The Business of Loving

by RavenD (ravendreams@earthlink.net)

Archive: master_apprentice, World of Pretty Boys, anyone else, pls. ask

Author's web page: http://www.ravenswing.com/ravendreams/

Category: Vignette

Rating: G

Warnings: none

Spoilers: none

Summary: Obi-Wan waits to fall in love.

Notes: All hail the mighty and wondrous Mystique, may she always say "yes" when I beg her to beta, even when that means going over version after version, line by line until we're both happy. Thank you, ma'am.

Thanks to Mac and MJ for the discussion and critique.

Eternal thanks to my pronoun-wrangler, VelmaDoo.

All mistakes are mine.

Feedback: Waited for with bated breath.

Disclaimers: I don't have enough to pay attention. Lucas owns everything.

I keep waiting to be madly in love.

I keep waiting for the bells and whistles, the heart-wrenching fear of abandonment, the sleepless nights. My friends tell me of sweaty palms, kisses that stop their hearts, jealous arguments and heaving bosoms. I wait for that mind-shattering intensity, for my breath to catch in my throat. I wait for my entire focus to be filled by passion, to move aside my heart-felt desire to learn, to train, to feel the Force quicken around me.

We have a life, you and I. We are apprentice and master, student and teacher. We are friends. What I'm unsure of is whether we are really lovers. Bant asks me about our life, her face flushing with concern at my tales. "But, Obi," she says, "aren't you afraid you're missing something? Denying yourself for him? Don't you want to be in love?"

Do I want to be in love?

Our evenings at the Temple blend one into another. I do enjoy the rare luxury of arriving home at the same moment you do, feeling the emptiness of our quarters becoming full in a moment. I hang up our cloaks in the hall closet and sit down to yank off my boots and stow them underneath.

By the time I stand and brush any dust off my seat, you're already hip-deep in your messages for the day, cradled down within your burgundy chair. I used to think you looked more regal than a king when you sat in that chair. I'd be lying if I said it didn't still cross my mind from time to time. Your face twitches as you read: a flash of laughter, a quick furrow of your brow, an eyebrow raised in question. As you begin to answer, your hand slowly rubs the bridge of your nose.

Moving into the kitchen, I put the kettle on and fix a blend of tea for you before I gather vegetables for soup.

You wander in, a pained scowl across your face. "Are you using the teapot, Padawan? I wanted some tea..." Your voice trails off as I hand you a cup and you smile. "You're too good to me, Obi-Wan."

"I know, Master. I do it in the hopes that when I'm as old and infirm as you are, I'll have a padawan to care for me..."

Laughter does wonderful things for a headache, I've found.

You toast the bread and set the table. I am careful not to put too much spice in the soup because it burns your mouth. You make sure I get an extra napkin because I tend to wave my hands when I talk -- a dangerous habit with soup.

The conversation flows between us, full of "how did that course go?" and "are we all unpacked from that mission?" and "did you hear what Bant was doing in the upper levels?" When we are deep into our meal, I ask you, "Master, have you ever been passionately in love?"

Your eyebrow quirks and you smile. "Yes, Obi-Wan. I have."

"Oh." Your eyebrow twitches slightly and your smile deepens. "Master Windu asked after you when I crossed him in the halls this afternoon, Master."

"Did he?"

We finish eating; enjoying the soft, dark bread that sops the leavings in the bowl. In the kitchen, I wipe down the cabinets and put on water for tea. You clean the dishes; continually pushing your sleeves up over your elbows, getting them damp from your hands. After watching you for a moment, I reach over and roll the sleeves up myself. Stubborn man.

Moving into our common room, full and damp and relaxed, we work, sitting side by side on the long divan. I read about the history of the Jedi influences in the Outer Rim; you prepare notes for the seminar you're giving some knights on creating a training bond with a new padawan.

Your tunic has a tiny, rust spot near the seam on your shoulder, almost hidden by your hair. I reach out to touch it and you grab my hand.

"I...I wore this tunic on Feiler. The stain is permanent."

For a moment, your eyes darken and I squeeze your hand in mine. With a shrug, you pull away and softly stroke the net of scars along the edge of my tunic and sigh. Before I say a word, you turn back to your notes.

By the time I'm reading about Master P'mwa's campaign to destroy slavery on the Rim, you're cramped up on your side of the divan. I wait, watching you shift slightly, crossing one leg over the other before separating them again with a dissatisfied grunt. Finally I move over, giving you more room.

You stretch out and take up even more of my space than I had offered. "Excuse me! I told you we needed bigger furniture. There's no way we ever fit together on here," I grumble, as you slide out of your boots, dropping them absently to the floor. The right one always comes off first. Always.

I am shoved against the arm of the divan until you reach for me. "Turn around, Obi-Wan." I turn and you pull my feet over across your lap. "See, there's room for both of us. You just have to be more flexible." I sputter for a minute until I see the wicked glint in your eye.

