Master Apprentice Archive Cinders and Padawans Quick search:

Rating: PG

Archive: M-A, ask me, or Jacynthe Demorae's: http://jdemorae.slashcity.tv/lightsaberissues/index.html

Series: Suspension of Disbelief

Categories: Q/O, first time, romance, PWP, oh my gods there's no kink.

Feedback: Dying for it, please. padawanhilary@gonwan.com

Summary: A dense padawan, a denser master, a grand party, a stray glove. you 'll get the picture.

Spoilers/Warnings: Total brain candy.

Disclaimers: Someday I intend to use my own beloved, beautiful characters to write for fame, fortune and glory. Today is not that day.

Notes: I deliberately did not read "Kenobiella" (though I probably will, now). Any similarities in characterization or structure are accidental. Really, I think this is just one more way to flex my first-time obsession.

/..../ denotes thoughts and bond speak, *..* denotes emphasis.

Obi-Wan sighed as he inspected the blaster holes in his master's robe. He brushed the charred bits off with his hand, trying to decide if it was worth repairing or if he should just requisition a new one. It wouldn't do to have patches in one's robes on diplomatic missions. Still . . . he mentally checked his master's closet. Qui-Gon could use one for training and field missions, and a new one for his diplomatic stints.

He settled to the floor, then, with the sewing box on one side of him, a cup of tea on the other, and the offended robe in his lap. He began to trim patches to fit the holes. Their last mission had ended successfully, if filthily, with the apprehension of several intergalactic criminals in a burned plantation. Obi-Wan groaned as he remembered: their boots were a mess, so he would need to oil them as well. The pair had trudged over nearly half a parsec of ashen ground to capture the miscreants.

Sometimes, it bothered him that he was little more than a glorified runner when they were at the Temple. He could interpret six languages, follow protocol in thirteen star systems, and beat any combat 'droid, at any setting, in the Temple. And yet here he was, sitting on the floor mending the coarse, cindered brown fabric while his master got ready to go to a party without him. It was one of a long list of duties Obi-Wan was used to taking care of so that his master could attend to more important things.

However, as he sat there stitching a patch of brown fabric onto the interior of the robe, he pouted silently about *this* more important thing. It was some kind of diplomatic party in the Presidential Palace. A ball, essentially. Obi-Wan generally turned his nose up at the idea of such affairs, finding himself to be too edgy, too *fidgety,* as Qui-Gon called him, to attend them.

But this one seemed to be so huge, encompassing even the Jedi Order, that Obi-Wan had found himself rather ready for it. He'd brushed his formal wear out, buffed his black boots and polished his buckles. He really had wanted to go, the more he thought of it. He wanted to meet the diplomats his master was always talking about and eat some grand, dainty, pointless little aperitifs. He wanted to listen to small talk made by big people.

Othaina, his best friend, had told him about it originally, and she had intended to go as well. But then the little gossip had found out that the only allowed Jedi were senior knights, and had resigned herself to staying in quarters, waiting for her own master to come home.

Obi-Wan sighed and settled himself into a good, deep pout, using scissors to snip the loose threads and turning the robe so that he could reach another hole. How was it his master had managed to deflect every beam but the ones that were after his clothes?

Qui-Gon appeared in the doorway, and Obi-Wan looked up. Immediately he masked his surprise. His master looked fantastic in a long, white cloak, closed at the front with silver clasps. It flattered the silver in his hair and made his eyes look impossibly blue. Obi-Wan hadn't known he owned such a thing. It obscured his formal uniform down to the ankles of the black boots, leaving Obi-Wan to imagine how good his master looked under the cloak. He admonished himself for thinking like a tittering initiate and schooled his features to bored detachment. "Yes, Master?"

"I have to leave early, Padawan," Qui-Gon said, a little regretfully. "There is, apparently, some small award function before the actual masquerade that I am required to-"

"It's a masquerade?" Obi-Wan asked dejectedly. Now he *really* wanted to go.

Qui-Gon moved to squat down in front of his apprentice, looking into the sulky blue-gray eyes. Obi-Wan quickly gathered the brown robe into his lap so that his master wouldn't get ashes on his fresh white cloak.

"Obi-Wan, I know you wanted to come with me, but I assure you, this is not something I am looking forward to. I'm most likely going to stand by the punch bowl with Mace and wish I were here in my pajamas having tea with you."

Obi-Wan stared down at the brown robe, only slightly mollified. He traced his finger over the patch he had just sewn, and looked up at Qui-Gon. He didn't mean to make his master feel bad about going, but he was a little melancholy about it.

Qui-Gon was disappointed as well; he knew how much Obi-Wan had been looking forward to this thing, whereas he himself had not. *Yoda* had even managed to get out of it. Nevertheless, the thought of Obi-Wan's eyes lighting up the first time he saw the interior of the Palace had contented Qui-Gon with the idea of going. Now it was to be him, Mace and a lot of alcohol if he were lucky.

He patted Obi-Wan's knee and sighed. "I have to go, Padawan."

Obi-Wan nodded, forcing a little smile. "I'm sorry, Master. Don't worry about me. I'm going to finish patching this mess and then oil the boots, and then I'll probably catch a holovid that you absolutely don't want to see. Something involving archaic weapons and a lot of screaming."

Qui-Gon smiled and scrubbed a hand over Obi-Wan's hair and cupped his face affectionately. Then he rose. "I'm only going to stay as long as is proper, Obi-Wan," he promised. "I won't be late."

Obi-Wan nodded, keeping hold of his encouraging expression until Qui-Gon had slid the door closed behind him. Then he drooped again. He sighed and picked up his tea, sipped it, set it down. He plucked at a blackened bit of fabric on the edge of another hole. He shifted and looked at the door.

It wasn't fair.

Well, at any rate he would get more done alone than if he were chatting with Qui-Gon, so he set to finishing the robe.

