Auto da Fé 2: Fire
by WriteStuff
Title: Auto da Fé 2: Fire
Author: WriteStuff (Writestufflee@mindspring.com)
Archive: Certainly on M&A. Others please request.
Pairing: Q/O, occasionally O/Other
Category: AU, Series, Drama, Action-Adventure, Non-Con
Rating: Adult
Warnings: SQUICKY FIC. NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART OR WEAK OF STOMACH. NOT KIDDING! Life-like situations and sometimes nasty surprises. You pays yer money and yer takes yer chances. No spoilers. Not much sex.
Disclaimer: George's Boyz, George's Universe. Not only not making money, I'm hemorrhaging it in this endeavor.
A couple of characters from the YA Jedi Apprentice series appear or are mentioned here: Bruck Chun, Obi-Wan's tormentor; and Qui-Gon's failed apprentice, Xanatos. I don't own them, either.
Notes:
Huge thanks to Mrs. Hamill for her wise suggestions and comments on the first part of this story. It would be in much worse shape than it is without her. All errors are still mine.
Part two of the tenth installment in The Long Shadow series, in The Warrior's Heart universe (which can be found in the archives and in order (eventually) at http://home.mindspring.com/~writestufflee/index.html).
The Long Shadow Series runs as follows, so far:
Love Letter I
The Long Shadow
If Memory Serve Me
Padawans and Lovers
The Amazing Adventures of Ass Master & Slut Boy
Love Letter II
Ships in the Night
Love Letter III
Spare the Rod
Auto da Fé 1: Faith
Auto da Fé 2: Fire
Summary: Some old business comes home to roost in a painful way.
Feedback: Any sort is a pleasure to receive if you care to give it.
"This is what I would miss," Obi-Wan murmured, his fingers gliding over the skin on Qui-Gon's chest so lightly that he could barely feel it. If he closed his eyes, he would not know whether he were imagining it or not. It didn't matter that Obi-Wan's fingers were encased in rigid braces; his fingertips were bare and they stroked over him so softly that it raised cold flesh on his arms.
"I would too, kosai," he admitted, shivering a little at the sensation. "But the decision is still yours to make. Whatever you decide, I will support you."
They were lying together in their bed, Obi-Wan's head on his shoulder, one caged hand resting upright against Qui-Gon's hip, the other leisurely mapping his torso.
"I don't think I could bear not being able to touch you again with my own hands, Qui. I have to at least try, even if it makes things worse in the end."
And they both knew it might. The risk of rebreaking the crushed finger joints that were now fusing together was that they might only fuse more solidly the second time around, too traumatized to ever heal correctly. He would lose all ability to grip and hold anything where he now retained at least some, though it was not enough to be truly useful. After that, the only option would be prosthetics or retirement from field duty.
They'd spent the morning with the healers, having those options explained in great detail. Then they'd come home and spent hours deconstructing the possibilities and the risks, weighing everything as carefully as they'd weighed the mission that had led to this predicament. They talked through midmeal, the afternoon, through lastmeal, through the evening and into bed, even though they'd both known already what decision Obi-Wan would make, and that he had already in fact made. In the end, it still came down to the touch of his fingertips tracing the hidden shapes of Qui-Gon's muscles and bones.
Still, Qui-Gon agreed with him that it was better to try for a complete recovery than to give up and live either with a crippling injury or prosthetics he would loathe. The latter they would hold in reserve as a last resort. He was also adamant in vetoing a solo return to Arkania where Obi-Wan would be cared for by virtual strangers, Jedi or not. Qui-Gon would not hear of it. "I already have a very intimate acquaintance with your ass, love. What difference does it make whether I'm wiping it or fucking it?"
Obi-Wan had looked around for something to throw at him when he'd said that, then realized he couldn't hold anything anyway, and briefly considered using the Force. But it did make him laugh, as Qui-Gon had intended, and released some of the tension the conversation was fraught with. Qui-Gon didn't have to ask him if he was frightened; it was evident through the bond as a kind of sourness where there was usually the taste of sweet tea—like milk suddenly gone bad. Jedi were not supposed to be vain about their appearance, but losing the use of one's hands was something quite different from mere vanity.
What worried Qui-Gon was not so much Obi-Wan's apprehension, which was understandable, or even his physical injuries—they would find a way to cope with those—but his mental state. He was still having vivid flashbacks involving the Agency interrogator and his hate for her was intense and uncontrolled. There was no doubt she was a rogue who needed to be brought to heel; anyone who would first flay the skin off then crush the bones in someone's fingers, whether in the process of interrogation or not, was a monster. But Obi-Wan's feelings weren't healthy, especially for a Jedi. Those feelings were something he hadn't yet acknowledged or begun to address, and he would have to, to heal himself. Qui-Gon hoped it would begin to happen as his physical injuries improved, and he would do his best to coax that process along.
But for now, he would live in the moment with his lover.
He'd always loved Obi-Wan's hands on him. He had an uncanny sense of where to be firm and where to just barely touch, and over the years he'd become so familiar with the portions of Qui-Gon's anatomy that were particularly susceptible to a lover's ministrations that he could find them in his sleep—and sometimes did. That knowledge hadn't changed, but Obi-Wan's ability to use it had. It was almost as though they were brand new lovers learning each other, tentative and a little awkward. Now, Obi-Wan continued to trace a path from Qui-Gon's navel to the hollow between his collarbones and slowly back again. Qui-Gon lifted Obi-Wan's face with fingers cupped under his chin and kissed him softly. For the barest moment, there was no response, then Obi-Wan returned it without deepening it and pulled back a moment later, nestling down against Qui-Gon's shoulder once again, his fingertips traversing Qui-Gon's skin in an almost hypnotic manner.
Qui-Gon shifted onto his side a little, cradling Obi-Wan's head on his upper arm and returned the caress. He ran his palm over Obi-Wan's hip and thigh, to the back of his knee, which he coaxed upward to tangle their legs. Mindful of the wounded hand that lay between them and the one that had dropped to his own hip, Qui-Gon slid his palm back up over hip and ribs, curving over to Obi-Wan's back and down his spine until his fingers found his own monogram. He traced it first then stroked over it, watching Obi-Wan's eyes flutter and close in pleasure.
—and watched them fly open in panic as he dipped lower.
It was a purely instinctual reaction that startled Obi-Wan more than it did his lover, who had been half expecting it. Unthinkingly, he looked up at Qui-Gon with guilt in his eyes and reached out to pull him closer. As his hand made contact, he yelped and flinched away as though he'd grabbed something hot and curled around it protectively. Afraid to touch him for fear of accidently bumping his hands again, Qui-Gon drew back and Obi-Wan shot him a look full of frustration and sadness.
Eventually, the pain subsided and Obi-Wan carefully moved closer, entwining their legs once again, his hands carefully cradled between them.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "It's not you."
"Too soon?"
"No! It's not that." He was silent for some time then. The bond felt—unquiet, was the only way Qui-Gon could describe it. Obi-Wan was searching his feelings. In the meanwhile, Qui-Gon combed his fingers tenderly through Obi-Wan's silky hair.
After a while, the younger man sighed. "I don't know what it is, Qui. It's not that I don't want to be touched by you. I just don't, my—" He stopped again, still at a loss for words.
"You don't feel like making love. Is that it?"
"Yes. I'm sorry."
"It's all right, you know, if you don't. You're allowed to say that to me." Qui-Gon tempered the words with a wry smile.
"I never have before," Obi-Wan countered in a miserable tone.
"No, but I've said it to you, if you'll recall. For probably the same reason when I was recuperating. I'm not surprised. And I don't mind."
"I mind."
"Are you afraid your body won't respond?"
Obi-Wan closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. "Among other things." It was almost a whisper.
Qui-Gon wondered if this were the place and time to broach the particular question that had been stirring in the back of his mind since Obi-Wan's first flashback, and decided there probably wasn't a good time. "I know what she did to your hands, kosai. Was there more?"
"For fuck's sake, Qui. Just say it," he snapped. "You mean, aside from the Isani shoving a baton up my ass, did she do anything sexual? And is that what's turning my libido off? That's what you mean, isn't it?"
"Very well. Did she? Is it?"
