Master Apprentice
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Category: Romance, AU, Angst
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: For all movies and JA Books
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Lucasfilm does.
Summary: The "mirror" to "Exiles" from Qui-Gon's POV.
I'm old. Getting older. Each morning, when I look in the small mirror to shave, I see new lines around my eyes and mouth and the face of a stranger.
I should not be alive, and yet I am, and despite my failure, I'm absurdly glad to be here.
When I'm wrong, I'm spectacularly wrong, I must say.
Obi-Wan likes to watch the sunrise, but I see the hint of a shadow in his eyes when he does, as if the blood red sky is some kind of omen. I don't think it's an omen, but I was never one for omens or signs; I think it's a symbol of what we've left behind. Dead friends, slain by Vader's minions or Vader himself.
I wonder if Yoda made it out alive. I tried to reach his quarters, but Obi-Wan threatened to knock me unconscious if I left his side, and such was the horror of that day that I believed him.
Protective bastard that he is.
Besides, as he pointed out, we had to warn Amidala, who knew only that her husband had left her. By the time we reached Naboo, dodging well traveled space lanes, she was great with child; for good reason, she was carrying twins.
The girl will be her heir, the boy is strongly force sensitive; Obi-Wan's brother Owen and his wife Beru have the child, and he thrives, healthy and well loved by his foster mother.
I should have seen the signs; Anakin was already scarred by slavery; the loss of his mother he blamed on me, my inability to free Shmi at the time I freed him. Thus he justified his attack on me.
I'm old. He caught me by surprise, which he should never had done; the Council was aware of the Sith, but not even Yoda, who watched Anakin warily always, knew that Anakin had turned.
Obi-Wan's reflexes are still good; he drew and parried the killing strike, giving me time to react. I don't remember if I thanked him later or not; I know we quarreled when we first arrived on this planet, he grows more and more stubborn each year, I swear he does.
My lovely pigheaded Obi-Wan, who insists on doing the work outside during the day's heat, who literally seduced me into agreeing to that arrangement after a quarrel that ended up in bed.
He takes me by surprise quite often; hell, my own libido astonishes me at times, I'm old. But he keeps me younger than my years.
He comes in from that heat now, drops the hood of his jallabeh, flushed from the baking desert sun, but when he looks over at me, I sense a different kind of heat.
I can't help my laughter. "Hedonist," I tell him, "Have mercy, I'm an old man."
My laughter lights his eyes. "You'll never be an old man."
I only wish that was true; he comes to stand at the sink and uses the recycled water sparingly to wash away the sandy dirt. His hair is longer, a few threads of silver at his temples, he's no longer a boy, but he still moves my heart and my body. I find a towel and lean in, kiss the back of his neck, pale from the protection of the hood, tasting faintly of salt.
A little shiver and he leans back fractionally, letting me know that he's pleased, leans back further until his head rests on my shoulder. He's tired, I can feel it, and it makes me a little sad that I'm less than useful on this desert world.
"What's for supper?" he murmurs.
It dispells my gloom and I chucke, puts my arms around him. "The usual"
His head lolls, I see those mischievous eyes of his gleaming. "You?"
Self-pity is not allowed, I tell myself, it has no place here, not in this small house where I can always find welcome. I nip his earlobe. "I am not on the menu." My tone mock severe.
"You're on mine," he tells me tartly, but he straightens and accepts the towel again. "We need to go into Mos Eisley for more water tomorrow."
Mos Eisley. Wretched place, and how can I forget that I was the one who found Anakin there, that I was the one who freed him, who insisted he be taught? "Always a treat." I gently pinch Obi-Wan's backside. "Go and rest, I'll bring you something cold to drink."
He turns to face me, his eyes shadowed again, leans up to kiss my mouth gently. "I am still your padawan." Chiding me gently for waiting on him, but he's more than padawan and well he knows it.
I smile at him, understanding his effort. "Yes, but I get pleasure from indulging my willful padawan. Go, rest. Supper will be ready shortly."
He grins, moves back to the front room, hanging his jallabeh on the hook near the door.
The room is cool, thick walls and windows shielded from the direct sunlight, he looks lean and well muscled in the singlet and leggings that he wears beneath. Leaner and harder than the young man I taught, the young man I took as my lifemate, but still Obi-Wan, despite the differences the years have wrought.
Have I thanked him recently for being my lifemate, my loved? I don't recall, I tell myself I'll have to do so; he stretches out on the divan, and is already half-dozing when I bring the cool iced kaffa to the small table. I spare a kiss for his forehead, hear a satisfied, contented murmur and return to my cooking.