Forty-five minutes later he was pacing, bored. Wondering what his master was doing, wondering if anyone exciting had shown up. He sighed and slumped onto the couch.

The door chime went off, and immediately Othaina stuck her head in the door, her eyes wide and excited. Her perfect, shiny ringlets wiggled against her head, and she grinned. Her dark, smooth skin glowed. She was excited, plainly.

"Whatcha doing, Kenobi? Moping?" she asked brightly.

He nodded, slouching back down again.

"Well, stop," she told him. She produced a large bag. "I got something for you. Uhm-hmm." She nodded conspiratorially.

He looked at her inquisitively as she dug in the bag. She moved over to sit next to him, bumping her hip up against his and leaning her head on his shoulder, looking up with chocolate puppy eyes.

"How much d'you love me?"

He eyed her suspiciously. " . . . Why?"

She pulled a blue-and-black eye mask out of the bag. "Because I got you into the party."

He looked at her sidelong, but his heart leapt at her words. "How could you have managed that?"

She pursed her lips and widened her eyes. "Magic."

He arched his eyebrow at her. "In other words, don't ask."

She nodded. She jumped up from the couch, grabbed his hand, and tugged him up with her. "Come on, Kenobi, time is short, it's starting about now." She hustled him into his room, dumped out the contents of the bag, and instructed him to strip. When he hesitated, she bounced on her toes a little and said, "Come on! I've seen you naked; it doesn't interest me now any more than it did when we were four. Let's go! Late, late, late!" She clapped her hands at him.

Bemused, he took his clothes off while she laid out the clothing from the bag, shaking it to get the wrinkles out. She clicked her tongue at the charcoal colored tunic and pulled something else from the bag she had brought. He tugged the dark gray leggings on and watched as she put a borrowed Senior Knight rank designation on the tunic.

Oh, that hadn't occurred to him. "I have to impersonate a Senior?" he asked nervously.

"Uhm," she affirmed, as though it were done all the time, tilting her head and adjusting the pin. "Better that than a dignitary from another system." Then she produced, from the bag, an invitation. It was addressed to a name that he couldn't pronounce.

"I'm not sure I can pull this off, Othaina," he told her, inspecting the invitation.

She put her hands on her hips and stared at him. "D'you know, Kenobi, what I went through to get that stuff? And now you're telling me you don' want to go?"

He shuffled his foot and looked down at the tunic on his bed. "It's not that I don't *want* to go . . . "

"Good answer." She lifted the tunic and yanked it down over his head, and he pushed his arms through the sleeves with a little difficulty: the tunic was snug on him. Othaina shoved his padawan braid down the back of the shirt, straightening the collar around it.

She turned back to the bag and pulled out a hooded cape. The cape was deep blue, a perfect match to the mask. She threw it over his shoulders, clasped it, and drew the hood up, clicking her tongue at his hair. "Better keep that hood up, make sure the braid doesn't come out, hide your hair. He'll recognize you if you don'."

He looked at her quizzically. "Who will?"

Othaina tipped her head and raised her eyebrows at him, putting her hands on her hips. When his expression did not change, she muttered, "Whatever gets you through the day, Kenobi." She handed him his boots. "Now listen to me. I have to get that pin back before it's missed. You drop it by my quarters before you go home. No later than midnight."

He looked at her, his expression bland.

"Kenobi?" She folded her arms and tapped her foot.

"All right, Othaina, I'll have it back by midnight."

When he was finally dressed, he inspected himself in the mirror. The effect was perfect. The cloak draped over his shoulders and down to the tops of his shining black boots. When he parted the cloak, the rank pin gleamed on his chest. The clothing was a little tight, but it was the best that could be done, and it looked nice, at any rate. He put the mask on, fixing it around his head, and smiled. All he had to do was get in the door and keep a low profile, maybe shield a little, and he would go completely undetected. It wasn't exactly conducive to socializing with his master, but it would be better than sitting at home brooding.

Othaina leaned up behind him on her toes, her chin on his shoulder, looking him over in the mirror. "Uhm. You make me wish I was your type. Here." She reached around his front and handed him a pair of gloves. "Those are from me. A present, to remember your night by."

He turned and kissed her cheek happily, then looked at the gloves. They were black, buttery smooth leather, and they shone softly with newness. Tugging them on, he found they fit ideally. "Oh. Othaina, they're perfect. Thank you so much."

She beamed at him and turned him toward the door, pushing him gently out it and palming it closed behind them. "Go, go. And keep an eye on your master, if you can find him. If he heads out early, you have to get back before he does. And I would *not* want to be you if you don't get that pin back to me by zero hundred."

He nodded at her, thrilled, kissed her again and darted down the hall, cape billowing behind him.

When the shuttlecar dropped him off at the front of the palace, he was suddenly paralyzed with a terrible case of nerves. He stood to end up in a lot of trouble if he was caught. He adjusted his mask and gripped the invitation.

/Well, Kenobi, you can go up the stairs and into a grand, huge party, or you can get back in the shuttle and go home to an empty room./ He sighed, and a small voice added, /And take ribbing from Othaina for the rest of your life./

This thought galvanized him. He paid the shuttle driver, steeled his nerves, tightened his cloak and his shields and went up the wide steps to the Palace. When he flashed his invitation he was directed around a corner toward the ballroom.

He presented the invitation silently to the usher at the door, who looked at it curiously, then regarded him. He looked back at the usher, a dapper Calamarian in a black uniform, and tried not to squirm guiltily.

"Enjoy your evening, sir," the usher said graciously, and waved him through, bowing himself out of the way.

Obi-Wan stepped through the entrance, and caught his breath.

