Summary: When Obi-Wan's life is put in danger, Qui-Gon is
forced to reconsider thier relationships--and himself.
Feedbacks: Anything, everything, is welcome.
Notes: First Star Wars 'fic, first Q/O, first slash. Thanks
muchly to my beta, Flarn, without whom this story wouldn't be
nearly what it is now.
Obi-Wan was surprised to see one of the servant-caste at the
banquet. He and Qui-Gon had ruled that the Ruvalan caste system
amounted to slavery under Republic law, and that the Ruvalans
had to abolish it before they could join the Senate. That
notwithstanding, it struck him as nothing short of miraculous
that there were already servant-caste attending the farewell
banquet as guests.
One of them, a young female named Seruuva Krellat, was speaking
to him in faint, quivering tones. But she was speaking, and
that was a good sign. She was very obviously a member of the
servant-caste, marked by the brands that marred the downy white
fur on the back of her hands. Her antennae drooped wildly,
hanging over her eyes in a sign of respect as profound as
prostrating oneself was to humans. But her large, limpid eyes
were bright with interest.
"Please, sir Jedi. Will you take a gift from me?" She looked up
at him, hesitating, antennae rising just a little.
"I'm sorry, Seruuva," he said gently. "Jedi aren't allowed to
accept gifts. To discourage attempts at bribery."
Seruuva's antennae drooped further, and she withdrew one
white-furred, delicate hand from behind her back. "Not even
this, sir Jedi?"
It was a blue flower, trumpet-shaped, with beautiful, nearly
transparent petals. Obi-Wan smiled, and reached for it. "That,
I think I could accept." Too bad I can't take it with me, he
thought. But there were quarantines on organic materials
entering the delicate, volatile environment of Coruscant. He
held the flower close, breathing in the sweet scent. "Thank
you, Seruuva."
Seruuva took her exit not long after, eyes still huge, looking
well and thoroughly awed. Obi-Wan caught himself hoping the
servant-caste would grow a backbone, else the noble-caste would
continue to walk all over them regardless of laws.
Seruuva knelt in front of Kreskkal v'Then and his council, head
bowed.
"Is it done, Seruuva?" Kreskkal asked.
"It's done, Lord," she murmured.
He smiled, antennae swaying. "Well done. You will live another
day."
Seruuva sighed, trembling. She should have been glad that the
task v'Then gave her was only this, to poison the ambassadors.
They were, after all, soulless demons--that was obvious, given
that they lacked the antennae that marked Ruvalans as images of
the gods. Because of the tracking device imbedded in her
throat, he could demand she do anything, and she had to obey.
But it did her conscience good that all they demanded was the
death of demons.
What harm could there be in killing demons?
"I can't do it." Obi-Wan knelt in the center of the sleeping
room on the ship, head bowed. His Padawan braid trickled free
from where he'd tucked it behind his ear to slap at his sweaty
cheek. "I just can't. I'm sorry, Master."
"Don't apologize, Padawan. Get up." Qui-Gon reached out to
touch Obi-Wan's shoulder as he rose. A little unsteady, he
noted, and frowned. It wasn't an easy exercise, certainly, but
Obi-Wan was a strong and fit young man. He should have been
able to complete it, or at least come out of it without this
level of exhaustion.
"You don't look good." He reached out to brush his fingers over
Obi-Wan's brow. A little warm, but no more so than a good
training session would have engendered.
Hmm.
"I don't feel so well, Master." His voice shook a little. "May
I go lie down?"
If they'd been on Coruscant, Qui-Gon would have sent him to see
the healers. But they were only a day out of port on Ruvalan, a
good long while from Coruscant. And Qui-Gon was good a great
many things, but he was rather an awful Force-healer, always
had been. He nodded, reluctant. "Go on, then. I'll make you
some tea, and see what I can do."
