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Category: A/U, Story, Romance

Rating: PG-13

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

Disclaimer: Aren't mine!! Just borrowing!

Summary: In an alternate universe set fifteen years after the events in The Phantom Menace, two life-bonded 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?

Obi-Wan is very patient with my habit of rescuing forlorn or injured life forms. But today, I have found an infant rancor. Who knew they would be so small and helpless? Rancors are large, frequently odiferous, and extremely carnivorous, but the little creature was dying of thirst in desert. Despite the fact that they appear reptilian, rancors tend their young, chewing food for them and regurgitating it after it has, ah, fermented in the parent's gullet. This one was very, very young. I suppose the reason it took me so quickly was imprinting.

To prove my point, there were a few decomposing infant corpses nearby; I suppose the little fellow had tried to make a meal of his siblings, once they had been abandoned, but though starvation is a hard master, infant rancors have no useful teeth.

I forebore to pass this on to Obi-Wan. The strain of our lives here sometimes tells on him more than it does on me and while he is patient with my habits, I know that sometimes my care of wounded creatures drives him totally barking mad.

Well, perhaps not that badly, but I do know it irritates him. It's not as if I'm completely demented--I do draw the line at womp rats, after all--but he worries a great deal about how we're going to sustain ourselves, let alone my charges. I'm very thrifty in how I provide for them, but despite the fact that Obi-Wan no longer stews in silence trying to protect me from fiscal reality, he still worries.

This time, however, he was less than pleased when I put the small creature on our table. I swear, I wasn't thinking, even a Jedi master may be absentminded, and after all, I am just over sixty standard.

He stares at it with something less than tolerance. "Qui-Gon . . . " Strained voice. "Why is there a hideous, foul-smelling reptile in our home?"

Sometimes humour helps. "I discovered him on my return from Mos Bespa. It appears he was abandoned by his owner and in dire need of help. Luckily our paths crossed and I was able to provide it."

"Oh, lucky indeed. Tell me, Qui. Did you at any time think there was a reason why his owner might have abandoned him?" Sarcasm colours his voice.

Well, it was lucky, at least for the rancor. I shake my head sadly. "I'd say it was most likely an act of pure malice to leave an injured, helpless animal in the middle of the Lower Wastes." I'm not going to mention the other dead infants, he already thinks I'm too soft. I sigh. "There is much too much cruelty in this galaxy, my Obi-Wan. Especially during these dark days."

He seems to be searching for words, rubs his temples. Ah, he has a headache, and I know what to do to cure that. Eventually.

"While that may be true," he says carefully. "Have you also considered that it may be the simple fact that Rancors are known to be vicious, carnivorous and possibly the dumbest of all living things?" He looks at the one sitting on our table and grimaces. "And to say they are ugly is a colossal understatement."

I follow his gaze, bemused. Actually, it's rather sweet, considering it's a rancor, infant or not. I turn my gaze back to my lifemate and smile. "Have you started to judge creatures by their appearance, my dear one? If so, I think I'm in trouble." Let us be honest; my broken and badly set nose has not increased in attractiveness over the years, and I am hardly the picture of virile manhood, my hair completely silver now.

"That is not funny, Qui-Gon," he growls, apparently offended that I question his taste in men. "While I appreciate your compassion, I cannot believe you've taken to bringing home disgusting, foul-smelling, snaggle toothed reptiles. The very thought of it is quite beyond me." His voice rises as he continues, and at the harsh sound, my small charge stares at him in terror, and then scoots awkwardly back into a fold of my robe, its long tail quivering with fright.

I touch it, feel it trembling and shake my head, sighing again. "All life is valuable, my Obi-Wan. An investment in any life is an investment well made, not only for the creature we succor, but for ourselves as well. Remember our most basic teachings, love. We are bound to this creature, as we are bound to every living thing, as troublesome or as unattractive it may be on the outside. It is the life within that matters, for to save another is to save ourselves." I lift the fold aside slightly and see the bright eyes peering up at me. I'm afraid it's imprinted on me, somehow. "And besides, Obi-Wan, for a Rancor, this little one isn't all -that- ugly."

My beloved definitely has a headache. "It's hideous beyond mortal comprehension," he snarls, as the small creature squeaks and scurries back beneath the fold in my robe.

