Archive: M_A, SWAL, WWOMB and anybody else can just ask - I'm
easy. ;)
Series: Temporal dissociation strikes again. =) The order for
reading now goes "Interlude", "Weaving", "Healing" and "Ties".
Summary: At the completion of a mission Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan
take a small space of time for themselves.
Warning: Qui-Gon owwies. (Look, it's not angst but I just
couldn't help throwing in some h/c.)
Categories: Hurt/Comfort, PWP
Feedback: Please! It really does make the world go round, and
may encourage me to actually write the heavier slash stuff that
I don't normally do...
Many many thanks to Barbara for betaing. And to everyone who
asked for something slightly lighter than gut wrenching angst -
here you go!
Interlude
by Black Rose, 1999
lenoirrose@yahoo.com
Qui-Gon stepped over the threshold into his suite, breathing an
inaudible sigh as the heavy doors slid shut behind him. The
quiet of the suite was a blessing to his dimly ringing ears,
the soft glow of the half-lit lights a welcome relief to eyes
weighted with fatigue and long since ringed round with muscles
tightened into torques of aching tension.
Leaning back against the carved surface of the doors Qui-Gon
let his head to drop, allowing himself a momentary rest before
forcing himself upright again. He reached stubbornly for first
one boot, then the other, tugging them off and resolutely
pushing away from the door to walk across the smooth tiles. He
dropped the boots beside the table, then loosened the cloak and
caught it before it could pool to the floor, draped it neatly
across the back of a chair. Discipline and rote habit completed
each movement for him, even though it pulled painfully at the
muscles in his neck to tilt his head and each step was a small
eternity.
He should have been celebrating. The negotiations had dragged
on from a handful of days to two handfuls, days of waning
patience spent doing little more then playing referee to the
strident and volatile arguments of the diplomatic parties. The
only card that had played in his favor had been that neither
side really wanted open hostility that might lead to war... But
both were more than content to stay seated across a table and
scream at each other like outraged merchants in a public market
until Qui-Gon's head ached and his patience slipped further
away with every shouted insult and bristling retort. It had
taken a great deal of smooth talking and more patience than he
had thought he possessed to arrive at the treaty that had been
signed that evening. But signed it was, however grudgingly, and
with the mission completed Qui-Gon could bid farewell to the
squabbling Thalen system with the clear sense of a job done.
He should have been celebrating... if the word alone had not
contained more energy than the Jedi Master could draw from his
tired body.
"Children," he groaned softly, rubbing at eyes and throbbing
temples. "It's like overseeing a pack of wild children." He had
nothing against children, but the behavior in adult beings -
from sunup to sundown, and then some - for days on end had worn
his tolerance for it to a ragged nub.
The headache had progressed until he could see his pulse at the
corner of his vision, each beat echoing an answering throb
through his aching scalp. He had suppressed it during the
negotiations but now, in the quiet of the suite, it crept upon
him again and he found he didn't have the strength to push it
away. Qui-Gon hissed a soft curse, reaching up to tug the cord
from his hair and wincing as it caught painfully.
The soft ripple of the Force which heralded Obi-Wan's otherwise
silent approach gave Qui-Gon a momentary focus away from the
pain. In the next moment his Padawan's hands brushed his own
aside, fingers plucking the tie away without further incident
and raking gently through the freed tumble of hair. Blunt
fingertips lingered at the nape of his neck, gauging the
tension in the corded muscles. "Another argument, Master?"
"Dozens of them," Qui-Gon sighed. "But that will be the last of
them."
"They signed the treaty, then?" Obi-Wan's voice was pitched
soothingly low, his hands gentle as he pushed his Master
towards the sleeping room but strong enough not to allow
protest.
"Finally." Did his voice really have that much frustrated
irritation in it? Qui-Gon sighed again, dropping stiffly down
to sit on the edge of the sleeping couch. Obi-Wan retreated
quietly and Qui-Gon allowed himself to look longingly at his
pillow. The idea of simply stretching out, clothes and all, was
appealing... but habit came to the rescue once again and with a
heavy sigh he fumbled for the closure of his belt.
"Let me." Obi-Wan reappeared at his side, hands already
reaching to brush aside the long strands of Qui-Gon's hair. The
Jedi Master hissed softly as a wet, steaming hot cloth draped
across the back of his neck, tensing for a moment and then
releasing his indrawn breath in a slow sigh as the heat
penetrated. Keeping one hand to press the cloth in place,
Obi-Wan managed the belt closure with the other, pulling belt
and sash away to drape them at the end of the couch.
Qui-Gon resolutely pushed away the help, stripping his tunics
off and folding them. Obi-Wan took them from him, and this time
when his Padawan reached for his shoulders the younger man's
stern expression allowed no argument. Judging silent compliance
to be the better part of valor, Qui-Gon allowed himself to be
pushed down onto the couch, balking only when the younger man's
hands would have arranged him on his stomach. "There's no
need..."
Strong fingertips found a knot in the muscles of his shoulder
and pummeled it mercilessly, drawing a startled gasp of pain
from Qui-Gon. "You call that 'no need'?" Obi-Wan asked archly.
Qui-Gon ground out an inarticulate noise that wasn't quite an
assent, then reluctantly allowed himself to be positioned where
those insistent hands could reach the bands of tension in his
back. Muscles, straightened fully after hours of sitting,
spasmed at the change and he groaned again, muffling the sound
into the pillow.
Obi-Wan took pity on his Master's dignity, reserving any
further comment as he set to work. Qui-Gon buried his face into
the pillow, taking an edge of the fabric between his teeth and
biting down sharply to keep from protesting as fingers like
steel rods dug into the knots of his back with enough strength
to bruise. His Padawan was nothing if not thorough - from the
point of one shoulder to the other, up and down the column of
his neck and sweeping down across his ribs until Qui-Gon was
certain there wouldn't be an inch of flesh not left blackened
and blue.