Obi-Wan gave him another shaky smile. Qui-Gon stepped forward,
ready to catch his elbow if he needed help, but Obi-Wan seemed
pretty steady on his feet. Even if he was a good bit slower
than usual.
He was probably right. Migrane, indigestion, or some other such
thing--Qui-Gon couldn't feel the alien presence of virus or
bacteria in his Padawan, nor the slight alteration in Obi-Wan's
Force signature that would speak of organ trouble. He set water
to boil, and measured a spoonful of kinta leaves into Obi-Wan's
mug. They weren't his Padawan's favorite--Obi-Wan preferred the
stronger, deep-flavored sarech--but they were known for having
a soothing and mildly sedative effect.
He added a dollop of honey, and carried the steaming mug to
Obi-Wan. He almost dropped it when he saw the Padawan.
The flushed look had faded from Obi-Wan's cheeks. He was, in
fact, quite pale. His skin was sweaty, however--so sweaty it
looked as if he had been drenched in water. His clothes were
dark with sweat. He was abnormally hot now, and it had been
such a short time . . . Not a migraine, then, and not likely
indigestion. Qui-Gon probed again. There were the usual
parasites, the beneficial ones that lived in a symbiosis as
natural, if not perhaps as necessary, as that of the
midichlorians. And nothing else, no bacteria or protists or
viruses of an unusual, harmful nature.
Maybe an allergy? That was still possible. Drug or poison was
highly unlikely, with the protections they took--nothing
crossed their lips without a full Force-enhanced scrutiny, and
chemical testing as well if any question arose. Any Jedi worth
his name could tell an impurity in food or drink.
"Come on, Obi-Wan. Get up, and we'll get you into something to
sleep in." he said gently, keeping his concern under iron
control. Maybe it was just an allergy, or very bad indigestion.
No reason it couldn't be.
Except for the small, gnawing fear in the back of his head.
Obi-Wan struggled to his feet, shaking badly. He reached up to
touch his head, mumbled a little. It astounded Qui-Gon, that
this should affect him so much, so quickly. He'd been fine when
the practice started.
Qui-Gon helped him to strip, examining his skin for insect
bites or punctures. Nothing. Nothing at all.
He wrapped Obi-Wan in a soft robe meant for sleeping. Obi-Wan
was beginning to shiver, for all he was coated in sweat,
clutching the folds of cloth to his chest.
"Back to bed," Qui-Gon said, with a lightness he didn't feel.
Obi-Wan curled under the thin blanket, and Qui-Gon found a few
more to bundle over him. Obi-Wan took the mug of tea from him,
drinking from it with shaking hands. Qui-Gon slid one arm
beneath Obi-Wan's shoulders and helped him to sit up.
When Obi-Wan finished, Qui-Gon set the mug aside and
straightened. Obi-Wan reached out and caught the edge of his
sleeve with one hand. "Please. Please, Master, I'm freezing . .
."
Qui-Gon froze, gazing down at his Padawan. It couldn't hurt,
could it? He knew his Padawan didn't have anything contagious,
so his health wasn't at risk. Only his sanity. Because though
his Padawan was soaked and drawn and looking not altogether
well, he was still lean and strong, and his eyes were still the
same shade as the oceans of Alderaan. Sharing his bed would be
stressful in the extreme.
But he couldn't say no, could he? Not with Obi-Wan shivering
with the combined chill of illness and starship travel. So he
kicked off his boots and slid into bed, still fully clothed.
Obi-Wan leaned close, laying his head on Qui-Gon's shoulder as
he would have done when he was much younger. He slept, and
Qui-Gon watched him, concerned.
Some hours later, the trill of an incoming message startled
Qui-Gon from his half-trance meditation. He slid out from under
the blanket and closed the doors from the sleeping area before
receiving the message.
It was Senior Clansman v'Then, the nominal leader of the
Ruvalans. He had a rather unpleasant smile on his face, his
antennae quivering.