I arch an eyebrow at him, waiting. Slowly, he rubs his face and shakes his head. "However," he sighs, "I'll defer to you in this matter. If you wish to aid this . . .this . . . thing, that is your choice."

"Thank you, beloved," I tell him gently, trying to repress a wry smile. I haven't the least idea of what I'm to do to feed the thing. Womp rats--perhaps he could develop a taste for them, if I puree the damnable things. And we'll need to enlarge the infirmary pen, I'm afraid. "Don't worry. He will be kept outside and far out of your way."

"Good," he grumbles. "The stench is nauseating."

I can't help myself. My sense of humour surfaces at the oddest moments. I lean in toward my beloved and lower my voice to a whisper. "Have you ever considered that to a rancor, you might not smell so good yourself?"

He narrows eyes at me; clearly, my sense of humour needs quashing. "Until now Qui," testily, "I've never had the need to consider such a thing. I'll be sure to debate it tonight during evening meditations."

I may be sixty standard, but due to good medical care for most of my life, a sturdy constitution, and a libido that has chosen not to age gracefully, I find him astoundingly erotically attractive. "An excellent idea," I agree with a smile. "And after that . . . " Invitingly.

He scowls at me. "Hmmph," he mutters, "I don't know, Qui-Gon. I might end up having a headache."

He already has one. And I know the cure for it. Laughing softly, I carry our small guest outside to prepare his new home.

As it turned out, the rancor found pureed womp rat much to its liking. It cried piteously when I tried to leave it in the pen, but that was easy enough to mend; I found an old tunic, already worn threadbare, that I had recently worn to work on the irrigation. It smelt strongly of me, and the small creature nestled down into it quite happily. With hunger and thirst assuaged, it curled up to sleep; it was almost comical just how tight the small belly had gotten since feeding.

I tried not to think about how much feeding it was going to require. Living in the moment sometimes requires one to at least postpone facing harsher realities until they are imminent. Besides, Obi-Wan has a headache.

He is out working, so there is little to do but make our evening meal. When he does come in, he is as close to surly as I have seen Obi-Wan. I let him be, having learned over the years that this is wisest, but after clearing up our dishes, I turn to him. "Into the bedroom with you."

He scowls at me again. "I told you, I have a headache, I'm not in the mood."

Well, of course not. He's also sulking, annoyed with me. Sometimes, just sometimes, I wonder if on top of our fiscal struggles, on top of the greater fears we entertain, these small lives bother him because deep in his heart, a younger Obi-Wan still fears that he does not come first in my heart. I don't think it often, we are both men, he is no longer a boy; we are lifebonded.

But there are so many shadows looming beyond our day to day routine. We are wanted men, if Vader suspects we are still alive. And I am sure he does; turning to Darkness does not mean he has lost contact with the Force. There is the toddler, our hope for the future, there is Owen Lars, who still has the ability to rouse fury in me. It would be only human if sometimes Obi-Wan were to wonder where he stands in my heart. Myself, my weakness is my age; I look in the mirror each morning and wonder if it would not be better to have died fighting Vader, if it is fair to Obi-Wan to tie him to an aging, weakening Jedi in a universe where there are no Jedi.

So instead of snapping at him, I nod firmly and say, "You're holding your shoulders like they hurt, doubtless why you have a headache." Not to speak of an infant rancor. "Go in, I'm going to work on your shoulders and neck."

Another scowl, but he obeys, not without hitching one shoulder, as if considering the benefits on the way.

I check briefly on my small charge; he is still asleep, doubtless due to his gluttony. By the time I arrive in the bedroom with the massage balm, Obi-Wan is lying on the bed on his belly, tunic and boots off, wearing only his leggings.

A distinct message, that. I have to bite back a grin and sit down beside him, nudging him to shift just a bit so I can reach both shoulders. The balm is smooth and cool, I hear him sigh as I begin rubbing it into sun-gilded skin, another sigh as I begin to work muscles that have gone strained and taut. I concentrate on guiding just a trickle of Force, no more, guiding the tension away with each stroke of my palms down the strong back, seeking out spots that require a bit of pressure, and soon my beloved is no longer lying stiffly, but comfortably, almost limp with relief.

