had to act all grown up if Master Yoda was going to say yes.
"Why me you ask?"
"Because you know everything!" replied Obi-Wan, saying the first thing that popped into his head.
A funny wheezing sound began to come from Master Yoda and he bent over slightly, eyes closing.
"Are you all right, Master?"
The wheezing continued.
"Master Yoda!" Obi-Wan's high, young voice raised even higher with his alarm. Master Yoda nodded, making a waving motion which the boy took to mean that the small Master was choking and he began to thump his back.
"Fine I am." Master Yoda finally managed, backing away from the coming thump. Obi-Wan waited, hand ready to continue it's thumping, while Master Yoda shook himself slightly and adjusted his robe. The old Master settled himself, leaning once again on his cane.
"Afraid of me you are not, hmmm?"
"No, Master." Obi-Wan relaxed, letting his hand drop - it looked like Master Yoda was okay now.
"Other initiates, afraid of me they are?
"Well..."
"Some?"
Obi-Wan nodded.
"Most?"
"Yes, Master."
"Why afraid of me you are not?"
"I'm not supposed to be, am I?" asked Obi-Wan, looking suddenly horrified.
The wheezing noise started up again and Obi-Wan looked as though he were about to start thumping again. Master Yoda backed away slightly and the wheezing came to an abrupt halt with a strange hiccup that ended on a noise that sounded an awful lot like a high-pitched giggle.
"So, answer the question will you. Why afraid of me are you not?"
Obi-Wan looked at Master Yoda for a long time as he thought about the question; he had discovered that the old teacher liked to ask questions that had more than one answer and you had to pick which answer was most right. Master Yoda's face was the same height as his own - that had always made the small Jedi seem more approachable to him than most of the other masters, but Obi-Wan sensed that that wasn't the answer Master Yoda wanted. And Master Yoda always made the smaller children laugh, even if he pretended that he didn't do it on purpose; he made Obi-Wan laugh too, but Obi-Wan didn't think that answer was most right either.
"I like you," he finally said, the simple answer ringing more true than anything else he could think of.
"And like you I do," replied Yoda, holding out his arm for the boy to take. "With me to my quarters you will come. Make a lightsaber you will."
Grabbing the Jedi Master's arm, Obi-Wan bolted from the room, turning eagerly in the direction of Yoda's quarters.
"Slow down you will."
Obi-Wan did, reluctantly, but he couldn't keep back the sigh that left his lips.
"Not going anywhere, your not-yet-constructed lightsaber is. When 700 years older you be, slow also will your legs go." Master Yoda tapped him lightly on the shins with his cane, and this time the young boy was able to hide his grin.
"Yes, Master."
October 28, 1999
Having pricked his finger yet again, this time drawing blood, Obi-Wan flung his tunic on the floor. He sucked on the sore digit, waiting for Qui-Gon's reprimand.
"You need to learn to control your temper, Obi-Wan."
"But I was controlling it." He didn't turn to look at his Master on the chair behind him. Nonetheless he could feel Qui-Gon pointing out the discarded garment with a nod of his head.
"But you should have heard the curses I held back, Master!"
The older man chuckled softly. "Obi-Wan you need to know how to sew. It is an important skill and not just for mending. Not every lesson is going to be fun, but it must be learned just as diligently as those that are."
"I know that, Master" he said, finally turning to look up at Qui-Gon from his place on the floor at his Master's feet. "It's just that that little needle seems bent on using my fingers as a pincushion. Can't I just use the Force to do the work?"
Qui-Gon stood and retreated into his room. Obi-Wan bit the side of his mouth, chewing on the soft flesh until Qui-Gon came back a moment later with one of his own darker tunics in his hand. He held the garment out to Obi-Wan.
"Some things you must learn to do yourself, Padawan. Practice makes perfect."
Obi-Wan groaned, taking the tunic from the older man. He folded it carefully and placed it on the floor at his side before picking up his own tunic once again. Finding the needle and dangling thread, tongue slipping between his lips, he continued to make the tiny stitches that would mend the tear in the sleeve.
