Master Apprentice
Archive
Kindle Fire With Snow
|
|
|||
Series: Kindle Fire With Snow
Title: Cannot Be Hid
Author: Am-Chau Yarkona
Fandom: Star Wars
Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Bail Organa
Rating: NC-17 (overall)
Disclaimer: no copyright infringement is intended. This is non-profit venture for the entertainment of fans and the spread of the popularity of the movies only.
Betaed by: sirenumscopuli and ligia_elena. Thank you for your help, ladies.
Feedback: yes, anywhere is fine.
Prologue
"Pleased to meet you, Viceroy," Qui-Gon said, returning the Prince's bow and smile. "And allow me to introduce you to my..."
"Padawan, Obi-Wan Kenobi," Viceroy Organa finished smoothly, smiling and bowing to Obi-Wan as well.
Qui-Gon raised an curious eyebrow. "I met the Viceroy when he spoke to Master Ta'ling's politics seminar, Master," Obi-Wan explained. He returned Organa's bow and suppressed the frown that threatened, but he could not quite raise a smile.
Luckily, the Viceroy quickly turned back to Qui-Gon. "I hear that you are also a diplomat, Master Jinn," he said.
Qui-Gon smiled and agreed, making some trite but amusing remark about the trials of such work.
Obi-Wan allowed himself to tune out all but the tone of the conversation, focussing on keeping his face impassive and attempting to release his emotions to the Force. He was tired of exercises in politics and diplomacy; surely one had to practise lightsaber skills from time to time? Qui-Gon seemed to think not, and so they had spent the last three days observing diplomats from Alderaan and Hok renewing an ages-old trade treaty. It was everyday business, with both sides working hard towards an almost entirely common goal. They had no need for the Jedi.
This evening, everything was done, and the two Senators involved had sent their deputies to sign the paper and then celebrate the renewal. Signing had taken minutes; the party was a longer affair, mostly laid on to reward the lower ranks and raise their morale.
Trying to fake an interest in the conversation, Obi-Wan turned his head to face the current speaker, Viceroy-Prince Organa. As he spoke, the Viceroy lifted a hand-the nails carefully manicured-to gently push a stray stand of hair off his face. It was a habit Obi-Wan had observed before, and, illogically, found annoying.
Again, Viceroy Organa smiled at him, and Obi-Wan somehow managed to think back over what he had just heard and answer his question.
"I am glad to see the work completed so quickly, Viceroy," Obi-Wan said, then had to wait a moment while Qui-Gon agreed before he could stop listening again, reassured that he hadn't said the wrong thing.
He went back to watching the Viceroy-and there, another aggravating habit: checking the edge of his robe by running one slow hand over it as it lay vertically across his chest. Oh, how annoyingly vain the man was! How irritatingly... good looking.
Obi-Wan cut that thought short, shoving the whole bundle of tangled emotions away from his conscious mind. His Master had been speaking, but now there seemed to be a lull in the conversation.
"Pardon me, Viceroy-Master, may I be excused? I have research to complete," Obi-Wan ventured, more than ready to get away from the Viceroy and the rest of the staid diplomatic party.
Qui-Gon looked at him knowingly. Now they knew each other so well, Obi-Wan suspected that Master Jinn could read his every thought, and just hoped that Qui-Gon would agree that leaving was the cleverest move. "You may, Padawan-if you will give your apologies to our host on your way out."
"I will, Master," Obi-Wan said. He bowed deeply to Viceroy Organa. "Good evening, Viceroy; I am sorry to be forced to leave early."
"Good evening, Padawan Kenobi," the Viceroy replied, and as he looked at Obi-Wan his smile seemed to broaden again. "I hope we'll meet again soon."
"Yes, Viceroy," Obi-Wan said, wishing the exact opposite, and fled in the direction of the Hokian host, Deputy Senator Ko-hj, before he could be detained further.
Once he had escaped from the detested party, Obi-Wan wandered back towards the Jedi Temple, weaving a path through Coruscant's back alleys, which enabled him to enjoy what there was of the cool and quiet of the night.
He was frustrated to find his thoughts returned to Viceroy-Prince Organa. When the seminar had ended last spring, he had hoped that his problem with Bail Organa would be over-his friends had teased him mercilessly because for those three weeks he had spoken of little other than how annoying he found the Viceroy, though in two one-hour seminars they had barely met.
When he found a garden, open to the public but deserted at this hour of the night, Obi-Wan decided to sit for a while and meditate. Perhaps there was something specific about Organa that he could identify and then deal with?
But however long he knelt in thought, he could not locate it. He knew that there had been some dispute over the Viceroy's inheritance of his titles; but he also knew that the matter had been settled with the aid of Jedi. He knew that the Viceroy expected to take Senator Antilles's place, and soon, as Antilles had ambitions to become Chancellor; but there was no reason to hold that against him.
The only thing Obi-Wan could be sure of was that Viceroy Organa aroused unsettling feelings in him, and that he didn't know why. That in itself was nearly as annoying as the Viceroy.
Eventually, Obi-Wan returned to the Temple, where he found Qui-Gon waiting for him.
"A short journey took you a long time, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon observed mildly.
"I saw no need for haste, Master," Obi-Wan replied-a standard answer for a Padawan who had taken the chance for a little privacy.
"Such needs are hard to discern at times," Qui-Gon said, indicating with a wave of his hand that Obi-Wan should take a seat. "You had many mixed feelings this evening."
"I did, Master," Obi-Wan agreed, perching on the edge of a wooden chair.
"You have taken against Viceroy Organa."
"I..." Obi-Wan hesitated, but knowing that this was not the time for explanations-even if he had any-he bowed his head and admitted his failing. "The Viceroy seems to annoy me, Master."
"You did not release your emotions to the Force effectively."
That, at least, was the simple truth. "I did not, Master."
"Why is that, Obi-Wan? Do you know?"
"I know why I could not release the feelings-I could not detach myself from the generation of fresh ones. But why the Viceroy irritates me so, I have no idea, though I also found him thus last time we met." Obi-Wan lifted his head to look, almost pleadingly, in Qui-Gon's eyes. "Do you know, Master?"
"Know? No, Padawan, I have only guesses. You must work this out for yourself."
"How?"
"Firstly, though meditation, which I suspect you have already begun. Secondly, I am assigning you to assist the Viceroy in the coming negotiations with the Mimban delegation. I was asked to provide a Jedi presence; but as I must research our next Council-assigned mission and the post is for nothing more than show, I am sending you in my stead."
Try as he might, Obi-Wan knew he looked aghast at this notion. Qui-Gon chuckled slightly. "Honestly, it might help you, and I doubt the Viceroy will complain. Go tomorrow and discuss it with him."
"He won't be too busy to see me?"
"I'm sure he'll find a space for you-he seems to like you. He said you were an excellent student, very engaged with the material."
"That's because I answered him back," Obi-Wan muttered.
"Eloquently and logically, I have no doubt," Qui-Gon said, half-laughing. "Now, sleep well tonight, Padawan, and comm the Viceroy's assistant in the morning."
* * *
The party went on late, diplomatic aides blowing off steam. It was still in full swing when Bail left, hours after midnight. He found Raymus waiting for him by the speeder.
"Good morning, Viceroy," Raymus grinned.
"Your uncle sent you, since all the security guards have gone home, I suppose?" Bail grumbled; he knew Senator Antilles only wanted him to take sensible security measures, but he couldn't help finding it over-protective at times.
"I came of my own accord, Bail," Raymus said, hurt. "It's my first night of shore leave so I couldn't find a girl to hook up with, but Stace mentioned you were here and I thought it might be worth seeing you."
"Sorry," Bail said. "Let's get out of here, shall we? I'm tired and disappointingly sober."