He was at the top of a stairwell and had a clear view of the entire room. The whole place glittered. The arched ceiling was strung with colored beads, hanging in wide, scalloped swaths. The crystal chandeliers shone gold and flame colored, casting warm light over the huge room. The perimeter of the room was carpeted in a swirling, ornamental crimson and purple. The main floor was highly buffed wood, and couples danced gracefully, in rich, formal attire from dozens of cultures. Hundreds of people filled the room, spilling out into what appeared to be gardens, through grand, wide, windowed double doors. The room smelled of flowers and perfumes, sweet, exotic and varied. He'd never seen such grandeur, even given all the diplomatic missions he and his master had ever been on.

Dazzled, he stepped slowly down the stairs, silently thanking Othaina and whatever friends she'd begged, borrowed and stolen from to get him here. The sight of the room alone was worth the trouble. He steeled his nerves and his shielding, drew a mien of cultured serenity about him and continued down the stairs.

Qui-Gon suppressed a sigh and forced another smile, shifting the mask that was disguising his eyes and obscuring his peripheral vision. This whole thing was worse than he'd thought. He hadn't been able to slip away for a moment, so in demand was his attention as a Jedi. He'd met every dignitary from here to Dantooine, shaking hands and exchanging platitudes. He laughed and nodded when they told cultural jokes he did not understand, and laughed and nodded when they told crass ones that were not funny. He'd done so much laughing and nodding that he felt his cheeks and neck might never recover.

He really wished Obi-Wan had been allowed to come. He looked around at all the richly clad dignitaries, thinking his padawan would just love seeing this. He thought Obi-Wan would fit in perfectly and indulged himself in a mental picture of his attractive and reserved padawan in the middle of all this glamour. He shook his head and berated himself mentally, /Going loopy about the thought of your apprentice is not going to make this party any easier./

He'd scarcely had a moment to himself the entire time. The best he had managed to do was sidle up to Mace, who hadn't even bothered wearing a mask, and mutter, during a quiet second, "Aren't introductions at a masked ball counter to the purpose?" Mace had only time to snort a small laugh before another half-tipsy but apparently very important planetary leader approached them. After a while, he turned to find that Mace had disappeared from his side. /Perfect,/ he thought darkly. /He deserted me./

The prince who was currently talking at him appeared to be from Boscht, a planet Qui-Gon knew nothing about. As he listened to yet another telling of "A Jedi, a Hutt, and a Fleet officer walk into a bar," he surreptitiously scanned the room for Mace. His sweeping gaze lit on the stairwell.

There was a man coming down it in a stunning blue cloak. As he watched, the man tossed the cloak back over his shoulders casually and continued striding down the steps, looking about the room with an air of detached wonder. Qui-Gon tipped his head and looked harder. Whoever he was, his bearing alone made him the one person in the room Qui-Gon *wanted* to meet. He looked around like a child, at tables, at the lighting, at the carpets, as though he had never seen such amazing things. But when someone greeted him, he smiled, bowed slightly, and spoke with apparent casual ease. The contrast was striking as well as intriguing. He looked like something out of a romantic fairy tale.

Qui-Gon came back to himself and turned to the Boschtan prince, who was delivering the end of the joke. The Jedi laughed as dutifully as he could manage. Thankfully, His Highness spotted someone else he'd been meaning to speak with, and moved on.

Qui-Gon allowed his face to drop the smile he'd been wearing for the past hour. His cheeks were beginning to ache. Just then, Mace slid up beside him bearing two glasses of wine.

"Thank the Force," Qui-Gon muttered, taking one and sipping from it gratefully. "I've learned how to rate the leadership of the known universe based on their ability to tell jokes in Huttese. I thought you'd abandoned me."

Mace snorted. "That would be downright ill-mannered of me, Qui-Gon, I'm surprised at you. Besides, Yaddle is standing right by the exit."

Qui-Gon restrained himself from rolling his eyes, a habit he had picked up from his padawan. Then he glanced over at the man in dark gray and blue, directing Mace's attention that way.

"Who is that?" Qui-Gon asked, openly curious.

Mace shook his head and looked at his friend. "It's a masquerade, Qui-Gon. I thought introductions were counter to the purpose." But he noted the seriousness in Qui-Gon's eyes and smiled a little. "Hm. Like that, is it? I' ve never seen him before. He's not wearing a state uniform." He turned his observation back toward the man and said, "At any rate, he looks too young for your taste," he added pointedly. "Remember, you keep avoiding the subject of your interest in your padawan for the same reason."

Qui-Gon snorted, then fell silent, watching the man in the blue cloak.

"There's something about him," Qui-Gon murmured, half to himself, and began to move that way. He got about two meters before an Alderaanan Senator waylaid him. Smiling patiently, he allowed himself to be engaged in brief discourse, begged forgiveness, and extricated himself. But when he turned to look for the man cloaked in blue, he saw only the shifting, colorful sea of dignitaries. The man had disappeared.

Mildly frustrated, Qui-Gon looked around briefly, caught Mace's amused gaze, and then brushed off the thwarted feeling. He moved back toward Mace.

"Your Man in Blue will show up soon enough," Mace said dryly.

Qui-Gon made a bland, dismissive gesture and sipped his wine. "I should go home. Obi-Wan's likely just as bored as I am."

Mace looked at him steadily, a smile playing in his eyes, but he said nothing. Qui-Gon took another sip of wine and muttered, "Don't even think about trying to play matchmaker again, Mace. It doesn't matter how entranced I am: Obi-Wan is half my age."

Mace laughed. "So's that one, most likely."

Obi-Wan looked around him, completely entranced, drawing calm and courage from the fact that he was, indeed, pulling this off. He'd been approached by two dignitaries already, and had acknowledged them with tranquil grace. Taking up a glass of wine and a tiny rolled hors d'oeuvre from a passing waiter's tray, he smiled inwardly. The music flowed and swayed, and the cheerful, abundant air of the ball thrilled him. Everything felt golden. He examined the tidbit of meat and vegetable, then ate it: it was tender and savory. Oh, everything was as splendid as he could have imagined.

Looking over the rim of his crystal goblet as he sipped, he froze, withdrawing the glass from his lips and swallowing unsteadily. For the second time that evening, he caught his breath.