From his shoulders and back, I move to his neck, gently sweeping that tension downward; he sighs again and turns his head to give me better access, and I know he has forgiven my wayward tendency to take in strays. When those muscles are loose and warm under my fingertips, I wipe my hands, thread my fingers into his hair gently, massaging his scalp.

"You always know what to do." Softly, comfortably.

I smile. "Not always. But this is an easy thing to cure." Bending, I kiss the nape of his neck; he shifts again, turning to his back, dislodging my fingers and ending the massage.

The look in his eyes is just for me. I marvel again at the fact that this man loves me, bend to kiss his mouth very gently.

"My temper will be the death of me." A murmur.

"Never." I touch his cheek, brush back an errant lock of hair, remembering the spiky hair of a padawan. He is my beloved, and temper or not, I would have no other.

He gazes at me solemnly. "My headache is gone."

"Is it?" I kiss the tip of his nose, never mind I am past sixty and he is nearly forty. "I'm very glad."

"Would you like to be gladder?" His eyes glint.

"I would be delighted to be gladder." I nuzzle his temple, move to an earlobe. "As long as it makes you glad."

His arms go around my neck. "You make me glad." Softly.

I am definitely forgiven, I think, and kiss the side of his throat. "Move over, then, I'm an old man, I can't be as athletic as I once was."

He laughs and shifts, and soon the leggings are gone.

Yes, definitely a message there.

In the end, as Obi-Wan says drily, infants grow into adults,whether we are talking rancors, womp rats, or the small child across the desert.

Feeding my friend has actually not been a problem since his teeth came in. There are a regrettable abundance of womp rats in the desert, and they eat anything. Insulation, electrical components, irrigation tubing, you name it, they will eat it. Fortunately, rancors are also desert beasts, and the worry about water use has not materialized. Once the little fellow was past infancy, he got most of his water from the same place adult rancors get it; from dinner. And he does love the womp rats.

I begin to think they are far more intelligent than most think; he watches Obi-Wan warily, as if he remembers a raised voice, although he is neither afraid nor angry. I also think my suspicion about imprinting was correct; I have no idea of the family arrangements of rancors, once the infants have grown enough to feed themselves, but he is, dare I say it, devoted to me.

A rancor. Imagine that.

Rancors mature rapidly, shedding their skin as serpents will, and he is excessively fond of having the shedding skin rubbed loose; he reminds me of felinoids, except I have never seen a felinoid quite as large as my friend here is. If I were not afraid it was anthromorphizing, I should say that he communicates with me and I with him, despite our different minds, bodies, and habits.

Obi-Wan is right about one thing; they are smelly. But I defy you to subsist on a diet of womp rat and not smell. Womp rats are hardly fragrant themselves.

At any rate, I know quite well that we need to free him soon. I have taken him on walks with me, to Obi-Wan's horror and trepidation, and shown him the desert around our humble abode, and he chooses to follow me back each time. I think, however embarrassing it is to admit, that he senses my attachment to him and is torn between the desert and returning.

I think even Obi-Wan has become grudgingly fond of my friend, if for no other reason than having a combination intruder alarm and pest control system wrapped up into one extremely large creature.

Still, I know it's time and when Obi-Wan comes in and puts his hands on my shoulders, I brace myself. How absurd to be fond of a rancor, I think. He clears his throat, and I sense his reluctance; but Obi-Wan has never quailed at pointing things out to me that I have succeeded in ignoring. "Well, love, I have good news and bad news. The good news is we no longer have a womp rat problem. The bad news is, we now have a Rancor sitting in our yard looking larger and hungrier by the moment." He kisses the top of my head. "And I don't think the womp rats are reproducing fast enough."

I sigh and nod. "Yes, I believe it is time to that we set our friend free to live out the remainder of his life as he will."

That earns me another kiss. "He will be grateful, love. The desert will suit him well and who knows? Perhaps there are more of his kind living somewhere in the Wastes." Leaning down, he wraps his arms around my chest and embraces me. "Do not be sad, it is for the best."

I chuckle and put my hands over his. How I love this man, my beloved, my lifemate, and how lucky I am to have him. "You are a generous man, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You indulge this old man far too much."

