Anniversary

by DBKate

Category: A/U, Story, Romance

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: For all movies, including TPM, and the JA books.

Disclaimer: Lucas owns 'em, we don't. Damn.

Summary: In an alternate universe set fifteen years after the events in The Phantom Menace, two Jedi live in hiding on the desert planet of Tatooine, awaiting a child's destiny. Will they survive to see a new hope come to fruition?

The invitation was written on an ancient, brittle sheet of parchment in the High Language of the Old Republic, one that was taught last to the generation of Jedi Knights of which Qui-Gon was a member. His old-fashioned handwriting flows over the paper and I smile to see it, so lovely in all of its graceful, cursive glory.

I smile, that is, until I read what's written there.

"Dinner, drinks and dancing. Sunset."

Now what in the name of the Force is he talking about? I peer at the note again and shake my head. I always pride myself in understanding Qui-Gon, my bondmate and lover, but it's a false pride, one borne of impulsive desperation versus longstanding confidence.

"Enclosed dress is mandatory."

Peering into the small box lodged beneath the note, I see a crusty bit of paper covering what appears to be a large piece of dark cloth. Dust from the wrapping tickles my nose as I carefully remove and unfold it.

I wince when I realize what it is.

It's an old uniform from my earliest days as a Knight. Black and horrendously tight fitting, I'd worn it only once, at the victory celebration Prince Bail Organa threw for the armies of Alderaan after the Battle of Neith. His wife insisted I wear the cursed thing, threatening to toss that "futzy old robe" of mine into the nearest incinerator if I refused to comply.

How the Sith it had actually survived all these years is anyone's guess and I'm left wondering if it still fits. Even the matching boots are there, stiff, formal and retaining a bit of the sheen of nearly a decade before.

Thank the Force for nonexistent favors, I suppose.

Of course, none of this explains what in the Sarnac's name Qui-Gon was proposing but alas, the note's meaning hits me but a moment later with all the subtlety of a speeding comet.

Today is our anniversary and this invitation is his present to me for the fifteen years of joy and tears we've shared as a life-bonded pair. A celebration of the day we exchanged our vows to live as a single being until becoming one with the Force. A reaffirmation of a sacred, beautiful, perfect moment in time.

A sacred, beautiful perfect moment in time that I have completely and utterly forgotten about.

By the Force, I am a dead man.

Of course, Qui-Gon would remember this day and by the same token I would have forgotten, as I was always beyond useless with dates and such. Once, when I was but a snot-nosed little padawan, I told Qui- Gon that I was more of a "big picture" person and all those little details merely got in the way of my more creative and abstract thinking.

All that got me was yet another six-hour drill in the art of memorization.

It didn't work.

I still don't know what day the Winter Celebration of T'wiek takes place on, haven't a clue what hour is appropriate for a standard tea ceremony on Ulesde and could care less how long a Wookie's gestation period is supposed to last.

But forgetting my own anniversary, oh, that's a shameful thing.

With a sigh, I realize that the least I can do to make up for such a terrible oversight is to do exactly what my bondmate's requested of me.

I squint at the note again . . . and groan.

"Dinner, drinks and dancing. Sunset."

The first two items are fine, at least I have some vague idea what eating and drinking entails. But dancing . . .

What in the name of all Hells is that man talking about?

Qui-Gon knows as well as I do that Jedi don't dance. Never did, never will. Not in five millennia has there been a Jedi who's indulged in such an inherently undignified activity, at least not in public. We are trained to stand aside at celebrations, to look stoic and wise and calm, to be the eternal pictures of serenity and poise no matter what the occasion.

Which is damned hard to do when you are shaking your ass around in a circle and waving your hands over your head like a buggoon.

For Sith's sake, I could just as well dance with Qui-Gon as a herd of Bantha could fly to one of Tatooine's four moons. Without the help of a ship.

Well, there is simply no way I can do it. When Qui-Gon returns from Mos Bespa, I'll tell him kindly but firmly that I love him with all my heart and soul, that I would be honored to have a special dinner with him this evening, and if he thinks I'm going to dance around our supper table afterwards he's been spending far too much time beneath the desert sun and needs a damned good rest before rising again.

And that will be that.

"Well, my love. Did my note remind you of anything?"

Qui-Gon's voice coming from the doorway startles me and I whirl around, the invitation fluttering out of my hands. "Um," I stutter, grasping to catch the parchment before it falls to the floor. "Why . . . I . . . why, no, Qui-Gon. I mean, that . .. "

"You forgot. Didn't you?" Half-hidden amusement, without a hint of accusation.

