DISCLAIMER: Star Wars and all publicly recognisable characters, names and references, etc are the sole property of George Lucas, Lucasfilm Ltd, Lucasarts Inc and 20th Century Fox. This fan fiction was created solely for entertainment and no money was made from it. Also, no copyright or trademark infringement was intended. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Any other characters, the storyline and the actual story are the property of the author.
“Something productive. That’s it, I’m going to do something productive today,” you say definitively as you slouch on the couch in one of the many TV rooms watching Kegis and Rathie Gee pound each other over the head with sarcasm and insults. And people wonder why you like them.
“Yep, productive,” you say again. “That’s what I’ll be.”
“Why?”
You look up to see Kayla standing in the doorway. “Oh, I dunno. Seems like the thing to do.”
“Well, you should at least get dressed,” she says.
“Because?”
“Because Obi-Wan is here,” she says.
“I thought they were gone,” you say.
“They’re back,” she says.
“Oh,” you say, zoning back into the television.
“Um, hello,” Kayla says. “You want me to just send him in here?”
“Oh,” you say surprised and sit up. “He’s here to see me?”
“Uh, yeah,” she says.
“Why?”
A smile breaks out across her face as you adjust your flannel pajamas. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” she says with a chuckle.
“Oh…well…yeah. Send him in,” you say.
“You sure you don’t want to get dressed first?” she asks.
“Oh c’mon, Kayla, girls run around here half naked most of the time anyway,” you say. “I don’t think he’ll be offended by my jammies.”
“Um…that wasn’t the point I was trying to make, but suit yourself,” she says. “I’ll tell him you’re in here.”
“Okey-dokey,” you say and then laugh at Kegis’ ridiculous rant about Coruscant shuttle drivers.
“What’s so funny?”
You look over and see Obi-Wan standing in the doorway. “Oh, just stupid TV,” you say as you grab the remote and turn it off. “What’s up, Jedi Man?”
The strange look he gives you turns into a chuckle. “You are amazing.”
“Would that be in a good way or a bad way?”
He puts his hand on his hip. “Well, I couldn’t exactly say. I just don’t think I’ve ever been willingly welcomed by a woman looking like you do right now.”
You stand and pick up a pillow from the couch and throw it at him. He puts his arm up and bats it away with a laugh. You march toward him and command, “Outta my way, you.”
“I simply meant—“
“I know what you meant, pony boy,” you say. “Did I insult your appearance the last time I saw you?”
“As a matter of fact, you did,” he says.
“Oh, right,” you say. “Well, that makes us even.”
“But I wasn’t insulting you. I merely meant that it’s nice that you aren’t so obsessed with your appearance like some women are,” he says innocently enough.
“Uh-huh,” you respond. “No insult there,” you add sarcastically.
“I am not insulting you,” he says. “Actually, you look fine to me, and your ease with my presence makes you all the more attractive.”
“But you’d prefer to find me dressed as a naughty schoolgirl.” You try to hide your smile at his shocked expression. “Yes,” you say nodding, “you strike me as the naughty schoolgirl type.”
He smiles nervously, “Well, I—“
“Don’t answer that. You’re a gentleman, remember?”
“Right,” he says nodding his head. “I keep forgetting that part.”
“I noticed,” you say, crossing your arms in front of you. “So what brings you here?”
“I—“
“Wait, let me rephrase. I know what brings you here, here…to the den of luscious babes and all, but what brings you here,” you say pointing to the floor, “to talk to me?”
He looks at you without responding.
“Well?” you ask.
“Oh, may I speak an entire sentence now?” he asks with an eyebrow raised.
“I’m waiting,” you say.
“Well, I wanted to thank you for what you did for me,” he says.
“You’re very welcome,” you say. “Was that all?”
“Yes…I mean, no. I didn’t just want to say thank you, I wanted to do something for you as a token of my appreciation,” he says. “Let’s say…let me buy you lunch?”
“Sounds great,” you say. “When?”
“Um, today? That is why I am here,” he says.
“Right,” you say and then look down. “Well, I suppose this means I have to get dressed today.”
“Yes, I would think that a good plan,” he says.
“This is perfect. I was just saying that I was going to be productive today. Getting dressed and going out to eat is certainly a productive activity, right?”
“Well….” he says.