"I trust you and the young one are well, sir Jedi?" His tone
and eyes both held mockery. Qui-Gon felt a trail of coldness
touch him through the Force.
"Don't play games with me, Senior Clansman."
The Ruvalan's smile faded. "Your Padawan is quite ill by now,
if I'm not mistaken. He's been poisoned by inhaling the pollen
of the harecha flower, fatal to humans. He's reached the
plateau, but once he passes this stage--two days, at most--he
will die of it. Unless you get the antidote."
Qui-Gon quivered, reaching out to the Force for serenity. In
the pause that took, the Ruvalan continued. "Rescind your
decision, and we give you the antidote."
"You won't get away with killing a Jedi." He was angry, despite
himself. Oh, he was angry, angry. But he didn't let it show,
not now, not with Obi-Wan's life at stake.
"I doubt you'd let him die to see if we would. And I wouldn't
suggest waiting to see the Healers. He'll be dead before you
reach Coruscant."
"I'm supposed to trust you on this?"
"Do you want to wait and see?" A small, vicious smile.
"If you know anything of Jedi, you know we won't put the entire
Republic in danger to protect our own." Much as we love them.
He was angry, and now he thought it was showing, an amazing
thing, considering his shields. Even more amazing that he
didn't care. He shut off the connection without warning or
explanation, and cued a connection to the Temple.
After a half an hour of terse explanations to irritating if
well-meaning secrataries, he had found Yoda and had explained
the situation to him.
Yoda sighed. "Want to lose Obi-Wan, we do not."
"But we can't let them tip our hand with threats, like this.
That defeats the entire purpose of the Jedi."
Yoda's ears drooped. "True, that is. But grant you time to
return, we may. Do what you can."
"Thank you, Master. I will." Then, more softly, "I will not
lose Obi-Wan."
By the time the ship reached Ruvalan again, Obi-Wan was asleep
most of the day and quasi-delirious the rest. He couldn't eat,
but he drank a good deal of tea, perhaps in an effort to make
up for the water he lost through perspiration.
And Qui-Gon was angrier than he could remember being since he
was a Padawan.
Jedi Masters didn't get angry. That was a weakness excised in
the young, because nothing was more dangerous than an angry
Force-sensitive. But Qui-Gon was angry, and getting angrier
with each moment he spent at Obi-Wan's bedside. Obi-Wan wasn't
getting worse. Just as v'Then had predicted, he remained
stable. But that was only another sign that v'Then would be
right about the ultimate fatality of the poison. And seeing
Obi-Wan trembling, cold, pale, fighting and losing to an enemy
Qui-Gon couldn't even see . . . well. It was frustrating in the
extreme.
So it was little wonder that he did what he did on Ruvalan.
Delirious as he was, Obi-Wan was well aware that there was
something wrong with his Master. He was distant, as if
shielding something so strong he had to shield everything he
felt to block it out. Obi-Wan knew there was concern for him,
knew that, whatever was wrong with him, it was more than just
illness. But Qui-Gon refused to tell him anything but that it
would be all right, everything would be fine.
Obi-Wan knew enough to know that, when a Master told you that
everything was going to be all right, it meant it very likely
wasn't.
He was worried.
They docked at the same port they'd left from. Qui-Gon settled
Obi-Wan into a deep, hopefully healing sleep, clipped his
lightsaber to his belt, and went out.
Past the guards at the doors to the palace--they were
servant-caste, so used to following directions that he could
influence them with almost no use of the Force. Past the
secondary guards, more ceremonial than actual, who he sent to
sleep with a motion and a word. He severed the royal droid
guards with his 'saber, sending the sparking, twisted pieces of
metal skittering across the floor. He opened the door.
Senior Clansman Kreskkal v'Then smiled thinly at Qui-Gon. The
smile faded when Qui-Gon reduced his complement of guard droids
to so much rubble.
"Threaten a Jedi, Senior Clansman, and you may not like what
you get."