They climbed into the speeder-Bail letting Raymus take the controls-and took off, heading up into a quiet air lane.
"Disappointingly sober?" Raymus questioned. "I thought these diplomatic functions were quite good."
"They are," Bail said. "But the Hokians are teetotal, which is disappointing on a night when I rather want to be drunk."
"Why? I've heard you lecture me about the best way to avoid a hangover being to avoid alcohol often enough."
"Oh, I don't mind, usually. But I suspect I'm developing another silly infatuation, and alcohol can be the best way to wash those off."
Raymus leaned back in his seat, enjoying flying the little airspeeder after weeks onboard the Tantive IV. "Tell us, then-who is it this time?"
Bail sighed. "Totally unsuitable and out of reach. A Jedi Padawan, just my age or a little younger, and he doesn't even like me."
"Oh, Bail," Raymus laughed. "You do know how to pick them. Any special reason, or just that succeeding in the pursuit is an entirely impossible concept?"
"No, no, he's wonderful-clever, polite, but can hold a debate when he wants to. Bright blue eyes, strong hands, lips... lips to die for." Bail laughed at his own melodrama. "Not that I expect to be allowed to. I'll have to settle for missing a few meals and a night or two's sleep. Jedi are always off on missions, so I dare say I'll never see him again."
"Probably true," Raymus agreed. "Don't let yourself get too thin and pale, though, or my uncle will start asking you whether you'll cope with the strain of being Senator."
"Oh, I think I'll manage," Bail said. "Not that I wouldn't manage better if I had a strong, handsome Jedi to help me stay firm in the middle of the night, of course." They laughed together at that. "But, Raymus, enough about me. How's your love life coming? No girls tonight, but are you still lusting after the Twi'lek who dances at Michnel's strip club?"
"She's too old for me," Raymus said dismissively. "But I do have another in mind-there's a real beauty working behind the counter at Dex's Diner..."
Chapter One
Unusually, when Obi-Wan's alarm chirped at dawn, it found him already wide awake.
Strange dreams had stirred into storms as the night progressed. He had done standard calming meditations, but even the most peaceful images he could conjure gave way too soon to thoughts of Viceroy Bail Organa. If the Viceroy had been any kind of threat, Obi-Wan would have been less surprised by this-but he was perfectly harmless. Surely. How could a politician like that be a danger? Obi-Wan asked himself, as he stretched out an arm to silence the alarm.
The Viceroy couldn't be Force-sensitive, let alone a Sith, or Qui-Gon would also sense something amiss.
Around midnight, Obi-Wan's thoughts had finally turned to dreams, and disturbing ones at that-dreams of grasping hold of the Viceroy's hands and combing that lock of hair back so hard that he would never have to fiddle with it again, and of Obi-Wan's own hands running across the Viceroy's chest, to rip away the irritating embroidered fabric...
After that dream, Obi-Wan had put a considerable amount of energy into not falling back to sleep. It had seemed like a wise choice at the time, but now he was faced with the prospect of getting up, dressing, and his Master's questions and today's chores and meeting the Viceroy again... with hindsight, like most decisions, it could easily be debated.
Three knocks sounded on the door. "Obi-Wan, are you getting up?" Qui-Gon's voice inquired. "You need to comm Viceroy Organa's assistant early today."
"I'm getting up, Master," Obi-Wan called. He sighed, but made the statement true, rolling out of bed in a way carefully designed to land him in front of the drawers with minimum effort.
* * *
Dashing into her office, half-awake but mostly dressed, Stace began her morning's work by placing a comm call to Viceroy Organa's private line. While she waited for him to answer, she waved through the glass partition to Elos, Senator Antilles' secretary and therefore her opposite number but also her senior. Elos waved back, but before they could mutually decide to stop work and have a gossip, Bail's sleepy voice came down the comm.
"Hello?"
"Good morning, Viceroy. Did you sleep well?"
"Fine," Bail said, in a tone so firm she was sure he was lying. "You're a little later than usual this morning, Stace."
"Not by the clock here," Stace said-as she couldn't see it through the stack of datapads, it could in theory be true.
"If you say so," Bail said. "How soon do I need to be in the office?"
"Before lunch would be good," Stace told him. "You've got a lunch meeting. Did you ask the Jedi last night if they could provide a presence for the talks with the Mimbans?"
"Yes. Master Jinn didn't sound too positive, but he said someone would contact you this morning if they could be spared."
Stace noted this down as a call to expect. "If there is to be a Jedi, would you like to meet them before the formal talks begin?"
"At least let me know who they are," Bail requested. "I'll see you in the office in a while, then."
"I'll brief you fully when you get here, Viceroy," Stace said, and waited until she heard the blip that indicated that Bail had cut the call before she put the comm unit down. She flipped her screen over to the message view format, but before she could start sorting the hundreds of messages, Elos was waving her over to their connecting door.
"Morning, Elos," Stace greeted.
Elos ignored such formalities. "My Bail's upset this morning-apparently his nephew Raymus is on shore-leave, he got off the ship yesterday, but only arrived at his uncle's in the early hours of the morning."
"That might explain why my Bail sounds tired," Stace said thoughtfully. "If after that party last night he met up with Raymus..."
"True, true," Elos nodded in wise agreement. "We might be able to confirm that later in the day. So, did your Bail meet the Jedi last night?"
"He says he did, and he asked about a Jedi presence for the Mimban talks. The Jedi are supposed to let me know today if there will be someone."
"Good," Elos said. "Now, have you seen this morning's Coruscant Flyer? They reckon that Senator Ji-ku-la's daughter is going to be thrown in the prison. And they've got a picture of Senator..."
* * *
Obi-Wan was very quiet over breakfast, Qui-Gon noticed. He didn't seem to be as bright and alert as normal. Probably a result of whatever emotional turmoil had gripped him last night; Qui-Gon hoped that would sort itself in a couple of days and he wouldn't have to involve himself further.
"Will I be able to comm you, Master, if you're doing research?" Obi-Wan asked, slicing a piece of fruit with quick, neat cuts.
"Best to come and find me if possible, or the archivists will frown at me," Qui-Gon said. "Comm me if you really need to, but I'll be somewhere along the Green Corridor most of the day."
Obi-Wan nodded. "When are the Alderaani talks with the Mimbans supposed to begin?"
"The Viceroy seemed hopeful that tomorrow would be suitable for all," Qui-Gon said, sipping his mug of malo-tea. "But a full day is a long time in a politician's diary, and it's possible that the schedule is changed. You have four days before we need to be off-planet, so hurry them if you can but don't try too hard and upset them."
"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan said. Privately, he was considering using Force tricks to speed the negotiations up as much as possible.
* * *
"You WHAT!?!" Bail roared.
Stace bowed to knee level and held the pose, knowing from years of practise that submission was the best way to weather this kind of storm.
"I don't believe this! I clearly told you NOT to archive that YET, but what do I find? You've ignored me, ignored my ORDERS, and..."
Still bowed, Stace risked glances to either side. On her left, Elos sheltered behind the glass, bent low over a datapad, but on her right, a shadow had appeared at the end of the corridor. Salvation.
Sure enough, a booming voice cut across the Viceroy's tirade. "Hum... is there a problem, Organa?"
Hearing Senator Antilles's voice, Bail immediately stopped yelling and stepped back, breathing heavily. Stace saw his feet move, and gradually began to rise from her bow.
"Nothing serious, Senator," Bail said, in what Stace thought of as his oil-on-troubled-waters voice.
"A small clerical error, sir," Stace added, finally straightening as the Senator reached the threshold.
Bail Antilles paused a moment longer at the door, but he could find no crack in their united front, and so moved on to Elos's door.
"So," the Viceroy said calmly when the Senator had gone, "what's next today?"