After a while, the pot sits on the stove, keeping warm, and I attend to small tasks until there is no longer anything to keep me busy, to keep me from thinking.
He's dreaming. I can see the restless movement of his eyes beneath eyelids that sometimes look bruised with weariness.
Small sounds escape his throat now and again.
I know what he's dreaming about.
Anakin.
Anakin, whose body is now as deformed and damaged as his soul.
The shadows call to me; I answer them by meditating.
Inevitably, the dead come to call, images on the inside of my eyelids, friends lost to the slaughter that Vader perpetrated.
The afternoon passes, I am only distantly aware of the increasing dimness in the room, of the slight change in temperature as it cools further.
Soundless movement, and I open my eyes, my mouth already forming a smile. "You caught me."
His eyes are hard to read. "I always do." He raises his hand to my check, cups it, one thumb rubbing over the jawline, as if he still can't get used to the lack of beard. I turn my head very slightly, kiss the warm, calloused palm, remember other days and nights and all of them with this man, thank the Force.
"I love you," he tells me softly. "Would I lie to you? You are not to blame."
I study his face, wondering for the first time if he blames himself. "Perhaps I am not." Reassuring him that I'm practicing self-flagellation. "Perhaps we are not." Amending it. "But it is sorrowful nonetheless." That bright, inquisitive little boy, lost in the monster--it is sorrowful.
"I know," he murmurs and leans up, leans in to meet me, and our mouths meet. I feel him shiver, gather him up into my lap again, he laughs into my mouth, ever my mischievous Obi-Wan. "I love you, never doubt it, never leave me." Suddenly heartfelt, his voice almost husky.
He feels so good in my arms, my beloved, and I remember when he thought to leave me, after he had been granted his knighthood, after I had recovered from the wound dealt me by the Sith. There in the palace, still shaky on my legs, I managed nevertheless to get out of bed and seize him, before I lost the chance to ever do so.
He melted into me, as he melts against me now, and my desperation transformed into joy, whole and untainted by shadows. So young then, still wearing his padawan's braid, and I dragged him back into the bed with me, heedless of Code, of self-restraint, of doubt.
He puts his arms around my neck laughing, stealing kisses from me.
"I don't intend to." Softly, but then I remember how tired he was, I remember the pot set to keep warm on the small stove. "Your supper--"
He laughs again, his eyes alight. "Will wait," he says firmly.
I press my hand against his arousal, and never mind I'm old, I'm equally aroused by this, by my Obi-Wan, my padawan, my Ben...
"I want you inside of me." Husky again, and I swear, it's like standing out in the desert sun, I'm hot inside my clothes, I take a deep, shaky breath. "It gives me pleasure to indulge you," I tell him hoarsely and nip at his throat, move down to a plum brown nipple, sweetly erect for my lips and teeth.
He arches and makes a wordless sound, almost a growl, tries to tug me to the floor, and I can't help laughing, but it doesn't decrease my arousal, it increases it; somehow, we get back to the divan, I use just a bit of Force to summon something for lubricant, the oil we use to massage muscles gone stiff and sore from brute physical labor; I spill it over my palm, stroke that sweetly stretched and swollen flesh, clothes flying off in every direction, and then my fingers are inside of him, where he wants me to be.
So hot, so lovely, I reach for his shaft and stroke him, dragging matters out, teasing him, the necessity of twenty years difference has faded over the years, the difference in our responses narrowing as he grows older; I'm actually grateful for that, and he's writhing, his face a mask of pleasure, eyes heavy-lidded as he moves, as he makes those pleading sounds that never fail to set me aflame.
And then I claim him, sliding in slowly, shivering with pleasure, remembering his face in that bed on Naboo, shocked and wondering and so luminous with joyous desire that I actually had tears in my eyes. So beautiful, even in his anger, in his bitterness, and I realized that he did not know, had never suspected what I felt for him. So beautiful in bed with me, hot skin against mine, so beautiful in all things, that almost arrogant air of confidence hid the sweetness and diffidence of a man who had been bitterly hurt because I had never told him.
I've never regretted telling him; I don't regret it now, certainly. I may be old, but I'm not dead, and his legs are over my shoulders, he defies my attempt to go slowly, to move carefully and bucks up against me, meeting each thrust. "Like this?" Gripping him with oily fingers.
His eyelids flutter. "Yes!" He arches up again, I turned my head to brush my lips against the warm skin inside of his knee.