But Obi-Wan wouldn't answer. His face became an unreadable blank and then he rolled over, awkwardly, out of Qui-Gon's arms, and curled up beneath the covers as though he were cold. Qui-Gon wanted to touch him again—a hand on his shoulder or on his hip, better yet to curl up with him, around him—but Obi-Wan had made it clear he wasn't having any. Instead, turned off the light with a flick of Force and turned over himself, facing the opposite way, as though they were two strangers. Sometime during the night, he knew, they would come together again in their sleep, but for now, he would give Obi-Wan the privacy of his own body and his own thoughts until he was ready to share them again.
The subject wasn't broached again in the morning. And later that day, just two days after Bruck's formal knighting, Obi-Wan found himself back in the Healers Halls, lying nervously under the thin sheet, waiting to have several of his finger joints broken.
He woke up vomiting a thin stream of bile and acid into a steel bowl, barely aware of someone cradling his throbbing head and wiping his mouth. The sensation was something like his worst hangover compounded with a concussion and the aftereffects of being pounded in the salles. Something was horribly wrong. What else had she done to him? Why couldn't he remember?
The room smelled of blood and metal. It turned his stomach and he retched a little harder. He was still in that cell. He'd never get out. Every part of him hurt, not just his hands. He had to get out. Had to get away. Before she flayed him everywhere. He started to turn, scrambling to get off whatever surface he was on, to get away, and banged one hand against something hard.
The pain was excruciating. It roared up through his arms and into his head like a runaway maglev overshooting the station. He thought the top of his head might come off with the impact.
"Lie still, love," a familiar voice said with quiet authority, large and gentle hands holding his shoulders down firmly as he writhed against the pain, trying to breathe without screaming. "It's all right. It will pass. Hush, love. It will pass."
And it did, slowly, leaving him nauseated and shivering beneath the sheet, even while Qui-Gon was mopping the sweat from his face. And what was Qui-Gon doing in that cell with him? He closed his eyes, though he hadn't realized he'd opened them, breathing shallowly in thin sips of air. Fingers that weren't Qui-Gon's touched his forehead and he flinched away as an unfamiliar presence pushed the desire to sleep into his mind. It was too strong and he was too weak to fight it. Instead, he let it carry him down and away from the pain and the terror of being in that cell, hoping he wouldn't wake to it again.
Qui-Gon watched him swim slowly up to consciousness once more, checking for signs of returning distress, relieved at seeing none. They'd moved him to a room now and he was on his side in a comfortable bed, pillows tucked beneath his head and between his knees. His hands, encased in a new set of articulating braces, rested against others in front of him. A fine tremor slid through him and he stirred unquietly, legs twitching beneath the covers like an animal chasing prey in its sleep. Small noises of discomfort slipped from him, but he didn't seem to be ill this time. His eyelids fluttered as though he were dreaming, then opened. Obi-Wan looked around blearily, gaze finally lighting on Qui-Gon's features. He blinked and smiled.
"Better?" Qui-Gon asked, sweeping aside the veil of fine red hair that had fallen into his face.
"Definitely," he croaked, then took a sip from the straw held to his lips. "Much better," he amended in a stronger voice when the water went down and made no signs of making a return trip. "That was distinctly unpleasant."
Qui-Gon pressed a kiss to his temple and leaned back into his chair beside the bed. "Yes it was," he agreed, "but it seems to happen from time to time, so the healers say. You had a reaction to the anesthetic."
"Probably from all the crap I've ingested at the clubs," Obi-Wan muttered.
"That seems doubtful," Qui-Gon said with a slight smile. "More likely a sensitivity to this specific compound. But you'll be glad to know the surgery went as well as was expected. Physical therapy starts in a few days. In the meanwhile, you have a visitor."
Bruck leaned over and kissed his cheek before he had time to look up. "Hey, nobody made you snort all those snappers. You could learn to drink like a civilized person instead."
"No, you're right," Obi-Wan agreed, sleepily. "Strictly my own choice. And I'm never doing it again. I've gone right off them after this. Thanks for dropping by," he added, stifling a yawn.
"I can't stay. I've got a mission," Bruck said, seeming strangely apologetic.
"Of course you do," Obi-Wan replied, looking puzzled. "You're just knighted. I'm surprised they let you hang round this long."
"I was hoping they'd let me stay to, you know, help out. Like you did with Qui-Gon."
"Oh," Obi-Wan replied, suddenly cool. "And do what? Wipe my ass? Would that make you feel better?" He struggled over onto his back and pushed himself up with his elbows, wincing, then fixed Bruck with a cold look. "Let me tell you something, Knight Chun: I didn't do this for you. I didn't even know it was your trials. I knew it was Garen's but that's not why I volunteered either. I volunteered because I was the best available person for the task, and because it was my duty to find incontrovertible evidence of the systematic abuse of prisoners in contravention of the `Treatment of Combatants' clause of the Republic's Articles of War. And that's what we did. All of us."
Bruck returned the look stonily, the silence thick and uncomfortable. Qui-Gon did not interfere; it was not his fight. "Fine," Bruck said at last, just as coolly. "Fine. You do your duty then, and get your hands working again, Knight Kenobi. And I'll go do mine. Qui-Gon," he nodded to the older man, turned, and was gone.
Obi-Wan collapsed back against the pillows and closed his eyes, breathing hard, face contorted in pain that wasn't entirely physical.
"Should I write that off as another aftereffect of the anesthetic, or did you mean to be so offensive?" Qui-Gon asked in a tone usually reserved for delicate negotiations with hostile parties.
To his credit, Obi-Wan looked stricken and ashamed. "I don't know," he said in a voice so quiet that Qui-Gon could barely hear him.
The healers released him the next day and Qui-Gon walked him home to their quarters with a packet of pain patches and orders to report for physical therapy in three days. He'd been subdued and uncommunicative since the episode with Bruck, doing nothing but eating and sleeping—or feigning sleep to avoid conversation, Qui-Gon suspected. But it would be harder to avoid now in their own rooms.
Once inside, Obi-Wan threw himself onto their sofa and crossed his legs on the low table in front of it. Qui-Gon recognized the posture, which usually included tightly crossed arms, from his padawan days. It signaled brooding dissatisfaction with himself and an imminent round of painful self-flagellation. Of course, the crossed arms were impossible now, and one hand lay in his lap, the other on the cushion beside him. The lost expression on his face made what was usually somewhat comically exaggerated body language an illustration of pathos instead.
Qui-Gon suppressed a sigh and sat down on the table in front of him, lifting Obi-Wan's bare feet—he'd worn soft, slip-on shoes instead of his boots home—into his lap. His palms stroked over the high instep and up to his ankles, then back down over the roughened heels and tender arch. Obi-Wan's toes curled reflexively and he looked up with a crooked smile, his brows still drawn together but now in self-mockery.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"I'm not the one you need to apologize to."
"Yes, I do. Along with Bruck, when he gets back. You shouldn't have had to witness that little scene. It was quite inexcusable behavior."
"That will be up to Bruck to decide. I don't know that it was inexcusable, but it certainly was undeserved."
"Yes," Obi-Wan agreed, looking away. "It was."
If Obi-Wan had still been his padawan, Qui-Gon might have asked a few probing, open-ended questions designed to make his student think about why he had done and said what he had. But Obi-Wan was a grown man and a full knight, and he had long ago learned to ask those questions himself. That didn't mean he always knew the answers. It was obvious he didn't now.
"I wasn't even angry with him," he added sadly, looking down at his hands, still bruised and swollen from the latest round of surgery.
The articulation made this new set of braces neater yet somehow much more mechanical-looking. They were something like an open glove that slipped on over his hands, consisting of translucent flexiplass finger cradles joined on the palm and back of the hand by a lightweight black mesh that sealed adjustably at the wrist. The splints curved up around the tips of his fingers for now, but could be replaced with shorter ones to allow him more delicate use of his fingers—if the therapy kept the joints from fusing again. So soon after surgery, Obi-Wan's fingers were still puffed up around and between the splints and mesh.
Unable to touch his hands, Qui-Gon continued instead to lavish attention on his feet. Obi-Wan leaned his head back against the cushions and closed his eyes.
"Is there still lotion in the table there?" Qui-Gon asked.
"I believe so," Obi-Wan replied.
"Get it, would you, and I'll rub your feet."
"You're already rubbing my feet," Obi-Wan pointed out, but sat up and started to reach for the drawer in the table beside the sofa, then stopped. He gave Qui-Gon an inscrutable look and just held up his hands.
"You have a tool. Use it," Qui-Gon replied.