"Your lunch appointment cancelled-apparently her youngest daughter has some kind of infection."
"Ah," Bail said. He sounded annoyed, so Stace guessed that he had skipped breakfast and was looking forward to lunch.
"But," she added quickly, "a Jedi did contact me. Master Jinn sends his apologies, but he will send his Padawan in his stead."
A strange expression crossed Bail's face. At first, Stace thought it was disappointment, which she'd expected at the first part of the news; but then, instead of the slight relief at knowing they would have a Jedi of one sort or another, there was something more akin to hope.
"Padawan Kenobi?" Bail said.
"That's the one," Stace agreed, wondering how Bail knew that.
"I met him last night," Bail explained, and the look of hope seemed to intensify briefly before Bail schooled it away, replacing it with bland approval.
Stace stored his reaction away in her mental list of strange things about her employer, and went on to the next bit of news. "He wants to come over this afternoon and clarify with you what the aims of the negotiation are-I had the impression that he wants to be slightly more than a decoration."
Bail shrugged, a little more casually than necessary. "You could ask him if he could make lunchtime, if I'll be free then."
"You will-and I will ask him, if that's easiest," Stace said. "I think that's everything; the Senator will want to speak to you soon."
Nodding, Bail stepped towards the door. "Elos?" he called. More quietly, he said to Stace, "Thank you. Comm Padawan Kenobi now, if you can."
"Will do," Stace confirmed, and received a smile from Bail before Elos waved him through into Senator Antilles's main office.
Bail was weirdly hopeful as the taxi sped him over the city towards the restaurant where Stace had arranged for him to meet Padawan Kenobi. If Kenobi - Obi-Wan-Kenobi - best to be formal - had chosen freely to take this assignment, to work with him again, then maybe the odd hostility Bail had sensed in the past was an illusion.
He prayed it was. He couldn't pin it down to anything specific, and it seemed out of place for a Jedi anyway; but he had the distinct idea that Kenobi had wanted to be as far away from him as soon as possible-something in his face as he made his excuses, perhaps. Something cold in those blue eyes as Kenobi looked at him, or something stiff in his body language. Anyway, Bail was looking forward to being able to get to know Kenobi better. He had been genuinely impressed with the young man's-young! Kenobi was only a year or so younger than himself, but it felt like an era, because Kenobi was still a learner-in any case, Bail had been impressed with Obi-Wan's easy grasp of the diplomatic situations they had discussed in the seminar, although even then he had felt that Kenobi watched him with a chilly gaze.
Bail sat back in his seat, indulging in a few moments of fantasy which he knew he would soon regret: Obi-Wan kissing him, those firm lips saying fully what they meant and not fussing over diplomatic needs. Obi-Wan's strong hands, with their agile fingers, running over his body and finding even sensitive spot (his earlobes, over his collarbone...).
Before he could expand these images into too much detail, the speeder was slowing and the taxi driver was calling, "Nearly there, sir."
It felt for a moment like a curse-to be ripped away from his cosy haven. Bail tried to think of it as a blessing in disguise, because he couldn't face Obi-Wan for real if the fantasy had become too clear.
"Thank you," Bail replied, and gathered himself, checking his robes and hair. He wanted to be ready to present his best face to Padawan Kenobi, potentially an important player in the forthcoming political games.
Inside the restaurant, he was recognised by the manager, and whisked past the queue to a mediocre table. Being recognisable had some advantages, but he reflected that he would have to rise a little higher to get the full benefit.
Padawan Kenobi was already at the table, his Jedi robes looking splendid but somewhat out of place amidst the colourful fabrics favoured by the galaxies' rich and powerful. If the reservation had been made for Padawan Kenobi, Bail suspected that Stace would have picked a slightly less high-powered venue. As it was, it would be daft to let the reservation go to waste.
Kenobi stood when he saw Bail approaching, and dipped his head in the Alderaani manner. Bail gauged him as ‘trying to be as polite as possible', though he didn't want to guess why.
Bail returned the minor bow, and took a seat. He was determined to move this to a fairly casual level quickly, because the tension of formality would only make him feel worse about his feelings for Kenobi. Besides, if he succeeded in making the atmosphere casual, it would be a major step towards what he acknowledged was his subconscious goal, namely getting Kenobi into his bed.
"I'm glad you are free to help us in the negotiations, Padawan Kenobi," Bail said as an opener.
"As am I, Viceroy Organa," Kenobi returned. "I hope we can conclude the treaty within the three days I have available."
"Only three days?" Bail raised an eyebrow and exaggerated his look of disappointment. "I know the Jedi like to work fast, but three days isn't very long."
"One turn of the planet can be a long time in politics, or so my Master tells me," Kenobi said.
Bail nodded. "But why only three days?"
"After that, I must prepare for my next mission for the Council."
"May I ask where you're going?" Bail said, studying the menu.
"You may ask."
Taken aback by the closed simplicity of that answer, Bail looked up-and, accidentally, met Obi-Wan's bright eyes. "And would you answer?"
Shortly, Obi-Wan shook his head, padawan braid swinging. "It is, as you should know it would be, classified information."
"Of course," Bail said, trying to recover his equilibrium. He managed to look away from Obi-Wan's eyes (too soon, he reminded himself, to get caught that way) and change the subject. "But we are here to discuss the treaty. How much do you know of the Mimbans' requirements?"
"I know..." Kenobi began, but was interrupted by the arrival of a waiter.
They ordered quickly, Bail requested the largest and most expensive dish on the menu because this would all go on his expenses claim. By contrast, Kenobi chose something much simpler.
When the waiter had left, Kenobi resumed. "I know that the Mimbans wish to buy in raw materials from Alderaan which they will use in fabric production, and that the Alderaanis are concerned to ensure that you retain enough for your own fabric production, while also encourage trade with Mimban because you need to buy minerals from somewhere, and Mimban is mineral-rich."
"You left one crucial factor out of your analysis," Bail said, obscurely glad to be able to say so. "The Mimbans have a long standing trade agreement with Coamas, Alderaan's nearest neighbour. If we were to buy as much salt and silver as we need from Mimban, we could buy all of their export allowance, and Coamas would be forced to look elsewhere."
"The Alderaanis and the Coamanians are very close, if I recall my history lessons correctly," Kenobi said thoughtfully. "Coamas was a colony planet to Alderaan in the early years of inter-plantary travel, was it not?"
"It was," Bail confirmed. He was enjoying this. "Some Coamanians have Alderaani ancestry, and some have, for example, claimed that they should be allowed to claim inherited Alderaani titles, despite having their own political system and seat in the Senate."
Kenobi nodded, but Bail noticed that he had narrowed his eyes a little. "Alderaani political titles are largely inherited-the post of Senator is not, but the title Viceroy, today used for the Senator's Deputy, accompanies the inherited title Prince, to name but one example."
He was quick indeed, then, outside the classroom as much as inside. "That is true," Bail said. He refused to mention openly that Coamas had made his own ascension to the title difficult by presenting an alternative candidate who was already well-known and liked on Alderaan; Kenobi could find that for himself if he didn't already know. "Which naturally gives us an extra little barrier to work around."
"I see that," Kenobi agreed. "I take that no representative for Coamas has been formally invited to the negotiating table, though."
Bail shook his head; the waiter was approaching and he didn't especially want their conversation to be overheard.
Apparently, Kenobi had the same thought, as he waited until the waiter had left before continuing. “I will, of course, be meeting with the Mimban Deputy Senator, and according equal weight to their side of the argument."
Bail swallowed his first mouthful of food in a hurry. "Of course. But we don't need to talk of business all the time-sharing cultural values can be an equally important part of diplomacy."