Evening is come; we go outside after dark, work in the garden, check our security, ever watchful of the Tuskans.
An age ago, I took him to a desert planet, we ended up being hunted by a rival government faction and I taught him the wisdom of the small desert animals; we are, despite the need for change, still Jedi. Sometimes I think he feels bitterness over that, feels tempted to cast it all away.
We have only each other for now.
And our concern for the child his brother rears as his own.
But at the moment, there is only tenderness and desire and memory, the way his body sheathes me, the way he moves, letting himself fall and knowing I will catch him, and he calls out my name, hot slippery wetness spilling over my fingers.
It brings me over the edge again, seeing his expression, blind and ecstatic, feeling the flare of it along our link. I lean over him, kissing his throat, still breathing hard, and his legs slide down around me; he feels so good, so lovely, so comforting.
My head is on his shoulder; as always, I hate the moment our bodies must separate, leaving us two again instead of one.
"You aren't an old man as long as we can still do that." Drowsy, comfortable voice.
I can't help laughing again, grateful for this joy after all the loss, after all the tragedy. I still have my Obi-Wan, my oathsworn lifemate, and out of everything, only his loss would truly have destroyed me. "And you are still an imp as long as you can lure me, never mind neither of us is getting younger." We'll manage, somehow, wait out the years until the next chapter of events.
He yawns. "What a dreary thought. I don't feel any older. Well, except in the winter." I know his knees ache when the north winds sweep down across the desert and batter our sturdy walls. For me, it's my hands; for him, his knees.
I consider that and lean up, propping my head on my hand, my elbow digging into the cushions near his head. It's true; the worst part of growing old is that you don't feel older, except for the aches, the pains, the things you've lost; inside, in many ways, I'm still the young man who wore just won knighthood with something very near pride. Inside, so is he. "You know," musing, "Neither do I. Except in the winter." I smile a little, nuzzle his temple. "You keep me young, love."
I can feel rather than see his reaction, feel the warmth that radiates along our bond, our link. He not only keeps me young, he keeps me from brooding, from just walking out into the desert sun, from feeling either regret or guilt or grief over all that has come about, mostly due to my certainty that I had found the Chosen.
He renews my faith in a thousand ways.
And right now, I can't help but think about the old days after love, the long, luxurious soaks in the bath of where ever we were quartered. "Do we still have enough water for a decadent bath?" I whisper, trying to remember what the last level was when I looked.
His arms go around my neck, I kiss his temple, an eyelid, the tip of his nose. He sighs, but not unhappily at all. "Yes."
Soon, the moon will rise over the desert, silvering all the hollows, all the rocks and the hardpan, softening the bitter austerity we have come to accept. Perhaps we will go out when we have enjoyed our hedonism.
Or perhaps I'll just see how old I really am and try and seduce him again.
Perhaps.
The Force willing.
You'd think that after all my experiences, all my years, I'd know better.
Some days, I can't stop myself, though; I find myself looking back at the past, sifting through the only remaining fragments of that which was Jedi. We have things, things that Obi-Wan managed to retrieve and save on that last desperate flight, during the slaughter.
I try not to let him know when that compulsion drives me, because it saddens him.My resolute Obi-Wan, stubborn and determined that we shall survive, that we should watch over the infant son of the man who destroyed all that was Jedi.
Perhaps that isn't entirely fair; he but did his master's bidding.
How did it happen, I wonder, that first small turn toward the shadows? How did we miss it?
The Code itself was a thing of beauty; I argued many times about its application, and as Obi-Wan once pointed out, if I had bowed my head to the Council I should have been a Council member. He doesn't realize that in those days, I regarded that as abhorrent. I was a man of action, not of contemplation; now I wish I had done more of the latter, I might have been wiser about Anakin.
I look backward toward conservatism and he looks forward now, taking on my very defiance. We're both grey now, I suppose, in ways that have nothing to do with our age, and it saddens me as much as it saddens him to see me grieving for a way of life that had endured until the boy I brought back destroyed it utterly.
I have to confess, there's a certain jarring loss of dignity as well. As Jedi, we were treated with a certain awe, a kind of automatic respect for our integrity, our ability, and our power; now, we're simply two outworlders, ripe for the plucking, and have only our wits and some smuggled items to barter with.
Advertising our presence would be fatal. I can face that for myself, but not for Obi-Wan, not for the infant. So, I bow my head under the exigency of our fate.