Drat the man. "Well," I begin, but a knowing smile is already forming at the corners of his mouth. Embarrassed, I take what I hope is a deep and dignified breath. "Yes, Qui-Gon I did, and for that I beg your forgiveness. However . . . to make amends, I will try my best to comply with all your requests for the evening. No matter what they entail."

His eyebrow arches. "You sound like I've invited you to a funeral."

"Of course not," I reply indignantly. Not unless my pride is some sort of animal that's been trussed up and prepared for the slaughter.

"Good," he says cheerfully. "I'm going to get cleaned up and prepare our dinner. While I'm doing that, why not get dressed and relax a while." He strides into the dining area and unloads a large assortment of packages. "We have a long night ahead of us, Obi-Wan and I don't want either of us to tire before it's through."

"Yes," I reply weakly. "Dinner and drinks galore, I'd suppose."

"And dancing, love. Don't forget the dancing." Staunchly said, without a hint of irony or mischief in his voice.

My head begins to throb. "Yes, of course. We can't forget the dancing."

"Absolutely not," he agrees and as I slowly trudge off to our sleeping quarters, preparing myself to face whatever doom lies ahead, I can hear him humming some old song from his home planet -- a song describing a feast.

A feast consisting of dinner, drinks -- and dancing.

The blasted uniform still fits, but certainly hasn't grown more comfortable over the years. I yank futilely at the jacket collar which is black as night and conspiring to strangle me along with tight sleeves that chafe mercilessly at my wrists. It cinches at the waist, tugs up at the back and is just short enough to annoy the daylight out of me.

And as for the pants . . . well, I'm not even going there.

However, whatever Qui-Gon wants, Qui-Gon gets, all because I can't remember one damn day out of an entire Standard Year. One easy-to- mark-down date I could probably have carved into the sandy stone walls of our home, reminding me every day of its encroachment . . . and probably forgetting all about it even after all that effort.

Sighing, I realize I deserve everything I get.

Trudging into our dining area, the knee high boots are already beginning to bother me and I hope the slight squeak emanating from the right one is a temporary condition.

"Well, Qui-Gon," I sigh. "I've done as you requested, even though I'm at a loss as to how I'm supposed to eat and breathe in this thing."

There is no answer and I peer around, only to see him leaning against the archway of our living area, smiling beatifically at me through the dim light of a single glowlamp.

Gods, he is beautiful.

My mouth dries out and I can feel my neurons shutting down as I drink all of him in. I have no idea where he got a hold of a full set of formal Jedi whites, but suddenly I'm very glad he's decided that our fifteenth anniversary is a "dress-up" sort of occasion. Soon I find myself breathless, realizing, that for a moment or two, I've simply forgotten to inhale.

And, for some reason, he looks just as stunned.

"You look amazing," he breathes. "Absolutely amazing."

I gape at him stupidly, awed by the sight of him, desire undiminished by time. "Amazing," I repeat dully, wondering if he'd consider forgoing supper and making a direct line for our sleep quarters.

He takes a step forward and gently cups my face between his hands. "The first time I saw you in that uniform, I thought I'd fall over where I stood. It took a serious amount of vaunted Jedi control simply to stay upright." Gives me another look over and sighs. "So beautiful and noble and alluring and wherever you went, every single head turned. It was worth all my efforts to save it from your constant attempts to resign it to the refuse heap."

"Yes, dinner smells very good," I reply, staring at him and not hearing a blessed word he says.

I receive a soft nuzzle and already I'm aching for more. Tilt my head up for a kiss, one which I hope will turn into something less vertically inclined, but he eludes me, probably guessing my intentions all too well.

"Now, now," he whispers with a chuckle. "We have all night. Have pity on the old man, love."

"Pity?" I make a sound that is embarrassingly close to a whine. I'm the one to be pitied, I grump inwardly. Here I am, strangling in some hot as Hells, skin tight monstrosity which was growing warmer and tighter in areas best left undescribed, soon to be expected to dance upon request.

Pity, indeed.

"Sit, sit," he insists and I obey, rather unwillingly. The table is set beautifully, with tiny firelights placed strategically in the center, replete with real glasses and plates versus our usual tin cups and dull platters.