"It can," Kenobi nodded. "I would encourage you to share whatever aspects of your culture you feel to be most important with the Mimbans."
That hadn't been quite what Bail meant. "And with you," he clarified, "if you are also to take part in the discussions."
Kenobi raised an eyebrow-and Bail nearly lost himself again in the beauty of that face. "I thought that the Jedi presence was-the phrase my Master used was ‘for show'."
"Oh, in a technical sense it is," Bail said rapidly. "But if you are meeting with myself and the Mimban representative, you may be able to play a more important and practical role."
"I am sure of that, Viceroy," Kenobi said, and Bail realised with the use of his title that he was losing the battle to make this casual. Nervously, he reached up to push a straying lock of hair off his forehead-and noted with interest that Obi-Wan's eyes followed the gesture. Obi-Wan was still speaking, though, and Bail forced himself to pay attention. "I will, however, choose in what ways I play that role."
"Of course you will," Bail said, and made one last-ditch attempt to drag the subject away from diplomacy. "Have you ever visited Alderaan?"
Chapter Three
It turned out that Obi-Wan had never visited Alderaan, and so Bail had spent the remainder of the meal chattering happily but uselessly about the pleasures of his home planet, in between attempts to eat as much as possible without his dining companion taking offence.
He said as much to Raymus when they were both safely behind alcoholic drinks in Dex's Diner, Bail in semi-disguise in the rather vain hope of avoiding the eyes of journalists.
"And I still don't think he likes me," Bail finished.
Raymus nodded sagely, his eyes on the swelling bosom of Hermione, currently hurrying back and forth between kitchen and diners. "I've said it before and I'll say it again, friend, you do pick them badly."
"Why should I bother?" Bail asked, shrugging. "Mother already has a wife lined up for me at home, so I need to store up some broken hearts and irresponsible flings to avoid causing trouble when I'm married."
"Whatever," Raymus said, "so long as it makes you happy. Excuse me." He made a beeline for Hermione as she reached the bar, leaving Bail alone to drown his sorrows.
* * *
"He spent nearly all the time talking about Alderaan," Obi-Wan complained to Garen, the only friend from his pre-padawan days who wasn't off-planet on a mission or deep into a marathon meditation session.
"And you've spent a whole hour talking about him," Garen said. "Now, what shall we do to rid you off this obsession: mediate, or sneak out to a bar?"
It didn't take much experience of Garen to lead one to believe that if you requested the former, Garen would invent a new kind of active mediation which involved bars and alcohol. Obi-Wan chose the simple path and said he thought the latter would be allowed, just for tonight.
"I'll meet you outside the main door in fifteen minutes," Garen said. As he darted away, he added, "Don't forget to bring your hotpants!"
You had to laugh at Garen, or you'd cry. Lacking any hotpants-which Garen well knew-but reluctant to be pestered by people who recognised him as a Jedi, Obi-Wan opted for plain and simple civilian clothes, in ordinary brown. Luckily, his Master was still in the archives, and couldn't ask questions.
When Obi-Wan met Garen outside the main door, Garen refused to say where they were going; but by the route he took, Obi-Wan quickly worked out that they were once again heading for the Twin Suns Rising.
"People must think we're lovers," Obi-Wan said. "Really, Garen. Most people go there to have sex."
"Which makes it an excellent place to, one, talk, and two, pick up other people's spurned lovers," Garen returned cheerily. "Besides, the drink is cheap. Would you rather go back to the Temple and join Master Yoda's Elementary Class in Meditation for the Slightly Upset?"
Obi-Wan grinned-he was already starting to feel the relaxing effects of escaping the Temple boundaries and his Jedi duties. "It's not called that, silly. It's Meditation for Calming."
Garen shrugged. "Barely an accurate description. Everyone knows it's standard procedure for new Masters to send their young padawans there to be babysat for a couple of hours while the Masters go out and have a drink with their friends."
"That's what you'll do to your padawan, is it?"
"If you're still around to drink with," Garen replied lightly.
"Of course I will," Obi-Wan said. For some reason, though, he didn't think he'd want to abandon any padawan he might have quite so casually, even if Master Yoda was a good teacher of meditation.
The Twin Suns Rising, as Obi-Wan had said, was a haven for lovers. It consisted of a large building, split into a maze of smaller rooms; inside each room a ring of booths ran around the wall, creating a thousand cosy spots in which to rendezvous unseen. Each booth contained two benches and a table, which could double as a bed for the desperate. Furthermore, they had a policy of employing only druids as wait-staff, and of wiping their memories every morning; this ensured that patrons could be sure nobody knew that they were having secret meetings.
It also drew a small crowd of desperate young people, who cruised the corridors waiting for couples to finish their break-up fights and be easy prey.
Its other main attraction, as Garen had pointed out, was that the drink was incredibly cheap. You could get drunk and still have change from a thirty-credit chip.
Obi-Wan and Garen ordered the strongest drink on offer, and took a booth to continue their conversation privately. "So what's the deal with this Viceroy Organa?" Garen enquired. "I thought you were over him since he stopped coming to that seminar."
"We met him yesterday night at a diplomatic function," Obi-Wan said. "Master Jinn had a long talk with him, apparently, and when invited to attend Alderaan's next round of treaty-making, declined but offered me in his stead."
"And?"
"Today I met him for lunch, and listened as politely as I could to him talking about Alderaan. He's such an irritating man! I know it's not a thing a Jedi should say, but it's true. He annoys me."
"Why?" Garen enquired. Obi-Wan briefly considered cursing his friend's innocent curiosity.
"That's the worst of it," he confessed instead. "I don't know why he irritates me so much, exactly-he's vain, but I know other vain people whose flaw I accept. He thinks he's right all the time-and he usually is, besides which I don't usually find that so annoying. At lunch today, it was worse than last night; I could hardly concentrate on giving good answers because I was so caught up in all his little physical habits and trying to release my emotions to the Force."
"What kind of physical habits do you mean?" Garen sipped his drink patiently when Obi-Wan didn't answer at one.
"Well... he has a lock of hair which always falls into his eyes, so he stokes it back every few minutes. It makes me want to take hold of it and tie it back so he can leave alone for a while. And he plays with the hems of his clothes, smoothing them all the time." Garen raised an eyebrow, which Obi-Wan took as an invitation to continue. "It makes me want to tell him to take the stupid things off if they're that annoying."
That was a slightly censored version, Obi-Wan knew, but he didn't feel up to telling Garen the whole truth.
"Right," Garen nodded. "And you say you don't react this way to anyone else?"
Obi-Wan shook his head. "No, Doctor Garen, this allergic reaction occurs only in proximity to Viceroy Organa."
Garen laughed. "You're onto something, there, old friend-you've come down with a sickness. Now, if old Doc Garen is not mistaken, this is a rare form of the madness known as Lady Love."
Now it was Obi-Wan's turn to laugh. "Don't be absurd, Garen, I'm not in love with Viceroy Organa! I can't stand to be in a room with him, and you think it's love. I'm sorry, but you ought to be looking for a spurned lover out there, because you're clearly so sexually frustrated that your mind can't think of anything else."
"Not a bad idea," Garen said. "I will go and do that, if you'll promise me one thing."
Obi-Wan shrugged. "If it's reasonable."
"I think it is," Garen said. "It's just this: go back to the Temple early tonight and hit the mediation mat. And while you're there, just entertain the possibility that I might be right."
With that, he winked and left the booth, abandoning Obi-Wan to his own thoughts.
* * *
Abandoned by Raymus, Bail gave up on drinking earlier in the night than he might usually have done, and took a taxi-speeder home. He still couldn't get Obi-Wan out of his head.
