Spoilers: Speculation on Ep III. Vaguely for JA #1.
Codes: Q/O, angst, h/c, post-TPM, implied character death (not
Obi)
Archive: M_A, otherwise ask me first
Feedback: Keeps me from running away to join the circus.
(3jane@chickmail.com)
Summary: Obi-Wan pauses while on the run from the Empire (pre-
ANH). BlueGhost!Qui-Gon pays a visit. Darkish.
Disclaimer: Owners of Star Wars, lesson one. The Lucas.
<show image, including classic red plaid flannel shirt>
The Lucas.
Sex disclaimer: Sex! And not just any sex! Sex with a dead guy!
How sick is that? Well, a lot, but long story short, consensual
m/m sex follows, explicitly described, so if you ain't cool
with that, vamoose. If you're under 18, you're already playing
where your mother told you not to go, and you'd best be off if
you're gonna be home before dark.
Notes: Title filched from the "Trainspotting" soundtrack.
This is not the promised sequel to "Floating World," but
I'm working on that one, I promise.
Many thanks to Karita Wyr for the beta!
He was cold. He'd been cold for weeks.
The night air was temperate, in fact, and a few years ago he
wouldn't have reacted to it at all. But he'd been running since
he left Amidala on Alderaan. He hadn't slept, or eaten enough;
he'd lost what little insulating fat his Jedi-trained body had
previously sustained him with. He didn't even remember to be
hungry anymore. Just kept moving, in and out of shadows,
occasionally leaving a small trail to ensure that his stalker
didn't abandon the pursuit.
In the reflection of a shop window, he caught his reflection.
The baby-roundness that had marked his face long into
knighthood was gone. He was all brows and cheekbones, now; his
eyes almost vanishing into the cavern the two bone features
created. His nose and ears, which had never been noticeable
before, pushed starkly away from his face, exposed by his
thinness and close-cut hair. The image he made frightened even
him. He wasn't surprised that the few late-evening pedestrians
who spotted him crossed unobtrusively to the other side of the
street. His desperation had to be carved across his skin.
He'd promised himself that Vader wouldn't find them. He'd
staggered into Amidala's throne room with burns running up both
his forearms and dragged her bodily off the throne. She'd
thought he was insane. For three months, she'd been grieving
for the husband who'd fallen into fire and supposedly died, and
in the most recent weeks she'd even been able to get up and
function. He supposed that not even a quarter of her court had
yet realized that she was pregnant. The gowns hid her abdomen,
and so early in the term she was barely showing. She'd stood
across from him, though, with both arms wrapped across her
belly, and Obi-Wan's had thought of all the horrors that might
come to her and the unborn one if he didn't protect them.
For ten hours he'd raved, and in the end she'd only believed
she was in danger because she could see that the forests below
Theed were on fire. Even when they were running for the ship,
she'd insisted that Anakin would never hurt her. Sitting on the
floor at her feet while the ship took off, he'd tried to
explain that it wasn't Anakin, not really, only a sick thing
formed from the remains of Anakin Skywalker's body who knew
everything that Anakin Skywalker had known.
He'd taught that thing everything it knew. It made him sick.
In the dark, after he'd eased her into Force-assisted sleep, he
leaned against the wall and cried. For her, for his lost
student and friend, for himself and what he was going to have
to do.
Bail Organa was a good man and an old friend, and he accepted
the pregnant queen into his household with only a quick glance
that revealed his own fear. Organa had seen the thing called
Darth Vader already, when Palpatine had brought his armies to
Coruscant, and he was smart enough to be afraid. Amidala wasn't
with him, not officially. Officially she'd never left Naboo. So
she might be safe enough, as long as the Sith weren't looking
for her.
He made sure that Vader's attention was elsewhere by making
himself a target. The thing that had been his padawan-learner
seemed more than satisfied to focus its energies on running one
emaciated Jedi Master to ground. Right now Obi-Wan was a little
ahead. He had a few hours to rest before he needed to start
arranging his next transport. Again he wished he'd been more
gracious when Organa had given him the money he needed to keep
his end of the chase up. That gift was his edge. Someday he was
going to owe his friend a very big favour in return.
He just wished he wasn't so cold.
In the blocks around the spaceport, there were a half-dozen
inns that catered to illegal operators and to the desperately
poor. He had a room in one, on the third floor. The two flights
of concrete-enclosed stairs were barely lit, and graffiti was
spattered across the walls in a half-dozen different colours of
paint and something he suspected might be blood. Racist slurs,
random obscenities, the occasional political slogan. Abuse
heaped on the parentage of various beings. Words that raged
against poverty and powerlessness.
His room was tiny, just wide enough for him to step past the
narrow bed to the washbasin. His Force-sense screamed at the
number of things alive in the running water. If he'd been less
tired, he would have taken the time to purify it, but now he
was willing to go to bed dirty rather than give up the energy.