In the wake of those brutal hands, however, came the blessed
easing as muscles too abused to continue the fight gave up the
ghost of tension. Beaten into a diffident submission, Qui-Gon's
back slowly relaxed, some of the ache draining away from the
base of his head until each heartbeat no longer flashed whitely
against his closed eyelids. The relief made the means more than
worthwhile, a thought he communicated with a soft sigh.
As though it were the signal Obi-Wan had been waiting for, the
hands eased their merciless march across Qui-Gon's back. A
gentler touch replaced the iron strength, one meant to soothe
rather than conquer. Long sweeping strokes of palm and fingers,
following the length of his spine and traveling outwards. Able
at last to focus on more than the pounding pain in his temples,
Qui-Gon could feel the subtle heat in those palms - a warmth
that spread like ripples through his skin with each touch, a
blanket of living Force that soothed and healed. Once assured
that the muscles of his back contained no more consistency than
a smooth grade of pudding, the fingers took the liberty of
burying themselves into his hair and molding to the shape of
his skull. The warmth pooled across his scalp and seeped into
the hard kernel of tight pain that persisted, easing it
gradually until his awareness of it in temple and jaw faded,
the memory of the pain already dimming as the sensation
disappeared.
"The Healers must have mourned when they lost you," Qui-Gon
murmured, the words coming grudgingly to a tongue heavy with
fatigue.
The hands never eased their work. "I was to go to AgriCorps,
Master."
"Wasted talent," Qui-Gon muttered. "You're no farmer." The
fingers smoothed gently through his hair, whisking away the
cooling cloth at the nape of his neck before returning to sweep
across his back. He sighed softly in appreciation.
"Not now. Thanks to you, Master." Gentle teasing in the tone.
"Padawan." The word was soft, barely a breath, acknowledging
and affirmation in three simple syllables. Obi-Wan's hands
stilled against his shoulders, squeezing softly before
continuing their ministrations.
Silence descended in the dimness, broken only by the slow,
rhythmic touch across his back. Qui-Gon allowed his eyes to
close, sleep beckoning sweetly at the edges of his mind as he
drifted.
The hands slowed gradually, almost imperceptibly, finally
stilling. It was the very lack of movement which roused
Qui-Gon, bringing his awareness back to his surroundings.
Obi-Wan's hands lingered warmly against his shoulder blades, a
silent caress that asked without assuming. His Padawan's voice
was a soft whisper that barely broke the silence. "Rest well,
Master."
The hands withdrew, leaving a quick rush of cold against his
skin in their wake. Qui-Gon rolled over with more ease than he
would have credited himself with, reaching out to catch
Obi-Wan's wrist as the younger man made to rise from the edge
of the couch. In the softly distant glow of the lights from the
next room the Padawan's face was cast in shadows, only the
ruffled ridge of his cropped hair catching the edge of the
light. All the same, Qui-Gon could see the smile that curved
the younger man's lips. The hand in his twisted gently, thumb
brushing across the pulse in his wrist before withdrawing.
Qui-Gon settled back against the pillow, enjoying the simple
pleasure of a stretch that was unaccompanied by pain.
Cloth rustled softly in the silence. The edge of the couch
dipped with added weight. Qui-Gon reaching out without opening
his eyes and was rewarded by an armful of warm skin that
chuckled softly as it settled against him. "You should rest," a
soft whisper chided beside his ear, not quite managing to
disguise Obi-Wan's pleasure in mock reproving.
Something soft tickled across his cheek. Qui-Gon caught the
slim rope of Obi-Wan's braid, letting the soft hair twine
around his fingers as he gave it a gentle tug. "I am resting,"
he pointed out. Another whispered laugh answered him. Reaching
up, he brushed the softer skin of lips, traced the smile that
shone there and answered it with one of his own. Here, now, in
the shadowed silence of the suite, wrapped within the cocoon of
their entwining arms, it was easy to push away all of the
frustration and stress of the negotiations.
Obi-Wan's lips brushed across his fingertips in a soft kiss. A
hand slipped into his hair, stroking through it. Qui-Gon
sighed, letting his palms skate across the bare skin of ribs
and back, down to the curve of hipbone and back to the solid
expanse of shoulders. Obi-Wan hummed in appreciation, his
breath warm against the Jedi Master's shoulder.
Turning his head slightly, Qui-Gon caught the younger man's
mouth against his own. Obi-Wan sank readily into the kiss, lips
parted against his master's. There was a sweetness in each slow
taste, in the stroke of tongue against flesh and the sharing of
breath between them. No urgency, though it simmered beneath
Obi-Wan's touch as it could not help but do in the young. Love
and comfort rather than passion, and the simple pleasure of
touch and taste.
Qui-Gon broke the kiss reluctantly, admitting, if only to
himself, that the resiliency of youth did have its advantages.
Catching the small tail of hair at the back of Obi-Wan's head,
he tucked the smaller man beneath the curve of his chin. "We're
both resting," he said firmly. Silent laughter shook the
chest pressed to his own, soft puffs of breath warming his
collarbone. Obi-Wan's pleased humor bubbled up infectiously,
drawing another smile from Qui-Gon. "At least for a little
while," he amended, drawing an audible laugh from the younger
man.
Smiling lips brushed a kiss across his throat. "Yes, Master,"
Obi-Wan breathed with proper servility, but his tone spoke
entire volumes. Qui-Gon smiled, drawing the younger man closer,
his cheek pillowed against the soft brush of short hair. A
little while... and the night was not truly that old.
End.
(Alright, I'm the world's worst tease. I admit it! I'll work up
the nerve not to fade to black some day. In the meantime,
feedback is appreciated. <g>)
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