I really must try, he told himself. I must be professional tomorrow, I must call him Padawan Kenobi, I must not attempt to seduce people who are supposed to be impartial, and above all I must not fall in love with a Jedi whom I'll never see after these three days.
He strongly suspected that he'd never be able to live up to those ideals-only a Jedi, as the saying went, could hold his emotions in hand as another man might hold a horse's reins-but it had to be a worth a try. Better than the agony of a broken heart, kept secret from everyone except Raymus, anyway.
Unsurprisingly, he didn't sleep well. He ended up watching late-night holofilms of debatable quality until Stace commed him in the morning, when he allowed himself an extremely sugary drink to get him through the day's meetings.
Chapter Four
The Force, thankfully, seemed inclined to give Obi-Wan a rest at this point. He met with the Mimban Deputy Senator without incident in the morning, and the formal start to the negotiations went smoothly—and without requiring him to say more than “Good afternoon,” to Viceroy Organa.
The discussion was clearly going to continue between the professional diplomats late into the night, but when, after the evening meal, both Alderaani and Mimban politicians had made their excuses, Obi-Wan felt free to leave. The diplomats on both sides knew their jobs, and they were only roughing out possible versions of the treaty; there would be little or nothing controversial in them. The problems would lie in the choice between a large or small treaty, and that, he guessed, depended very much on how well Coamas’s politicians got on with Alderaan’s Senator.
On his way into his quarters, he met Qui-Gon and Garen, deep in conversation. “I suppose you’re talking about me.”
“Yes, actually,” Qui-Gon said. “Good evening, Padawan. Are you having fun at the negotiating table?"
“For a given value of ‘fun’, yes, Master,” Obi-Wan said. "And are you having fun in the archive?"
“In a manner of speaking. In between moments of boredom, I’m actually finding things out,” Qui-Gon said. “Our next mission will be quite a difficult one, I think.”
“Good evening,” Obi-Wan said to the neglected Garen. “I hope my Master hasn’t be slandering me behind my back.”
“Nothing of the kind,” Garen assured him. “The slander was all on my side.”
Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow, but Qui-Gon spoke before he had time to reply.
“I don’t believe that we should keep standing in the corridor like this,” Qui-Gon said. “Garen, thank you; I’m sure I will see you around. Obi-Wan, I’d like to see you in our quarters soon, please.”
“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan said, and Qui-Gon strode away.
“In trouble?” Garen asked, when Qui-Gon was gone.
“I don’t think so,” Obi-Wan said. “I just didn’t see him last night—I meditated in the Temple garden for a while after you left me, and he was asleep when I got in, and then he went out before I woke this morning—and he doesn’t like it when we go for more than a day without at least a brief conversation. Besides, he knows I’m having… trouble… with the Viceroy.”
“How is that, by the way?”
Obi-Wan shrugged. “As the Force had it, I barely saw him today. Not too bad, I suppose. He’s still irritating, though.”
Garen nodded. “If you escape Master Jinn at a reasonable time tonight, comm me and we’ll go out. If not—tomorrow?”
“I’ll let you know,” Obi-Wan promised. “See you, friend.”
“See you,” Garen said, and headed off in the direction of his own quarters.
When Obi-Wan got to the quarters he shared with Qui-Gon, he found his Master already meditating on the floor their seating area. Knowing the routine, he sat down, cross-legged, in front of his Master and began to try and centre himself.
“You still have uncontrolled emotions, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said gently after a moment. “Why is this?”
“I do not know, Master.” Obi-Wan kept his eyes closed.
“No?”
Obi-Wan hesitated. It sounded like his Master thought he should know, so he tried once again to work it out.
“I am not sure, Master. I identify irritation, but Garen said that it could be… well… lust.”
“Do you find that a plausible hypothesis, Obi-Wan?”
“I… it could be the case, Master. But if so, I am confused.”
“No doubt, Obi-Wan—in matters of the heart, even a Jedi often struggles to find firm ground.”
Obi-Wan opened his eyes—Qui-Gon’s voice had lost the softness of meditation guidance for the lilt of reminiscence. “Why is that?”
“Because,” Qui-Gon said, his eyes open but locked onto somewhere in the middle distance and another time, “try as we might, not all emotions can be controlled; nor, in my understanding, does the Force wish that we should control them all. Marriage may be forbidden to a Jedi, but love is not, nor is lust.”
“You agree with Garen?”
Qui-Gon’s eyes snapped back to focus on Obi-Wan. “I do not know, padawan—it is a secret of your own heart, which you must discover for yourself. But in my experience, such feelings can present themselves in strange forms.”
Obi-Wan stared at him, longing to ask what experiences this wisdom was based upon.
“I don’t intend to go into details,” Qui-Gon said. “Let the matter rest at the fact that, in my dim and distant youth, I did have such experiences—and while none have remained over all these years as romantic relationships, several have remained as friendships. It is your choice where to pursue this or not, Obi-Wan, but I will not prevent you if you can find a suitable way to carry it out, remembering that at all times you must be ready to perform your duty as a Jedi, whether that is to spend your hours in study or travel to the Outer Rim. And whatever you decide, I will counsel you to learn what you can from the experience.”
Obi-Wan nodded. “I will endeavour to, Master.”
“Good,” Qui-Gon said. “Now, shall we meditate?”
* * *
To his annoyance, Bail hardly saw Obi-Wan in the first afternoon of negotiations. He tried to tell himself that this was a blessing, but—ending up alone in his flat before sunset, Raymus having been dragged out to dinner by his uncle—Bail found that he hated it. And he couldn’t honourably contact Obi-Wan any other way; it might be seen, especially if the press or Coamanians found out about it, as an attempt to influence the Jedi.
He showered and shaved slowly, using an old-style metal blade, wondering as he did so what it would feel like to cut deeper, whether he would feel the blood pouring or if he would black out at the pain or the sight of it. If he would know when he was dead.
Idly, he evaluated the plan: pro, I never have to deal with Obi-Wan and the way he makes me feel ever again; con, I never get to see Obi-Wan again. Pro, I don’t have to think of anything to do tonight; con, I don’t get to go out drinking with Raymus tomorrow.
Before he could make a firm decision one way or the other, the harsh sound of the comm. unit’s alert broke through. Groaning, he pulled on a soft gown and went to answer it.
“Hello?” he said, before he quite reached the range of the viewer.
“Prestor, dear, is that you?” his mother’s voice enquired timidly.
“Yes, mother, it’s me,” he sighed, sliding into the comm. unit’s specially designed seat. “And I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”
“I don’t have to call you First Chairman and Prince Viceroy, Bail, I’m your mother,” she said—as if he needed reminding. “Now tell me, dear, what’s been going on? Have you spoken to Breha recently?”
“You’re much more likely to have spoken to her than I am,” Bail said. “You’re on the same planet, after all. I haven’t spoken to her in months, nor am I likely to.”
“Oh,” his mother said, worriedly, frown lines briefly creasing her forehead. “You will eventually, though, won’t you?”
“I’m sure I will,” he said. “Since I inherited the right to her hand in marriage along with the right to be deputy Senator, the time will come when I’ll have to. But not until I’m Senator and have a set of aides I can trust to take care of everything on Coruscant for a while.”
“Of course,” his mother agreed. “So, you have been working hard—not too hard, I hope?”
“Not too hard,” Bail assured her. “Just getting together a few trade treaties. Oddly, we’ve had two to deal with in a row this week. Oh, and trying to get the Senate to change the legislation on minimum wages for non-human species.”
“Up or down?” his mother asked shrewdly.
“Upwards,” Bail said, resisting the temptation to scold her for doubting him. Sometimes, Herya Organa’s political acuteness took him aback. “And how are you and father?”