Under his cloak, he was wearing a spacer's jump-pants and
sweater. Both came off with a little effort, and he was able to
wrap the cloak around himself again and crawl into bed with his
'saber clutched against his chest. Tried to gather enough
serenity around himself that he could actually rest. He hadn't
had time to meditate properly in almost two weeks, and the
compounding nervous energy left him twitchy even when he was
exhausted. Eventually, he had to settle for drifting. Letting
his body rest and his attention wander.
. . . the palace at Theed. Somewhere in the state records,
there was a holo of the three of them in the queen's presence
chamber. Amidala presiding over the court with a Jedi knight on
either side of her. Anakin's entire being had been focussed on
her. He'd loved her so much. Obi-Wan, seated on the other side,
her left, was almost a mirror-image of the young knight. Both
of them still delicately blond, Obi-Wan only a little wider in
the jaw. He was smiling, but unfocussed. He'd been drifting
then, too. Reaching as he always did for the dead man that he
was sure must still be present in the palace on some level. In
fifteen years, Obi-Wan had never sensed a trace of him, but he
hadn't been able to let go of the compulsion to reach . . .
. . . standing before the Council and shaving his head. It had
been his last ceremonial act before they'd evacuated the Temple
and he'd gone to Naboo to find the Queen. The long hair had
marked him as a Jedi Master, and it wasn't an honour he
deserved. He'd trained one Padawan, and done it badly, and his
student had finally turned. He supposed it could have been
predicted. Like Master, like Padawan . . .
. . . big fingers rubbing the back of his neck, running over
his Padawan braid, telling him that not all the evils of the
world were his fault . . .
"They aren't, Padawan."
He came awake too fast; it felt like falling. His awareness
jolted into his body sickeningly hard. The adrenaline rush
pushed him out of bed and across the room, so that his back was
against the washbasin and he finally had room to ignite his
'saber.
Without a visible opponent to sustain it, though, the fight-or-
flight response drained away too fast and his knees gave.
Decided that he might just stay there, buried in his cloak,
until daylight. Or maybe for several millenia.
He only gradually became aware of fingers stroking the back of
his neck again, and even once he'd recognized it, the gesture
was so non-threatening that he couldn't pull himself together
enough to look up. Slowly, the stroking ranged farther out,
petting his scalp and his shoulders, his too-vulnerable naked
back. He was gathered up and held and rocked, and it was so
easy to just lean into that touch and rest. For the first time
in days he wasn't cold. The touch was warm, and it smelled so
good. Qui-smell in the midst of this filthy place. Luminous
Jedi-skin against his. The Force around him was electric in a
way it hadn't been in years.
"Shhh. It's all right, Obi-Wan. You can rest. You've been very,
very brave, and I promise you'll be safe until morning. Relax,
let go, let me take care of you . . ."
It was everything he wanted to hear, but lately he'd learned
not to trust his desires. Instead of letting go, he dragged his
eyes open, needing to know what had caught him in such a
vulnerable position.
Luminous flesh. Blue tinge in it and a strange shimmer in the
Force around it. He pulled away again, scrambled back across
the small space, almost naked and utterly without dignity. Blue
flesh, blue hair, indigo eyes.
Qui-Gon.
"Master." After all these years, he still had a child's accent
when he said it. Pulled himself to his feet with as much
dignity as he had left and wrapped the robe around his
nakedness.
Qui-Gon only watched him. So still, kneeling there as if he
were still mortal, looking compassionate enough that Obi-Wan
could almost believe that the man could still regret things, as
if he hadn't achieved the perfect, fucking serenity of the
Force. Turning that poor-Padawan look on Obi-Wan. Where in Sith
hells had he been when any of this could have been prevented?
When Obi-Wan was still carrying through on the promise he'd
made to train Anakin Skywalker.
An enamel pan, oddly pretty and meant to be used for washing,
was the only thing within reach, so he threw it. Hurled it with
all the force left in his arm at the apparition sitting
serenely beside the washbasin. It passed through him, as
Obi-Wan had intellectually known it would, and cracked when it
hit the wall. He decided he didn't care. He'd been angry for
months, and without meditation he hadn't had any way to give
that anger up. The Sith-be-damned ghost was a legitimate
target, finally, and loosed everything he had at it.
He'd thrown the only thing within reach, but he screamed every
curse he knew. Spit blame and rage at Qui-Gon in a dozen
languages, laid responsibility for the situation at his door,
at the Council's, at the Force's, at his own. The filthy place
absorbed his voice so easily. And Qui-Gon only watched,
shimmeringly serene, until Obi-Wan's strength gave out and he
let himself fold onto the bed.
When Qui-Gon came to him this time, he didn't resist. Buried
himself in his own robe and the blue shimmer and didn't think
about how his Master's body could be both insubstantial and
comfortingly solid.