Obi-Wan frowned. This sort of thing was generally seen as a frivolous use of the Force and vaguely disapproved of. It wasn't an actual rule, as such, but they all learned as youngsters that the Force was not a toy to be used in pranks, or simply to make one's life easier.
"Think of this as an opportunity to perfect your fine control. Does that ease your scruples?"
Obi-Wan gave it some consideration. "Somewhat," he decided, and teased the drawer open carefully, then, not being able to see the bottle he was searching for, levitated all the contents of the drawer and dumped it carelessly on the table beside Qui-Gon, who raised an eyebrow at the clatter.
He picked out the container he wanted and motioned toward the drawer again. "Now you can put the rest of this back. Gently."
"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan sighed and replaced the drawer's contents and shut it again. "At least if this doesn't work I'll have learned to compensate somewhat. And that was your point, wasn't it?"
"Among others," Qui-Gon admitted, rubbing his palms together to spread and warm the lotion and then picking up one of Obi-Wan's feet.
The younger man gave himself up to Qui-Gon's ministrations, and let his head fall back against the cushions again. "That feels wonderful," he said in a drowsy voice after a few minutes. "It's so good to be home again with you. And it's always nice to be coddled a bit."
"It's good to have you home, kosai," Qui-Gon agreed. "And to coddle you. But by far it's best to know you're not being hurt without reason."
"It was a good enough reason," he said in a subdued tone. "From a certain point of view. I'm just sorry you had to go through it too. I tried so hard to shield and I just couldn't after a while."
Qui-Gon's thumbs worked into the ball of Obi-Wan's foot carefully. "It's not sharing your pain that I mind, it's your suffering at all."
"I wish you'd taken the sedatives they offered."
"I'm not sorry I didn't. I didn't want to wake up and not know what had happened to you. Not knowing is worse than any physical suffering I might endure."
"You're a fool, then, Qui-Gon," the younger man snapped, sitting forward, nearly quivering with sudden anger.
"Who's more the fool? The fool, or the fool who follows the fool?" Qui-Gon replied mildly, his hands still smoothing over Obi-Wan's foot. It was clear Obi-Wan would have gotten up and stalked away, but there was no clean and easy getaway from this position.
The younger man seemed to realize that. After a tense moment, he drew in a deep breath and sat back again, letting his head fall back once more and exhaling slowly.
"I don't know what's wrong with me," he said after a time. "I don't ever remember being this touchy."
"Do you think some meditation might help?" Qui-Gon gave the younger man's foot a last caress, placed it gently in his lap and squeezed out another generous dollop of lotion into his palm. When it was sufficiently warmed and spread, he picked up Obi-Wan's opposite foot and began to repeat the process. All the while, Obi-Wan watched him silently through his lashes, head back against the cushions.
"I haven't had much concentration lately," he said in a doubtful tone.
"Not surprising, considering you've been either drugged or in pain since you returned."
"That's not what I mean. I—"
Qui-Gon waited a moment, then prompted "Yes?" into the silence.
"I can't stop thinking. About her. And what she did to me. I don't understand it."
"What she did to you or why you can't stop thinking about it?"
"Either. It's not as though I haven't been through this before. That's why the Council asked me to take this mission."
"This wasn't your pain trials. You knew you were going to be injured, but there was no priorly agreed-upon limit to it. Ideally, you should have been extracted before this much damage was done to you, but there were never any guarantees." You could have died there, Qui-Gon added to himself. Just thinking it made him feel physically ill.
"I know that, Qui. It wasn't that. It was—hells, I don't know!" he cried, raising his hands as though he wanted to run them through his hair. He looked at them, realizing what he had done, and lowered them to his lap again. "I don't know, Qui. But I can't quiet my mind. It's like an animal on an exercise wheel. Round and round and round, with her in the middle."
"Would you like me to meditate wi—"
"No!"
Qui-Gon studied his face, wondering what he was so afraid of, but once again, Obi-Wan had retreated into inscrutability.
"Not yet, at any rate," he added more calmly. "I'd like to try and sort it out myself, first."
Qui-Gon nodded gave the foot in his lap a last loving caress. "As you like, then," he agreed.
For the rest of the day, Obi-Wan dozed intermittently and, when awake, immersed himself in a novel that took little thought but kept his mind occupied. He didn't have the concentration for much else and there was precious little to do that didn't require the use of his hands.
Late in the afternoon, he woke from a doze to find himself stretched out on the sofa, datapad on the table beside him, a light throw over him, Qui-Gon nowhere in evidence. What woke him was his stomach growling. He flung back the coverlet with the Force and got to his feet to find something to eat.
Qui-Gon, it turned out, was in the kitchen, apparently having had the same thought, though Obi-Wan couldn't yet smell anything actually cooking. Not that Qui-Gon cooked much. He'd left that mostly to Obi-Wan during his apprenticeship and, while perfectly willing to eat anything his experimenting young padawan set before him, he was not much help otherwise. Obi-Wan had become a quite good cook himself, mostly through practice, a good grasp of basic techniques after a turn in the temple's kitchens, and an innate sense of what ingredients and flavors went well with each other. Qui-Gon had always been more than happy to choose the wine for whatever meal Obi-Wan prepared, and there his culinary skills stopped.
Which meant it was likely to be stodgy, bland, one-pot meals or the refectory while he recovered.
"I suppose I could teach you to cook, while I'm mending," Obi-Wan said, propping himself in the doorway to watch the impending crimes against perfectly good food.
"I suppose you could try," Qui-Gon challenged, turning around. Slices of fruit were laid out on a cutting board in front of him and light glinted off the knife in his hand.
The blade was fine and long and so sharp he hardly felt it as she made a neat circular cut around his wrist and from there up the center of each finger, back and front. It was only as she lifted the skin away and air hit the exposed nerve endings that he began to scream. . . .
He was crouched on the floor, knees drawn up, back jammed into a corner, hands cradled against his chest, the pain fading slowly away, leaving them throbbing quietly in time with his pounding heart. Where was he? Where? Where? Where? Was she still here? How had he gotten away? He opened his eyes and recognized nothing in the room around him. There was a counter, cupboards, a cold box, a tea set on a shelf. . . .
"Obi-Wan—"
Someone touched his knee and he scrabbled to his feet in panic, banging his head in the process. He saw stars, staggered and fell to his knees, felt hands close on his arms again, this time in an iron grip. "Obi-Wan! Kosai, it's all right. It's all right. No one is going to hurt you. You're safe now. Do you hear me? Obi-Wan? You're safe."
It was Qui-Gon. Qui-Gon. Kneeling next to him. Holding him. Safe. He was safe. Safe. Safe.
He looked down at his hands, found them encased in a web of cloth and splints and—thank the Force—his own skin. They were shaking. But they were whole. The sight made him sob in relief. Qui-Gon's hands left his arms and closed gently on his face, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. He blinked, felt moisture spill out. Qui-Gon was brushing it away with his thumbs.
"Kosai, kosai," he murmured. "It's all right, now. It's all right."
But it wasn't. No matter how much they both wished it might be.
Once Obi-Wan had stopped shaking, Qui-Gon tucked him up on the sofa and held a cold pack to the swelling lump on his head. The bump didn't seem serious, merely painful, and the swelling soon went down. When it had, Qui-Gon helped him drink a mug of strong, sweet tea. He still felt too ill by the time he'd finished it to eat anything, and had barely gotten the tea down. Now, he huddled beneath the coverlet, looking pale and drained.
"Try and sleep then," Qui-Gon suggested. "I'll be right here."
Obi-Wan merely nodded and hunkered down more beneath the coverlet, until he was nothing but a compact ball on the sofa. Qui-Gon watched him until his breathing slowed and the bond stilled between them.
Only it didn't quite still as it usually did when one of them was asleep and the other awake. Instead, images flitted through it, like fish in a dark, deep stream: never quite more than a glimpse or a shadow, never the whole. But even the glimpses were unpleasant, and he understood now what Obi-Wan had meant by saying his mind was going round and round. If this is what was running in the back of his consciousness all the time, it was no wonder he was having flashbacks.
Qui-Gon shuddered. That had been—simply terrifying: watching the awareness disappear in a breath from Obi-Wan's eyes, replaced with confusion and fear, watching the eruption of relived pain double him over, hearing the scream it tore from him, and seeing the fear force him into that corner to protect himself, and then watching him trying to get away from an hallucinated danger and injure himself more. And yet, almost worse than that had been the shattered sob of relief, the release of tears as he came back to the here and now. Clearly, this experience had been far worse than anything in his pain trials, far worse than anything he'd ever tried to prepare himself for. Far worse than he could recover from by himself.