He makes a sound in his throat, somewhat regretful. "I don't indulge you nearly as much as I should." Far from true, but he adds another kiss, this one on my mouth.

Sighing, I get up and go out, walk back to the pen with Obi-Wan just a few steps behind me. My friend comes to the side of the pen, large bright eyes inquisitive. Is it another walk in the desert, I can almost hear him wondering. But I reach through and touch his forehead, sending thoughts of farewell, of the desert, and yes, of large numbers of female rancors. He closes his eyes and leans into my touch and I feel emotions radiating back to me, emotions too strange and nonhuman for me to successfully translate, but it makes my throat tight nonetheless.

I open the pen, go inside, and gesture to the open gate. Obi- Wan stands back judiciously, watching, and the rancor ambles toward the open gate, looks back at me for just a heartbeat of time before beginning to run. I move back outside the pen and put my arm over Obi-Wan's shoulder, wishing my friend well silently.

Imagine, a rancor--I feel foolish at my sentiment, shake my head and turn back toward the house. Obi-Wan follows me, embraces me.

After a moment, he tugs my hand, trying to lead me toward our bedroom.

I can't prevent a chuckle.

"Come," he says, with just a hint of mischief in his eyes. "I think we can find something to do that will distract us from our loss."

I laugh again, this time against his mouth, but how I do love him, I cannot resist him, least of all flat on my back on the bed we share, with his fingers and lips teasing sorrow away from me. As I've said, my libido shows no signs of wanting to age gracefully, and Obi-Wan has only gotten more and more beautiful to me as the years pass, a rampantly aroused Obi-Wan is a temptation to decadence and uxoriousness and I indulge myself thoroughly until, in the end, I find myself clasped inside him while he straddles me, so effortful with pleasure that I have to close my eyes to hold on just a little longer, to stretch out the moment of pleasure just a little longer.

We are together. Any other sorrows are small ones, and all is right here in our small world, whatever shadows may threaten outside in the larger universe.

At least for the time being.

A few months later and I go out to check on the moisture generator. It has some cranky components, and the regulator itself requires that we watch it like erhulin hawks, or our precious water is wasted on the dry desert air.

We do very little with Force here; the Hutt, so it is said, is a Force sensitive, and loathes Jedi as much as Vader; if not for his stubborn insistence on seeing himself as the center of the universe, he and Vader would make formidable allies.

So it is that I am taken unawares. Too, I am an old man, and focused on the regulator, which has decided to increase flow without any input from either of us, a circumstance which must be addressed and immediately.

I don't quite know how, but I am swiftly overcome and bound, and if I use Force to free myself, I not only bring Obi-Wan into the trap, I conceivably gain the Hutt's notice; with grim despair, I close off my bond with Obi-Wan.

"Come, now," the bounty-hunter tells me, hunkering down before me. "Where is Obi-Wan Kenobi."

"I don't know who you mean." Stubbornly.

The bounty-hunter, a Mandalorian, smiles toothily and removes a small dagger from his belt. "I have not heard it said that Jedi are impervious to pain."

There's a good reason he hasn't heard it said; it isn't true, for one thing, and I bite back the sound that wants to escape from my throat when he carves into my arm. Not deeply, no, but enough to cause pain and bleeding, which may or may not draw desert scavengers.

But I will not betray Obi-Wan. Not when I can see the four lightsabers this bastard carries as trophies, marking the money he has earned for slaughtering four of my brothers or sisters in the Order.

He continues questioning me, and despite my assertions to the contrary, despite the small, tentative use of Jedi voice, is not convinced. They are virtually impervious to the use of Voice, but it was worth the effort. In the meantime, the blood continues to flow from my arm and I am prevented from staunching it.

He is very good at using nerve endings to induce pain with little damage, I'm afraid, and during one of these moments, I feel a questing in my mind, try to block it out, but we are, after all, lifebonded, and I'm terrified that Obi-Wan has felt what I am feeling.

It takes very little time to confirm this suspicion and I am so tired, so full of despair, that when he appears over a dune, I have nothing left with which to fight.

"Shertoahs," the bounty hunter says in scornful greeting. I see the rage flare in my beloved's eyes.