“We’re doing well,” she said. “Your father is dabbling in local politics again—apparently the stormwater drains weren’t put in correctly when the estates around here were built, and they’ve got to be redone. I said we should just pay out, since we could easily afford it, but he said that we pay taxes like everyone else and we ought to get a government grant for it.”
“Force help the local government,” Bail said, grinning. As he had reason to know, going up against his father could be a nightmare.
“I think it must be helping them,” his mother said, “because they’re still holding out for residents making at least a contribution. Drains are all we’ve heard about over the dinner table for the last three months.”
Bail laughed. “Just like old times then,” he said. “Remember when he decided to campaign for the rights of whirly-bugs?”
“Yes indeed! That was just after he’d left the Senate, wasn’t it? Whirly-bugs had a right not to be squashed without trial, or something.”
“That’s right,” Bail said, choosing to skip over the memory of his father being forced, by scandal, to leave the Senate without ever holding the post of Senator. “We kept asking him how you could bring a whirly-bug to trial, and he’d argue that they had to be sentenced by a panel of ten of their peers.”
“So he would,” Herya agreed. “Well, this is nearly as daft, and he’s quite as set on it. Anyway—you say you’re well?”
“I’m fine, mother,” Bail assured her.
“And keeping out of trouble?”
“As best I can.” Bail accompanied that with the best roguish grin he could manage. She might as well be given the impression that this was a great act of will on his part, rather than a simple lack of opportunity.
“Well, stay that way, dear. And do speak to Breha sometime soon.”
“I’ll try and fit it in,” Bail said. An outright lie, as they both knew.
“Goodnight, then,” Herya said, and cut the comm connection.
“Goodnight, mother,” Bail sighed to the blank screen. She’d clearly only commed on behalf of Breha’s mother, who was doubtless (and reasonably) starting to wonder if her daughter would ever get a husband. One more reason to save up every moment of Obi-Wan’s company, against the day when he had to marry Breha and have children and stop flirting with whoever came his way.
Chapter Five
“… don’t you agree, Viceroy Organa?” the Mimban diplomat said.
Bail nodded sagely. “I agree with some parts,” he said carefully. “I agree that Alderaan needs these minerals, and I agree that you have a right to take the highest bidder; but I am far from inclined to agree that the Coamanians need to manage without any of Mimban’s produce. After all, many planets in the galaxy have these minerals; Alderaan could source some from elsewhere.”
“But Viceroy,” the Mimban Deputy Senator cut in, sounding shocked at the very suggestion, “nowhere else produces salt of such high quality as Mimban. And it is ours, to sell to whom we wish.”
“It is indeed,” Bail agreed. “But you cannot sell more to Alderaan than we wish to buy.”
“But it is not, Viceroy, a matter merely of buying and selling. We are looking for a trade agreement, involving fabric dyes from Alderaan as well as minerals from Mimban,” the Deputy Senator snapped.
“So it is,” Bail said, soothingly. “However, I believe that the question of quantities is very important.”
“It is,” his counterpart agreed. “Perhaps we could turn for the moment, though, to the issue of how much fabric dye Alderaan would be willing to sell. Can you actually fulfil all our requirements?”
Observing from the end of the long table, Obi-Wan turned his head from one representative to the other and back; they were both adept negotiators, who did not, indeed, require a Jedi for other than show. He watched Bail Organa work, and began to mull over Garen’s strange idea: that he, Obi-Wan, was feeling love or lust for the Viceroy.
Could he possibly be right? Obi-Wan tried on the theory as a kind of working hypothesis, hoping to disprove it from within.
It certainly could be said that his feelings of irritation might hide a form of lust, relating as they did almost entirely to Bail’s physical habits. Obi-Wan could at least admit to himself that he wanted to push Bail’s hair back, not only to stop Bail from doing it, but to have an excuse to touch him. Even to run his hand down the strong cheekbone, or rub a thumb over Bail’s lips.
And Master Qui-Gon had said that he was free to pursue a relationship, if he so desired. What could possibly make him want that?
If Bail desired him, perhaps. If Bail desired him and wasn’t eight years older and, in secular terms, much his senior. If they were friends as well as occasional colleagues.
If he actually desired Bail. What was desire exactly? Desire to touch, perhaps. He certainly felt that. Desire to… spend time with someone? Obi-Wan suddenly thought that he would like to know Bail better, to know if he was as vain as he appeared, to know if he had secret thoughts. If, as he'd already decided, they were friends, he might discover that he wanted a relationship with Bail.
But also, and this was the most unlikely of the lot, he wouldn't want it if Bail was already attached to someone. Obi-Wan had an idea that the highest levels of Alderaani society thought of marriages as contracts, and bought or inherited them as appropriate, with all the tenderness that people usually brought to trade agreements.
On the other hand, Obi-Wan thought, there may not be tenderness, but Viceroy Organa certainly seemed passionate enough about this treaty. Such a marriage might not be that terrible for those inside it.
Privately, he decided that Bail really must be married by now. If he hadn’t been given a contract as a child, then by now someone would have captured his heart, surely.
With that thought, Obi-Wan tried to end the consideration: Bail would be attached, therefore even if Obi-Wan desired a relationship with him, it would be impossible. End of story. But some intuition suggested that things might not, in the real world, be so clear-cut, and Obi-Wan kept watching Bail’s hands and mouth, wondering what it would be like to touch them.
* * *
Bail spent much of the day in a haze of facts and figures. This much silver worth this much blue, that much salt worth that much purple… at the end of the day, they were much closer to an agreement, and it looked like they would be forcing the Coamanians to look elsewhere.
It was late when they agreed to break for the night. Bail and the Mimban Deputy Senator left side by side, Obi-Wan following. When the Mimban had entered his transport, accompanied by all his aides, Bail turned to find his two assistant diplomats, Stace, and Raymus waiting for him… and Obi-Wan Kenobi, hovering on the edge of the group.
“Joil, Ali, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Bail said to the diplomats. “You too, Stace—sleep well.”
They departed quickly, and Bail turned to Obi-Wan, knowing that Raymus would wait. “Padawan Kenobi! Did you want to speak to me?”
That would be a hopeful sign, though he suspected that Obi-Wan still disliked him.
“I… err… I…” Obi-Wan stammered. “I’m impressed with the progress we’ve made today.”
Ah, Bail thought, noting the use of the inclusive pronoun. Just a Jedi wanting to check that he would be included in the credit for the treaty. Well, he was feeling generous.
“Yes, we did,” Bail agreed. “I’m hopeful of finishing it tomorrow.”
“I’ll see you then,” Obi-Wan said. He sounded a little sheepish, as if in other circumstances he might have said more.
Bail nodded, and Obi-Wan hurried away, the line of his shoulders hunched and tense. Perhaps, Bail thought, he was regretting this already.
“Well,” Raymus said when Obi-Wan had left, “want to go out tonight, Bail?”
Bail hesitated. “I ought to go home and check the facts I’ll need to quote tomorrow.”
“Won’t Stace have done them?”
“I should check them.”
Raymus stepped closer. “Come on, Bail. Live dangerously for a while.”
“It’s all right for you,” Bail grumbled, but he was grinning and close to agreeing. “You get taken out for expensive dinners by my boss every night you don’t go out drinking with me.”
“Well, hurry up and marry Breha,” Raymus said. “Then my uncle would insist on getting all the family together, and you could come along too.”
Bail half-laughed, trying to fake a scowl. “Well, perhaps that’s what I’ll do,” he said, “if my secret romance with a certain Jedi Padawan doesn’t work out. No offence, Raymus, but I prefer Obi-Wan to your second cousin.”
“So, this little attraction has gained the status of secret romance, has it?” Raymus teased, as they climbed into his speeder.
“Nothing physical,” Bail said loftily. “I wouldn’t sully it with any such thing.”