And Obi-Wan, when he woke again, agreed.
"Ti. Nice office." Ow stood awkwardly in the door, having arrived within minutes of his initial call.
She grinned as she looked around with him. She'd only had her office for a little less than a quarter year and it still felt weird to her too, to be a full-fledged healer, but she guessed that wasn't the source of his discomfort. When she'd last seen him, he had been radiating distress and pain beneath the calming effect of the sedatives, so neither his call nor his appearance at her door surprised her. If he hadn't come to her soon, she would have gone to him. They'd been friends since childhood but this was neither the boy she'd grown up with, nor the man she'd come to know, though he'd become a familiar type. All too familiar, of late, thanks to the Chancellor's new rules. But she would let him get to his reasons for being there in his own time.
"You can come in, you know," she said, coaxing. "I have nice chairs and a comfy sofa, too. They gave me the whole playset. I even let people without appointments use them."
He smiled weakly and stepped inside, almost reluctantly letting the door slide shut behind him. She came out from behind her desk and offered him a hug. That seemed to brighten his mood a little. Mindful of his hands, she let him move into her arms and was saddened to feel the trembling in his muscles. He squeezed her gingerly but with genuine affection, and she hugged him with all the enthusiasm and affection she usually displayed, letting go only when she felt him begin to move back, again standing still until he extricated himself, so she wouldn't inadvertently bump his hands.
"I don't think I ever congratulated you," he said, sitting gingerly in one of the comfortable chairs in front of her desk, crossing his legs and laying his hands in his lap. She joined him, turning the other chair a little to face him. His shoulders were stiff and held too high, and one foot waggled nervously until he tucked it behind his calf.
"I think you were in the field when they promoted me. You've been gone a lot the last couple of years. You're as popular with the Council as Qui-Gon."
The smile he gave her was both self-deprecating and a little curdled around the edges. "Popularity's not all it's cracked up to be," he said quietly.
Tianna mirrored the smile, but filled it with empathy. "No, I suppose not. How are your hands feeling?" It was painful to see him like this, without his usual good humor or mischief lighting his eyes, his posture tense and twisted like a DNA molecule, his hands encased in flexiplass. She still wanted to ream out Garen, wherever he'd gone, for leaving him to this.
He shrugged. "They hurt, but I'm more or less accustomed to it now. After a while one forgets what it was like not to hurt—" He cut himself off, looking embarrassed. "That sounds incredibly self-pitying, doesn't it?"
"No," Tianna assured him. "Sadly matter-of-fact, actually. It's true, people do forget after a while. It's a way of coping. I'm sorry, Ow. That's not why you're here though, is it?"
"No," he replied, looking away. "No. The pain I can deal with, which shouldn't surprise you." He looked up and smiled ironically, but it was thin and haunted. "Ti, I—I think I need your help. Or some sort of help. I, I can't sleep. I jump at everything. I snap at everyone, including people I love. I'm short-tempered, impatient, easily frustrated. I can't meditate. And I'm—" he stopped in midsentence and looked away again. "I'm having flashbacks. Vivid ones."
"You're sure they're not Force sendings? You've always been very sensitive that way."
He shook his head. "No. There's nothing of the Force in these. There's a trigger, for one thing. Some kind of stimulus sets them off, usually: sharp pain, a voice, a phrase, a smell. Today it was Qui-Gon s-slicing fruit in the kitchen." It worried her to hear him stumble over that particular word. "Occasionally they happen right on the edge of sleep, or as the painkillers take effect. I had one coming out of the anesthesia. Typical post-trauma reaction, I suppose."
"There's nothing typical about that, Ow, except its occurrence. It's a little different for everyone, so the treatment's a little different for everyone, too. Here's the first thing we need to determine: do you want to work with me or with someone who doesn't know you?"
He looked surprised and a little puzzled. "I, um, I hadn't considered that. Would it make a difference?"
"It might to you. Not in quality, but in your level of comfort with it. Sometimes it's better to unload really horrific stuff on a stranger. On the other hand, I know most of your personality quirks and dirty little secrets," she said, smiling. "So I might catch something earlier that a different healer wouldn't."
And now he looked worried. He swallowed heavily, shifting in his chair. She leaned forward and touched his knee, felt him start to flinch away and then get it under control.
"I'm not saying you have to, or even that you should. I'm not pushing you away, Ow. I'll gladly listen to whatever it is you need to say. It's up to you."
"I thought—this is your specialty, isn't it?"
"One of them, yes. But there are others who've been doing this longer than I have. Some good people who would help you just as much, maybe more."
"It's just—I don't—" he started and choked. Tianna grasped his wrists above the splint closures in lieu of taking his hands and held on. "You know," he started slowly in a voice so soft that Tianna could barely hear him, "I haven't been out of our quarters or the healers halls alone since I, since Bruck and Garen rescued me. Someone was with me whenever I was conscious in the healers halls, and Qui walked me home. When I commed you just a bit ago, then walked into the hall on my way here—It's ridiculous, but I don't feel safe with people I don't know," he whispered. "I was shaking all the way here on my own, through the Temple halls. Isn't that absurd?" His smile was sickly now, on the verge of tears.
That wasn't good. They had to stop this now, before it crippled him as surely as his crushed hands would without therapy. Tianna squeezed his wrists gently.
"Then we'll get started right away."
"Thank you," he gasped, as though he'd been saved from drowning. Tianna wished it were that simple.
It was anything but, and neither Obi-Wan nor his former master were prepared for just how un-simple it was. Or how painful. And it was made all the more urgent by the impending start of his physical therapy, which was sure to trigger some kind of reaction—and the upcoming hearing before a Senate panel.
The following days were, in retrospect, some of the hardest yet in Obi-Wan's life. He spent hours with Tianna, sometimes with Qui-Gon also sitting in, learning how to deal with the flashbacks and piecing together exactly what had happened to him under Agency interrogation. It was disturbing how little he remembered—or, rather, how much he had blocked out. They did their best to prepare him for the flashbacks the pain might trigger, and Tianna taught them both techniques to ground him in the present in the middle of one, just in case.
It was almost an anticlimax to actually begin his physical therapy. The evaluation and initial exercises were painful but not excruciating, and he was told to take it slowly. The flashback he'd expected did not appear, though he slept worse than usual that night. The daily sessions with Tianna turned out to be much harder, and much more likely to trigger a flashback. In the tenday that followed, he had several, all in her office rather than in public, thankfully. Obi-Wan wasn't sure he could bear the shame of having one in the middle of the Temple's halls. Having one during his upcoming testimony was simply unacceptable.
For Obi-Wan, no matter how safe Tianna made sure he felt, it was terrifying to sit in her office and dredge up his memories—something he would have to do for the Senate without going to pieces. Afterwards, he was either emotionally shattered and completely exhausted or nearly quivering with rage and nervous energy.
For Qui-Gon, it was excruciating to watch Obi-Wan struggle with himself this way, and to watch the side effects of that struggle, which were as much physical as mental. His appetite, which had been intermittent at best, now disappeared entirely and it took a great deal of coaxing to get him to eat. Always restless at night, his sleep was now broken or absent. All too often, Qui-Gon would wake in the night to an empty bed and find Obi-Wan standing at the window, with his hands tucked against his chest. Never a voluntary early riser, the lack of sleep kept him far later abed than usual and left him hollow-eyed and lethargic.
And there were still some memories Obi-Wan could not recover—or would not face.
As first missions went, this one had been relatively short and particularly sweet, though considerably more difficult than many first missions went, Bruck suspected. Though he'd been teamed with Isa and her master, Bruck had carried out the brunt of the work and borne the responsibility for the mission's success himself. It had been something of a chore to find Ben's torturer again, given the covert nature of the both the Agency itself and this particular operation, and Ben's inability to give them much of a description in his drugged and injured state. Hence the presence of Master Ituri and Isa, two of the Order's own best covert field agents.