October 29, 1999
Qui-Gon wiped his hands dry on the small tea-towel and left the kitchen. Coming into the common room, he pulled up short as he noticed Obi-Wan. His apprentice sat on the floor, back against Qui-Gon's favourite chair, Qui-Gon's utility belt in one hand, a needle and thread in the other. Beside him was a small stack of items that were in need of mending, various shades of cream and brown. The young man was bent slightly over his work, fingers nimbly working the thread into the belt in small, even stitches. The glow of the wall lamps threw Obi-Wan into soft shadow and Qui-Gon almost missed the pink tip of tongue caught between lips.
He stayed where he was, just watching Obi-Wan working diligently. After a few moments of silence, Obi-Wan looked up at him.
"What?"
"Nothing," said Qui-Gon, folding his arms over his chest and leaning against the entrance, content to continue watching.
"What?" Obi-Wan said again, continuing when Qui-Gon didn't answer, "certainly the sight of me mending hasn't so entranced you that all you can do is stand and stare?" The tone was teasing, the humour dancing in lively eyes.
"You would be surprised, Padawan."
Obi-Wan smiled and shook his head as he tied off the final stitch. He folded the belt neatly, laying it on the floor to his right and picked up the next item from the pile on his left - a pair of cream leggings, torn on their last mission when Obi-Wan had not been quick enough and they had been caught by a small Jala knife.
"There are some days when I don't think that I'll ever fully understand you, Qui-Gon."
"A little mystery in a relationship is a good thing." Obi-Wan chuckled at the proverb and Qui-Gon moved forward, crouching in front of the young man. He reached out, running one long finger along the length of braid that lay by Obi-Wan's chest.
"I love you," he said softly.
Obi-Wan looked up at him, small smile pulling his lips up at the corners.
"I love you, too."
October 30, 1999
"What have I done?" Obi-Wan asked, looking miserably from Qui-Gon to Master Yoda and back again. Since becoming Qui-Gon's padawan two years earlier, he and his Master had not been separated. Indeed they had spent very little time at the Temple itself and instead had travelled from planet to planet on various missions. He could only imagine that he had done something terrible to be separated now from his Master.
"Wrong you have done not," Master Yoda reassured him.
"Then why am I being punished?"
"Punished you are not," said Yoda, patting Obi-Wan's knee. "Make sure of your progress we must and lots to learn from you have the other padawans. Teach them of diplomacy and other worlds you will."
"But you're sending Master Jinn on a mission."
"Involved in this mission you must not be. Too dangerous it is."
"If it's dangerous then my Master needs me by his side." He looked from Master Yoda to his own Master - surely they could see the truth in this.
"Not this time, Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon joined Yoda in his attempt at persuading the young man that remaining at the temple would be best for everyone. "I would like nothing better than to have you with me, but I'm afraid in this case it would be more of a hindrance than a help, through no fault of your own, only the circumstance of your age."
Obi-Wan could already feel the cold of being left behind, of being alone.
"My Master will take good care of you," Qui-Gon added quietly, as Obi-Wan's shoulders curled forward, his lower lip jutting out, despite his effort to keep his emotions banked.
"It's not the same." Obi-Wan didn't look up at his Master, afraid he would cry if he did.
"I know, but before you know it I'll be back."
"Promise?" Obi-Wan asked very softly, focussing on the grey carpet, imagining he could see the individual threads that were woven tightly together.
"I promise. After all, I have to come back before he tells you all my secrets. As it is, I'm sure I'll never live down all the stories he'll make up about me."
This brought a smile to Obi-Wan's face and without warning he launched himself at his Master, tightly wrapping his thin arms around Qui-Gon's waist.
"I lo- I'll miss you, Master." The words were muffled against Qui-Gon's tunic, but Obi-Wan knew that they had been heard.
"And I you, Padawan," Qui-Gon replied, returning the hug and ruffling Obi-Wan's hair.
October 31, 1999
Moving. Swirling. Twirling. Floating.
They danced like earth and air - together and apart, the one ending where the other began effortlessly, seamlessly.
One foot moving forward, one moving back, two stepping sideways in the complicated boxed shape of the Square Ka'loon. They wound around the other dancers easily, as if a path had been cleared before them.
Strength and grace, well-matched and mated. The joyous melody augmented by their movements. Harmony and counterpoint embodied in the flesh. Common cream and simple tan married to bright red of desire and deep purple of forever.
Shifting. Whirling. Spinning. Twisting.
And we had thought the Jedi a passionless and plain sect.
End.