Qui-Gon wore an eye mask as white as his cloak, trimmed in silver threading. He had pushed his cloak back as Obi-Wan himself had. The broad expanse of chest and shoulders and the taper of hips was wrapped handsomely in the dress whites, silver buckle gleaming on the cinch that replaced the standard utility belt of the brown uniform. Qui-Gon, too, sipped wine, and glanced about casually. His setting seemed to lend him even more grace and poise than he carried under mundane circumstances, almost as though he drew it from the very air.

Obi-Wan was sure he had never seen anything, any*one,* so magnificent. /That 's my master,/ he thought dazedly. /Qui-Gon Jinn./ He shook his head in disbelief. Where had this gorgeous man come from? He studied carefully, leisurely now: the silver-brown hair, the carefully-trimmed beard, the tall, imposing features, the cool manner that could be mistaken for disdain by those whom he intimidated. He observed his master's dry smile at something Mace said, and at the way he tipped his head up to look around the room.

Then Qui-Gon's gaze snared his. People milled between them, eddied around them but it was immaterial. In all this gold, Obi-Wan could not take his eyes off the one shining, silver being in the room. And that stare rendered him immobile as the man began to move toward him. Obi-Wan simply stood there, rapt, as his master slowly picked his way along a winding path through the gathering.

Qui-Gon looked away a moment, and Obi-Wan glanced down, suddenly afraid. He couldn't let Qui-Gon catch him here. Obi-Wan wasn't positive that his master knew who he was, but he would come over, want to talk, and /Oh Force,/ Obi-Wan thought, suddenly. /My *voice*./ There was no way Obi-Wan could allow the man to hear him speak. And suddenly Obi-Wan could think of a thousand things that would spy him out and betray him: the shade of his eyes, the cleft in his chin, the way he walked. His master missed nothing, and he was coming this way.

Obi-Wan set his wine down on a nearby table, stilled his nerves, and approached a Chalactan woman standing alone nearby.

Qui-Gon watched as the object of his attraction - for that was definitely what he was - moved toward a woman. She looked content, serene, watching the dancers swirl and flow around the polished wood floor. As she turned her gaze to the approaching man in blue and gray, she smiled, a little startled. The man bowed low before her and seemed to introduce himself, but Qui-Gon was yet too far away to hear his words. The woman bowed in kind and spoke, smiling, then positively beamed as he bent over her hand to kiss it. He gestured toward the dance floor, one hand sweeping outward. She bent her head and took his arm.

Qui-Gon sagged a little. The man was charming, poised, attractive, and he absolutely would not stand still long enough to be approached. He glanced down at his rapidly dwindling wine, then back up at the pair, now swept into the current of dancers. The mysterious, intriguing man looked at him, briefly, then turned his gaze back to the woman, smiling as he moved her around the floor.

It was then that Qui-Gon understood the game for what it was. He smiled inwardly. A chase, then? The wine was in his blood, warming him, making him feel uncharacteristically receptive to such a diversion. Even conventional ballroom movements made the younger man seem almost catlike in his grace. Qui-Gon liked the analogy. He imagined holding that feline body in another dance altogether, and flushed pleasantly.

It was drawing late; the clock had struck ten a while ago. He remembered his padawan, quite probably sleeping by now. He had promised Obi-Wan that he would be home before it got late. He felt a mild twinge of guilt, then thought, /I shall have to make it up to him another time,/ and set his mind for pursuit.

The dance ended, and Qui-Gon set his now-empty wine glass on a table. The blue-cloaked man seemed warm now with drink and dance, adjusting his unusual eye mask and hood, fidgeting in a way that was faintly endearing. Qui-Gon simply watched, content now to bide his time until an opportunity presented itself.

Obi-Wan kept a surreptitious eye on his master, who, at least for the moment, seemed content to stand down his chase. The padawan tugged at his collar, too warm with that occasional regard on him and the formal clothing flush against his skin over most of his body. He glanced around and saw the huge double doors - a walk in the gardens would be just the thing - and then looked at his master again, who had moved just a shade closer.

Qui-Gon had seen the direction of his look and was now watching him, his expression one of amused desire. Obi-Wan swallowed thickly, glancing away. He was being pursued, and by his own master. A nervous thrill ran through him at the implication in Qui-Gon's look. Oh, it would be so decadent, so electrifying to succumb to the chase. Suddenly the room felt close and pressing, and he wanted to be out of doors, in those gardens, being kissed -

He bit the thought off roughly and spat it out. /No, Kenobi,/ he hissed at himself mentally. /He *cannot* catch you here./ So he waited quietly, not moving but thickening his shields until Qui-Gon's attention was momentarily drawn away. Then he slipped away again.

/Blast it,/ Qui-Gon thought, piqued. /He disappears too easily./ He sighed and took up a glass of sparkling water from a servant's tray. His thoughts felt cloudy and unfocused now, and the wine wasn't helping. He felt rather thanlight by tall, dense trees. The air felt cool and soothing against his skin after the warmth of the ballroom. It seemed as though he had spent a long while avoiding Qui-Gon, but he had no idea what the time was. He thought he should probably be heading back to the Temple, but he felt so comfortable in the garden, so serene after his self-enforced calm. He didn't have to pretend to be something he wasn't for as long as he stayed outside, and it was too much a contrast from the ball to leave now. It was one more glorious sensation in a night that had been filled with them.

Obi-Wan settled onto a cool marble bench at the base of a large tree and sighed happily. He wanted to hold on to this night, to cling to the visions he had seen. He closed his eyes and saw the swirling purple, blue, and green-garbed guests dancing in the gilded atmosphere of the ballroom. Standing apart from them all, above them all, was his own master, a grand knight in silver and white, handsome and serene, and in pursuit of him. Obi-Wan could only surmise that Qui-Gon, not knowing who he was, found him somehow interesting.