Obi-Wan felt his Master's shields slip, very briefly. Only for
a heartbeat, and eyelash flicker of time, but that was
astounding enough in itself. His Master never slipped.
But what the slip showed was even more amazing. Amazing and
horrifying. His Master was angry. More than angry, he was
enraged. Enraged, and desperate, and almost despairing.
Obi-Wan was at the center of it. Concern for Obi-Wan. Qui-Gon
was closer to Darkness than Obi-Wan could ever remember, and it
was because of him.
It was too much to bear.
He reached out with the Force. He'd used it often enough to
lift stones, to make carved figures dance as gracefully as men.
Now he used it to infuse his limbs with a strength they lacked,
forcing himself upright, taking one shaky step, then another.
Because he would not abandon his Master to Darkness.
Qui-Gon advanced on v'Then. The Senior Clansman cowered against
his chair, antennae quivering wildly.
"The antidote, Clansman," he said, voice low and intent. His
lightsaber hummed in his hand, casting an eerie green glow in
the shadowy room.
The Senior Clansman gabbled incoherently, large eyes dilated
with fear. He pressed himself back in his chair as if trying to
crawl into it and hide.
Qui-Gon pressed close, leaning over the chair. His body blocked
all light but that of the 'saber, and v'Then froze, trembling
like a scared rabbit.
Behind Qui-Gon, the door creaked open.
He spun, lightsaber up and ready to defend. But it was not the
expected complement of guards. It was Obi-Wan, pale as wax and
glassy with sweat. His mouth worked, but he managed only one
word. "Master . . ." And then, in a whisper so low there was
almost no breath behind it, " . . .don't, please . . ."
His knees buckled, and Qui-Gon was across the room in time to
catch Obi-Wan as he crumpled like a rag doll. He gathered the
lean body against his, folding the long legs over his arm.
Obi-Wan's head rocked against Qui-Gon' chest, and he gazed
desperately up at Qui-Gon through translucent red-gold
eyelashes. Then his eyes rolled back, and he went utterly limp.
Qui-Gon cradled Obi-Wan against him, gently, as if a strong
wind might blow him away like a leaf to the wind. Then he
turned and stumbled out of the room. His unsteadiness had
nothing to do with his Padawan's weight.
Qui-Gon carried Obi-Wan back to the ship. He tucked him back
into bed, then slid in beside him. Obi-Wan didn't move, didn't
wake. He slid one arm under Obi-Wan's back and drew his
apprentice close. It was perhaps half an hour before Obi-Wan
stirred and woke again, but it felt like a lifetime. His
eyelashes flickered, and Qui-Gon bent close, wanting to see
blue eyes alight with life again. Finally those eyelids opened,
and Obi-Wan blinked, and spoke.
"Good. Qui-Gon . . . you mustn't . . .." Long pause, he was out
of breath. "You mustn't. It's not worth it."
"Your life is worth any price, Obi-Wan."
"Not your soul." Now he really was exhausted. He lay his head
on Qui-Gon's shoulder. "Never that. Promise me. Never."
"Shhh. Go to sleep, Obi-Wan, you need to rest." Despair welled
up in him; Obi-Wan was going to die after all this. "You need
the rest."
"Promise me." His fingers dug in Qui-Gon's sleeve. "Promise."
Qui-Gon bent, kissed his forehead. "I promise, my Obi-Wan."
Obi-Wan smiled a little and subsided into sleep. And Qui-Gon
wept.
Seruuva slipped into the bay, clutching the vial in one hand.
She slid up the ramp to the Jedi ship, and paused.
It had been easy, hadn't it, when she'd been sure the Jedi were
demons? When she'd been sure they were soulless, loveless, evil
creatures? But that she could no longer think. Because she'd
seen love between them, almost tangible.
She couldn't kill them, not if they were sentient, not if they
lived. So she rapped once on the metal door with her knuckles.