“Sorry, I keep forgetting that you’re the overachieving Jedi Man,” you say and then smile. “You must think me a total lazy bum…. Don’t answer that. I’ll run upstairs and change. Be back in a flash…or two,” you say as you scurry down the hall and up the stairs.
Now looking fully presentable to the outside world in your respectable dress and tamed hair, you wander down the sidewalk with a padawan in tow.
“So where would you like to go?” he asks.
You shrug your shoulders. “Doesn’t matter to me. Where do you want to go?”
“Oh no,” he says, wagging his finger at you. “You’re the one who says you have to think about what you want and do it. So it’s your turn. You pick the place.”
“Well, alrighty then,” you say. “But it’s not very gentlemanly of you to use my words against me.”
He looks down at the ground, “I’m sorry.”
You give him a playful elbow poke on his arm. “Hey, I’m just teasing, you know.”
“I know,” he says and then a grin forms on his face. “And since we’re friends, that means I don’t have to be a gentleman.”
You laugh, “That’s the spirit!”
“So, where would you like to go?”
“How about….here,” you say as you suddenly stop in front of some kind of restaurant.
“What is this place?”
“I have no idea. But here we are. So let’s go in. New experiences, remember?” you say.
“Well, it looks alright. Whatever you like,” he says.
The two of you enter and pick a table near a corner window. After quickly perusing the menu, you order and then get on to more important subjects.
“So what’s next on your list?” you ask.
“What list?”
“The list! The list of what Obi-Wan needs,” you say.
“Well, what about your list?” he says.
“My list? Listen, I live at the JH Temple, write whenever I want, have access to free ice cream and chocolate, and am a contributing editor to Hot Jedi magazine. What could I possibly need?”
“Well—“
“You, on the other hand, run around saving the galaxy or whatever and provide archetype sex to anyone who asks for it—“
“I do not!”
“Alright, not ANYONE. But the whole reason for this discussion in the first place was YOUR complaint about no one caring about your needs because you’re always having to play stud guy,” you say.
Obi-Wan stares at you in stony silence.
“Uh-oh. What’d I do?” you say.
Obi-Wan looks down at his food and then drops his fork on his plate with a loud clang. He looks up and starts in a little louder than you’d like, “Is that what you really think of me? Some swashbuckling, gallivanting, playboy who beds women across the galaxy at the drop of a hat?”
Words escape you as they always do when you cross the line. “I—“
“Is it? Is that what you think of me?” His tone is demanding and a little too angry.
“No, of course not,” you say quietly.
“Oh really?” he says with a sharp inflection.
“Yes, really,” you say.
“Well, I’m getting just a little tired of your insinuations,” he says.
You exhale loudly and say hesitantly, “I’m sorry.” His piercing gaze is very difficult to hold. “It’s just that…well…you do…participate in all the…the…the stuff at JH.”
“The stuff at JH? Again, your way with words never ceases to amaze me,” he says. “It’s called fun. Maybe you should try having some fun sometime. Perhaps you wouldn’t be so quick to judge people if you would just take your own advice and relax a little.”
“I do not judge people,” you say a little louder now. “I just choose not to participate in certain things.”
“It is fine not to participate. It is quite another to take shots at those who do,” he says. “I think I have been quite generous with you. I’ve never made one comment about how you live completely walled off from everyone else, roaming the halls at night, keeping yourself awake for whatever reason instead of making any attempts to connect with others. I don’t understand the way you live, but I respect your choice to do as you please. You should at least respect mine.”
“I do,” you say. It is all you can say, and you look down at your entwined fingers in your lap. This unexpected assault leaves you rather bewildered.
But he continues. “If you have some issue with me or how I behave, I do not mind discussing it. But I do mind your cheap generalizations and writing me off as some brainless gigolo.”
“I don’t. I’m sorry if I—“ You have to stop speaking to swallow the lump in your throat. You clench your jaw tight and repeat your mantra for the moment over and over in your head: I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.
“I don’t mind your teasing,” he says. “I know it is meant in jest. But you have crossed the line on this issue. I have tried to understand you, but in this regard I cannot. I can only conclude that you are unhappy with yourself in some respect, which results in this jealousy you have toward others who aren’t as burdened or tightly wound as you are.”
Fiery tears spring forth from your eyes. “Where the hell do you get off talking to me like this? You don’t know the first thing about me. Now who’s insulting who?”