Ordinary clothing, ordinary lives. I'm ashamed to find myself so chafed by it.
We repair things, we perform small services, we barter, we garden. Obi-Wan is better at that than I am, I'm sorry to say; some of his training in the AgriCorps stuck with him, and I must be guided by his wisdom in so small a task as weeding.
I wonder if that's a part of the chafing; to become a student of my padawan. No, I don't believe that, I'm damned proud of him, I always have been; perhaps it's just my age, it's hard to learn a new way of life. I envy him his determination; the simple truth is that I'm tired.
His presence--I feel his sadness along the link and turn, closing the chest full of memories, appalled that he's found me in here, mooning about the past like a lovesick boy. My face goes hot in spite of all my control, in spite of the knowledge that he knows me full well, forgives me any weaknesses and loves me wholly. "I was ... looking for a tool I thought we might have carried with us from the old ship."
"I doubt you'll find it in there." Gentle, loving voice, underlain with that sadness. "What is it you need, beloved?"
I am shamed, shake my head quickly. Never would I have him believe that I would be elsewhere; I'd rather have died on Coruscant than lose him. "Nothing. It is nothing. So, what are our duties for today, love?" I smile at him. "I'm always at a bit of loss with prioritizing our work these days. Are we due any large tasks?"
These days, he reassures me. I feel it along our link, realize that he's neither angry nor disappointed in my odd behavior and smile more genuinely, amused at myself for needing that reassurance.
"No, nothing out of the ordinary. I've done most of the irrigation for the day, our water supply is holding up well and we seem to be a bit ahead in the food department I dare say we could relax for the entire day and not be worse off for it."
It's somehow unsettling. "Relax?" I offer him a somewhat unhumourous smile. "I'm not sure I know what that word means."
His eyes always reveal what he is feeling; he comes to me, embraces me tightly, his arms around my waist, his head against my chest. My throat tightens, my eyes sting suddenly and I put my arms around him, just standing there together.
He listens to my heartbeat, an odd sort of preoccupation, but a common one since Naboo. After that first, fierce claiming of one another, he lay like that, listening to it. It moved me no less then, it moves me still. "It means living in the moment, Master. Being mindful of the future, mindful of the past, but living in the present. And, at the present moment, we really have nothing to do." Softly.
My mind travels back over the years, old lessons for a bright, seeking mind and I laugh quietly against his hair, nearly as long as mine these days, tied back with a scrap of leather. "Master, eh? It seems that the student has become the teacher after all these years."
"It is only because he has learned from the very best, my love." His arms tighten around me.
I sigh, thinking of years past, of the day we swore our oaths to one another, all the good times. They are not over, I remind myself, whatever larger tragedies might have passed.
"Think no more of it," he whispers, a loving plea. "If only for today."
How I do love him; I'd sell my soul at his word, I think vaguely and take in a breath. "If only for today," I agree.
Looking up, he smiles, a sunrise in his eyes. Those lovely, changeable eyes, blue with changing hints of grey or green, depending on mood or light. Age has but gilded him, he's no longer the boy at all, but every inch the man, and he is beautiful. All that we have endured has refined him, as surely as the ancients refined steel in the flame. Tilting his face up, he gives a kiss, the sweetest kiss, and I return it, tightening my hold on him.
I am so grateful for his presence, for his love, for his strength. I let the shields down, let that sense flow to him, letting him know how much he means to me, and feel peace and joy in return.
At least for the moment.
Obi-Wan wakes first this night, despite his work outside during the early part of the day. The Tusken Raiders, the Sandpeople, as they are more familiarly known.
In another time, they would have been little threat to us, but it is said that Jabba the Hutt is Force sensitive and there is a bounty on our heads. The last time we were here, there was no profit for the Hutt in taking me; now, it would not only enrich Jabba, but entertain him. So, we do not use Force. We do not use our lightsabers, safely put away in the chest in the back of the bedroom.
Their stalking wakes us up for the third night in a row.
We rise from bed, and put our cloaks on to better hide in the shadows. I'm far too tired to think cogently or wisely as we debate our best choice of action. I finally say, "Any ideas, love?"
I sense his eyes move briefly to me. "I'm thinking." Calm voice.
If I were not so tired, I would feel pride in the man, presumptuous or not. I may have taught him, but he is who he is, and even without me, he would have been a good, even great man. I hear him take a deep breath, feel the energy along our link shift slightly; he's thought of something, I tell myself, and he hands the lenses to me, drawing himself into the shadows down along the furthest edge of the rock outcropping.
