Notes: Dedicated to obsessive sports fans everywhere... and to
anyone who's ever had to bear with ME when the Pens are in the
playoffs. :>
"Force DAMN you malignant Siths to the lowest dungeon of
Carsadian HELL!"
Obi-Wan winced, then cast an apologetic smile at the other
members of his study group. "I'm sorry, everyone," he said
sheepishly. "My master's not usually this, uh.... vocal."
Vig Cihran, a spindly Bothan Padawan with a notably small
sense of humor, gave an indignant snort. "One would hope not,"
he replied. "That is hardly the sort of language one expects
from a respected member of the Jedi Order."
Obi-Wan frowned at the Bothan's words, instinctively inclined
to defend his master (and lover, though that particular piece
of information was known to only a select few of the pair's
closest friends), but the observation was true enough, so he
decided to let it go. "Right. Okay, so where were we?" he
asked, calling the group's attention back to their aeronatics
worksheets.
A few minutes later, another shout pierced the air.
"Oh, you bantha-spawned IMBECILE! A two-year old child
could have made that shot!"
If looks could throw heat, Obi-Wan's gaze would have seared
ahole in the door separating his master's quarters from the
shared lounge. "I'm sorry," he repeated, for the benefit of his
classmates. "I really am sorry. It's just... it's the playoffs,
you see, and his team hasn't made it this far in
decades."
Vig Cihran looked as if he would comment again, but a warning
glance from one of the other Padawans held the Bothan to
silence.
"It's no problem, Obi-Wan," Padawan Xida Tran said
diplomatically, laying a hand on Obi-Wan's forearm. "All
masters have their quirks. My master, for example, is very
passionate about her, um... gardening."
"Thanks, Xida," Obi-Wan said. "And thanks, everyone, for being
so patient. I know these haven't been the ideal conditions for
st--"
A loud thump cut Obi-Wan's words short, followed by a stream
of curses that would have made a spice trader blush. With a
near growl of frustration, Obi-Wan threw down his slate,
stormed from the lounge, and palmed the door open to his
master's sleepchamber.
"Master, will you BEHAVE yourself?!?" he hissed.
Qui-Gon Jinn looked up from the game on the holo-panel before
him and stared at his Padawan in surprise. "I'm sorry,
Obi-Wan," he said quietly. "I didn't realize you could hear me
out there."
"Out there? Master, they can hear you on the Outer Rim!
I told you I could take this study group elsewhere, I
told you any of the other padawans could host it, but
you said it wouldn't be a problem if we held it
here."
"I know, Padawan, and I am sorry. You won't hear another word
from me, all right?"
Obi-Wan tried to hold on to his rather irritation--really, he
did--but it was hard to be angry when faced with the penitent
look in those exquisite blue eyes. He sighed, letting the
tension go, and folded his arms across his chest. "Are they
losing?" he asked sympathetically.
"It's tied, but they're playing like they've given up, and if
they lose this game, they're out of the series." Despite
fifty-plus years' experience with civil wars, natural
disasters, and reprehensible crimes of every sort, the Jedi's
bearing still managed to convey the impression that this loss
would be a tragedy of unheard-of proportions.
"Well, don't lose hope yet, Master. The game could turn around
for them at any moment."
Obi-Wan left his master then and returned to the main lounge
to find the other Padawans packing up their gear. "Oh, please
don't leave, everyone," he protested. "He won't disturb us
again; he promised."
"Oh, it's not that, Obi-Wan," Xida replied kindly, if not
exactly sincerely. "It's just getting late, and we're all
pretty much exhausted."
Obi-Wan nodded, accepting their decision, and held the door
for his classmates to leave. After clearing their study area of
dirty dishes and scattered trash, he returned to his master's
rooms and joined Qui-Gon on the couch.
"Did everyone leave?" Qui-Gon asked hesitantly.
Obi-Wan smiled. "It's all right," he said, slipping an arm
around Qui-Gon's waist and resting his head on the man's broad
shoulder. "You know I'm not one for study groups,
anyway."
"Still, I am sorry for disrupting your group," Qui-Gon
replied. "Especially for something so trivial as... aaahh!
AA-HA-HA-HAAAAAH!!!!"
Qui-Gon shot to his feet, dislodging Obi-Wan's head rather
forcefully from its resting place. The Padawan watched in utter
bemusement as his dignified Jedi Master did an impromptu dance
in the space before the holo-panel.
"That was bea-UTIFUL!" Qui-Gon cried out. "Oh, did you
see that, Padawan? What a play!"
"I take it they won?" Obi-Wan asked, rubbing his neck somewhat
grumpily.
"They did indeed, my beautiful, most wonderful Padawan!"
Looking as if raw energy were spilling out of his every pore,
Qui-Gon swept Obi-Wan from the couch and into his arms,
spinning him about in a dizzying circle and then toppling him
to their bed. Obi-Wan had time to do little more than gasp
before the Jedi Master joined him, covering the Padawan with
his massive body and plundering his mouth with a heated
kiss....
Hours later, Obi-Wan woke to find Qui-Gon leaning over him,
his head propped up on an elbow, one hand toying with Obi-Wan's
braid. Obi-Wan smiled sleepily, feeling a pleasant ache in
every tissue of his body. "If you get this excited over one
game, Qui-Gon," he murmured, reaching up to draw his Master's
lips towards his. "You just might kill me if they manage to win
the Cup."
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