It was the one called Qui-Gon who answered. He looked wild, but
nothing like so wild as he'd been when she'd watched him
destroy the droid guards, when she'd crouched hidden in the
Senior Clansman's chambers. She thrust out her hand and spoke
quickly. "The antidote, sir Jedi. I thought you were demons,
you and your apprentice, but you aren't, you can't be, you love
each other. So take it, here, give it to your apprentice, he'll
live."
Qui-Gon was looking at her hard. "You speak the truth," he said
softly, and took the vial. She lowered her head and began to
turn away, but he said, "You're servant-caste."
"Yes, sir Jedi."
"You'll be punished for this." It was not a question, and so
she merely nodded. "Can you hide?" he continued.
"N-no." She held up her hands, scarred with the circular
servant-caste mark, and then touched her neck. "The marks, and
also there is a tracking device, here."
Qui-Gon said nothing, but reached out to brush the fur at her
throat. "It's deactivated," he said. Then he took her hands in
his. She felt a moment of sudden warmth, and looked down. The
scar circles in her palms had turned to soft, pink flesh. "The
fur will grow in," he said gently.
"Oh . . ." she said, and could say no more.
"Go on," he told her, and she turned and fled, drawing her
tattered gray cloak around her.
Qui-Gon went inside. He propped Obi-Wan up and slid the
antidote into his mouth. Obi-Wan swallowed, convulsively, but
did not wake. It would have to be enough. Qui-Gon slid down
into bed with him, drawing him close, and waited.
The sickness went as quickly as it came. Within an hour, the
trembling had passed from Obi-Wan; a little later, he stopped
sweating. By the time they returned to the Temple, Obi-Wan was
nothing but tired, and Qui-Gon dared to hope that, maybe, after
all this, it was going to be all right.
Obi-Wan crept out of his room, barefoot, swathed in a robe. He
gave Qui-Gon an exaggerated wary look. "I don't suppose you'll
let me take a bath, yet?"
Qui-Gon felt a spike of concern, forced himself to ignore it.
"I haven't been that bad, have I?"
"Not really." He folded his arms, leaning over the back of the
couch. "But you have been . . ."
"Overprotective?" Qui-Gon smiled faintly. "I know, Padawan. Can
you blame me? I was worried."
That earned him a solemn look from his Padawan. "I was worried
about you, too."
"I know." The pause grew between them into something almost
tense, and Qui-Gon cleared his throat to break the silence.
"So, go ahead, take your bath."
Obi-Wan turned away, pulling his robe a little closer. Then he
paused, glancing back over one shoulder. His eyes shifted,
molten blue-green like the sea, and his smile came swift and
almost shy. "Join me?"
Qui-Gon caught his breath, and forgot, for a moment, how to
speak. The reddish light of Coruscant sunset caught in
Obi-Wan's coppery hair, turned his skin to gold. The arch of
his neck, the lean strength of his body beneath the loose terry
robe, burned for one long moment into his memory. And then he
said, in a voice unusually rough, "I would be honored."
The baths were one of the few places in which the Temple didn't
cut any corners. Deep hot tubs, herbal bath salts, and massage
oils were deemed necessary for soothing strained, cramped
muscles. The tub was sunken into the tile floor, and steam rose
from it in a fine, misty cloud.
Obi-Wan stripped off his robe and settled into the hot water,
watching with glittering eyes as Qui-Gon did the same. Qui-Gon
found himself at a disadvantage--Obi-Wan had worn nothing but
his bathrobe, and he was fully dressed. But he wasn't an
adolescent, he wasn't going to squirm or fumble, even under
those brilliant eyes.
He slid into the water, settling back. Obi-Wan edged closer,
expression all questioning. Qui-Gon held out an arm in
invitation, and Obi-Wan eased closer, leaning tentatively
against his side. His braid trailed over the water, mingling
with Qui-Gon's long hair.