"I want it not to hurt anymore." Barely whispered. Qui-Gon's
presence surrounded him and folded outward, until it was all he
could sense. Folded warmth around him, waited for him to stop
trembling. Then arms came, and a body to support his own. He
hadn't been held like this since he was a Creche-child.
Fingers petted him. The touches ran up his arms and legs,
delicately over his torso, traced his face and neck. It was the
same comfort-contact he would have been offered after a
nightmare when he was a child. It reassured him that he was
safe, and that he was beautiful and precious, cherished and
gifted, of the Light, meant to be Jedi. That he was exquisite
and longed for.
Lips on his electric in the dark. One big hand cupped the back
of his almost-naked skull and massaged gently, pushing the
blood though it and teasing him into something like relaxation.
He'd forgotten how huge Qui-Gon was. The shimmering body
covered him, making a cage of arms and torso that blocked out
the room's filthiness and desperation. Locked him in, held him
down, and kissed him more and more deeply. He tried to pull
back, just once. Gain his bearings, reassess the situation, but
the arms around him wouldn't let go.
"Hush, Obi-Wan. Let the Force give this to you." A faint touch
in his mind, and he could feel the Force opening around him the
way it ordinarily only did in deep meditation. Felt the Moment
and the Force's gratitude for his willing suffering. How to
reward him, it had given him back the man he'd adored and lost
half his lifetime ago. To protect him until he was strong
enough again.
He didn't understand why that should hurt so much. "You didn't
choose to come, then?"
Qui-Gon sighed. "Choose is a misleading term. I was offered the
ability to come to you now. If it had been left to my
discretion, I might have chosen to come sooner." He pressed a
kiss to Obi-Wan's temple. "I did not leave you alone because I
didn't love you."
The statement broke the last of his armour. He pressed himself
up into that mouth, kissed it demandingly. Wrapped himself
around Qui-Gon's increasingly material body. He should have had
more dignity. He was, in spite of his own grief, a Jedi Master
and a middle-aged man. It had been more than a decade since
he'd last offered himself up like this, naked and straddling a
lover's lap like a Corellian whore. But all he could think was
that he'd forgotten it could feel so good. His robe was still
around his shoulders, protecting him from the chill, but his
chest was bare and his cock was bare and he was so hard, harder
than he could ever remember being. He'd be satisfied just to be
cradled by those arms while he rubbed himself to completion
against his Master's tunics.
Laughter chuffed in his ear. "Patience, pretty one." Qui-Gon
stilled him, then caught his face in both hands. Bent a little
and kissed along his jawline from ear to ear. The beard
tickled, and he found himself struggling against the grip on
his face and laughing.
He'd missed this so much. He hadn't had a lover in years. He'd
trained Anakin, they'd fought together in the War, this crisis
had come up, that crisis. In the intervening time, he hadn't
found anyone to match him as well as his Master did. He could
almost forget that they'd never had this in life. In a dozen
years of training, Qui-Gon had gifted him with unnumbered
kisses and embraces, but only once the brush of the lips had
been that of a lover, and the possibility hadn't been one
they'd had time to explore. But he could pretend, so easily,
that this was the opportunity he should have pursued when he
was twenty-five. And Qui-Gon would let him, would call him
pretty, would let him believe he wasn't aged and brittle and
skeletally thin.
When Qui-Gon laid him down, Obi-Wan let himself move with the
gesture. He rested on his back and tried to watch his Master,
but Qui-Gon shifted for an instant, and when he came back into
focus his clothes were gone. Only the cloak was still there,
framing his chest and abdomen and pulling Obi-Wan's attention
to the cock that rose away from that body. Hard, dark, big in a
way that he'd barely remembered. The older Jedi waited until
Obi-Wan met his eyes before setting beside him. Patient.
Perfectly serene and of the Light.
The image broke a moment later when Qui-Gon plunged down and
pressed him fiercely into the thing mattress. He was pinned,
shaking again, wanting to get loose and to pull that warmth and
pleasure into him.
He let go, finally, and let Qui-Gon shape him. Big hands
arranged his body, spread his legs, stroked his belly and his
cock. Qui-Gon's beard scraped a little as he kissed the inside
of Obi-Wan's legs and licked his knees and hip-hollows. Fingers
brushed just under his balls, running electric pleasure up him.
Force-tendrils reached under, stroking that place and lower, so
that they finally traced over his asshole and settled there.
For long minutes, they caressed the thin skin while Qui-Gon's
breath warmed his cock but never quite touched it. He wanted to
reach down and give some sort of pleasure in return, but only
Qui-Gon's shoulders were within reach, and he had to content
himself with locking both fists in the Jedi robe that pooled
around his Master's body.