The main lights are dimmed and for the moment I'm caught up in the illusion that we are still abiding within the center of a more civilized place and age -- not a pair of outlaws hiding on some dry, desolate world.

The meal is wonderful, the wine is even better and Qui-Gon's soft laughter is all the musical accompaniment I'll ever need.

Supper is over sooner than I would have wished and I reach for his hand, entwining his fingers between my own. Squeezing tightly, I try to think of something wonderful and wise to say, something to explain to him exactly how grateful I am that he's chosen me to share his life with and how, if given the chance, I would do it a thousand times over again, but he merely shakes his head.

Slowly, I realize I don't have to tell him. There are no secrets between us, good or bad, and when he brings my hand to his lips, kissing it very softly, the action is far more eloquent than any love poem ever written.

He looks at me with eyes that are so blue, so perfect, if they were a sea, I'm sure I could happily drown in them. "Now, love. We've finished our food, the wine is nearly gone, so I'd say it is time for dancing. Wouldn't you agree?"

Immediately, the hot flush fills my cheeks, but I bite back any semblance of a protest. If my partner and love wishes it, it will be so, for that is what being life bonded is all about, is it not?

Putting another's happiness far above and beyond your own.

"Of course, beloved," I say, rising and holding out my other hand to him. "I'm afraid you'll find me more than a little clumsy and awkward, but I know you'll be indulgent with me. At least I can hope so."

His smile broadens and he rises as well, pulling me toward the back door. "I guarantee I won't find you the least bit clumsy or awkward, love. Come, let's go outside, away from the house, toward the soft dunes of the West. The second moon is on high, and there is more than enough light for us to dance by."

Again, the heat fills my face, but I follow without complaint. The night air of the desert is cool and Tatooine's second moon is full, taking up nearly a quarter of the horizon in front of us. The wine has softened my surroundings and I lean against him, absorbing his life force and warmth, then feeding it back to him through my love.

What would I not give to ensure the happiness and health of this man beside me? Everything I possess is his, including my life, my heart and all that I could possibly ever become. I no longer have visions to guide me, besides the reflection of love in his eyes, but that is enough to keep me on the true path . . . to keep me sane.

He turns to me and again, I'm losing myself in that singular pair of eyes. "And now let us dance. Just as we used to." His voice is filled with happiness and I take a deep breath to steady myself just as something heavy and familiar is slipped into my hand. I look down at it curiously.

It is my lightsaber.

I peer at it for a moment, then give Qui-Gon a questioning glance. But he's already shed his outer robe and taken up his position a few feet to my left. Without a another word, I take my own familiar stance before him, waiting with bated breath as our sabers ignite and their combined hum fills the desert air.

A moment later, we are dancing.

Dancing as we have done a thousand times before, sabers ablaze, glory unleashed. The moon and the reflecting sands pale and wane beneath our combined light and I don't remember feeling freer or more alive than I do at this moment. We are waves crashing, we are tumbling into the Force and backing away again; there is music everywhere.

My heart -- our one heart is pounding, an eternal rhythm echoing as a sea flooding a landscape that has been dry and bare and cruel for far too long.

He is spinning, and I grasp the light in my hand as I would a straw of hope, sparks as stars, showering fire-rain cascading through cool air. We struggle apart, come together as one and we know these steps, we know them as we know our own breath.

Perhaps even better.

I never want it to end -- it has been far, far too long since I've felt the fire in my hand, this fire that's in me now, but, as all wondrous things, the dance must finish. The hum of our sabers fade and the echo of our steps, the memory of our gambol is all that remains.

Gasping for air, I want to find words to thank him, to tell him how much I adore him for knowing me so well, but instead I find myself tumbled upon the ground, my mouth ravished by his, his welcome weight pressing me into the cool, soft sand.

There is nothing left for me to do but arch into his heat encouraging him with words and moans, with all the secret signs that we alone have held between us. I am taken without thought, and how wonderful is the wet silk that devours me; it does not take long for me to see sparks behind eyes that are tightly shut, calling out his name as I come.

Another kiss, this one sated and slow and I open my eyes to meet Qui- Gon's. He pulls back, lays his head on my chest, listening to my heart beating, as I myself did one afternoon fifteen years before. A newly made knight I was that day, sore afraid, mad with love and desperate to keep the only thing in his life that ever made him truly happy.

I hear the vows of the lifebonded float up and the stars above blur into streaks of light, and barely able to speak, I respond with a single promise of my own.

Promising to dance with this man until the day I die.

fini

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