/Not,/ he reminded himself a little sadly, /that he would find me interesting if he *did* know who I was./

He didn't know exactly how it was that he had missed all those fine attributes. He'd never been interested in his master when the rest of the padawans were hot for theirs. Now it felt as though he had mislaid something crucial, only to find it too late. Qui-Gon seemed to want him now, but it wasn't really Obi-Wan he wanted.

He lifted the eye mask to his forehead and rubbed at his eyes. It had to be late. He was tired, and his eyes burned. /Time to go home and return to the plain life of a padawan,/ he sighed silently.

"At last," breathed that quiet, deep voice, from somewhere behind him.

Heart racing, Obi-Wan yanked the mask over his eyes and schooled his features.

"You offer a fine chase," Qui-Gon complimented, moving silently around the large tree and onto the bench. Obi-Wan's heart tightened at the warmth in his master's voice, warmth intended for someone else. Helpless, he hoped desperately that he looked collected as he turned to look into those beautiful eyes, deep and cool in the darkness.

"Will you not speak?" Qui-Gon teased, and Obi-Wan shook his head, he prayed coyly. He pushed a small smile onto his lips.

Impulsively, Qui-Gon took one of the younger man's hands in his own, turning it palm up and gliding his fingertips over the delicate leather that covered it. He observed the man's shiver, and was quietly encouraged. He tugged the glove off a finger at a time and set it on the bench, then trailed his fingertips over the naked palm, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from the younger man.

"Do I know you?" he asked the man in blue. He reached forward and pushed the cloak, draped over the rank insignia, to one side, revealing the designation, shining faintly in the dark. "I've seen you in the Temple, haven't I?"

Obi-Wan was trapped. He didn't know how to answer.

Qui-Gon smiled. "Very well, then. I'll play. We've done well enough without words, haven't we?" His voice went quiet and soft, and he leaned forward.

The kiss caught Obi-Wan completely by surprise, though he had heard the change in his master's tone, had seen him leaning forward, had felt the breath moist on his lips and the tickle of moustache before the warm lips came against his. It stunned him to the core. It was delicate and exploratory, but it jolted through him, a shock of fire. His stomach was instantly tickling with butterflies. His master's firm, smooth lips slid over his, and he was torn. His mind told him to get away, now, but he couldn 't move. Qui-Gon's hand slid around to the back of his neck, and a thumb softly stroked the smooth fabric of the hood. Obi-Wan shivered as the tip of his master's tongue hesitantly slipped over his lips, then between them. Taking his response as encouragement, Qui-Gon slid closer on the bench and put his arms around Obi-Wan, deepening the kiss. Obi-Wan began to feel less helpless and more reckless. He responded, meeting his master's tongue and drawing it in eagerly. He put his hands in his master's hair, arching into that warm, hard body. His breathing came faster and his heart thrummed in his ears.

/Too good, my master,/ he thought distractedly as the clock began to chime.

Obi-Wan stiffened. Questioning, Qui-Gon pulled back, his breathing uneven. Obi-Wan allowed his eyes to meet his master's, and was assaulted by such smoky promise that he tore his gaze away, quickly, before he stayed and destroyed everything.

"I - " he whispered hoarsely, then broke off, terrified. He stood quickly, casting his glance about for the nearest way out of the garden.

Qui-Gon was surprised and perplexed. "What--? Wait," he pleaded, tugging at the man's wrist, standing. "At least tell me your name. How can I find you?"

Obi-Wan faltered. He scarcely knew what he was doing as he grabbed Qui-Gon's hand, kissed him one last, lingering time, and fled.

Qui-Gon stood quickly and began to give chase, but then stopped. On the bench lay the glove he had pulled from the man's hand. He picked it up and looked at it: it was dark like those eyes had been, soft like those lips. He rubbed it lightly, feeling it, and closed his hand around it.

Obi-Wan doubled the shuttlecar's fare to get him back home at illegal speeds. He darted through the Temple, stripping off his mask and cloak and unpinning the rank designation.

Othaina opened the door just as he arrived, and held her hand out. "You're late," she complained, amusement in her voice.

He handed her the pin, then unceremoniously dumped the cloak and mask into her arms as well. "I have to go," he panted. "I am afraid he will come home."

"Wait, you!" she admonished as he turned to sprint home. "How was it? Nice? Give me *something.*"

He paused and his eyes went distant. "Yes. Nice."

But she saw how his eyes sparkled with excitement and sadness, and wondered.

He ran all the way back to the quarters that he shared with his master, but didn't even pause as he slipped in the door. Quickly, he went to his room, closing the door behind him. He realized he had lost the loose glove somewhere, probably in the shuttlecar. He opened a drawer to shove the other one in. He didn't have time to worry about that now. He stripped out of the clothes he wore, putting them into a pillowcase and not the laundry chute. He fairly leapt into his pajamas, then dimmed his lights. Only then did he sink to the bed, shaking with adrenaline and nerves.

The amazing, disturbing night was over. He had seen the ball, had danced, had experienced a splendid night in the Presidential Palace. He held onto the images, replaying them in his mind repeatedly: the taste of the wine, the Chalactan woman's smile as they danced, the strands of beads draping from the ceiling. He wanted them burned into his memory so that he would never forget.

It all seemed overshadowed, though, by his regal master in silver and white, and by that kiss: that long, sweet, slow kiss that had upended his entire existence. How could he possibly interact with his master now? How could he look at that man in the line of duty when all he wanted to think about was how delicious he tasted?

Obi-Wan threw himself on his pillow with a frustrated groan. He put his hand over his eyes and rubbed them, realizing he was going to have to learn a new level of Jedi control.

The hiss of the main doors sliding open startled him. He froze, listening intently. His master moved quietly to his rooms, obviously under the assumption that Obi-Wan was sleeping, and closed the door. Obi-Wan relaxed again, sighing silently. It looked like it was going to be a long night.