Felt so good to be naked like this and protected. Their cloaks
together replaced the armour he'd had to give up to let Qui-Gon
this close to him. He twisted a little under the caresses,
wanted something -- more, deeper, anything touch that could
intensify the pleasure twisting up him.
He got it, finally, a slow, deep penetration by the Force-
tendrils that had teased him for so long. Qui-Gon had shifted
again to kneel between his legs, and now he lifted Obi-Wan's
calves up, exposing him. Bent down, taking the legs onto his
shoulders, and mouthed Obi-Wan's scrotum gently.
Softly, "You shouldn't tease me." It sounded more fragile than
he wanted it to, but he wasn't sure how much of this he could
take without shattering.
Qui-Gon only straightened, though, and arranged Obi-Wan's body
around his own so that he could bend completely and kiss his
Padawan. So sweet to be touched like that, skin to skin the
whole length of his torso. Being kissed so deeply he thought
Qui- Gon would swallow his heart. He thrashed under the larger
man's weight, begging for the gentle stretching to end, for
Qui-Gon to take him before he broke completely.
"It's all right, my Obi-Wan. Breathe with me now." And Qui-Gon
offered him air, impossibly warming, that led him down into an
almost perfect relaxation, so that he accepted the first thrust
with a whimper rather than a howl.
So good. He'd never been this stretched, no previous lover had
pushed him this far. Used his knees to grip his lover's body so
he couldn't pull away. It was good, it was hard, it burned. He
needed it this deep. The strokes over his prostate pushed him
to answer the thrusts with a rhythm of his own, bucking up each
time so that he could take Qui-Gon deeper. Qui-Gon wouldn't let
go of him, clung with his mouth and his arms and the armour of
his cloak around them. Warming him from the inside. One hand
released his shoulder, finally, and slid between them, gripped
Obi-Wan's cock and stroked him in counter-rhythm to the
thrusts.
Obi-Wan found himself begging for more. Begging not to be left
alone again. Over and over, "Please Master, please Master,
please Master, oh please Master yes, oh please, yes Master so
good, please, please, please . . ."
"It's all right, Padawan. I said I would guard you and I will.
Let go."
Qui-Gon shifted just a little and angled the next thrust so
that it caught Obi-Wan's prostate fully and sent light-flares
off across his vision. One thumb brushed the hyper-sensitive
patch just below his glans and he was gone, screaming and
begging and finding that in orgasm he could finally release the
worst of the rage he was carrying.
He could feel Qui-Gon channel the pent-up emotion away from
them. The Force absorbed it without flinching. Without the rage
binding him, he could relax and cling to the larger body while
Qui-Gon eased him down, kissed him deeply, and flooded warmth
into him accompanied by whimpers of ecstasy that must have been
his own orgasm. He was warm enough, finally, and protected.
Nothing hurt.
For a long time afterward, Qui-Gon lay just to the side of him,
keeping them both wrapped up and petting him softly. Whispering
nonsense comfort to him. Obi-Wan curled up a little,
instinctively matching his own body to the line of his
Master's.
He must have slept, but he didn't remember it. He remembered
waking and being watched by indigo eyes within a field of
shimmering blue. Force-energy crackled in the corners of the
almost-light room.
Obi-Wan said, "I reached for you every night and you weren't
there."
Qui-Gon nodded. "I know."
He sat up and started to gather his things. "I have to go."
Urgency rising in him. "Vader will be here soon." Paused and
looked across. His Master's form was less visible as the light
increased. "I'm going to lose you again, aren't I?"
The ghost stilled and focussed on him. "Possibly."
Obi-Wan looked up from his dressing. "I don't understand."
Long, slow breath. "There are different possibilities. If you
serve the Light at the expense of your own desires, it offers
you certain rewards."
"You make it sound so mercenary."
Quiet Force-laughter, almost inaudible. "I tend to be blunt,
even now. But you may want to consider whether my company is
adequate reward for years of suffering." Insubstantial touches
on his face. "I wouldn't have chosen this life for you,
Padawan."
He nodded. "I know. I love you too." Shouldered his bag and
turned towards the almost-faded image. "Master." Pause.
Silence. "Thank you."
Nothing answered him.
He went out and down the stairs. Someone was curled up in the
bottom of the stairwell, weeping softly. Obi-Wan reached out
reflexive to offer comfort, but the body jerked away from him
and continued crying. Outside, the dawn was coloured with a
toxic chemical mix. Still, it was sunlight. He had to find a
ship, keep moving. When he spread his awareness out now, he
could feel Vader approaching. Good. Let the twisted thing chase
him and not harm innocents.
He padded to the spaceport, still dirty and anonymous and
frightening to the more prosperous passers-by. Wondered what
they might think if they knew he had a lightsaber concealed
under the hem of his sweater. Wondered if they had any
conception of what they'd lost in the past months. He twisted
around to look at the sky, wondering why his heart was so
light.
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