But as far as Bruck was concerned, Isa and Master Ituri were there strictly as backup and intelligence gatherers. They'd planned it out together, but it had been Bruck who'd been inserted, Bruck who'd made the capture, and Bruck who'd brought his prisoner out. It hadn't been easy and he hadn't escaped unscathed, but he had her. It should have been deeply satisfying to be able to bring her in, but her capture had only reminded Bruck of the reason for it, and made him wonder if Kenobi would be in any better shape when he returned. He could only comfort himself with the thought that at least the woman who'd tortured Ben would spend some time in the protective custody of the Jedi and stand before the Senate to answer for her crimes—and hopefully spill on the Agency as well.
All of that paled beside seeing Kenobi standing at the landing pad when the ship's ramp was lowered. Ayana and Isa brought their prisoner up behind him as he stood at the top of the ramp.
"Is that Obi-Wan?" Isa asked, her voice showing her surprise.
"Yeah. Hold off a couple of minutes, will you? I want to talk to him first before we—"
"Before our reunion?" their prisoner purred.
"You will shut the hell up, or you'll be taken out of here unconscious," Bruck snapped, turning on her coldly. "And it won't be a drug that does it." Shrugging into his cloak, Bruck strode down the ramp, searching Kenobi's face for some sign of his mood. He looked, well, bad, in a word. He'd lost more weight and his face was frighteningly gaunt, his eye sockets still shadowed with sleeplessness. The good signs were that his posture was ramrod straight and his eyes looked clear, though they were green as the Adegan crystal in his saber.
"What are you doing here, Ben? How are you?"
Kenobi smiled. "I wanted to congratulate you on the successful conclusion of your first solo mission, Knight Chun. Then to apologize for being such a shit before you left. You look a bit worse for wear. How bad was it?"
Bruck touched the raw scrape along his cheek lightly. It led to a shiner that ringed one eye. "It was fine, just a little disagreement about whether or not herself had booked a one-way trip back to Coruscant with Jedi Excursions." Bruck took Ben's arm and moved him aside, standing between him and his view of the ramp. Kenobi followed without protest.
"And that's the final reason I'm here. Has she got a name?"
"Not that she's telling us. Yet. Are you ready for this? I mean—"
"No, probably not," Kenobi admitted, setting his jaw and frowning. "But you're here now. She's here now. And I'm better than I was."
"You don't have to prove anything to anyone," Bruck assured him.
"Except myself."
"You know, if your ass got any harder, Kenobi, it'd be duracrete," Bruck sighed and shook his head. "How're your hands?"
"Better. Still stiff, but I've got some mobility back. The PT seems to be working, but it's going to take a while. Valerin's pretty optimistic."
That brought a broad grin to Bruck's face. "Good. That's good. And the flashbacks?"
Kenobi looked surprised. "You knew about those?"
"Qui-Gon told me, when you were still doped up. How are they?" he repeated.
"Better. I've been talking to Ti and meditating. I think I've remembered most of what happened. You sure you're okay? That eye looks bad."
"Isa'll kiss it and made it better. Honest, it's just a black eye. Nothing's broken. Does Tianna know you're doing this?"
Kenobi nodded. "Yes. We talked about it this morning. She's not happy about it either."
"You don't think you should take her advice?"
"I won't know until it's too late, will I? Besides, I've got to start somewhere. Better I see her for the first time here than in a Senate hearing, if it's going to trigger something."
"How'd you manage to convice Qui-Gon to let you come here alone?"
Obi-Wan smiled again. "I didn't tell him."
Bruck rolled his eyes and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "fucking idiot" and sighed. "All right. Do you want me to—"
"No. Just go get her. Let's get this over with."
"If you say so," he agreed reluctantly and turned back to the ship.
Very shortly, Bruck reappeared, escorting a small, blond, and somewhat disheveled figure down the ramp and across the landing apron toward Obi-Wan. They'd taken no chances with her, Bruck having learned the hard way to not underestimate her. Her arms were bound behind her and she wore leg shackles as well, connected to the binders on her wrists. As the quartet made their way past Kenobi, the two of them made eye contact and Bruck saw Ben's jaw tighten.
"Padawan Kenobi," she said in a civil tone, as though it were a friendly meeting. "You look like a different person. Still got those sexy tattoos?"
"It's Knight," he corrected coolly, hands tucked into his cloak's sleeves. "And has been for some time."
"Come to gloat?"
"No. Just to see you brought to justice."
She laughed then and lunged at him, and Bruck wasn't sure whether he expected Kenobi to return the favor or run. He did neither, standing his ground as Bruck and Isa yanked her back hard by her binders.
"And not a moment too soon," Kenobi murmured as she was manhandled past him, struggling and cursing.
Bruck was surprised when Ben swung in behind their little group and made himself part of her escort to the holding cells the Jedi used for special prisoners. There were never many in the cells and today hers was the only one occupied. Ben watched as her shackles were replaced with a tracking cuff and she was locked down. Once she was inside with the field on and guards posted, Kenobi turned on his heel abruptly and left Bruck, Isa, and Ayana to mop up the details of their mission without another word.
"Why do I get the feeling he's running away?" Isa said uneasily but not without sympathy.
"Probably because he is," Bruck replied, voice grim. "I think it's about all he can stand."
Several hours later, report completed and delivered, Bruck found Kenobi again in the refectory, sitting at a table in the corner with the ubiquitous mug of tea in front of him. His hands were curled around it, still in splints, but the liquid was cold and untouched. Bruck sat down across from him with a tray and, with a glance in Kenobi's direction—one that elicited a quick, faint smile—dug in. He was halfway through his meal before Ben spoke. Then, it was in a soft, subdued voice Bruck barely recognized.
"How hard was it to find her?"
Bruck swallowed a mouthful. "Just easy enough that I think the Agency's sacrificing her. Maybe she went just a bit too far with you and they've decided to cut her loose. I think she's been running the interrogation program for the Isani, but I couldn't get much out of her."
"If you can't, she's a tough nut then."
"She's also a lost initiate. Wonder how we missed her?"
"Is that how you got this?" Ben reached across the table and turned his chin so he could see the bruise and scrapes. The touch was light and Bruck didn't resist it, though Ben seemed far too interested in it for comfort.
"Yeah. She's taught herself some skills. No finesse, but useful enough when you surprise somebody with them. I underestimated her at first."
"I should have told you she was Force-sensitive."
Bruck shrugged. "It's just a bruise, Ben. Nothing tragic. And you weren't lucid enough to tell anybody anything reliable when I left."
"Certainly not sane enough," he muttered, looking down into his mug as though it might tell him something.
"And now?"
He looked up again, expression guarded. "What do you think?"
"You held up pretty well on the landing pad," Bruck observed. "And after."
Ben gave him a sickly smile. "Not really. I was shaking all the way down to the cell and back. I shook for an hour afterwards. I wanted to curl up in a ball in the back of a closet in our quarters."
The admission made it hard for Bruck to swallow suddenly. "But you didn't, did you?"
"No."
"And you didn't run to Qui-Gon, either."
"No. Or Ti. I came here. I made myself come here."
"Made yourself?"
Kenobi smiled again, the same queasy one. "This is the first I've been out of our quarters alone. Meeting you today."
Bruck struggled to keep his expression neutral, to not show how that confession had made his own heart jump in fear. He hadn't realized Ben was that fragile. "Congratulations." He put down his utensils, pushed his tray away, and reached across the table, closing his hands around Kenobi's as they curled around the cup. "Ben, did she get in your head? She tried to get into mine."
Kenobi's hands flexed beneath his. "Not literally. Not that way. She mind-fucked me, but not like that. My shields—I think the bond helped somehow. What she did was bad enough."
"Of course it was. I just thought maybe—"
"It's been bad," Kenobi admitted. "But that's not why. It was .. ." Then he fell silent.
"Look, Ben, you don't have to tell me anything unless you want to."
Kenobi took his hands away and pressed the heels of them to his forehead hard enough to for the mesh to leave a mark. "It's not that," he said quietly. "I have to talk about it all for the Senate subcommittee anyway. I'd better get used to telling the whole story in public." He fell silent again and Bruck just sat quietly with his hands around his own cup, waiting. Finally, Kenobi took a deep breath, let it out, and looked up again at Bruck, eyes glittering fiercely. "Listen, Bruck: that tracking device—"
"It was supposed to fail. Andreth told me later. Did you know before?"
Kenobi nodded. "You were right about this mission. I should never have accepted it. I shouldn't have let them use me like this. Not even for your—"
"Not even for my trials," Bruck agreed and looked away. "I don't feel real good about earning my `saber with your blood either. It would be different if it didn't feel so much like a set-up."