I have no idea what he plans, but my padawan is no longer a student, he was one of the strongest knights in the Order, when there still was an Order. I feel his shields come down, feel a tendril of Force come at his bidding and wait.
The howl actually makes me start badly, and then I have to bite my lip hard to keep from laughing. Almost immediately, the Riders move, revealing their positioins, and retreating with an unseemly haste for hardened brigands. The laughter wants to escape me, I keep it back with the last shreds of control, and watch Obi-Wan shift backwards, watch him watch them as they retreat. After a moment, he moves back toward me.
"Excellent work, love. Inspired." I let my tone reveal my pride and my admiration for his tactic shine in my voice, and I feel the pleasure in his reaction. We move back toward the house, and I take his cloak, hang it with my own, earning a small smile of thanks. Back into bed, and the bedlinen is almost cold; these desert nights hold no warmth, the atmosphere is too thin; I wrap my arms around him, selfishly seeking his warmth, and he leans back against me, his hands over mine.
It's a healing thing, his touch; I hope that mine heals him as easily and as well. Closing my eyes, I breathe in the scent that belongs only to him hold him close.
Old men don't sleep heavily; I feel his body go limp as he surrenders, and only then do I let myself sink all the way under.
The blasters offend my sense of honor, my sense of self. Obi-Wan lays them on the table with that stubborn chin set in a familiar expression. "What is this?"
"This is how we are going to defend ourselves from now on," he tells me crisply.
I narrow my eyes at him; he may not be padawan any more, but I am still his elder, and these are....these are not right. "We have no need for ... " I hesitates, trying to choose words that will not lie between us. "... these -things-"
His patience is forced. "I believe that the last few days have proved to us the necessity of carrying some sort of weapon on a regular basis. And since our sabers are out of the question..."
I shake my head, and my stomach is entirely upset. "These are not the weapons of a Jedi. If we cannot use our sabers, then we must make do without." My head begins to ache, I raise a hand to my temple to rub it, to will the pain away.
"That's ridiculous, Qui-Gon." Sharply, unwontedly sharp. "We must adapt to our conditions. This...this isn't some mission, upon which we must uphold our values and the Code until its conclusion. This is our -life- now. Our only concern is keeping ourselves alive. And that must be done by any means necessary."
And that statement is far too painful. The Jedi are gone, all of them, save for the rag tag survivors who might hide on various worlds, and I have no idea how many there might be. There is a hollow feeling all around my heart, and I have to focus on his words, remind myself that he intends no wounding. The ends do not justify the means, I tell myself, and I shake my head again. "Obi-Wan, you cannot ask me to forsake a lifetime of beliefs simply to stay alive. I am too old for that."
"I am not asking you to forsake. I am asking you to adapt." Honestly frustrated now and unable to hide it. "I am also asking you to remember the promises we've made. To Yoda, to Amidala ... and to each other. Mustn't a Jedi keep his Word? Is it too much to ask that we bend ourselves to suit our conditions? Mustn't a Jedi be resourceful as well as mindful?"
Sophistry. He always could dice logic like an orator, when he needed to. I shake my head again, feeling my temper rise. "So in one breath you ask me to abandon long-held principles and in the next you exhort me to remember the Code. Come now Obi-Wan, even you can see the contradictions here."
His expression does not change. "I am simply trying to make my argument. To persuade you."
His honesty makes me ache again. "By any means necessary," I tell him tiredly.
His nod is firm, that chin held high. "Yes, Qui-Gon. By any means necessary."
I study him, aching for everything, for all of us, for all those lost and those yet living. "Then I'm afraid you've failed, my love. I can no more take up one of these guns than I can change into a Hutt. You must follow your own feelings, but please don't insist that I go along as well. If you reflect for a short time on this matter, I know you will eventually understand." I reach up and cup his cheek.
His tone is still snappish. We're both tired. "Fine."
I have to look away, wondering if we will indeed survive these times; and if we do, if there is any reason for our survival. No, let me be honest with myself; I am old and outworn and have outlived my purpose and usefulness. What reason is there for my survival?
"We will do without weapons then," Obi-Wan growls, "Hopefully the next tribe of creatures that come to kill us will sympathize with our unique situation. And if not..." An exaggerated shrug. "...we will pray that our principles can save us."