"Oh, Padawan . . ." he said, softly. "I thought I was going to
lose you."
"Did you?" he asked, a little muzzily. Then he lifted his head.
"I wasn't afraid of dying, you know. I was afraid I would never
get a chance to . . ."
Long pause, breathless. "To what?"
"To do this." Obi-Wan swooped in and kissed him. The kiss was a
startling, light thing, like the brush of a bird's wing.
Qui-Gon had to catch his breath. And then Obi-Wan drew back,
tentative again. A funny emotion, Qui-Gon thought, for someone
who was currently naked and sharing his bath. But . . ..
"Padawan?"
"Yes, Master?"
"Come here."
Qui-Gon caught Obi-Wan again, and drew him close, and kissed
him, harder than before. And kissed him again. And again.
Obi-Wan's mouth opened against his, and Qui-Gon tasted him,
explored him, thoroughly, until Obi-Wan was squirming.
Obi-Wan's hands moved over him, running along his arms, sliding
down his chest. Qui-Gon drew him closer, spanning his back with
long hands, rubbing over the smooth skin.
Obi-Wan's eyes widened, and he broke the kiss. "Master . . ."
"Do you want this, Obi-Wan?" He stroked Obi-Wan's back, drawing
him closer, relishing soft skin and lean muscles.
"Do you have to ask?" Neither of them were wearing the clothes
to disguise their reactions.
"Not that, Obi-Wan. Do you want this? Think."
Obi-Wan's eyelashes lowered, obedient for the moment. Then he
spoke, in a voice lower and softer than the whisper of silk on
silk. "Yes, I do. I do, Master."
"Don't call me that." He half-dragged Obi-Wan across his lap,
kissed him soundly again. "Call me Qui-Gon."
"Yes, Qui-Gon." He wrapped his arms around Qui-Gon's neck,
pressing closer, until they were touching all along the lengths
of their bodies. Awkward, that embrace, and slippery, but
neither of them seemed inclined to move. "Yes, I want this, I
really want this . . .."
They touched each other, exploring; Qui-Gon had seen his
apprentice naked before, there was not much room for privacy in
the life of a Jedi, but never like this. Never slick with water
and flushed with desire, eyes dilated and lips parted. He ran
his fingers across Obi-Wan's collarbone and down the sleek,
muscled chest, across the flat, taut stomach, and lower.
Obi-Wan gasped, and moaned a little, as Qui-Gon sought and
found the hardness there.
"Oh . . ." he said, softly, and then he reached for Qui-Gon.
Difficult, given their positions, and they shifted, splashing a
little. Obi-Wan turned sideways, settling with his shoulder
against Qui-Gon's chest. One hand snaked down across his own
stomach, and then he felt Obi-Wan's touch on his own erection,
gentle but firm. It was heady, it was intoxicating, it was
pleasure beyond what he could imagine, and not a little because
this was Obi-Wan, beautiful, strong, brilliant Obi-Wan . . . .
Tangled together, the bond between them flared with mutual
pleasure. Qui-Gon was careful, holding Obi-Wan tightly around
the waist with one arm. Obi-Wan was more wanton, trailing his
fingertips, light enough to tease. Then, without warning, he
was firm, taking Qui-Gon fully in his hand. Qui-Gon could feel
each lightsaber callous, each narrow scar, each line of his
Padawan's palm. Qui-Gon could hear breathy moans, his and
Obi-Wan's, though he couldn't tell whose was whose. Pleasure
crested between them--he could hear, could feel, Obi-Wan's
pleasure as it mingled with his own, the two merging into one
so seamlessly that it was impossible to tell which was which.
Long, sweeping shudders rocked him, and he clung to Obi-Wan.
Obi-Wan moaned, pressing against him, spent, satiated, relaxed.
His head rocked against Qui-Gon's shoulder.
Yes, it was going to be all right. It was going to be better
than all right.
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