Kenobi snorted. "Only because it was. That's what your trials are, if they're not like mine and just happen because you stumble into some situation that allows you to distinguish yourself."
Neither of them spoke for a time. They sat quietly, not looking at each other, each nursing their own thoughts and cold cups of tea.
"Thanks," Kenobi said finally.
"For what?" Bruck responded, mystified.
"For letting me say that. For not telling me what a hard life it is, like Qui would have. He's so damned stoic sometimes. For all his defying the Council, he just takes whatever he's handed in the end."
"Nobody should have to go through that, Ben. Whether you volunteered or not."
"Did I ever say thanks for getting my ass out of there?"
"No." Bruck grinned. "Ungrateful jerk. I just wish we'd found you sooner."
"Me, too," Ben said quietly and looked away.
Bruck sat turning over in his mind the fact of this strangely subdued man Kenobi had become, and finding it made him both sad and angry. "Ben, if that's what you want. If there's anything I can do, if you need anything—"
Kenobi smiled tentatively and got to his feet. "I know. Thanks. I already owe you."
Bruck shook his head. "For what? Volunteering to be part of my trials? I don't think so."
"For doing what I couldn't. For bringing her in." He paused a moment, in the act of getting up to go, and looked at Bruck. "Can I ask you one more favor?"
"Sure."
"Walk back with me?"
They left the refectory in silence after Bruck had bussed his tray and Ben's cup. The first of the dinner rush was just coming in and he watched Ben as they threaded their way through the growing trickle of hungry Jedi. He'd always liked watching Kenobi walk through a crowd. He moved with a smooth grace that made it seem as though his hips were on bearings, and gave him a damn fine walk-away. Today he seemed awkward, though it took a moment to figure out why: he was trying to avoid being touched. It wasn't just that he was protecting his hands, though he was. He seemed to want to avoid any contact at all, right down to the brush of cloth against his own cloak, which he hugged closely around himself.
They had walked through these halls together any number of times in the years past, but this time it felt different. At other times, they had held hands, or Bruck had walked with his arm over Kenobi's shoulder, Kenobi with his arm around Bruck's waist. They'd walked side-by-side without touching, or touching only to shove each other playfully, or feel each other up, or to lay a hand on the other's back in comfort. Bruck wanted to do that now but he could sense Ben didn't want it—or rather that he wouldn't welcome it. Bruck suspected Kenobi wanted it more than he would allow himself.
Bruck finally gave in to the impulse when they were alone in the lift. As it rose through the residential floors, he smoothed his palm gently down Ben's spine and was surprised by the start and shudder it elicited.
He knew almost instantly something was wrong, even before Ben's muscles locked under his hand. An instant later Kenobi had jammed himself into a corner of the lift and was staring at Bruck with wild and white-ringed eyes. Flashback. He's having a flashback, Bruck realized, and lunged for the emergency stop button on the lift. Kenobi cringed, whimpering in a way that made Bruck sick to hear it. Sith knew where he thought he was or who he thought Bruck was or what he thought was happening.
"It was an accident," Kenobi gasped. "Please, don't. Please. Let me go." He slid slowly down the wall, curling up, and Bruck followed, kneeling on the floor within touching distance but carefully keeping his hands to himself.
"Ben, it's all right. It's Bruck. It's just me, B-Boy. C'mon, you're okay. She's the one in a cell, not you. You're safe now." He kept his tone soothing and voice quiet, inching forward almost imperceptibly as Ben's gaze darted around the tiny room, his breathing harsh and loud. "It's just the lift, Ben. It's all right. You're at temple now, on your way back to your quarters." But nothing he could say would calm Kenobi. Finally, Bruck commed Qui-Gon, pulling him from class to meet them at the vestibule to their quarters' floor. Ben shivered like a wet animal in a cold wind, begging "don't, don't, don't," as they waited for Qui-Gon to tell them he'd arrived. He cried out when Bruck set the little room moving again, overriding the other calls. When the doors opened once more, both Qui-Gon and Tianna were there.
Bruck eased his way out past Tianna as she slipped inside the lift, and saw to his annoyance that a crowd was gathering.
"This one's out of service. Please use the bank at the other end," he said shooing curious neighbors along. "Bunch of gossipy mynocks. You'd think Jedi wouldn't gawk," he muttered under his breath. "Nothing to see, people. Just a malfunction." Ben wouldn't want anyone to see him like this, Bruck knew. He'd be mortified enough at his audience of three.
By the time he'd herded away the crowd, Tianna and Qui-Gon were bringing a dazed and shaky Kenobi out of the lift. "Ben?" Bruck said gently.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, face flushing as he looked away.
"No, Ben. She should be sorry. Not you." But Kenobi just turned away from him.
Bruck walked along with them, bringing up the rear as they headed toward the Jinn-Kenobi quarters. Qui-Gon's arm was firmly around Ben's shoulders, enveloping him in his cloak. Tianna walked beside him, one hand on his forearm. Bruck hung back, a little afraid to touch him again.
Once inside, Qui-Gon led him to the bedroom and Tianna dropped back to wait with Bruck. "What happened?" she asked. Bruck told her, Tianna shaking her head with a sour expression on her face. "I knew he wasn't ready for that, but I couldn't stop him. I don't imagine you could either."
"No, but I probably could have tried harder."
"How could you know what kind of shape he was in? Don't blame yourself, Bruck. It wasn't anything you did or didn't do. He's just not ready. And this was his choice."
"The hearing's coming up soon, isn't it?"
Tianna nodded. "It may have to be put off though. Or they may have to just take his report. It's going to be a while before he's really ready to face her, or talk about this to complete strangers. If he ever is."
Almost a half hour later, Qui-Gon emerged from the bedroom looking drawn. "He wants to see you," he said to Bruck.
"Is he all right?"
"No," Qui-Gon replied, sitting down heavily on the sofa beside Bruck. "He hasn't been all right since you brought him back from that hellhole. I can't even really say he's better than he was. Not after this. I wish he'd told me he was going to meet you."
"I wish he had, too."
They both looked up at Tianna, whose mouth was pressed into a thin line. "He asked me not to."
Qui-Gon sighed. "I understand. Go," he said, touching Bruck's knee. "Before he falls asleep."
Bruck thought Ben already had when he came through the door. Kenobi was lying curled around a pillow in a corner of the large bed, nearly invisible as anything but a lump beneath the covers. When he reached the side of the bed, Bruck leaned over and planted a light kiss on his temple and watched his eyelids flutter open again. He looked utterly drained now, skin nearly transparent, his eyes almost as bruised as Bruck's. A flare of rage at the woman in the cells below filled Bruck for a moment, until Ben looked up at him. "Don't," he whispered. "Please. It's like being flayed again."
Bruck stared, surprised, and pulled his shields tighter. "You can feel that much of my emotions?"
"You weren't exactly shielding them, you know," Ben murmured, looking away. "And I'm still a bit raw."
"Sorry."
"No. My turn for that. You shouldn't have had to see—"
"Don't be stupid, Ben." He sat down gingerly on the side of the bed and touched Kenobi's hair. "Don't let her make you feel like you're something less than you are."
Kenobi closed his eyes.
"What's wrong?" Bruck said gently.
He seemed to be struggling with the answer, though Bruck could almost sense it at the surface of his thoughts; it was more emotion than words.
"I am," he said finally in a voice so quiet Bruck could barely hear him. "Or the Council is."
Bruck didn't know what to say. It wasn't that he didn't know what Ben meant, it was that he knew too well.
He stood up and toed off his boots, setting them at the end of the bed beside the bench where he also laid his cloak. His stola and outer tunic followed. He lifted the covers away and slid in beside Ben carefully, minding his hands, and pulled the covers back over both of them. They shifted a little, Ben moving back toward the center to give him more room, then molding himself closer against him when he'd settled. Bruck's arms went around his waist and neck, one arm curling around to cradle his head. Ben rested his forehead against Bruck's and sighed, tangling their feet together. "Go to sleep, Ben," Bruck murmured and kissed his cheek. "I'll be here for a while this time, no matter what the Council wants."