What reason indeed. But self-pity is not to be allowed; I rise from the table and take my cloak, take the purse containing the motley bits of currency we have garnered here on Tatooine. I move toward him, hesitate, and then brush a kiss over his forehead. "I'm going into Mos Eisley to see about procuring some water for the upcoming summer irrigation, love. I will return before midday." I turn toward the door, closing it behind me.
Our speeder has seen better decades, believe me. But it obeys my touch at the control, and I confess, my ability to get and keep it running makes an old man feel useful.
I can't be other than I am, can I? I consider this on the way to Mos Eisley, and while I can see Obi-Wan's argument, it is not something I can choose. Once arrived, I take care of the water purchase, grimly aware that our finances are not the best. I have a few items yet that might be sold, but some of them are dear to me; gifts from my parents, my teachers, my Obi-Wan. When I return, I decide sadly, I must sort through some things, determine that which might bring us the most cash and leave us still unrecognized.
I've brought a few machine parts to sell and dicker with several dealers to get the best price; I use the money to buy supplies for us, staples for the summer ahead, mindful that we may need to fall back upon them if our irrigation fails. There is a tunic in a shop display; a slate blue, the color of a stormy sky on a planet other than Tatooine. The color of Obi-Wan's eyes when he is grave or serious or even passionate. I stop there, admiring it, thinking of the coins in my purse; I drove some wise bargains, and I have a bit extra, I tell myself, surely extra for the tunic.
We both work hard, and our disagreement of the morning stands between us; a peace offering might help bridge the gap, I decide, and go into the shop, make the purchase. I arrange for the supplies to be delivered with the water; our small speeder will not contain them comfortably, but the tunic I take with me.
The sun is past meridian, I'm running a bit later than I had planned, and I move more quickly back toward the speeder, which I have left concealed near the slave quarters, well on the other side of the city from the Hutt's headquarters. Reaching it, I lean inside to stow the tunic--and a shadow makes me turn back, frowning.
I catch only a glimpse of a large man, desperate expression and then there is pain, bright and hot, a blow to my head, and even as I summon Force, I realize I cannot, I must not--the struggle goes on in silence, both of us fighting for our lives, and while I may be old, I am well trained, he doesn't take me down easily. But he does take me down. I feel his fingers at my belt, feel the heat of the speeder's surface burning through the back of my tunic, I feel his fingers patting me down, looking for the speeder control and my own desperation overcomes wisdom and caution.
I manage to raise my fingers, pitch my voice with undertones of Force and tell him, "The purse is enough, you don't need the speeder." Praying, meanwhile, that he's not one of those resistant to Force. Just a thread of it, I tell myself, and I'll be gone in moments. Just a thread.
And for once, fate smiles, it is enough, I hear footsteps recede, running away from me, the purse gone. Well, there wasn't that much left in it, but I pray we don't feel the lack later on.
At least we'll eat. I'd already paid for the supplies.
But lying here wounded is not a good thing; I can sense the presence of other scavengers nearby, drag myself to my feet and into the speeder. The control is inside my tunic; the gift for Obi-Wan is now dusty and stained with drops of blood, and only then do I realize that I'm bleeding, and quite a bit. But there's no help for it, I have to get away from the city, and so I do.
I cannot stop anywhere in the shade, of course, so when I do finally stop, mostly because I'm feeling dizzy, I have to stop in the sun. The water in the bottle under the seat is tepid and tasteless, but it helps; I pour a little into one shaking hand to clear some of the blood from my eyes, but I don't want to try and tend it here. The bleeding has slowed, at any rate, and I can tell that it's a shallow wound, hardly worth noticing--except that I was taken by surprise, unarmed save for wit and the barest trace of my now forbidden gift.
It argues Obi-Wan's point for him, but I cannot give up any more of myself. So much have we both lost, a way of life, of living, of teaching--all we have left is who we are, and if we lose that, the child Owen raises will be of little use, for we will no longer be able to offer any wisdom at all.
I have to rest a bit, until the heat grows too fierce; as it is, it is nearly sunset when I finally reach the house. As I'd half expected, Obi-Wan emerges immediately, when I'm close enough for the speeder to be heard; he nearly yanks me out when I bring it to a stop. For a moment, I lean on him, grateful for him, for his presence, even for his concern. "'m fine." Try to straighten, to walk beside him.
"What happened?" Strong hands supporting me, back into the house and I see him wince; I must look dreadful. I realize that I ache everywhere, wonder dully how bad the bruising is and thank whatever remaining powers the Universe may house that nothing seems to be broken. But he's asked me a question, and I look over to answer, trying to gather my wits together. "Shh," he murmurs, "Forget that I asked."