“Only because the Jedi isn’t interested in you,” Raymus said. He said it lightly, but it cut deep: Bail knew that it was true, and that hurt more than it should.
“That’s right,” he said, trying to copy Raymus’s light tone, and failing. “I’m not pretty enough to have drawn his eye.”
“Never mind him,” Raymus said. “I know a place with a very pretty girl—shall we find out if her friends are as good-looking?”
“Her friends might be, but her customers aren’t,” Bail said. “But take us to Dex’s anyway, if that’s where you really want to go.”
Apparently Raymus did; they were there in a matter of minutes.
* * *
“Your turn to choose where we go,” Garen had said when Obi-Wan commed him. Obi-Wan had given the matter some thought, and chosen Dex’s—a relatively small and quiet diner in a back street, where there wouldn’t be too many drinkers and he’d get to see his old friend Dex as well as Garen.
“Busier than usual,” Garen observed, watching a young man at the counter-cum-bar trying to chat up Hermione, Dex’s newest waitress. It looked like he wasn’t having a lot of luck.
Obi-Wan nodded, sipping a glass of slightly sour cheo, a type of wine currently fashionable on Alderaan. He didn’t like it and didn’t know why he’d chosen it, except that it seemed like a good idea. “The rush will be over in a while,” he said, meaning, “and Dex will have time to talk.”
“Yeah,” Garen agreed. “So, how are things going with your Alderaani friend?”
“He’s not my friend,” Obi-Wan said, then added, “yet. The negotiations went fairly well today, though.”
“Good.” Garen didn’t seem all that interested in the negotiations. “Do you want him to be your friend?”
Obi-Wan shrugged. “I’m really not sure. Yes. No. Maybe. I want him to be a friend, but…” He hesitated. “Master Jinn has given me permission to look for more, and I’m not sure, but I might want that.”
Garen raised an eyebrow. “So I was right?”
“It might yet turn out that way,” Obi-Wan conceded. “I do feel… he’s so…” He glanced around the diner, as if checking for eavesdroppers or searching for inspiration, when suddenly he froze.
“He’s here,” he whispered harshly.
Garen looked. “Where?”
“Talking to the young man who was wooing Hermione,” Obi-Wan said, turning his face away. “He’s usually more formally dressed, and the dark eyeglasses are new, but I’d know him anywhere.”
“Well,” Garen said, “go and speak to him, then.”
Obi-Wan stared at his friend. “Should I?”
Garen nodded. “If you want this to turn into friendship, let alone more, ignoring him when you have a chance to see him socially is just a bad plan.”
“A bad plan as in ‘We’ll just grab them as we rush by, nobody will put up any resistance’, or bad as in ‘We don’t know what we’re facing, but we’ll work something out when we get there’?” Obi-Wan enquired. Over ten years of Jedi training, he had been involved in making and carrying out a wide range of ill-formed or misshapen plans, a large number of them his own.
“As in ‘You may never have a chance like this again’,” Garen told him. “Much safer to grab the opportunity before it passes you by.”
“But…” Obi-Wan started to protest.
“Live in the moment,” Garen said firmly, and engaging willingly in an eye-to-eye contest of wills. After a long moment, Obi-Wan stood up and began to make his way slowly towards Bail and his friend.
Chapter Six
Obi-Wan felt rather unsteady as he walked across the diner, weaving his way through tables and people. Perhaps that sour wine was stronger than he had thought.
Bail was listening carefully to his companion, his head bent sympathetically towards him. As he listened, he raised a casual hand to push back that unruly lock of hair, and Obi-Wan’s urge to touch one or both became almost unmanageable.
It only took him a couple more strides to reach the two men. Once there, he hesitated; to call Bail “Viceroy” in public could, if he seriously intended to go unnoticed, cause a lot of trouble, but to call him “Bail” seemed more familiar than he had yet been allowed.
He opted for a plain, “Hello.”
Bail turned, startled. “Oh—hello, err, Obi-Wan.” His eyes flicked up and down Obi-Wan, taking in the civilian clothes and their contrast with the unhidden braid.
“I didn’t expect to see you here, Bail,” Obi-Wan said. Bail had never used his first name before, but at least it established a precedent.
“Nor I you,” Bail replied. “Obi-Wan, this is my boss’s nephew who happens to also be my friend, Raymus Antilles; Raymus, this is Obi-Wan Kenobi.”
Obi-Wan nodded to Raymus, who met his eyes with frank curiosity, and then turned his eyes back to Bail. “Pleased to meet you,” he said. “Do you come here often?” Then he winced. Why wasn’t “small talk” on the Jedi Temple training programme?
“Raymus does,” Bail said, leering slightly. Obi-Wan found the expression disconcerting, but also strangely arousing. “Do you?”
“The proprietor is an old friend,” Obi-Wan said. He didn’t feel like explaining that his Master and he had obtained an immigration licence for Dexter in return for information given while on a mission.
“Ah,” Bail nodded. “Are you… with anyone?”
Obi-Wan gestured across the room. “My friend Garen,” he said, and then because some further explanation seemed to be needed, added, “He’s another Jedi Padawan.”
“And you’ve managed to get a table,” Bail said admiringly. He met Obi-wan’s eyes.
Guessing that this might a request—just as Bail had silently requested extra silver from the Mimban Deputy Senator simply by staring at him—Obi-Wan offered, “Would you like to join us?”
Oddly, Bail seemed to hesitate, but his friend Raymus jumped in. “We’d love to,” he said expansively, and wrapped an arm around Obi-Wan’s shoulders with the casual familiarity of the slightly drunk. “So, you know Dex, eh? Do you think you could get me a night out with Hermione?”
“I doubt it,” Obi-Wan said acidly. He wanted to tell Raymus that Dex ran a diner, not a brothel, but he didn’t dare be rude to one of Bail’s friends.
“Really, Raymus,” Bail said reproachfully from behind them. “Dex is an employer, not a pimp—you wouldn’t have asked that if you were as sober as you claim to be.”
Thankfully, Raymus let go of Obi-Wan at that point, to pout at Bail. Obi-Wan, not sure how to deal with this by-play, turned and led them back towards the table where Garen was waiting. From his grin, Obi-Wan guessed that he had been watching the whole thing, and probably listening with Force-assisted hearing as well.
* * *
Bail slid into the seat beside Obi-Wan—he would rather have sat on the other side of the table, but Raymus had instantly taken the seat beside Garen, so Bail hadn’t much of a choice.
“Garen,” Obi-Wan said formally, “this is Viceroy Bail Organa and his friend, Raymus Antilles. Bail, Raymus, this is my friend, Garen Muln.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Bail said.
Raymus added, “Do you know Hermione’s sister by any chance?” Embarrassed, Bail kicked him under the table before he could say anything else.
“And you likewise,” Garen said to Bail. “I’ve been hearing a lot about you from our friend Obi-Wan here.”
“Oh?” Bail said, looking from Garen to Obi-Wan and back again.
“Only good things,” Garen assured him. “He says you’re an excellent negotiator, and that he’s glad to have the chance to see you practise what you taught in the seminar.”
“Oh,” Bail said. He felt uncharacteristically stumped by this welcome. “Thank you, Obi-Wan.”
To look at Obi-Wan, he had to turn awkwardly to the side. In doing so, he found that his knees were bumping Obi-Wan’s legs.
“It is true,” Obi-Wan said, diffidently. His face was calm, but that calm did not extend entirely to his hands; the fingers twisted in and out of each other, the thumbs rubbing up and down. Bail felt a rush of warmth; he’d like to take those hands and still their motion, letting Obi-Wan know that he needn’t be nervous.
“Thank you,” Bail said again. “You play a valued role in negotiations, too…”
“Excuse me,” Raymus broke in. “I think I need to go and…” He rose, rapidly, and hurried in the direction of the fresher.