Qui-Gon switched his lights on and looked at the glove his obsession in blue had dropped, moving silently to his bed. He sat down, studying the small accessory of clothing, feeling its satin surface. Why had he dashed off so quickly? Why wouldn't he remove his mask or speak? Qui-Gon turned the glove over, wondering why he was obsessing over someone he had never seen before - never really saw tonight, for that matter - and would probably never see again.

Ah, but that kiss. Qui-Gon smiled faintly, running his index finger over the glove. *That* had been worth any amount of obsession. It had been worth the chase, worth all the smiling at bad jokes and tipsy introductions. He was almost sorry Obi-Wan was asleep; he wanted to share the night, replay it. He rose and went to his desk, opting for a journal entry in lieu of someone to tell. He wondered if he would ever see that knight again. He dearly hoped so. His lips remembered that kiss, and wanted it again.

It looked like it was going to be a long night.

Obi-Wan shuffled tiredly from his room, combing his fingers through his short hair. He had dreamed all night over and over of that gorgeous, electric kiss, and had jolted awake repeatedly. Now he was sleepy, crabby, and wanted nothing more than a hot cup of caf and a shower.

"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon greeted pleasantly, coming in from his room. "Good morning. Ah, the ball was so nice. I am so sorry you couldn't come. You would have enjoyed it."

"Mmmh," Obi-Wan grunted blearily. He would have preferred not to be faced with those blue, blue eyes until *after* he could think clearly. He avoided his master's gaze, hoping it just looked as if he were too tired to be agreeable.

Qui-Gon chuckled and indicated the kitchen, knowing his padawan's penchant for caf before committing himself to thought processes. He sat on the couch took up a datapad.

Obi-Wan went into the kitchen and poured himself a cup, sweetened it, then used the mug as the focal point for his attention as he padded back into the common room to sit beside his master. His first sip was bliss, as always the best one of the morning. He sighed and settled back onto the couch, beginning to feel marginally better and less worried about talking to Qui-Gon.

But when he furtively looked over at his master, that brief sense of comfort disappeared. He had hoped in the light of day that the fancy that had overcome him at the ball would seem whimsical and silly. He was bothered to discover that his master appeared just as noble and handsome as he had the night before. Obi-Wan groaned inside his head and closed his eyes, sipping more caf. He shriveled inwardly at the thought of masquerading his brand new adoration as padawan-like devotion forever. It was like waking up from a sensual dream and suddenly wanting the person who'd been in it.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes and inhaled steam from his mug. Yes. That was *exactly* what it was like.

"I will need you to come with me this morning, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said, checking his schedule. "I have to run by the supplier for a new robe, and we are due before the Council for a mission briefing. I have some other things to do, also, that I hoped you might help me with."

"Oh?" Obi-Wan stared into his cup, still too foggy to think properly.

"Yes." Qui-Gon reached into a pocket in his robe and withdrew a very familiar looking black glove.

Obi-Wan blanched and his stomach lurched into itself. "What's that?" he asked, trying to sound curious, nonchalant, and tired, though the sizzle of anxiousness had all but dried up his sleepiness.

"I met someone last night, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said quietly, smiling. "Well. I suppose it might be a stretch to say I 'met' him. I have no idea his name. He never even spoke." Qui-Gon's smile widened somewhat, and he traced his fingertips over the glove as though he were touching a lover's hand. Obi-Wan closed his eyes, trying valiantly not to remember that touch in the palm of his own hand, and failed.

"I would like to try to find him," Qui-Gon finished, and looked at Obi-Wan. He faltered at the sight of his padawan's pallor and the miserable expression on his face, eyes closed, mouth drawn thin. Obi-Wan jumped when the back of Qui-Gon's hand landed on his forehead, then on his cheek, feeling for warmth.

"Are you all right, Obi-Wan? You look wretched."

Obi-Wan swallowed. "Fine, Master," he said, his mouth dry. He sipped again from his mug and yanked a veneer of calm over himself, hiding his racing pulse behind it. "Just. tired."

Qui-Gon looked at him speculatively and knew that even were Obi-Wan sick, he would not admit it. "Perhaps you should stay here today and rest, then."

"Oh no, Master," Obi-Wan heard, appalled to realize the words were coming out of his own mouth. "I'll be all right, I'll just need to get cleaned up and refresh myself a little." He swallowed down more caf, fairly hiding behind his mug. The last thing he wanted was to be trudging all over the Temple looking for the nonexistent character Qui-Gon had become infatuated with. As it was, his pretense at ignorance and calm was thin enough.

"If you're sure," Qui-Gon said doubtfully, looking at him again. Obi-Wan nodded dumbly, unable to imagine what else to do.

He cursed himself as his master went to get ready to leave. He cursed himself in the shower. He cursed himself while he was dressing. /Of all the stupid, brainless things to go and do, this has to be top-notch. 'I'll be all right,' indeed. This is going to be a wonderful morning, Kenobi, spent looking for a man who isn't there. Fantastic. /

"Ready to go?" Qui-Gon asked him, and Obi-Wan saw him tucking the offensive, Sith-damned glove into a pocket.

The hapless padawan plastered a smile to his face. "Where to first?"

They went to the supply house first, where Qui-Gon requisitioned a new robe and more boot oil. He asked if the supply master had been to the ball, or if anyone within his offices had gone. The supply master shook his head. Obi-Wan suppressed his relief and surprise, then went fluttery and nervous inside when his master persisted, "Do you know of anyone else who went to the ball last night?"

Qui-Gon really was serious about this.

Obi-Wan realized that part of him was delighted at the attention his amorous invention was receiving, even as he acknowledged that he was disturbed by it. He began to feel guilty that Qui-Gon was chasing around after a ghost. He found himself a bit at a loss. What could he possibly have done that had the stoic, reserved Master Jinn hunting him down?