Once inside, I sink down into a chair beside the table. He leaves me then, I hear him cursing quietly under his breath in several different languages. When he comes back, I feel clearer headed; it's cool inside, out of the sun, it helps ease the ache in my head. "It was only a slight ..." A slight what, I wonder, dizzy again. A slight altercation? A slight miscalculation? And I've left his gift in the speeder, of course; not that it's still fit to be a gift, but it can't go to waste.
His expression is tender. "Hush for now, love. You can tell me later." He begins to work, delicate touch, as if he's afraid of hurting me; I feel the faintest touch of healing Force and my eyes burn, my vision blurs.
Ah, how I love him, my Obi-Wan, my beloved, my lifemate. "It is nothing life-threatening or out of the ordinary, Obi-Wan. Please be assured of that."
He nods, but I feel a carefully banked rage beneath his calm. I would like to touch him, to reassure him that it was little more than an old man being mugged by a younger man, both equally desperate.
Finally, I shake my head, just a little, reach for his hand and squeeze it, damp fingers and cloth and all. "I swear, it was nothing, beloved. Just another gambler trying his luck at relieving me of our poor vehicle. He must have lost more at the pod races than was wise."
A long level look. "Yes, I'd say he was quite unwise. I'm sure you returned this in equal measure."
I did try, I think, but age has slowed me down, I look away, feel the heat in my face and shrug. "Let's just say we still have our vehicle."
He starts to turn away, and I see his grief, his sudden melancholy, his anger--reaching up, I cup his cheek with the less bruised of my hands, loving him, glad to have survived another day to see his face welcome me. He turns his face into my palm and closes his eyes and perhaps we are in better circumstances than today would lead us to think. "We have come so very far, love. Too far to either abandon our ways or give up our oaths completely. We knew that this was a hard life, but there are rewards, aren't there? I consider you my reward, my only one, and how many in this universe can claim something half as wondrous?"
His mouth twitches, quirks into a smile, half rueful, bittersweet. "You are kind, love, but I'm not feeling very wondrous at the moment." His lips brush my palm lovingly, and I know our quarrel is resolved, one way or another. And then he tells me how. "Forgive me for this morning, you were right. As always."
My heart lightens almost unbearably, my throat feels tight for a moment. "Not always, love, it just seems that way. An ancient Jedi mind-trick I learned along the way." I manage, however badly, to wink at him. "I still have one or two left up my sleeve."
"So it seems." Wry tone. Rising, he holds a hand out to me, gently tugs me to my feet. "Come, you need rest. I'll bring you some cold tea and later, we'll share a tray of supper."
No argument from me; I'm exhausted, worn to the bone. "That would be a kindness."
He helps me to the divan and I sink into the comfort of it gratefully. Leaning down, he brushes a kiss over my mouth, over my forehead, gentle fingers smoothing back a strand of hair.
We have each other. We have our beliefs. We have our hopes. Those things will have to be enough.
It is nearly dark when I wake, disoriented, my head still aching, but only a little. There are good smells coming from our small kitchen and I hear Obi-Wan's voice, muttering imprecations at the cranky stove. Oddly, I feel peaceful, despite the aches in my body.
Pushing myself up, I wince at those aches, but don't allow them to stop me; the set of Obi-Wan's shoulders is harried, and I move to put my arms around them. "Can I help?"
"You should be resting," he growls and then sighs, turns into my embrace. "It's nearly ready, honestly. I'm afraid it's not as good as your cooking."
Which is why we divide the chores, I think, smiling. "I'm sure it will be delicious." And kiss him. "I'm fine, just a bit sore, which is hardly surprising."
I am rewarded with a gentle kiss in response. "Why don't you take a hot shower, that might help. And I'll bring supper into the bedroom."
It sounds luxurious. "That would be wonderful," I tell him sincerely. I want to pull him closer, but experience tells me he would resist, for fear of my discomfort. So I merely kiss him again and leave him to his culinary struggles, not without a small pang.
We coddle each other, I suppose. We always have in the privacy of our own time together.
Our duties required that we allow each other to go repeatedly into danger, to perform our tasks without fear of what might happen to the other. Our private time, consequently was....uxorious, I suppose. Not that we never quarreled, even before Tatooine; I tend to be rigid, and Obi-Wan is passionate about his beliefs. He never scrupled to hold back his opinions, even as padawan, and I hope he never shall; even when we quarrel, the sweetness that comes later is almost sweeter for that.