I closes my eyes and bow my head, despairing and defeated. Obi- Wan is here, and at risk, and again, I lament that I have let him be tied to this aging, helpless old fool that I have become. A fool who takes in rancors and who cannot defend himself against scum such as stands between us.

The bounty hunter's voice grates out again, this time in Standard. "I am fortunate to have found you, Master Kenobi. Lord Vader has recently doubled the already exorbitant price on your head." I hear the creature's smirk, even though I cannot see it. I want to kill him, so quickly does helpless rage flare in me. I find myself wondering if I can possibly get to one of the lightsabers at his belt while he is occupied with baiting Obi-Wan, and know that I have lost too much blood to do much good. Still, if I am dead....oh, if I am dead, my beloved might have the time and sense to flee for his life.

I hear an indrawn breath. "You are mistaken, my friend," Obi- Wan says quietly, managing to sound bewildered. "My name is Lars. Benjamin Lars and my friend and I here are but simple tradesmen. I think you have confused us with someone else."

The bounty hunter laughs coldly. "There is no mistaking a Jedi, especially you Master Kenobi. As you can see . . . " He displays the lightsabers dangling from his belt. "I am well acquainted with your kind."

Obi-Wan moves closer and I pull deeper within myself, gathering the strength for a move which will free Obi-Wan. And, in another, more final way, free me as well.

The bounty-hunter makes a sound like laughter again. "You would be more valuable alive, but I am willing to sacrifice gain for convenience. Therefore, I'm going to end this simply. Make your peace, Jedi."

I hear Obi-Wan take in another breath. "Again, I say you are making a mistake. We are not these Jedi you seek." Level voice.

I am nearly ready, I think, nearly focused enough. I allow my eyelids to open a slit, judging the distance and. . . .a series of tiny earthquakes shake the dunes, and I am thrown off balance, I open my eyes completely to see the bounty hunter's stance shift, to see him look toward the source of these shocks.

A rank smell fills the air and the tremors continue to snake their way the dunes and we are all silent, shocked, and then there is a deafening roar, the sound of an extremely angry rancor.

My rancor. Our rancor. I can't help staring, he has grown enormously, incredibly, gigantically. I didn't know they got so large, out here in the deeps of the desert. It must have been the early diet of womp rats, I find myself thinking nonsensically.

I am staring at him as if I am the village idiot instead of taking advantage of the bounty hunter's distraction. In a split second, I feel the shifting of Force, and Obi-Wan has done what I aimed to do, the lightsaber flares to life and even as the bastard turns back toward us to end our lives, his is ended instead.

In less time than it takes to tell, it is over.

Obi-Wan sinks down into the sand and lies there, trying to catch his breath, his composure, and I stare at my old friend the rancor, watching him come down to taste test the Mandalorian, only to spit the tasted chunk out with an air of extreme distaste.

Mandalorians evidently are inferior to womp rats.

He peers at Obi-Wan as if insuring that my mate is not harmed, then bounds over to me. It's quite alarming, in one way, but I feel no sense of threat or fear, only a deep sense of gratitude and, yes, affection as he bends his massive head down and closes his eyes.

Investing in life, I think and touch his forehead, sending that gratitude and affection into his mind.

We stay this way for a long moment. Then, as if our moment is over, he lifts his head, sniffs disdainfully at the bounty- hunter's bisected body, and lumbers back up the dune, returning to his interrupted pursuit of life.

After a moment, Obi-Wan rises from the sand and limps over. With shaking hands, he tears a strip from his tunic and wraps it around my arm, applying gentle pressure. "Did I just dream that?" he gasps with a wheeze.

Hilarity bubbles up. "No love. What you just saw is the proof of my lifelong investment theory."

He put his arm around my waist and helps me up. I have lost enough blood that I'm lightheaded and have to lean on him all the way back to the house. "Investment theory?"

"If you invest in a single life beloved, there is a good chance that you will someday reap the rewards to your own benefit." I lean heavily against him, embracing him tightly. We have survived. Again. "It's nice to be right once in a while." Wrily.

He returns the embrace and nods against my shoulder. "You are right more often than not, love."

I only wish it were true.

finis

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