/Not you,/ Obi-Wan mentally corrected himself. /The sophisticate in the blue cloak./ He cringed inwardly at the thought of his master finding out that *he* was all that lay at the end of this trail.

Then they went to the Consular offices, ostensibly for no other reason than to ask if anyone there had been at the ball, and had they met a particular gentleman in a long, royal blue cloak? The two Jedi were redirected to a woman whom Obi-Wan thankfully didn't recognize, and she shook her head and gave a blank look when asked about the disappearing stranger. Obi-Wan sighed his relief, then felt guilty when Qui-Gon sighed his disappointment. Obi-Wan was seeing the disturbing pattern his master's mild obsession was taking: everywhere they went, he asked about the Man in Blue, as Qui-Gon called him, and everywhere they went, he became more dejected and frustrated.

"Perhaps he doesn't want to be found," Obi-Wan suggested to his master quietly, and was met with a silent, heavy look.

Obi-Wan mentioned that he would like to dash off to a training room to work on a kata that had been problematic for him. Really, he just wanted to get completely away from the whole glove business, though of course he said no such thing. But Qui-Gon maintained a policy of not accepting missions without Obi-Wan present, so Obi-Wan followed along dutifully behind his master to the Council meeting.

The session went quickly. Qui-Gon accepted the mission, when Obi-Wan nodded silently, to Boscht, of all places. It was simply to oversee the opening of a global shipyard. Apparently, there were some contractual negotiations left undone, and some mediation was required. It was a standard session regarding a standard mission.

Obi-Wan didn't see the reason why he'd had to come at all. He had grown tired with his concerted efforts to remain still and cool in spite of Qui-Gon's heavy frustration. He felt terrible that his master was going through this and he was beginning to feel faintly envious that a man who wasn't real could command so much attention. Especially when his master had someone right here who loved him and was more than willing to--

Obi-Wan broke off the thought. No. No, no. How could he.? He remained absolutely still, his features schooled by dint of will and years of training, belying the turmoil locked away inside him. It was awful: inconceivable, even. His master was practically in love with someone else, if his search efforts were any indication.

He tensed further when he realized he had missed, as usual, about half the mission briefing. He'd catch three shades of hell for letting his mind wander yet again, but that seemed like nothing next to the revelation he'd just given himself.

As they were leaving the Council antechamber, Mace caught up with Qui-Gon. "May I speak with you alone a moment?" He cast what looked like a sympathetic glance over to Obi-Wan, who nodded, smiled tightly, and began to head out of the anteroom.

"I'll be in the training hall, Master," he said, unable to conceal his relief at finally being released. Qui-Gon nodded, and Obi-Wan fairly raced from the room.

Qui-Gon turned to Mace. "Yes?"

Mace studied his friend's face, then said almost coldly, "What are you *doing* to that padawan?"

Qui-Gon's face registered his confusion. "Doing?"

The Councilor gestured in the direction of the exit out of which Obi-Wan had beaten his retreat. "He's miserable. Can't you see it? Force, can't you *feel* it?"

Qui-Gon frowned slightly. "He has seemed a little off today."

Mace snorted. "'Off'? I'll say he's 'off'. I wouldn't recommend going on a mission with him in this state." He paused, and looked at the other master closely. "Have you told him about last night?"

Qui-Gon's features stilled, and he adopted a slightly defensive posture. "I told him I met someone. In fact, we've been trying to find out who the man is."

Mace's eyes widened. "You're dragging your padawan around to-- Sith hells, Qui-Gon. Can you really be so blind? Are you that captivated by your fairy tale prince that you fail so completely to see?"

Qui-Gon raised his eyebrows. "See..?"

Mace opened his mouth, closed it, made an outraged face, then shook his head. Finally, he said incredulously, "It's not for me to say, though light bless me if I can understand how you can be so thick-headed. But I suggest, Qui-Gon, that you mark your padawan a little more closely." He regarded Qui-Gon briefly, then turned and walked back into the chamber.

Qui-Gon was thoroughly puzzled. He headed for the training rooms, his steps slow and measured as he pondered Mace's words. What in the galaxy was the man talking about? What could he possibly know about Obi-Wan that would go unnoticed by the very master who trained him?

He reached the main training hall and found Obi-Wan whipping through the sixth kata, deep in concentration. The fluidity was somehow enhanced rather than hindered by the unusual speed at which Obi-Wan performed the exercise. He sped through it at an astonishing clip, assumed the final stance and then amazingly began the seventh. Qui-Gon could feel the distress through his padawan's meditative state, and realized that Obi-Wan had been darting through katas one after another. The sight was strangely disturbing. Obi-Wan seemed to be trying to mentally beat himself into something. Or out of it.

He replayed Mace's words in his head. He watched his padawan work himself to a frenzy. Then he sank to a bench, stunned. No, it couldn't be. . Could it?

"Obi-Wan," he called, rising. When his apprentice neither slowed nor acknowledged he called again, more loudly: "Obi-Wan!"

The padawan faltered mid-thrust and stumbled. "Yes, Master. I'm sorry, I just--" he stopped, having no idea what he was about to say or why he was apologizing. He deactivated his 'saber and tucked it away. His heart was pounding as much from exertion as from being startled, and his breath heaved, his mouth drawing in air in great gasps.

Qui-Gon stepped close to him and studied him. Obi-Wan wiped sweat from his face and looked back, and when the regard did not lighten, he laughed nervously. "What?" Obi-Wan dipped his head down and fidgeted with his 'saber, though there was nothing wrong with the way it was seated in his utility belt.

Qui-Gon's heart rose and sank at the same time. It was true. Now he could feel, through the training bond, the tense, hidden area that he'd been too preoccupied to notice. He couldn't imagine what he'd put his padawan through, pulling him hither and thither looking for some masked would-be paramour. Yet he was torn. What he'd felt last night had been so real, so solid: but here was his padawan. Right here, now, in front of him. Feelings that had lain dormant inside him, embedded but unacknowledged, suddenly reared up and demanded attention.