Obi-Wan woke in the middle of the night, panting and shuddering but not remembering what had woken him, and not quite sure of where he was for a moment. Then Qui-Gon nestled a little closer behind him, nuzzling his hair and pulling him tighter. "Shhhhh, kosai. It's all right," he murmured. He started as another hand stroked his cheek, then realized it was Bruck, who kissed his forehead. "Go back to sleep," B-Boy murmured and moved closer too. Sometime in the night Bruck had stripped down to his small clothes, apparently still a bit shy of being entirely naked in the same bed with Qui-Gon. That made Obi-Wan smile a little. The bed, fortunately, was big enough for all of them, so it was cozy but not crowded, giving them all enough room to move.
Another time and other circumstances would have made the situation almost too erotic to bear. Now, it just provided a deeper comfort and sense of safety than he'd felt in a long time. The warmth and the scent of sleep and skin made him drowsy and he burrowed into it like an animal settling in to hibernate. Bruck nuzzled against him and he felt Qui-Gon's arm move around both of them, taking Bruck in as well and pulling them both closer. He drifted off once more, still smiling, and slept peacefully the rest of the night.
It was less awkward than it might have been when morning found them. Qui-Gon, unsurprisingly, woke first, but lay still against Obi-Wan's back, breathing quietly until Obi-Wan sensed his wakefulness through the bond and slowly came awake as well. Qui-Gon rubbed his cheek against the back of Obi-Wan's head and sighed quietly. "Good morning, kosai," he whispered. Bruck made some semi-conscious noise, groped for Obi-Wan with his eyes still closed, and found Qui-Gon instead, who chuckled. Obi-Wan watched Bruck's eyes fly open and couldn't help laughing too.
"The look on your face," Obi-Wan murmured, kissing him. "Thanks for staying last night."
Bruck returned the kiss a little tentatively, as though afraid of offending Qui-Gon, who hadn't moved from Obi-Wan's back. The older man rolled over now and threw off the covers, then got up and slipped on his robe.
"You two go back to sleep. It's early yet for the likes of you."
"All right," Obi-Wan agreed, yawning.
Bruck squirmed in Obi-Wan's arms as though he were going to follow. "I should go."
"It's all right. Qui doesn't mind," Obi-Wan murmured, snuggling closer and closing his eyes. "Stay. Please. He likes his early mornings to himself, anyway."
After a tense moment, Bruck relaxed and nuzzled against him. "If you say so," he replied.
But neither of them went back sleep. Obi-Wan let himself bask in Bruck's warmth, in the pleasure of lying in bed together as they had not in a long while, and pondered what was so different about it than lying in bed with Qui. For one thing, they hadn't been in this bed together before. Normally, that would have added a little spice to the situation, but his libido was AWOL currently and that didn't seem to matter. He finally decided it had something to do with the fact that Bruck wasn't protecting him they way Qui-Gon was, just commiserating. It was disconcerting to discover that, at least for the moment, he felt closer to Bruck.
Bruck tightened his arms around him, as though sensing what he was thinking, and kissed his forehead. "Damn, this is a big bed," he muttered. "I don't suppose I could get one of these now."
"I think this is the deluxe master's issue," Obi-Wan replied in a mock serious tone. "What are you doing for quarters now? I assume you've moved out of Andreth's." It was a relief to talk about something so normal.
"Yeah, I threw some stuff in a vacant single and had the Quarternmaster move the rest while I was gone. At least the bed doesn't take up the whole room now, like it did in that padawan closet. It's missing your decorator touches though. Everything's still in containers. Want to help me unpack this afternoon?"
"I can't," he said with a shudder. I'd have to leave here.
"I'll be with you," Bruck coaxed, instinctively sensing the source of his fear. "Don't let her win, Ben."
"I can't." He could feel the panic growing. Suddenly, he wanted to stay in bed all day, with the covers over his head.
"Yes, you can," Bruck insisted, holding tighter. "We'll have firstmeal, I'll walk you down to see Tianna and then to PT, we'll go eat midmeal afterwards, or go running and then eat, and then we'll go to my new quarters and you can spiff it up, and I'll walk you back here afterwards, or we'll meet Qui-Gon in the refectory, when he's done with classes."
Obi-Wan's heart sounded loud in his ears. Bruck let the silence build around them until he couldn't bear it anymore. Bruck was right. She was winning. Obi-Wan took a deep breath, trying to slow his heart.
"You'll have to do the moving."
"What, are you crippled or something? Use the Force, Knight Kenobi. I'm not doing all the heavy lifting. What do you think I'm bringing you along for?"
"Well, we'd better fortify ourselves first. C'mon. You can help me get dressed for a change and relieve Qui of the tedium."
By the end of the day, Obi-Wan was quivering wreck.
Bruck had been with him all day as they went through the tasks he'd outlined that morning. It had been harder than he'd imagined anything could be to walk out the door that morning, even with Bruck on one side and Qui-Gon on the other. Every unexpected sound made him start, every abrupt motion set his heart racing. His meeting with Tianna seemed to accomplish as little as the previous ones had. Bruck nearly had to drag him to physical therapy, and it took all his coaxing to get him to eat at midday. Afterwards, all he wanted to do was lie on Bruck's bed and doze while the new knight unpacked. Bruck worked at engaging him, but Obi-Wan couldn't make himself care. By the time lastmeal arrived, there was no question of meeting Qui-Gon in the refectory. Instead, he walked back to his quarters between the two of them.
"Do you want me to stay again tonight?" Bruck offered, touching his arm.
Obi-Wan shook his head. "No, it's all right. You've babysat me enough today," he said in a bitter tone. "Let Qui take over now."
"Ben, don't—"
"It's all right. Really. Go find Isa."
Bruck left him reluctantly. Qui-Gon set their dinner on the small table and pulled Obi-Wan's chair out for him, then sat down across from him. Obi-Wan pushed his food around for a while, awkwardly managing a few mouthfuls with his splinted hands, then gave up and pushed the plate aside.
"I can't take this any more, Qui," he said, looking down at his hands in his lap. "I can't live like this." His voice was full of exhaustion and frustration and tinged with anger.
"Your hands are healing—"
"It's not my hands. It's being afraid to leave these rooms. It's the flashbacks. It's not sleeping at night and sleeping too much during the day. It's the fear I can't live with."
"What are you afraid of?" Qui-Gon asked him gently.
"I don't know. There's so much I've blocked out. I still don't really remember much after she got to work on me. I don't want to."
"Of course not—"
"But there's something . . . just . . . I can't get at it, by myself or with Ti. I think I have to."
"Can I help?" Qui-Gon asked.
Obi-Wan looked up, hope and desperation and despair mingling on his face. "I hope so."
They knelt together in the fading sunlight near the doors to their small balcony, or Qui-Gon knelt and Obi-Wan sat between the larger man's knees. The last time they'd used this posture, Obi-Wan had been much younger and smaller, just learning to truly focus on the Living Force. Qui-Gon had guided him gently into it until he'd been immersed for the first time in the way he usually was in the Unifying Force. It had opened up a whole new world for him, vast and full of life, and shimmering with joy, and that joy had shone on his face and filled their bond.
Qui-Gon rested his hands on Obi-Wan's shoulders and kissed the top of his head, remembering. He'd been so young and eager then, and so determined to prove himself, as he had, many times over in the years that followed. Now his shoulders were hunched beneath Qui-Gon's hands, as though the weight were too much to bear. "I love you," he murmured into the shaggy red-gold mop. Obi-Wan leaned back against him with a little sigh. "Ready?" Qui-Gon asked.
"As much as I'll ever be," he replied, sounding doubtful.
"Then let's begin."
Qui-Gon closed his eyes and let himself drift. Finding his center even after a lifetime of meditation was still easier at some times than others. Sitting here with Obi-Wan between his knees and his warm back pressed against Qui-Gon's belly and groin would have been distracting at another time. But there was so much pain radiating from him now that Qui-Gon was more distracted by that than by his lover's physical presence. Through their bond, which was wide open, he could feel Obi-Wan's hands throbbing and wondered briefly how he could stand it. He'd stopped wearing the pain patches during the day, ostensibly because they made him feel "fuzzy" but Qui-Gon knew it was because he feared more flashbacks. After yesterday, Qui-Gon wasn't sure that made a difference.
Along with the pain, Obi-Wan radiated an unfamiliar sense of disquiet and an abnormal amount of fear, so the first thing Qui-Gon did was push his own sense of peace and calm into their bond, hoping Obi-Wan would open himself to it. Strangely enough, this was the first time they'd attempted a joint meditation since the formation of this new bond on Naboo. It was the first time, really, that they'd had much time at all to explore it, with Obi-Wan's nearly back-to-back missions and his own teaching schedule—not to mention his own missions. So despite the circumstances, Qui-Gon felt this time with Obi-Wan was something of a gift. He pushed that into their bond too.