I hope I bruised your arm when I hit it.

Comfortably spread out, one of your hands warm against my ankles, I read my texts. I don't notice I am chewing the end of my braid as I concentrate until you reach over and remove it with a tug from between my teeth. You frown, muttering something about stubborn padawans with bad habits and how one day you'll just snap and trim it short. I grin, knowing how you dream of cutting my braid yourself on my knighting day, keeping it with you always. Some hopes are better kept silent. I laugh and dodge your hands as you reach for me.

I stand and you sit back with a laugh. I set my datapad aside and stretch, first up and then over to snatch up your fallen boots before I grab our cups. On the way to the kitchen, I set your boots in the closet beside mine, where they belong.

The cups are put away, the teapot is rinsed and left to air out, the stores are checked for breakfast. When I am done in the kitchen, I return to the common room, finding it straightened and empty. The datapads are stacked neatly on the desk and the room seems oddly still, the only noise the faint splash of water from the 'fresher.

I can hear you rummaging in the bedroom, finished with your bath. I dim the lamps and slip in to take my shower, smelling the echoes of your soap, your shampoo. I turn on the water; you always lower the temperature for me. The water is warm, but not hot and I grab the cleaning rag you've set aside. The water slides over me and I chuckle as I feel something very akin to joy sink into my bones. As I step out, I realize the echoes of your favorite scents have been washed away, replaced by mine.

Grabbing my towel, I lift my head and look at the same face that I look at every night. The mist on the mirror blurs my harder edges, making me look younger and older somehow at the same time. I am tempted to trace my name on the glass in a moment of silliness. Instead I wrap my towel around my hips and head into the bedroom.

You sit on the bed, toweling off your hair. The brush rests beside you. When you see me, your smile creeps out again answering mine, and you cock your head, lifting your chin and motion to me. I settle on the floor between your thighs and you brush my hair, massaging my scalp as we plan for the next day -- lessons, exercise, meditation.

"I think we could get some time in the training hall, if we wake early, Padawan. I noticed you're still favoring that left knee."

"Bant says there's an amazing lecture on the complications of xenobiologic mediations and I need some time in the flight sim."

"Xenobiologic mediations? Haven't you heard that twice?"

"No, Master. That was the meditation class. Remember? I had a hard time getting in sync with that remarkably touchy wookiee and you made me take it again."

"Oh, yes, I remember now." I can hear the smile hiding inside those instructional tones. "Oh, and Padawan, perhaps a meditation on tolerance?"

"Yes, Master."

At some point during the discussion -- probably between me agreeing to take two initiates through some first level katas and your acknowledgement that I have had enough of Master Poof's senior level courses in Force Manipulation Ethics -- I crawl up onto the bed and return the favor, brushing out your salt and pepper hair and plaiting it. You look tired tonight. I wonder if you're happy.

When we're done with our daily planning, the brush is deposited on the bedside table, the sheets are turned down and I slide in. You wander about for a moment, doing your "we must be in our quarters" checking of the room. Are the doors sealed? Clothes readied for tomorrow? 'Sabers on their shelves by the door? I close my eyes and count your steps around the room. It sounds different from inside our room than it did when this was your room and I listened to this routine through the walls.

Of course, then it included an extra set of steps toward my door.

When you slide into bed, you run your feet along my warm legs, making me jump. A chuckle, a warm kiss, the simple glory of skin against skin and then I rest my head upon the pillow, cool against my cheek.

You will read for a while, something light and entertaining. In the morning, I will waken to your hand on my hip, pulling me close. Our lovemaking will be slow and drowsy before I shower and you begin breakfast. I will clear the table while you get ready for the day.

I hear your soft chuckle and your hand strokes my cheek absently. I am warm and sleepy and safe in my bed with my lover. So many nights we are busy and frazzled, these moments are bright reminders of normalcy.

I keep waiting for the earth to move; for the excitement, the intensity of our love to overwhelm me. Maybe we're too busy. Maybe we're simply not enough. Maybe I'm being distracted by a romantic tale told to the lonely.

Bant asked me if I was afraid of missing something, if I would wake up one morning and regret. I snuggle close to your body, stealing your heat. As I burrow around, you laugh and still me with your arm. "Settle down, Obi-Wan. You're distracting me from my reading."

I can't help the grin that answers yours. "Distracting you? Really?"

"I'm reading, Obi-Wan." The laugh is still there, light with your peace and happiness and suddenly I understand again who you've been in love with.

By the time the datapad falls to the floor and we push the too-heavy blankets to the end of the bed, the familiar feel of your mouth on mine supercedes the question of whether I'm missing out.

I'll worry about it tomorrow, when I'm not so busy with the business of loving.