Bail started to follow him, but he found Garen’s hand on his shoulder.
“Just drunk, yes?” Garen asked.
“As far as I know,” Bail confirmed.
“Then I’ll go,” Garen said. “Obi-Wan, take proper care of your guest.”
Bail wasn’t sure, but he thought he caught the very briefest wink as Garen glanced at Obi-Wan.
“Thank you,” Obi-Wan called after his friend. “Don’t worry,” he said to Bail. “Garen has had a lot of experience with this sort of situation. He’s had more Healer training than most Padawans.”
Bail nodded. “I’m sure Raymus is in good hands,” he said. A brief assessment of Garen Muln suggested to him that personal experience as well as whatever training he had might play a part, but that didn’t mean that Raymus wouldn’t be well looked after. And Bail was very happy to have another moment effectively alone with Obi-Wan.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of anything to say, other than “Let me take you home and fuck you senseless,” but he didn’t think Jedi went for invitations like that.
Obi-Wan was so close. Bail found himself staring, unable to tear his eyes away from Obi-Wan’s slightly parted lips—they must be soft.
As he stared, it seemed to Bail that Obi-Wan was getting even closer. He thought at first that it was an illusion—simple wishing couldn’t actually make things move, it wasn’t possible—and when Obi-Wan’s lips were half an inch from his, he forced himself to close his eyes in an attempt to end the fantasy or hallucination or whatever it was.
For some reason, though, it didn’t stop. Something soft touched Bail’s lips—a slight pressure, as if the something was unsure of itself—and then brushed off again.
At the back of Bail’s mind, the one remaining calm voice said, “You’ve been kissed, then—now make another move.” Everything else was such a tumult, though, he found himself unable to act on this advice.
He opened his eyes, feeling thunderstruck.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
He didn’t think Obi-Wan heard, though, because he was turning away to peer out of the window.
“I think it’s going to rain tonight,” Obi-Wan said. Bail was surprised by how calm and normal he sounded.
“Not too hard, I hope,” Bail replied.
“I don’t expect so,” Obi-Wan said lightly, turning back to face the room again. “Ah—here come Garen and Raymus. It looks like Raymus is ready to go home.”
A ready-made excuse, and Bail found himself taking it, reluctantly. “I supposed I’d better…”
Sagely, Obi-Wan nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Sliding out of his seat, Bail felt he was retreating from a battleground, intense fighting giving way to the tense peace of a temporary ceasefire. “Yes,” he agreed vaguely, and let Raymus lean on his shoulder.
Epilogue
“We will be leaving for negotiations with the Trade Federation within the hour,” Qui-Gon called as Obi-Wan opened the door.
Half over the threshold, Obi-Wan froze. “Master?”
Qui-Gon appeared from his bedroom, holding a clean folded towel. “I advise you to pack now, Obi-Wan.”
“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan said, meekly, thinking, but what about the negotiations?
“The Alderaani and the Mimbans can manage perfectly well without a Jedi,” Qui-Gon added—he always did know what was in Obi-Wan's mind. “Start packing, please, Padawan.”
Mutely, Obi-Wan nodded and turned towards his bedroom. He would be leaving Bail behind… now… after what had happened… there was so much he wanted to say to him. Obi-Wan forced himself to pack quickly, taking only the essentials—one change of clothes, one datapad, one towel.
When he had packed, he went and found his Master, who was at the kitchen table studying a galactic map with Naboo and the Trade Federation’s major holdings picked out. “Master,” Obi-Wan began, “may I at least comm the Viceroy and the Deputy Senator to give my apologies?”
Qui-Gon looked up, his eyes sharp. “You may, Obi-Wan, but content yourself with leaving messages if they are not personally available. There is no time to waste.”
“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan said. “May I inform them of where I am going?”
“Give no details of our mission,” Qui-Gon ordered. He added jokingly, “Which, as you have yet to study the background materials, will not be overly difficult for you.”
Obi-Wan wasn’t in the mood to reply in kind. “Indeed, Master,” he said, and headed straight for the comm unit in the hallway.
He started with the Mimban Deputy Senator, in the hope that the ordinariness of that would calm him. There was no reply by voice-comm, so he left a text message apologising for his absence, and tried Bail’s public number.
A woman answered. “Hello, Viceroy Organa’s office, Stace speaking. How may I help?”
“I was hoping to speak to the Viceroy,” Obi-Wan said.
“Ah,” Stace said, her voice warmer as she recognised him. “Stay on the line a moment, Padawan Kenobi, and I’ll see if he can speak to you.”
Obi-Wan sat still, straightening his back and trying to breathe smoothly. He could see nothing on the screen except an empty chair, but in the background he heard a woman’s voice speaking.
After a moment, she reappeared.
“He’s gone home, Padawan Kenobi,” she said, “but I’m to patch you through to his home comm unit if it can’t wait until the morning.”
“The morning’s no good,” Obi-Wan said, unwilling to give details to this stranger.
Thankfully, she seemed to want him to be able to speak to Bail. “I’ll just establish a connection, then,” she said. “Give it a couple of seconds, and you should be through.”
The screen flickered and went black, then—after the couple of seconds predicted—it flickered again and Bail’s face appeared.
“Obi-Wan,” Bail greeted. “This is… an unexpected pleasure.”
Obi-Wan couldn’t help smiling, but when he remembered what he had to tell Bail it faded quickly. “I’m afraid you’re not going to have that impression for long,” he said. “Err… did Raymus get home safely?”
Confused by this question, Bail nodded. “Yes, I dropped him off at his apartment. He seemed in fine spirits—I don’t know what your friend Garen gave him, but it was a vast improvement.”
“He’ll probably have a massive hangover in the morning, though,” Obi-Wan warned.
Bail shrugged. “I won’t be there to worry about that,” he said. “Anyway, I hope you didn’t comm just to talk about Raymus.”
“No, I didn’t,” Obi-Wan admitted. “Look, are you alone?”
Bail nodded. “I am. But why…?”
“Bail, this is technically classified information at the moment,” Obi-Wan said. “Can you cope with that?”
“I deal with confidential material most days, Obi-Wan,” Bail reminded him. “It’s part of training to be a Senator."
“Of course,” Obi-Wan said, reassured. “Please don’t discuss this with anyone, but I won’t be attending any more of the negotiations because my Master and I are to leave early tomorrow morning to… on a mission.”
For a moment, Bail sat there in shocked silence. He lifted a hand absently to push the hair off his face, and the gesture made Obi-Wan ache to be close enough to stop him.
“I wanted you to know,” Obi-Wan said awkwardly. He was aware that Qui-Gon could probably hear most of the conversation from the kitchen.
“Yes,” Bail said. He sounded stunned. “Will you…”
“I don’t know when I’ll be back,” Obi-Wan said.
“Will there be fighting?” Bail asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Will you be in danger?”
“Probably,” Obi-Wan said lightly. “I am a Jedi, after all.”
“I know,” Bail said. He looked up again, dark eyes boring straight into Obi-Wan’s through the screen. “I hope we’ll meet again.”
“So do I,” Obi-Wan said. “I’m sorry I can’t be there tomorrow.”
“It won’t be the same without you,” Bail said. Obi-Wan suspected that the main difference would be Bail’s renewed ability to concentrate, but then he berated himself for overestimating the effect he had on Bail.
“I’d better go,” Obi-Wan said.
“Yes.”
“Good luck.”
“And you,” Bail returned.
Obi-Wan cut the connection. He had wanted to promise Bail something—that he would come back, that he would comm, that they would see each other again—but he knew that those promises were not his to give. The Jedi teaching was that the Force alone could determine what would happen in the future.