A spike of anger stabbed through it in return, nearly knocking Qui-Gon out of the light trance he'd fallen into. He felt Obi-Wan struggling to release that emotion into the Force and succeeding after a time. Slowly and with much more difficulty, he settled into his own trance, his breathing slow and steady but his shoulders still tense beneath Qui-Gon's hands.
He let them drift for a time until there was only their slow and steady breathing, nearly in sync, and then matched his own to Obi-Wan's and reached out through the bond, focusing on the tension in his shoulders. He imagined the muscles loosening there, and after a time, they did, the suggestion filling Obi-Wan's consciousness. It was the most relaxed he'd been since before the last mission and Qui-Gon hoped that was a good sign. He let them drift for a little more time, not directing their thoughts anywhere, just letting them both bask in the peace. Obi-Wan seemed content to stay there and probably would have without some urging. But that wouldn't accomplish their goal.
Show me the cell, he thought, concentrating on the desire rather than the words. They'd lost the ability to hear each other's thoughts when the bond had changed, but the trade-off had been an ability to sense each other's feelings at a deeper level. It made it more difficult to communicate directly in meditation but Obi-Wan seemed to sense what he wanted.
The spike of fear he'd expected was there and he gentled Obi-Wan through it, enveloping him in love and a sense of security. The younger man shivered a little, his uneasiness souring the bond but also filling it with a sense of determination. And suddenly Qui-Gon found himself in a cold, bare, metallic room, hands and ankles manacled from the floor and ceiling without a strip of clothing in between. Immediately, the bond was flooded with a bitter, intense anxiety, one Qui-Gon could sympathize with all too easily. Then he seemed to step back from the scene, watching from somewhere outside.
Had it been Suri, or even himself, he thought Obi-Wan would have found the setup amusing and highly enjoyable; it was jut the kind of "scene" that turned him on. And perhaps that was part of the problem: his own fantasy life had turned against him.
He waited while Obi-Wan turned that idea over in his mind and both of them felt the rightness to that conclusion. What's the first thing she did? Qui-Gon pushed gently, but that seemed too complex to communicate this way. Perhaps curiosity and encouragement. Show me.
She walked around his suspended body, fingers trailing along his skin teasingly, nails scratching lightly, until she stopped behind him. There was a pause then when she took her hands away, and then her small, sharp fingertips traced the glyphs on his back. Unless, by some highly unlikely chance, she read Old High Danjii, they would be incomprehensible to her. And they were. But Qui-Gon's monogram in Basic was not. She traced that too, then pressed herself against his back, her hands running over him as intimately as a lover's. She had to stretch a little to reach his ear. What do these mean? she whispered. They're very sexy.
Beneath his hands, Obi-Wan shuddered again and he sent warmth and peace through the bond.
I don't recognize this script, but it's not Isani, or any of its dialects. You're not what you'd like us to think, are you? The tracking device, these marks on you. You're not Isani. Let's find out what you are. Underneath.
The memory stuttered there, like an ancient flatfilm. Qui-Gon urged him gently to focus, sensing the hidden presence of what Obi-Wan felt he was missing.
She was behind him again, fingers tracing the characters for serenity and passion. This must have hurt, she observed. Was it an initiation? Do you belong to some society? Were you conscious when it was done? Did you cry out? Did you sweat? Did you bleed?
Did you like it?
He heard Obi-Wan whimper and pushed calm and a sense of security through the bond.
Let's scan these and see what we can find out about your glyphs.
Another skip, this one in time rather than in focus.
Passion. Serenity. In Old Danjii. How fascinating. How does it go, that little Jedi screed? Is that what you are? And this, whose initials are these? QJG. Or is it QGJ
Without warning, Obi-Wan was screaming again, phantom pain stabbing through the bond to find Qui-Gon, settling not in his hands, as he'd expected, but in his groin. It felt as though someone had squeezed his testicles hard enough to bruise.
"No! Not there! Please! No!" Obi-Wan sobbed, bent over between Qui-Gon's knees. "I didn't know! I didn't know!" Shields slammed down between them and Obi-Wan was alone in his own head again, meditative trance shattered.
Qui-Gon curled over him protectively, struggling to get his arms around Obi-Wan's waist, the residual phantom pain still throbbing in his groin. He pushed it away. "Hush, love, hush. It's over. You're safe now. It's over." Beneath him, Obi-Wan started to retch and struggled to get up. Qui-Gon pulled him to his feet and steered him in the direction of the fresher. They just barely made it before what little Obi-Wan had eaten reappeared in an insistent manner. He struggled out of Qui-Gon's arms and retched over the commode dryly for several more minutes before letting it flush and sinking onto the floor with his back against the shower stall, pale and sweating and gulping air.
"Oh gods," he moaned quietly, elbows resting on his knees, hands dangling. "Oh gods."
Qui-Gon touched his shoulder tentatively but Obi-Wan shook him off. He sat, breathing heavily, in what Qui-Gon felt bordered on shock, and in a few moments he was shivering. Instead of trying to move him, Qui-Gon fetched the throw from their sofa and wrapped it around Obi-Wan's shoulders. He was allowed to do that much, at least before Obi-Wan withdrew from him again. So he sat on the tile floor against the wall where he could see Obi-Wan's face, watching patiently.
The silence stretched on for quite a long time. Obi-Wan's breathing gradually slowed and some color came back to him, but he didn't move and didn't seem inclined to, or to speak, anytime soon.
"She knew, then." Qui-Gon said finally, hoping to prime the pump. "She knew you were a Jedi. Or at least suspected it."
Obi-Wan nodded almost automatically, not really listening, it appeared.
"Did she actually cut you?"
That made him look up. "What?" he responded in a dazed voice.
"Did she cut your genitals? Or just threaten to castrate you?"
"She wasn't going to castrate me," he said faintly, in a voice without any emotion. "Not in the usual way."
"What did she say?"
He struggled to collect himself for a moment, then finally responded in an almost inaudible voice. "She gave me a choice: my cock or my hands. She'd leave me my balls, so I'd still have the drive. But we wouldn't be able to fuck. I told her my hands. And that was wrong, Qui. It was wrong." His eyes filled with tears.
"Why was that wrong, kosai?" Qui-Gon said in terribly gentle voice.
"Because, because I'm a Jedi—first," he gasped, "and your lover—last."
And now it was Qui-Gon who felt ill. He sat frozen, horrified that his own words had put Obi-Wan in such a position, and that the pictograms that symbolized their devotion to each other and the order had betrayed him. Then he realized he was making the same mistake Obi-Wan had. He got up on his knees on the hard tile and shuffled across the short space that separated them. His hands cupped Obi-Wan's where they hung between his knees and he brought them up enough to bend his face to them and kiss the palms over the mesh encasing them. "You should never have had to make that choice in that way."
"What's the difference, Qui?" he snarled, jerking his hands away. "What's the difference if I have to make the choice between you and my duty when I'm being tortured or in the field? What's the difference?"
"Because this was no choice, love. Do you really think she would have let you live if Bruck and Garen hadn't gotten you out? What the agency is doing is illegal and you had evidence of it. She was toying with you. She was fairly certain you had a lover—"
"She knew who I was!" Obi-Wan shouted, his voice echoing like thunder in the small tiled room. "She knew the minute she saw my back! Everybody in the Agency apparently knows those fucking pictograms after my pain trials. She knew I was the padawan who'd killed an agent. She was making me pay."
There weren't many times that Qui-Gon found himself stunned into silence, but this was one of them. Obi-Wan glared at him from under a fringe of hair for what seemed an interminable time and then dropped his head. After a moment, his shoulders began to shake. His head came up again and banged the plass panel of the shower, making Qui-Gon wince in sympathy. But Obi-Wan was laughing, tears streaming down his face.
"I knew that would come back to bite me some day. I just—I didn't think—it would be like this."
"Little gods," Qui-Gon muttered. "Kosai—" He reached out, leaning forward and watched in shock as Obi-Wan recoiled from him.
"Don't. Just don't. I—No!" He scrambled to his feet and stumbled out of the little room. A moment later the door to their quarters opened and closed.
Qui-Gon sank back on his heels, inwardly reeling, outwardly impassive. The bond Obi-Wan had forged between them snapped off like a light.
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