The hot water does ease the aches. We use water sparingly in the desert, of course, we usually use the sonics instead. Just as effective for removing dirt and dead skin, but there is something primal about hot water and plenty of it.
I emerge to find Obi-Wan arranging the bedroom; finally, I get a smile, even as he chivvies me toward the bed. Buttressed by pillows, I sit in luxury and eat my dinner, which is quite palatable, despite Obi-Wan's convictions that he cannot cook beyond the most simple fare. "Very good," I tell him, and suddenly my appetite has returned.
I get a skeptical look until he takes his first bite, and then a grudging nod. "It's not bad."
"It's very good," I repeat and pat the space beside me invitingly.
That earns me another smile and he shifts, so that our shoulders rub together comfortably. It eases what remains of the aches and I take in a slow, deep breath, glad to be here, glad to be home, glad to be with him.
In what seems almost no time at all, I find that my plate is empty. "I'm becoming a glutton in my old age," I marvel.
He grins, pleasure in those lovely eyes. "You really liked it?"
"I told you," I say and kiss him. "I feel much better, the shower was a wondrous idea."
He looks more pleased, and relieved as well. "Good. I'm going to rub you down, too. Keep you from waking up with your muscles locked up from the bruising." A narrow look at my chest, where my robe has gapped.
"Finish your dinner first," I tell him and lean back against the pillows comfortably. The lines of worry have eased from around his eyes and his mouth, and I am content that should be so. "I'm quite comfortable."
He gives me another narrow look, but then relaxes, finishes his meal at his own pace. Mostly his own pace, because suddenly, I am feeling the need to reaffirm life, and I am touching him, his hair, his face....
But he shakes his head, steals one kiss and sets the plate aside. "Lie down, love." He gets up and goes to the wardrobe, returns with a bottle of lotion; a luxury these days, when we never wanted for the small things in our former life. I obediently shed my robe and lie down on my stomach.
As always, he warms the lotion in his palms; his touch eases some of the hunger I'm feeling for him. His fingers are strong, but careful of sore spots, and I can feel him cheating just a bit, just the faintest bit of Force guided into my bruises with each stroke.
I smile against the bedlinen; perhaps he isn't as unmoved as he wants to pretend, for I will surely be well able to seduce him--or vice versa--when he has finished. The thought sends a frisson of pleasure along my nerve endings, and I shift beneath his hands.
Shaky intake of breath. "Dammit." Very softly and then warm lips touch the space between my shoulder blades. "You have the ability to blow my reason to bits, you know."
I can't help chuckling. "Do I? Well, turnabout is fair play, the adage tells us."
A gentle goose on my backside, and then more kisses down the length of my spine. "How I love you," he murmurs, "My blessed, stubborn Master."
"My blessed stubborn Padawan," I murmur and wait until his weight is off me to shift and roll so that I am looking up at him. More kisses, long and tender, and he is still careful of his weight; his hands move along my skin, tantalizing me, arousing me.
This kind of sweet heat, this kind of arousal--at my age, it's a blessing and a gift, no less than Obi-Wan is. I reach up and begin unfastening his tunic, sliding my fingers up under the singlet to touch bare skin, hear a hiss of pleasure. More kisses, this time along my jaw, down my throat, and I keep working at his clothing.
He shifts to let me, more nips, more kisses down my chest, thumbs stroking across my nipples. I slide my hands into his leggings, pulling them down and taking him in my hand. Hot and stretched in my fingers, against my palm, and it is a delight to know I'm not the only one wanting to reaffirm our life together.
Slow and sensuous, he rids himself of the remaining articles of clothing, lowers himself over me, skin to skin, body to body; I put my fingers into his hair, drag his mouth up to claim it, long and deep, tasting him, tasting joy.
Nothing fancy, nothing athletic, just the two of us, the simplest of pleasures, touching and caressing and when orgasm comes, it wrenches me out of this aging, weakening flesh, throws me into the power of our link alone and I soar, no longer aching, no longer failing. I am only Qui, beloved of Obi-Wan, my Obi, my Ben. He follows me into the ecstasy a heartbeat later, we soar together, safe within the walls of our own home, kilometers away from Mos Eisley and danger. We both sink back to earthbound flesh, both breathing raggedly, both pressed together luxuriously, touching, nuzzling. So lovely, so wondrous, and now I remember what reason I have to live.
Just as I told myself earlier, we may not have what we once had, but we have our hope and we have each other.
And that is more than enough to hold on to through the coming years.
Finis
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