“I didn’t mean to insult you—“
“Oh, so it’s OK for you to call me a jealous, uptight bitch, but it’s not OK for me to provide amusing – and not judgmental from my perspective, mind you - commentary on your chocolate-covered orgies?”
The customers surrounding you fall silent, and Obi-Wan goes into spin control. “Alright, I was out of line.”
“Damn right you were.”
“I believe we are just having a miscommunication here,” he says.
“Heh, yeah, not used to actually having to TALK to women, are you?”
If looks could kill…well, you’d be on your way to the morgue.
“That is exactly what I’m talking about,” he growls.
“Fine, you’re right,” you say. “You’re a slut, and I’m a prude. Nice and simple that way, isn’t it?”
“You do not know how fortunate you are that I am even letting you talk to me this way,” he says.
“Letting me talk to you? Letting me? Well here, Obi-Wan, try this on for size. You…you…” You hate it when you get this worked up. The proper words absolutely will not come to you until approximately three hours from now. You stand up, knocking your chair over. “You have really,” to your horror, your voice and face breaks into sob mode, “ruined my day,” you squeak as your throat clenches up and your stupid, idiotic stressed-out, sleep-deprived tears flow freely. You curse the fact that PMS never existed in your fictional smut world as you kick the chair out of the way and storm out of the restaurant in a manner for which you know you’ll suffer the humiliation for years to come.
You march quickly down the street, trying to ignore all passers by as you wipe the tears from your face. Determining this the worst day on record, you grind your teeth together and ignore the pleas in the distance asking you to stop. Of course, it doesn’t take him long to reach you, and you stop abruptly as he blocks your path. “Leave me alone,” you growl.
“No.”
You try to step around him, but he steps to block you. Your frustration only mounts as he inhibits your escape.
“I am so sorry,” he says. “I do not know what came over me in there. I thought it beyond my capacity to hurt you, but I see I was wrong. My only defense - and it is not a noble one – is that I feel comfortable enough with you to speak my mind. It is something I am not allowed to do a good share of the time, and our friendship has allowed me that refuge.”
You refuse to look at him, staring straight at the cement below and clenching your fists. “Ease of conversation does not equal ripping my head off when you are upset with something I say,” you say resolutely.
“I know that. I don’t know what made me do that. I was feeling somewhat hurt that you perhaps viewed me in a less than favorable light, and—“
“Do you think I would have been concerned at all about your needs if I didn’t think well of you?”
Obi-Wan sighs, “I know that. I apologize for my words. I didn’t mean them.”
“I think you did. They had to come from somewhere,” you say, still staring at the ground.
“No. It’s just that you are very difficult to figure out,” he says.
“Maybe you should try asking me instead of assuming the worst about me,” you say. You feel his hand touch your head. “Don’t touch me,” you say through clenched teeth. His hand recedes.
“What do you want me to do?” he says.
“Get out of my way,” you say.
You hear him sigh, and he steps aside. You take off down the sidewalk as quickly as you can, not sure exactly what had just transpired between the two of you, but certainly in no mood to give him the benefit of the doubt. You breathe a tiny sigh of relief when you round the corner, and the JH building comes into view. With a few more steps, you are flying through the front door.
“Hey, how was your lunch…uh-oh,” Kayla says as you come into view.
You look up to see Qui-Gon standing next to her. Although you haven’t spent much time in conversation with him, you are overcome with words for him now. “Your padawan is a self-righteous, arrogant, clueless bastard!” Satisfied, you continue to march on.
“Yes, I know,” Qui-Gon says as you stomp up the stairs. “I suppose I’d better go find him and practice his apology.”
With that you turn back around and march down the few stairs and back toward Qui-Gon. “I don’t want to see his face or so much as hear his name. You tell him that if he even comes near hear, I’ll….I’ll…RRRRRR!!” You turn around and clomp back down the hall and up the stairs, all the while your brain screaming at you to just shut your mouth and give the guy a break.
You slam the door of your bedroom and take a flying leap onto the bed and sob. A few moments later, the door opens. You hear someone walk closer and then see legs walk to the side of the bed and then feel a hand on your back. “What happened?” Kayla asks.
“I hate hormones,” you wail.
“Ah,” Kayla says with full understanding. “Don’t worry. It’ll be alright.”
“I am SO embarrassed,” you say.
“And we’re embarrassed for you,” Kayla says.
“Thanks…I think.”
“Anytime,” she says, patting you on the back.