And as Obi-Wan stood there looking at him expectantly and waiting to hear what was so important, Qui-Gon could find no words.

"Are you all right, Master?" Obi-Wan asked, wondering what that look in Qui-Gon's eyes was for. He reined in a second's panic when he thought his master might have put two and two together about the ball. He stepped back and folded himself over in a stretch, trying to appear nonchalant, a padawan bent on his training.

"Yes, Obi-Wan. I think-- when you're finished here, I should like a word with you. I'll be in our quarters." He hesitated a moment, then left the training hall.

Obi-Wan's stomach fell. That inscrutable look, the controlled tone-- he had a bad feeling about this.

He slunk rather than walked back to the quarters he shared with his master. He'd determined while he'd been driving through katas back to back that he really had to tell his master about the ball. He had to get the truth out. Along with that came the understanding that he would have to explain why the kiss had happened at all: he would have to tell Qui-Gon that his padawan was in love with him.

Saying it inside his head, though, felt better than he had imagined it would. He keyed open the door and stepped into their quarters, tugging his outer tunic off. He went into the common room to find his master tearing the place apart, searching for something.

"Master, what is it?" Obi-Wan stared around their living area, taking in upturned couch cushions, rearranged magazine piles, chairs scooted back from where they had been.

"The glove," Qui-Gon muttered. "I seem to have lost it." His cool tone contrasted sharply with the disarray around him, and Obi-Wan knew he was hiding his distress just like his padawan had done all day.

Obi-Wan could stand it no longer. "Master, I have to tell you something."

Qui-Gon stopped rooting through the couch a moment and straightened. "I, too, have something I need to say." He saw the look on Obi-Wan's face and looked around the room-- a complete disaster. Where in Coruscant had his head gone?

/You left it on a stone bench in a palatial garden,/ he told himself sharply, and rubbed his temples.

"Master, the thing about the glove is--"

Qui-Gon cut him off with an uncharacteristically impatient swipe of his hand. "Never mind that, Obi-Wan. I want to apologize for running you all over the Temple today, hunting for the man from the party. I don't know what I was thinking."

Obi-Wan took a breath. "But Master, what I mean to say is, the glove--"

"I've loved you for some years now," Qui-Gon practically blurted.

Obi-Wan's mouth closed with a snap.

"And today," his master continued, "it took Mace pointing out to me that you must feel the same way, or you wouldn't have been so bothered by the ridiculous actions of your master."

Obi-Wan stared, eyes wide, heart thudding, stomach familiarly full of butterflies. "I--" He froze. What was it he'd meant to say?

"If I'm wrong," Qui-Gon persisted, "then I assure you, nothing more will be said." His voice grew quiet as he stepped close to Obi-Wan. "But. I don't think I'm wrong."

"No," Obi-Wan whispered, trapped by his own faltering desire and the intently relieved look in his master's eyes. "But the glove--"

"Obi-Wan, please." Qui-Gon closed his eyes and sighed. "This is-- difficult enough for me, and for you as well, without a reminder of how dense your master is."

Obi-Wan made an impatient sound, turned on his heel and walked out of the room, leaving Qui-Gon staring after him, startled and breathless.

/Nicely done, Master Jinn,/ he thought a little sickly. /Perhaps you should deliver classes: 'How to alienate your padawan in three easy steps.'/

He was supremely astonished when Obi-Wan returned, looking at him intently.

"Obi-Wan," he sighed, relieved, "Listen to me. The only reason I'm so worried about the glove is because it's all I have to remember last night by. It was an excursion, a flight of fancy, but now--" He hesitated, staring into his beautiful padawan's eyes, then went on, "I would like to try-- something, here, between us, if you can forgive me for being so wrapped up in someone else, however briefly, in spite of my feelings for you--"

"With all due respect, Master," Obi-Wan cut him off smoothly, slightly amused at his master's babbling, "if you would just let me finish speaking, you would understand that it doesn't matter that you've lost the glove." He held up his hand, in which was the mate to the missing article. "You see, I have the other one."

Qui-Gon stared at the thing in his padawan's palm. It summed up all the trouble of the day, blast it, and he took it slowly, turning it over in his hand. He looked at Obi-Wan, whose eyes were shining with devotion and desire.

"I think I fell in love with you last night, "Obi-Wan said softly. "Or perhaps it was just then that it struck me I had been. I don't know." He sighed, contented but somehow wistful at the same time. "At the end of all that searching, there was never going to be any sophisticated knight in a blue cape. There was only me."

Obi-Wan watched his master study the glove a minute longer, disbelief and joy coloring his eyes. Qui-Gon took the glove in one hand and Obi-Wan's wrist in the other, guiding his padawan's hand up. Obi-Wan held his hand steady as Qui-Gon slipped the black glove onto it smoothly, then sighed softly as his master slid his fingertips over his leather-covered palm.

This kiss didn't quite catch Obi-Wan as completely by surprise, as he felt the warm hands cupping his face and saw his Master moving deliciously, impossibly close. He was drawn to that mouth again, delirious with the knowledge that yes, this time it was his master kissing him, his padawan, and no mistake. Qui-Gon's mouth nipped his, kissing softly, mingling his breath with Obi-Wan's and fusing their lips together eagerly. The master's hand found the padawan braid and he fondled it. He was overjoyed that his reserved, cool, studious apprentice was also willful and sneaky, not to mention incredible with his mouth. Qui-Gon snaked his tongue out to capture his padawan's, and Obi-Wan released a low moan, wrapping his arms around his master's neck.

Shivering, Obi-Wan pulled back just enough to breathe a little and press himself tightly to that broad chest. Qui-Gon held him, resting his cheek on top of Obi-Wan's head. They stood there a moment, wrapped around each other, and after a bit, Qui-Gon said quietly, "I am very glad, Obi-Wan, that it's 'only you.' Fairy tale princes are overrated."

End.